modest ranch houses—every one, just like the last—pulled into a driveway, and stopped the engine.
Sergeant Daniels spoke as if he were talking to himself, convincing himself. “You’re going to spend the rest of the night at my house. Max is with his mother, so you can sleep in his room. I’ll take you to your car in the morning, and you’ll drive straight home. Yes, I will follow you. And you’ll do a thirty/thirty. Thirty AA meetings in thirty days—no exception—starting tomorrow. You agree to that and I won’t tell your parents.”
I blubbered with gratitude—snot ran down my face. “Oh, thank you. Thank you . . .”
“Okay. Let’s get in the house. Take your boots off first. They smell like vomit.”
I did—I stepped out of the mukluks, and holding my arm, he walked me into his dark house, brought me to his son, Max’s, room. I sat on the bed. He took off my coat, gave me four saltine crackers, a glass of water, and two aspirins, and placed a puke bucket near the bed—
just in case
, he said.
The sergeant lifted a Spider-Man quilt, tucked me under it, and made eye contact for the first time. His sad green eyes bore through me, etched my brain.
“This is just a blip, Bea. Just a blip on the screen. It’s not going to happen again, and no one needs to know about it. Itwill be our little secret.” Then he kissed my forehead and left the room.
That night I dreamed of
my
superhero, Dan Daniels.
The next morning I found my boots sitting on the floor by the bed—clean. And I started one day, one hour, one minute . . . all over again.
I take a deep breath, unzip my sweatshirt, shake out my hands, and watch Sergeant Daniels enter the room, pull up a metal chair, and sit across the table from the kid, his back to me.
“So, Junior . . . may I call you that?” I hear his voice through the speakers imbedded in the wall.
Junior shrugs. His head hangs low—he doesn’t make eye contact with the sergeant. His right knee rapidly jiggles up and down underneath the table.
“This doesn’t have to be difficult—prolonged. Just give me the 411 on your OG. Who set you up?”
Hah. Quick study, Daniels,
I think to myself.
Junior’s voice cracks, straddles high and low. “I already told the other cop. I fessed up—it’s all there.” He points at a manila folder. “I called the shots—nobody else. There’s nothin’ more.” His jaw sets in a grimace, and he shoots a well-rehearsed tough-guy look at the sergeant—but it doesn’t fly. The look falls flat.
“Okay, whatever you say.” Daniels leans back in his chair and reads from the folder.
I chew the tip of my pen, waiting for something to pop up.
Junior’s left leg joins in on the dance with his right, both legs jiggling so high they graze the underside of the table.
Daniels gets up from his chair and starts circling Junior. “You know what you’re looking at, right? You’re not considered a minor here in Michigan. They’ll throw you in the big house, and I’m not talking about U of M’s football stadium, we’re talking
years
—maybe life. You’re a good kid. No priors—squeaky clean record. I can throw that folder away—your confession—in the trash, right now, you know that, don’t you?”
Junior chews the side of his mouth. His nostrils flare in silence.
“Are you taking a dive for someone? Maybe a bro? A homey? Someone close to you?” Junior’s legs suddenly stop shaking.
Daniels glances up at me and then leans in close to Junior, and whispers, “So that’s it. You’re protecting someone you care about.”
“I dunno know what you talkin’ ’bout.” Junior folds his arms in front of his chest and eyes the stained ceiling tiles as if he’s trying to stop gravity from pulling down the tears.
Daniels walks around the table and sits. “You’re young; you’re smart. You have your whole life ahead of you.”
Junior squints a pained look at Daniels.
And I squint at Junior. Trying to force something in
Sergeant Daniels spoke as if he were talking to himself, convincing himself. “You’re going to spend the rest of the night at my house. Max is with his mother, so you can sleep in his room. I’ll take you to your car in the morning, and you’ll drive straight home. Yes, I will follow you. And you’ll do a thirty/thirty. Thirty AA meetings in thirty days—no exception—starting tomorrow. You agree to that and I won’t tell your parents.”
I blubbered with gratitude—snot ran down my face. “Oh, thank you. Thank you . . .”
“Okay. Let’s get in the house. Take your boots off first. They smell like vomit.”
I did—I stepped out of the mukluks, and holding my arm, he walked me into his dark house, brought me to his son, Max’s, room. I sat on the bed. He took off my coat, gave me four saltine crackers, a glass of water, and two aspirins, and placed a puke bucket near the bed—
just in case
, he said.
The sergeant lifted a Spider-Man quilt, tucked me under it, and made eye contact for the first time. His sad green eyes bore through me, etched my brain.
“This is just a blip, Bea. Just a blip on the screen. It’s not going to happen again, and no one needs to know about it. Itwill be our little secret.” Then he kissed my forehead and left the room.
That night I dreamed of
my
superhero, Dan Daniels.
The next morning I found my boots sitting on the floor by the bed—clean. And I started one day, one hour, one minute . . . all over again.
I take a deep breath, unzip my sweatshirt, shake out my hands, and watch Sergeant Daniels enter the room, pull up a metal chair, and sit across the table from the kid, his back to me.
“So, Junior . . . may I call you that?” I hear his voice through the speakers imbedded in the wall.
Junior shrugs. His head hangs low—he doesn’t make eye contact with the sergeant. His right knee rapidly jiggles up and down underneath the table.
“This doesn’t have to be difficult—prolonged. Just give me the 411 on your OG. Who set you up?”
Hah. Quick study, Daniels,
I think to myself.
Junior’s voice cracks, straddles high and low. “I already told the other cop. I fessed up—it’s all there.” He points at a manila folder. “I called the shots—nobody else. There’s nothin’ more.” His jaw sets in a grimace, and he shoots a well-rehearsed tough-guy look at the sergeant—but it doesn’t fly. The look falls flat.
“Okay, whatever you say.” Daniels leans back in his chair and reads from the folder.
I chew the tip of my pen, waiting for something to pop up.
Junior’s left leg joins in on the dance with his right, both legs jiggling so high they graze the underside of the table.
Daniels gets up from his chair and starts circling Junior. “You know what you’re looking at, right? You’re not considered a minor here in Michigan. They’ll throw you in the big house, and I’m not talking about U of M’s football stadium, we’re talking
years
—maybe life. You’re a good kid. No priors—squeaky clean record. I can throw that folder away—your confession—in the trash, right now, you know that, don’t you?”
Junior chews the side of his mouth. His nostrils flare in silence.
“Are you taking a dive for someone? Maybe a bro? A homey? Someone close to you?” Junior’s legs suddenly stop shaking.
Daniels glances up at me and then leans in close to Junior, and whispers, “So that’s it. You’re protecting someone you care about.”
“I dunno know what you talkin’ ’bout.” Junior folds his arms in front of his chest and eyes the stained ceiling tiles as if he’s trying to stop gravity from pulling down the tears.
Daniels walks around the table and sits. “You’re young; you’re smart. You have your whole life ahead of you.”
Junior squints a pained look at Daniels.
And I squint at Junior. Trying to force something in
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