“It’s sick,” the old man said under his breath.
James stopped. “Excuse me?”
The man glowered at James. “Don’t you think you’re a little old for her? I got a granddaughter about her age.”
The heavyset white-haired woman next to him sat with her arms crossed, a plate of untouched food in front of her. “You’ve ruined my Valentine’s Day dinner,” she said.
Brittany stared at the floor.
“Get your minds out of the gutter. I’m her guardian. And I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t speak of her that way. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
As James and Brittany departed the restaurant, he said to her, “You can’t argue with ignorance. But I still try.”
“I know.” She forced a smile.
In the parking lot, a bitter wind cut through their clothes. Brittany hurried for the truck. James stopped and glanced at the highway, a flash of red catching his eye. He was weary from feeling like they were being watched. Was it a pickup? Was it a car?
“You comin’?” Brittany said, shivering by the passenger door.
James retrieved his keys from the front pocket of his slacks.
“Do you want to drive?” he asked.
“Not in heels.”
James cranked the engine and turned up the heat. They drove through town. The town square had a fountain that was dry in the winter. Raised beds made with brick and concrete contained neatly trimmed hollies and junipers. Near the square, on the strip, a handful of three- and four-story brick and stone buildings housed banks, accountants, and relationship salespeople, otherwise known as financial advisors. Traffic was sparse as James and Brittany passed the historic district. When they moved beyond the buildings built with the grift of finance, the architecture became less extravagant, mostly two-story converted row homes with brick and vinyl siding. Many had old rusty metal roofs that needed replacement. A carousel of failed businesses rotated through the row homes. The mainstays were the dry cleaners, two bars, and a sandwich shop.
Outside of town, the road was dark and deserted. James glanced at Brittany. She gazed out the window. Almost home. I’m ready for sweats. And that cake. He motored around a bend, and his stomach leapt. Brittany turned to him, her eyes wide.
“It’s okay,” he said.
James watched in his rearview mirror as he passed the cross street, where the police car was parked. The cruiser pulled out. He could hear the V-8 gaining ground behind him. The car tailed him—close. James scowled. Here we go. He turned onto the gravel road that led to his cabin. The cruiser followed. Brittany turned around, gripping the headrest. James stopped the truck as soon as the officer activated his flashing blue and red lights.
James put the emergency brake on, cut his headlights, and took a deep breath. The truck idled, warm air pumping from the vents. James grabbed his documentation from the glove box and his license from his wallet.
The officer was backlit by the spotlight on the cruiser. He shone a flashlight the size of a baton. He marched to the driver’s side door in a puffy jacket and black gloves.
James rolled down his window halfway. He was relieved to read M. Emory on the officer’s nametag. Officer Emory was clean-shaven, with dark hair and light eyes.
“Turn off the truck,” he said, shining his flashlight into the cab.
“It’s cold,” James replied.
“Turn off the truck.”
James cut the engine.
The officer’s pants were pulled up high to prevent his gut from lapping over his belt.
Officer Emory said, “License, registration, and proof of insurance.”
James handed him his documents. The officer took the papers and shone his flashlight in Brittany’s face. “This your daughter?”
“She’s a friend,” James replied.
The officer leaned forward, almost sticking his chubby face in the truck. “How old are you, miss?”
Brittany was pressed up against the driver’s side door, her arms folded over her chest. “I’m nineteen,” she said, barely audible.
“You’ll have to speak up,” the officer said.
“Nineteen.” Her head was down.
The officer scowled at James. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”
“Because Chief Strickland told you to.”
The officer looked away, breaking character. After a moment, his glare returned. “You were driving erratically. Have you been drinking?”
“I had one glass of wine at dinner.”
Officer Emory nodded and returned to his car with James’s papers.
James turned to Brittany. “You okay?”
“No,” she replied, her face taut, “This is really bad.”
“It’ll be fine. I haven’t done anything. He’s just messing with me.”
Ten minutes later the chubby officer returned to the truck.
“I’m gonna have to ask you to step out of the vehicle,” he said to James.
James frowned and stepped from the truck to the gravel road.
“Turn around, spread your legs, and put your hands on the truck,” the officer said.
James spread his legs and leaned forward, his hands touching the cold metal.
“Do you have any weapons or needles or anything that might cut or poke me?” the officer said.
“No.”
He frisked James and then told him to turn around. He led him to the middle of the road. “Stand and hold your arms out to your side,” the officer said. “Now touch your nose with each hand.”
James stood with his arms out and touched his nose without losing his balance. He did it over and over again, gaining speed. “That good enough?” James said.
“Stand on one leg and count to ten.”
James complied.
“Now the other leg.”
James complied.
“Now stand straight, close your eyes, and tilt you head back for thirty seconds.”
James closed his eyes and tilted his head back. After what felt like a minute James said, “Are you keeping time?”
“No, you are,” the officer said.
