Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) (7 page)

Junior chews the side of his mouth. His nostrils flare in silence.

“Are you taking a dive for someone? Maybe a bro? A homey? Someone close to you?” Junior’s legs suddenly stop shaking.

Daniels glances up at me and then leans in close to Junior, and whispers, “So that’s it. You’re protecting someone you care about.”

“I dunno know what you talkin’ ’bout.” Junior folds his arms in front of his chest and eyes the stained ceiling tiles as if he’s trying to stop gravity from pulling down the tears.

Daniels walks around the table and sits. “You’re young; you’re smart. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

Junior squints a pained look at Daniels.

And I squint at Junior. Trying to force something in my head. But it’s empty—nothing is coming into focus. I drag
my chair closer to the scratched glass, breathe on it, and wipe it with the sleeve of my hoodie and gaze into his eyes.

“Fine.” Daniels doesn’t let up. “You’re guilty. Got it. With that confession?” He points at the folder. “You’re basically toast—so why not? Why not tell me more?” He stands—sits on the table. “Why the hell would you kill a homey and dump him in the river? You got more going on, don’t cha, Junior? What else you dealing? Where’s the rest of the stash? There has to be more, a shitload more.”

Junior looks right at me. I wait for something to kick in . . . what he’s seeing—what he’s thinking about. And his sad, scared eyes—his pupils start dancing around like he’s suddenly focusing on something, reliving something. And in an instant a series of images start bouncing in my head, too, like a pinball machine. Balls. Dozens of lime-green, fuzzy tennis balls whirl around, slam against one another. My brain pulsates with each bounce. I try to keep my hand steady as I pencil them on the paper and then text Daniels:

ME: got it.

The sergeant reacts to the buzz of the phone in his back pocket. He takes it out and reads. “Excuse me one minute, will you? And while I’m gone? Think about everything I said. Think about your future. A cap and gown in June, or the slammer at seventeen.” He exits the room.

Junior stays seated, blinks a few times, his gaze burrowing into me, as if he sees me through the mirror again—focused in tight, a lone tear wells up and then drips down on his cheek. He doesn’t bother to wipe it away.

I jump as the sergeant charges in the room. “Why did that take you so long?”

“Sorry, jeez. I didn’t know I was under the gun. Bad pun, I know.”

“So? What did you see, draw?”

I tear out the page in my book, stand, hand it to him.

“What’s this?”

“Looks like tennis balls to me.”

He flips it around, checks out the back. “Where’s the face?”

“What face?”

“The face you saw when you studied him?”

“I didn’t see a face. I saw balls. Tennis balls.”

“You were supposed to draw a face—the boss—the OG.”

“I don’t always see faces; you know that. Sorry. Fire me, why don’t you? I draw what’s in their mind.” I shrug, sit back down on the chair. “Don’t blame me; blame Junior. Damn, my head is hurting.”

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

“I don’t know. I have to figure that out for you, too?” I lean my elbows on my knees, lower my head, and rub my temples.

He studies the drawing—bites his bottom lip. “I’ll give it to Cole. See what he can get out of this . . . maybe send the canines in there.”

“Not Cole—he’ll screw it up.”

“Bea, don’t tell me how to do my job.”

“I’m not. It’s just that Junior’s scared about something, Sarge. His eyes were, like, crazy scared.”

The sergeant doesn’t respond for a moment. “Well, I need more than this. I’ve got to get more out of him somehow.”

I feel like such a failure. “What happens to him now?”

“We’ll keep him in the holding cell for the time being.”

“The holding cell? Where’s that?”

“In the basement.”

I stand. “Put me in there with him. I can get more out of him, without glass between us, and maybe draw something that’ll help.”

“Don’t be crazy. That’s too dangerous. And you’re a girl. You wouldn’t be allowed in there with him.”

“You said I look like a guy.”

“No way, Bea. No.”

“Come on. . . . I’m sure there are cameras, right? You can watch. I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know about this. . . .”

“I do. I can draw the truth out of him. I know I can. Give me another chance. Please?”

