Statement: Deanna Matilda Madden

I sign the bottom, above my name, the pen biting into the cheap white paper. Then, I look up into Detective Boles’s face.

She smiles. I don’t. I may never smile again.

CHAPTER 60

Present

I ASSUMED, WITH a verbal and written confession, that the judicial process was, for the most part, over. That there will be some minor sentencing hearing, where the judge will pass over my sentence, then I will start my jail time.

I am wrong.

The process, explained to me by a large, dark woman who smells of lilacs, is for me to be booked first. A prosecutor will, within the next three days, decide what charges will be filed against me. Then I’ll have an arraignment in court, where I will have the chance to plead guilty or not guilty. At the arraignment, my bail will be set or denied. I nod as she speaks, sign and initial when requested, and assist as best I can during the fingerprinting process. She asks me to step up to a black background and look at the camera. I stare into its eye, such a familiar eye, and wonder, in the second before the flash hits, when I will next cam. The possibility suddenly strikes that I may never cam again. I stare into its dark center. A Canon. I have a Canon. I had a Canon. In low light, when I moved quickly, it sometimes blurred. I am not in low lighting now. And I am still. Very still. Does one smile in their mug shot? I feel suddenly like Ben Affleck in Gone Girl, the desire to produce a crooked smile maddeningly irresistible.

“Sit down on the chair and remove those shoes.”

And my photo time is over. I sit down and stare at the black backdrop. Black draws light. Before I got ten thousand watts pumping in my apartment, I had black sheets on my pink bed. It lit my body, brightened my screen, almost better than the bulbs. I wonder if my skin glowed in the mug shot, if the black drew in the flash and distracted the viewer from my flaws. I may never again see my lights, my bulbs, my room. I may never again see my fans, my clients, my world. I may never again be Jess Reilly.

I sit down. Lean forward and pull at the laces of my tennis shoes. Pick at a knot, my mind going white and blank. Forget the pink bedroom. Forget my online world. This is the first step of the rest of my life. This is my new reality, and it is good and just. I think of the first crime scene photo, the reflective sheen, Jeremy’s eyes closed. I shouldn’t have called the hospital. I didn’t deserve an update; I didn’t deserve to introduce myself to his sister and to know about his status. I tugged the tongue of my sneaker out and worked the Nike over my heel, pulling my foot free and setting the shoe down, moving to the second. It comes quicker, and I scoop up them both and set them on my knees, looking up.

The woman holds out a hand, her nails long and bright blue against her chocolate skin. I pass over the shoes and she tilts her head. Studies me for a long beat. “You scared, honey?”

“At what?”

She chortles. “Jail. Prison. Loss of Freedom.”

Ha. Scared? That thought hasn’t even crossed my mind. Stir crazy? Probably. “No.” How sweet of her to ask.

“You know, you’re not like most of the girls in there.” She tosses her head back, in the general direction of the jail. I shrug. Fitting in hasn’t exactly been a concern of late.

She leans forward, lowering her voice. “Want some advice?” I don’t. “Don’t stick out. Cute little white girl like you will attract attention. You’re going to have to deal with some roughhousing. Just keep your head down and color, you got me?”

I lean in, matching her pose, our two heads almost touching over the counter. “I gotcha,” I whisper.

She sits back like she doesn’t want to swap spit with a prisoner, swiveling her large body left and groaning as she bends at the waist and shoves to her feet. She moves to the door and waves at me. “Come on.” I rise and follow, my socks hitting the smooth floor. Thank God I wore socks. She points to a white door. “In there.”

Come on.

In there.

I come. I go in. She follows me into the room and shuts the door. “There’s a camera up there.” She points to the ceiling and I glance up, into a black curved piece of glass. “I got to search you now,” her mouth turns down at the edges. “Everywhere. You understand?”

I nod. I understand. I pull Marilyn off my torso and unclip my bra, letting it fall down my arms. I unbuckle my jeans and sit on a plastic chair, working them over my hips and down my thighs. The room is quiet, the woman’s breath soft, my own silent. Just the sounds of approaching nudity. No one has ever touched my skin, save Jeremy. I glance at the woman and her eyes are kind. She thinks the nudity bothers me. Ha.

I pull down my underwear and pull off my socks. Stand before her and spread my arms. “Go for it.”

She is brisk and efficient, her latex-gloved hands skimming over my arms, shoulders, breasts. She picks through my hair, checks my ears, mouth, and throat. She asks me to lift one leg and I do. She pushes two fingers inside and I close my eyes. Turn around and feel the spread of my cheeks. I’d have let her fist it if she’d ended the exam with a hug. That was what, right now, I really wanted. A hug. She had asked me if I was scared. I am not scared; there is nothing inside of these walls that can hurt me. I am more afraid of what is in me that can hurt others.

She steps away and I lose the connection. Turns her back and I hear the snap of her gloves being pulled off. “You’re clean. You can get dressed.”

I look at my collapsed pile of clothes. “Back in those?”

“Yep. You’ll stay in those until after the arraignment.” The arraignment isn’t until Tuesday. A long time to wear used underwear. I reach for the bra and T-shirt. Slide quick legs through the panties and jeans and pull them on. I take the shoes she passes me and sit in the chair.

“Anything in your pockets?”

I move forward and slide my hand into my back pocket. These jeans. I used to wear them once a week. Ice cream and lotto. That was when I was being stupid, when I thought I could rule the world because I was happy and in love. I pull out the last thing I put in there. A lotto ticket and my change. Funny that I never pulled them out, never washed these jeans. They’ve sat, folded in my closet, like a dead child’s preserved room, a memory of a life past lived. I look at the date of the ticket, almost five months old. Has it really been five months since I jogged down those stairs and crossed the street? Five months since I pushed on that door and had an interaction with the cashier? I pull the change out and count the bills. I’d supercharged the ticket, upping it from one dollar to two, wild woman that I was. And I must have, on that day, skipped ice cream, because eighteen dollars even unfolds. I skipped ice cream. That thought hits hard. I hadn’t known that it would be my last night, hadn’t known that Mike would call and things would go to hell and I’d have a lot bigger thing on my plate than cold delicacies. I hadn’t known that, after that weekend, I’d change my habits completely. Withdraw. Put FtypeBaby in park and leave her alone. Settle into a cocoon of myself and hope the wrap of thin fibers kept me still. After that weekend, I hadn’t allowed myself to leave the house. Not until that run last week. That grocery store trip. Then my drive to Jeremy’s house. And look, now he’s almost dead and I’m in a police station. So there. My cautiousness, my rules, my boundaries: justified. And it only took Jeremy dying to get me here. Almost dying. Not yet dead.