“Damn it ... You could’ve still called me!”
“Yes ...” I clung to the hope that he’d eventually understand why I hadn’t. I’d been a homeless runaway for a while, and then a stray, moving from place to place and learning how to give men just enough of what they wanted so they’d keep chasing me. Punishing them for lusting for someone so much younger than they were. For something another man had done to me. But perhaps Billy Ray would never find out about that, and I wouldn’t have to face the shame of him knowing. Even if that meant he’d never forgive me for not staying in touch.
“What could you possibly think I can help you with?” he asked, his voice resigned, defeated.
“I need help posting my bail, and you have to help me find a lawyer while I’m still locked up. This was my only call.”
“I don’t have much, but—”
“I have the money,” I started to say, but then realized the cops could be listening. And how could I explain to my little brother, born and raised on that shitty farm, that I kept all my funds in cryptocurrency? “I just need you, Billy. Please come.”
28
Jail
“Here you go,” a female officer said, throwing a pair of worn flip-flops on the floor from the doorway. Then she disappeared, slamming the door behind her.
I quickly slipped my feet into them, thankful I didn’t have to feel the cold cement under my soles anymore. They were a couple of sizes too large, but I didn’t mind. I started pacing the floor again, still waiting. They’d taken the phone away the moment I hung up with Billy Ray. The thought of seeing him again was bittersweet. It wouldn’t be the kind of reunion I had envisioned for us.
The waiting was short this time. The same bulky uniformed officer returned, handcuffs rattling in her hand.
“Are we gonna need these?” she asked, looking at me through mean, squinty eyes. Her face was puffy and marred by the telltale signs of overdrinking. Red blotches on her cheeks and nose. Bags under her eyes. The sour, hungover mood of a drunk’s early mornings.
I shook my head. “No, ma’am,” I replied, dreading the cold steel on my wrists.
She seemed satisfied to take me at my word, because she slipped the cuffs to the back of her duty belt and grabbed my arm instead, leading me out of the room and on a short journey through the stark corridorsof the LVMPD precinct. We stopped in an area with several desks, where other arrestees were being fingerprinted.
The reality of my situation began to sink in, a cold dread settling in my stomach.
I could hear snippets of distant conversation, more like short phrases and commands given by officers, the occasional swear word, and someone crying in the far end of the area. No one cared.
The officer pointed at a chair next to a desk, and I sat, pushed down by her heavy hand pressing on my shoulder. Then she took a seat at the old scratched desk, pushing aside some papers and giving an empty cup of coffee a disgusted look. She pulled the dirty keyboard closer and started typing, every now and then using a mouse covered in grime from dirty fingers.
“Name?” she asked coldly.
A split moment’s hesitation. Then ... “Olivia R. Taylor.”
Using a sealed Q-tip, she took a sample of my DNA by swabbing the inside of my cheek. Next, she took my fingerprints using a small scanner, one finger at a time. I held my breath, my gut twisting mercilessly with fear.
A quiet beep made her mutter, “Huh.” She invited me to walk over to the mug shot area, where I stood, visibly shaking, against the lined white backdrop.
I was given a number and photographed while holding it, facing forward and both profiles. Then she walked me over to the holding area. The smells shifted—the disinfectant still prevalent, but now blended in with the smell of urine and vomit, stronger than in the interview room. Much stronger. Suffocating.
My heart pounded when she opened the door. It clanged and rattled and squeaked as she pushed me inside, and it closed behind me with a loud noise. The sterile gray walls seemed to close in on me. I remained frozen in place, unable to take another step, shivering in my breezy white summer dress.
A bout of laughter zapped me out of my daze. Inside the holding cell, two other women were already sitting on the uncomfortable metal benches that lined the walls. A stainless steel toilet and a tiny sink offered no privacy, and I dreaded the moment I’d have to use them. My eyes were glued to that toilet, a stark reminder of my dire situation.
One of the women kept laughing. “Ooh, a virgin,” she finally said when she could catch her breath. “You’ve never been locked up before, have you, sweet pea?”
I shuddered under her gaze. Her tight, skimpy clothing and her lascivious demeanor left no doubt in my mind as to why she’d been arrested. She was about forty years old, and the harsh life had left marks via deep lines etched into her face. Her disheveled, bleached hair was thinned out and dry. Her knotty fingers had long acrylic nails she tapped against the bench she sat on.
The other woman was Black, about my age, and roughly seven months pregnant. She sat in the corner with her hand on her swollen belly, her back arched and her shoulders slouched. She stared into emptiness, saying nothing and seemingly wanting nothing.
I was in hell.
After a while, I took a couple of steps toward an empty area of the bench, too tired to stand anymore. The woman stood and came over to me after looking left and right, probably to see if any cops were nearby. She shoved me back, three of her acrylic-tipped fingers pushing into my shoulder so forcefully she nearly tipped me over.
“Where are you going?” she asked, her yellow smile and horrible breath inches away from my face. She tilted her head like a madwoman and laughed again in a short, loaded cackle. “You wanna sit down? You gotta pay.” She sized me up from head to toe, licking her thick, cracked lips, and then looked at me again.
