When I'm Calling You … Part III

In the first two chapters of this melodrama, I related how my sweetie humiliated me by forcing me to wear a walkie-talkie. The pretext was that I wouldn't get lost in a casino, but the real reason was to make sure that I would never be out of earshot and beyond reach of her beck and call. Not only were her ceaseless and insistent radio calls driving me crazy, I was paying dearly for the privilege, as well. Each walkie-talkie took four batteries, and she made me put in fresh ones every four or five days to make sure that the devices didn't go dead when she was tying to put through one of her "important" calls.

Now, even the bathroom was no longer the one sanctuary where I could have a moment's peace and privacy. "What's that noise I hear?" she demanded the first time she reached me in the john. "Is that a toilet flushing? Are you trying to drown me out, you little sneak?"

"Of course not, darling," I protested, wondering if I could induce deafness by puncturing my eardrums. But even worse was yet to come.

After a few weeks, my sweetie got bored with torturing me, and began to wonder what other mischief she could cause with the infernal machines. "These are like shortwave radios, right?" she asked. "So how come I can't hear other people's conversations?"

"Well, both of our walkie-talkies are locked into the same channel," I explained. "To get other transmissions, you need to switch channels. But that's eavesdropping. It's not nice, and I don't think it's legal."

"Oh, what's the harm?" she responded, fiddling with the channel selector button. "Hello, hello, is anybody out there?" She kept repeating her question but got no response. "Answer the damned phone!" she finally shouted.

"Mommy!" I cried out in panic. "This isn't rgp. You can't curse on the airwaves. They put you in prison for that."

After numerous attempts, she managed to tap into a conversation where a husband was explaining to his wife that he had to work very late that night. My sweetie could not resist. "Why can't you just be a man and tell her that you're spending the night with me?" she cooed into the microphone. There was a short silence, followed by an explosion of outrage and expletives from the wife, drowning out the poor dupe's sputtering denials. My sweetie doubled up with laughter as I cringed in embarrassment.

"That was fun," she said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "Let's see what else I can find." She played with the channel buttons again. Suddenly, through the static, an urgent voice burst through: "Code three, code three, we have a robbery in progress. Fourth and Main streets, the Second National Bank. Request immediate backup."

"Oh, goody, a bank robbery," my sweetie said in delight. "This is my lucky day."

"No, Barbara, no!" I screamed. "Don't screw with this! They'll put us in jail for sure, and you may get somebody killed."

"Oh, don't be such a wuss," she reprimanded me as she pushed the speaker button. "Hi, officer, this is exciting. Is this your first bank robbery?"

"What? Who is this? Get off the blankety-blank air, lady, you're blocking my transmission."

"Don't be such a spoilsport," she said indignantly. "I have just as much right to be on the air as you do."

Suddenly, shots rang out, tires screeched, and there was another frantic call from the policeman. "They're getting away! They're getting away! Some woman is interfering with this call and blocking my transmission. Hello? Hello? Am I being received?"

"Oops," said Barbara, quickly shutting off the walkie-talkie.

My worst fears were realized when the call was traced, and a few days later two detectives came calling. I was taken down to the police station and told I would be charged with interfering with peace officers, aiding and abetting bank robbers, and violating FCC regulations with unauthorized radio transmissions. When I tried to explain that the radios were bought for tracking me in casinos, they tacked on another charge of using an illegal gambling device.

"Why me!?" I shouted. "Barbara is the one who made that call. She's the one who bought those stupid walkie-talkies. Arrest her!"

"The walkie-talkies were bought with your credit card, sir," I was informed. "That's all that matters."

After getting out on bail, I sought legal representation, and made an appointment to see Johnny Cochran. I explained to him what happened. "They can't do anything," my sweetie spoke up. "The air is free, isn't it?"

"Whether it's free is up for debate; but what ain't free is my hourly rate," Cochran answered. "The cost will be $1,000 an hour – cash."

"Can I buy two hours?" I gulped.

"Oh, don't be so cheap," my sweetie chided me. "You're hired, Mr. Cochran. My Maxwell can always take out a second mortgage."

Well, the trial was, as expected, something of a three-ring circus, as you know if you had seen the news stories. Cochran played every angle he could think of. He ranted that the evidence was tainted, that it was just a harmless prank, that the walkie-talkie instruction booklet didn't say anything about bank robberies, and anyway, all the two robbers got away with was $20,000, which they probably needed for buy-ins to the World Series of Poker main event, and so on.

The judge was unmoved and waved off each argument as irrelevant. Finally, Cochran tried another tack. He had me take the stand and questioned me about my writing and my devoted fans whose lives' high point was reading my column. "How could you folks possibly deprive these people of their greatest pleasure?" he sobbed, wiping his eyes with a silk Armani handkerchief.

"Don't worry," the judge laughed. "He'll find plenty of new material in prison, especially the first time he takes a shower."

At that moment, the walkie-talkie on my belt jangled. "Just what I need," I groaned, picking up the radio. "Please, mommy," I begged. "This is no time to play games. Over."

"You tell that judge he's an idiot and he can't boss you around," she exclaimed. Her voice came through loud enough for the whole courtroom to hear. "Over."

"What the hell was that?" the judge yelled, banging his gavel.

"Oh, this? It's nothing, your honor, just my little … uh … walkie-talkie."

"Oh, is that what those things look like? Hey, let me take a look at it."

I handed it to him. "Say, this looks like fun. Which button do you press to talk?" He began playing with it like a 6-year-old. "Over. Roger. Ten-four. Do you read me? Over and out."

When he had finished playing with his new toy, the judge asked me to approach the bench. "Tell you what," he whispered. "Let me keep these gadgets and I'll see what I can do."

I nodded and he banged his gavel again. "I rule that the air is free and these folks haven't done nothing wrong. Case dismissed. Whoopee," he said under his breath. "Now I can be just like Broderick Crawford."

In the end, I got off pretty easy. The good news is that I avoided jail time, and even got rid of those stupid walkie-talkies in the bargain. The bad news is that my sweetie is shopping for a 50-foot-long leash.

Over and out.