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“Wait a second,” I cry out, trying to think how I might explain this, but he isn’t listening to me. He maneuvers me back to his cruiser.
“I have a prescription,” I say in a small, scared voice. “For panic attacks. ”
He reads me my rights and tells me I’m under arrest and then pulls out my driver’s license and punches a hole in it and forces me into the backseat of the cruiser.
“Come on,” I plead when he slides into the driver’s seat. “Don’t do this. Please. It’s Christmas Eve. ”
He doesn’t say a word as we drive away.
At the police station, he helps me out of the cruiser and leads me by the elbow into the building.
There aren’t a lot of people here on this snowy holiday night, and I’m glad of that. My shame is blossoming, widening. How could I have been so stupid? A woman built like a brick takes me into a room and searches me from head to toe, patting me down as if I am a terrorist.
They take my jewelry and all my belongings and then book and fingerprint me. Then they take my picture.
I feel the start of tears, and I know they’re useless—raindrops on the desert floor—gone almost before they fall.
* * *
Christmas Eve in a jail cell. A new low.
I sit on the painted concrete bench in some holding area, alone, huddled beneath a single glaring light fixture. Anything is better than looking at the bars. In the office on the other side of my cell, a few tired-looking men and women in uniform are seated at desks dotted with Styrofoam coffee cups and family photos and Christmas decorations, doing paperwork and talking to one another.
It is nearing eleven o’clock—these are the longest few hours of my life—when the brick-shaped woman comes to the cell door and unlocks it. “We’ve impounded your car. You can go if someone will pick you up. ”
“Can I take a cab?”
“Sorry, no. We haven’t got your tox report back yet. We can’t simply release you. There must be someone you can call. ”
Suddenly the floor I have been standing on gives way, and I realize that this whole thing has just gotten worse.
I will sit in jail overnight before I will call Margie on Christmas Eve and ask her to bail me out of jail.
I look up into the woman’s lined, tired face. I can tell that she is a kind woman, but it is Christmas Eve and she is here and there is somewhere she’d rather be. “Do you have a family?” I ask.
She looks surprised by my question. “Yes,” she says, after clearing her throat.
“It must be hard, to work tonight. ”
“I’m lucky to have a job. ”
“Yeah,” I say with a sigh.
I can only think of one person to call, and I don’t even know why his name comes to me. “Desmond Grant,” I say. “He’s an emergency room doctor at Sacred Heart. He might come. I have his number in my purse. ”
The woman nods. “Come on, then. ”
I get up slowly, feeling as worn down and dull as a piece of old chalk. We walk down the medicinal-green-painted hallway to a room full of empty desks.
The woman hands me my purse. I dig through it, ignoring the shaking in my hands (I could really use a Xanax now), and find both the phone number and my phone.
Under the woman’s watchful eye, I punch in the number and wait, my breath held.
“Hello?”
“Desmond?” I can barely get any volume in my voice. I am already regretting this call. He won’t help me; why should he?
“Tully?”
