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Gilchrist cursed under his breath and marched me across the room to one of the partitions. There was a white woman inside wearing navy pants and a white shirt with some kind of shiny silver badge on it. She was seated high on a stool with her arm resting on a camera which stood on a tripod.
She smiled at the detective. “Hey, Marc. What’s new?”
He gave her a friendly slap on the back. “Lena, I’m so tired, I could curl up and fall asleep right here on this floor.”
“I know the feelin’.”
She gestured to me. “Stand over there, right on the X.”
There was a huge, black “X” painted on the floor about three feet away from her.
She gave me a piece of black plastic with numbers on it. “Hold that in front of your chest.” She aimed the camera at me. Snap. “Turn right.” Snap. “Now left.” Snap.
By the time my mug shot was done and I had been searched, tears were sliding down my face again and Gilchrist seemed uncomfortable. “You got a good lawyer, Miss Blue. This coulda been a lot worse. Let’s just get the fingerprinting over with and then you can sit down. Follow me.”
He didn’t grab my arm this time, trusting me not to make a break for the door. I trudged behind him, wishing that a stray bullet would hit me and end my life. Anything would be better than this scorching, searing shame.
A weary cop who looked way past retirement age pressed each one of my fingers onto a black, inky pad and then onto different, previously marked squares of a white, cardboard sheet. Afterward, Gilchrist gave me some tissue to wipe off my black fingertips.
That was it.
For as long as the criminal justice system existed, there would be a record of the fact that on April 12, 1997, Jacqueline Blue was arrested and booked on a charge of second-degree murder.
When we reached the immense holding cell for females which was stuffed with women of all sizes, shapes, and colors, I balked like a stubborn mule. The commotion in there was deafening and the bench that ringed the wall was occupied, leaving the majority of the prisoners standing in the middle of the floor or leaning against the bars. The cop who was standing in front of it pulled out a ring of keys.
“You can’t put me in there.” I clung to Gilchrist desperately.
He sighed. “I don’t have a choice, Miss Blue.”
A key went in the door.
I racked my brain frantically and then took my best shot. “My face has been all over the papers. Don’t you have protective custody? Keith Williams will raise hell from here to the Supreme Court if I get one scratch on me!”
At the sound of his name, all of the women got real quiet. Both Gilchrist and the cop with the keys stopped moving. Each one looked at the other. Both wanted to throw me in the cell; neither wanted the responsibility if something went wrong and everyone in earshot knew I spoke the truth.
“Does she fit the definition of celebrity?” asked the cop.
Gilchrist scratched his head. “I don’t know, but I’m getting off in an hour so put her in the back. If Hap doesn’t like it when he comes on duty, let him throw her in here with the population.”
I didn’t know who “Hap” was, but I doubted he wanted the responsibility of my demise, either.
Gilchrist walked away. “See you in court,” he flung at me over his shoulder.
The cop yanked me by the arm down the hallway and away from the mass of women who had resumed their noisy, incomprehensible babble.
24
A PRIVATE SPACE
Since night court is for those accused of petty crimes and there is no court on Sundays, I spent two nights in solitary confinement at Central Booking. My cell was small but at least I didn’t have to share it. There was a bench to sleep on and a toilet. I lost all sense of night and day because the only light came from a small bulb suspended from the ceiling.
That first night, I simply sat on the hard bench, trying to watch every corner of the cell. Suppose there was a hole with rats in it, waiting for me to close my eyes so they could come out and start gnawing at my face, hands, arms? I screamed aloud in fright at the thought of it. Then I started thinking about what happened to Abner Louima. Suppose a sadistic cop came in and raped me with a broomstick. Sweat poured down my face as I imagined that scene. “Oh, Mama, Mama, Mama,” I moaned. I had no way to defend myself and even Keith wouldn’t be able to help me as I was assaulted. A female officer came to the cell as the scene with the broomstick played itself out in my head. She was holding a small paper plate and a cup. “You hungry?” she asked with a smile.
“No!” I shrieked. “Stay out!”
The smile disappeared and she shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
The noise from the general holding pens continued. There were no distinct words or sentences. Just a constant, earsplitting rumble followed by intermittent sounds of weeping and other signs of misery. I sat on that bench for hours with my back against the wall, my knees drawn up to my chin and my arms wrapped around them, too scared to move. The pressure on my bladder was intense but I didn’t want to pull down my panties and sweatpants to use the toilet. I didn’t want to give someone with a broomstick any ideas. Finally, the dam burst and I peed right where I sat.
