by Jaime Maddox
At John F. Kennedy Boulevard, Nic turned into JKF Plaza, and after circling the fountain, she emerged onto the Benjamin Franklin Parkway. The parkway was a scenic and generally safe route to Kelly Drive, the tree-lined road along the Schuylkill River where Nic had been running since she first came to Philadelphia nearly a decade earlier. It was the perfect place—no traffic lights for miles, enough pedestrians to discourage crime, and as beautiful a scene as one could find anywhere. Her route across the city and out along the river and back was almost a perfect ten-mile trek, an ideal distance for her. Not too far to wipe her out and enough to keep her in racing form.
Jogging in place as she waited for the light to change, Nic wiped the sweat from her forehead. She loved wearing her hair down over her shoulders, but now it was pulled up in a ponytail. Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, ever present to ward off migraine headaches that the sun often triggered. She was alert and cautious, never at ease in the city, not even out here where this magnificent one-mile stretch of real estate boasted the Museum of Natural Sciences, the Franklin Institute, the Barnes Museum, and the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Priceless artifacts and a billion dollars in masterpieces lined the route she ran, and more cops probably roamed this area of town than at any other location, yet she still worried about random violence. She saw enough bad shit in the ER to know it happened, even to white, upper-middle-class physicians like her.
Sprinting cautiously across the intersection, Nic dodged a car speeding around the corner and then settled into a rhythm, her arms and heart pumping with each stride. She loved running. Something about the solitude beckoned her, and she pushed her body to reach very definable goals—one mile, two miles, ten minutes, eight minutes. She could set the bar and work to reach it, having to compromise with no one about the music she listened to or the route she took.
Some might call her self-centered, and she’d agree. How could she not be? Her parents, thrilled to have adopted her, had given her every privilege a child could want. She was the center of their world. Intellectual and scholarly, they both preferred an evening at home with a medical journal to a game show on television. Their board games were chess and Scrabble, their newspaper The New York Times. Their summer vacation was in London or Barcelona, not the beaches of New Jersey and Delaware.
She’d learned to read and keep herself amused as they did, in the words written on paper and in books, with occasional words spoken eloquently in conversation. She’d learned to become quite comfortable in her own mind. When she was very young, sharing was a foreign concept, and as a result, preschool was a near deadly experience for the other children who wanted to play with her toys.
Learning to socialize at school wasn’t a painful experience, but it was trying, and Nicole always preferred to have one or two close friends rather than large squadrons of them. She preferred solitude most often and, with the exception of her closest friends, chose to limit the time she engaged with others. Running, pushing herself to joyful, breathless exhaustion, was one of her favorite activities.
Beneath the flags of a hundred and nine countries of the world, she broke free of the stress she’d felt just a few minutes earlier. She ran against the current of traffic bringing a wave of workers into the shops, hospitals, and office buildings of downtown Philadelphia, and set apart from the rest, she felt perfectly at home.
At the art museum, she slowed to cross the intersection and circled to the right onto Kelly Drive. Protected there from the relentless traffic by a wide sidewalk, the stretch was lined with trees that sheltered her from the bright sun. She instantly felt the temperature change, a drop of a few degrees in the shade, and looked forward to the mild breeze she’d find along the river. Timing her pace as she approached the entrance to the Water Works, Nic allowed a car into the parking area before once again pushing for her target pace. She glanced ahead to the iconic buildings that made up Boat House Row, paying no attention to the police car crossing the intersection in front of her. She was too far from Marjorie Place to report the vagrant.
Maybe she’d see boats on the water today. She loved to race them. The canopy of trees along Kelly Drive gave the air a fresh, clean scent, and she breathed deeply, giving her muscles the oxygen they needed. She didn’t notice the police car slow down beside her, not until the flashing lights came on and the driver made a U-turn, pulling up beside her. An officer immediately jumped out of the vehicle, holding up a hand, signaling her to stop.
