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My second concern is that the gang of cops who claimed I wasresisting arrestin the middle of a creepy forest when I definitely was just standing there might not have been made up entirely of cops.
I think that because they brought me in through the back, handed me off to some bewildered sheriff who had no idea why he was being interrupted in the middle of his dinner, and left.
They didn’t fill out any paperwork.
Not to paint with a broad brush, but in addition to being walking red flags, cops loved paperwork. A real cop would’ve relished in writing down the many details of my threatening behavior and suspicious movements and such.
It’s weird that they didn’t.
Although one of them might’ve handed something off to the sheriff. Couldn’t see before, because most of my vision bailed on me at that particular moment.
Fuck, my rib hurts.
There’s no good way to sit. I don’t blame the holding cell for that. It’s pretty quaint, as far as holding cells go, like a historical replica. I dripped a little blood on what I know for a fact is an antique hardwood floor.
“This place would go for at least a million,” I say.
The sheriff doesn’t answer. He’s been on the phone since I got here. His desk is about ten feet away down the hall. There’s nobody else here.
“People like old shit,” I go on. At this point, I need to focus on staying awake. Could be some concussion action going on. Gabriel had one of those when he jumped out of that building. I thought he was dead, and he pulled himself up on my sweatshirt and then hurled all over said sweatshirt. On the upside, I haven’t done that. Yet. “You could get a zoning exception and make it multi-use. Stay in the old-timey sheriff’s office. Arrest some—” My stomach turns. “—bad guys or whatever. Mug shots. Operate it under a non-profit and build some new parks. Places like this always have parks. Maybe there could be a park next door, and then you can have a walking path.”
“Jameson?” The sheriff oozes in front of the bars of the holding cell. People aren’t supposed to move like that. Must be my eyes. Except I did see a plant watching me earlier, so it’s anybody’s guess. “I brought you an ice pack.”
“I’m going to be honest with you, Tommy—”
“I’m Sheriff Dawson.”
“I’m going to be honest with you. Your buddies fucked me up in the woods tonight.”
He grimaces. “From the report, you made several threatening gestures.”
“Like this?” I put both hands up in front of me.
At least Sheriff Davis has the grace to look ashamed. “From the report…”
“I’d like to see a copy of that.” There’s blood in my mouth. Good. “Think you could give it here?”
“Your lawyer will have to—”
“Right, right, right. My lawyer will have to file some motions and appear before the judge and argue my case. Fine.”
He lifts a floppy blue shape. “Ice?”
“If I stand up, I’m going to throw up all over the floor. I bet it’s—” A throbbing pain starts in my gut and spreads around my waist. “Properly sealed by your department, so the damage wouldn’t be permanent, but you never know.”
“I’ll slide it over.”
“For the best.”
He bends down, and a few seconds later there’s a crispy wet sliding sound. The ice pack hits my foot.
There’s actually no way in hell that I’m going to lean over and pick it up without hurting my ribs and throwing up, so I poke at it with the toe of my shoe.
“Have you thought about applying for a zoning carveout?”
“What?”
I close my eyes and try to imagine that I have no internal bleeding and getting kicked by an asshole with steel-toed boots can be healed with positive energy.
