Cesspool (14 page)

“Yes.”

“If you decide to answer questions now without an attorney present, you will still have the right to stop answering at any time until you talk to an attorney. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

The officer led James to the cruiser. He put his gloved hand on James’s head as he guided him into the seat.

“I’m assuming she can take my truck home,” James said.

“Does she have a license?” the officer said.

“Yes.”

“If she does, then she can. If she doesn’t, we’ll see that she gets home.”

The officer slammed the door. James scooted to the middle of the backseat, his hands bound behind his back. He watched as Officer Emory approached the passenger door of his truck. The officer tapped on the glass with his flashlight. He spoke with Brittany. She handed him her license. He shone his flashlight on it and handed it back to her. Brittany stepped out of the vehicle and stood, shivering on the frozen ground, while the officer searched the truck.

After the search, Brittany hopped back into the truck, scooted across the bench seat, and started the vehicle. The officer marched back to the cruiser and climbed inside with a groan. He turned the car around on the tiny gravel road with a six-point turn. Brittany moved slowly down the road toward the cabin, the red taillights fading.

James sat in the backseat, silent, as the officer drove off, eventually pulling into the police station. Four cruisers sat in the parking lot. He parked and walked James into the one-story brick building. The officer bypassed the public waiting area and scanned into the employee entrance. Inside, it looked like a typical office, with desks, and printers, and computers. Three officers milled about—one in slacks and a rumpled shirt and tie; the others in uniform. James was searched again, and his wallet, watch, cell phone, and belt were taken. Officer Emory undid his handcuffs and reattached them with James’s hands in front. Emory forced James’s fingers onto an electronic screen to capture his fingerprints. Emory swabbed his cheek for DNA. James was photographed, guided into a windowless room, and forced to sit at a metal desk. Video cameras were hung in the upper corners of the room. Officer Emory departed, shutting the door behind him.

A plainclothes officer entered the room, shuffling papers in a manila folder. He was medium height and stocky with pale skin and blond curls cut tight to his head. He sat down across from James, the folder in front of him.

“I’m Detective Warren.” He opened the folder, shaking his head. “Point-zero-eight-two. That’s some seriously bad luck, James.
And
we have a confession of drinking alcohol prior to driving.”

“There’s no way I was over the legal limit on one glass of wine.”

The detective winced. “I’ve seen it happen. I bet it was a big glass. Here’s the thing, James. I really don’t want this to get out of control. Judge Schaeffer is a real hard ass when it comes to DUI cases. He had a nephew killed by a drunk driver. He gives the maximum penalty over and over again. Do you know what the maximum penalty is for a DUI?”

James was silent.

“Six months in prison, James.” He nodded with a frown. “I really don’t want to see that happen. It’s not like you had an accident or hurt anyone. I mean, you were almost home for Christ sakes.”

James nodded.

“Here’s the thing, James. As a police officer, I like to put away bad guys. You’re not a bad guy, but you broke the law, and the laws are pretty stiff. I think just about everyone in this country has driven drunk at one point in their life. If you make this process easy for us, we can make it easy for you.”

James nodded.

The detective slid a blank piece of paper and a pen across the table. “If you write down exactly what you drank at dinner, before driving home, I can guarantee you will not serve any jail time. You might have a small fine of like three hundred dollars and maybe a month or two of probation. You won’t even lose your license. All you have to do is write that you had four glasses of wine at dinner before driving.”

James frowned.

The detective continued without missing a beat. “And I know you said that you only had one glass, and I believe you, but that glass was a doozy. If you write that you only had one glass, with your breathalyzer test score, it’ll seem like you’re lying, and, if it seems like you’re lying, I can’t do a deal for you.”

James was silent.

“This is the best option, James,” the detective said with a straight face.

James narrowed his eyes at the detective. “I don’t think so.”

“If it would make you feel more comfortable, we could say it differently. We could say something like you admit to consuming enough alcohol to raise your blood alcohol to the level that we recorded. You’re not admitting to anything we don’t already know.”

James hung his head.

“Six months in prison, James. I’m trying to be a friend here.”

