A Justified Bitch. H.G. McKinnis
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gave Helen’s arm a comforting squeeze. “Helen, this is Officer Maria Fine.”
Officer Maria pointed to a chair. “Have a seat.”
“Why?” Helen asked, not wanting to commit herself to a chair in this unfamiliar place. She examined the table, which held a computer, a slightly darker shade of gray than the surroundings.
“Officer Fine needs to get your personal information,” Madison explained. “For our files.” He glanced at his watch, a water-resistant Timex Indiglo that went for no more than fifteen dollars at the swap meet. “I need to start the paperwork. You know how fritzy the lieutenant gets if every ‘I’ isn’t dotted.”
“I’ll process her as a material witness,” Officer Maria said, gesturing toward the chair. “Make yourself comfortable, Helen.”
Detective Madison gave Helen’s shoulder a pat, then was gone. Officer Maria offered a professional smile. “What’s your full name?”
Bobby sauntered around behind the desk. And how does that differ from your empty name?
Helen suppressed a laugh. “Helen Eileen Taylor.”
“Date of birth?”
“August 11, 1965.”
“Address?”
Bobby leaned over the woman’s shoulder, reading the screen. What’s this? Their personal version of Trivial Pursuit?
“5573 Tsunami Avenue,” Helen answered. The streets in her neighborhood were all named after natural disasters, events that seldom took place in that part of town. Hurricane and Tornado were the cross streets. Why they weren’t called Tow-Away and Drive-By she couldn’t imagine.
“Occupation?”
“Vendor.”
“Business address?”
“Broadacres outdoor swap meet.”
“Education?”
“Yes.”
Officer Maria sent an admonishing look back across the table. “I meant what level of education. Did you graduate high school?”
Bobby hopped onto the table and crossed his legs, assuming a haughty pose. Graduate! We taught high school.
“My husband and I taught at Western High.”
Officer Maria nodded. “So you graduated from college?”
“I have an Ed. E in educational psychology from Berkeley.”
“An Eddy? What’s that?”
“A doctorate in education.” Helen traced the initials on the table with her index finger. “An Ed E”
The questions kept coming and Helen answered them to the best of her ability, but she could feel time slipping away. The gates to the swap meet opened at seven o’clock sharp every Saturday morning, and at the rate the interview was proceeding she wouldn’t have enough time to pack her truck. “I need to go home.” She shot a pleading glance at the officer, hoping for an understanding nod. “I have to load my truck.”
Officer Maria flicked her eyes away from the screen for a moment. “We’ll see.” She spoke as if she were the mother and Helen the child. “Detective Madison still has a few questions. Lucky for us we have your finger prints from your background check when you were teaching.” the officer explained. She turned toward Helen. “Please take off your shoes.”
“My shoes?”
“We don’t allow laces or sharp objects in the waiting area.”
Helen hesitated.
Might as well go along, Bobby said. She seems determined.
Since Bobby had no problem with it, Helen decided to humor the woman. As the officer held out a plastic bag, Helen pried off her high-tops, a fabulous find from a dumpster behind Smith’s grocery. Booth value, five dollars; cost, nothing. The woman dropped the shoes in the bag, printed out a label, slapped it onto the plastic, and dropped the bag into a wire basket behind her chair. Then, taking Helen’s arm, she led the way down a hallway to a caged room. Inside, three women sat hunched forward on steel benches, looking bored and miserable.
Bobby hung back. What is this, a petting zoo for people?
As Officer Maria opened the gate, a petite blonde wearing Dolce&Gabbana ran forward. “Has my attorney come yet? I called half an hour ago. I know my rights. You have to let me out when I make bail.”
Officer Maria ignored the woman. “You’re only going to be here a little while, Helen. Detective Madison will be back to take your statement.” She gestured toward the bench along the far wall. “Try to get some rest.”
Bobby glared. You can’t treat us like this! Tossing us in here like a load of laundry!
Helen waved him quiet. “This will really put me behind,” she said. “I need to make my nut.”
Officer Maria shrugged and clicked the door shut.
Bobby frowned as her footsteps faded down the hall. She doesn’t care about our problems.
Helen looked around, trying to decide where to sit. The stark lighting of the cage threw hard-edged shadows beneath the steel mesh benches bolted to the floor. To the right, a chubby woman sobbed into a wad of toilet paper, shoulders quivering with every exhale. Her low-slung jeans and appliquéd T-shirt failed to cover a large expanse of white abdomen.
Bobby smiled flirtatiously at the woman. Now that’s a cheerful ensemble.
“Don’t talk to strangers,” Helen snapped, shooting him an admonishing scowl.
The Dolce&Gabbana blonde paced nervously back and forth across the front of the cage, cursing with every step and kicking the wire mesh with her purple-pedicured toes. The oversized collar and cuffs on her blouse gave her a waif-like appearance. “Who the fuck is running this place?” She stabbed a perfectly manicured finger through the chain-link as if demanding an answer from some unseen authority. “Do you have any idea how much shit you people are in?” Her voice had a percussive rhythm that elevated her rage to the level of performance art. “I’ll have your jobs, assholes.”
Bobby covered his head, feigning a look of fear. Tinker Bell is pissed.
Helen managed to turn a laugh into a cough, and took a seat next to a girl wearing a tube top and Daisy Duke shorts. The kid stared in open-mouthed fascination at the pacing woman. “Where do you think she got that top?”
“Probably a hotel shop,” Helen answered, “or Saks in the mall.”
The girl looked disappointed. “The security in those places is really tight. You’d need a team . . . never be able to boost that kind of stuff by yourself.”
Helen nodded. The silk batiste blouse probably came out of a California sweatshop and sold wholesale for no more than ten bucks, but it would go for three hundred by the time it hit the boutiques.
The cranky blonde froze, staring up at a bull’s-eye camera in the upper corner of the cage. “You think this is funny?” she screamed. “You have any idea who my husband is? Wait till I get out of here, you motherfuckers!”
Even the crier paused for a moment, staring at the blonde princess as if trying to place her, then resumed her tearful moans as Dolce&Gabbana returned to her military march along the wire. The Daisy Duke kid stuck out her tongue, gray and covered in gum. She tried to blow a bubble, but the gum split with the sound of a wet fart. “This nicotine shit isn’t any fun.”
Helen nodded, wanting to be agreeable. She had never used it herself, but could see it lacked substance.
Officer Maria rapped on the gate. “You.” She pointed to the gum chewer. “Your boyfriend just made bail.” Her tone made it clear the “boyfriend” was a pimp collecting his property.