Chapter Twenty-Four
Vanessa
The cold, biting touch of steel around my wrists sucked the life out of me as I was put into the car and driven downtown. Colors faded into black and white.
I’d tried so hard, but in the end, I was just like him after all.
Like father, like daughter.
Even summoning the energy to cry was beyond me. All I could do was stare listlessly out the window as the weight of my family legacy came crashing over me, sucking me into the depths of despair with its inescapable truth.
I was a murderer. Just like him.
A sliver of defiance tried to rationalize my way out of it, to say that my scenario was undeniably different than his had been. Still, it failed, overcome by the darkness.
I let myself be hauled out of the car and into processing, or whatever it was called.
I numbly obeyed the commands given to me.
The lights were harsh, the officers indifferent.
To them, I was nothing more than a common criminal.
I was ignored, and the one time I managed to make a plea of innocence, I was unheard. They didn’t care.
“Stop.”
The command from the officer stilled my feet as he unlocked a jail cell and shoved me inside. It was empty, cold, and hardly sterile. The metal bench welded to the wall was dirty, and the floor was covered in all manner of yuck. It was also, strangely, devoid of other occupants.
I went and sat on the bench, the cool metal as cold on my butt as the cuffs were on my wrists. It was then that I noted they hadn’t taken them off me.
“Can you at least take these things off?” I asked a guard when he walked past, but the man ignored me.
The single overhead light in my cell did nothing to improve my mood. It only emphasized the bleak outcome of my future life behind bars. That was what I had to look forward to for years to come.
Which was what I deserved. Maybe fate would prove to be an ironic mistress, and I’d end up in the same penitentiary as my father. Now wouldn’t that be humorous?
Time passed. I had no idea how much. It had ceased to have much in the way of meaning. Why should it? I was going to spend my life in there. It no longer paid to care what time or what day or month it was. Better to just forget it all.
“Get up.”
My head snapped up at the brisk, no-nonsense command. It was Detective Robertson. She was standing at the door to my cell while a uniformed officer unlocked it.
I did as I was told and followed her to a room where I was handcuffed to a metal table. The officer retreated, leaving the detective and me alone. Behind her right shoulder, a camera light stayed on. Not to mention, I was sure others were watching us from behind the large glass mirror to my right.
“State your name,” Robertson said.
“Vanessa Padgett,” I complied.
She listed the time and date.
“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked, not bothering with any formalities.
“You tell me,” I said, a bit of defiance emerging from somewhere inside me. “You’re the one who arrested me.”
I wouldn’t win any friends with that sort of attitude, but why should I care? After all, what did I have to lose?
“Very well,” the detective said, her face hardening. “You’re under arrest for the murder of RJ Peele and a number of other crimes, most notably felony fleeing the scene of a crime. The first carries a sentence of life in prison. The other a minimum of five years.”
I stared across the table at her as she let that sink in. She needn’t have bothered. I could have told her the sentences. It was almost the same crime my father had been charged with.
“What do you have to say about that?” she asked.
I didn’t answer.
Detective Robertson sighed. “Where were you two nights ago?”
“What time?” I asked.
“Between midnight and one in the morning.”
I debated not answering.
“Depending on the exact time, I was either wrapping up inside my place of employment or leaving it,” I said.
“Walk me through the events, particularly after you left the Luxe.”
“I went next door to TapHouse to ask for an escort across the street and down the alley to where my car was parked,” I said, staring her in the eyes. “Once there, I was accosted at knifepoint by the man who escorted me. He forced me into the car and started driving.”
“What happened next?”
I stared her in the eyes. “Fearful for my life, I shot him in the head.”
“You shot him.”
“I don’t believe I stuttered,” I said, angry at the treatment I was receiving.
Maybe I was a murderer. I had killed him. But wasn’t I supposed to be presumed innocent until proven guilty? The detective acted like she knew everything already and didn’t care. That was getting under my skin.
“What did you shoot him with?” she asked. “You said he threatened you with a knife.”
“Correct,” I said. “He waved it at me and at one point pressed it to my throat to ensure I complied.”
“What did you shoot him with?” Detective Robertson repeated.
“My legally registered firearm.”
