Page 10 of Lord of Justice

Oh, comeon!

Four police officers come storming up the driveway, one of them shoving me face-first against the broken window, which cuts into my cheekbone. I can feel the broken glass scrape over my skin and it hurts worse than my battered trachea. Blood drips down my face as they rip my phone out of my hand and handcuff me.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney." I wince as they tighten the cuffs. Well, that seems mean. It's not like I'm going anywhere, bleeding and coughing.

"If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you." My Miranda is read by an older cop, who’s looking distinctly unimpressed with tonight's magnificent bust. They're in one hell of a hurry though, hauling us both down the driveway and shoving us in separate police cars. A few blocks later, my heart sinks as I watch Roman's Bugatti racing toward the house, passing us.

I wish he'd been five minutes earlier.

Why were those cops hovering like ghouls to arrest us? No one called them because we were making noise. That was too fast.

I hate that not only can Inotdo anything without Rose, but now, Roman's going to have to clean up my mess.

Chapter Five

In which Iris is deeply alarmed to discover her defense attorney doesn’t seem all that invested in defending her.

Iris…

I've never been in a holding cell.

It's just as depressing as I expected, though. A communal room behind bars, several benches bolted to the ground. Most of them are already taken up by a group of exhausted sex workers. I'm pretty sure their clients didn't get arrested, which makes it so much bullshit. Only women get punished in the sex trade.

Three or four of my cell mates are obviously coming down from something, sweating and shaking, so probably meth, or heroin. And there's one really mean-looking woman with bristling short hair like a porcupine, she's been eyeing me for the last half hour.

"Look at you, little Rich Bitch," she says, getting to her feet and lumbering over to me. She's short like me, but with a much more muscular build.Over the last two years of mandatory self-defense lessons, I've been taught how to use my smaller frame and lighter weight to my benefit.

She'll still probably kick my ass, though.

"What can I do for you?" I sigh.

"I thought you were a hooker at first," she says, strolling around me in a circle. Typical intimidation tactic. "But you've got those fancy diamond studs, they didn't bother to take them off you when you were booked in? Are you getting special treatment, Rich Bitch?"

I should keep my mouth shut. Keep a low profile.

I don't. "Oh my god, please stop calling me Rich Bitch! Come up with something more creative like Bougie Bitch, or Ambitchous, or… there's Polo Princess, Cash Chucker. Hell, call me a Paris Hilton, that's an oldie but a goodie."

The holding cell has gone silent. Even the poor addicts cease their humming and rocking, everyone is staring at us with wide eyes.

"What did you just say to me?" she snarls.

"I just suggested some new names for your repertoire," I say reasonably. "I mean, if you're going to intimidate, you want to have something fresh and snappy to go with it, right?"

Her brows knit together, as if she can't believeI'm mouthing off to her. I'm pretty sure swinging her fist at my head is going to be her next move.

With perfect timing, a guard smacks the bars hard, making them rattle loudly. "Daisy Boston. Get your ass over here." She handcuffs me briskly and pulls on my arm to get me moving.

Rose and I had fake IDs made up a long time ago. Mine sounds painfully cheesy, now that a prison guard is saying it.

I should probably make up a new name.

The guard is younger, with a blonde ponytail. Her gaze travels from me to the angry wrestling porcupine lady. "You managed to pick a fight with Marlene within the first hour?" There's a slight smile hovering on her lips as she guides me down the hallway.

"What can I say?" I shrug, awkward in the cuffs. "Maybe I just have one of those faces that pisses people off."

She leads me into a smaller room, clearly meant for questioning idiots like me. There is the standard steel table and two chairs under buzzing, intermittent fluorescent lighting. Shackles, of course, resting under an iron loop on the table. Then, the requisite big mirror that's not a mirror at all but a viewing window. Shackling me to the table, she watches as I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable. "It might be a minute," she sayswith a sympathetic smile, which is kind of nice, given the circumstances.

"Understood," I say, trying to rub my eyes again, but rolling them instead as the cuffs rattle against the iron loop. I have to stick my face almost directly on the smudged table to rub them, but they're so red and blurry. I'm exhausted. Two nights of studying for my finals until 3 AM. Then,thislittle failed venture, plus a spike of adrenaline, and the inevitable crash here at the police station. She leaves me alone, locking the door behind her.