James raised his head and glared at the detective. “You’re a liar. In Pennsylvania, you have to hit a point one zero to get jail time on a first offense. I would have had to drink five or six five-ounce glasses of wine at my weight in an hour to hit the blood alcohol you guys are claiming. Either Officer Emory is lying, or the machine was rigged. My money’s on both. I want a lawyer.”

The detective stared expressionless. He stood and exited without a word. Officer Emory and a tall, slender officer replaced the detective. They took James downstairs to a hallway with holding cells numbered one to six. The tall officer opened the last cell on the row. Once inside, Emory undid the handcuffs through the compartment on the heavy steel door.

“I need to make a phone call,” James said.

The officers ignored him.

The cell was ten-by-ten with concrete walls and a stainless steel toilet, without a cover. A sink was over the toilet. A steel bed was built into the wall. It sat sterile and obstinate without a mattress or covering of any kind.

James paced in the tiny cell.
Is this payback for Harold? Why not arrest me for assault? I still don’t think Harold said anything. If he didn’t tell him about the assault, then why? Just to fuck with me. Was it just an opportunity that presented itself? Or did Officer Emory actually have faulty equipment? I don’t believe that. They targeted me. But why? Because I’m not from around here? Because Harold doesn’t like me? Because of Brittany? Brittany. Jesus, what if?

James pounded on the door. He called out, “I need to make a phone call.” He also tried yelling, “I’m really sick. I need to see a doctor.” And “I need my medicine or I’ll die.”

There was no response. His eyes were heavy. He lay on the metal bed. Despite the discomfort, he drifted off to a fitful sleep. James awoke with a sharp pain in his hip. He rolled off his sore side onto his back.
What time is it? Is it morning yet? Have I been here an hour or ten? Definitely more than an hour. Maybe between four and eight hours
. He stood, his entire body ached. He yelled for a doctor and his medication again, but there was no response. He stretched and paced and stretched and paced some more.

After what seemed like days, the door slid open.

“It’s your lucky day,” a female officer said.

She was fortysomething, manly, with short brown hair, and a square jaw.

“What time is it?” James asked.

“Eight a.m.” She led him to a metal desk. His things were on the desk, inside a clear plastic bag. “Have a seat,” she said, motioning to the empty metal chair.

He sat.

She handed him a sheet of paper with a list of his things. “Check the list and double-check it to make sure all your personal possessions are accounted for.”

James glanced at the bag. “Everything’s there,” he said. “Am I being released?”

“Yes, you are,” she said. “You’re a lucky man. The charges have been dropped.”

James scowled. “Why?”

“You’d have to talk to Detective Warren.”

James signed some papers and was shown out by the female officer. Outside, he dialed 4-1-1 and asked for the nearest taxi. He paced outside the police station for twenty minutes, freezing his ass off. The cab picked him up and took him to his cabin. His truck was parked in the driveway. He paid the cabbie in cash and sprinted to the front door. He turned the knob and pushed inside, surprised it was unlocked. “Brittany?”

He surveyed the one-room cabin. James’s keys were on the dresser. Brittany’s graduation cake was on the kitchen table where he had left it, but jagged pieces had been taken off, as if someone had grabbed handfuls of cake. Icing and yellow crumbs littered the floor. Her black dress and tights were in a heap by the love seat. Brittany was in the bottom bunk, curled up in the fetal position.

“Brittany,” James said as he approached. “Are you asleep?”

She was tight to the back corner of the bed, close to the wall. She didn’t move or speak. She wore white pajamas, patterned with tiny daisies. She had red marks on her neck.

“Brittany.” James reached in and put his hand on her shoulder.

She jumped back as if his hand were a scorching cattle brand. He pulled his hand back. Her eyes were wide, her legs trying to push herself through the cabin wall. That’s when he saw the brownish-red stain between her legs on her pajama bottoms. His stomach sank. He had a lump in his throat.

“It’s just me,” he said.

She blinked and gazed at James as if she were seeing him for the first time. Her eyes watered. She blinked again, and tears rolled down her face. He scooted closer, careful not to move too quickly.