James opened his eyes and tilted his head forward. “It’s been like a minute.”
“Recite the alphabet backward.”
“Z, Y, X, V, W … shit. I’d have to write it forward first. This is ridiculous. I’m clearly not drunk.”
The officer attached a tube to a small plastic device. He pointed the straw at James’s face. “This is a breathalyzer. Take a deep breath and blow into this straw until I tell you to stop. Do not stop blowing until I tell you to, and do not touch the machine. Keep your hands by your side.”
James took a deep breath and blew into the straw.
“Stop,” the officer said after ten seconds, extracting the device from James’s mouth. He looked at the readout and placed the machine in his pocket. “Turn around and place your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest for driving under the influence. You have the right to remain silent and to refuse to answer questions. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” James replied.
The officer placed handcuffs on James’s wrists, tightening the metal enough to feel immediate discomfort. Brittany watched from the back window of the truck.
The officer said, “Anything you do or say may be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“If you decide to answer questions now without an attorney present, you will still have the right to stop answering at any time until you talk to an attorney. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
The officer led James to the cruiser. He put
his gloved hand on James’s head as he guided him into the seat.
“I’m assuming she can take my truck home,” James said.
“Does she have a license?” the officer said.
“Yes.”
“If she does, then she can. If she doesn’t, we’ll see that she gets home.”
The officer slammed the door. James scooted to the middle of the backseat, his hands bound behind his back. He watched as Officer Emory approached the passenger door of his truck. The officer tapped on the glass with his flashlight. He spoke with Brittany. She handed him her license. He shone his flashlight on it and handed it back to her. Brittany stepped out of the vehicle and stood, shivering on the frozen ground, while the officer searched the truck.
After the search, Brittany hopped back into the truck, scooted across the bench seat, and started the vehicle. The officer marched back to the cruiser and climbed inside with a groan. He turned the car around on the tiny gravel road with a six-point turn. Brittany moved slowly down the road toward the cabin, the red taillights fading.
James sat in the backseat, silent, as the officer drove off, eventually pulling into the police station. Four cruisers sat in the parking lot. He parked and walked James into the one-story brick building. The officer bypassed the public waiting area and scanned into the employee entrance. Inside, it looked like a typical office, with desks, and printers, and computers. Three officers milled about—one in slacks and a rumpled shirt and tie; the others in uniform. James was searched again, and his wallet, watch, cell phone, and belt were taken. Officer Emory undid his handcuffs and reattached them with James’s hands in front. Emory forced James’s fingers onto an electronic screen to capture his fingerprints. Emory swabbed his cheek for DNA. James was photographed, guided into a windowless room, and forced to sit at a metal desk. Video cameras were hung in the upper corners of the room. Officer Emory departed, shutting the door behind him.
A plainclothes officer entered the room, shuffling papers in a manila folder. He was medium height and stocky with pale skin and blond curls cut tight to his head. He sat down across from James, the folder in front of him.
“I’m Detective Warren.” He opened the folder, shaking his head. “Point-zero-eight-two. That’s some seriously bad luck, James. And we have a confession of drinking alcohol prior to driving.”
“There’s no way I was over the legal limit on one glass of wine.”
The detective winced. “I’ve seen it happen. I bet it was a big glass. Here’s the thing, James. I really don’t want this to get out of control. Judge Schaeffer is a real hard ass when it comes to DUI cases. He had a nephew killed by a drunk driver. He gives the maximum penalty over and over again. Do you know what the maximum penalty is for a DUI?”
James was silent.
“Six months in prison, James.” He nodded with a frown. “I really don’t want to see that happen. It’s not like you had an accident or hurt anyone. I mean, you were almost home for Christ sakes.”
James nodded.
“Here’s the thing, James. As a police officer, I like to put away bad guys. You’re not a bad guy, but you broke the law, and the laws are pretty stiff. I think just about everyone in this country has driven drunk at one point in their life. If you make this process easy for us, we can make it easy for you.”
James nodded.
The detective slid a blank piece of paper and a pen across the table. “If you write down exactly what you drank at dinner, before driving home, I can guarantee you will not serve any jail time. You might have a small fine of like three hundred dollars and maybe a month or two of probation. You won’t even lose your license. All you have to do is write that you had four glasses of wine at dinner before driving.”
James frowned.
The detective continued without missing a beat. “And I know you said that you only had one glass, and I believe you, but that glass was a doozy. If you write that you only had one glass, with your breathalyzer test score, it’ll seem like you’re lying, and, if it seems like you’re lying, I can’t do a deal for you.”
James was silent.
“This is the best option, James,” the detective said with a straight face.
James narrowed his eyes at the detective. “I don’t think so.”
“If it would make you feel more comfortable, we could say it differently. We could say something like you admit to consuming enough alcohol to raise your blood alcohol to the level that we recorded. You’re not admitting to anything we don’t already know.”
James hung his head.
