Earth to Emily

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “We’re searching your car because a citizen called in a pervert taking pictures of kids. We were given a license plate number and vehicle description same as yours, and you match the description of the photographer.” Burrows leaned over and picked my coat off the ground and threw it in after me, then slammed the door.

  Mary Alice Hodges and her wrath of God. It had to be. My heart beat like a hummingbird’s wings against the inside of my chest, and I struggled to think of what Burrows and Samson would find in my car that could get me into trouble, or give them reason to give me trouble. My purse was there with my “baby” Glock 26 inside, and my license to carry in the wallet inside the same purse. I had nothing else in the Mustang except my dry cleaning and the half-spilled cup of coffee.

  Well, nothing except for my iPhone on the front passenger seat. I had never taken a dirty picture in my straitlaced life, certainly not of any children. My mind raced through its contents. There was a photo of my husband’s girlfriend—a man named Stormy who lived as a woman, although he kept his junk, if you know what I mean—wearing my red negligee. The tramp had texted it to me, and I’d saved it for the divorce, just in case. That one was embarrassing and inappropriate. But did I have any pictures of kids?

  I had saved one on there of Betsy with her mother, which I’d used for identification purposes when I was searching for her. Then there were a few I’d snapped of her on the playground, innocent stuff, because it made me feel better to be able to look at them, like the one I’d taken today. Pictures any mother would take, and while I wasn’t her mother, I was going through the process of trying to become her mother, after all. But I’d password protected my phone with the ultra-secure “1111.” I figured it was so obvious no one would ever guess it. Hopefully that included the police, so they wouldn’t be able to look at my photos. Then all of this would be moot, and it would get straightened out quickly enough. It had to. I hadn’t done anything wrong.

  I strained to see what the officers were doing, my view obscured in part by the metal barrier between the front and back seats of the police vehicle. I could see that they had popped open my trunk. Geez. I knew it was empty except for my spare tire, but months of working with Jack kicked in and my brain moved past what they might find to whether they even had a right to search my trunk in the first place. Burrows was treating this like I was Public Enemy Number One, and I was pretty sure Jack would tell me it was an illegal search.

  I heard the trunk slam. Footsteps crunched on the snow, coming closer to where I sat trapped in the backseat cage. The driver’s side door opened in front and a body landed on the seat. Air whooshed out in protest. The door slammed. In the confined space, I smelled garlic and cheap aftershave. My nose and forehead wrinkled. Burrows put my purse and phone on the seat. He spoke into the radio, holding it with his left hand while he continued to mess with something I couldn’t see in the front seat with his right.

  “I need a tow into impound on a Ford Mustang, green, on Wentworth Drive across from Windsor Elementary.” He read off my license plate number. “I’ve arrested a suspected child molester, an Emily P. Burr-NAL—B-E-R-N-A-L. I’ll be bringing her in. Also, she was in possession of a handgun.”

  “I have a license to carry! It’s in my wallet.”

  I wanted to scream. How did we jump from the bogus improper photos to the inflammatory and even more screwed-up child-molester accusation? And then the bit added on about my gun to make it sound like some kind of huge deal, like I was a dangerous felon, when it wasn’t and I wasn’t either. I knew it wouldn’t do me any good to argue with him about the semantics, no matter how damaging, but I couldn’t believe his gall.

  Burrows holstered the radio and turned to me, unloading my Glock as he did. When he had it empty, he inspected it. I saw him read the words engraved around the mouth of the barrel. “So, you think I’m messing with the ‘Wrong Girl’?”

  “My dad thought so, at least.” The gun, and the words, were a fifteenth-birthday gift from my Wild West-throwback father. “I only know I didn’t do anything wrong, and I don’t understand what’s going on.”

  Burrows lowered the gun and shoved it into something I couldn’t see from the backseat. Still facing the center of the front seat, he said, “Emily Bernal, we take sex crimes very seriously in this town, and you’re under arrest for taking improper photos of a child.”

