TEN
Mila
The secondI am dragged into the questioning room, the cops ask to see my phone.
I sit and stare at them blankly.
“Let’s have it.”
Now, I don’t know what a phone might have to do with what anyone allegedly saw me do. But if there’s one thing I learned, and one thing only, from Uncle Emil, it’s to keep my lip zipped and not give them my phone or permission to search my bag.
“I want to speak to a lawyer,” I say.
The interviewer leans across the table and gets annoyingly close to my face. “Sweetheart, you don’t understand how it works. Your fancy city tits might be used to a certain way of doing things, but this is Pine Mountain. And the sooner you cooperate, the sooner we’ll get you out of here.”
I look this investigator right in the eyes; I’m not intimidated by these people, not after everything I’ve seen. Bulletproof and his henchmen might be evil, but there’s a reason why those particular criminals get away with literal murder.
“Am I being charged with something?” are the only other words I utter. They haven’t read me my rights, and they haven’t informed me of any charges being filed against me. They intend to hold me here because they think they can.
Unlawful detention, false imprisonment? What else can I rack up once they send me an attorney?
I know my way around cops. I don’t have to say shit.
“Please. Ma’am. Just hand over the bag.”
“You do not have my permission.”
“We know you got a firearm. At least fifteen people saw you pull a gun on the football team captain. He was already having a rough night after that game, wouldn’t you agree?”
I stare blankly at the clock.
Everyone’s heads turn as someone knocks on the door, and Ozzie, followed by a man in a cheap suit and a beat-up leather messenger bag, walks in.
“Ben and Zeb, you guys know you can’t hold her longer than 25 minutes without officially charging her with anything,” the public defender starts with.
The one called Zeb curses quietly under his breath.
The one called Ben sighs. “This motherfucker.”
My defender approaches me, shakes my hand, and introduces himself as Lang Ly, handing me his card.
“Ma’am, you are free to go, and I hope you didn’t allow any illegal searches.” He emphasizes the word “illegal” and throws it over his shoulder, so the cops know he’s on to them.
“No, sir,” I answer.
“Good, come with me. I’m afraid we have to prep you for something worse than cops.”
* * *
The following day,I’m sitting with Mr. Ly and Ozzie, facing a panel of sour-looking people.
“Mila, our school has a zero-tolerance policy toward firearms. We have a witness who says they saw you brandishing a gun at Pudding James last night at 10:17 p.m. on the corner of Main and Third.”
“She wasn’t on campus, sir,” says Ly.
I turn to Ozzie. “Why are we doing this? I’m already kicked out. There’s no point in fighting it.”
The panelist answers my new friend. “She is a student here…or was. And that makes her responsible for following the student handbook like everyone else.”