Memoirs Aren't Fairytales (30 page)

Richard would bail me out too? But what if he didn't? I'd have to call Michael or my parents. I could just imagine their faces when I called them collect from jail. I'd left rehab and hadn't talked to them since the morning they'd dropped me off. They probably wouldn't bail me out either.

My armpits were soaked with sweat.

A second cruiser pulled up, and the cops talked behind the van. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but they were pointing to Dustin's side of the van and one of them was calling someone on their cell phone.

Sausage fingers came up to Dustin's window, and the other cop tapped on mine. I rolled down the window and the cop said, “Ma'am, please step out of the vehicle.”

Once Dustin and I got out of the van, we were both handcuffed.

Dustin was told he was being arrested for his warrant, and the cop read him his rights as he shoved him in the back of the cruiser.

My cop backed me up against the hood of the other cruiser and stood in front of me. Sausage fingers joined him, and both cops towered over me.

“Are we going to find a warrant on you too?” one of them asked me.

“No, sir,” I said, keeping my eyes on their feet. “I have a clean record.”

“What about the van, is that clean too?”

Dustin had told me to keep my mouth shut, but what if I could get us out of this mess? Maybe if I said the right things, they wouldn't check the van and they'd let me go.

“It's my boyfriend's work van.”

“He's a painter?”

I nodded. “We were just driving to a job.”

“I called the number,” one of the cops said, pointing to the lettering on the side of the van. “And the line has been disconnected. Why's that?”

“Money is tight, I must have forgotten to pay the bill,” I said.

One cop stayed with me, and the other opened the back doors of the van. He picked up the brushes and paint trays and lifted the tarps. He tapped his wand on the tops and sides of the paint cans.

Slowly, he pulled the lid off one of the five-gallon buckets.

Dustin was right. We were fucked. I wanted to run, but I couldn't. I was cuffed, and the cop was standing next to me.

“Foster,” the cop in the van said. “We got something big here.” He was holding one of the bricks up in the air.

Foster grabbed the back of my arms and read me my rights before pushing me in the backseat of his cruiser.

Dustin was in the car in front of mine. He turned around, and I saw parts of his face through the plastic shield. I knew this was going to be the last time I'd ever see Dustin.

All the pee I'd been holding in was now running down my legs.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Once I was booked at the police station, an officer brought me into a small room and pushed me down in a chair next to a double-sided mirror. He slammed the door behind him, leaving me alone. From the other side of the mirror, I felt different sets of eyes scanning my face and body. I couldn't hear their voices, but I knew they were talking about how they could get me to rat out Dustin.

The chair was metal and uncomfortable, and I could only sit on half of it with my hands cuffed behind me. I circled my thumbs, and to get my mind off the trouble I was in, I counted each time my nails touched. Sweat was still dripping down my back even though the room was freezing and the pee on my pants hadn't dried yet.

After what seemed like hours, two men came in and sat down. They were both dressed in dark suits and striped ties. The guy behind the desk introduced himself as Detective Shay, and the other guy's name I didn't catch.

I thought of all the people who had been in this room before me. Mobsters and murderers, serial rapists. And here I was, put in the same room like I'd done the same horrible shit.

Shay commented on my pee-stained jeans and swollen eyes. I'd sobbed the whole way to the police station, but my eyes were dry now. If he thought I was scared, he was right, but that didn't mean I was going to answer any of their questions. Dustin had told me to keep my mouth shut, so I did. I listened to him ask about my involvement with the heroin trafficking, where we picked up the drugs, and where we were taking them. He threatened a fifteen to twenty-year jail sentence. Still, I didn't say anything. I stared at his coffee cup and the folder with my name and booking ID number on the corner. The overhead light showed little gray hairs in Shay's black goatee, and there was a hole in the other guy's ear where an earring used to be.

I didn't know how all this worked—getting arrested, posting bail, going to court—but I'd seen enough movies to know I could ask for a lawyer. And so I did.

Shay stopped pacing the small space between the desk and me and looked into my eyes. I told him I wouldn't say a word unless it was to my lawyer, and both men left.

