Page 17 of Detroit

“She’s not. But we’re gonna be nice to her while she’s here,” Della said with a certain sort of authority that brooked no argument amongst the women.

One ofus.

Did that possibly mean that all these women had been brought in for prostitution?

I didn’t know.

I sat there, trying to zone out, as I pushed the mush around on my tray before just eating the piece of bread. Yes, plain white bread. No butter. No nothing. And the salad, which had no dressing, just because I didn’t want my stomach growling at court if I would be going tomorrow.

One of the other women took the rest of my food, “No use wasting it because she’s got first-day-jitters,” she declared as she dug in.

The rest of the day was a blur in which I sat cross-legged on my bunk, watching the women around me.

At some point, two women who’d been having an amiable-seeming conversation suddenly got loud and angry, shoving at each other, and prompting an ear-splitting alarm to go off, and guards to rush into the space to break it off while simultaneously screaming at the rest of us who were doing nothing wrong.

I threw myself back on my bunk, pressing my hands to my ears, and humming softly to myself as my heart started to hammer out of my chest.

I couldn’t shake that feeling for the rest of the day, even after all the commotion died down, and everyone went back to normal.

I felt frayed and coming apart at my edges when it happened.

We were told it was bed time.

And the lights started clicking off.

I wasn’t afraid of the dark.

It didn’t go pitch black. At least not for those of us congregated in the common room. I had no idea what the cells were like, but they looked pretty dark. We had the glow of the observation deck on us, but it was still dark, and I had an irrational fear that people might be lurking in the shadows, wanting to hurt me. Despite Della assuring me all day that nothing like that was going to happen.

I didn’t sleep.

I stayed still as a board in my bunk, the thin blanket pulled up to my chin, and listened.

Beds squeaking as women shifted in their sleep, heavy breathing, snoring, mumbles as some women dreamed, whimpers as others cried, the toilets flushing in the cells, the jangle of the keys on the hips of the guards as they walked around.

Objectively, it was quiet.

To me, though, it felt like every small noise was amplified until I was pressing my pillow to my ears to try to drown it out.

I didn’t luck out to get my arraignment the next morning.

But Della did.

And Della never came back.

I felt like my insides trembled the rest of the day as I followed the routines Della had set out for me.

I kept an eye on the clock, rushing into the bathroom just as the other women started to line up.

I ate my bread and veggies, and let everyone else have what was left.

Then I sat or reclined in my bunk, listening, absorbing, getting more and more strung out with each passing moment.

Then, I had another night of no sleep. Or maybe I catnapped. But there was no way I was unconscious for more than ten or fifteen minutes at a time. Not enough to feel any less exhausted and detached.

But I was finally told I was being arraigned, and was brought to the courthouse where I met Simon, who barely spared me a glance, and the split second his gaze did fall on me, all I saw was distaste.

I knew I looked rough.

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