Todd Strasser - Blood on my hands

For a long moment I stay crouched, my feet and fingertips on the cool concrete floor, and take deep breaths to steady myself before moving again.

Finally I feel like I’m ready to stand. I lean back on my haunches and slowly rise.

And find myself staring at a man sitting on one of the plastic-covered couches.

“I couldn’t do it,” Mia said that night when I called to ask why she’d taken her name off the article in the Bugle . “I just didn’t want it to look like it was some kind of personal vendetta.”

“So now it looks like it was my personal vendetta,” I said bitterly. “Thanks a lot.”

“No, everyone knows what happened in the cafeteria. Even if my name wasn’t on that article, they know how I feel about her.”

There was some truth to that. “What is with her, anyway? I mean, why is she so nice most of the time and then she gets so evil?”

“Know what my mother says?” Mia asked. “I mean, she’s really smart about things like this, and she thinks Katherine has a massive inferiority complex. Not because she was adopted, but because she thinks she’s supposed to be a Remington.”

“But the Remingtons don’t do things like that, do they?”

“That’s exactly what I said. But it’s not about what the Remingtons do or don’t do. It’s what Katherine thinks she has to do in order to feel like one. It’s not about what’s real, Callie. It’s about what’s in her head.”

“It’s so weird.”

“Yeah, but you know what?” Mia said. “It doesn’t excuse the way she’s treated me. I’ve totally had it with her. And if it’s any consolation, I’m not finished with her. Not by a long shot.”

Wednesday 5:38 P.M.

“VERY IMPRESSIVE, CALLIE,” the man says calmly.

I feel myself go cold and tight. I recognize his face from the TV in the convenience store. It’s Chief Jenkins. I glance at the door.

“No, no,” he says, following my eyes. “It’s over now. No more running and hiding. No more disguises.” He pushes himself up from the couch and reaches into his pocket. I hear the clink of metal handcuffs. “Turn around and put your hands behind you. Don’t resist. You’re already in enough trouble.”

I do what he says and feel the cuffs go around my wrists. Chief Jenkins recites the Miranda warning, that anything I say may be used against me. Strangely and unexpectedly, I feel relief. I don’t have to hide anymore. I don’t have to be constantly looking over my shoulder or have knots in my stomach about getting caught.

With a hand on my arm, he walks me downstairs and into the police department. The officers all stare silently. They know who I am. We go into an office with an American flag standing in the corner, bookshelves filled with ring binders, and a desk with a computer and some family pictures. In one is a young man with some tennis rackets. His son? I wonder.

Chief Jenkins tells me to turn around. I feel him remove the handcuffs. “Have a seat.” He gestures to a chair while he sits down on the other side of the desk and pushes a phone toward me. “Call your mom.”

I get Mom on the phone and have to wait while she breaks down and sobs and tells me how worried she’s been. She wants to know where I’ve been and what’s going on, but mindful of the Miranda warning, I just keep reassuring her that I’m okay and she doesn’t have to worry. When she asks me when I’m coming home, all I can say is that I don’t know.

The call ends with her urging me to cooperate with the police and do whatever they tell me. After all she’s been through with my brother, I take the advice seriously. There’s a knock on the door and a thin, balding man with a salt-and-pepper moustache sticks his head in. Before he speaks, he looks at me for longer than necessary, as if I’m something he’s never seen before. Then he turns to the police chief: “PD’s here.”

I recognize the voice. He was the one speaking to Chief Jenkins in the lounge this morning.

The police chief turns to me. “We’re going to question you, Callie. You’re entitled to legal representation, and I’ve taken the liberty of requesting a public defender. Chief Detective Bloom will take you down to the lab.”

I follow the chief detective down a hall, thinking, Oh no, not another public defender . We go into a police lab no larger than a closet. Inside, a policewoman asks me to open my mouth, and then rubs the inside of my cheek with several different-colored swabs. She also takes my fingerprints.

Next I’m taken to a bare room with a table, some chairs, a large mirror against one wall, and a video camera on a tripod. A woman in a black suit jacket and skirt is sitting in one of the chairs, speaking on a cell phone. She’s small, maybe a few inches taller than me, and has mahogany skin and neat shoulder-length brown hair.

“That’s correct, Mrs. Carson,” she says into the phone while giving me the straight index finger “just a moment” sign. “Yes, of course. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

She snaps the phone shut. Bloom leaves us, and the woman introduces herself as Gail and tells me she’s a public defender. “So I guess you know I was just speaking to your mom.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She gave me permission to represent you. I’ve just been called on to this case, so all I know is what I’ve read in the news and seen on TV. What I’m going to do today is listen to each question they ask and let you know whether or not I think it’s okay for you to answer. If I tell you it’s okay, it’s important that you answer honestly and directly. But only answer the question, Callie. Don’t provide any additional information unless they specifically ask for it. And remember, they’re not just asking these questions for information. Depending on how you answer them, they’ll be trying to assess whether or not you’re telling them the truth. So try not to do the things that make people look guilty.”

“But I’m not guilty,” I protest.

Gail nods perfunctorily, as if this isn’t the first time someone’s said that to her. “Good. So maintain eye contact. Be aware that they’ll probably repeat certain questions at different times in the interview to see if there are inconsistencies in your story.”

Her attitude reminds me of that of Sebastian’s public defender. They don’t even think about trying to prove you’re innocent. All they want to do is make a plea bargain and move on to the next case until they’ve gotten enough experience to get hired by a private law firm and start making real money.

“Ready?” Gail asks, and without waiting for my answer, she goes to the door and opens it. A moment later Chief Jenkins and Chief Detective Bloom enter. Bloom goes to the video camera, turns it on, and makes sure it’s aimed at me. Then he and Chief Jenkins sit down.

“Tell us everything you remember from the night Katherine Remington-Day was murdered,” Bloom says.

I turn to Gail, who nods; then I tell them what I remember. The two men take notes. When I’m finished, Chief Jenkins says, “You’re certain it was Dakota Jenkins who told you to look for Katherine?”

“Yes.”

“And she specifically told you to look around the dugout?”

“Yes.”

Bloom asks, “Was there anyone else with her when she told you where to look?”

“I don’t think so. I think she was alone. Why?”

“We need corroboration,” Chief Jenkins replies. “Someone else to testify that what you’re saying is true.”

“But why would I lie?” I ask.

“Callie,” Gail says, interrupting. “It’s best to let them ask the questions. All you have to do is answer and tell the truth.”