Little Mercies (16 page)

Chapter 25

I
call Adam and tell him about having to turn myself in to the police in the morning. He is silent for a long time. “Adam?” I finally say.

“I’m coming right over,” he says.

“No, no, someone needs to stay with Avery. I’ll be okay,” I insist.

“No, my mom and dad are coming right to the hospital from the airport. They’ll be here in an hour. Avery is doing just fine right now.”

“I want to go home,” I whisper into the phone. As much as I’m appreciative of my mother and my childhood home, I want to be back in my own house, even if it’s just for a short while.

“I’ll meet you there at six. Bring Lucas and Leah and we’ll spend the night at the house,” Adam says.

My mother tells me her plans of becoming a
suitable other
for Jenny. I’m too exhausted to argue with her, though I tell her that I think it’s a very bad idea.

I spend the next forty-five minutes talking to Ted Vitolo on the phone about my upcoming arrest. To say he’s livid is an understatement. “There’s no reason for them to do this,” he says angrily. “DHS hasn’t even finished its investigation—they’re forgoing the grand jury and going right to charging you.” He explains that since I’m being charged with a Class C felony the judge would likely order $10,000 cash or surety. “You should probably be able to get a ten percent cash surety bond for $1,000 through a bail bondsman,” Vitolo says, and gives me the name of a bondsman he’s worked with often. He promises to meet me at the courthouse in the morning and tells me I will be home by one o’clock that afternoon.

When I pull up in front of my own home, Adam is already there, and a strange car is sitting in the driveway. “My mom and dad’s rental,” he says by explanation. Leah and Lucas smother him with hugs and kisses and then trot into the house.

We eat dinner at our own kitchen table, but it is strange and sad without having Avery there. Leah and Lucas are excited to be surrounded by their own things, to play in their own yard, to sleep in their own beds. My mother plans on coming over early in the morning to watch the kids while Adam and I go to the police station.

It’s difficult explaining to them what is happening, that I will being arrested for leaving Avery in the hot car. At first Adam didn’t want to tell them, wanted to protect them, but I insisted. I don’t want them finding out from others that their mother was arrested. Adam is wonderful. He tells them over and over it was an accident and that no matter what people say about me, I am a good mom. After answering many questions and kissing away a lot of tears, we get them settled for the night and Adam and I go into our bedroom and shut the door. We lie down on the bed and talk and cry about what was to come. We are both too exhausted to make love, but we fall asleep holding hands, something we haven’t done in years, if ever.

We wake up Thursday morning well before the sun rises and don’t speak as we prepare for the day. Just before five o’clock my mother arrives with a sleepy Jenny in tow. I reluctantly wake Leah and Lucas and kiss them goodbye like I promised I would. I assure them that I will see them later in the day. They both cry and I do, too.

The Cedar City Police Department is a brand-new, low-slung building situated in the heart of Cedar City. Despite the shiny tiled floor, the unscratched desks and efficiently running office equipment, a sense of desperation has already seeped into the freshly painted walls. I relish the quietness of the early morning. The lobby is nearly empty and, as promised, Joe is there waiting for us.

“Thanks for coming.” My voice doesn’t sound like my own. Even though Joe has already schooled me on exactly what is going to happen to me today I can’t help but be terrified.

“You bet.” He shakes Adam’s hand and claps me on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

Joe explains to me every step of the booking process. “They’ll get started in just a minute. They like to have all the surrenders come in bright and early so they can stay on schedule for the day.” Joe looks down at the floor and uncomfortably shuffles his feet. “This would probably be a good time to say your goodbyes.”

Adam leads me to a corner of the room and embraces me. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispers into my ear. “You’ll be home by this afternoon. I love you, you know that, don’t you?”

“I love you, too,” I whisper back, doing my best to keep my tears at bay.

The arrest goes just as Joe explained it would. It is surreal, otherworldly. Though he offers to stay with me for as much of the process as he is allowed to, I make Joe stay behind. I don’t want him to see me this way. “It will all be okay,” Joe assures me as he leads me through a heavy door that he unlocks with an electronic key card.

