I sat in my paper pajamas and stared at the little window which was set high in the door to my cell. The pain in my wrist had finally faded but my head began to throb. The wires embedded in the glass of the little window seemed to warp and pulse in time to my heartbeat. I was not aware of how much time had passed since my arrest and could only guess that I had been asleep for about an hour when I woke myself up by scratching at my burn. The pounding in my head intensified. The little window in my door disappeared as my vision blurred. The walls of my cell reverberated with the thump of my heart. The air seemed to thicken and each breath required more effort than the last. A contrary thought popped into my head. I needed a cigarette.
Until last night I had not smoked for four years. In the hours between strapping my husband down to his bed and getting arrested for his murder, I smoked more than half a pack of cigarettes. The nicotine had since left my system and the withdrawal was taking revenge on me. I was also getting a hangover from the whiskey. I sat on the hard bed, dehydrated, tired, and jonsing for a smoke in the worst way. I tried to ignore the pounding in my skull and imagined I had a pack of cigarettes in my hand. With my eyes closed, I pretended to pull a cigarette from the pack. I mimed act of putting the imaginary cigarette to my mouth and held it there between my lips. I reached for my lighter.
A stab of pain coursed up my arm from the burn on my wrist and I forgot all about my hangover and my nic-fit as I remembered what happened to the lighter.
Hoskins had just let the door close behind him. With my hands bound together, it was difficult to reach the little pocket that sat on my right hip. I used the fingertips of my right hand to work the lighter up to the top of the pocket. I was then able to pinch the bit of the case that was sticking out of the denim. My hands were wet with sweat and my fingers slipped off of the polished metal a couple times before I finally pulled the lighter completely out of my pocket.
I carefully lifted the lighter and held it in front of my face. The fluorescent lights gleamed off of the shiny case and illuminated tiny scratches in the surface in the metal. The blue Chevrolet symbol had faded with years of use and the center of the “bow-tie” was completely devoid of blue lacquer. Had my hands not been bound together, I would have expertly flicked the cap open and struck the wheel to set the wick alight. Instead, I carefully held the lighter in the fingertips of my left hand and rotated my right hand so I could try to knock open the case with my thumb. My first attempt at opening the lighter nearly knocked it out of the grip of my left hand. I tried again and managed to get the case to open with a satisfying clink. I positioned my right thumb on the wheel and stroked down. Sparks flashed but not enough to actually light the fluid on the wick. I licked my lips, took a deep breath, and pushed the wheel a second time. A gush of sparks flew from the flint and the lighter fluid blazed to life in front of my eyes.
I smiled and stared at the flame for a few heartbeats. My hands were shaking so badly that the orange flame danced back and forth. A cheaper lighter would have been extinguished but the Zippo stayed lit. My success in getting the lighter to work was short lived. I now had to figure out how to put flame to the plastic without burning myself. I soon realized that it would he impossible to hold the lighter in my hand. I carefully placed the lighter between my knees and tested to see if I could hold it there. I found that I was able to hold the lighter in place between my knees if I spaced my ankles apart. With the lighter securely in place, I lowered my hands so the plasticuff was directly over the flame.
The flame from the lighter immediately blackened the plastic but the heat rose up and burned some hair off of my forearm. My hand instinctively recoiled from the heat and I nearly lost my grip on the lighter. I was suddenly aware that I would not be able to hold the cuffs in place long enough to weaken them without burning my skin in the process. I tried a couple positions and found that I could minimize my skin’s exposure to the flame by putting my hands together and tilting them forward like I was getting ready to dive into water.
I carefully held the plastic over the flame again and breathed deeply in an attempt to ward off the pain. The heat was worse on my left arm, but I continued to ignore it. I watched as the plastic started to distort. The precision-cut edges began to soften and black smoke started to rise from where melted plastic dripped into the lighter’s flame. Some of the melted plastic dribbled down the cuff. Where it hit my skin, it burned worse than the heat from the flame. I thought maybe if the plastic was softening that I could break it, so I pulled as hard as I could while still keeping the same blackened part of the cuffs over the Zippo.
I struggled so hard against the restraints that the plastic bit into my skin. More melted plastic dribbled against the wrist on my left hand. The smell of burning plastic filled my nostrils. When I opened my mouth, I could taste the burnt hair and skin in the air. I took a deep breath, ignored the acrid smoke, and gathered my strength for one final pull. I grunted through my gritted teeth and pulled my hands apart, using every muscle in my arms, shoulders, and back to try to break free. Just before I used the last of my strength in my arms, just before my legs were no longer able to squeeze the lighter between my knees, and just before Hoskins opened the door to the booking area, the plastic snapped and my hands flew away from each other as if propelled by same-charged magnets.
My knees came away from each other as well and the lighter dropped to the floor. It bounced once and then skittered toward the desk, coming to rest next to a small waste basket. True to the sturdy design of the lighter, the flame had still not gone out. The orange flame licked out from the low wall built around the wick. The plastic liner in the waste basket crinkled and curled, then caught fire. I jumped off of my bench and kicked the lighter away from the trash can. I bent over, dumped the trash onto the floor and stomped out the flames.
