Chapter Thirty-Two
I have lived enough years in Texas to know that, yes, there are a lot of cowboy boots and a lot of cowboy hats, but the low-slung, bow-legged, cud-chewing sheriff with a tin star and an accent slick and drawn as butter is largely a denizen of television.
But damn if that wasn’t who shuffled up to my window.
I placed both hands on the steering wheel, as I’d taught my children to do, exchanged a worried glance with Moth, and murmured to Lola that everything would be fine.
It would, wouldn’t it? Was the car I was driving stolen?
No, it was just rented under false pretenses.
Was the license I had fake? No, it just wasn’t mine.
Was I famous enough this police officer would know at once my name was not Maisie Diller?
Maybe, but from the shoulders up, I wore an invisibility cloak—a little old lady is a little old lady is a little old lady—so there was a good chance he wouldn’t notice.
Not unless he made me get out of the car.
He didn’t ask to see my license, though. He didn’t ask why I was speeding (I wasn’t) or did I realize I’d run a red light back there (I hadn’t) or why I was driving when I didn’t have a license anymore (he didn’t know that).
What he asked was “Did you know human trafficking is illegal in this neck of the woods?”
My first thought was that human trafficking was illegal in any neck of any woods. My second, though, was to wonder why he was asking. “Human trafficking?” I said.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m a proud deputy of this great county going on nine years now, and I cannot allow human trafficking of any kind.”
I was so relieved. I wasn’t trafficking anyone. “Of course not,” I agreed. “That would be terrible.”
“Which is why I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the car.”
My heart sank but not that far because whatever was happening was obviously a misunderstanding. “Lola’s my granddaughter,” I explained as I opened my door and climbed out. “I didn’t kidnap her. I’m certainly not selling her.”
The back window rolled down, and Lola stuck her head out. “She’s telling the truth.” She sounded terrified but defiant. Again. “I’m not being trafficked.”
“Not her,” said the proud deputy. “The baby.”
I looked down at my giant belly. The deputy looked down at my giant belly. Lola and Moth looked down at my giant belly. Then I raised my eyes back to the officer.
“Not your baby,” he clarified. And then to Lola, “Your baby.”
During the ride in the back of the police car, I wondered what would have happened if Moth hadn’t talked me into letting him come.
Would I have had to leave Lola by herself on the side of the road?
Then I wondered what the two of them would do now.
Drive straight home—no need, without me, for the frequent stops—and get help?
Follow us to wherever the deputy was taking me?
I was scared and angry and aching without the remotest idea what would happen next, so it would have been reassuring to have them nearby.
But it would also have been reassuring to have them as far away as possible.
I took in the waiting room on our way inside.
Was it called a waiting room? It was really just a bench, but I figured if Moth and Lola did decide to follow me, they would be allowed to sit on it and make some calls.
Lola had explained many times that phones were not for talking on, but I was hopeful that in this case she would make an exception.
In contrast, I had to sit in a cell. A jail cell. There was a bench in there too, and though the one in the foyer was probably also uncomfortable, it was an entirely different thing. There were actual bars. There was the slab of backless bench. And that was all.
In further contrast, I was not allowed my phone, but I was allowed a phone call.
And though it did not go well and though I was quite upset, I have to acknowledge the small pleasure that came from waking my middle child at 6:45 in the morning to report that I was in jail in what the proud deputy had termed “a sanctuary county for the unborn” where I’d been arrested for trafficking Lola’s abortion.
Alice screamed a great deal then, but the first words I could make out were “mother” and “fuckers.”
Or maybe that’s all one word.
Then a diatribe, which I mostly followed:
“First of all, this arrest is a tortious act without probable cause or competent jurisdiction.”
“I’ll tell them, dear.”
“Your right to freely cross state lines is enshrined in the U.S. Constitution, so that deputy can eat my ass.”
“I might keep that one to myself,” I demurred.
“Secondly, ‘abortion trafficking’ is not a thing.”
“He said we took Lola’s unborn baby across state lines without its consent and with intent to do it harm.”
“Human trafficking is an unspeakable crime where someone is violently taken against their will in order to sell, prostitute, and/or enslave them. Their equation of that with abortion—legal abortion legally obtained, no less—is an indefensible act of mendacious perfidy.”
