Benny Jay: Lunch With The Boys

I'm eating lunch at a greasy gyros joint on Halsted in Greektown with Marcus, the lawyer, and Ronnie, the gambler.

Marcus says we gotta try the sandwiches. So Ronnie and I get the chicken sandwich, only Marcus orders the Greek chicken lunch special. My sandwich is good, but his chicken looks really good, all smothered in gravy. It's got this big potato and rice. I'm watching him wolf down that bird -- all but licking up the gravy -- and I'm thinking: Damn, shoulda got the chicken special!

Marcus looks up, a chicken bone in his mouth. "Want some?" he asks, his mouth full.

I wanna say: Hell, yeah, man -- let's swap right now. My sandwich for your chicken. But I'm too proud, so I say: "No, man -- my sandwich is really good...."

We're talking about -- what else -- Blago. Ronnie's starts singing his praise. He's the only guy I know who thinks Blago's doing a good job. Marcus and I head him off -- cause, you know, we love Ronnie and all -- but we've heard his Blago rap before.

"C'mon, man," I say. "You don't really believe that crap....."

"He's got a presumption of innocence," says Ronnie.

"There's a difference between a presumption of innocence in a legal proceeding and in the court of public opinion," says Marcus, "where they've caught him on tape....."

"Let's talk about those tapes," says Ronnie. "I want to know -- how did they get the authorization to tape his conversations?"

"They had to go to a federal judge," I say.

"Oh, what are the grounds for taping his phones?" says Ronnie. "I wanna know. Cause they abuse that power all the time....."

He's making a compelling argument but I can't stop looking at his sandwich. I'm three-quarters of the way through my sandwich. And Marcus? He's polished off the potato. Lapped up the gravy. Eaten all the chicken. Now he's gnawing on the chicken bones and sucking out the marrow.

But Ronnie's one of those guys who can't eat while he's really excited, and he's only taken one bite.

"Ron, are you gonna eat your sandwich?" asks Marcus.

Apparently, his mind works like mine.

"Yeah," says Ronnie.

"But it's gonna get cold," I say.

"I'll eat it...."

"I hate it when food gets cold...."

Ronnie launches into this incredible story about the night in 1984 when four cops showed up at his front door. They said they had a warrant to search his house looking for evidence of bookmaking. He told them that he's not a bookie -- he may make bets, but he doesn't take them. They wandered all over his house, poking through his stuff, finding his roomie's stash of weed, like a-ha they were Sherlock freakin' Holmes. Then they slapped on the cuffs and dragged him down to the lock up and threw him in a cell with this black guy. Ronnie said: What are you in here for? And the guy said, running numbers -- only I didn't do it. Ronnie said he was in for being a bookie, only he didn't do it either. Apparently, no one in jail is guilty, only unjustly accused. Listening to Ronnie, I realize you can learn a lot about Chicago from spending time in a jail. One of the guards told him about a cop -- a sergeant in that very station -- who was a bookie. Another cop offered to get Ronnie out of jail early, if he paid him $100. It was like a Dylan song, where the police are free to break the laws they're supposed to enforce. They kept Ronnie in jail for six hours. Months later he was still getting hauled into court for hearings, and he wound up pleading guilty to some rinky-dink bullshit charge just to kill the case. It was nothing but an exercise in harassment. They had no compelling cause to search his house. The warrant was bogus. Someone with clout had it in for him -- he suspects an ex-girlfriend -- so she got the cops to get a judge to go along. And, yeah, they found the weed. But so what. It wasn't his weed. And they weren't even there to look for weed. And they should just legalize weed anyway. And you can find anything on anybody if you look through their private stuff. Cause everyone's guilty of something.....

He takes a breath.

I have to agree with just about everything he said. Only I can't help noticing -- he's barely touched his chicken sandwich.

"Hey, Ron," says Marcus. "Are you gonna eat your sandwich?"

"I'm gonna eat it," he says.

"It's probably cold," I say.

"I'll eat it...."

"I'm just sayin' -- I can't stand it when a sandwich gets cold...."

"I'm gonna eat it -- I'm gonna eat it...."

Back we go to Blago. Poring over the minute details of his case. We talk about him for an hour. Probably could talk about him for another hour. Can't get enough Blago.

When we leave, Ronnie's only eaten about one-half of his sandwich.