The arrest sheet they’ve worked up on me is fairly impressive.

Unlawful Use of Motor Vehicle
Felony Possession of Controlled Substance
Operating a Motor Vehicle Under the Influence/Controlled Substance Liquor
Resisting Arrest
Obstructing Justice
Vehicular Negligence/Property Damage

“There ought to be a fucking law against her puking on me,” Andrea whines and the booking clerk rolls his eyes and makes a pretense of scanning the traffic law and criminal justice book in front of him murmuring, “Vomit on officer, vomit on officer~~Sorry. Nothing.”

“Asshole,” Andrea sniffs then jerks me around and shoves me down the hallway towards the shelves on the cinderblock wall outside Holding.

I don’t know if she meant the booking clerk or me and I don’t care.

I’ve fucked up in a way so monstrous and huge that my brain is on overload trying to grasp all the repercussions from my stupidity.

Massey and Chandler have my lap top.

If not this very second, then soon. Every electronic message and email and communication and file transferred is just sitting there, waiting to be coaxed forth. Everything S’Phear has found on Massey’s computer, everything we have on Chandler, what we were doing with the information~~It’s theirs now. And now that they’ve pulled the gloves off and shown me exactly what kind of hardball they can play and how far they can take it, I feel off kilter and unbalanced; undone at the seams.

They have everything I thought I had to protect us. I even told Jinny in email that I found the tape in the shoes at the penthouse. They know everything I know. They have everything which I knew put me ahead.

And more than that, my brain screams at me. S’Phearhead has no way of knowing that the next time he sees my computer has booted up and I am on line… it’s not me. They’ll see who he is and they’ll lay a trap for him; the F.B.I. will fucking cream for the opportunity to catch one of the world’s most infamous hackers. He won’t see daylight for thirty years or more. They’ll stick him away and they won’t even give him have Radio Shack parts to tinker with. And I’ve done it.

The plan to save Jinny’s job and self-esteem, maybe her life, to nail Chandler and Massey, even S’Phear’s freedom of existence… I’ve fucked it all up. Everything is in ruins and I’ve caused all of it with my temper and my lack of self-restraint and my arrogance. How could I possibly have thought that people like Chandler with goons like Massey were guys I could take on and defeat? How did I think I was going to waltz around in the lions den tossing out juicy chunks of meat and nobody pounce on me? Jesus. Hiding tapes in jelly jars; running a fucking stop sign and plowing into the side of a building in a car paid for with one of their credit cards; not thinking ahead and realizing that the ones who Protect and Serve are not necessarily on my side right now.

“I’m stupid,” I announce in a rather stunned voice and Andrea half turns to look at me and smirks.

“You got that right.”

It’s quiet in the division. She’s letting me lean against a wall while she fills out the paperwork on me; I’m not sure why she hasn’t just stuck me in Holding yet but I’m not especially looking forward to it. It’s particularly crowded and Andrea has already gone out of her way to mention two or three times during the fingerprint and mug shot process that it’s such a shame when she has to arrest a COP, a fellow POLICE OFFICER, especially when it’s been such a long uphill battle for WOMEN on the FORCE, etc.

Some of the occupants have crowded up to the bars on that side, listening, faces pressed into the metal and coolly composed, eyeballing me.

And right now I look and feel like a very whipped puppy. I couldn’t defend myself against a two year old on a sugar high.

“Where is everyone?” I wonder aloud, my voice dismal and forlorn and Andrea snorts and slides turtle green eyes to meet mine.

“Wishing you had your Aunt Kaitlyn around to bail you out?”

I frown, puzzled, trying to decipher who she means when it clicks.

“McCafferty’s not my aunt.” It would’ve been nice if it had come out in a more forceful, less morose tone, but oh well.

“Same thing,” she tells me, smacking gum. It’s grape and the sickly sweet smell of it makes me queasy. It smells like soured wine vomit, I realize and then the flash of where that takes me isn’t pleasant at all so I shove myself up halfway and jerk my head towards the Holding cell.

“Could you just go ahead and stick me in there so they can beat me unconscious now? Because I’d just as soon skip the rest of this.”

“Oh, I’d love to. But you know how it is; everything’s paperwork.”

She winks at me. She’s really enjoying the hell out of this. It’s going to look great on her record I suppose; big bad cop under arrest.

Something fizzles into place and I blink, trying to figure out what almost got through to me, what thought that might save at least part of this mess almost made it all the way up my brain stem.

I glance at the sheet of paper she’s filling out and let my eyes run down the list again:

Unlawful Use of Motor Vehicle
Felony Possession of Controlled Substance
Operating a Motor Vehicle Under the Influence/Controlled Substance Liquor
Resisting Arrest
Obstructing Justice
Vehicular Negligence/Property Damage

Is that enough? It’s an odd thought to be having at this moment, but is it?

