by Randy Mason
“But where am I gonna go? I can’t get out unless you get up.”
“Just forget it. I don’t want any trouble.”
The set of his jaw and the hard look he gave her made her turn to the bus driver. But the woman quickly looked down and opened two packets of Sweet’N Low. So Micki sat back, the couple’s conversation blending into the restaurant’s hum and clatter, the thick, white china comfortably hot between her palms. Blasting on high, the air conditioning was like a sweet blessing, and sometimes, when she moved her hands, the loose cuffs felt cool against her wrists. But the pain in her stomach was growing with a vengeance. And when the waitress served the food, the smell of waffles, eggs, and bacon made her both hungry and nauseous at the same time. She slid down a bit on the padded maroon vinyl. The lack of sleep kicked in, and she let her heavy eyelids close.
♦ ♦ ♦
“C’MON, KID, GET UP.” The guard shook her arm, and she started, cuffed hands crashing painfully into the underside of the table. As she waited for her head to clear, she saw the guard was already standing, a dollar bill lying in between the plates. The bus driver, lipstick reapplied, was returning from the restroom.
For about twenty minutes, Micki had fallen into a dreamless, heavy sleep. Now she was hungry. Very hungry. She looked at the greasy, sticky remains, but it was time to go. She slid across the seat with awkward little lurches, the guard slipping some money to the driver, who went to wait on line for the cashier. Then Micki and the guard were past the front and out the door—the hot, humid air hitting her like an invisible wall.
Back inside the precinct house, they approached the desk sergeant again—a different one since a new tour had begun. And this time, after the two men talked, the guard led her across the large room to the stairway, where they trudged up in silence, passing others on their way down. Worn into a smooth depression in the middle by countless pairs of feet, the marble steps, though permanently covered in grime, seemed out of place.
They entered the detectives’ room, where fewer people were milling around and there was considerably less noise. Though a few of the battered-looking desks were empty, two detectives who were typing had people sitting next to theirs while another, talking on the phone and taking notes, was repeatedly nodding and saying “uh-huh” a lot. An empty detention cage, visible through an archway in the far corner, caused Micki’s gaze to linger before moving to a fourth cop, who was pouring coffee at a little table in the corner to their right. The guard pulled her along until they stood in front of a door with frosted glass. When he knocked, the murmuring on the other side stopped, and a gruff voice said, “Yeah?”
The guard turned the knob and pushed her into the office ahead of him. “Captain Malone?”
“Yeah. Is this the kid?”
“Yes, sir. And if you’ll just sign these papers, I’ll be on my way.”
With a receding hairline and a touch of grey at the temples, Captain Daniel Malone had deep crows’ feet around his eyes and bags underneath, suggesting long hours, little sleep, and lots of stress. His tie—a faded silk, wayward threads poking out here and there—was slung low beneath his unbuttoned collar, while his suit jacket—navy blue, shiny elbows—hung carelessly from the coat tree standing tilted in the corner. Totally surrounded by files and papers, he looked buried behind his desk. He accepted the papers and, after a perfunctory glance, signed and handed them back.
The guard removed the handcuffs. “Anything else you need from me, Captain?”
“No, I think everything’s in order. You can go.”
The guard nodded, dropped Micki’s bag on the floor, and, without even looking at her, left.
Alone in the middle of the office—now the sole object of attention for two strange men—Micki tried to steady her breathing; tried to ignore the second man, the one leaning against the wall near the window. At about six and a half feet tall, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, he looked like someone who belonged in a movie instead of a police station. He was lean and muscular with a strong face; broad shoulders; and thick, dark hair that was a little on the long side. When she’d first caught sight of him, her heart had skipped a beat. But his brown eyes had narrowed when they’d settled on her, displaying confusion, then anger, as he looked her up and down. Shrinking under the iciness of his gaze, her heart seemed to stop.
Malone got up, walked around his desk, and extended his arm. “I’m Captain Malone. You must be Micki.”