We have to play the game again—but this time we switch roles: it’s the sergeant who’s acting tough for an approaching deputy
as he shoves me down the fluorescent-lit basement hallway. “I’ve got her . . . I mean him,” Daniels explains. “And believe me, you don’t want to handle him. He’s a biter.”

A biter? Really, I’m a biter?
I eye him like he’s crazy.

The sergeant gives me a hint of a smile and then pushes me into a small jail cell and unlocks the handcuffs—nope, not the last time I had to wear them. He gestures with his head toward a security camera, leans in close, and whispers, “Stand right where you are and turn your cap around on your head when you’ve got something. That’ll be our signal. But make sure I see you do it. I’ll be right around the corner, monitoring, and I’ll get to you within a minute. You got it, Bea?”

“Got it, Sarge.”

He slams the steel bars shut. They
clang
—lock automatically.

I look around at the cell. Probably six by eight feet. I pace the space and prove my estimation right. It smells of pissy Pine-Sol. Three sterile cinder-block walls painted a drab olive green; a concrete floor; a stainless toilet and sink jutting out of the wall; a worn wooden plank to sit on, lie on, wait on, worry on. Phony amenities, bullshit hope.

Black scuff marks mar the floor; the words
fuck you all
, scraped by someone, probably with a fingernail, are etched in the wood on the side of the plank. The metal bars are worn, the finish dulled from clenched fists.

This could have so been my life. Spent in a cell. Locked away. I was never busted—never had to sit in a hole like this.
It was bad enough overdosing—waking up in a hospital, being thrown into rehab by my parents. But here? It’s stupid scary. That’s what it’s meant to do, this place. Shame you. Entrap you. Mess with your head.

My stomach tightens. I get cold and hot at the same time, and I suddenly start to sweat. My heart does a fluttery thing, like a fish tail flopping back and forth, desperate to free itself from the bottom of a boat. I sit down on the bench, try to breathe deeply, slowly—but it’s not working. I wipe my upper lip with my sleeve. My throat feels as if it’s closing up.
Holy crap. I’m having a panic attack. I’ve got to get out of here. Daniels . . . I need him.

I’m about to look in the camera and turn my hat around when I suddenly hear keys jingling. But not the sergeant’s keys. It’s the deputy escorting Junior—leading him into the cell across from me. Junior complies, his big feet dragging along behind. The bars clang shut, and the now familiar “locked-in-my-brain-for-the-rest-of-my-life” echo bounces off the drab green walls.

Junior pays no attention—doesn’t even notice me. He starts to circle like a crazed animal, banging, hitting the bars. And my heart slows, my breath softens. . . . And I climb up, taking me out of myself—out of the hole. It’s about him now—not me.

“What you in for?” I ask, sounding like a stupid line from a TV cop show.

He ignores me, still circling.

I try again. “What’s crackin’, homey?”

He snarls, “I ain’t your homey.”

Junior walks to the back of the cell—places his hands up above his head, leaning them on the cinder blocks, his legs splayed like he’s about to be frisked, and proceeds to hit his forehead over and over against the wall, repeating the words
shit, shit, shit
.

“Dude, chill out, you’re going to bust your head open. And I’m not cool with blood.”

He stops for a beat and yells, “Shut the fuck up!”

“I’m just tryin’ to make conversation.”

“I said, shut the fuck up.”

I have to get him to stop, sit, still himself, and face me. I have to reach him somehow, read his eyes.
Think, Bea.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I talk through the bars.

Junior ignores me and continues his slamming. “Hey,” I whisper, hoping the sergeant can’t read lips. “I’m a chick, pretending to be a guy. Wanna see?”

I figure this will get his attention. And I’m right; it does. He stops his banging, whips around, like,
what the hell?

“Check it out.”

Junior rubs the red welt on his forehead with his palm and slowly makes his way to me, looks in both directions down the corridor, probably making sure no one’s watching, ready to take on the pending peep show.

I’ve never been into this before, exposing myself, sexting—but whatever it takes. I step back so the sergeant doesn’t see me in the camera, and slowly unzip my jacket, exposing my
wrinkled PE tee, size small, and shrunk in the wash. Even though I’m not exactly well-endowed, no way does it hide the girls.

