I’ve never paid any attention to the building, though. Hoped there’d never be any reason to walk inside these doors. Inside, everything feels metallic even though it’s not. Even the windows feel like they’re made of metal, a thin kind that disguises itself as glass. I want to tap on it to see if it feels like metal too: cold and impenetrable.
They made me ride in the back of the car on the way here and I’ve been in the back of a cop car more times than I’d like, but this time I felt more like criminal than victim or woman. Jones kept her body turned halfway toward me in the passenger seat the whole time, stared at me through the metal bars that make up the partition. No way out.
My shoes squeak through the lobby, past uniforms and more uniforms, following Harrison to the elevator. I always take the stairs because you can’t guarantee the doors are ever gonna open again when you step into an elevator and my legs are more reliable than any machine ever could be. But Harrison steps in first, puts his arm through the doorway to keep it open, and waits for me and Jones. The moment the doors shut and he presses the button, I think my eyes might split themselves open.
“I ain’t done nothing.”
I haven’t spoken since we got in the car and they both look surprised that I got words, stare at my lips.
“We’ll talk about it when we get in the office.” Detective Harrison is trying not to look at me. Probably part of the bad-cop act.
Jones stares straight into my eyes, but I don’t even think she’s looking at me. I swear her eyes have blurred and I am just fuzz or the kind of portrait that has no distinct lines. Girl with her mouth open.
I make my hands into fists just so I can feel my nails digging into the palms, know I still got claws. “You arresting me?”
“If we were going to arrest you, we would have started with that.” Jones is already bored with me.
We step off the elevator into a hallway indistinguishable from any other office building, except there are security cameras lining the ceiling and it is too quiet. Phones ring but there are no voices. Harrison leads us down the hall, past doors and more doors, all the way to one with interview written in heavy type on the front.
This room looks just like every other interrogation room they ever showed on CSI or Law & Order. After Daddy got out, he’d sometimes talk about how the cops brought him in these rooms, tried to bury him, chip at his bones, how back in the ’70s the Panthers brought pistols into the streets.
Jones tells me to please have a seat and somewhere at the base of my spine a shock crawls up my body, through my skin, makes me want to punch her. Haven’t been in a fight since middle school, but if I had a chance to watch her peeling lip bleed, I would. I sit down in the chair on one side of the metal table and Harrison takes a seat across from me.
Jones turns around and wanders toward the desk, where she grabs cups from a stack and fills them with water from a pitcher. She brings two cups to the table and sets one down in front of each of us. Her hand tenses giving me the cup and I curl my lips into a small smile at how uncomfortable it makes her to serve me. Harrison licks his lips, takes a sip of water, clearly the one who will be asking the questions here.
Jones slides a notepad across the table toward Harrison and he grabs a pen out of his pocket. “Can you provide me with your name, age, and occupation?”
My eyes wander the room, make quick dashes to each corner. I thought they’d turn on a recorder or something, but I’ve been on camera since the moment I walked into this building and the “interview” room is no exception. My knee starts to shake. I ignore every urge to flip the table and run out of here.
Harrison raises his voice. “Answer the question.”
“My name’s Kia.” I pause, trying to think about how to answer his questions. Truth doesn’t exist in this jumble. “Just turned eighteen, but I’m guessing you know that.”
Harrison’s pen scribbles across the page, stops. He stares at me for the first time and his eyes are simple and inviting. He looks curious, studying me.
“And occupation?”
“Unemployed.” By federal standards, anyway.
Harrison leans forward and his chest is on the edge of his water cup, about to tip it over. “Unemployed?”
“Ain’t filing no taxes, am I?”
He leans back, picks up his water. I can see his leg has started to bob and I think part of him enjoys the fight I’m putting up.
Jones isn’t too happy, grabs the desk chair, and drags it over to us. “Look, we both know what you do and I really think it would be best if you told us the entire story.”