“Yes. A Glock 43, 9mm pistol, is that correct?”
“It is,” I said.
“And you managed to retrieve this from where?”
“My purse,” I said. “And before you ask, I am licensed to conceal carry, so I was not doing so illegally.”
“You expect me to believe he just let you fiddle around in your purse, bring out a gun, and shoot him in the head? Without stopping you?”
“He was scared. Nervous. Focused on driving and not as much on me. I didn’t lunge for it. I took my time.”
“And then you shot him in the head.”
“I didn’t mean to!” I all but shouted. “I was aiming for his shoulder. To hurt him. Trying to get him to stop the car. But when I pointed the gun at him, he yanked the wheel away, which threw off my aim.”
“Threw off your aim.” Detective Robertson didn’t sound convinced. “That’s interesting, because I have here a report from one Roger Dulletson, the owner of a local range, who says you’re an expert marksman. So, how am I to believe you missed at a range of less than a yard?”
I stared at her hard.
“I might be inclined to believe you,” she said. “But then you disappeared, leaving a lot of unanswered questions.”
“Such as?” I asked.
“For instance, how did you get out of your car? There are giant puncture marks on the roof and the rear windshield. Can you explain those?”
I frowned. “No. I have no idea what those are from.”
“How did you get out of your car?”
I hesitated. “I don’t really remember,” I said. I knew, from waking up, that Vil had pulled me from it, but I had been nearly bursting from a need to breathe, and all I recalled was being pulled from it.
“Of course you don’t,” Robertson said coolly. “And do you remember where you’ve been the past two days?”
“Recovering,” I said. “At the house of my friend, Vil. You met him at my house today.”
“Don’t worry,” the other woman said. “I’m already asking for a warrant for your friend. Once we question your accomplice, I’m sure the answer will come out.”
“Accomplice?” I just about choked on the word. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I didn’t have an accomplice! I didn’t plan any of this. I just wanted to go home after work!”
“If you wanted to go home, then why did you run away to the country for two days after?” the detective asked, pouncing on the flaw in my story.
I stared at her, struggling to come up with an answer. Detective Robertson stared at me smugly, knowing full well she had me cornered.
The door flung open behind her to admit a woman of middling height and graying hair. She wore a business suit that showed she kept fit despite her advancing years, and she wore a very unimpressed expression on her face, one that I suspected would give even Detective Robertson pause.
But the best part of all was that behind her came Vil, looking absolutely enraged, his entire body tense with anger as he spied the cuffs still around my wrist, chaining me to the table.
“Detective Robertson,” the woman said coolly. “So good to see you.”
“Sheila,” the detective said with a sigh. “How pleasant to have you drop in like this.”
“Indeed, I’m sure it is, Tyra,” the lawyer—for that’s what she had to be—responded. “Are you finished unduly interrogating my client without a lawyer present?”
“I was just asking her some questions.”
“And I’m sure she was totally aware she does not have to answer without her lawyer present, correct? You made sure she understood and was aware of that?”
Robertson pushed away from the desk to stand up. “She’s admitted to killing the victim.”
“Who, if you’re not aware, was a known criminal with a history of violence,” Sheila said, crossing her arms. “Have you checked the surveillance tapes from places of business in the area?”
“We’re still waiting on them,” the detective said.
“So you have no proof that she did anything premeditated, making her claim of self-defense completely believable.”
“She still fled the scene,” Detective Robertson snapped back. “And that is a crime, so she’s not leaving.”
Sheila looked at me and nodded to indicate the detective was correct. “She’ll be out on bail. And if you try to charge her, I’ll make you look like an idiot, and you know it.”
The detective looked back and forth at us, snorted, and left the room.
“Thank you,” I said.
Vil came over to me, looking ready to snap the cuffs off my wrists and haul me out of the station over his shoulder.
“One night,” he said, squatting down to wrap an arm around me. “Just hang on for a night, and we’ll have you out of there. Okay? Sheila is the best in the city. Or at least, she better be for what she’s charging me.”
“She’ll be walking free tomorrow. Don’t worry.” The lawyer looked at me. “Like he said, just hold on for a night. That’s all.”
I nodded, looking back and forth between the two of them. “I can do that.”
I think.