Will all of that combined with Sylvie’s bust and Chandler’s hissy of a press conference last night be enough to make major, national news? Or will they slide it under the carpet and keep it local and only call it out later on when it goes to trial and they need it? They want me out of the way and they’ve got that, what else will they want to pull out of this?

Time.

They’ll want time to go after S’Phear and line the whole thing up, get everything in order, arranged. That’ll take time. They’ll want to explore my lap top’s hard drive and see how I write, see what spelling errors I consistently make, what typos I let slide by, what slang and abbreviations to use to convince him it’s me. They’ll want time to worm out every piece of electronic information about where his emails come from and how they zig zag through the blue nowhere. They’ll want time to ferret out exactly what he and I were planning and exactly how much we know about Chandler and Massey’s doings. They’ll want time to get Jinny out of the way and convince the Department I really am as stupid and reckless and dangerous as my chain of command is thinking right now.

Which means they’ll bury me in here. Lost paperwork, somebody’s hand writing they couldn’t read, some form not signed or completed or filled out improperly; they’ll want me in the system and out of commission but nowhere near a bail hearing or court date because they can’t afford to let me out. So they’ll stack this shit on and make it look legit and then I’ll be shuffled and misplaced and misfiled and lost for however long it takes.

Please, I pray silently. It might be to God but I think it’s really more to Weaver. Run the blood. Raise a fuss. Call in outside labs to run it again so they can’t claim you fudged it.

But even if she does~~ That only means one of the charges gets dropped. The shit was still there in my car according to the arrest sheet. It’ll vindicate me to Sarge and the Department if they actually try to find me, but it won’t do much towards getting me released and it will do nothing towards warning S’Phear. And even if McCafferty comes and finds me, even if Jinny does, even if Mennie drags his feet signing and affirming, even if Weaver stomps in waving a crutch…they still have my computer.

Two uniforms bring in a sleepy looking male with his army surplus jacket draped down over his shoulders; the females in Holding come alive hooting and whistling at the two officers who grin and toss street banter right back. Obvious they’ve arrested most of them at least once and obvious there’s no hard feelings about it either. Funny thing how different women are about male and female cops; they seem to take it in stride, a fact of nature that a man has the right to come in and drag them off the street, stick them in jail for breaking the law, but they don’t appreciate it from a woman. Half of them are pissed that you would arrest another female and try the whole sisterhood and stick-together-Lilith thing. The rest are furious that you somehow ended up on the side with whatever little power it is and want to know who the fuck you are; do you have children? You see your man die on the street? You line up every fucking week in the unemployment line for a year before you realize all you got to peddle is your ass? Come talk to me then.

“You know not to bring males through this area,” the booking clerk says mildly, not even looking up from his Sports Illustrated and the uniforms roll their eyes and gesture down the slightly inclined hallway ahead where I remember there being a lobby inside the front steps, a big SFPD logo on the floor tiles, then various hallways to the different offices and departments and the elevators leading to the male booking and lock up.

“Can’t get through there with that fucking press conference. They got the whole front steps taped off like they fucking think Chandler’s the President. We tried to bring him through and they told us to come around back and go up.”

“This once,” the clerk tells them and they goof around a bit with the females before marching the prisoner down a side hall to an elevator.

If I strain I can just barely make out some voices. They sound amplified as if through microphones and I can’t tell much about them, not even whether they are male or female.

“What’s he doing a press conference for?” I ask Andrea, “For little ol’ me?”

She looks down at me and snorts in disgust.

“God, you’re a mess.” She turns back to the paperwork and then comments idly, “You’d like that wouldn’t you? Thinking you rated that high, huh?” She pops her gum and I fight back the wave of nausea the scent of it puts over me.

“But you don’t. Nothing to do with you, nothing to do with fucking Exstead, nothing to do with Sylvie either.“ The way she says Jinny’s name put my teeth on edge and I feel my hands grip one another in their cuffs, wedged up against the wall.

“They’re having the ceremony for that halfway house today, the one for non violent offenders with children to care for, dedicated in honor of Mrs. Chandler. But then you’re not from here so…” she lets her words drift off as she chews her lip and then asks the booking clerk what code goes here under FPC?

I hope the blood didn’t drain from my face as obviously as it felt it did. Andrea doesn’t know I’ve got the tape; I don’t know if Andrea even knows the tape exists. That she was in on the photos to torment Jinny is a given but I can’t know for certain Sylvie trusted her enough with all the little back up plans she had in motion. Sylvie had no illusions about either her father or her Uncle Robbie and she had gone to great lengths to make sure she had enough on them both to ensure her own safety and well being.

“Okay, just about done. Scars marks and tattoos?”

I reel them off for her. More scars than marks and tatts. She listens and lifts an appreciative eyebrow but stays mostly silent as she jots them down in the proper place on the form.

