“Am I free to go?” I asked.
“Almost.” He waved me on. “Come on, then. Best behavior, if you please. If you make me use the handcuffs it’ll go tougher for you.”
I didn’t want to leave the jacket in the jail so I balled it up and took it with me. The sheriff led me down the hall, out of the receiving room and into the too-bright daylight. He held open the back door of the police cruiser. Dropping down into the back seat was like returning to a nightmare that I’d been hoping wasn’t real.
I wanted to ask him questions as we drove along the road. My experience yesterday kept stopping me. That, and Jayce’s advice:keep your mouth shut. Instead, I focused on the landscape. It was a small paved road with ditches on either side, filled with water from last night’s storm. To the right was a forest, and to the left was a long field filled with tall grass desperately in need of a mow. Trash fluttered along the road and landed in the ditches before floating away.
We made a turn and then drove down what I assumed was the town’s main street. There was a pharmacy with two gas pumps out front and a neon “SODA FOUNTAINS” sign above the front door. After that was a nameless diner built into a double-wide trailer, with a few faces staring out the window as we passed. A few buildings down was a restaurant calledFlop’s Bar & Grillwhich looked like it hadn’t seen a coat of paint since the Nixon Administration. After that cameBob’s Barber, which appeared to be a combination barber and hardware store.
“Welcome to Eastland,” the sheriff announced. “It ain’t much to look at, but it’s the nicest place on earth.”
I couldn’t tell if he was making a very bad joke, so I stayed silent. Laughing at his town would probably get me thrown back in jail.
We turned off main street down a gravel road which wound through an abandoned field. It led to a riverbank with a boat launch and a shack which might have once sold refreshments, but was now one strong breeze away from blowing over. A man in fishing waders stood knee-deep in the river. He pulled back his fishing pole, then cast his line out into the water.
The sheriff pulled to a stop. “Here we are.”
“We’re going fishing?”
“Nope.”
We walked down to the edge of the river where the fisherman was reeling in his line with leathery hands. A wide-brimmed fishing hat concealed all but a little bit of his white hair.
“Charlotte Owens?” he asked without looking.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“I’m Judge Benjamin,” he said in a thick, but dignified, accent. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
Judge. What on earth was going on here? I glanced back at the sheriff, but he just stood with his arms crossed and a blank look on his face.
“Judge,” I said. “I like your courtroom. Lots of natural light.”
He turned to show me his big grin. “Thank you kindly. We’ve got a building in town, but it’s stuffy and smells like moth balls. I prefer to dispense justice under God’s blue sky. You’ve declined to have a lawyer present?”
I hesitated. I hadn’t been allowed to make a phone call, nor given any opportunity to request a lawyer. But the sheriff was still standing behind me, and I got the feeling it would be a mistake to point any of that out.
“Yes, sir,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t regret the words. “I don’t think a lawyer is necessary for a traffic stop.”
Judge Benjamin reeled in the slack from his fishing line, then glanced over his shoulder at the sheriff. “I think we’re safe without you hovering. Miss Owens isn’t gonna run away. Are you?”
“No, sir.”
The sheriff nodded and returned to his cruiser without a word.
“Do you fish, Miss Owens?”
I hesitated. “My dad taught me when I was young.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“I enjoyed being out there with my dad.”
“That’s a polite way of saying no,” he replied.
I allowed myself to smile. “It just wasn’t for me. I liked the peacefulness of it, though.”
“So do I,” he said. “Miss Owens, you’re charged with speeding, failure to obey a stop sign, disorderly conduct, and resisting arrest. Is that correct?”