  A klaxon horn sounded in my head, and white-hot panic seared me from the inside. Burrows turned his head forward in the driver’s seat, and all I could see was his red hair and fuzzy neck that needed a shave.

  “Arrested? Improper photos? That’s ridiculous. I didn’t do any such thing.”

  He switched on the ignition. “If you haven’t done anything wrong, Ms. Bernal, then I’m sure we’ll get it all straightened out at the station.”

  He spoke by rote. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to the presence of an attorney before and during any questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you free of charge before any questioning. Do you understand these rights as I’ve explained them to you?”

  He turned back to me again. This couldn’t be real. I shook my head.

  “You don’t understand them?”

  “I understand them.” I shook my head again. “When do I get my phone call?”

  Burrows snorted, and we accelerated into the street with a jerk that snapped my head back against the seat.

  Chapter Five

  Utilitarian gunmetal-gray steel and dirty industrial-white paint filled my view of the storage area before me. Odds and ends of paraphernalia littered the inside of evidence cages. Phones. Wallets. Jackets. Belts. Caps and hats. A motorcycle helmet covered in Arizona Cardinals bumper stickers.

  Jack stood behind me while I signed for return of the personal items that I had been required to check in earlier. The officer behind the desk—young, freckled, and open-mouthed, with a nameplate on her chest that read TINSLEY—couldn’t tear her eyes away from Jack. Get in line, sister, I thought.

  I pawed through the tray of my belongings. My purse was there, with my wallet, gun license, and gun (unloaded), as was my coat, but there was something missing. “My phone?”

  Without looking away from Jack, she said, “Huh?”

  “Officer Burrows took my phone. I need my phone back.” I looked at the voucher, which listed my personal property. The phone wasn’t on the list. “This voucher’s wrong, too.”

  “Is that your signature on it?”

  “It looks like it, but the one I signed listed my phone.”

  “Well, now, isn’t that strange.” She smiled at Jack. “Let me check with the officers.” She picked up a desk phone and punched a few numbers. “We’re missing the inappropriate-photo suspect’s phone. Burrows brought her in; Samson was with him. Yeah, Rin Tin Tin.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “They call Burrows the drug-sniffing dog because he’s so good at busting kids smoking pot.” She winked at Jack and spoke into the phone again. “Burr-NAL—B-E-R-N-A-L. Okay. Thanks.” She hung up. “Someone’s gonna ask him. You can wait over there.” She nodded her head at a bench against the wall.

  Jack and I looked at each other. He shrugged and we sat. From our side of the room we had a view of the balding strings of silver tinsel strands tucked above the window to the evidence room. Above it, cut-out red letters that hooked together and hung crookedly spelled MERRY CHRISTMA. I wondered if anyone would replace the S.

  Jack’s phone beeped, but he didn’t look at it. “You’re sure they checked your phone in earlier?”

  “Positive. Why do you think Burrows would keep it? He knows I didn’t take any dirty pictures. This whole arrest was just harassment.”

  Jack pulled his bottom lip. “Is your phone password protected?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you give the password to them?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Do you get wo
rk email on your phone?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “It’s the thin blue line.”

  The Dallas Area Rapid Transit Light Rail Blue Line went from downtown out past White Rock Lake. I had ridden it occasionally when I worked for the Hailey & Hart law firm in Dallas. “I’m confused. How did we get on the subject of trains in Dallas?”

  His left eyebrow drew toward his hairline. “I’m talking about how police officers stick together. They call it the thin blue line.”

  “Oh.” I picked some imaginary lint off my sleeve.

  His dimple sunk in and out like it was in spasm, and his eyes twinkled. “We have a case against Wu. The police stick together. Maybe someone is trying to see if you have anything on your phone about the Freeman case.”

  I considered it. Could Jack be right? “Really? Would they even know I work for you?”

  Jack said. “”Hmm. Dunno. Probably. It’s a small town.”