Junior sits on the wooden bench, his eyes focused on me—I don’t think he even blinks—and his leg starts jiggling again. But this time it appears to be a “seventeen-year-old-trying-not-to-get-a-boner-from-a-tight-T-shirt jiggle.”

“What the hell you doin’ here? You nuts?” His jaw juts back and forth.

“Shhh. They don’t know. I told them I lost my license.” I zip up. “I wouldn’t be here in the guys’ cell if they knew, and I sure don’t wanna be thrown in with them mean bitches. Girls are badder than boys, you know that, right? They scratch and shit.”

I get him to smile a little. “Oh, man, that’s for sure. The bitches in my ’hood, they’re . . .” He stops. Cracks his neck.

“Where’s your ’hood?”

He drops his eyes. Says nothing.

“You won’t tell nobody about my boobs, right?” I whisper.

His eyes zero in on me. “I ain’t no rat. Never will be,” he hisses.

“That’s cool.” I sit and try to keep the conversation chill. “Did I really fool ya? You thought I was a guy? It’s crazy wild I’m getting away with it.”

He wrinkles his brow and shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know how you fooled them, but I didn’t get a good look at you. I woulda known, though, if I did.” He chews on his thumb,
nods, still studying me like I’m a figment of his imagination. “So what d’you do, anyway; why you here?” He spits a piece of nail out on the floor.

The “tagging bust scenario” feels too lame for this sitch, so I say, “I was picked up for lifting an effin laptop at the mall and got caught, and I was carrying dope in my pack. Can you believe it?” I finger the worn wood of the bench. “Stupid, right?”

“Shit, yeah.”

I keep going, bolstering the charade. “Only way I can make money lately? Lifting and then selling.” I pull out a little spiral pad of paper and a pen that the sergeant stuffed in my back pocket. “Okay, I told you my deal, now it’s your turn. What you in for?”

He sucks through his teeth as if he’s swallowing a spit secret and lies down on his back on his bench. He stares at the ceiling.

I start doodling.

He glances over, sits up a bit, leaning on an elbow. “How come you got a pen? They don’t let that shit in here.”

“I know; I smuggled it in—shoved it up my ass.” I hold it out toward him. “Wanna borrow it?”

He smiles again, and I think I hear a little laugh—short-lived.

I look around the cell, falsely befriending it. “You know, this is the best place I’ve been in the last week. It has a toilet, a sink—both stainless—top of the line, like a four-star hotel.”

A definite snicker. “You wandering?” He sniffs.

“Kinda,” I say. “I got in a big fight with the ’rents, and they
kicked me out. You know . . . tough love, they say. More like tough shit, I say. So, yeah, I’m on the run, chillin’, trying to stay out of trouble.” I laugh. “I guess I messed up that last part.”

“You on the streets?”

I nod. “But the bathrooms in the malls are cool for whore baths. You know, chick parts.”

He looks away, kind of shifts his body over to the other side.

I went too far, dammit. Gotta get him back.
“TMI? Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to share that. I’m doing the best I can, dodging the pigs. And it’s a lot easier pretending I’m a guy. I don’t get messed with, if you know what I mean.”

He leans forward, wraps his arm around his knees. “Oh, yeah, you gotta get off the streets. You don’t wanna get hurt. It’s nasty out there. I know a couple chicks that’ve been hit hard. Sliced.”

“Sliced?”

“Yeah, even by other girls. They go for your face. Don’t want you to be too pretty. And the dudes wanna claim you. It’s good you dress like that.”

Unbelievable. All the heat he’s dealing with, and he’s worried about me? Giving me advice? Wow. He’s so not guilty—no way.
“Yeah, I gotta do what I gotta do—acting tough, dressin’ butch. But if I’m honest? I’m scared out of my mind.”

He doesn’t have to utter a word, but he’s scared, too—his chin rests on top of his knees tightly tucked, hugging his body.

I draw his face on the pad. The beardless jaw, broad nose,
the jagged scar etched in his skin above his upper lip. His hair is closely cropped, forming a perfectly straight line stretching across his high forehead, and his eyes are round like big, wet black buttons.