basement hallway. “I’ve got her . . . I mean him,” Daniels explains. “And believe me, you don’t want to handle him. He’s a biter.”
A biter? Really, I’m a biter?
I eye him like he’s crazy.
The sergeant gives me a hint of a smile and then pushes me into a small jail cell and unlocks the handcuffs—nope, not the last time I had to wear them. He gestures with his head toward a security camera, leans in close, and whispers, “Stand right where you are and turn your cap around on your head when you’ve got something. That’ll be our signal. But make sure I see you do it. I’ll be right around the corner, monitoring, and I’ll get to you within a minute. You got it, Bea?”
“Got it, Sarge.”
He slams the steel bars shut. They
clang
—lock automatically.
I look around at the cell. Probably six by eight feet. I pace the space and prove my estimation right. It smells of pissy Pine-Sol. Three sterile cinder-block walls painted a drab olive green; a concrete floor; a stainless toilet and sink jutting out of the wall; a worn wooden plank to sit on, lie on, wait on, worry on. Phony amenities, bullshit hope.
Black scuff marks mar the floor; the words
fuck you all
, scraped by someone, probably with a fingernail, are etched in the wood on the side of the plank. The metal bars are worn, the finish dulled from clenched fists.
This could have so been my life. Spent in a cell. Locked away. I was never busted—never had to sit in a hole like this.It was bad enough overdosing—waking up in a hospital, being thrown into rehab by my parents. But here? It’s stupid scary. That’s what it’s meant to do, this place. Shame you. Entrap you. Mess with your head.
My stomach tightens. I get cold and hot at the same time, and I suddenly start to sweat. My heart does a fluttery thing, like a fish tail flopping back and forth, desperate to free itself from the bottom of a boat. I sit down on the bench, try to breathe deeply, slowly—but it’s not working. I wipe my upper lip with my sleeve. My throat feels as if it’s closing up.
Holy crap. I’m having a panic attack. I’ve got to get out of here. Daniels . . . I need him.
I’m about to look in the camera and turn my hat around when I suddenly hear keys jingling. But not the sergeant’s keys. It’s the deputy escorting Junior—leading him into the cell across from me. Junior complies, his big feet dragging along behind. The bars clang shut, and the now familiar “locked-in-my-brain-for-the-rest-of-my-life” echo bounces off the drab green walls.
Junior pays no attention—doesn’t even notice me. He starts to circle like a crazed animal, banging, hitting the bars. And my heart slows, my breath softens. . . . And I climb up, taking me out of myself—out of the hole. It’s about him now—not me.
“What you in for?” I ask, sounding like a stupid line from a TV cop show.
He ignores me, still circling.
I try again. “What’s crackin’, homey?”
He snarls, “I ain’t your homey.”
Junior walks to the back of the cell—places his hands up above his head, leaning them on the cinder blocks, his legs splayed like he’s about to be frisked, and proceeds to hit his forehead over and over against the wall, repeating the words
shit, shit, shit
.
“Dude, chill out, you’re going to bust your head open. And I’m not cool with blood.”
He stops for a beat and yells, “Shut the fuck up!”
“I’m just tryin’ to make conversation.”
“I said, shut the fuck up.”
I have to get him to stop, sit, still himself, and face me. I have to reach him somehow, read his eyes.
Think, Bea.
“Can I tell you a secret?” I talk through the bars.
Junior ignores me and continues his slamming. “Hey,” I whisper, hoping the sergeant can’t read lips. “I’m a chick, pretending to be a guy. Wanna see?”
I figure this will get his attention. And I’m right; it does. He stops his banging, whips around, like,
what the hell?
“Check it
A biter? Really, I’m a biter?
I eye him like he’s crazy.
The sergeant gives me a hint of a smile and then pushes me into a small jail cell and unlocks the handcuffs—nope, not the last time I had to wear them. He gestures with his head toward a security camera, leans in close, and whispers, “Stand right where you are and turn your cap around on your head when you’ve got something. That’ll be our signal. But make sure I see you do it. I’ll be right around the corner, monitoring, and I’ll get to you within a minute. You got it, Bea?”
“Got it, Sarge.”
He slams the steel bars shut. They
clang
—lock automatically.
I look around at the cell. Probably six by eight feet. I pace the space and prove my estimation right. It smells of pissy Pine-Sol. Three sterile cinder-block walls painted a drab olive green; a concrete floor; a stainless toilet and sink jutting out of the wall; a worn wooden plank to sit on, lie on, wait on, worry on. Phony amenities, bullshit hope.
Black scuff marks mar the floor; the words
fuck you all
, scraped by someone, probably with a fingernail, are etched in the wood on the side of the plank. The metal bars are worn, the finish dulled from clenched fists.
This could have so been my life. Spent in a cell. Locked away. I was never busted—never had to sit in a hole like this.It was bad enough overdosing—waking up in a hospital, being thrown into rehab by my parents. But here? It’s stupid scary. That’s what it’s meant to do, this place. Shame you. Entrap you. Mess with your head.
My stomach tightens. I get cold and hot at the same time, and I suddenly start to sweat. My heart does a fluttery thing, like a fish tail flopping back and forth, desperate to free itself from the bottom of a boat. I sit down on the bench, try to breathe deeply, slowly—but it’s not working. I wipe my upper lip with my sleeve. My throat feels as if it’s closing up.
Holy crap. I’m having a panic attack. I’ve got to get out of here. Daniels . . . I need him.
I’m about to look in the camera and turn my hat around when I suddenly hear keys jingling. But not the sergeant’s keys. It’s the deputy escorting Junior—leading him into the cell across from me. Junior complies, his big feet dragging along behind. The bars clang shut, and the now familiar “locked-in-my-brain-for-the-rest-of-my-life” echo bounces off the drab green walls.
Junior pays no attention—doesn’t even notice me. He starts to circle like a crazed animal, banging, hitting the bars. And my heart slows, my breath softens. . . . And I climb up, taking me out of myself—out of the hole. It’s about him now—not me.
“What you in for?” I ask, sounding like a stupid line from a TV cop show.
He ignores me, still circling.
I try again. “What’s crackin’, homey?”
He snarls, “I ain’t your homey.”
Junior walks to the back of the cell—places his hands up above his head, leaning them on the cinder blocks, his legs splayed like he’s about to be frisked, and proceeds to hit his forehead over and over against the wall, repeating the words
shit, shit, shit
.
“Dude, chill out, you’re going to bust your head open. And I’m not cool with blood.”
He stops for a beat and yells, “Shut the fuck up!”
“I’m just tryin’ to make conversation.”
“I said, shut the fuck up.”
I have to get him to stop, sit, still himself, and face me. I have to reach him somehow, read his eyes.
Think, Bea.
“Can I tell you a secret?” I talk through the bars.
Junior ignores me and continues his slamming. “Hey,” I whisper, hoping the sergeant can’t read lips. “I’m a chick, pretending to be a guy. Wanna see?”
I figure this will get his attention. And I’m right; it does. He stops his banging, whips around, like,
what the hell?
“Check it
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