My heart raced. I heard a key in the lock of the door to the precinct’s office. I had nowhere to hide and nowhere to run but at least I had my hands free to defend myself. I crouched and faced the door. My hands formed into claws and I had every intent to scour Hoskins’ flabby flesh from his face before I let him lay his meaty hands on me. I was normally a squeamish person and could hardly watch someone put in contact lenses but I was prepared to gouge my fingers into that fat bastards eyeballs before I let him enjoy any part of having me bound and all to himself. My mind was swimming in a puddle of whiskey and adrenaline. My brain buzzed with the fumes from the burning plastic. I was quite out of my mind.
The door crept open and I heard Hoskins say, “What the fuck?”
When I saw his bulk in the doorway, the part of my brain that was geared for fight lost out to the part that was preparing for flight. I turned and made my way towards the back exit. In my thoughts, I was running. In my mind’s eye, the tiles flew beneath my feet and the wall was a blur as I dashed for the back door. In reality, I hadn’t even reached the hallway. Hoskins entered the booking area and another cop followed him in. I turned to face them and held my hands up in what I thought was a menacing way. Then I saw Kinsey come through the door.
Relief washed over me. Hoskins might be able to convince one of his buddies to look the other way, but he wouldn’t dare touch me with Kinsey as a witness. I no longer held my hands up in a menacing way. I now held them up as if to push the cops back. I looked at Kinsey for a second when a buzzing sound echoed down the concrete blocks of the hallway. Someone was at the back door. I focused my attention on the advancing cops. I saw Hoskins say something to the other cop. I head the sound of his voice, but his words sounded foreign as if he was speaking another language.
The other cop looked familiar but I couldn’t remember his name. He began to walk sideways across the room. His eyes focused on mine. My gaze flicked from his eyes to the Hoskins’. When the other cop reached the mouth of the hallway, he turned his body so he could reach for the red button that opened the back door. I had backed myself all the way into a corner of the room. I watched as the policeman lifted a plastic shield that covered the button. He glanced at a little video screen above the button and then pushed the red plunger down and held it. A magnetic buzzing sounded from the end of the hallway and I heard the door open. The three men looked down the hallway at the person that came down the hall.
I head Kinsey’s voice. He was looking at me and saying something. Something must have been wrong with my ears because he sounded like he was speaking backwards. I heard a new voice, a woman’s voice. Then somebody whistled. I looked towards the hallway and saw a tall, lanky woman removing her hat as she strutted into the booking area. Hoskins spoke again and this time I understood a few words. Kinsey spoke as well and I while I didn’t completely comprehend every word, I understood what he was telling me. They had a woman here now, to complete my processing. I was safe.
The lady cop came closer and when I looked into her face I recognized her. She was the officer who took my statement the last time I was here. I remember her being firm but friendly. She said something to me and I immediately felt better.
“I don’t want that f-fat f-fuck anywhere near me,” I said.
“Hey, I don’t blame you there,” said the policewoman. “Hoskins, how you about you get the hell out of here and let us ladies talk?”
Hoskins and the other cops exchanged some words. I could hear them and understand them, but I was distracted. I glanced a the floor by my feet and noticed red spots on the tile. The spots didn’t appear anywhere else on the floor. I stared at them for a while as the angry voices exchanged words. Hoskins and Roda left the booking area. At some point, after staring at the spots for some time, I realized the spots where drops of my blood. I was bleeding on the floor. The sudden knowledge that my blood had been dripping on the tiles made me tired. I quickly became so exhausted that I could hardly stand.
The woman spoke to me again. She was telling me that we were alone now and that she had to search me and change my clothes. I listened and I obeyed. She gave me a quick pat-down to make sure I wasn’t hiding any weapons or another incendiary device. When it came time to take off my clothes, I looked at Kinsey. He turned away and put his head against the door. I let the female cop help me out of my clothes and get me into the blue, scratchy pajamas. The tiles were cold on my feet and I was thankful when the lady showed me there were slippers for my feet. The woman picked up the lighter from where it had landed after my clumsy kick. The flame had gone out at some point. She set the lighter on the table. I sat on a hard chair in front of the desk. The female cop asked me to sign something. I didn’t look at the paper before I signed it.
Out of the blue, I remembered the cop’s name, Tonya. Tonya got up and walked to the wall where there was a large red box attached to the wall. The box was marked with a bold, white cross and it made me think of Switzerland. She opened a cover on the box, grabbed an armful of things, and returned to the desk. As she set the stuff down, I noticed it was first-aid supplies. I watched, curious and fascinated, as she gently cleaned my wounds and bandaged them. I was even more tired and I felt as if I could fall asleep in my chair.
“There we go,” Tonya said. “I’m going to take you to your room now. The bed in there is not too bad and maybe you can get some sleep.”
She stood and held out her hand. I took her hand and let her lead me into the cell. She sat me down on the hard bed, walked out, and shut the door. Somewhere in the back of my foggy brain I realized I didn’t say goodbye to Kinsey. I didn’t say thank you to him or Tonya. I made a mental note to do that later, when I saw them again. Then I laid down and fell asleep.