“Is some…thing…wrong?” she asked, sucking in breath as she continued to jog in place so her leg muscles wouldn’t tighten.
“I need you to come with me, Kathleen.” The policeman was short, not much taller than Nic, who was on the lower end of the growth charts. What he lacked in height, though, he made up in muscle and attitude. Huge pectoral and biceps muscles stretched his uniform, and he spoke with an authority she figured few people challenged.
She did, though. “I think you. Have me confused. With someone else,” she said, and tried to step around him.
Before she could protest, his partner had flanked her and grabbed her right arm, jerking it behind her. As she turned to avoid him, the first officer pulled her left arm back, and the cold hard metal of handcuffs closed on her wrists.
“What are you doing?” she yelled. “Let me go!” She allowed her legs to relax and dropped her weight onto them, an old self-defense trick, but it was useless against two of them. It only served to put more tension on her shoulder joints. She quickly changed tactics and tried to wiggle out of their grasp.
Even as she protested, they dragged her backward. “Wait! What are you doing? Stop!” She begged, but they ignored her pleas. With one of them on either side of her and no arms for balance, Nic was helpless as they closed the ten-foot span to the police car. When they reached it, one officer opened the door as the other pushed her head down and forced her into the backseat. Although he wasn’t unnecessarily rough, with no hands to stop her forward momentum, she crashed headfirst into the seat. Struggling to regain her balance, she grew more afraid than merely surprised, as she’d originally felt. What the fuck was going on?
Nic had heard stories about criminals impersonating police officers. What if she’d just been kidnapped? Or abducted by rapists? Since the real Philadelphia police had no feasible reason to subdue her like this, those seemed like plausible explanations.
She began screaming at the top of her lungs. “Help! Help me! I’ve been abducted!” In response, the driver put the car into gear and retraced the route she’d just traveled by foot. His partner in the passenger seat picked up a portable radio and spoke into it, and for the first time she wondered if they might be authentic police. After a drive of just a few blocks, Nic had her answer when the car pulled up at a police station on North Twenty-first Street.
“What’s going on?” she demanded again as the officer opened the door and helped her out.
“We just need to ask you a few questions,” he said.
“But why? About what?” She questioned one, then the other, as they escorted her into the Central Police Division.
The station was of newer construction, with a modern design that could have lent itself to any purpose. Once she was through the doors, though, a distinctly institutional feel prevailed, with gray plastic chairs that matched the paint on the walls and vinyl-tiled floors. A single police officer, a rather attractive woman with short dark hair and dark eyes, stood guard at the reception desk. Under other circumstances, Nic would have smiled at the woman and perhaps even started a conversation. But not today. She had nothing to smile about at the moment, and small talk was definitely not on her agenda.
The officers escorted her down a hallway and into an empty room, where they promptly unlocked her arms as they closed the door behind her. They’d never answered her questions. What the hell was going on?
Rubbing her wrists, Nic surveyed the room. It was a rather large rectangle, fifteen by twenty feet, and windowless, except for the two-way mirror on one wall. Four m
atching chairs surrounded a square metal table. The walls were painted a dull gray, the drab accentuated by the dim fluorescent lights flickering from the ceiling. She closed her eyes, concerned. Nothing guaranteed a migraine like flickering lights.
Walking around the table, Nic took some deep breaths, trying to soothe her frazzled nerves. She could really use a cigarette. Nicotine never failed to calm her. She’d done nothing wrong and had no idea why the police wanted her. That knowledge didn’t help her though, and she trembled like a leaf floating on a gust of October wind. She was literally shaking.
At least, though, she was safe. This appeared to be a real police station.
Leaning against one wall, she looked at the two-way mirror and wondered who was watching her. She figured someone was. What were they looking for? How was she supposed to act? She couldn’t have done much acting at the moment, even if she knew the lines. Her knees were weak, the trembling uncontrollable, and her voice would probably falter if she tried to speak.