Unable to speak, she simply nodded while they shook hands.
He sat on the edge of his desk and tipped his head toward the tall man. “This is Detective Sergeant Baker, your legal guardian.”
A sharp pang shot through her as the tall man stared her down. Malone, looking at Baker, raised an eyebrow. Baker turned to gaze out the window, letting his hands slip into his back pockets.
Malone stood up. “I tell you what,” he said to Micki as he led her to a wooden bench just outside his office, “why don’t you wait here while I talk to the detective sergeant alone. We’ll only be a few minutes.” He paused in the doorway. “Don’t go anywhere; I’m trusting you to stay put.” And though he smiled, she thought it didn’t look all that sincere.
“Yeah, sure,” she said. But as soon as the door had closed, she could hear the other man’s voice—so loud the door might as well have been open.
“It’s a fucking girl! Nobody said anything about that! All this time you let me believe I’d be dealing with a boy.”
His voice barely audible, Malone responded, “I never said it was a boy.”
“But you never said it was a girl, either. You knew I’d assume it was a boy. And you never corrected me. Christ, no one ever corrected me. I mean, how the hell could I tell from a name like Mickey? It’s unbelievable! Now I see how careful you were in the way you said everything: always ‘the kid’ or her name. Jeez, it’s a fucking miracle you never slipped up. In fact, that’s the real reason you wouldn’t let me see her file before, isn’t it; that would’ve given the whole damn thing away.”
“What’s the difference?”
“WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE? Don’t give me that bullshit …”
Sitting sideways on the end of the bench, Micki’s left ear was close to the door. She jumped at the light tap on her shoulder. It was one of the other detectives, the one she’d seen pouring coffee.
“C’mon. I’m going to put you in one of the interrogation rooms. You can wait in there.”
“But he told me to wait here.”
“I knows all about it. Don’t worry; I’ll tell him where you are.”
A little overweight, the cop, wearing an old brown leather shoulder holster, had curly, reddish hair and a mustache. Thick, hairy forearms sprouted from rolled-up shirtsleeves, and wet spots had already formed at his armpits. The sports slacks he wore were a bit too tight, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. And though it was already hanging loosely around his neck, he tugged at the brown tie that had powdered sugar sprinkled on it.
“But they’re talking about me.”
“I know. Let’s go.” With a hint of amusement playing about his features, he held out a hand as if to help her up. Then he took her to a room down the hall on the other side. As he was about to leave, he asked if she wanted some coffee.
What she wanted was one of the doughnuts that had created his tie decoration. “No, I’m okay.”
He smiled, then left.
Almost a minute passed before she tried the door, expecting it to be open. But it was locked. She was alone in a locked room. Again. At least this one had windows, though the heavy wire mesh was a grim reminder she was still a prisoner. And the walls—painted the same dull, two-tone institutional green as the rest of the place—were all blank except one, which had a series of gruesome-looking marks and discolorations. She tried not to think about what had made them. Instead she walked ar
ound the heavy wooden table that occupied the middle of the otherwise barren space and looked out the window. A homeless man was sleeping amidst the litter in the alley below, ulcerated toes sticking out of filthy socks, an empty pint bottle in his outstretched palm. He wore layers of scarves and coats as if it were the dead of winter, but the heat was oppressive and had sucked out any shred of optimism left her. Why couldn’t her legal guardian have been the coffee cop? He seemed nice. Or better yet, Sergeant Kelly. After all, if it weren’t for him she’d still be in juvi. Then again, he’d put her there in the first place.
It had been a hot July night and her first time robbing an apartment. Shoplifting, purse snatching, and picking pockets on crowded subway trains had been more her kind of thing, though there were times she’d gone as far as holding people up with a knife. But after an entire day of getting really sick, she hadn’t been feeling all that picky.