I nod and bite back the tears that threaten to fall again and begin to shiver with fear.

“Hey,” Joe says, looking me in the eyes, “you’re going to be fine. It will all be over in a few hours and you’ll be back home.” I am instantly calmed by Joe’s confident words.

Before he leaves, Joe squeezes my hand and then I’m officially taken into custody by a female officer. I am surprised at how young she is, mid-twenties maybe, only a few inches taller than I am, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. The booking area is deserted and she leads me into a private spot. I know what is coming next—Joe explained it all to me the night before—but this prior knowledge doesn’t make it any less humiliating.

Because I am being charged with a felony, I must be strip-searched. With trembling fingers I begin to unbutton the black wraparound dress that I pulled from my closet for just this occasion. Simple, easy to take off and put back on, professional enough for a court appearance. I fumble to untie the fabric belt at my waist while the officer stands by patiently. Goose bumps erupt on my skin as I step out of my shoes and slide my dress over my head. I’m painfully aware of my dimpled thighs and the slack skin of my abdomen. And my face reddens in shame even though the officer respectfully averts her eyes to my nakedness. I can’t help thinking about the men and women, many the parents of children I’ve removed from their care, who have stood in this exact same spot, peeling their clothes from their bodies.

I never felt sorry for these mothers and fathers, never gave a second thought to what they experienced during their arrests and I know that most people feel the same way about me. I can almost hear the comments:
She deserves it, what do you expect if you neglect your child? A little embarrassment is too good for her.

Piece by piece, the officer examines my clothing, my dress, my bra, my underwear. She carefully checks my pockets and runs her fingers over the seams making sure that no contraband has been sewn inside.

When I am completely naked the officer steps forward and directs me to run my hands through my hair to show that there is nothing hidden in my scalp. Once again I am thankful for my short hair. I am ordered to pull my ears forward and turn my head to show that there is nothing tucked behind them. I am struck at how matter-of-fact and bored the officer sounds. She gives these exact same directions many times a day. There is no judgment in her tone but no sympathy, either.
I’m not like them,
I want to tell her.
I’m different. I’m a mother, a wife, a social worker. I shouldn’t be here.
I say nothing. Today, in this moment, I am no different from anyone else who has been here before me.

“Tilt your head back,” the officer instructs, and I do. She peers into my nostrils. “Open your mouth and lift your tongue.” I comply. In between each direction she gives me, one arm instinctively crosses my breasts and one drops to cover my pubic area. “Lift your arms,” the officer says, and I close my eyes as she inspects each armpit. “Halfway done,” she says. The first words she utters that make me feel like she sees a real person standing in front of her. But if I think the worst is behind me, I am horribly wrong.

“Lift your breasts,” she says, and I blink twice, not sure if I heard her correctly. “Lift your breasts,” she says again, and I do. “Open your legs,” the officer says. “Squat and cough.” Despite my determination not to cry, tears film my eyes and I blindly comply. “Okay, you can stand. Now show me the bottom of your feet.” I lift first my left foot and then my right.

Not once during the entire search does she touch me, but still I feel dirty, violated.

The officer hands me my clothes and, turning my back to her, I quickly dress. She leads me to another area where she consults a clipboard and begins to ask me a laundry list of biographical questions. I am booked in and go through a brief medical and psychological questionnaire for safety and health reasons. I am fingerprinted, not the ink-and-paper method I recall seeing on old television shows and movies, but scanned by a computer. I am directed to stand against a wall and my picture is taken. First, face forward, then left side, then right. Mug shots.
What will happen if my children see these pictures?
I wonder. And no doubt they will in this age of instant access to information. They will be mortified. In all the terrible thoughts that have come to mind, Avery’s health, my marriage, being arrested, possibly losing my job, I haven’t paused to think about how all this will impact Leah and Lucas. Will their friends shun them? Will their teachers look at them differently?

