‘Margaret, you’re sick. You don’t know what you’re saying. You could have the plague. There are people dying in the streets. I’ve seen them.’
‘Go away, Leonard! We can manage without you!’
Dr. Petrie slammed his shoulder against the door. The security chain was wrenched in its screws, but it stayed firm.
‘Margaret – you’re sick! For Christ’s sake, think of Prickles! If you’re sick, then she’s going to get sick, and that could mean that both of you die!’
Margaret tried to close the door completely, but Dr. Petrie kept his foot jammed in it, and wouldn’t let her.
He was so busy trying to wrench the door open that he didn’t hear the car stop in the road, or see the two men walking slowly across the lawn towards him. It was only when Margaret looked up, and the cop said, ‘Okay, Superman, what’s going on here?’ that he realized what was happening.
The policemen looked tired and hard-faced. One of them was standing a little way back, with his hand on the butt of his gun. The other was right up behind him, with his arms akimbo. They both wore sunglasses, and they both had knotted handkerchiefs around their necks, ready to pull over their nose and mouth in case of plague duty.
Dr. Petrie pushed back his hair from his forehead. He knew how disreputable he must look after a whole night without sleep. He said weakly, ‘This is my house. I mean, this was my house.’
‘This was your house?’ said the cop. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘This was my house and this lady was my wife. We were having a slight argument. That’s all.’
The cop strained his eyes to see Margaret standing in the shadows of the hall.
‘Is this true, ma’am?’
Margaret sounded so different that Dr. Petrie could hardly believe it was the same person. Instead of speaking harshly and bitterly, she was like a pathetic little girl, all weak and heartbroken and begging for sympathy.
‘I was only trying to reason with him, officer. He went crazy. Look, he broke the door. He went absolutely crazy. He said he was going to beat me up, and take my little girl away.’
Dr. Petrie stared in amazement. ‘But – this is preposterous – I was—’
The cop reached down, and calmly attached a handcuff to Dr. Petrie’s wrist. ‘I have to advise you of your rights,’ he said. ‘You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to—’
‘I didn’t do anything!’ snapped Dr. Petrie. ‘My wife came around to my place and took my little girl without my permission. Now she’s sick with the plague and she won’t let me take my daughter back. For God’s sake, look at her! She’s sick with the plague! If you take me away, my daughter’s going to catch it and die! Don’t you understand that?’
The second cop was opening the police car doors.
The first cop said, ‘Listen, sir, we’ve all had a very trying time recently with this epidemic. You know what I mean? I picked up a guy for breaking in a TV store just half-an-hour ago. He said his old granny was dying of sickness, and he wanted to make her last hours happy by letting her watch TV. It’s an emergency situation. Lots of people are trying to take advantage of it. Now, let’s go, huh?’
Dr. Petrie said, ‘I don’t suppose it would make any difference if I told you I was a doctor?’
The cop pushed him into the car and sat down beside him. The second cop settled himself down behind the steering wheel, and pulled away from the kerb, siren whooping and lights ablaze.
‘You’re a doctor, huh?’ answered the cop, after a while. ‘Well, maybe you ought to be out there healing some of these sick people, instead of bothering your ex-wife.’
Dr. Petrie said nothing. The police car squealed on to the North-South Expressway, and sped downtown.
They took his money, his keys and his necktie, and locked him in an open-barred cell with two black looters and a drunk. He was exhausted, and he lay on the rough gray blanket of his bed, and slept without dreams for four hours.
It was eleven o’clock when he woke up, feeling cramped and sore but slightly more human. The drunk had gone, and the two negroes were left by themselves, murmuring quietly to each other.
He sat up, and rubbed his face. There was a small basin in the corner of the cell, and he splashed cold water over himself, and wiped himself dry with his handkerchief.
He went to the bars and looked out, but there was no sign of anyone. Nothing but a gray-painted corridor, and a smell of body odor and carbolic soap. He turned around to the blacks.
‘What do you have to do to get some service around here?’
The blacks stared at him briefly, and then went back to their conversation.
‘I’m a doctor,’ Petrie insisted, ‘and I want to get out of here.’
The blacks started at him again. One of them grinned, and shook his head.
‘They don’t let nobody out today, man. It’s emergency regulations. Anyway, if things don’t get much better out there on the streets, maybe you safer where you at.’
Dr. Petrie nodded. ‘You’re probably right. But what do I have to do to get some attention?’
The other black said, ‘This ain’t the Doral-on-the-Ocean, man. This is the Slammer-in-the-City.’
They both laughed, then resumed their talk.
Dr. Petrie went to the bars and shouted, ‘Guard!’
The blacks stopped talking again and watched him.
He waited for a while, and then shouted, ‘Guard! Guard! Let me out of here!’
A few more minutes passed, and then a young policeman with rimless spectacles came down the corridor jangling a bunch of keys.
‘You Dr. Petrie?’ he asked.
‘That’s right. I want to see my lawyer.’
‘You don’t have to. You’re free to leave.’
The guard unlocked the cell, and Dr. Petrie stepped out. One of the blacks said, ‘So long, honky, have a nice day,’ and the other laughed.
Dr. Petrie was ushered back to the police station desk, where the two