She’d climbed a fire escape to reach a dark window left open wide, the unseen contents behind it an unknown treasure for the taking. Spicy and rich, the aroma of Spanish cooking had wafted out, but not a sound had issued from within. She sat on the sill, swung her legs over, and eased herself through, hopping down onto some sort of carpet, the stale undertone of cheap perfume almost making her gag. All was quiet until she bumped into a bed and then a chair, heart hammering in her chest while she stood completely still to listen. But after a while, when there was nothing to hear, she started groping along the wall.
If she’d been like the other messed-up girls—or even some of the guys—she would’ve been out walking the streets for money. But just the thought sparked incredible rage. Well aware of this, Tim had still made her promise not to do it, though by then he was gone, the other promise already broken—the very reason why she needed the cash. But each day was getting harder and harder. So much robbing and stealing just to maintain her miserable little life. And for what?
Hand finally on a light switch, she paused, thinking she heard someone talking very softly. But she brushed it off as paranoia, and wiped away the sweat beading on her face—which had nothing to do with her nerves or the heat. Then she flipped on the light, and the room jumped to life, shockingly bright and stinging her eyes. Shielding them with her hand, she cursed her carelessness: she’d lost her sunglasses somewhere the day before.
Jesus, what a mess. Women’s clothes were strewn all over the floor, along with a dirty bath towel and several pairs of high heels. Empty packs of Salems lay crumpled on top of the blanket. Zeroing in on an old dresser with a cracked mirror above it, she quickly ransacked the drawers, finding mostly lingerie, sweaters, and some worthless costume jewelry. She looked around a little longer, then sat down hard on the bed and shivered.
Somewhere in the apartment, a door opened, and the sound of hushed voices returned. She ran to the window and scrambled over the sill. But before she’d even wound her way down to the next fire escape landing, she heard, “FREEZE. POLICE.” When she looked up, she saw an overweight cop and his gun framed in a rectangle of light. Below her were two more flights of stairs and then the pavement. She stumbled down the rest of the fire escape as fast as she could, then hit the ground and ran, the cop yelling after her. But, unfamiliar with the area, she got stuck in a dead end. Up ahead was a chain-link fence; behind her, the cop, closing in fast. She wheeled around to face him.
“FREEZE. POLICE,” he yelled—as if she hadn’t heard him the first time. “HANDS IN THE AIR NOW.” He’d stopped halfway down the alley and was partially obscured by shadow. And breathing heavily.
She glanced back over her shoulder. But the fence—bits of debris clinging to some of the links, wire strung in large Xs over several sections—appeared much higher than it had just seconds before. Too high to climb for a beginner like her.
A huge bang made her jump. Her head whipped back to the cop. But he looked like he hadn’t moved.
“C’mon, son,” he said, “no big deal. Just put your hands on your head and this is all over. Don’t make me shoot.”
She hesitated: he clearly hadn’t gotten a good look at her. And he didn’t seem like the Dirty Harry type, either—the kind to want to put a bullet through your brain. Yet she didn’t doubt his determination to bring her in, to bring her to justice and all that crap. What she wouldn’t know until much later was that, under the circumstances, shooting her—even if she ran—could’ve ended his career; he would never have done it. But staring down the alley, down the barrel of his gun, the threat had seemed very real. And for a fraction of a second she considered raising her hands. But then she thought about the scars on her face: they might link her to all sorts of crimes. And she’d probably left fingerprints behind on the knife she’d used on Speed …
Motionless, eyes fixed on the cop, she could hear him panting, could practically feel his heart straining to calm down after his brief exertion …
She ran to the fence and started to climb, hand by hand, fingers grasping the links. But she was going kind of slow, having trouble getting any sort of help from her feet—the links in the fence seemed too small for the toes of her sneakers. She felt betrayed: it had always looked so easy when guys did it. She glanced down over her shoulder and saw the cop was right below her, then felt his grip on her foot. And though she tried to pull herself up further, he was tugging hard, inching her lower, causing something sharp to dig into her stomach. Both hands on her ankle, he pulled her down even more, and the little stick turned to severe pain. Kicking blindly, legs flailing, she ultimately kicked him square in the face. He released her foot and grabbed his nose, cursing and bleeding while she continued to pull herself up. She struggled to the top, rolled over, and mostly fell to the other side. Shirt tacky and wet, she crawled only a few feet before curling up in the shadows.
