Little Girl Lost: Volume 1 of the Little Girl Lost Trilogy. Cindy Hanna
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my new friends. Come on. Stop being such a coward. Suck it up! You can do this.
Sally approaches the bins of nuts and dried fruits.
Ah, hell, if I’m gonna do this, I might as well stick to being healthy.
She fills two bags and then walks towards the back of the store. Placing one of the bags in her oversized purse, she heads towards the front of the store and drops the remaining bag on a shelf.
If anyone saw me, they’ll think I just changed my mind about buying the stuff.
Sally walks out of the store to the percussion of her heart pounding in her ears. “I did it,” she mumbles under her breath.
Not twenty feet outside, she hears rapidly approaching footsteps and knows, without looking back, that they are headed for her. She hears a male voice call, “Hey, hey, you, miss. Stop, I need to talk with you.”
Oh, my God! What have I done?
Back inside the store, Sally’s terrified eyes fall upon the shoplifting forms neatly attached to the steel clipboard. Threateningly placed atop is a shiny pair of adjustable handcuffs. The steel badge nearly jumps out at her, screaming Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, Officer O’Reily, 61610.
That’s gonna be me—nothing but a number. Just a number— entered into some steel-shelled computer, lost amongst millions of other faceless, nameless numbers.
Her gaze drops from his badge to his ominous gun.
I hate guns.
Sally shivers. Clipped to the left rear of the officer’s holster belt is a second set of handcuffs. Seeing them causes another shudder to roll through her.
“Stand up, turn around and put your hands behind your back,”
Officer O’Reily commands.
Silently, Sally does what she has been told. He places the cuffs on her wrists: first, one on the left and then the other on her right. The cold steel edges bite into her flesh. She marches obediently down the stairs from the staff lounge with her hands securely clasped behind her and is then paraded past onlookers.
This is so humiliating. I know these people…and they know me.
She is escorted down the frozen foods aisle, through an unattended register and out the door to the awaiting squad car where she meets another steel enemy, the protective grate between the front and back seats of the vehicle. Sally feels trapped by all the steel.
Stupid! Why did I agree to this? I’m not a thief.
She sees her new friends acknowledge her when the squad car begins to roll out of the parking lot. Their simple gesture warms her heart and eases some of the humiliation she is feeling. Sally stares at the steel grate before her on the drive down to the police station, trying to avoid eye contact with people along the way.
Everyone’s staring at me, wondering what horrible crime I committed to be riding in the back of a police car.
She slides further down in her seat. Officer O’Reily turns the unit into the station’s lot. They pass down a two-lane drive, past the department’s gas pumps, make a right turn and pull up in front of the steel door that leads into the booking area. Sally is directed from the car to the door—a frightful steel door.
Sally is questioned, once inside the booking area, and has the handcuffs removed. Her belongings, all of them, are taken from her and accounted for. Her possessions are spread out on a steel countertop in front of an iron holding cell, and she is asked to account for each. Having her things seized and sorted through leaves her feeling degraded. To her left is a pay phone on the wall. She desperately wants to make a call—to connect with the outside world.
A female officer leads Sally down a hallway and into a room around the corner, which houses a jail cell. Sally assumes that it will soon become her new home. The policewoman escorts her to the center of the room and says, “Take all of your clothes off.”
Sally does as she is told.
“Bend over and spread your cheeks.”
Sally obeys, allowing the officer to confirm that she has no drugs, lethal weapons or any other foreign objects inside of her.
This is so demoralizing.
She is told to remain there, nude, while the officer goes to question whether or not she can put her bra back on. Before leaving, the officer sees Sally’s puzzled expression and answers her unasked question. “Your bra has a steel underwire. Normally we don’t allow prisoners to enter a cell with any metal objects in their possession. I’m not sure about the bra. I’ll have to ask.”
While she is gone, Sally remains frozen.
Don’t move a muscle. Don’t break any other laws.
Sally stands, as rigid as a tree, fearing to even breathe. The policewoman returns. “It’s okay for you to put your bra back on. Get dressed.”
Once clothed, Sally is escorted out of the room, back up the hallway, to the steel counter where her things had been laid out earlier. Officer O’Reily, the sheriff who had arrested her, stands waiting to receive her. He slides a piece of paper towards her. “Please read this document listing your possessions and then sign it.”
Sally complies and is guided to a row of wooden chairs lining a wall. A single handcuff hangs to the left of each seat with one end bolted to the wall.
“Sit down,” Officer O’Reily says, pointing to one of the chairs.
Sally does and he leans across her to grab one of the handcuffs, clamping the bracelet to her left wrist, before walking away. Chained like a dog with a collar that is too tight, Sally cannot escape. She looks through an open door into a small room across the hallway where two custodians are on break.
They’re staring at me.
The men turn their backs towards her.
They’re talking about me. I wanna run and hide.
She sits there until Officer O’Reily returns and removes the handcuff from her wrist. He leads her to a table attached to the wall. There, he holds the fingers of her right hand over a rotating inked pad and has her make several fingerprints on her new criminal record. Sally washes her hand, but is unable to get all the ink off her blackened fingers. She looks at them.
I wonder if this will ever come off.
She is re-handcuffed to the wall where she waits until another officer comes and fetches her. This policeman leads her back down the hallway to the stripping room. They round the corner and stand before the formidable cell door. “Enter,” he says.
Reluctantly, Sally walks into the cell. Once inside, she hears the awful slam of the heavy door, followed by his words. “You’re doing time now,” he says before walking away.
She stands just inside the cell door and observes her new housing layout. There are three beds: two on one wall, a third located on another. There are a steel sink, drinking fountain and toilet in the opposite corner.
She takes her place on one of the bunks and huddles in its farthest corner. She begins to shudder, shake, sing, cry and think. Desperate for something to do, she commences counting the number of bars on the cell door—ninety-one in all. She hears another girl enter the stripping room. The same female officer tells her to disrobe.
The girl begs the policewoman, “Please, just one light. That’s all I want—just one smoke.”
God, please don’t have them put her in my cell. I’ve heard stories of what happens in jail.
The strip-search is completed, and the other girl leaves, her request for