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This time, the cameraman’s “Oh. shit!” is full of alarm and is muffled by the rest of the noise. Apollo raises her bat, and Nanette jumps up out of her chair a few seconds before Apollo’s bat lands in the spot where she’d been sitting. Nanette turns to run, and Apollo jumps over the pile of glass like an Olympic hurdler, the bat raised in the air like it’s a sword.
I am struck dumb.
Nanette moves from table to table, hiding behind the innocent diners whose tables are immediately obliterated by Apollo’s indiscriminate vengeance.
This goes on for another thirty seconds before someone wearing a waitstaff uniform tackles Apollo from the side, sending her bat flying and both of them to the ground.
“Oh my God,” the cameraman says, and he lingers on Apollo and her assailant. She’s fighting like she’s possessed and he’s straining to stay on top of her. I feel sick as I watch him try to trap her in a bear hug. Watching her, I’m reminded of the way she’d been fighting the water when I’d found her. She looks just as desperate. Except now, she’s crying angry tears. Her eyes are trained on Nanette, and her free hand reaches for the bat.
Reena runs to Apollo’s side and squats down beside her. She’s petting her shoulder soothingly, but Apollo won’t be consoled.
Nanette starts toward Apollo, her hands clutching either side of her waist; her gait is more of a hobble than a prowl. Her face is full of smug contempt as she kicks the bat farther away from Apollo’s reach.
In a burst of speed that in any other circumstance, I would have found impressive, Reena launches herself at Nanette. The camera pans over to them just long enough for me to see her straddling Nanette.
“The fucking police are here, thank God,” the cameraman says.
The camera moves so it’s facing the dark hardwood floor. “That was like a fucking movie. I’m putting this shit on Facebook.” The camera’s view changes and I catch a glimpse of his pale, stubbled double chin before the recording ends.
I watch it one more time before we get to the precinct. The second time, it’s even more surreal to see Apollo running around barefoot in a restaurant waving her bat like she’s the reincarnation of Atilla the Hun.
The outside of the precinct looks fairly calm, and no one gives me a sideways glance as I walk in. I wait for the desk officer to finish his call and look around wide-eyed. It’s like a hive of misery. People yell at each other over the tops of cubicles. The seating area is full of haggard, tired men and women. By the time he hangs up, I’m imagining the worst.
“Can I help you?” I turn to face the man the brusque voice belongs to. His badge identifies him as F. Campbell.
“Hi, I’m trying to find someone. She was brought here after her arrest.”
“Name?”
“Apollo.”
He looks up at me over the rim of his reading glasses. “Full name?”
“Apollo Havaa Locklear.”
“Do you have her arrest number?”
“No, but I think her lawyer might already be here.”
“Hold on.” He types something and then spins the scrolling wheel on his mouse while he peers at his screen.
“Ah. Yeah, here. I found her. She’s still here,” he harrumphs and shakes his head and pulls his glasses off and grins up at me.
“You the boyfriend?” he as
ks.
“Whose boyfriend?” I ask, confused by his sudden amusement.
“Apollo Locklear?” He looks at me like he thinks I’m a dumbass.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah. I am.”
I hope.
“Why?”
“Because her lawyer got her a Desk Appearance Ticket about thirty minutes ago. And then she told the desk sergeant that if she got out of here, she’d just be back again because she was going to go back and finish trying to kill that woman and … how did she say it?” He snaps his fingers and stares at the ceiling for a second. Then he looks over his shoulder and calls, “Hey Ochao, what did the girl we brought in call her boyfriend?”
