“Wait, Officer, you need to call LSU, my name is—”
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”
Where was his violin? He thought suddenly of Grandma Nora, felt unaccountably that he was failing her. Would he live to see the morning? He closed his eyes, opened them. Tried to take a breath, but his lungs couldn’t grab air. Of course he’d live to see tomorrow—of course he would. He’d done everything right. He hadn’t broken any laws. He was being polite and respectful. This was nothing more than a stupid misunderstanding. With a phone call, it would all be sorted out.
“Officer, can you please just call LSU’s music department?”
“Watch your head, boy.”
Ray was in the back seat. The violin was in the passenger seat. Where were his car keys? “Officer, please. What did I do?”
“Do me a favor and shut up.”
“But I’ve got to get to LSU. I’m supposed to be playing a recital there and—”
Officer Bocquet slammed on the brakes, throwing Ray forward. Ray bashed his nose on the back of the passenger seat.
“Oops, you should have buckled up. Last warning.”
Ray’s eyes stung with pain. Blood slid down his face, dripped off his chin. His pants were spattered. With his hands behind his back, he couldn’t wipe at it. He rubbed at the blood with his shoulder, but that didn’t help. How could he play now?
He said nothing further. Eventually the blood stopped flowing, caking his chin.
Fifteen minutes later they pulled up in front of a brick-fronted police station. Inside, Bocquet, carrying the violin case, said to the clerk, “Book this one for an illegal lane change and assaulting an officer.”
The violin disappeared into a back room.
“Hey, I’m supposed to get a phone call.” Ray’s phone was still in the rental. Nobody knew where he was. Another cop grabbed him by the elbow, took him into a back room with file cabinets, paper everywhere, and some desks and desk chairs. On the walls were wanted posters. The floor was a grimy yellow.
“Give me your right hand,” the man said. He was short, with a shaved head and muscles that bulged beneath his shirt. His thin moustache made him look like former military.
“Could someone please tell me what’s going on? Am I being arrested?”
“You got it, genius.” The officer took Ray’s hand and rolled each finger in ink, pressed each tip onto cardboard.
“Why am I being arrested? Is there someone I can talk to? Am I supposed to get a phone call?”
“Shut up and give me your other hand.”
“My name is Ray McMillian and—”
“I don’t care if you’re Ray Charles. Shut up.”
Mustache walked him to a holding cell that smelled like pee and cleaning solvent. Where was the violin? He turned to look for it, but a hand between his shoulder blades pushed him through the doorway. On the bench sat an older white man in a tattered tank top. The ripe aroma of at least four types of liquor bathed the air.
“I’m late for a recital at LSU—look, I just need to call LSU’s music department and they’ll straighten all this out.”
Mustache had already strolled off.
“Ha, yeah, that’s all it takes,” his cellmate said. “If a cop says you did it, you did it. May as well settle in.”
“Oh my god. I can’t believe this.” Ray sat down as far away from the stench as he could. But he realized he wasn’t much better—the entire front of his shirt was covered in blood and sweat. His violin could be anywhere right now. Where had they taken it? He tried to remember the details of the insurance policy. How could he live with himself if something happened to it?
Five hours later, near midnight, he was allowed to make a call from the police station’s phone. Janice’s was the only number he knew by heart.
She answered on the first ring. LSU had called Kristoff, who’d eventually called her.
At least he was safe, she told him. It would all be okay. She’d make some calls, wake up the president of LSU if need be. Sit tight.
Around two in the morning, Mustache came for Ray. By then his cellmate had taken over almost the whole bench and was snoring and drooling inches from Ray’s leg. Ray stood up.
“Well, boy, guess you have some friends somewhere.” He led Ray back, more gently now, to the front desk, where two people were waiting for him: an overweight woman in khakis and a sagging pink blouse, and a young heavyset kid with bad acne and a worse haircut. Pink Blouse ran to him as soon as he appeared. “Mr. McMillian, I’m Monica DeLongue, I’m the dean of music at LSU, and I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am—”