“No,” I said, but even as the word slipped from my mouth, something squeezed at my chest, a feeling that was both unprovoked and unwelcome. Hesitation, wariness, dread. Of course, I knew she was innocent, and this was some big, crazy mix-up; I could only wonder what was happening and why.
I hung up the phone and swung my legs over the cot, rubbing the exhaustion from my face. I was glad for the first time that I slept in my office, away from the guys. It was only in case of an emergency or if someone came wandering into the station needing help. I had to be present, alert, and aware. And now I was glad, if anything, that my crew wasn’t hovering around, trying to figure out what was going on before I even knew myself. But before I could dial the number to the police station to find out where Paisley was, Korbin yanked my office door open and walked in, his own cell phone gripped in one hand.
“Paisley has been—”
“Arrested,” I said, and Korbin nodded.
“How did you hear?”
“Jake called me. You?”
“Her one phone call.”
“I’d better get over there,” I said, grabbing for my boots and ignoring the twinge of annoyance that her only phone call had been to Korbin and not to me. Not that I could blame her. I hadn’t tried hard to convince her that I was on her side. “Call the department’s attorney, Randall Johnson, and have him meet me at the station. And stay here in case a call comes in. I’ll try to figure out what in the hell is happening.”
Chapter43
Paisley
If there was anything moderately okay about going to jail, it’s that I had my own cell and didn’t have to deal with a bitter, convicted roommate.
The booking process didn’t take long. Whether that was a good or bad thing, I didn’t know. After taking my things and snapping a mug shot, I’d been escorted to a holding cell. No one spoke or bothered to tell me what was going on. I could only hope Hansen or Korbin was in the process of figuring something out. I needed a lawyer, someone who could tell me what would happen from here. Most of all, I neededhelp.
I was scared shitless, knees drawn up to my chin, arms wrapped around them to make myself as small as possible. Around me, cell doors slammed, and inmates banged things around, speaking loudly, their voices carrying to every inch of the building. The front door opened and closed, the bell above it ringing incessantly every time someone came or went. After an hour of this, I had to squeeze my hands over my ears to drown out the sounds. Then, as the anxiety crept under my skin and panic started to take hold, I began to rock.
I must have fallen into a restless sleep because around three a.m. I woke to the sound of the cell door opening. My eyes fluttered open, and I watched Erik Hansen step inside the cell, accompanied by a middle-aged man with a briefcase that I didn’t recognize.
“Paisley,” Hansen said, holding his arms out to me. “I’m so sorry.”
For some reason, a reason I couldn’t even fathom, I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. I was innocent, and I damn well knew it, but for Hansen to find me alone, in the middle of a jail cell, with my knees pulled up to my chin, left me feeling sick and vulnerable. I feared if I looked at him, I would cry. Not just cry but lose my shit. It didn’t seem to matter what I thought, however, because Hansen joined me on the bed, sitting beside me. I wasn’t sure if he would hug me in front of this stranger or not, but he did, putting his strong arms around me and holding me tight until I was on the verge of tears again, trembling in his arms. After a moment, he looked up and nodded at the other man.
“This is your attorney, Randall Johnson,” he said, resting his lips against my forehead. “He represents the department. He’s here to help.”
“Good,” I said, voice shaking. “I could really use it.”
“Miss Hill, I’m sorry we had to meet under such strenuous circumstances, but rest assured, we’re going to figure this out,” said Johnson, stepping forward to shake my hand.
“Figure what out?” I asked, my pitch rising to an almost immeasurable tone of panic and fear. “I’m not guilty. I didn’t do anything.I shouldn’t even be here.”
“Indeed,” Johnson said. “That’s why I’m here. Now please, tell me exactly what happened.”
I recounted the story the best I could, telling Johnson that the police had come because there had been a judge-issued warrant out for my arrest, based on evidence they found suspicious regarding the arson fires.
“How long am I going to be here?” I asked, voice trembling.
“Legally, they can only hold you 24 hours before they must charge you with a crime,” Johnson said. “Then they’ll hold an arraignment before setting a court date, within 72 hours at the very most.”
“And if I get to the arraignment, then what?”
“You plead not guilty, of course.”
“And then what?”
“And then they’ll set your trial date, and you’ll appear in front of the judge to plead your case.”
“Jesus.” I bowed my head and rubbed my hands over my face, still shaking, stomach twisted with nausea. “Can you get me out of here before then?”
“Only if we can find sufficient evidence that you’re innocent,” Johnson said. “Otherwise, it will go to trial.”
