Help!
Help! Here I am at 2 o’clock on a Tuesday morning at the Sinclair station on 900 West and Center Street in Provo with two kids and three policemen. I am surprised at how busy West Center Street is at that hour. This is the story of my brush with the other side of Utah Valley life. About three weeks ago, a young woman I know calls me about 10 o’clock at night to tell me I have to get her out of jail. She has already lost custody of her nine-month-old baby because of her temper, and now she’s back in jail because of her temper. She desperately wants her baby back; she says he’s the only thing she has to live for. The bail is $3320, she promises me her mom will pay me back, so I say ok. She has already reluctantly contacted a couple of bail bondsmen and one of them calls and asks me to meet him in 20 minutes at the 7-11 across from the Trafalga miniature golf place up in Orem. I wait in the 7-11 parking lot for a half hour wondering what kind of a person becomes a bail bondsmen. Finally,