Blood Sugar(65)

I was then told to sit. At some point a van would be taking me to jail, but there might be a delay. A long, hard wooden bench ran the length of the large open room that sat off the cluttered, bustling bullpen. Several of the fluorescent overhead lights were out, so the space had a dim, serene feel. I sat far to one side of the bench, so I could lean against the corner wall. I no longer had my phone in my possession, so I had no idea how much time I was there. But I was pretty good at gauging time in fifty-minute intervals. I was sure I waited for hours. I could hear employee grumbles and gleaned there was some sort of backlog at the station. Someone didn’t show up to work because he was sick and someone else messed something up and things were not moving smoothly. I paid attention to the comings and goings. A meth head was dragged in screaming. A battered girlfriend was begging for her abusive boyfriend to not be detained. A housewife was complaining that her stolen Tesla had still not been found. I listened and I watched.

I heard other things too. It was surreal to be there, arrested for murder, yet sitting quietly like a child outside a principal’s office. In a way I was no different from my five-year-old self, eavesdropping. And then something extraordinary happened. Two men in different shades of dark blue suits happened to be on their coffee break. They happened to stroll through the annex I was perched in, and they happened to mention a few key phrases. Like Thai restaurant. And shooting. And undercover. I knew what I’d heard in passing would change Gabrielle’s life. And I wanted to get the hell out of there. Get to the next step in the process. Not for my own well-being, but because I desperately needed to talk to her.

I was finally brought to jail in a van that smelled brand-new. I was the only passenger in the back. And again I sat quietly and still. I had a sense I needed to store my energy for what was to come. I was immediately placed in a holding pen. I looked around at the other women, wondering who had been arrested for drugs, or prostitution, or various other victimless crimes. And who, like me, had been arrested for murder.

I was terrified, way more than when I heard Detective Jackson’s banging on my office door. Here, in this cement holding pen with actual metal bars lining the only exit, I was a galaxy away from my element. Unsure about the next steps. Stripped of my free will. Trapped with criminals. But then it dawned on me: These women were my peers. Because I was also a criminal. I breathed slowly in and out, to calm my nerves, but the stale air felt ragged and jagged and it kept catching right below my throat.

Three of the women in the pen seemed to already be lifelong friends. I wondered if they in fact were, or if perhaps they had just bonded in the past hour. I wanted to ask them, to join in, but thought better of it. Instead I stayed quiet and kept listening. Doing this had served me well so far. The women talked about how bad traffic has gotten in Miami, with all the new construction. They were normal women living in this world, experiencing traffic like everyone else.

Another woman rocked back and forth in the corner, muttering to herself. I thought for sure she needed mental health care, not jail time. A fifth woman sort of stared at me. And I thought, being in jail wasn’t what I’d expected at all. It felt more like waiting at the DMV than waiting in a small cage full of miscreants.

Then the woman who was staring at me stood up. She was a big lady, and her young face showed enough suffering to last a lifetime. She walked over to my side of the cell. I stiffened, and wondered what to do. I had never actually thrown a punch before. Or been punched. I had never been in a physical drag-out fight. For all my killing of people, I had led a very violence-free, peaceful life. She got closer. My heart thumped. Should I block my face? Scream for a guard? Hit her first? Fuck, fuck, fuck. I remembered water polo Mikey once telling me about how to punch. To keep my thumb outside my fist so it didn’t break on impact. I balled up my hands. I was ready.

Then the hulking woman said, “Miss S.?”

My fear crashed away, and my adrenaline rush ebbed, leaving me depleted. I unballed my fists. When I interned at the juvenile detention center, Joyce Brody didn’t want the kids to call me Ruby, since I was sort of an authority figure. But I felt Miss Simon was too formal. So I had everyone call me Miss S.

“Yes.”

“It’s me. Renee.”

“Oh my God, Renee!”

I hugged her. For a long time. When I worked at the detention center, a lot of physical touch was not acceptable for solid, obvious reasons, but I was no longer this girl’s therapist and she was no longer a girl. She had gained weight and had grown up since I last saw her, but I recognized her light brown eyes the moment she said her name. And I really needed a hug.

She asked, “What are you doing in here? You volunteering or something?”

“I wish. Sadly, no.”

She was so curious about why the hell I was there, I could see her worn face bursting with questions. But she didn’t want to ask. I would have been curious too. So I told her.

“My husband died, of a disease, but the cops think I killed him.”

“Damn. Hard-core.”

“But I didn’t kill him. I’m innocent.” At that, the three traffic-talking ladies started laughing. One of them said, “We all innocent in here, right, ladies?”

Then a guard came over to the cell. “Cortinez, time to go.”

Renee put a gentle hand on my arm, and said, “Hang in there. And look everyone in the eye. You don’t want to show any signs of weakness. Got it?”