The Beginning: The Charges

I can’t help but stare. The police officer seated across from me has the most intense waddle I have ever seen. I mean, it would make roosters jealous. The waddle wiggles in such violent vigor that it’s like her chin is twerking. It’s a chin twerk. A chwerk.

I stifle a snigger. The lady officer lays a cold glare on me, one eyebrow cocked as if preparing an attack. Maybe she can read minds.

With a tsk, she licks her thumb and returns her attention to the papers which apparently make up my legal file. Yup, I now officially have a Legal File. Just like in the TV shows.

Only, unlike the TV shows, the detectives here aren’t smokin’ hot with a troubled background and a covert sex addiction that I was hoping to exploit. Apparently HBO has exclusive rights to that ensemble, which the sultry fuck-me-now looks that I’ve been perfecting while waiting here in the questioning room – while wearing handcuffs! – are being wasted on Officer Mulligan, the owner of the wagging waddle.

“You’re in a lot of trouble here, Miss Reynolds,” she says.

“Please, it’s Ms. Not Miss,” I retort. It’s an automated response. “I mean, Officer Mulligan, you, of all people, must understand the oppression of our gender, particularly as a woman working here.” I motion toward the door, which makes my handcuffs clank, to the itty-bitty, wire-enforced window, through which can be seen rows upon rows of men. I appeal to her with my best let’s-be-best-friends-forever voice, “Let’s not chastise each other with labels that relegate women to a particular social position – married or not yet married – which, when you think about it, essentially categorizes us as someone else’s property! I mean, can you fathom do—“

Officer Mulligan holds up a hand, and I obey realizing that this is probably not the best forum for a tete-a-tete over honorifics and empowerment.

“Okay, Mz. Reynolds.” Her tone tells me that, no, this is not the time. Noted. “Do you understand the extent of your charges?”

“Wait… Is this a trick question?”

“No, Mz. Reynolds, this is not a trick question.”

Ugh. Here we go. “Officer Mulligan, I most obviously do not understand the extent of my charges, as I am, most obviously, not a lawyer. I am a teenage high school student. And this little question of yours is clearly a conversational trap that sets me up for failure by assuming either that I will reply with a naïve, ‘Um, no,’ thus putting you in the power position to school me in all my transgressions, or by assuming that I will tick off a list of offenses, thereby confirming, or possibly even adding to, the charges listed there before you.” I watch a lot of detective shows. “So why don’t we get me a lawyer, at which point she – I would prefer a lady lawyer – can help me understand the extent of my charges.”

Cocked and ready – there went that eyebrow again. Officer Mulligan remained silent, staring at me with what I imagine was her best mean-cop glare. I was too distracted by her waddle to pay too much attention. And then the thing practically jumped when she stood up from her seat!

“Lieutenant Chapman,” she called into her walky-talky as she started toward the door. “I need you to assign a lawyer for Cheyenne Reynolds, a minor, age 16. She’s in Room 4 on charges of grand theft auto, reckless endangerment, engaging in police pursuit, destruction of—”

Click! The door closed. It’s amazing how soundproof these rooms are. I bet I could scream bloody murder and no one would hear me. I bet I could sob my eyes out and no one would care…

Pull it together, Cheyenne. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and envision sucking the tears back into their ducts, back where they belong. Because here’s the truth:
I regret nothing.