“My phone? It’s charging next to my bed. Why?”
“Tony, it’s by the bed. Bag it up,” he called out to a fellow officer.
I looked up at the female agent. “No, wait! They’re taking my phone? No, please! My entire proposal’s on that phone, my entire life!”
“Once forensics takes a look, you’ll get it back. But that could take weeks, possibly even months, if ever,” she deadpanned.
After what felt like hours, the lead agent announced they were finished with their search and ready to leave. The female officer tapped me hard on the shoulder and spun me around. “Let’s go,” she said without the slightest trace of sympathy in her voice.
“My . . . my coat?” I managed to squeak out.
The officer rolled her eyes and snagged the coat that hung on the closest hook, unfazed by whether it was even mine or Adam’s. She half-heartedly draped it over my shoulders, not bothering to undo the handcuffs to allow my arms to slide in properly, and gave me a little shove out the door.
I followed her into the hallway just as one of our neighbors, Mrs. Randall, stepped out of her apartment clutching her bratwurst-shaped corgi, Queen Elizabeth. Wonderful. During our co-op board interview, Mrs. Randall had made no secret of the fact she thought Adam and I were too young and our money too new for the prestigious apartment building. She’d grilled us on everything from our W-2s to our hobbies, trying to find any reason to deny us entry. In the end, Adam won over the rest of the board, and despite her “no” vote, our application went through.
I could only imagine what she was thinking as she watched us both get hauled out of here in handcuffs. Was she horrified? Vindicated? At this point, how Mrs. Randall felt about me was probably the least of my worries. I closed my eyes, silently counting the number of chimes until the elevator arrived on our floor, but opened them when I felt a small, tubby body brush up against my leg. Queen Elizabeth had jumped out of Mrs. Randall’s arms and was now curled up at my feet.
A few weeks ago, Queen Elizabeth somehow escaped from Mrs. Randall’s apartment. I found her alone in the hallway, scared and cowering in a corner. I took her in and gave her water and food and let her sleep in my lap all afternoon, returning her when Mrs. Randall finally came home. It seemed Queen Elizabeth hadn’t forgotten about my kind gesture, even if Mrs. Randall had.
One . . . two . . . three . . . and then finally, after what felt like an eternity, the elevator arrived at the ninth floor. The doors parted, and Queen Elizabeth reluctantly slid off my shoes and returned to her owner. The female agent and I stepped inside and went down to the lobby, where another dozen detectives and officers were milling about.
Seeing the sheer size of the police presence, I knew this had to be a mistake, all a big mistake. I mean, what do they think Adam is guilty of ? Masterminding a presidential assassination or something? They must have confused him with someone else. That was it. A simple mix-up. Once we got to the police station, they’d realize their error, and we’d be home sitting in front of the Christmas tree unwrapping gifts and sipping on eggnog in no time.
Moments later, the stout agent led Adam out of the second elevator bank. I searched his face for the same wild panic I was experiencing at the sheer absurdity of what was happening around us. But instead, he looked extraordinarily composed, calm, almost resigned . . .
My heart sank lower than I’d ever thought possible, practically to my knees, as an overwhelming sense of dread refilled the now empty space. Oh my God, maybe this wasn’t a mistake after all?!
“Adam! Adam! Please, just tell me what’s happening? Please, baby, just look at me.”
He kept his back turned, shook his head—his hair still dripping—and walked toward the sidewalk, a flicker of light winking off the handcuffs clasped behind him as he slid into the back seat of an unmarked police car without even a glance in my direction.
Chapter Four
Apparently, Christmas cheer was not in high supply at the Metropolitan Correctional Center, and many hours （not to mention a full, and I do mean full, body search） later, I finally stepped outside the prison walls, the steel gates snapping closed behind me with a loud buzz. I shielded my eyes against the bright glare of the late-afternoon sun setting over Lower Manhattan.
Humiliation washed over me as I relived the last few hours: the sharp click of the camera as it flashed for my mug shot; the guard who forced my trembling hands down onto the fingerprint card; me begging for my one phone call to a lawyer and any information on where they were holding Adam and what he could have possibly done wrong; the feeling of my body unclenching when the door to my cell finally buzzed open and I was told I was getting released on my own recognizance.
I didn’t know all the details of Adam’s supposed crimes yet, but my lawyer was able to find out that Adam had been named in an elaborate fraud scheme that, in her words, almost put Madoff to shame. Logic and reason were both silenced by the running commentary now looping in my brain.
One voice was calm and soothing, saying all the right things to convince me that this had to be a simple misunderstanding. I mean, this was Adam we were talking about! But the other voice, the one that seemed louder, eliciting a heartier pang of guilt, was viciously repeating over and over the old adage that when something was too good to be true, it probably was. And Adam was too good. He’d always been.
My heart and my head were now locked in a fierce battle, the Adam I’d loved for six years and thought I knew better than anyone versus the stranger I saw being led from the elevator, the one who wouldn’t even look at me as he was pulled from our apartment.
My eyes welled up, stinging as the cold air bit into the moisture on my lashes, and my body grew heavy with exhaustion. The only thought I could manage to squeak in between all the warring voices in my head was getting the hell home.
I tightened my coat around myself, grateful the officer allowed me one at all in the flurry of activity as she shoved me out our apartment door. The thick wool was providing at least a bit of a barrier against the frigid chill now causing my eyes to water like a leaky faucet. I swiped my finger under my lid to catch the tears before they fell but had completely forgotten I still had black ink all over my hands from being fingerprinted.
I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the tinted glass of the prison’s security booth as I passed. My unwashed, bedraggled mop of hair was tied up by a scrunchie holding on for dear life, and now my eyes, thanks to the smudges of ink, looked like I’d gone a few rounds with Muhammad Ali. If it wasn’t so damn tragic, it would have been downright hilarious.
I walked out to the curb to survey the mostly empty street, searching desperately for the car my lawyer had arranged to meet me. But the loading lane remained empty, my car nowhere in sight. Whether the temperature was really dropping or I was just finally descending into Dante’s icy ninth circle of hell, I wasn’t exactly sure, but all I knew was that with each passing minute I was feeling less and less of my feet and working harder and harder to try to turtle myself deeper into my coat. Peeping over the lapels, I scanned the road for a cab instead. But who was I kidding: it was Christmas Day in New York City, and I was in no-man’s-land outside the federal prison. I’d never get a ride without specifically calling for one, and I knew it.