John rolls up to the security gate, and the guard flags him down. “Just leaving, sir,” John says, forcing a casual smile as if he’s an old friend and there’s nothing to worry about.
“Can I ask you to pull over to the side for a moment, sir?” The guard motions with his flashlight to the side of the road. They arrive out of nowhere: a swarm of flashing red and blue lights barreling in on us. In an instant, the police have circled the car, blocking every escape route. Uniformed officers charge in, opening our doors. “Can you step out of the vehicle please?”
“Can you tell us your name, sir?” they ask John, guiding him out of the car by his arm.
“John.”
“John. Do you have a last name, sir?”
“John Holmes.”
“Mr. Holmes, is there anything in your vehicle you want to tell us about?”
“Uh, no.”
“Then you don’t mind if we look in your trunk, sir?” The guards are on their hands and knees, rifling through the garbage and clothes. Two other officers guide both Michelle and me to the other side of the road, far away from John. “Do you two ladies have any ID?”
“No,” I answer. Michelle pulls out her wallet from her purse.
“May I ask you ladies what business you have here tonight?”
“We’re visiting a friend,” Michelle replies.
John, pale and nervous, leads two officers over to the trunk of the car. He fumbles with the keys for a moment, stalling. An officer helps him pop the trunk, and his shoulders sink. Flashlights beam into the dark opening. “And what is this, Mr. Holmes?”
John says nothing. From my distance on the other side of the car, I can see a thin sheen of sweat on his face and detect a faint scent of adrenaline reek from his body.
“Is this your computer, Mr. Holmes?”
John still says nothing. In an instant, the guards are handcuffing us and reading us our rights.
Oh God! He’s stolen a computer! While we were upstairs, he stole a computer! We’re being arrested! I can’t believe this.
Three separate police cars drive off with Michelle, John, and I handcuffed in the backseats. Sharon’s Chevy Malibu is impounded.
Early in the morning on January 14, 1981, the Huntington Beach Police Department, a dank cinder block of a building surrounded with barbed wire topped fencing, is crowded and busy. Michelle and I sit handcuffed on the bench in front of the booking counter on the female side of the jail.
“Dawn Schiller.” The woman police officer calls my name. The wall with the lined height measurements is cold, and instantly I shiver. “Hold still, please.” She poses me to face a camera for my mug shot and fingerprints and then leads me to a holding cell. Several women crowd the tiny eight-by-eight cell, and each of them scurries to see if the new person is big enough to make her move. “You’re gonna have to find a space,” says the husky officer.
Two bunks, a top and a bottom, are overflowing with bleary-eyed women, some leaning against a gray concrete wall and the rest sitting wherever there is leftover space on the floor. Near the door of the cell, a metal toilet, yellow and plugged up with paper, is the only space left to sit. I prop myself up against the cell wall and try not to look at anyone or think about the smell. This is an all-time low, I tell myself, and I want to break down. I have a bus ticket waiting for me, and I’m stuck here. I don’t want to go to jail because of John. The hard stares from the others keep me from crying. I want to, though. I want to wail like a baby. Keys jingle again at the lock; the officers have come with Michelle.
“Move over,” she hisses. She is boiling.
“Oh God, Michelle. What are we going to do?”
“We? What do you think? John’s going to call Eddie to bail us out of here.”
“Oh, good.”
“Good? He’s not bailing you out!”
“What? Why?” I am mortified.
“He knows how you’ve been stealing from me. He’s not going to bail you out so you can come back and rip me off some more!” Her eyes are fiery mad.
John’s grabbing the hand-carved figurine from the mantel plays before my mind’s eye. “It wasn’t me,” I promise her desperately.
“Don’t fucking lie,” she snaps, then turns her back to me. “John told me it was you!”
Oh no. It was John. He’s the one who made her suspicious of me. She’s going to make them leave me here. I replay his movements in my head. I can’t bear it. “John did it! John’s the one who has been stealing from you. I saw him take a figurine from your shelf. I swear to you I haven’t been taking anything. I promise. I promise.” I am terrified to be left in jail. I can’t be left here. What will I do?
“Don’t fucking bullshit me.” She lunges back like a cobra.
“I’m not. I’m not. I saw him take it. Please! It wasn’t me!”
She curls into a ball on the floor. “You better not be bullshitting me!” She closes her eyes and drops off to sleep.
I lie awake on the hard concrete floor until daybreak, cold to the bone, wondering if I will be left behind in jail. Breakfast is served early, and a few of the drunken women who are there to sleep off their buzz are released. Every time an officer appears at the barred metal door, I hold my breath, hoping my name will be called and I will be released. Midmorning an officer calls for Michelle. My heart sinks.
“See you later, bitch!” she snaps as she steps over me.
Her words cut me like a Samurai sword, swift and sharp down to my core, and I shrink back dejected. But it is short-lived. Immediately behind them, another officer is at the door calling my name. “Oh. That’s me.” I leap to my feet, relieved, and follow Michelle and her escort. I wave good-bye to a couple of the girls who, in the night, were kind and showed me how to use the toilet.
The booking desk is bustling; inmates in handcuffs and shackles shuffle by, escorted by detectives in suits. We sign for our few things and are released out into the harsh morning light.
John is waiting out front, pacing and chewing anxiously on a plastic cigarette filter. Michelle ignores the bogus grin he displays as we step through the jail’s metal doors, and she storms briskly ahead to the waiting Malibu. Without a flinch, John saunters up to hug me.
“How did you get us out?” I ask.
John’s plastic smile stays plastered for the surveillance cameras and he shoots me a look. “Nash. How do you think?” he breathes from the corner of his mouth, still chewing on the filter.
In the car, we are quiet heading back to Michelle’s. The relief of getting out of jail is wearing off, and my next concern—how to not get beaten again—is crowding in on me. Michelle will challenge John about my jailhouse confession. This is not going to be good. I wince. I’m going to run. As soon as I can, I’m going to run, I promise myself. Please. Please. Let my bus ticket still be there. The next chance I get, I’m going to run.
Back at the studio apartment, Michelle and John head directly into the bathroom. This time I don’t hear the bubbling of the freebase pipe but their muffled arguing instead. She’s confronting him about stealing. He’s gonna be mad. The feeling of walking on eggshells is taking over again. My stomach shrinks into a nervous, acidy knot, and I swallow back a taste of bile as I scan the room.