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“Hardly,” Detective Stark says. “Even if they get you off now, you’ll still have to stand trial. It’s not like we’re dropping the charges.”
“Is that your phone?” Charlotte asks me.
“Yes,” I say.
“You’ll make sure it’s kept locked and safe somewhere, right, Detective? You won’t be logging that as evidence.”
Detective Stark pauses. Her hand is on her hip. “It’s not my firstrodeo, cowgirl. I’ve got her house keys, too, by the way, which she insisted I keep after she passed out.” The detective fishes my keys from her pocket and drops them on the table. If I had an antiseptic wipe, I’d snatch them up and immediately disinfect them.
“Great,” Charlotte says, picking up my keys and phone. “We’ll talk to your clerk out front and make sure they log these as personal possessions, not evidence.”
“Fine,” says Detective Stark.
Mr. Preston is looking down at me, his eyebrows crinkling together. It may be that he’s concentrating hard, but I think it’s more likely that he’s concerned.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll be waiting for you after the hearing.”
“See you on the other side,” Charlotte adds. And with that, they turn and leave.
Once they’re gone, Detective Stark just stands there, arms crossed, glaring at me.
“What happens now?” I ask. I’m finding it hard to breathe.
“You and your teapots go back to your charming holding cell and wait patiently for your hearing,” Detective Stark replies.
I stand and straighten my pajamas. The young officer outside is ready to escort me back to the repugnant cell.
“Thank you very much,” I say to the detective before I exit.
“Thank you for what?” she asks.
“For the muffin and the coffee. I do hope you have a more pleasant morning than mine.”
It feels awfully strange to be wearing pajamas in the afternoon, and it feels particularly unnerving to be in a courthouse wearing such wholly inappropriate attire. One of Detective Stark’s police officers kindly drove me to this courthouse about an hour ago, and now I’m seated in a cramped office on the premises with a very young man who will serve as my attorney in the bail hearing. He asked me my name, reviewed the charges against me, told me we’d be called into the courtroom when the judge was ready, and then claimed he had some emails to read. He took out his phone and has been giving it his fullest attention for at least five minutes. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do in the meantime. No matter. This allows me time to collect myself.
I know from TV that as the accused, I should be wearing a clean blouse, buttoned to the neck, and formal dress slacks. I most certainly should not be wearing pajamas.
“Excuse me,” I say to the young attorney. “Would it be possible to go home and change before the hearing?”
His face scrunches up. “You can’t be serious,” he replies. “Do you know how lucky you are to be seen today?”
“I am serious,” I say. “Quite.”
He puts his phone in his breast pocket. “Wow. Do I have some news for you.”
“Excellent. Please share it, posthaste,” I reply.
But he doesn’t utter a word. He just stares at me with his mouth open, which surely means I’ve made some blunder, but what it is I do not know.
Moments later, he proceeds to fire questions my way. “Have you ever done jail time?”
“Not until this morning,” I say.
“That wasn’t jail,” he says. “Jail’s way worse than that. Do you have a criminal record?”
“My record is squeaky clean, thank you very much.”
“Do you harbor plans of leaving the country?”