  Jack and I had been together the night before when we talked to Samson at Love’s, but we weren’t working a case. We could have been two people out on a normal date, albeit a really lame one at Love’s Travel Stop. I thought back through the last two months. Had my name appeared on anything related to Freeman’s case? Paralegals didn’t sign pleadings. I hadn’t been with Jack when he deposed the officers, either. That was before I came to work at Williams & Associates.

  But it hadn’t been the first time I’d met Samson. Honestly, I couldn’t remember my conversation with Samson two months before when Betsy had been kidnapped. Oh well, like Jack said, it was a small town.

  “That’d be too convenient, right after Mary Alice rousted me. I saw her make a phone call, then, bam, ten minutes later, Burrows shows up. He’s harassing me for her.”

  “Maybe.”

  “That woman terrifies me.”

  “Hodges? Why?”

  “I told you. She threatened me with the wrath of God. It was creepy. And then this.” I gestured around the room. “What did she do that could make them do this to me?”

  “If she did.” Jack’s phone beeped. He ignored it.

  “She did.” I snorted. “How’d you get me out, anyway?”

  “After a discussion with your attorney, the assistant district attorney decided not to book you.”

  My voice came out at a higher pitch than I would have liked. “Thank you, but how—”

  He pretended to pop his knuckles. “You have the best criminal law attorney in two states.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “I’d at least put me in the top five.”

  “Jack.”

  “The charges were BS. Plus this was a new ADA, and I told him you worked for me.”

  Which was good. If it had been my archnemesis, ADA Melinda Stafford, my butt would still be planted on a bench behind bars.

  “That was smart.”

  “I promised him you wouldn’t go anywhere near Betsy again without supervision.”

  “But that’s impossible.”

  He looked at me slant-eyed. “Emily, I’m not sure if you understand the seriousness of your situation. This is a felony involving a child. You can’t afford to be charged in the first place, even if I get you off five minutes later. Period.”

  “I know.” The implication of the type of charge I was facing wasn’t lost on me. “Even the suggestion of this could ruin my chance of adopting Betsy.”

  “We won’t let that happen.”

  Ugly truth smacked me in the forehead, a few hours too late. “She knew. Mary Alice Hodges knew what this would do to my adoption chances, and she did it on purpose.”

  Jack’s phone beeped again, and he didn’t even glance at it.

  “Check your darn phone already,” I snapped.

  His left eyebrow lifted, pulling the dimple in and mouth up. “It’s going to be okay, Emily.” He typed a few keystrokes on his phone and swished through text messages. “Wallace. The Hodges called him, and so did Burrows. You’re not answering your texts. He’s a tad concerned.”

  “Do you think I need to call him?”

  He held his left hand up in the “stop” gesture and a scar caught my attention. I’d seen Jack’s hands plenty of times, even felt them on me in ways that made my cheeks flame to remember, but I’d never noticed the scar on his left palm before. And it wasn’t insignificant. It was round, like a cigarette burn, but bigger. And puckered. I stared at it as he spoke.

  “Let’s focus on what’s on your plate here, for now.”

  “Where’d you get that scar on your hand?” I pointed at his left hand, which was now on his leg.

  Jack’s yellow-brown eyes flicked to mine and then down, and butterflies went crazy in my tummy. How could he irritate me so much, then calm me, intrigue me, and excite me all in less than a minute?

  Officer Tinsley called my name from behind the counter. “Ms. Bernal?”

  I jumped up and hurried over, Jack moving in long, lazy strides beside me. “Yes?”

  “The officers didn’t see a phone in your car. They’re real sorry and hope you find it.”

  “But I saw Burrows put it in the front seat of the cruiser, and Samson was right there.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that’s not how he remembers it.”

  “He?”

  “Burrows.”

  “Don’t all cops have those body camera thingies after Ferguson? Those would prove I’m telling the truth.”

  “Um, no, sorry, ma’am, our department doesn’t have body cams. We do have the dash cams, but they’re only triggered in certain situations, or when an officer turns them on.”