Swallowing her tears, Nic closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. She imagined herself in yoga class and counted as she inhaled. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. She was breathing much too fast. Thinking only about her breathing, she exhaled but fared no better, making it only to four. After a few more tries, she was able to control the rate and depth of her breaths, and a few minutes later when she made her target count of eight, she felt much calmer.
Continuing to breathe slowly and deeply, Nic visualized herself on a sandy beach, with the crystal-clear turquoise waters of the Mediterranean lapping at her feet. Her parents hated the beach, but since college she’d been taking her own vacations. She still traveled to France with her family, but now instead of staying in the wine country with her parents, she’d escape to Nice or Cannes with her cousins. And when she had three or four days off, she’d often hop a flight to the Caribbean. Instead of the ten-hour trip to the south of France, she could be on the beach in Aruba in five.
She imagined it now. Above her, a cloudless blue sky reflected the rays of the sun, and they caressed her face, her breasts, and her belly, instantly warming her. She dug her toes into the sand, and the contrasting cool soothed her. Her hand rested on a tropical drink—was it a margarita? She tasted it, and the tangy flavor of lime confirmed her suspicion. Then, beside her, a woman moved, and she felt even more heat as the woman began to spread sunscreen over Nic’s skin.
Breathing and fantasizing had the desired effect. A few minutes in paradise was all Nic needed. Opening her eyes, she felt awash with calm and was once again in control. Even though she was locked in a room in a police station, wearing skimpy running gear, with no identification and no idea what she’d done to deserve this fate, she felt completely relaxed.
She walked across the room to the two-way mirror, picturing the short police officer seated on the other side, watching. She hoped he could hear as well. Scanning the length of the six-foot long mirror, she began to speak. “My name is Dr. Nicole Coussart. I’m an ER doctor from Wilkes-Barre, and I’m scheduled to give a presentation at the medical conference at the convention center. I’m due to speak at eleven today, and as you can see, I’m going to need a shower. So I would appreciate it if you can do whatever is necessary to expedite my release. Thank you.”
Instead of sitting, Nic walked across the room and began stretching. Dropping her head to her knees, she felt the pull in her hamstrings and allowed her arms to fall, feeling the stretch along her spine. After a minute she dropped her hands to the floor, ignoring the germs she imagined there, and stretched her Achilles tendons. After fifteen minutes of yoga, she sat down at the table, choosing the chair facing away from the mirror and those watching her. She continued her measured breathing, felt the chair where it touched the muscles and skin of her back and legs, cold against the thin fabric of the clothing that covered her. She was startled when she heard a door open and realized she must have dozed off. Arching her back, she reached overhead and stretched her arms, wondering how long she’d been asleep to have stiffened up so much.
“What time is it?” she asked the tall man wearing the tailored suit. It was hard to tell how long she’d been locked alone in this room, but his presence had to signal that her time was coming to an end. If only she could explain who she was, the police would be forced to release her. Offering a friendly smile, she waited for his reply.
“I ask the questions,” he said, and the loud smack that echoed through the room as he dropped a thick file folder onto the metal table startled her. He didn’t return her smile. Instead, he studied her as he removed his suit jacked and draped it over the back of his chair. Water stains soiled his shirt at the armpits, and Nic was happy to see him sweat. Wearing only her tank and shorts, she might have frozen to death if the air conditioning worked properly.
She frowned as she met his cool gaze. This wasn’t the friendly encounter she’d hoped for after she’d given her soliloquy at the mirror, but before she could speak again, he did.
“I’m Detective Young. Philip Young. I need to ask you a few questions about the murder of Billy Wallace.” Pushing back into his chair, he seemed to relax and settle in for what might be a lengthy conversation.
Bending forward, Nic placed both hands calmly on the table and stared into his eyes. “Are you serious?”
He cocked his head but otherwise didn’t move as he studied her. “Very serious, Katie. Murder is a serious crime, and I take it personally when a police informant gets gunned down in his own home.”
