Diversion Pt. 03

Diversion 3

With blue lights flashing behind us and being ordered out of the car, Sheree reacts in fear and with disbelief. I am just as rattled as she is. This can't be happening! Not after what we just went through. But it's just a traffic violation; that's all this is.

"It's gonna be okay," I tell her. "It's all about not having the tag on the car. Remember that Kitty removed it and the registration papers. She didn't want the car being traced back to us, if anyone showed up searching for us."

Sheree shakes her head from side to side. "No! No! He said we're being arrested!"

The exterior speaker on the cop's car cuts off our argument.

"Step out of the car. Hands in the air. Walk to the rear of the car."

Sheree reaches for the door handle in a frantic, nervous movement. We both step out of the car, hands in the air, and walk away from the car. We look at each other standing in the middle of the road with the headlights from the cop's car spotlighting us and know we're not about to make a good impression on anyone. We're wearing only hoodies and we're barefoot, dirty, scratched up and muddy.

"Hands behind your head! Kneel on the ground!"

We hesitate, glance at each other incredulously and he repeats the command. Then we comply. This is escalating far beyond a routine traffic stop.

"Cross your ankles, and keep your hands behind your head."

This is going way too far. Sheree is about to lose it. I've got to persuade this guy that we are the victims.

"Sir," I begin by speaking as calmly as I can. "I told you the tag, my license and the registration were stolen. We were abducted. We managed to escape."

The cop steps out of the car, and speaks now in his normal voice, not over the external speaker. I notice he has his hand on the pistol resting in the holster on his belt.

"I said cross your ankles. Do it now."

We do what he says.

"The problem is that no police report exists anywhere in this state that the abduction was reported. Nothing comes up under the names you two gave me in any database; that tells me they're false. So, you're lying, driving through our county in a car with no tag, no registration, no driver's license. And that's just the beginning, I'm sure."

"No, please. You've got to listen to me," I begin, but he cuts me off immediately.

"I'm taking you both in. You can tell it to the judge. Move your hands behind your back."

As he steps closer to us, he reaches for something behind his back with the hand not resting on the gun, and then we see the handcuffs.

Sheree sees them and reacts in numb disbelief; she silently shakes her head from side to side, as the cop walks toward me.

I first feel a metallic touch on my right wrist, then hear the ratcheting sound as he fastens it in place and then he immediately does the same on my other wrist. I am now handcuffed behind my back, kneeling on the road with my mind reeling, not comprehending how we got here after what we just went through. And whatever I have to say to this cop doesn't seem to matter. We're going to jail!

Then he turns to Sheree and walks up behind her. When he places the first cuff on her left wrist, she looks at me in desperation, fearful and unbelieving this is happening to us. Her head shakes slightly from side, and she mouths something to me but I don't understand what she's saying.

Handcuffed behind our backs, kneeling on the road, we see our situation deteriorating as the cop approaches us with leg irons.

Sheree loses it at this point.

"No! No! Don't put those on us! No!"

But the cop ignores her. Sheree jerks her legs around, so she is sitting on the road. She bends her legs forward, and raises one leg in the air.

"Look, see what we've been through! Do you see those marks on my ankle? Please don't put those things on us! We're handcuffed. Isn't that enough?"

"Strictly procedure. You're being arrested. This is what we do," the cop said.

Sheree reacts with kicks and anger. The cop steps back from her, shackles dangling from his hand.

"I'm telling you again to calm down; you're making this worse."

Sheree crawls backwards on her butt away from him, screaming, "No. No."

I don't like where this is going, and I start to rise up from the ground. The cop sees me out of the corner of his eye, lifts his gun out of his holster and points it at me.

"Sit back down," he says.

I freeze and briefly consider attempting to talk our way out of this, but realize this has gone way beyond talking our way out of this. This guy is serious and he's in control. I sit back down.

Sheree continues to kick, squirm and curse. But the cop continues to move closer, leg irons in hand. When one of her kicks almost strikes him, he hesitates.

"You're already going to be charged with resisting arrest, in addition to the obstruction charge. Do you want to add assault on a police officer? That will take it to a whole other level. Think before you try to kick me again."