But just a few minutes later, the cop—gasping for breath after running around the block, blood and sweat dripping down his face—was right there. He aimed his gun and used his foot to push at her. “C’mon, get up, you little punk.”
The sound of her own breathing was very loud in her ears; his voice, nothing but a faceless, shapeless blur.
“C’mon!” His foot pushed at her again, doing little more than rocking her. With an aggravated grunt, he used his free hand to yank her underweight body up and throw her into the chain links. She slammed against the metal and slid down, the rattle echoing in her brain.
“Stand up, you little piece of scum, and keep your hands on the fence!”
But she remained on her knees, her mind a foggy jumble of pain and sounds.
“PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD,” he barked.
She actually managed to do that and immediately felt the pressure of the gun’s muzzle at her temple.
“I’d love to pull this trigger right now,” he said.
And even with the noise that was rushing through her head, she could hear the sneer on his face—could feel the weight of the bullet in his gun. And all she wanted was for him to hurry up and pull the damn trigger. So the pain would stop. So the nightmare of living to shoot up would stop. Instead, handcuffs clicked around her wrists as he pulled them down behind her, one by one.
“Get up,” he ordered.
But when he grabbed her under the arm, she only moaned. Virtually doubled over, her forehead was resting against the fence. In a voice not much more than a breath, she said, “Can’t.”
Cursing, the cop finally pulled out his flashlight and eased his bulk down till he was kneeling beside her. It was then that he saw the blood running from under her vest and dripping all over her jeans to form a small, dark pool on the ground. It was also then that he realized he’d been chasing a girl and not a young boy, the scars on her face matching a description given by numerous street-crime victims. He set her down on her side.
She closed her eyes.
Using his walkie-talkie, he called for a “bus,” talking to the dispatcher while scanning the fence
with his flashlight. About two-thirds of the way up, in the dimming rings of the yellowing beam, he could see a section that someone had clipped open. Like a misplaced hook, one piece of link was jutting out, its sharp edge reaching toward the sky. It wouldn’t really matter if you were climbing up. But if someone were pulling you down … Her drying blood had stained it. He felt sick.
He removed the cuffs and noted the needle tracks on the inside of her arm: the street’s ugly tattoo. What a waste. Then he turned her onto her back and applied pressure as best he could. “Everything’s gonna be all right,” he said. But he was already covered in blood.
When he heard the ambulance approaching, he put his hand over hers before standing up to meet the paramedics at the street. To this day, he’d swear she whispered, “I’m sorry.”
♦ ♦ ♦
PERCHED ON THE FRONT of his desk, color rising in his face, Captain Malone said, “Now you listen to me, Jim, and you listen good: I went to a lot of trouble to set this up. This kid is high risk, and absolutely nobody wanted her living on her own. But you refused to take a kid in with you. Do you have any idea the hell I went through for that alone? And then there was all the bureaucratic bullshit and the strings I pulled to get the department to agree to this as an alternative to therapy for you in the first place—they weren’t exactly taken with the shrink’s idea, even less with the special considerations I pressed so hard for. If you back out now, Internal Affairs will reopen their investigation, and you’ll be officially back on modified duty—you might even face suspension. Everything you’ve ever done since you’ve been on the job will be scrutinized, and I kid you not that your record will be permanently marred and your career essentially over.
“You’re a good cop—an excellent cop—and I consider you a friend; I wouldn’t have stuck my neck out like this for anyone else. But you need to get your head straightened out. I’ve seen cops on the edge like you. Push it a little further and you’ll end up on the wrong side of that badge.”