I called Granny Wise the other morning to see how she was and she told me her cousin Saul was in jail. I couldn’t believe it, Saul is over sixty and a gentleman to the core. "What’s he in for?" "He got a gash on his head." "Was he fighting?" "No, two prisoners were settling some beef and Saul got boot-heeled on accident." "He was already in jail when he got the gash?" "Yeah, on accounta he couldn’t raise room and booking fines. They woulda let him go, otherwise." "What was he in jail for originally?" "Selling sweet peaches." "Selling peaches?" Are peaches finally illegal, I wondered? Granny said, "his accent is so heavy most people think he has a hairball." Cousin Saul immigrated to the US from Germany, but never lost his accent. "Why did they jail him for having an accent?" "On accounta them three junior high girls had cell phones." "He had to go to jail for selling peaches to girls with cell…" Then, the whole story sprang up in my mind: Saul, a decent but poor old man, takes some peaches from his trees to sell. He goes by the bus stop and says to the girls, "Sveet beaches? Sveet beaches?" They think he’s saying, well, something about them, and they hit 911 to report a perv within ten feet of jailbait. The cops come, and, taking no chances with the purity of three street savvy teenieboppers, they haul Saul so they can check him out, and when they decide to let him go, he can’t pay the booking fee and twenty bucks for a day in the jug. They leave him in so he can pressure his friends for the loot and in the meantime he gets hurt when two actual bad guys fight. He can’t pay the doctor bill for the gash, so he stays in the jug, where he’ll rack up another twenty bucks for the room. "I’ll go down bail him out, Granny," I tell her, and she says, "go ahead, but don’t talk to anyone."