Page 65

CHAPTER 65

DEFENSIVE DRINKING

MARGAUX

I make small talk with the police officer as he drives us to the nearby hospital. “Maybe I should become a COP,” I say, attempting humor to cut through the tension.

“Well, you can’t have any convictions to be one,” he replies, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror. “But you’re not going to get a conviction for this. The chances are very low.”

I’m taken to a waiting room where another officer supervises me. We chat about his career, where he’s lived, and I tell him about roller derby and my police officer uncle who passed away. The conversation feels oddly normal, almost like we’re two strangers waiting for a delayed flight, not one of us being processed after an arrest.

Then I’m led into a sterile examination room, humming with the soft beeping of medical equipment. The air smells faintly of antiseptic. A doctor who looks a bit like Rick Moranis walks in, a flashlight strapped to his forehead.

He and his team perform various scans, and then I’m asked to provide a urine sample.

“So, you were drinking earlier? Why did you have so much to drink?” the doctor asks while adjusting his flashlight.

“Because my fiancé is abusive, and I wanted him to stop hurting me,” I reply, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess them.

“Ah,” says the doctor, nodding knowingly. “Defensive drinking.”

“Yep!” I reply. “Exactly!”

Everyone in the room chuckles softly, breaking the tension. The doctor’s expression softens as he leans in closer. “Open your mouth so I can take a look,” he says.

Without thinking, I stick my tongue out and say, “Aaaah,” like a kid in a pediatrician’s office.

He cracks up laughing, as do the officers. “I literally just needed you to open your mouth,” he says, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.

I laugh too, my cheeks warm with embarrassment.

The humor fades as he reviews the scan results and frowns. He sits me down, seriousness creeping back into his voice. “Margaux, I’ve performed a scan of your skull, and you have a serious fracture that shows healing consistent with an injury from a few months ago.”

Shock bolts through me. “He… fractured my skull? Oh my God. ”

The doctor’s eyes hold mine. “Yes,” he says gently but firmly. He hands me a domestic violence pamphlet. “I’m going to provide you with some resources, but you really need to get out of this relationship.”

I nod slowly, his words sinking in.

And then I’m in jail.

I still can’t believe it. That he told the cops I attacked him. That he said I pulled his hair. That I’m here.

Because it’s a domestic issue, and because we’ve both been drinking, the cops have decided to lock me up. Which is insane.

I’ve never had a criminal record. My only blemish is a speeding ticket from twenty-five years ago. And I don’t go around attacking giant men.

First, I’m taken to a small local jail. The officer gives me a chance to make a phone call. I dial Timmy’s dad and provide an update based on the information shared with me by the officer.

“I need someone to bail me out,” I explain. “But the charge is so small—a petty misdemeanor—that bail is only $1,000. The bail bonds people won’t be interested in helping me for that little of an amount.”

“Well, how can I bail you out?” Phil asks.

“Someone has to come here in person,” I reply.

“But…” Phil sputters, “I’m in Montana.”

“I know,” I say, my voice glum.

Then I’m taken to processing, still in my sports bra, short shorts, and no shoes.

Because my shorts have a drawstring that can’t be removed, they swap me into paper shorts. And because I’m only in a sports bra, I also get a matching paper top.

Super sexy.

I’m led into a small room as another officer with a mustache passes by and heads into the watch house. Seeing me out of the corner of his eye, he reverses and looks me up and down. “Ohhh hello …” he says, leering.

I roll my eyes at the officer escorting me. “Well, your colleague is highly unprofessional,” I say. “And can you please tell him that Movember has been and gone?”

The officer snickers but doesn’t comment.

“Will I be in a cell with other people?” I ask.

“No, you’ll be by yourself,” he replies.

After waiting alone for a while, I’m escorted into a cold concrete hallway that echoes with the sound of the officer’s shoes as he leads me to the cells. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else locked up here. He gives me my choice of cells as well as a blanket. Very respectful. Great hospitality. Five star Yelp review.

I enter the cell, and the door clangs shut behind me.

I need to switch my brain off. My arrest. The news that Timmy fractured my skull.

It’s all too much.

Oddly, I feel cozy—or maybe my brain really is just shutting down—and I drift off to sleep.

A while later, I’m woken up. “Benson,” an officer says, “We’re moving you to Downtown Sunset Cay. Get up.”

Groggy, and unaware this would be happening, I comply.

They lead me to a waiting police cruiser, and I’m taken to the main downtown jail facility near the courthouse.

Here, there’s a huge vibe shift.

Gone are the people who seemed a little more chill.

The atmosphere is cold, militant, no-nonsense. Male and female prisoners are segregated but near each other, and there’s a lot of shrieking and hollering.

“Benson, you get one phone call,” says an officer.

I try to dial my friend Rebecca, but there doesn’t appear to be a ringtone, so I’m not sure if it’s even going through. Either way, it’s the middle of the night, and she doesn’t answer.

Fuck. She’s probably the only person who could bail me out, and now I’ve missed my chance.

I glance around at the officers. “Can I try another number?”

They shake their heads.

“Please?”

“No. Just calm down,” one of them says, the rest of them nodding in agreement.

Jesus. They must all be fun at parties.

I’m directed to pick up a mat and a blanket, escorted to a cell, and the door clangs behind me as my eyes adjust from the bright hallway to the darkened cell.

And this time, I’m not alone.