“Six months in prison, James. I’m trying to be a friend here.”
James raised his head and glared at the detective. “You’re a liar. In Pennsylvania, you have to hit a point one zero to get jail time on a first offense. I would have had to drink five or six five-ounce glasses of wine at my weight in an hour to hit the blood alcohol you guys are claiming. Either Officer Emory is lying, or the machine was rigged. My money’s on both. I want a lawyer.”
The detective stared expressionless. He stood and exited without a word. Officer Emory and a tall, slender officer replaced the detective. They took James downstairs to a hallway with holding cells numbered one to six. The tall officer opened the last cell on the row. Once inside, Emory undid the handcuffs through the compartment on the heavy steel door.
“I need to make a phone call,” James said.
The officers ignored him.
The cell was ten-by-ten with concrete walls and a stainless steel toilet, without a cover. A sink was over the toilet. A steel bed was built into the wall. It sat sterile and obstinate without a mattress or covering of any kind.
James paced in the tiny cell. Is this payback for Harold? Why not arrest me for assault? I still don’t think Harold said anything. If he didn’t tell him about the assault, then why? Just to fuck with me. Was it just an opportunity that presented itself? Or did Officer Emory actually have faulty equipment? I don’t believe that. They targeted me. But why? Because I’m not from around here? Because Harold doesn’t like me? Because of Brittany? Brittany. Jesus, what if?
James pounded on the door. He called out, “I need to make a phone call.” He also tried yelling, “I’m really sick. I need to see a doctor.” And “I need my medicine or I’ll die.”
There was no response. His eyes were heavy. He lay on the metal bed. Despite the discomfort, he drifted off to a fitful sleep. James awoke with a sharp pain in his hip. He rolled off his sore side onto his back. What time is it? Is it morning yet? Have I been here an hour or ten? Definitely more than an hour. Maybe between four and eight hours. He stood, his entire body ached. He yelled for a doctor and his medication again, but there was no response. He stretched and paced and stretched and paced some more.
After what seemed like days, the door slid open.
“It’s your lucky day,” a female officer said.
She was fortysomething, manly, with short brown hair, and a square jaw.
“What time is it?” James asked.
“Eight a.m.” She led him to a metal desk. His things were on the desk, inside a clear plastic bag. “Have a seat,” she said, motioning to the empty metal chair.
He sat.
She handed him a sheet of paper with a list of his things. “Check the list and double-check it to make sure all your personal possessions are accounted for.”
James glanced at the bag. “Everything’s there,” he said. “Am I being released?”
“Yes, you are,” she said. “You’re a lucky man. The charges have been dropped.”
James scowled. “Why?”
“You’d have to talk to Detective Warren.”
James signed some papers and was shown out by the female officer. Outside, he dialed 4-1-1 and asked for the nearest taxi. He paced outside the police station for twenty minutes, freezing his ass off. The cab picked him up and took him to his cabin. His truck was parked in the driveway. He paid the cabbie in cash and sprinted to the front door. He turned the knob and push
ed inside, surprised it was unlocked. “Brittany?”
He surveyed the one-room cabin. James’s keys were on the dresser. Brittany’s graduation cake was on the kitchen table where he had left it, but jagged pieces had been taken off, as if someone had grabbed handfuls of cake. Icing and yellow crumbs littered the floor. Her black dress and tights were in a heap by the love seat. Brittany was in the bottom bunk, curled up in the fetal position.
“Brittany,” James said as he approached. “Are you asleep?”
She was tight to the back corner of the bed, close to the wall. She didn’t move or speak. She wore white pajamas, patterned with tiny daisies. She had red marks on her neck.
“Brittany.” James reached in and put his hand on her shoulder.
She jumped back as if his hand were a scorching cattle brand. He pulled his hand back. Her eyes were wide, her legs trying to push herself through the cabin wall. That’s when he saw the brownish-red stain between her legs on her pajama bottoms. His stomach sank. He had a lump in his throat.
“It’s just me,” he said.
She blinked and gazed at James as if she were seeing him for the first time. Her eyes watered. She blinked again, and tears rolled down her face. He scooted closer, careful not to move too quickly.
“You said you would protect me,” she said.
James wiped the moisture from his eyes with the side of his fist. “I’m so sorry.”
“They were waitin’ for me. They made me open the door.”
“Brittany, who’s they?”
“Harold and his brother,” she said.
“The police chief?”
She nodded and bent forward, sobbing.
Tears collected in James’s eyes and overflowed down his cheeks.
“I’m so sorry,” James said. “I’m so sorry.”
He reached out and put his arm on her back. She flinched but didn’t move from his hand. He rubbed her back. James moved closer and wrapped his arms around her, rocking her like a child. Her sobbing subsided.
“Brittany, we need to go to the hospital now. They’ll take care of you.”
She shook her head rapidly. “We can’t. They’ll tell the police. They said they would kill me if I told.”
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