Free Wildfire by Priscilla West Page B

late,” his partner corrects him.
     
    “Yeah, but even if she get’s bail the bondsman can sign a writ, maybe. I guess it depends on the judge.” He answers back, pretending I’m not in the back seat looking like a crushed tin can.
     
    “What do you mean, if I get bail? This isn’t the way it worked last time at all!”
     
    “Well you see,” the officer shifts in his seat and turns back around, his eyes aglow. You can tell he really loves the system, how it works and explaining it to budding lawbreakers like me.  “The last time you were given bail because the court put out a protective order. So you were released on your own recognizance.”
     
    “But this time,” the driver continues, stealing his partner’s thunder – clearly not for the first time. “You violated a court order. So that’s a crime and it shows your intent to repeat the original crime and it means your recognizance clearly isn’t good enough. Thus, now you have to stand before a judge and defend yourself on both charges and show there’s someone else who will sign for you.”
     
    “But that’s the thing. I didn’t break the order!” I stomp my feet as if that is going to magically open up their minds. “Blake asked me to come to his office. I didn’t just walk in by myself.”
     
    “The thing you’re gonna like, Ma’am,” the passenger points at me as if he is picking me for a ball game. “Is that the judge might be willing to listen to your story. Since you seem to want to tell it.”
     
    “Until you get in front of the judge, though,” the driver continues, obviously used to getting the last word. “You should shut up about it. Because, no one in booking gives a rat’s ass.”
     
    Gruffly but with an odd amount of care, the officers walk me into booking, guiding me through a maze of desks until they find one that is open. Standing me in front of the wooden chair, the driver looks me straight in the eye.
     
    “Promise me you’ll behave and I’ll cut you loose.” He says motioning to the zip tie cutting into my wrists.
     
    “I promise,” I reply earnestly. It is a baby step, but my first step to getting out of here and to the courthouse on time.  He turns me around. I hear the click of a pocket knife and feel the sweet release of my hands coming undone.  Bringing them forward, I rub my wrists looking at the swollen lines already turning red around each of them.
     
    I sit down in the chair and look at the clock. It’s eleven forty-five.  I’ve got an hour and fifteen minutes to make this work. Frantically I look around for the person who is supposed to be booking me. A heavyset sweating woman with a severely short hair cut and hands the size of my head gives a deep sigh and sits down, peering at the paperwork the cop left.  Taking her dear sweet time, she scans the orders as if she is memorizing my history.
     
    “I’m sorry,” I start to get her attention. She frowns and looks at me from the side of the paper. “I really need to get this part done. Can we get started?”
     
    She snort-laughs and gestures to me while she speaks to a male officer at the next desk. “She wants to get started.”
     
    “Please, I don’t want to be rude. I’m just looking at the clock and I have to be somewhere this afternoon and I feel like if we work together we can get through this part fast so I might make my appointment.”
     
    Her face didn’t have to tell me. The generously loud laughter of the man at the next desk didn’t have to tell me. The murmuring of the word “bitch” from the guy chained to the chair behind me didn’t have to tell me. I knew. I knew the minute it came out of my mouth it was the wrong thing to say. But it hung there in the air, and there was no way to take it back.
     
    “Are we messing up your tea party, sweetie?” the booking officer crooned and held a “tea-cup pinky” in the air. “Or do you have some other laws you need to violate before noon.”
     
    “I’m