“Have it your way,” the cop said.
He and two others held a small conference. I couldn’t hear anything but murmurs until he said, “Let’s take ’em downtown.”
A policeman handcuffed me, saying, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”
Oh my God, we’re getting arrested!
“…the right to speak to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”
I nodded yes. He made me answer verbally.
They handcuffed me behind my back, the metal pinching my skin. A policeman led me to the car and pushed unsympathetically on my head, forcing me to land in the back seat at an awkward and uncomfortable angle. Mary landed next to me, and the cops shut the doors. We craned our necks, but couldn’t see what they did with Reese or Jake.
“I’m sorry,” Mary whispered.
My tears started up again. “What’s going to happen to us?”
“I don’t know.”
The glaring lights at the police station made me squint. We were led down a long barren hallway painted a drab gray, but then Mary was whisked in another direction. A policewoman with a big bosom and even bigger belly removed my handcuffs, placed me against a wall and took my photo. A mug shot! There were no pleasantries or small talk. She directed and I obeyed, palpably aware of never being more scared in my short life. And this was probably the end of it anyway. My father would surely kill me.
She herded me to a table. One by one, she grabbed my fingers and pressed them in black ink before rolling them on thick card stock. It was official. My mug shot, taken along with my fingerprints, meant I was forever in “the system” as a lawbreaker.
I was led down another long hallway and through a gate to a small holding cell containing a bed and nothing else. Except for me now—its sole occupant. I sat. I stood. I paced.
I needed to gather my wits. I had no idea of the time but could only imagine the turn of events. The phone ringing at my home in the dead of night, one of my parents answering groggily, shaking the sleep from their bodies while they attempted to comprehend their daughter had been arrested for a variety of things: breaking and entering, underage drinking and illegal drugs. Not to mention she had been found almost naked with two other boys.
There was nothing to do but cry and await my punishment, or death, perhaps one and the same.
What was happening to the others? Why were we all separated? Being one hundred percent naive about jail, I thought everyone of the same sex got thrown into one big lockup, like in the movies.
Hours passed. Maybe days.
The door to my cell finally opened. “Let’s go, Miss Trapani.”
37
The Nightmare
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“You’re being released.”
Relief. Fear. Fear. Fear. “What does that mean?”
“Your friend admitted the cocaine was his, and you are not being formally charged with anything else. You’re free to go, but don’t let us catch you pulling that kind of stunt again.”
We turned the corner, and no more than fifty feet away stood my parents, looking unhappier than I’d ever witnessed.
My father’s beady eyes fixated on me as I approached, signaling his anger was on full throttle. My mother stared pitifully at me through watery eyes. There was no hugging but no hitting, either. I guess my dad wouldn’t abuse his child in front of the police. He thanked the officers, but not long after, his hand gripped the back of my neck and steered me forcibly out the door.
No words were uttered until we got into the car, where my father exploded. “Do you have any idea what you have put us through? Do you?”
“I’m—”
“Don’t speak! In fact, I’m too angry to speak. Everyone be quiet until we get home.”
I cowered in the back seat. We were in uncharted territory. My father, a full-blooded Sicilian, was a champion yeller. A silent waterfall of tears gushed down my face on the ride home, grateful for the blackness of the still barely night.
My parents exited the car swiftly, but my body moved in slow motion, as if wading through knee-high sand. I didn’t want to go inside. I didn’t want to face the music. I didn’t want to die.
“Hurry up,” my father growled. As I crossed through the front door, his foot kicked my behind, propelling me past the foyer and into the living room. The door slammed shut with a definitive sound.
He removed his belt and my heart lurched. He hadn’t whipped me since my elementary school years. Was he going to now?
“This is the last time you will behave this way!” Menace permeated his voice.
“Alphonso,” my mother said, hesitant.
“Not now, Diane,” he shouted.
Resigned, my mother backed out of the room, leaving me to defend myself alone.
“Dad, I’m sorry.” My heartbeat roared in my ears.
“Sorry isn’t enough. You’ve disgraced me. And yourself. And this family.” He moved closer, and I flinched.
“You can’t be serious.” Was he really going to beat me? I scrambled into the dining room.
He followed. “You need to be taught a lesson. This is how you learned as a child, and how you clearly need to learn again.”
My own anger—maybe from fear, stupidity, stress or all three—rose, spilling out before I could squelch it. It was like a waterfall, gravity pulling it downward and out of my mouth. “I’m not
