Inwardly, she winces. The value of that ring, Paris thinks, is probably triple what you earned last year. Outwardly, she maintains her composure. She’s not going to give anyone a story to sell to the tabloids. Instead, she makes eye contact with him through the smudged plexiglass window and stares him down. As she predicts, he’s a weasel, and his gaze drops back to his computer.
“Sign this.” He shoves her inventory list through the window. There’s only one item on it. Ring, diamond, pink. Paris scrawls her signature.
Another officer comes out from behind the desk and waits expectantly. The detective turns to Paris. She probably did introduce herself at the time of the arrest, but her name eludes Paris now, assuming she even heard it in the first place.
“We’ll need your clothes,” the detective says. “Slippers, too. They’ll give you something else to put on. And then I’ll come and talk to you, okay?”
“I’d like to call my lawyer,” Paris says.
The detective isn’t surprised, but she does seem disappointed. “You can do that after you’re processed.”
A buzzer sounds, and Paris is led through a set of doors and into a small, brightly lit room. She’s directed to take her clothes off in the corner behind a blue curtain. She undresses quickly, removing everything but her underwear, and puts on the sweatshirt, sweatpants, socks, and rubber slides they’ve given her. It’s a relief to get the bloodstained clothes off and change into footwear that doesn’t resemble a cat toy. Everything is stamped with the letters DOC.
She’s fingerprinted and photographed. Her hair is a matted mess, but it’s not like she can borrow a hairbrush. She looks straight at the camera and lifts her chin. Jimmy once said that it’s near impossible to not look like a criminal in a mugshot. He would know. He was arrested twice for driving under the influence and once for assault after shoving a heckler in Las Vegas after a show. In all three mugshots, he looked guilty as hell.
The processing done, she’s led to an elevator for a quick ride down one floor. The young officer escorting her shoots furtive glances in her direction from time to time, but he doesn’t say a word until they get to the holding cell. In a voice that squeaks （followed by a quick throat clear）， he directs her to go inside. As soon as she steps in, the bars close and lock with a clang.
And just like that, Paris is in jail.
It’s both better and worse than she always imagined, and she has imagined it many times. It’s bigger than she expected, and there’s only one other person in here, a woman who’s currently passed out on the opposite side of the cell. One bare leg hangs off the edge of the bench, and the soles of her bare feet are filthy. Her tight neon-yellow dress is covered in stains from an indeterminate substance, but at least she wasn’t forced to change her clothes. Whatever she’s being held for, it’s not murder.
Though the cell appears clean, the harsh fluorescent lights show smears from whatever was recently mopped up. Based on the lingering odors, it was both urine and vomit. The walls look sticky and are covered in a dingy shade of beige paint the color of weak tea, and there’s a camera mounted in one corner of the ceiling.
At the back of the cell, right beside the telephone anchored to the wall, is a plastic-covered sign that lists the phone numbers of three different bail bond companies. With any luck, she won’t need them. She picks up the handset and punches in one of the few phone numbers she has memorized. Pick up, pick up, pick up …
Voice mail. Shit. She hears her own voice encouraging her to leave a message.
“Henry, it’s Paris,” she says quietly. “I’m going to try your cell. I’m in trouble.”
She hangs up, waits for the dial tone, and calls the second number she knows by heart. This, too, goes to voice mail. A few feet away, her cellmate sits up, her greasy hair falling around her oily face. She regards Paris with bleary, mascara-smeared raccoon eyes.
“I know you.” Her words are thick and slurred. Even from a few feet away, Paris can smell her, an aroma like rotting food in a whiskey distillery. “I seen you before. You’re, like, a famous person.”
Paris pretends not to hear her.
“You’re that chick who married that old guy.” The woman blinks, trying to focus. When Paris doesn’t respond, she says, “Oh, okay, I get it, you’re a fucking princess, too good to talk to me. Well, fuck you, princess.” She lies back down. Ten seconds later, her face is slack and her mouth falls open.
There’s a schoolhouse clock on the wall outside the cell, and Paris waits exactly four and a half minutes before picking up the phone again. This time, someone answers immediately.