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“What were the harsh terms, Officer?”
“Ah, sir, I believe I may have, in the heat of the moment, told her to shut the fuck up or I’d stun her, too.”
“Good. Your lieutenant advises you not to give another thought to any bullshit report filed by obvious moron Gromer.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“What was Willow Mackie doing in the infirmary?”
“Sir, I questioned both Gromer—who was not initially cooperative—and Franco, as Officer Minx needed to be transported. I haven’t yet written up my report.”
“Spell it out, Officer, write it later.”
Eve stepped off, nodded to the guard on the steel door of the containment area.
“The prisoner had availed herself of the rep from CS, who, apparently sympathetic to her age and situation, has already filed an objection regarding her classification as an adult.”
“That’s going nowhere. Keep going.”
“During their interview, the prisoner claimed to be in pain from injuries incurred during arrest—resulting from police brutality.”
“Uh-huh. And?”
“The prisoner collapsed, stated she couldn’t breathe. The rep called for assistance, and Officer Minx escorted the prisoner and, by her request, the rep to the infirmary. Franco instructed Officer Minx to help the prisoner onto the exam table and restrain her to it, at which time Gromer argued that the prisoner was in pain, and only a child, and should be treated with more care and compassion. The prisoner stumbled forward, as if dizzy or light-headed, knocking over a tray of tools. Pitched forward again, making sounds of acute pain when Officer Minx attempted to assist. From the statements it would appear, at this time, the prisoner grabbed a scalpel from the drawer of the counter—though neither Gromer nor Franco saw the move. But when Minx again went to assist, she slashed his face. She nearly got his eye, sir, then stabbed him—his throat, his chest—kicked him back and down, then turned on Franco. It was, sir, about this time that I entered the room.”
“Okay. Good work, Officer. Hold here.”
She went to the cop on the door, and though they knew each other, offered her badge for scanning. “Log us in. Dallas, Shelby, and Roarke.”
“Who you going to pay a Sunday visit to?”
“The Mackies. Both of them.”
He logged them in, gave Eve their sectors and cell numbers.
He opened the door—palm plate, retina scan, security swipe, and a code that changed twice daily.
Inside, more cops, another scan, another door.
It wasn’t Rikers, Eve thought, but it wasn’t a pink-and-white dollhouse, either.
Through that door, and into the cages lining the sidewalls.
And plenty of people in them. Some grouped together in more basic holding. Others, in one- or two-person cages, waiting for transfer elsewhere. A few waiting for their turn before a judge on Monday morning.
For the hard cases, like Willow Mackie, there was yet one more door. The cop on this eyed Eve, eyed Shelby. “How’s Minx?”
“They said he’d be okay,” Shelby told him, and he shook his head.
“Barely out of the Academy. Needs a year or two on the beat, in Traffic, in a cube before they plug them down here. She’s third cage, left.”
Eve walked down to where Willow sprawled on the single bunk in a cage. It held a toilet—no lid—bolted to the floor and a small sink bolted to the wall.
“I don’t have to talk to you.”
“Not interested in anything you have to say,” Eve returned. “Just wanted a look before you take up housekeeping at Rikers—later today.”
“I’m not going there.”
