THAT SAME NIGHT, four deputies in perfect uniforms and polished leather, along with a hospital orderly, escorted the gurney with me strapped to it with soft restraints. They trundled me out of my room, down the long hall, and over to the elevator. The deputies weren’t young jail deputies like they should’ve been for a routine transport. The epaulets on their shoulders said that these four deputies came from SEB, the Sheriff’s Special Enforcement Bureau, the SWAT team. Stout young men, experienced and street hardened. They made a big show of it, one of the FBI’s ten most wanted, on the run for three years, finally captured.
Right, real dangerous.
No one said anything in the elevator.
I knew the routine. I’d been involved in transports as a jail deputy. They’d take me down to the prisoner entrance of the county hospital, to a secured area in the back, and load me up in a sheriff’s transport van. Then they’d drive me the short distance to MCJ—Men’s Central Jail—where I’d be transitioned through IRC, the Inmate Reception Center, classified, and sent up to the hospital ward on 3300.
The elevator opened. The SEB sergeant in charge of the detail said to the orderly, “We’ll take it from here.”
Without waiting for the orderly to reply, they took control of the gurney and two deputies now wheeled me the rest of the way, the other two following along. It was all about control. They didn’t know the orderly and didn’t want to worry about him.
They pushed the gurney through the swinging double doors to the loading dock outside. Backed in at the loading dock sat a red and white ambulance. Next to the two open doors stood a deputy who wore jeans and cowboy boots with a green Sheriff’s raid jacket. My escort wheeled me up to the deputy in the raid jacket.
The deputy in the jacket extended his hand. I couldn’t shake if I wanted to, my hands restrained. The deputy looked at the escort and didn’t need to say anything. The sergeant reached into his boot and came out with a dirk. He cut off the leather restraints. The guy in the raid jacket again offered me his hand. “My name’s Roy Clevenger, Mr. Johnson, and I’m here to tell you thank you.”
“What?” The name rang a bell, and my mind spun trying to catch up to all that was happening. “I’m sorry, who are you?”
He smiled hugely. “My wife is Kris Clevenger. She works for the Highway Patrol.”
“Oh—” was all that would come out.
Roy said, “You didn’t have to stop that day, and I’m damn glad that you did. There’s no way you’re going to jail today. You get a free pass courtesy of Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department.”
For days I’d felt no emotion. At that moment the emotions overwhelmed me. “Thank you. Thank you.” I wanted to say more, something eloquent, but couldn’t.
They wheeled me into the back of the ambulance. On the bench inside sat my lovely Marie.