This causes Sheree to clamp down the fighting instinct. She sits silently, but twitching and shaking in anger or frustration, I can't tell which. The cop locks leg irons on her ankles. Then I get the same treatment. They are a whole lot lighter than the other ones that had been fastened on us, but that's not making me feel a whole lot better.

"Sit right where you are," he says to us. "I'm just going to look inside the car."

As he begins examining the car, I tell Sheree, "We'll be out of this shortly. Stay calm. We can call somebody from the police station and they'll come get us. Don't make it worst by fighting with him."

Sheree shakes her legs, and says, "Look at these! I'm shackled again and in handcuffs. This cannot be happening!"

The cop emerges from the car holding Sheree's pint bottle of vodka. "Open container on the passenger side. Looks like that's another charge for you, Miss Smith - or whoever you are."

Sheree reacts immediately, and begins to open her mouth to speak - or shout - which will only make matters worse. But I lean toward her and shake my head from side to side. Just one time. She comprehends my non-verbal communication and whatever was about to erupt subsides, for the moment. Having been gagged together for as long as we were made us more understanding of what each other's nuances of expression mean, in the absence of speech.

"Okay," the cop says, "on your feet and walk to my car." He stands behind us and his patrol car, to ensure we comply with his command.

Standing up from a sitting position on the ground with your hands cuffed behind your back and your ankles shackled is more difficult than it would seem. Once you start to rise, you realize your balance is off. Having your hands locked behind your back, you can't support your upper body's awkward movements with your legs because your ankles are shackled and they can't immediately move in the direction you want them to. It's a clumsy, uncomfortable rise from the ground. But we manage it.

We shuffle ahead of him to the patrol car. I'm constantly watching Sheree's reactions to try to head off anything that could make this spiral even more out of control. Her expressions change rapidly from anger, to frustration, to submission and back to anger again. She looks at me when frustration manifests and I know she's imploring me to do something to get us out of this. If only I could.

When we get to the car, the cop walks quickly ahead of us and opens the rear door. He stands beside it, directing us with his hand into the back seat. Sheree goes first, ducking her head to climb into a car as she normally would, then realizes the restraints pose a problem - specifically, the leg irons. The ankle chain prevents her from raising one foot far enough to get into the car while her other foot remains on the ground. She pulls her leg out of the car, turns and backs in. When she's seated, facing out of the car, she turns and swings her legs up into the car. Then she scoots awkwardly over to the other side, and I repeat her maneuver. When we're both in the back seat of the patrol car, the cop closes the door and walks around to the driver's side, opens the door and climbs inside.

The handcuffs press against my back as I lean into the seat. I'm shifting back and forth on the seat, moving forward slightly, to make this ride less uncomfortable. Sheree is doing the same thing; her body movements clearly reveal her frustration and anger.

Before Sheree has opportunity to voice either anger or frustration, the cop says, "This is not what I wanted to have to deal with on my shift. You picked a very small town to be arrested in. I'm actually the police chief, and I have one officer on my force. We alternate patrol duty. We have to deal with local assholes, who always get themselves in the same trouble. We know how to deal with them, but then you two come along."

"We didn't do anything," Sheree says. "We shouldn't be here!"

"Well, you are here and you're going to our jail, and you're staying there till you make bail or the judge says otherwise."

"How can we make bail, when our wallets and credit cards were stolen?"

The cop ignores that and drives in silence for a few moments, while Sheree fumes and fidgets.

"Only piece of advice I'll give you, is don't get on the wrong side of Beth Anne. She runs the jail and she heads up our office when I'm on patrol. You'll be meeting her in a few minutes." He pauses a second or two, then adds as he flashes a quick glance back at us, "You've been warned!"

We drive on through another mile or two of backroads country, and then begin to see a few commercial establishments: one fast food restaurant, a gas station and a dollar store. Then we arrive in the town center. About a dozen small squat buildings surround a town square. At the end of the block, I see 'Bentonville Police Department' prominently displayed on the front of one of the buildings, next to a vacant lot. The cop drives around that building and parks in the rear. He stops the car, gets out and opens our door and signals us to step out.

