Fifteen minutes later, June and Doug Crowley were startled awake by persistent pounding on their front door and the ringing of the doorbell. Instinctively suspecting that the reason for the abrupt intrusion was going to be a problem, June grabbed her robe and raced downstairs.
She yanked open the door and saw two men in plainclothes side by side with a uniformed policeman. She had no way of knowing that another uniformed officer was in the backyard to guard against the possibility that Alan would try to escape.
“Ma’am, I’m Detective Wilson from the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office. We have a warrant for the arrest of Alan Crowley and a search warrant for the premises,” he told her. “Is he here at this time?”
“My son is represented by counsel, by Lester Parker. Have you spoken to him?”
“Your son has the right to speak to his attorney later. We are here now to arrest him.”
Without being asked, Wilson pushed open the door and stepped past June Crowley into the house. His fellow detective and the officer followed him.
By this time Doug and Alan were tumbling down the stairs in time to hear the word “arrest.” Alan gripped his father’s arm as the words sank in. He was dressed in only a T-shirt and boxers.
He looked at Mike Wilson. “Can I at least get dressed?”
Wilson answered Alan’s question. “Yes, you can get dressed. We’ll follow you to your room.”
He and the other detective climbed the stairs behind Alan and walked down the hallway to his room. Two partially packed suitcases were on the floor by the window. Next to them was an unzipped Nike sports bag with several wooden bats and two baseball gloves inside.
“Are you going someplace, Alan?” Mike asked, although he already knew the answer.
“I’m leaving for college the day after tomorrow,” Alan said. “Can I still go?”
“Let’s see how today goes,” Mike said matter-of-factly.
He watched as Alan went into his closet and pulled out jeans and a pair of running shoes.
“Sorry, Alan. No shoelaces, no belt and no jewelry.”
? ? ?
In her bedroom June was frantically dialing Lester Parker’s office. Filled with frustration at being connected to a recording, she shrieked, “This is June Crowley. The police are here with a warrant for Alan’s arrest. Call me on my cell phone at once.” She reached into her closet and grabbed a running suit.
Doug was quickly pulling on a pair of pants and shirt. They managed to be back downstairs as Alan, a detective on each side of him, was walking out the front door toward the waiting cars.
“Where are you taking him?” June shouted. She gasped as she noticed for the first time that Alan’s hands were cuffed behind his back.
Mike answered, “To the Bergen County Jail in Hackensack.”
June saw two of her neighbors standing in their driveways observing the scene that was unfolding before them.
“Can one of us ride with Alan?” she yelled to Mike Wilson.
“No, but you can follow us to the jail.”
June jogged to catch up to them. She grabbed Alan’s arm as Wilson was opening the back door of his unmarked car. “Alan, I phoned Lester Parker. He’s going to get right back to me. Remember what he told you. Don’t answer any questions unless he is with you.”
There were tears in Alan’s eyes. Before he had a chance to answer her, he felt Wilson’s hand on his head firmly forcing it down as he slid through the opened door. There was a wire grill separating the front and back seats.
June maintained eye contact with Alan for as long as she could as the car began to slowly back down her driveway. As she watched Wilson drive away, her normally steely resolve melted. “My baby, oh my God, my baby,” she sobbed as Doug put his arm around her and helped her toward his car.
? ? ?
After turning off Hollywood Avenue, the detective’s car accelerated onto Route 17. The traffic was moving quickly as they were a little ahead of the worst part of the morning rush.
A bewildered Alan tried to make sense of what was going on around him. Only days ago, he had ridden in this same car with Detective Wilson, to Hackensack. But on the earlier trip he had been in the front seat and was not wearing handcuffs. He found himself hoping that this was one long nightmare. When he woke up, he would go to Kerry’s house, make up with her and hurry home to mow the lawn. And finish organizing what he would bring to college. It didn’t work. This was real.
Wilson and the other detective made no attempt to speak to him. He could hear them talking about the monstrously long home run the Yankees’ Aaron Judge had hit the previous evening. He had seen it. For them this is just another day at the office, he thought. For me, my life is over.
Processing at the jail was a blur. The bright flashes as he was photographed straight on and in profile. Being fingerprinted again. Answering a barrage of questions.
Alan was taken into a windowless room. His handcuffs were removed. He was given a bag and told to take off his clothes and put them in it. He assumed it would be okay to keep his underwear on. He was told to put on an orange jumpsuit that was on the counter in front of him.
After changing, he was taken to a community holding cell. About a dozen people were there. There were benches along the walls of the room and one in the center. Toward the back of the cell on the right, in full view of all, was a stainless steel toilet. No one was sitting on the bench closest to it. Alan took a seat on a bench near the cell door.
About half the people in the cell appeared to be around his age or a little older. One prisoner sitting by himself in the corner smelled to high heaven. Everybody was sitting, most with their heads down. There were a few conversations going on. A loudmouth was sharing his experiences with someone who had never been arrested. Alan heard another one explaining the difference between jail and prison. “If you incarcerated for up to 364 days, you in jail; 365 days or more, you in prison.”
Alan had not eaten breakfast and was very hungry. He made eye contact with a middle-aged man on the bench opposite him. “Is food something you ask for, or do they bring it when they’re ready?”
The man smiled. “They just bring it, but believe me, it’s nothing you’d ask for.”
There was no clock that he could see, and watches weren’t permitted. After what he thought was several hours, a guard began unlocking the cell door. Behind the guard was an older man pushing a cart with numerous paper bags on the top tray. Alan was handed a brown paper bag. Inside was something wrapped in wax paper. He put it on his lap and opened it. The thickness of the stale roll covered the two slices of baloney deep inside. He assumed the gooey white substance was mayonnaise.
The man opposite him had seen the expression on his face. “I guess they were out of filet mignon,” he said as he bit into his sandwich.
Fearful that dinner would not be any better, Alan forced himself to eat half of it. Also in the bag, compliments of the state of New Jersey, was a plastic bottle of water.
He was later moved to the commons area in the general population. About twenty inmates were seated on folding chairs watching CNN. Small groups were off to the sides playing chess, checkers and cards. Recreation time, Alan thought bitterly.
In the late afternoon they were marched into what passed for a dining room. He followed the lead of others who took a tray and a plate and walked past the servers who put scoops on their plates. The utensils were plastic.
He spotted a half-filled table where the inmates appeared to be near his age. They were exchanging stories about why they had been arrested. Two of them had been caught with heroin. Another was serving a drunk driving sentence, his third. They looked at him, obviously expecting to hear his story. “My girlfriend died in an accident. They’re blaming me.”
“Which judge you got?”
“I don’t know.”
After dinner they were herded back to the community room. One of the inmates who had been at the dinner table asked Alan, “You play chess?”