I was put in a holding cell where I'd stay until my arraignment the next morning. There were three other women I shared the cell with, but only one talked to me. Her name was Venus, and she wore a silver, low-cut fitted dress with black eye makeup that could hardly be seen over her dark skin. She mostly did escort work through the Internet so she could stay off the streets but said she knew Sunshine. She told me she hadn't seen Sunshine around lately and heard she was working at one of those massage parlors that gave happy endings. I had a hard time believing Sunshine would ever work for someone especially since it was almost summer and that meant hooking season was here.

An officer came by our cell to deliver dinner: a bologna sandwich, chips, and milk. I wasn't hungry. The shot I'd done in the van had long worn off, and I was starting to feel dope sick. A part of me, not looking forward to the withdrawal, wished I'd never tried heroin.

Lights out was at nine, and by then the other women looked like they were feeling as bad as I was. Sweaty, flushed skin, jittery arms and legs, and stomach cramps that made me double over. The only bed that wasn't taken was on the top bunk, but I didn't have enough energy to climb up. I couldn't even swallow my own spit without gagging.

I crouched in a ball in the corner of the cell by the toilet, which was right out in the open. Besides my mom, Sunshine had been the only other person who had ever seen me use the bathroom. And here the other women, both junkies and also dope sick, were squatting next to me on the metal rim when they had to go. Their smell made me feel worse, and so did their noises. Venus had said she didn't use drugs and slept through our noises and smells. Damn her. I never should have left rehab. Damn Dustin, too.

The police station was loud at night. Cops brought in more men and women for booking and processing. Their handcuffs clinked as they were escorted and locked into cells. The officers' boots pounded and squeaked on the linoleum floor, and doors banged as they slid shut. Everyone yelled out the same questions: why am I here, can I get some help, can I make a phone call, and can I get some medicine so I won't be sick? I cupped my palms like earmuffs and tried to block it all out.

I thought of Claire to keep my mind off being dope sick. The first time we'd met and the movie we'd watched together. How she'd shimmied her shoulders and smiled when she saw Marilyn on the TV screen. And Dustin, and how I felt the first time we'd kissed in rehab. I was never going to feel the softness of his lips ever again, but I didn't care. If he hadn't been so possessive, I would have been able to tell him the truth about the deal I'd made with Richard, and then I wouldn't have been raped. I snuck into the van, but this was his fault. If there hadn't been a warrant out for him, we wouldn't have gotten arrested.

My stomach flipped, and I leaned over to puke.

How was I going to make it through court tomorrow when I couldn't get my face out of the toilet?

An officer came to our cell early the next morning and said my court-appointed attorney was here. He told me to stick my hands through the meal slot so he could cuff me, and then he led me to a private room. My attorney didn't look that much older than me. But where I was dressed in a blue jumpsuit with unwashed hair, she was in a suit and heels with beige nails, and flower-smelling perfume.

The guard sat me in the seat across from her. Before he left, he told her he'd be right outside the door in case she needed him.

My hands were shackled behind my back. Did he think I was going to hurt her?

“My name is Melissa Davidson,” she said. “And I'll be representing you.”

She had a pad of paper, a leather folder, and a shiny silver pen and was reading from a printout. She never looked up at me, even when I'd come into the room. I wanted to see her eyes. I'd always been able to tell how rough a John was going to be by his eyes. There was something about them—the size of the pupil and how he looked at me with either big open lids or squinted ones—that told me what kind of person he was. But so far, I couldn't get a vibe from Melissa.

“Do you understand the charges that have been brought against you?” she asked. She flipped to the next page and continued to read.

Could I trust her? I didn't know if I could trust anyone. I'd never been in trouble before. Was I supposed to tell her the truth or play dumb?

“I think so,” I said. “I mean, the cops think the drugs in the van were ours and we were delivering them to someone.”

“When you said ‘our,' you were referring to yourself and Mr. Dustin Howard?”

“Yeah.”

She still hadn't looked up. She was holding the silver pen and was writing on the pad of paper.

