Free What's His Is Mine by Daaimah S. Poole Page B

perspiration covering my entire face. I wet a few paper towels and wiped my face. I looked into the mirror and tried to stop all the crazy thoughts I was having. I knew I was about to do the right thing, but it didn’t make it any easier. Just not knowing what was about to happen next frightened me. But on the other hand, I couldn’t continue to live my life in fear and in limbo. I still wasn’t sure exactly how I was going to pull everything off when I got back home, but I did know I was tired of running.
    The train pulled into the station, and I boarded. I took a seat in the middle of the train by the window, and took several deep breaths. It was going to be a long ride home, but I couldn’t wait to see my children and my baby. I wasn’t sure if I was going to try to see my family first, or go straight to the police to turn myself in.
    Seventeen hours later I arrived in Philly at the 30th Street Station. I was very tired and couldn’t believe I was home. Everything was busy—people walking to and from trains, rushing home from work. During the course of the ride, I decided I wasn’t going to call anyone—I was just going to turn myself in. I didn’t want to change my mind or get scared again. I was home, and needed to get the unpleasant out of the way first. I walked outside the train station and jumped into a Yellow Cab. The cab took me to the Roundhouse, the central police station on 8th and Race Streets.
    God, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please have mercy on me, I prayed as I walked into the police station. There were a few people seated in the waiting area. I walked past them. I was shaking and full of anxiety as I approached the bulletproof window. I saw a female officer in her early thirties with red hair, wearing brown reading glasses and snug navy blue uniform pants and a light blue, creased shirt. She was sitting at a desk, typing something. I knocked on the window and she got up from her desk and walked over to the window. I was still going over what I was going to say in my head. My name is Tanisha, and I murdered a woman last year in FDR Park. I’m here to turn myself in. Or maybe I’ll say, I’m wanted and I’m here to turn myself in. I didn’t know what to say, so when the woman came up to the window and said, “What can I do for you?” I said in almost a whisper, “I need to turn myself in.”
    She leaned her ear over to the window and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”
    I didn’t want to scream, but I needed her to hear me, so I spoke up a little louder and clearer. “I need to turn myself in.”
    She looked at me, alarmed, but then all she said was, “Okay, have a seat. Someone will be out to speak with you.”
    Someone will be out to speak with you, I thought. I just told her I was there to turn myself in and all she could say was have a seat. Wasn’t she supposed to march out with the handcuffs and throw me in jail immediately? I stood dumbfounded for a few seconds. I didn’t want to have a seat, because I’d had too many months and weeks of excitement and frustration and not knowing inside of me. I had to tell what happened. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to turn myself in—maybe I was supposed to just keep on going. I reluctantly took a seat as my hands and legs began to shake nervously. Instantly, I thought about running again. I looked at the door, then back at the officer. I looked around the room. I looked back at the window. The officer had sat back down. Was she crazy? What was she doing, just sitting? I thought about going back up to the window again. If she didn’t call me in five minutes, I was going to leave. It was 6:14. She had until 6:19. I took a deep breath and waited. One minute, two minutes, and then at 6:19, nothing. I looked up at the window again and the woman wasn’t even at her desk. This