Getting out of a car with ankles shackled and hands cuffed behind your back is easier than getting in. And it's a relief to get to stand and not have the handcuffs digging into your back. Sheree and I watch as the cop searches the back seat to make sure we haven't secreted away any illegal substances or weapons. We are both barefoot, with Sheree wearing only a hoodie; I've got on a hoodie, but I've also got underwear, which I've worn too long. Our legs are bare, except where they're covered in dirt and mud.

The cop closes the car door, not having turned up anything in his search. He points us to a door with a caller box on the wall beside it. As we get to the door, he steps up to the box and presses a button on it, then says, "Beth Anne. Hello? I got two new guests for you."

He steps back, ignores us and taps his foot impatiently. After a few moments, the door is opened by a middle-aged, slightly heavy-set, dark-haired woman in a police uniform. She looks at us and frowns.

"You pull them out of the swamp, Chief?"

"They look like it. But no; a traffic stop. Take Mr. and Ms. Smith in, please, while I go around to my office to write out the goddamn report." He looks back at us, before he squeezes around Beth Anne to make his exit and says, "Remember what I told you."

Beth Anne smirks after that comment and says sarcastically, "Well, come on in. Your accommodations are waiting. But we're going to have to get you cleaned up first."

We shuffle inside and find ourselves in a small waiting area with empty chairs against the wall, separated by a chest-high counter from the other side of the room. There we see two desks with computer monitors, with an opening at the end of the counter, where a sign warns: 'do not enter - official business only'. I guess we qualify, because that's where Beth Anne leads us. There's a metal door at the far end of the room behind the counter with a substantial lock on the front. Beth Anne opens it with a key from a ring on her belt, and we walk into the jail. A heavy disinfectant smell permeates the air which is my first reaction. Then I see a long hallway with harsh lighting and four cells on the left side, with bars on each door, side by side, facing a blank wall. Where we are, at the beginning of the hallway, there's a concrete bench on the left, next to an open door leading into an office or supply room. Across from the bench is a closed door with two slotted openings, one halfway down and another at the very bottom of the door. Panels cover each slot, with a handle mounted on each panel apparently to open them.

"Shower time," Beth Anne says, looking at Sheree while pointing to the door across from us. Sheree turns to me apprehensively and then steps inside the door as Beth Anne opens it for her. I see a shower nozzle on one side of a small room which has a tile floor with a drain in the middle. Sheree's leg irons clang loudly on the tile floor with each step. Beth Anne closes the door and points toward the bench as she turns to look at me. I notice metal cuffs attached to chains that must somehow be secured to the bench. As soon as I sit on the bench, she fastens one of the cuffs to my handcuffs. I'm not going anywhere for the moment.

Then Beth Anne steps into the supply room and when she returns, she's pulling on surgical gloves. No! No! This can't be happening. But it is!

Beth Anne opens the door and steps inside, closing it behind her. 'Strip searched' isn't the proper description, since Sheree is already basically naked, save for the hoodie. 'Non-consensual vaginal and anal examination' is more appropriate. And all because of a traffic stop!

I hear loud, angry voices behind the door and they gradually escalate. I know Sheree is putting up a fight, but it's one she's going to lose, being nearly naked, handcuffed behind her back with her ankles shackled. After a horrible minute or two of hearing screams, curses and protests there is silence, and then the door opens. Where I'm chained on the bench, I can't see inside. Beth Anne steps out pulling the gloves off her hands, then throws them in a trash can in the hallway.

She opens both slots in the door while speaking in a loud voice, saying, "Step to the door with your back to it, so I can take your jewelry off."

Sheree does as instructed and I see her cuffed wrists through the slot in the middle of the door. Beth Anne unlocks her handcuffs, bends down to the slot at the bottom and unlocks her leg irons. She places both restraints beside the door and stands up. She glances back at me to make sure I'm still where I'm supposed to be and not presenting any threat. Then she bends down toward the slot in the middle of the door, and addresses Sheree on the other side of the door in a loud, forceful voice.

"Undress and put your clothing and belongings in a plastic bag you'll find inside the cabinet by the door. After you shower - you've got two minutes - select your desired attire from that cabinet: stylish clothing on one shelf, fashionable footwear on the other. When you're dressed, knock on the door. And there's no hot water. Sorry, but this is jail."

She closes the panel over the slot on the door and strolls down the hall, stopping in front of the first cell.

