And the logistics bring their own consolation. She'll have to stay at the motel in town — the run-down place on Main Street. And the county bus only comes through twice a day — 6:45 in the morning and 5:15 in the afternoon. Miss it and you walk thirty minutes in the kind of heat that makes the road shimmer.
I picture Sloane Archer at the bus stop at six forty-five in the morning, melting in her designer clothes, and a small smile crosses my face as I get in my truck. It's a long drive back to Duster and I'm going to spend my time wisely, making a list of every miserable job I can think of.
3
SLOANE
The county jail is in Bakersfield. Low, beige, institutional, surrounded by chain-link and razor wire. There's an American flag on a pole that hangs limp in the heat. I get out of the taxi and stare at it.
It's only ninety-six hours. That's what I keep telling myself. People spend four days on juice cleanses.
I'm wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt because my lawyer told me not to wear anything I cared about. They'll take your clothes, he said. You'll get them back when you leave.
There's a front desk with a deputy behind it and a waiting area with plastic chairs and an empty water cooler. The deputy is a woman in her fifties with reading glasses on a chain. She looks at me.
"Name?"
"Sloane Archer."
She types something. Looks at the screen. Types something else. I stand there with my arms at my sides and try to look like a person who is handling this well. She prints out forms. So many forms. I sign them one after another without reading them. At this point, who cares? I'm here.
"Take a seat," she says. "Someone will come get you."
I take a seat. There's a poster on the wall about inmates' rights. There's another one about tuberculosis. There's a vending machine in the corner that has a handwritten "OUT OF ORDER" sign taped to it. I focus on the vending machine as it's the most relatable thing in the room. Neither of us is functioning.
I wait and wait and wait, and then a door opens and a female deputy appears. She's tall, broad-shouldered, with her hair pulled back tight. She holds a clipboard.
"Archer?"
I stand. She doesn't introduce herself, just says, "Follow me," and I follow her through a door that locks behind us. We walk down a long corridor with a gray floor and fluorescent lights. The first room is intake processing. Another desk, another deputy, another round of questions. Name. Date of birth. Address. Social security number. Emergency contact. I give my father's number.
"Any medications?"
"No."
"Any medical conditions?"
"No."
"Any history of self-harm or suicidal thoughts?"
"No."
"Are you pregnant?"
"No."
"Any gang affiliations?"
"I— no. Of course not. Look, I'm Sloane Archer. My father is Richard Arch?—"
"Ma'am." The deputy looks up from her form for the first time. "I don't care who your father is. Nobody here cares who your father is. Gang affiliations. Yes or no."
"No."
"Any enemies currently incarcerated in this facility?"
"Not yet," I say, but she doesn't smile.
