Page 85 of Ink's Devil

“But you’re going to search the house. Shouldn’t I stay here?” I don’t like leaving Mom on her own.

“Mrs Foster will be here.”

“Ms Stephens,” Mom corrects from behind me, even now hating the reference she was ever married to my dad.

“The car is waiting, Ms Foster.”

“Where are you taking her?” Mom steps beside me, her forehead etched with lines of concern.

The police officer states the name of the precinct.

“I don’t understand,” I tell him. “I’ve done nothing wrong.” On the outside I’m trying to convey confusion, while inside, I’m wondering what and how much they know. It has to be enough for them to have obtained a search warrant. “Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet,” he tells me ominously. “For now, Detective Barker just wants a word.”

An innocent person wouldn’t refuse, would they? Right now, I’m not sure what is the right reaction to have, because I am guilty.

“You go,” Mom says from beside me. “If you’re not back soon, I’ll get someone to help.” She presumably means a lawyer to represent me.

“If you will, Ms Foster?” The police officer steps to one side, indicating I should precede him.

I might not be under arrest, but that doesn’t make me feel any easier as I’m helped into the back of a police cruiser aided by a hand on the top of my head. The grill between me and the officers makes it feel like I’m in a cage, and the fact there are no door handles on the inside makes me feel claustrophobic. Luckily this won’t be too long a journey, my hands are already beginning to sweat. I feel like a prisoner, and it’s wearing me down.

I’m trying hard to maintain what composure I have left as I exit the cruiser and step out, wondering whether I’ll say something to incriminate myself and this will be the last time I breathe in fresh air as a free woman.What is the sentence for being in possession of drugs?A long time, I suspect. The amount I was carrying would earn me more than just a slap on the wrist.

With the thought that I could be going inside for many years, I take one last deep lungful of clean air, suppress the instinct to turn and run a marathon’s distance away, and step inside the precinct.

If I thought being in the police car was intimidating, walking into the station is even worse. First, accompanied by the two officers, my purse is searched, then I’m taken through an electronically controlled gate, hearing the thick steel door slam shut behind me. I’m now in a different world. As prisoners wearing handcuffs are escorted along the corridor, I glance around wondering whether I’ll see Ink. There are also men in uniform all heavily armed. People are talking all around me, mentioning numbers which I presume relate to various crimes. I’m a tall woman, but I feel myself shrinking, becoming some insignificant being dumped into an alien world.

At last I’m shown into an interview room, grateful of the peace that suddenly descends. Though the iron bolts which could hold shackles on the floor tell their own story.

The cop who’d escorted me stands with his back to the door.

We wait.

Another impulse, this time to bite my fingernails has to be resisted. Even if I was totally innocent, I’d be inclined to admit to something I wasn’t guilty for just to get out of this environment, were it not that such admission would lead to me being somewhere worse.Did Ink sit in this very chair protesting his innocence?

Somehow the thought he very well might have done gives me a kernel of comfort.

Eventually the door opens and a man in his fifties walks in. He’s got a weary look on his face as though he’s seen it all before, and he probably has. He’s followed by a younger man in his thirties, who has sharp, intelligent eyes.

The second man introduces himself first, “I’m Detective Barker, and my colleague is Detective Hastings.” He indicates a device he’s just switched on. “We’ll be recording our conversation.”

I have never been questioned by the police before. “What is this about?” It’s the third time today I’ve asked. Perhaps this time I’ll get an answer. “Don’t you need to tell me my rights or something?”

Ignoring the question, they ask me to confirm my name for the tape. I do.

Now seated, the detectives lean forward, and at last enlighten me. “We wish to question you in relation to illegal substances which were recovered during a drug bust yesterday.”

“What?” My eyes actually widen in horror, but I hope it conveys mystification to the officers. “Why on earth would I know anything about that?” I shake my head. “Are you asking if I saw something? I went to the gym in the morning.” I crease my eyes now, as if deep in thought. “I didn’t see anything—”

“We will indeed be asking what you saw,” the detective interrupts impatiently. “At the moment we’re inclined to interview you as a potential witness. However, if you suspect you may be about to say something to incriminate yourself, I will read you your rights.”

I freeze. “I don’t understand. You’re talking about drugs. Wait, is that why you’re searching our house?” I meet his eyes directly. “I have never taken, or had any inclination to take, any drug whatsoever.” I frown and decide to be honest. “I did try marijuana in college, but that’s legal. I don’t understand why I’m here. Are you arresting me?”

“At this moment we don’t intend to charge you with a crime.” His words would have been comforting were it not for the expression on his face which seems to addnot yet.

“Look,” I’m tired, confused, and not about to drop myself, or Ink, in it, “how will I know whether I’m incriminating myself? I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” I consider for a moment, wondering if the next question could be interpreted as pointing to my guilt, but ask it anyway. “I have never been questioned before. I know you’ve not charged me, but have I the right to get legal representation?”

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