“Does it have to be right now?” I ask. “I’d like to stay and talk to the fire marshal again.”
“I understand that it’s never a good time to pull away from a crisis to talk to law enforcement, but this won’t take long. They just want to get your statement while the details are still fresh in your mind. The sooner we get the paperwork started, the sooner the investigation moves forward.”
I definitely don’t want anything to hold up the investigation, so I make the decision to go with him. I’ve been through enough with the trucking company fire to know that cooperating speeds the process along.
“Give me one second,” I say, and bring the phone back up. “Cray, I gotta go. A cop needs me down at the station to give a statement about the fire. Call me when your guys are in place at my house.”
“Will do. I’ll meet you at the police station.”
I end the call and slip my phone into my back pocket. “Alright, Officer. Lead the way.”
“Follow me. My cruiser’s near the corner of the block. I promise to get you in and out as quickly as possible.”
I glance towards the parking lot. Mica’s disappearing around the back of the building. Mac’s filming something near the barricade. Nobody’s looking this way because why would they? It’s a cop walking a property owner to his car. We’re the most boring thing happening on this street right now.
When he opens the door, I slide into the back. It’s weird because there is a screen separating the front from the back seats. The door closes and the locks click into place. This is all normal, so I can’t figure out why the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. Maybe it’s the fact that the back doors don’t open from the inside, which means I’m trapped. I shove that ridiculous thought aside. Law-abiding citizens can’t be trapped by law enforcement.
Right before he closes the door, he does the last thing in the world I expect. He pulls out a set of handcuffs, slaps themonto my wrists, and locks them onto a long bar attached to the back of the front seats.
I start struggling. “What are you doing? Are you arresting me?”
“It’s for your safety, ma’am.”
“Take them off me!” I demand.
“No can do,” he says mildly as he shuts the door. He’s so casual and polite that it disarms me. Weaver gets in the driver’s seat, starts the engine and eases away from the curb. I start struggling but there’s no way I can loosen them.
“Hey!” I shout, but he just ignores me. Does this man think I burned down my own business?
I nervously glance out the back window and see a familiar face staring back at me. It’s Bran, standing very near where we were just parked. I watch him get onto his bike and ride away. At first, I think he’s following us but then he accelerates, zooming around us and speeding ahead.
This whole situation is creeping me out. I try to slip out of the cuffs again, unsure what I would even do if I somehow managed to get free. I snatch up all my courage, kicking the back of his seat and yell, “Hey! You can’t do this! It’s my business that burned to the ground. Why are you arresting me?”
I realize he didn’t even read me my rights. Not that I’ve been arrested before, but I’ve watched enough cop shows. I kick the back of his seat harder.
His eyes lift to the rear-view mirror meeting mine, but still he says nothing.
By this point I’m almost certain something bad is happening. This is when he takes a left on Hadley Street.
My head comes up. “You’re going the wrong way. You should have turned right.”
The police station is on Birch, three blocks in the other direction.
Weaver doesn’t glance up or answer. He just keeps driving.
“Hey,” I say more assertively, leaning forward against the partition. “You missed the turn. The station is on Birch.”
I kick the partition. “Why are you ignoring me?”
I keep yanking against the cuffs, testing how strong they are. They don’t give at all.
“Let me out of this car, right now!” I demand. My voice comes out louder and more panicked than I intend.
Weaver says without an ounce of emotion, “Sit back and relax, ma’am,” he says. “We’re almost there.”
“Almost where? This isn’t the way to the station, and you know it.”
When he doesn’t respond, helpless rage floods my mind. This is what I get for being a good citizen. I was trying to be a responsible business owner, one who answers questions and cooperates with law enforcement. My gramps always said that cops weren’t for people like us. They were there for high class folks who were far too used to having things their own way. I thought I knew better but now I can see how right he was. I feel so incredibly stupid that it makes my head hurt.
