In his hand is a manila folder full of court documents. From his stony facial expression, it’s hard to tell if the news is good or bad. As he rounds the hallway corner, an older police officer pulls him aside for a quick, quiet, stern-but-loving coach-talk. “Don’t fuck this up, OK? You get in trouble, you can call me.” Savage locks eye contact, nods plainly, says nothing. They shake hands.
Trailing behind is Meezy, Savage’s co-manager, a big happy bearded man. Just a minute ago, Meezy was in the hallway having an animated phone conversation about tour dates — “I said New Mexico! New!” Now he’s hustling to get Savage into their rental white Dodge Charger and the hell away from court.
In the car, Savage lights a Newport, the first of many, and lightly fumes. “Wish I could have paid another fine rather than do this shit.” He shuffles through the papers; a few months back he was caught driving without a license for a third time, according to Meezy. “They gave me 10 days of community service-type shit,” Savage says. “I gotta wash the police cars and cut the grass.” He reconsiders his situation. “As long I ain’t get no fuckin’ jail time.” Here, Meezy chimes in: “I knew you wasn’t going to jail!” Savage, minutely, brightens up. “And this ain’t a felony probation. I can still carry a gun.”
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