They had smelled new, never worn. After that, I'd zipped up the bag and continued my packing before heading to the airport for the morning flight to New York.
And then, it was surreal. Taking a cab to Charles de Gaulle. Walking to the checkin counter, presenting my id, checking my bags. Getting in a security line that was too long. Waiting. Showing my passport again. Wondering why the lady checking identification was taking so long. Then being led away by two gendarmes, walking through what looked like a hidden door, and walking down a long drab corridor to a small windowless room. Being handcuffed to the chair, then being told that everything would be better for me if I just told the truth.
What was the truth they wanted? It had to be related to the suitcase. Taking that was the only thing that I'd done differently from any other trip. But what could they want with it? With me? I'd give Thomas hell when I saw him next time. If only he knew what they'd done to me.
It can't get any worse. There's no way, I thought.
“Marissa,” said the man, “thank you for sharing your story again. I know it gets hard waiting in this room. And I want to believe you. I really do.”
Thank god this Frenchman finally has some sense.
“I want to believe you, but I need you to see one thing first.” He pulled out his cell phone and showed me the screen. I saw a picture of an open suitcase. The suitcase Thomas had given me. But something looked off. It was all torn up, as if someone had taken a knife to the lining and cut away the insides of it. Inside, there were thin plastic bags filled with white-
Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. Thomas had royally fucked me. This was going to take more than explaining. I needed a lawyer. The American consulate. I needed some serious help now . This was not just some little misunderstanding. This was serious. The real deal. I started to get visions of orange jumpsuits. What were women's prisons like in France? This couldn't be real.
“Call me Jean-Claude,” said the man. “Yes, this is very bad. Très sérieux .” He got up from his chair and walked around the table toward me.
“I've seen these kinds of things before. Where innocent women do something...euh... stupide , and then end up here, like this, trying to explain themselves out of a very bad situation.”
He walked behind me and I felt his hands land on my shoulders with a firm but gentle touch. Was this part of a standard interrogation? Building rapport with the suspect, maybe? I could smell his cologne as he stood behind me. There was something so reassuring in his touch. I felt a small tingle in my belly that shot between my thighs. Just a short flash of arousal, like the flash of a firefly on a Summer night.
This isn't a time to get aroused, Marissa. You're in deep shit. This guy is just playing you, trying to soften you up so you'll confess to something you didn't do. It's all a trick.
That was when I felt his hands begin to massage the muscles of my neck. His thumbs moved slowly from my shoulders up the base of my neck. There was a warmth in his touch that started to make the room fade from my awareness. His touch. Gentle and firm and melting the tension from the past two hours of sitting handcuffed to that chair. I closed my eyes and exhaled deeply.
“Thank you Jean-Claude,” I said. “I needed that.” Whether he was playing me or not, it was the first moment that morning where, for just a split second, I was able to feel like things might turn out ok.
“We'll make this work out,” said Jean Claude. His voice was deep, soothing in a way that didn't make sense given the gravity of my situation.
I imagined that if this were different, if he and I had met somewhere in a bar just a day or so ago, we would have flirted and one thing would have led to another and I would have let come up to my hotel room for a drink and who knows what else. That would have been nice.
And then, it was surreal. Taking a cab to Charles de Gaulle. Walking to the checkin counter, presenting my id, checking my bags. Getting in a security line that was too long. Waiting. Showing my passport again. Wondering why the lady checking identification was taking so long. Then being led away by two gendarmes, walking through what looked like a hidden door, and walking down a long drab corridor to a small windowless room. Being handcuffed to the chair, then being told that everything would be better for me if I just told the truth.
What was the truth they wanted? It had to be related to the suitcase. Taking that was the only thing that I'd done differently from any other trip. But what could they want with it? With me? I'd give Thomas hell when I saw him next time. If only he knew what they'd done to me.
It can't get any worse. There's no way, I thought.
“Marissa,” said the man, “thank you for sharing your story again. I know it gets hard waiting in this room. And I want to believe you. I really do.”
Thank god this Frenchman finally has some sense.
“I want to believe you, but I need you to see one thing first.” He pulled out his cell phone and showed me the screen. I saw a picture of an open suitcase. The suitcase Thomas had given me. But something looked off. It was all torn up, as if someone had taken a knife to the lining and cut away the insides of it. Inside, there were thin plastic bags filled with white-
Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. Thomas had royally fucked me. This was going to take more than explaining. I needed a lawyer. The American consulate. I needed some serious help now . This was not just some little misunderstanding. This was serious. The real deal. I started to get visions of orange jumpsuits. What were women's prisons like in France? This couldn't be real.
“Call me Jean-Claude,” said the man. “Yes, this is very bad. Très sérieux .” He got up from his chair and walked around the table toward me.
“I've seen these kinds of things before. Where innocent women do something...euh... stupide , and then end up here, like this, trying to explain themselves out of a very bad situation.”
He walked behind me and I felt his hands land on my shoulders with a firm but gentle touch. Was this part of a standard interrogation? Building rapport with the suspect, maybe? I could smell his cologne as he stood behind me. There was something so reassuring in his touch. I felt a small tingle in my belly that shot between my thighs. Just a short flash of arousal, like the flash of a firefly on a Summer night.
This isn't a time to get aroused, Marissa. You're in deep shit. This guy is just playing you, trying to soften you up so you'll confess to something you didn't do. It's all a trick.
That was when I felt his hands begin to massage the muscles of my neck. His thumbs moved slowly from my shoulders up the base of my neck. There was a warmth in his touch that started to make the room fade from my awareness. His touch. Gentle and firm and melting the tension from the past two hours of sitting handcuffed to that chair. I closed my eyes and exhaled deeply.
“Thank you Jean-Claude,” I said. “I needed that.” Whether he was playing me or not, it was the first moment that morning where, for just a split second, I was able to feel like things might turn out ok.
“We'll make this work out,” said Jean Claude. His voice was deep, soothing in a way that didn't make sense given the gravity of my situation.
I imagined that if this were different, if he and I had met somewhere in a bar just a day or so ago, we would have flirted and one thing would have led to another and I would have let come up to my hotel room for a drink and who knows what else. That would have been nice.
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