Page 7 of Parker
We stare at one another for a few minutes, then I hear the sirens in the distance. Blue lights race toward us, surrounding the scene. Police officers run to us, firing questions with each step. I shrug and stick my arms out in front of me.
“Think you might want to handcuff me,” I tell the officer. He gives me a shocked look before leading me away from the wreckage to a future I never expected to live.
***
Reality bites.
Hard.
My hands hang low below my waist as I wait for the officer to check me into the station. Handcuffs are heavy on your wrists; you don’t realize it when you watch cop shows on TV.
After a thorough body search and being stripped of all my belongings, they lead me to a cell at the end of an endless corridor lined with heavy steel doors.
Pathetic cries come from behind some, while screams permeate others.
Police Constable White holds my elbow as we move before she suddenly yanks me to an abrupt stop outside cell number nine.
“Welcome to your new home,” she sneers. “Don’t get too comfortable. Someone will want to speak to you soon enough.”
My eyes widen at her tone, and she gives me a nasty smile.
“You’ve missed breakfast, Smith, so you’ll need to chew on your sock if you get hungry before lunch.”
Shoving open the steel door, she pushes me inside, then roughly removes the restraints. Deep-red welts mark my wrists, and I rub them to relieve some of the sting. Her eyes watch me intently.
“Get used to it. You’ll be in chains for years,” she calls over her shoulder as she drags the door closed.
How could a tiny person like that be so vicious? The officer clearly enjoys tormenting her prisoners. As we had walked through the corridor of cells, she had shouted obscenities to those trapped inside. Her appearance suggests she needs protection, but malevolence fills her dark eyes.
The room is minuscule with grubby walls.
There’s a single window with vertical bars set too high to see anything, and a blue PVC mattress with a pathetic, stained blanket on iron stilts for a bed.
The dirty concrete floor has the same level of appeal.
In the corner, there is a metal toilet bowl and sink for my necessities.
The room reflects my mood flawlessly—desperate and alone.
I’m unable to sit still, a trail appearing on the dusty floor as I retrace my steps.
My mind whirls, attempting to explain away what happened.
The blood on my clothes and the car wreck need to be justified somehow.
Though deep down I know, no justification could explain away what I just did. I don’t understand it myself.
It feels like hours pass before anyone appears to collect me from my chamber. The heavy bolt slides back, and PC White’s snarled mouth rounds the door to face me.
“Smith,” she barks. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?” I ask as she reattaches the brutal cuffs.
“The Chief Inspector wants to speak to you. Now.”
“Am I under arrest?”
She turns to me. Revulsion spread across her face. “I think that goes without saying. The question is how serious the charges are.”
Interview rooms make detainees feel at ease. They are bright, with an endless supply of coffee. PC White passes me to a kind-looking gentleman called PC Stevens. He gets me settled and removes the cuffs, ensuring I’m comfortable, then switches on the tape recorder.
“You do not have to say anything,” he says. “But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
One side of the room has a wide mirror. From watching TV, I know that on the other side, they are watching my every move.
Perhaps a body language specialist has been called in to assess my guilt for the crime committed.
For the first time since leaving my cell, my father and his side piece come to mind.
I wonder how they are. They’re probably at a fancy hotel, fucking like rabbits, laughing at my demise.
His indiscretions, not to mention his long-term affair, will devastate my mother again.
Goosebumps scatter over my skin as my blood boils with anger.
Sitting in the quiet of the interview room, I have time to torture myself with thoughts of my mother.
She will be completely lost without the cheating bastard.
Her life has been spent looking after him.
The Chief Inspector enters the room—that’s who I assume it is.
He’s a large man with dark hair and a well-trimmed beard.
Astute eyes meet mine as he takes the seat directly across from me.
Upon glancing at the mirror, I notice his gigantic frame dwarfs my petite one.
I don’t look nineteen years old now; I would barely pass for thirteen.
“Nicola Smith,” he says, and I nod. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“No comment.” I’ve seen that said in the movies, and it seems the most sensible course of action to take.
“Can you tell me what transpired tonight at your family home?”
“No comment.” He narrows his eyes.
“Nicola. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. If you tell me what happened, we can arrange the best possible solution for all involved.”
I interrupt him before he can continue his speech. “Where’s my lawyer? Legally, am I not supposed to have one?”
“Do you need a lawyer, Ms. Smith?” Accusation weighs heavily in his voice. PC Stevens enters the room again followed by a gentleman dressed smartly in a blue suit, but his white shirt has seen better days. Dark bags under his eyes tell me he’s had a tough night, or maybe not even been to bed.
“Can you give my client and me some time to get acquainted please, Chief Inspector?” the gentleman says.
“Be quick, Graham. When I come back in, we’re charging her with murder.”
My stomach drops to my toes, and I recoil in fear.
“Murder?” I squawk. “I didn’t kill anyone!”
The Chief Inspector ignores my words, leaving the room with both officers trotting behind him.
The gentleman called Graham introduces himself as my appointed lawyer.
He explains my father died of his injuries on the journey to the hospital—head trauma caused a massive bleed on the brain.
His girlfriend is in intensive care; she’s likely to survive but will be permanently disabled, her left leg mangled.
The fire service had to cut her from the twisted metalwork.
I stare at him, unable to speak.
“We have ten minutes maximum, Miss Smith. Tell me what happened.” His face is open, and he looks like the kind of person who would listen to what I have to say.
My rational mind reappears. I tell him everything. About walking in on my father and his other woman in bed. About my attack on them with my childhood hockey stick. And about the car chase, which spiraled out of control.
“I snapped,” I explain. “I don’t know what came over me. I saw them together, and I lost it. I never wanted to kill anyone.”
Panic engulfs me. At nineteen years old, I have thrown my life away in the pursuit of revenge. My body shakes, and my hands cover my face as dirty tears roll down my cheeks. The disaster that would be my life unfolds before my eyes, ending with me dying alone in a jail cell in fifty years.
In the beginning, I hadn’t wanted to kill them. I just wanted them to feel hunted. To languish in the fear of revenge. But once we hit seventy on the highway, I knew I had gone too far. But I didn’t care.
“Nicola, can I call you Nicola?” Graham, my lawyer, asks, and I nod.
“Nicola, we have options, but we need some time to prepare for the interview. You should plead guilty to manslaughter with diminished responsibility. From what you have described, I’m sure we could prove that.”
“What does that mean?” My words catch in my throat, hollow.
“You confess to killing him, but it was unintentional.” He takes a breath, then looks me straight in the eye, calm and solid. “You were suffering from an abnormality of mental function, which substantially impaired your ability to understand your conduct.”
I stare at him uncomprehendingly. His words swirl around my head as I process what he’s saying.
“You want me to tell them I lost my marbles?” He nods and drums his fingers on the desk, waiting for my answer. “Well, I suppose I did.”
“Agreed. I’ll buy us some time,” he says, “but they’re going to want to interview you later today. Go back to your cell and try to relax. I’ll see you later.”
Graham knocks on the door and disappears outside. Five minutes later, PC White reappears and escorts me back to the dank holding cell.
Whatever Graham told them, it had the desired effect.
He bought us some time.