“You said you would protect me,” she said.

James wiped the moisture from his eyes with the side of his fist. “I’m so sorry.”

“They were waitin’ for me. They made me open the door.”

“Brittany, who’s
they
?”

“Harold and his brother,” she said.

“The police chief?”

She nodded and bent forward, sobbing.

Tears collected in James’s eyes and overflowed down his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry,” James said. “I’m so sorry.”

He reached out and put his arm on her back. She flinched but didn’t move from his hand. He rubbed her back. James moved closer and wrapped his arms around her, rocking her like a child. Her sobbing subsided.

“Brittany, we need to go to the hospital now. They’ll take care of you.”

She shook her head rapidly. “We can’t. They’ll tell the police. They said they would kill me if I told.”

James clenched his fists. “You don’t have to tell anyone who did it, but we need to get you treated.”

“We can never tell,” she said, her eyes bulging. “Please, we can’t tell. It’s just gonna make everything worse. Promise me that you won’t tell.”

“I promise, but you still have to go to the hospital. I’ll be right there with you.”

James packed sweats, underwear, and socks for Brittany in his backpack. He grabbed her long jacket and helped her out of the bed. He wrapped the jacket around her. James placed her boots in front of her stocking feet, and she stepped into them. He walked her to the truck, his arm around her.

She leaned against the window, silent, as he drove.

Chapter 12: Into the Slurry

Chapter 12

Into the Slurry

James sat in the waiting room, trying to distract himself with a magazine. Detective Warren waltzed past, with bags under his eyes. He was unresponsive to James’s presence. The detective pushed through the swinging double doors. James stood and approached the reception window.

“Hello,” James said to the heavyset young woman behind the glass.

She looked up blank-faced.

“I would like to see my friend, Brittany Summers.”

The woman picked up the phone and asked about Ms. Summers. She hung up. “They will call you when you can see her.”

“I’d like to see her now.”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Please have a seat, sir.”

James gritted his teeth and returned to his seat. He leafed through four issues of
Time
.

“James Fisher. … James Fisher?” the tiny nurse called out. He stood, grabbed his backpack, and met the young nurse.

“Yes,” James said.

“I can take you back now.”

He followed her until the nurse tapped her small hand on the closed door.

“Come in,” said someone in the room.

The nurse pushed in, announced James to the doctor, and shut the door behind her as she left. The walls were light blue, the floor linoleum. White curtains were partially drawn at a small window, and a television hung in the corner. The lighting was dim. The doctor was tall and thin with dark curls tight to her head. She was probably middle-aged, but she looked younger with flawless skin like coffee with cream. She wore large wooden hoop earrings.

James set his backpack on the chair next to the bed. He glanced at Brittany. She lay in the hospital bed, her eyes shut, and the blanket pulled to her chin.

“I’m Dr. Wiggins,” she said, not offering her hand to shake.

“James Fisher,” he said, his hands stuck to his sides.
Maybe it’s a sanitation thing.

“Ms. Summers said that you would be caring for her once she’s released. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“She says you’re a family friend?” The doctor pursed her full lips.

“Yes.”

“She signed a release of information form, so that you can hear my treatment recommendations.”

James nodded. They stepped away from Brittany, out of earshot.

The doctor said that physically, Brittany should make a full recovery. Brittany would not say what happened to her, but the doctor believed she was raped. Dr. Wiggins said she was obligated to call the police, but Brittany refused to press charges, and she refused any evidence collection. The doctor recommended counseling and warned of post-traumatic stress disorder. She said that a counselor would be by to talk to Brittany. The doctor gave James a few pamphlets about PTSD, sexual assault, and referrals for several counselors. Brittany was given the morning-after pill, and the doctor described the possible side effects. Dr. Wiggins also prescribed antibiotics, for the possibility of STDs. She said that the chances of pregnancy and STD contraction was much less likely because of the condom use, but she felt that it was better safe than sorry. She told James where they could fill the prescriptions. The doctor recommended that Brittany rest, eat healthy, and drink plenty of fluids.