“And what's your affiliation to Mr. Howard?” she asked.

My affiliation? Why was she talking so fancy?

I didn't want to do this here. Especially not in handcuffs, halfsitting on the chair. Not without seeing her eyes. And most importantly, not without hitting the needle first.

I leaned forward, resting my forehead on my knees. The movement made me dizzy. I still hadn't eaten, and my stomach was churning.

“Ms. Brown, I hope you understand the seriousness of these charges and how you're facing up to twenty years in jail?”

I wasn't an idiot. I understood the jail time the detectives had threatened me with. But maybe I was. I'd always ripped on Henry and my roommate in rehab because they'd been stupid enough to get busted.

“But if you talk to the detectives,” she said, “I can get your sentence significantly reduced.”

She meant if I ratted everyone out. Richard and his gang. Séamus and his.

“You're going to be bused to the courthouse in an hour, and I want you to plead not guilty to the judge,” she said. “I'll come here tomorrow or if you get released on bail, I want you to come by my office so we can discuss your case in more detail.”

I sat up in the chair. “Is someone going to bail me out?”

She slid her business card across the table. “I don't know.”

I didn't have a hand to grab the card, but her office was in downtown Boston and I knew the building. I said if I were released, I'd come by her office in the morning.

I had a lot to think about—how much I was going to tell her, and if I should rat out Richard and Séamus. I needed time to figure this all out before I'd say anymore.

She looked up from the sheet of paper and straight into my eyes. “I'll see you in court.”

Her eyes were thin slits and almost squinty, the color of mud, and cold like snow. She gave me the same stare I'd given to Richard after he'd raped me. I needed a new attorney. Even if it was her job to defend me, Melissa wasn't on my side.

An hour later, I was handcuffed again and put on a full bus. When we got to the courthouse, we were all seated on benches inside the courtroom. The judge faced us, sitting behind a huge desk on a raised platform.

When it was my turn, a guard brought me through a wooden gate and up to one of the two tables only feet away from the judge's desk. Melissa stood next to me, holding the same leather folder in front of her. The judge read my charges. Possession of less than one gram of a class A substance. Distribution, intent to distribute, and trafficking of over two hundred grams of a class A substance.

I wanted to throw up, but I had nothing left in my stomach.

“How do you plead?” the judge asked.

I looked at Melissa and she nodded.

“Not guilty,” I said. I sounded like a boy going through puberty.

And I wasn't guilty. Maybe I was guilty of the possession charge. The cop had found heroin and paraphernalia in my pockets before he put me in the back of his cruiser. But the rest was bullshit.

The judge said my court date was scheduled for the first Monday in July. That was two months away. Then he set my bail at ten thousand dollars.

I was bused to the Nashua Street jail and put in a cell with a nineteen-year-old named Shelby. She had been arrested for forgery and robbery and hadn't posted bail, so she was waiting for her trial. With her rosy cheeks and big oval eyes, she looked like the Raggedy Ann doll my parents had given me for my fourth birthday.

Venus had been arrested for prostitution, but she was escorting to support her four kids. Shelby had stolen checks out of mailboxes and cashed them at banks to feed her eight brothers and sisters back in Alabama.

Shelby and Venus looked better than I did. But did I look like someone who would traffic two hundred grams of heroin? Maybe on the outside—track marks all over my arms and legs, rail-thin body, sunken eyes—and yet on the inside, I felt innocent. I was guilty of being a junkie, of stealing and hooking to support my addiction, but I wasn't being charged with those crimes. All I'd done was sneak into Dustin's van and help him load up the heroin. Since I'd messed up so bad my parents weren't going to help me, I'd be stuck with Melissa and probably get the whole sentence. Twenty years in jail with no smack? I was as good as dead.

After lunch, a corrections officer came to my cell and said I'd posted bail. He brought me to registration, and once I signed all the forms and changed into my clothes, they let me leave the jail. I hoped to see Michael or my parents when I walked out the front door. But instead, Tweaker Tommy was waiting for me on the steps of the jail.

So Richard had paid to bail me out. I didn't know if that was good or not.