Signing is next. I have to put my signature there on the bottom right. She’ll have to uncuff me and bring my hands around to the front. I wonder if she’ll try to skip that step and just stick me in Holding trussed up like a turkey and I fight to not heave an excited sigh of relief when she gestures at me to stand, reaching behind for the little flap of leather holding her keys.

I turn obediently, my heart pounding. I have to make sure this makes national news. I have to make sure that me being under arrest and out of commission makes national news. S’Phear has to see it on t.v., he has to read it in the newspapers, it has to make the AP wires and newsgroups on line. I have no doubt he’s got some nifty little kludge simmering away on the back burner of his hacker stove that will effectively set off an electronic nuclear bomb in my laptop the moment anyone boots it up and starts going into my system.

I just have to make certain that the entire world knows H. Cooper Finn has fucking lost it and is under lock and key.

I know she’ll only unlock one and then tell me to bring my hands to the front. I push my excitement down to a low boil and I let my shoulders sag wearily and my head droop forward on my neck. I want her to think I’ve given up; I’m whipped. I want her to think it’s safe to turn me around without shoving me against the wall and taking a wrist at a time up to my head before clicking the cuffs locked again.

And when she puts the hand on my shoulder to turn me I let it rest there and lean forward slightly, collecting myself, letting her think it’s resignation and defeat~~ And then I pivot, lift a leg from the hip as I turn and slam my boot into her knee cap from the outside. It cracks, making a hideous dry twig sound and she goes down immediately, shrieking. I’m all ready to deck her again but it’s not necessary, she’s out of it, rolling and screaming and clutching at the pain. The booking clerk falls off the stool he’s perched on and comes up fumbling with his service weapon but by the time he’s got the safety off I’ve made it halfway up the incline of the hallway.
The females in Holding are all on my side now, oddly enough, hooting and whistling and clapping, urging me on as if I need any more adrenaline amping through me. I can hear the clerk behind me frantically trying to call for back up and punching some buttons which start a low buzzing alarm, but that’s fine, I just need to get to one person and kick his ass in front of enough people that they will have no choice but to acknowledge and make public they have me in custody and I have seriously gone off the deep end.

I slow coming out of the hallway and nod at a couple of uniforms and plain clothes who are milling about inside the lobby looking out the double glass doors where the dedication ceremony is taking place. There’s a bunch of expensive looking suits behind a podium and a big oil painting of a blonde woman which I assume is Sylvie’s mother and a huge bronze plaque off to the side draped in bunting and ribbons. I spot Chandler, looking reverent and dignified standing with some other elegant looking types which I assume are the mayor and governor or the equivalent thereof and off to the left at the front of the crowd facing the speakers I spot him: Massey.

I have a brief moment of panic that the doors will be locked; that they’ll have shut them down to prevent the t.v. moment being ruined by a distracted cop striding out, that Chandler’s security will have locked them down to prevent a breach. I’m hoping they took it for granted that any threat would come from the street, from outside, that there was no need to take precautions against people already inside the division itself and when I tentatively shove the first door and it swings open easily I heave a mental sigh of relief, then gather steam and hit the second one running.

Someone gasps and calls something out before he ever even looks up; he’s got his hands shoved in his front pockets, swaying on the balls of his feet, obviously bored and probably indulging in some sexual fantasy; there’s a big goofy, half- sleepy grin on his face when he finally turns and sees me barreling down on him.

He’s got about three seconds to digest that yes, there is a deranged, bloody, vomit-splattered female at a dead run headed straight for him and a split second afterwards I see his shocked eyes register that it’s me. There’s less than a half second to congratulate myself on the sheer consternation and pure terror on his face~~he wasn’t expecting this~~ before he fumbles under his suit jacket for a weapon. The adrenaline explodes a silver rocket into my brain and then I’m on him and bury my foot what feels like three disgusting, warm inches into his scrotum. And when he sucks in air and bends double, gagging, I rock him backwards, plowing a fist into his nose, then rear an arm up and crash my elbow into his temple, pitching him unconscious and on his side.

I’ve got barely a second to enjoy the sight of him sprawled out and bleeding; I get none to turn and see what sort of conniptions Chandler might be experiencing. As I straighten I hear the familiar sing-song sound of shells jacked into place in shotguns and I spread my fingers and put my arms up before I’m told, then try to make myself boneless for the take down, which is swift and brutal.

It’s about fifteen seconds into it that I realize I’m laughing hysterically.
Let them shove that under. Let’s see them pretend they don’t have me in custody now.

I just racked Massey’s balls and whacked him unconscious on live television in front of at least two hundred witnesses, most of them cops and dignitaries.

I am, personally of course, totally fucked but S’Phear will know what’s happened. He’ll know it’s not me on my computer and he won’t drop the ball. He’ll know why I did what I did and he’ll see it through, the whole crapfest, Chandler, Massey, exactly what we had planned.

And it’s not like I had anything left to lose anyway.


End of Forty Three