She shook her head and turned her palms up, shrugging. “I’m sorry about your informant, Detective, but you have the wrong suspect. My name is Nicole Coussart. I’m an ER doctor from Wilkes-Barre and I’m visiting for a conference. I know nothing about Mr. Wallace or his murder.”
He leaned forward and barked. “Do you deny knowing William Wallace?”
“I know Braveheart.”
“What?” The look of confusion on his face amused Nic. She’d clearly thrown him off balance.
“Braveheart. Hero of the Scots. Hanged by King Edward I at the Tower of London.” She didn’t mention that he’d been emasculated, eviscerated, and beheaded as well.
He studied her for another moment. “I saw the movie.” And then Nic detected what she suspected was a flicker of doubt in his eyes, verified by his next question. “Do you have any ID, Doctor?”
Nic couldn’t control her retort, and she wasn’t certain, but she suspected she could be forgiven her bad manners in this one particular situation. “Are you fucking kidding me? Where would I put an ID in this outfit?” With her right hand she waved at the running clothes she wore. “I was out running.”
“Not very nice language for a doctor. Do you talk to your patients that way?”
A sigh of exasperation escaped her lips. “You know what, Detective? I’ve had enough. I’d like to exercise whatever right it is that allows me to call my lawyer. And I’m going to sue you, and the two idiots who brought me in here, and the entire Philadelphia Police Department, and the mayor and whoever else I can think of, for harassing me. I need to be at a conference at eleven o’clock. It is vital to my career that I’m on time. Vital. So give me a phone and let me make my call.”
Smacking his lips, he looked down his nose at her, seemingly ignoring her tirade. “You have a lawyer, do you? That’s very convenient for a doctor from upstate to have a lawyer here in the city.” He smiled, reached into the inside pocket of the suit jacket hanging on the chair, and retrieved a cell phone. After a delay of a moment, where they stared each other down, he slid it across the table to her.
“Who said my lawyer was in the city?”
“Well, if you wanna make that eleven o’clock conference, you better hope he’s not in Wilkes-Barre. Would you like some privacy?”
She broke eye contact and shook her head as she dialed the phone. “I have nothing to hide. But I do have a concern. I’m going to dial my friend’s pager, and he’ll have to call me back. Is that a problem?” Once again, she sta
red him down.
Glaring right back at her, he responded. “Your personal lawyer has a pager, huh? How convenient.”
“I’m actually calling my friend. A surgical resident at Temple. He’ll know what to do. I don’t actually know any lawyers here.”
“I see,” he said, nodding his head as he studied her. Then he waved his hand at the phone. “Be my guest.”
Louis’s pager number hadn’t changed in the four years of his residency, and Nic had dialed it frequently enough to have memorized it. After she typed in the cell-phone number she wanted him to call, she added an additional three digits. Nine-one-two. Nine-one-one was a code often used by colleagues to convey the urgency of a page. Nine-one-two was a private code her group of friends used to identify themselves.
As she’d hoped, it took Louis less than a minute to return the call. She grabbed the phone and walked away from the table, away from the annoying man who was detaining her.
“Louis, it’s me. I’m in trouble and I need your help.”
“What’s going on?” he asked, not sounding a bit alarmed.
“I’ve been arrested. Do you know any lawyers?”
“What? What the hell are you talking about?” Now, his voice rose to match his concern.
Nic spoke more slowly. “I’ve been arrested. I think. I’m not sure.” Looking to the detective she shrugged and mouthed the question to him.
He responded by shaking his head.
“Actually, no, I haven’t been arrested, but I’m in jail. I need a lawyer.”
“Where are you? Do you want me to come?”
“Lou, I don’t need surgery. I need a lawyer.”
“I can call Rae.”
Nic groaned at the mention of the annoying woman’s name. She couldn’t explain how she’d forgotten her, unless her subconscious was simply burying the painful memory. She’d hoped to never see her again, yet under the circumstances, Rae would be perfect. She was loud and obnoxious—exactly the kind of lawyer she wanted defending her.
