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Then came the fingerprinting and photographs. As they inked my fingers and pressed them onto cards, I wondered if Alistair had actually been able to remove my prints from Swedish military records… and if not, whether they would show up in a background search.
They took my phone and wallet. The other cop back at the roadblock already had my car keys; I assumed he had moved the Fiat off the narrow two-lane road until a tow truck could arrive to impound it.
Then they took my necklace and Rachel’s engagement ring.
The cop who’d arrested me pulled it roughly from around my head. I was handcuffed, so there was nothing I could do to stop him.
“Hey,” I snapped.
The cop looked at the ring, laughed, and showed it to the clerk behind the desk. They jabbered back and forth in Italian.
“HEY!” I yelled at him.
The cop sneered at me as he handed the jewelry to the clerk, who wrote something down on a piece of paper and then dropped the ring and necklace into a big yellow envelope.
“I want that back, motherfucker,” I snarled at the clerk. “If anyone steals it, I will fucking hunt them down. Do you understand me?”
Of course he didn’t understand the words – he didn’t speak English well enough – but he looked frightened enough by my tone of voice that I figured I’d made my point.
The arresting cop hoisted me roughly to my feet, marched me into a cramped interrogation room, and handcuffed me to a desk that was bolted to the concrete floor.
“Lawyer,” I snapped.
Actually, I also said ‘avocat.’ I had no idea if that was the Italian word for lawyer, but I vaguely remembered it from a high school French course I’d failed.
It must have meant something, because the cop looked at me in disgust before he left.
I waited for three hours. No water, no bathroom breaks, no food.
Finally the door opened, and a guy in glasses and a cheap suit walked through the door with a briefcase. He probably wasn’t much younger than I was, but his baby face and wisps of facial hair made him look like a goddamn teenager.
“Um, tu sei… Lars Andersen?” he asked as he peered down at a file in his hand.
“Yes, I’m Lars Andersen – but I don’t speak Italian.”
The lawyer sank down in the chair opposite me and smiled apologetically. “My English-a… not so good,” he said in a thick Italian accent.
“Are you a public defender?” I asked.
He stared at me like he didn’t understand.
Jesus Christ, this was a fucking nightmare.
“The court sent you?”
“Uh… me… I am avvocato.”
So I’d been close when I’d said ‘avocat.’
“Why was I arrested?” I asked.
He gave me a confused look.
I pointed down. “Why am I here?”
“Ah. Guns.” He pointed his forefinger and cocked his thumb like a pistol.
“Why was I stopped, though? They didn’t know I had the guns.”
