In this age of binge-worthy series produced by the likes of Amazon and Netflix, recommendations come from friends and algorithms alike. So when both a friend and a bot suggested that I might like “Sneaky Pete,” I decided to give it a try.
The series is rife with complications that keep the viewer guessing about the various motives of each character, but it was the consummate conman Pete’s relationship with a family in the bail bonds business that sparked my memory of the night Maris and I attempted to post bail for her boyfriend, Danny.
In the summer of 1979, I was in my dorm room at Stetson University in DeLand, Florida, studying for my final exam in Spanish when I was interrupted by a knock on my door. “Come in,” I called. I was so happy to see Maris, a native Spanish speaker from Puerto Rico, because I was having trouble with a conjugation. Her arrival was auspicious indeed.
She was out of breath and explained that she had run to my room from the house she and Danny shared about a half mile away. In her heavily-accented English she said, “I need your help. Danny is in jail, and I must go and bail him out.”
I explained to her that I didn’t know anything about bailing someone out of jail, but she was brooking no excuses from me. “You must come,” she pleaded, nearly in tears. “We need one-hundred-forty-six dollars and seventy cents, and we will be able to get Danny out of jail.”
I stared at her. We were in college. No one had $146.70 just hanging around ready to peel off and hand over to someone. She frantically motioned for me to get up from my desk and come with her. I protested one more time. “Maris, I have to study for my Spanish exam.”
“No worries,” she said. “You help me, I will make sure you get a good grade. I will make sure you get an A.” Knowing that I would already pass this exam, maybe even pull off a B without any more studying, I agreed to go with her.
We power-walked back to her rented house while she explained how Danny had gotten arrested. He had been growing pot for several months in a container garden he set up on their enclosed back patio. Danny’s business was extremely small. He produced enough to supply about a half dozen friends, and had a small amount left over for his personal use. He made enough money to pay for the cost of his textbooks and to afford take-out a couple times a week. But in those Reagan-Era days of the War on Drugs with minimum sentencing, for people like Danny, an arrest really could prove disastrous.
Maris explained the plan. We would go to the house and dig through all the drawers, look under furniture and rugs, and rummage through closets and cushions. She was sure we would be able to come up with one-hundred-forty-six dollars and seventy cents and then we would walk to the jail, which was only a few blocks away.
Remarkably, once I kicked in the four dollars and thirty-two cents I had in my purse, we had the amount needed. I didn’t understand why we had to get this particular amount, but she explained, “The policeman said this is the amount to get Danny out of jail.”
At the station, we were directed to a small booth around the corner from the main entrance. I saw an officer sitting there and thought that he must be like a toll collector. I imaged that we would just walk up to him, tell him we were there to post bail for Danny, hand him $146.70, and Danny would walk out, and I’d soon be studying for my Spanish exam again. But, that’s not how it worked.
It’s amazing to me that the officer didn’t start cracking up at our naivete. He gave us a little tutorial on what was involved in posting bail. The conversation went something like this:
O: Does your friend own any property in town? Or anywhere in the state of Florida?
Me: No.
O: The full bond is $1,467. Do you have that much money?
Me and Maris: (horrified looks on our faces) No.
O: Without property, or the full amount, you have to engage the services of a bail bondsman who will guarantee, for the price of ten percent of the bond, that your friend won’t skip out and will appear on his court date.
Maris: But the police officer said if I brought one-hundred-forty-six dollars and seventy cents to the jail, Danny could come home.
O: I’m sorry, girls, that’s just not the way it works.
Me: How do we find a bail bondsman?
O: There’s a list posted right over there. (He pointed to a piece of paper taped to the side of the booth.)
I looked at the list of about 30 names, none of which I knew, and sighed.
Me: I guess we can just call the first name on the list.
O: (shook his head.)
Me: Why are you shaking your head?
O: (shook his head.)
Me: Well...maybe I’ll call the second name on the list.
O: (shook his head.)
O: (shook his head.)
Me: Hmm...maybe I’ll call the third name on the list.
O: (stared down at his clipboard.)
Me: May I have a piece of paper and borrow a pen?
O: (slid the requested items under the bullet proof panel separating us.)
Me: Thank you.
O: Good luck to you.
It was 2:00 AM before Maris and I arrived back at my dorm room. We found a bail bondsman for Danny, but nothing could be done before 9:00 in the morning. Danny would just have to spend the whole night in jail. Maris resigned herself to this fact, and was effusive about the five hours I had spent trying to solve the problem with her. We gathered my Spanish notes and textbook together and snuggled up on my bed to start studying.
At 4:00 AM she pronounced me ready to make an A. We fell asleep, exhausted by everything that had happened.
The happy ending was that I made an A, Danny was bailed out and back home by noon, and his court-appointed lawyer filed that the DeLand police had made an illegal search. It was several months later, but Danny was not convicted. He also never grew pot again. At least not in DeLand. As to “Sneaky Pete,” I understand Season 2 is already in production.
Copyright DJ Anderson, 2017
