Sisters in the Wind(62)
My stomach dropped as I flashed back to Steven Sterling attacking me in his car. I took a deep breath before speaking with deliberate gravitas and an unblinking stare.
“Boyd, the last guy who couldn’t take a hint ended up in urgent care and nearly lost an eye.”
He looked away but quickly regrouped.
“Still got the hots for Diego?”
I resumed digging.
“You know he decided to attend Alpena High School so he could look for Emily.”
POST-BLAST EASTER WEEKEND
APRIL 2009
With my “confession” I exchange one captor for another. I also go from ditching Daunis and Jamie to desperately hoping they won’t ditch me. It’s not my first time in a county holding cell for arson. But this time is different.
First, I’m no longer a minor. Second, it wasn’t only property involved. Nancy was injured. Third, felony arson charges escalate significantly if the case is turned over to federal courts. Lastly, I didn’t do it this time, but there are court records and caseworker files documenting some of my past experiences with fire.
The people after me know enough about my history to use it against me.
During our initial meeting in a secure room, Jamie explains why the tribal cops transferred me to the county holding cell after my shouted confession of a crime in town. Tribal Police officers in Michigan are cross-deputized to respond to situations that occur off-reservation. The diner bombing is one example of the tribal officers cooperating with federal, state, and local law-enforcement authorities. It’s hard to look him in the eye as he speaks now, knowing that if things had gone my way, I would be at least three states away by now. He in turn ignores my careworn sweats with ISABELLA COUNTY CORRECTIONS emblazoned on the back.
“Daunis and I will work on getting you released on bail. But, Lucy, it’s Easter weekend. Government offices, including the courts, are minimally staffed today.”
John B. Jameson is my legal representative. If this goes any further, he will need to bring on an attorney experienced in arson defense, which is an actual legal specialization.
Jamie delays telling me the worst part, just like Daunis said was his pattern. “They can hold you for seventy-two hours, meaning you’ll be in a holding cell until Monday.”
The people after me also know where I’ll be all weekend.
* * *
By Easter Sunday, four other women are in the bunkroom-type holding cell with me.
Two young women destroyed an art sculpture on campus while intoxicated Saturday night. I know the sculpture—an abstract black-and-white snake near the football stadium. Now sober, the white girl is blaming the Black girl for their present circumstances. The Black girl rolls her eyes and recites what I assume is the exact transcript of their conversation about the white girl’s brilliant idea to trash art that she deemed to be ugly.
The third woman is older than me by at least a decade. She sits calmly on her mattress. Glancing my way, she greets me the way Native people sometimes do—pointing her lips and giving a half nod.
For the first time in my life, I acknowledge that I am Native and mimic her nod.
She doesn’t follow up with any questions. I’m not offended. After all, a holding cell doesn’t seem the place for making friends.
The fourth woman is the oldest among us, although her haggard appearance makes it hard to tell exactly how much older. She arrived a few hours after me. She constantly scratches her arms while giving everyone in the room the stink eye. She grumbles bizarre things to each of us younger women but leaves the Native woman alone.
“They told me all about you,” she says to me, her voice distant.
I contemplate whether the meth lady is just wacky or if she’s in the cell to send me a message. Either way, I stay awake the entire time, sitting on a mattress with my arms wrapped around my legs. I never let her out of my sight.
* * *
By Monday morning, I am bleary-eyed from constant surveillance of the meth lady. Lack of sleep makes me question what I see when another young woman enters the holding cell.
“Call me Lizzie,” the newcomer says boldly.
The others stare at the small woman with the big voice. She talks nonstop, peppering her monologue with swear words and bathroom humor.
It doesn’t take long for the meth lady to tell Lizzie to shut up. I’ve kept my distance from the meth lady for the past forty-eight hours. The chatty new woman flits around seemingly unconcerned about provoking her. When the meth lady charges her, they tumble into me before the staff can open the door.
I end up with a punch to my face and a warning hissed into my ear from the messenger.
* * *
Daunis gasps when she sees me. A fresh black eye is technically red. Later it will cry out in purple before whimpering in yellow.
“Who did that to you?” She’s full of righteous indignation.
Lily was lucky to have Daunis in her corner.
I stare at Jamie. Group homes and dangerous people are not unchartered territory for him.
“Can you get me out of here?” I ask.
“We’re arranging for bail,” he says, glancing at Daunis. She is probably financing this preferred outcome. Deep pockets. She has never blinked at any mention of cost.
Daunis Fontaine, best friend of my half sister Lily, is wealthy. Old money. Generational wealth. It’s not conveyed in what she says, but how she says it. Like now.