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He turned back around and continued his conversation with Gilchrist.
At that moment I realized that I was a prisoner. This was no movie and no one in the stone building in front of me cared about the famous restaurants I was in the habit of going to, the fancy names and addresses on my Rolodex, how Mama was home crying her eyes out, the fact that my career was going up in smoke, or that I really didn’t commit the crime.
Suddenly Detective Gilchrist pulled me away from Keith and the two of us were walking toward the entrance. I twisted my neck around to look for Keith. He was just standing there, making no attempt to shield himself from the rain that was pouring down on him.
“Keep your head up, Jackie,” he shouted.
I could tell by the tone of his voice that the expression on my face must have been suicidal. Gilchrist didn’t say a word as he held the door open and led me into his world.
It was a great, big room with no wi
ndows, lots of cops, a few desks scattered about, several partitions, and a counter with a bored-looking officer behind it. As we approached the counter, I realized that there was one gigantic cell built into the left side of the room which held women and another on the right which held men.
The law of Karma had to be working here, but what on earth had I ever done to deserve this? Was this payback for the $25 I’d lifted from Mama’s purse when I was in high school and then swore I knew nothing about the missing money? The abortion I’d had in freshman year? The married man I’d had an affair with ten years ago?
An old Black man was holding on to the bars and screaming over and over again “I’m Smokey Robinson, goddammit. Get me Berry Gordy!”
I felt Gilchrist nudging me forward, and then we were at the counter. Gilchrist handed some papers to the cop with one hand and held my arm with the other.
The cop looked at me. “What is your name?”
“Jacqueline Blue.”
“Address?”
“125 West 111th Street. Harlem.”
“Age?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Any previous arrests?”
“No.”
“Okay. Place your personal belongings on the counter.”
I put my Kate Spade tote bag on the space in front of him.
He unzipped it and named each item out loud as he pulled it from the case and wrote it down on a form. “Keys . . . wallet . . . book . . . lipstick . . . pen . . . pink case.”
He shook the “pink case” in my face. “What is in this case?”
My voice was trembling. “It’s Fashion Fair Perfect Finish Foundation.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Ma . . . Makeup,” I stuttered.
Gilchrist released my arm. “Ted, let me see the book.”
So, the cop’s name was Ted.
The “book” was my Filofax.
Ted handed it over—Gilchrist leafed through its pages, grunting in satisfaction. “This is evidence. I’m gonna hang on to it.”
Ted frowned and snatched it back. “You know better than that. Go through channels.”