“I said that. I didn’t use those words, and no one listens to me anyway, but—”
“Third of all, even if transporting someone across state lines were not constitutionally protected, which it is, the sexist, racist, abusive, unenforceable ordinances these Podunk community commissioners shamefully call laws don’t make driving to New Mexico an arrestable offense.
At most, they give private citizens the right to sue you.
Which would never hold up at trial. Meaning at actual most, they give sanctimonious, gullible idiot assholes the opportunity to make your life hell by dragging you pointlessly through court and necessitating the accrual of untold legal fees for no apparent gain. ”
Remember how I said Alice in office is what the world needs now? “Meaning what, dear?”
“Meaning they can’t arrest you and throw you in jail. This is just posturing.”
“It feels a lot like jail,” I said.
“I’m sure it does, but really it’s just this piece-of-shit cop probably running for something, trying to impress the local yokels, riling up his base, and/or not knowing his ass from a hole in the ground. He is going to rue the day he fucked with Alice Mills.”
“But how will I get bail? Or make it? Or whatever you do with bail?”
“Oh I would love to see them hold a bail hearing,” Alice cackled. “Absolutely let’s take this before a judge and watch them defend jailing a pregnant senior citizen for alleged violation of an unconstitutional ordinance.”
“But then I could go home, right?” It’s not that I doubted Alice. Of course I didn’t. I was just a little too pregnant for righteous anger. “It’s very uncomfortable here.”
“I know, Mom. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Sit tight.”
“I don’t think I have a choice, dear.”
It really was uncomfortable. The bench was hard and narrow.
Not enough room to lie down. Not enough room to sit up though, either, not if your belly came out to your knees and your back was too arthritic for cinder block.
It was cold, dank, and stale, and my blue hoodie was still in the car.
I was hungry, and I was thirsty, and I hadn’t taken any of my medication.
(They all needed to be taken with food, and I’d had none yet.
From some app or other, Lola knew about someplace with a menu item Moth was calling “a proper full English” only three miles off the highway, and we’d been planning to stop for breakfast.)
I was worried too, and you can’t be worried and comfortable at the same time.
I was worried about Lola because the nurses at the clinic said she needed to rest and be gentle with herself for the next few days, and this was neither restful nor gentle.
I was worried about Moth and worried about him worrying about me, which was not good for his heart.
I was worried about Alice driving in her current state of rage and urgency.
I was worried about the fact that she’d almost certainly picked up Darcy and Max on the way, and so the most precious things in my life were hurtling down busy highways at entirely unsafe speeds.
I was feeling worse and worse.
It was a small station, and I assumed Proud Deputy was the only one there. He may have been the only one, period. Had he told me his name and I’d forgotten? Would he answer to “Proud Deputy”?
“Mister?” I tried calling. “Sir? Are you there?”
If he was, he was quiet.
“Might I trouble you for some water, sir? And a restroom?”
I heard a chair squeak and slow steps from somewhere nearby. Say what you like about cowboy boots, they make more of a racket than loafers, or really anything, and that’s important if your hearing is still pretty good but not what it used to be and you’re in jail. Or a jail cell. Or whatever.
I heard the boots. I heard water burble out of one of those water dispensers with the giant jug on top.
But then I heard slurping followed by an “Ahhh,” both of which must have been exaggerated for my benefit.
It was a small station, but it wasn’t that small.
Then I heard the boots some more, a door open (but not close), and, shortly thereafter, a toilet flush.
I was grateful, again, that if Lola was here somewhere, she wasn’t alone. Moth, I knew, would not leave her side.
Mr. Sir still did not make an appearance.
“I need water, sir. And a restroom.” Nothing. “And some food. And my sweatshirt.” Still nothing. “You have my medications. They’re in my purse. You can see right on the bottles it says to take them with food. Sir?”
I heard something slam down, then the boots again, faster than before, and suddenly Mr. Sir appeared at the bars of my cage. He looked angry.
“Do you think this is a spa, ma’am?”
“Definitely not,” I laughed. Probably he wasn’t joking, but it was quite absurd, so it was a possibility.
“Do you think it’s one of your little malls?”
“I don’t … have a little mall.”