  “So was the camera on when I was arrested?”

  She stared at me, slack-jawed.

  Jack put his hand on my shoulder. I looked up into his eyes. They were warm, and he nodded at me. I took a small step back and he moved into the gap I’d left.

  “Officer Tinsley, thank you for checking for us. Could you let Burrows and the other officer—Samson, was it?—know to expect me to file an official complaint of misconduct with the department, on behalf of Ms. Bernal, for excessive force, falsifying paperwork, and refusing to return her phone? We’ll be seeking the dash cam footage then.”

  “Um—”

  “Thank you. Now, let’s talk about getting Ms. Bernal’s vehicle back.”

  Chapter Six

  After Jack took me to pick up my Mustang from impound, we had enough time left in the day to squeeze in one more productive task. We headed toward the office, and I drove behind Jack, caressing the leather by my thigh in a soothing way. My Mustang was closing in on nine years old, but she was still beautiful, and she’d suffered a violation at Burrows’s hands every bit as much as I had. At eight, though, she was still only half the age of Jack’s vehicle.

  The Jeep still bore the ignominy of the previous night’s crunch into concrete. Jack had tucked the deployed airbag back into the dash and duct-taped it up. As he backed the Jeep into his parking space in the garage, I saw that the front bumper hung askew with a big fat crease where the chrome had flaked away in the center. The grille had also caved in partway and the left front quarter panel had buckled.

  He ducked into the passenger side of the Mustang as I turned on the radio to a country station.

  I tightened my lips so I wouldn’t smile. “I thought you said there was no damage to your Jeep last night?”

  Jack didn’t look at me. “There wasn’t.”

  “But the bumper is all messed up, Jack. However did that happen?”

  “It was already like that.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t remember it looking like that before.”

  “I did it last week.”

  “You didn’t mention a fender bender.” I let my smile out, and he realized I was onto him and grinned with a sheepish look on his face. “Hey, is your Jeep even street legal now without the airbags?”

  He nodded. “But the whole system has to be replaced and reset. On both sides.”

  “Yeah. Since one side tried to
kill me, I think that’s a good idea.” A song I loved came on, and I turned it up. “As long as I’m rockin’ with you, girl, you know I’m Cool Whip—”

  “Cool with,” Jack interrupted.

  I turned the radio down. “What?”

  “The song. ‘As long as I’m rockin’ with you, girl, you know I’m cool with.’ You said ‘Cool Whip.’”

  My cheeks heated just a little. “That’s what I said.” I put my hand on my signal switch. “Which way?”

  Jack had only told me we needed to run an errand, not where or for what reason.

  “ABC Half-Price Resale.”

  I turned my trusty steed north. ABC Half-Price Resale—which was as much a discount clearing house as a resale store—belonged to our client Alan Freeman. “Why for?”

  “Continuance until mid-January.”

  Alan’s trial had been set in two weeks, right after New Year’s.

  “Since this morning?”

  The Second Baptist Church flashed by on our left. In temporary letters, an announcement blazed across a white sign out front: LOW SELF-ESTEEM SUPPORT GROUP WILL MEET THURSDAY AT 7:00 PM. PLEASE USE THE BACK DOOR. It made me smile.

  Jack said, “Got a call while you were, um, detained.”

  I pumped my fist in the air. “Woo-hoo!”

  A continuance wasn’t a surprise. In fact, the real surprise would have been if it hadn’t been continued. But we’d prepped only enough to stave off emergency, and we would have had some serious scrambling to do these next two weeks if the post-New Year’s schedule had stayed firm.

  The case wasn’t a shoo-in, but we expected to win it. It was Freeman’s word against Wu’s. Wu claimed he’d caught Alan soliciting sex from an unidentified woman who had run off in the alley behind the resale store. Wu said when he approached Alan’s vehicle, Alan leapt from his car to make a run for it. Wu claimed he gave chase, and that when he caught him, Alan assaulted him with a beer bottle.