Chapter 2

“I can only assume ... by the total disaster of my purse ... that it was not the only thing of mine that was thoroughly searched.” Wendy said.

Mr. Black shoe blushed.

Wendy blushed.

Mr. Black said, “Several times.”

They had reached the parking lot door, when Wendy noticed the surveillance camera.

“I’m going to demand the film ... films ... of the physical searches ... all of them.”

“They’re in black and white ... we can’t afford color cams.”

Wendy turned around and headed for the front of the station. The first office door that was open beckoned.

The man in his shirt sleeves sat bolt upright when Wendy grabbed his phone.

“Lady, what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Calling my dad.”

There is that about the police ... whatever branch ... that assumes you’re guilty if you are a civilian in their offices. It is the Judicial Branch that decides innocence. The enforcement branch doesn’t. Someone brought you in ... you’re guilty.

“There’s a pay phone in the hall, girly.”

“I’m an officer of the court,” she said. “Yours was the first phone I saw.”

He looked he up and down and back up stopping at the cliff of her blouse. Wendy is centerfold material ... centerfold of the year. He opened his mouth to retort when Mr. Black shoe said. “Charlie ... don’t.”

“Daddy ... I’ve been illegally detained. Meet me at the...” she looked at Mr. Black. He told her. She continued, “Stapelton Security Desk. Bring a Judge ... make it a Federal Judge.”

There was a row of chairs ... straight backed, flat bottomed and of inconvenient height ... neither too high nor too low ... but unlike Baby Bears chair ... the chairs were most genuinely NOT just right. Wendy picked one from the center of the row and sat.

She looked at Mr. Black shoe and said, “Have a seat ... it’ll be a while.”

Mr. Shoe ... Black ... took a seat. Almost immediately he began to squirm.

Conversationally, Wendy said, “You know, one of the Senior classes in Court Room Procedures tells us to pay attention to the witnesses ... squirmers are guilty ... or lying. Then we learned about court room furniture. These are extremely uncomfortable.” She paused, “What are you guilty of?”

“Good Lord! Any number of things ... but nothing not allowed by the Constitution or Regulations.”

“Yes ... you lie to your suspects ... and it’s legal ... for you ... but They are not allowed to lie to you.”

“And that’s the least of it,” said Mr. Black shoe. “Not to change the subject, how did you know?”

“That you were in charge?” Wendy replied.

He nodded,

“Your shoes. You were the only one of the bunch with black shoes. Black shoes ... as shiny as yours ... aren’t cheap. You make enough money to afford good shoes ... ergo ... the boss.” She gave him a good looking over. “And the suit ... better cloth ... not off the rack ... your gun doesn’t bulge. You have a decent haircut,” she said.

She reached out and picked an errant thread from his collar.

She twiddled it. “But ... you’re not married.”

“Been ... it didn’t last ... you’re a regular little Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you.”

“Daddy,” she said. “He said, ‘Pay attention to the details, Wendy. It’s the little things that tell the truth.’ You have no idea how miserable those words made my teen years.”

“What?”

“There was always something wrong with my heroes.”

“What?”

“Like the condom circle in the wallet ... or cheap cologne ... or the snoose box outline in the jeans.”

She paused, shuddered in remembrance, “Like kissing a spittoon,” she said.

Mr. Black shoe shivered, and gagged.

“Something?” Wendy asked.

“My first kiss ... she chewed.”

“Cowgirl?”

“Barrel racer.”

Mr. Austin, lawyer, activist and father, came in the door. He was followed by an entourage of State Police and a sitting Federal Court Judge ... his little girl has been evilly done by and he was going to get to the bottom.

“Hi Daddy.”