The Patrolman - 26

26.

Carruthers was sweet, but he still packed her off to jail. He booked her as Jane Doe for a D.U.I. The watch commander said they were lucky they got there when they did. The station's holding cells were hitting capacity with the riots. It was a madhouse. Under his breath, Carruthers told her not to look at or say a word to anyone.

The cellblock was packed tight. It reeked of piss and old puke. A dozen cells full of young and angry chicanas rattled. They wore torn zoot suits and fingertip jackets. They'd been hassled, their blouses ripped open, exposing their breasts. Some had bruises, others with hair all over the place. The police hadn't been gentle with them. They jeered at the watch commander. A used sanitary napkin hit him square in the face.

They walked to the one on the far left. He opened the cell door and showed June Hartsfield inside. This must've been the drunk tank. It was the biggest cell out of the lot. There was a scratched-up sink and a clogged toilet with two benches on either side. A massive woman sprawled across one of them. Drool ran down her chin. The watch commander locked her in. The jeers chased him up the catwalk.

She shrugged and perched on the free bench, ready to wait out the night. There was no chance in hell that she was getting any sleep. She tried to stretch out but the wood was cold. Hartsfield covered her top half with the fur coat and lay down. When she was a little girl and couldn't sleep, she did a trick. She would close her eyes and roll them as far back into her head as they would go. The effect always made her yawn. She didn't know if there was a name for it, but it worked every time. The yawn drowned out the voices. The white noise filled her ears and before she knew it, Hartsfield was out like a lightbulb.

She didn't know how long it was before she came to. An hour? Two? Most of the other girls had slipped into uneasy sleep. Those who were awake were whispering now. That's what woke her. The whispering. She rolled over onto her left.

Her cellmate had gone.

She looked over her shoulder and saw a girl across the way smoking. She pulled her coat tighter around her and got the girl's attention.

'You see where she went?'

The girl said nothing. Her eyes flicked up the catwalk.

Hartsfield followed her gaze.

There were two men on the stairs. Hartsfield couldn't make out what they were saying, but it looked heated. The watch commander paced and threw his hands up at the other guy. She couldn't see the second man. He was taller. The ceiling cut off his shoulders, but his brown suit looked expensive.

The argument got cut short.

A pair of dumpy legs came down the steps and the other guy stepped down. He came into view, but his back was to her. A uniformed officer handed her cellmate over to the watch commander. He took the woman by the arm and helped her down. The other man turned.

Hartsfield couldn't believe it.

It was the cop who had hit her. He saw her across the catwalk. Doffing his hat, he disappeared back up the stairs.

When the watch commander returned her cellmate, Hartsfield was on her feet. She demanded her phone call.

'It's late,' he said, his voice flat. 'No lawyer'll get you out now. Not if you were Joan Crawford. Sit tight and you'll be out come morning.'

'I wasn't drunk driving,' she cried. 'It's a mistake.'

He locked the cell. 'Right.'

'That man you were with, what’s he doing here?'

The watch commander couldn't quite look her in the eye. 'I'm sorry.' And he walked out.

What the hell was going on? Something was wrong. Worse than wrong.

'I want my phone call now.'

© J. A. Stapleton 2025 - Image Source: Wikimedia Commons