“Back up real slow like and put your hands through the bars so I can cuff ya.”
He has his hand on the butt of his weapon. It’s laughable since I’m stuck inside a jail cell wearing nothing but a pair of orange scrubs and gray slippers. What’s he reckon I’m aiming to do? Insult him to death?
I walk over to the wall of barsslowly,like he asked, and turn to thread my hands through an opening. The cold kiss of steel against my wrists feels like an assault. But even when Officer Florer tightens the cuffs until my fingers go numb, I don’t say a word.
He’s looking for a reason to get nasty.
I’m not stupid enough to give him one.
A mighty clang heralds the unlocking of the door, and Florer swings the barred opening wide. With one hand on my shoulder and the other on my cuffs, he frog-marches me past the front room where the sounds of the jailhouse invade my ears.
A weary prostitute waiting to be booked complains loudly that she needs a smoke break and something to eat. A drunk is slurringly trying to convince an intake officer that he wasn’t behind the wheel of his truck when it ran into the front of the dry cleaners. “I’s ssssleepin’ it off in the passenger seat and musta assident—ackidon—accidentally hit the parkin’ brake.” And a dozen ringing phones jockey for attention.
Taking a right leads us away from the chaos and down a long hall with doors on either side. About halfway, Florer yanks on my shoulder.
“Stop here,” he commands.
He has a gap between his two bottom teeth that causes him to whistle slightly when he talks. As he fumbles with the door handle while keeping a firm hold on my cuffs, I note again the restlessness of his hands. They’re always gesturing. Always moving.
To my way of thinking, that’s an indication of an anxious, unstable mind.
“Ya got half an hour,” he announces as soon as he has the door open.
“On the contrary.” The welcome sound of David Abelman’s voice echoes from inside the room. “I’ll take as much time as I need with my client.”
Florer gives me a shove into the interview room and goes to close the door behind me.
“Excuse me, Officer.” Abelman lifts a finger. “Kindly uncuff Master Sergeant Dubois before you leave.”
It’s not an accident, him using my rank. Abelman is not-so-subtly reminding Florer of my superiority in the overall pecking order of persons who’ve sacrificed for the greater good of our country. Hooah!
“He’s already killed one cop tonight,” Florer snaps. “I’m thinkin’ the rest of us here who wear a badge will feel a lot more comfortable if he stays cuffed.”
Abelman remains unruffled. In fact, his slow blink is that of a man who’s either bored out of his mind or looking at someone he considers severely lacking in the area of IQ points.
“I care little aboutyourcomfort, Officer Florer,” he says. “But if it makes you feel better, you can cuff him to the table bar.”
Beneath his breath, Florer says something not terribly kind about Abelman, but uncuffs one of my hands. As soon as the steel vise is released, blood floods into my fingertips, bringing pins and needles with it. After Florer attaches the empty cuff to the bar in the middle of the table, I take the seat opposite my attorney.
Abelman is dressed in a natty gray suit paired with a striped blue tie. His hair is parted in a severe line. The combination of salt and pepper makes him look older than I reckon he is, because there’s a certain youthfulness about his eyes when he looks me over.
I can’t tell if he’s assessing me for signs of police brutality, for indications that the trauma of last night might have sent me into shock, or what.
Then his gaze alights on my still-cuffed hand. Again, he stops Florer from leaving.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” he says to the officer, “my client’s fingers are turning a rather astonishing shade of blue. I’m sure securing the cuffs too tight was a mistake on your part, since doing so intentionally would force me to file charges against—”
“Like you said,” Florer cuts him off, stomping back to the table. “A simple mistake.”
He loosens the handcuff, and glory be! Now I can feel all ten of my fingers!
“Will there be anything else?” Florer grinds his teeth so hard around the question that his cheek muscles twitch.
“No. That will be all.” Abelman dismisses him by pulling a leather portfolio from his satchel.
Florer slams the door with more force than necessary. The noise is still echoing around the room when Abelman gets right down to business. (My kind of guy.) “Besides the cuffs being too tight, have you suffered any—”
“No,” I interrupt. “No abuse. Just some not-so-subtle threats. How’s Maggie May?”