The deputy uses a key card to unlock another door that opens to reveal a small, stark room with only a concrete bench running along one wall. There are no bars in this cell, only one small window inlaid in the door. “You’ll wait here until you are transported over to the courthouse,” the officer explains. She shuts the door and it doesn’t clang or ring in my ears like in the movies. Instead, I hear a nearly imperceptible click as the lock settles into place. I sit down and, despite the stuffy, warm air, I am shivering. I try to block out the noises and the antiseptic odors that surge my way, try to bury the indignity of having to strip in front of a complete stranger. I close my eyes and think of Avery. I imagine cradling her in my arms. I think of Leah and Lucas at home with my mother and how scared they must be right now. I think of Adam, torn between returning to the hospital and waiting anxiously at the courthouse for my case number to be called.

“What have I done?” I say out loud. All it would have taken was for me to stop and listen, really listen to what Adam was trying to tell me about how he put Avery in the van for me. If I would have just paused, pushed aside all the distractions of the morning, the worry of being late, everything could have turned out differently.

Several hours later, I am still waiting. I have to go to the bathroom and, inexplicably, my stomach growls, though the thought of eating anything turns my stomach. I have lost all concept of time, I don’t know if it’s twelve noon or four o’clock. I do know that, by law, I am supposed to see a judge within twenty-four hours of being arrested. This means, theoretically, I could have to spend the night here. Would they leave me in this tiny room or will I be placed in a cell with others who have been arrested? I can’t stay here overnight. What would Adam tell Leah and Lucas? A rope of panic coils tightly in my chest and I’m afraid I’m going to start hyperventilating. I lower my head to my knees and am trying to calm my breathing when there is a rap on the metal door and it opens. A female officer, a different one than earlier, stands in the doorway.

“It’s time to go,” she says. I prepare myself for being handcuffed but instead a male officer joins us, and together we move through a winding maze of hallways and locked doors until we step out into the hot July sun. Flanked on each side by an officer, we cross the street to the courthouse and I find myself in a courtroom where just two weeks ago I was sitting on the witness stand testifying in my role as a social worker in an abuse case.

I hear my name and I move down the aisle, past the courtroom gallery. Prieto is there, as is Caren and several of my colleagues from the Department of Human Services. It’s not a large courtroom, but for some reason it’s crowded today and I can’t find Adam anywhere within the sea of faces. Today there are no friendly nods or waves. My co-workers won’t even look at me. All eyes are on the floor as if searching for a lost button or coin. But of course I’m not here today to testify on behalf of a neglected, abused child or here to chronicle the many indignities they have endured. I feel Vitolo’s reassuring hand on my elbow and he leads me to a small table just to the right of the judge—a judge I’ve chatted casually with about home and family—who is staring down at me from his bench. I turn back and finally see that Adam is sitting in the gallery, as are Joe and Kelly. Little mercies, I think to myself. This is one of those small gifts that my mother was talking about.

The judge tells me that I am not allowed to leave the state and that I need to report to the Department of Corrections within the next twenty-four hours for a pretrial release meeting where I will be told what is expected of me pending my trial. Ted explains to me that this could include a curfew or a mental health evaluation.

In two weeks my arraignment hearing will be held. This is where the state will turn in the official trial information, the documents that detail the charges against me, lists of all the witnesses, their addresses and a written summary of their expected testimony. I will be asked to enter my formal plea, asked if I want a formal reading of the trial information.

Just as quickly as it began, the hearing is over. Ted tells me to come to his office the following day and we’ll begin preparation for the trial. I thank him and go to where Adam, Joe and Kelly are waiting for me.

“Are you okay?” Adam asks, pulling me into an embrace. I nod tearfully into his shoulder but want to tell him that, no, I’m not okay, that it was awful, that I wouldn’t wish it on anyone and if I ever was able to be a social worker again, I would look at my clients a little bit differently, with a bit more empathy. But I don’t say anything, because no matter how harrowing being arrested, strip-searched, fingerprinted and photographed was, for what I am putting Avery through, my family through, I deserve much, much worse.