"You've got company, Marlene. So be on your best behavior and don't be bad-mouthing me." Beth Anne stands there for a moment, but after receiving no verbal response from inside that cell, turns in my direction and walks back toward me. She ignores me and stands outside the shower room door impatiently. Then we hear a knock.

Beth Anne opens the middle panel, and says, "Back up to the door; hands behind your back." As I see Sheree's hands appear through the slot, Beth Anne picks up the handcuffs and fastens them around Sheree's wrists. She kneels down, opens the bottom slot and shackles her ankles. Then she stands up and opens the door, and Sheree slowly turns toward us.

She's wearing an orange jumpsuit that surprisingly fits her well - she must have found a small size - and orange flip-flops. I see she's been crying. She turns her head to the side, to hide her face and steps toward the door, leg irons clanging on the tile with each step. She slides her feet along instead of picking them up for each step. Beth Anne directs her to sit beside me and then chains her to the bench as soon as she sits down.

"Okay, your turn," she says to me and bends over to unchain me from the bench. "You know the drill. Move." As I get up, I see Sheree is but a shell of herself; broken by the ordeal before the shower. But I know this is temporary, and when it passes, she's going to be combustible.

I hobble inside the shower room as Beth Anne directs me, turn my back to the door after she closes it and she releases me from my restraints. Then she says, "I'm not sticking my fingers up in you. They don't pay me enough. Take off the boxers, squat and cough. Now."

Relieved, I do what she says. Then she tells me to bend down in front of the open slot in the middle of the door, open my mouth wide and move my tongue from side to side. Satisfied, she shuts the panel on the slot.

I take a cold shower, dry off with a towel that probably hasn't been washed in a while, and open the cabinet door. There are three orange jumpsuits and three pair of brown rubber slide sandals. No socks; no underwear. The jumpsuits are wadded together, but I sort through them, find a medium and put it on. I don't think it's been washed in a while. All of the sandals look the same size, and I grab a pair and slide my feet into them. Then I walk to the door and knock.

Within moments, my hands are cuffed behind my back and my ankles are shackled. I stumble outside when Beth Anne opens the door; Sheree is looking at me with a stoic expression and her tears have dried up. She seems to have overcome the shower room experience and she doesn't look like she's going to be crying again. I was worried about PTSD after what we've just been through, but she appears to be stronger than that. It's her temperament I begin to worry about; it rises and falls and what's coming is unknown. If her fighting spirit comes back, she's gonna be kicking.

And it doesn't take long for the fight to begin. Beth Anne points us down the hallway to the cells. We pass the first one, and a dark-haired woman with her back against the far wall, several years older than us, is reclining on her cot reading a paperback book. Her ankles are crossed and I notice her feet are bare and her ankles are shackled. She waves at us as we shuffle by, I smile back since waving is impossible with your hands cuffed behind your back.

Beth Anne stops at the next cell we come to, takes the key ring from her belt, and that's when it begins.

"We're entitled to a phone call," Sheree says. "You're not locking us up until we get our phone call."

"You're going in the cells - separate ones. That's not a choice you have. This is jail, not a bed and breakfast. And once in your cell, I'll bring you the phone that you put in the bag with your other belongings."

"We don't have phones!" Sheree cries out, exasperated.

"What? Everybody has a phone," Beth Anne says. "My ten-year old nieces have phones."

"Our phones were stolen!"

"So, how are you going to make a phone call?"

"You have to give us access to a phone," Sheree shouts at Beth Anne.

"Isn't there a jail phone we can use?" I ask.

"The old phone on the wall that all the inmates use? Like the ones you see on television? Welcome to the twenty-first century! In case you missed it, everyone has a phone; and land line phones on the wall don't exist anymore. You got a phone; you can make a call. You don't have a phone, sorry."

Sheree mumbles a curse under her breath, then opens her mouth to speak, but Beth Anne cuts her off by raising a hand, palm out, in front of Sheree's face. Beth Anne opens the cell door, and points to me. "You! Inside, now!" I hesitate, overly anxious about the drama that is still unfolding. It's not going to end well, and there's nothing I can do about it. While Sheree is sputtering and fuming, Beth Anne is motioning for me to get inside the cell. I step inside, and the door closes behind with a loud metallic, clanging sound. I am locked inside.