Tuesday, April 15, 2003

A Second EXERPT The car

A Second EXERPT

The car pulled up and three officers stepped forward to open the door and let her out. She went with them, still cuffed, down a short hallway to an elevator, and rode with them to the second floor.  The room was broad, bright and empty as the four of them walked to a booking desk.  Alma sat at the edge of the desk, and one of her three escorts sat opposite her while the other two took up positions at her back.  “Your name?”

“My rights?”

“Very well, that will conclude our questioning of you for the present.  You will now be searched.” The other two offices stepped forward and very carefully examined every bit of her clothing and all the contents of her purse with a thoroughness that bordered on the overfamiliar.  Still, they exhibited such a passionless professionalism that she couldn’t be outraged at that aspect of their work. 

All her personal effects were placed in a box and carried to an officer sitting behind a metal grate.  The officer in the cage shortly called one of the guards back over.  They conferred for a few moments and then the guard returned, took Alma by the arm, and brought her to the cage. “What’s this?” The property control officer held up a sheet of legal paper with the names of elements on it.  The worksheet.  The code.

“A recipe.”

“You’re a busy cook, eh?  You cooking with sulphur?  Huh?  Argon - that’s an explosive, right?  Hey, hey - Uranium, here.  This looks like a recipe all right.  You’re a fucking terrorist.  You’re making a bomb, goddamn it!  You are gonna talk to my Captain.”

“Yeah, that’s what they say....”

“Look, don’t get smart.  The Captain is indisposed at present but he’ll be here tomorrow.  In fact, he’s looking forward to discussing this matter with you.  You can wait for him in a hospitality suite.”

“Yes, that sounds nice.” They walked her to a wide, windowless door, and opened it with a key and an intercom.  The jail lay on the other side, hundreds of small cells, lots of noise and no privacy, the sharp smell of industrial cleaners nearly covering a septic stench that permeated everything.

Alma was placed in a private room with a latticework door, daybed and bidet.  She was uncuffed and left by her attendants to sleep.  She was tired, but felt rather displaced by her surroundings - though it really wasn’t any noisier than any big public hospital or high school cafeteria.  At some point, all the lights were turned off and the place quieted down.  Alma lay on the cot, a thin blanket teasing her with an empty promise of warmth.  Her pillow was flat; Alma always slept with two fluffy ones.  Just one of them would have done that night. 

Upon falling asleep hours later, Alma was awakened by a loud buzzer and a sudden illumination of all the lights.  Guards began walking along each floor, past each cell, checking each prisoner.  They moved with ordered efficiency, in lockstep from floor to floor, one for every row of cells.  Three guards suddenly appeared before Alma’s door.  “Shit,” she mumbled.

They opened her cell, cuffed her hands behind her back, and took her with them down the hall and out of the jail, back in to the police headquarters portion of the building.  Wordlessly they led her to an elevator and got into it with her, rode it to the forth floor, and got out.  One of them said, “This way, missy,” and they went to the left, into one of a series of identical doors lining the lino and neon hallway.

Inside, grinning at her, was her old friend.  His hand was in a cast and his forehead was swollen and bruised; the circular imprint of the mace cannister was quite clear on his purple flesh.  “Well, lookie here.” His voice was quiet and calm, though raspy and broken.  “Would you please tell me something?”

“What?”

“Why shouldn’t I just kill you right here in this room?  What would I lose by doing that?”