Page 39 of Day Shift

He looked up, meeting my gaze briefly before turning to a female officer who stood ready nearby. “Can you take her to get searched and then to fingerprinting?”

She stepped forward, her face all business. “Come with me.”

I rose from my seat, and she led me down a narrow hallway to a small room, where she had me remove my shoes. After I’d complied, she patted me down with swift, practiced moves. She checked under my arms, around my waist, and down my legs. Her hands were brisk and impersonal as they checked each potential hiding spot for contraband.

“All clear,” she announced, gesturing to my shoes and then for me to follow her once more.

Next came the fingerprinting. Even though my prints had been taken at the hospital, they did it again here. I rolled each fingertip, one by one, over the cool glass as instructed by a young officer, who tried to make small talk to ease the tension. I’d never seen anything quite like the scanner they used.

The mug shot was next. I stood against a height chart, a camera pointed at my face. “Just look straight ahead,” the person behind the camera instructed. It flashed twice, and I blinked against the bright light. A brief memory surfaced in my mind. This camera was the same type as the one that had been used for my driver’s license. I recalled holding the card in the palm of my hand. It had the words New York State printed at the top—a clue to where I was from that I would keep to myself for the time being.

“Let’s get you checked out by the nurse,” the officer said. We moved to a small clinic set up within the station. A nurse greeted me with a tired smile.

“We just need to do a quick health screening and a drug test,” she said. “I’m going to check your vitals and take a small blood sample.” As she explained this, she wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my arm. The pump hissed, and I watched the numbers flicker on the digital display.

“Blood pressure looks good,” she noted, jotting down the results. “Now for the blood sample.” She took a minute to open what she needed and label the tubes.

“I know they found no drugs in your system on the day of the accident, but we need to do this as part of the booking process,” she added. Gently, she took my arm. The needle prick was sharp but quick, and soon she was applying a small bandage to my arm. “All set here. You’re okay to be processed further.”

They led me to a holding area to wait for my arraignment, and as I took a seat on the bench, the reality of my situation seemed to settle fully. The holding cell was unwelcoming and bleak, the walls a grimy shade of gray. The air was stale, filled with the lingering scent of disinfectant and something less identifiable but equally unpleasant. A couple of other women were already there. Both kept to themselves. One was curled up on a thin mattress in the corner, her eyes closed but not quite at rest, while the other sat upright on a bench, leaning her head back against the wall.

I hugged myself to keep warm, trying not to think about my shitty circumstances. It was a relief when they finally called my name and led me out of that depressing place.

An officer escorted me to a car, which transported me to the courthouse. The ride was short, with the police vehicle cutting efficiently through the city traffic. The courthouse buzzed with activity while they ushered me into a pre-trial holding area—a small room with a table and four chairs. I sat and rested my cuffed hands on top, picking at my nails since I had nothing else to do.

After what felt like forever, but was likely only a few minutes, the door opened, startling me. A well-dressed older man in a suit stepped in. His expression was all business as he approached me, a folder tucked under one arm.

“Ma’am, I’m Marcus Donovan,” he said, introducing himself quickly. He sat down in front of me with a briskness that suggested time was a luxury. “I’ll be representing you today. We don’t have much time, but I need you to understand what’s going to happen.”

He opened his folder and pulled out some documents. “You’re being charged with several serious offenses,” he began, his eyes flicking to mine before he quickly ran through the list of charges. His words were straightforward, his tone professional but not cold. “However, I’ve just received some potentially pivotal information that might help mitigate your situation. Given your circumstances, we have a strong case for leniency.”

I nodded, absorbing his words with a growing sense of bewilderment. “What kind of information?”

Mr. Donovan didn’t bother looking up from the papers he was reviewing. “Let’s just say it could significantly alter the outcome today. For now, just follow my lead in court. Answer the judge’s questions succinctly, and let me do the talking.”

Before I could ask anything more, he checked his watch and stood up abruptly. “I need to go file these documents and prepare. Trust me, I’ll do everything I can.”

He exited the room as quickly as he had arrived, leaving me to process his assurances and vague promises.

When the time came, an officer removed my handcuffs. “You don’t gotta wear these for your arraignment,” he said. After that, he escorted me into the courtroom through a side door. The spectator’s gallery was full of people. The judge’s bench loomed large to my left. Every eye was on me as I was led to my seat.

Mr. Donovan appeared at my side. “Just stay calm,” he said in a voice so low I could barely hear it over my hammering heart. Despite my anxiety, his presence was reassuring.

The room became quiet when the bailiff, a stern-faced man with a voice that commanded attention, called out, “All rise!” We stood in unison, shoes squeaking and clothes rustling, as the judge entered.

He was an imposing figure, an older, distinguished gentleman with white hair and a black robe. His expression was impossible to read as he took his seat at the bench and signaled for everyone to be seated.

An air of formality instantly settled over the room. The judge glanced around with a measured gaze before speaking. “This is the case of the State of Washington versus Jane Doe, and we are here today for her arraignment on the following charges,” he announced. The judge looked off to the side expectantly at a woman standing to his right.

The clerk proceeded to read out the formal charges against me. “The defendant is charged with grand theft, breaking and entering, trespass, reckless driving, evading arrest, and several counts related to the property damage resulting from a motor vehicle accident and break-in,” she stated clearly, her voice echoing slightly in the cavernous room.

A cold dread settled over me. Each charge was like a weight added to my shoulders. I tried to keep my composure, glancing briefly at Mr. Donovan, who gave a subtle nod, reminding me of the discussion we’d had earlier.

Once the charges had been formally declared, the judge looked directly at me. “How does the defendant plead?” he asked solemnly.

“Not guilty, Your Honor,” Mr. Donovan responded on my behalf, his voice steady and confident.

“Very well. Everyone may be seated,” the judge stated, making a note on the file in front of him. “We will now proceed with the review of the documents and evidence related to this case.”

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