Loud Lily #10

Fieldwork

Christina Almodovar sat down on the metal chair in the interrogation room and begun absentmindedly fingering the gold crucifix that hung around her neck. The room, unlike the necklace which had been fished out of her mother’s old jewelry box yesterday, was familiar to her. On an ordinary day, however, Christina would be standing or leaning back on the cold gray stones taking careful sips of coffee. And on an ordinary day, she would be asking the questions.

Officer McCrory, or Patrick as he had introduced himself, was following up on a massive traffic pileup that had occurred two days ago. There had not been any fatalities and the worst injury sustained was a fractured arm, but a few important vehicles had been damaged and their owners demanded retribution. Hell bent on following his order that the situation be kept as private as possible, McCrory insisted on a closed meeting space, hence the interrogation room.

McCrory, sitting forward in his chair with a starch white notepad in front of him, cleared his throat, opened his mouth to speak, paused and then cleared his throat again.

Christina sighed, clasped her hands together on the table and asked, “Would you like me to tell you what happened?”

McCrory, who had been doodling on his notepad, tore out the current page and replied, “Yes that would be, uh, helpful.”

***

On the Wednesday in question, Christina had been sitting at the bus stop with a bag of fish in her lap fearing that if she had to wait much longer the salmon would go bad. She was taking the bus because a month ago her license was suspended because of a DUI, a nasty incident that grounded her to her desk at her job and became the subject of a new wave of custody battles.

***

“My daughter is actually the reason I had the salmon,” Christina explained. “She called work that day to request it.”

McCrory stopped moving his pen and Christina noticed that the scratching on the paper had ceased.

“I’m sorry” Christina said as her left hand shot back to her chest, thumbing the crucifix again, “That’s not really relevant.”

“No, it’s fine” McCrory muttered without looking away from his notepad.

Christina smiled at his discomfort and asked, “Would you like to see a picture of her?”

“Um-“ McCrory began before Christina cut him off.

“I’m just kidding.”

McCrory managed a small smile and briefly lifted his eyes to glance at her.

“I’ll continue.”

***

As the green light for the cars passing across Christina’s field of vision came to an end the driver of a blue pick-up truck, the second to last car to make the light, tossed a bag of old fast-food out of his window. But before Christina could even form a mental picture of the vehicle to report later, a black Chevy Impala, the last car that was going to make the light, came to a full stop in the middle of the intersection next to the bag.

***

“Did you get the plates?” McCrory interjected.

“No”

McCrory raised his head to make eye contact with Christina.

“The car was at a full stop and you didn’t get the plates?” McCrory asked again with his left eyebrow raised.

Christina put both elbows on the table and leaned into the officer’s accusatory gaze.

“As I’ve already explained,” Christina began, “I’ve been out of practice.”

Heaving a giant sigh, as if her answer was barely acceptable, McCrory focused on his notes again, flipped a page on the pad and said, “Please continue.”

***

Christina watched as a teenage boy stepped out of his car and picked up the bag of old junk food. After shielding his eyes and looking around for a moment, the boy spotted the trashcan next to Christina’s bus stop and began walking over. As he made his way closer to her, Christina noticed the loud hip-hop being blared from the boy’s car, which soon was accompanied by brakes screeching and horns honking along the busy side street.

The boy was about six feet tall, had short brown hair and blue eyes. As he threw the bag away, the boy flashed Christina a smile and waved with his left hand. Christina, still unable to figure out exactly what was happening, nodded slightly in return.

***

“And then what happened?”

Christina took her hands off the table and leaned back in her chair before replying, “And then he got back in his car and drove away.”

McCrory flipped back a page on his notepad.

“Did the boy have any special markings?”

“Not that I could notice.”

McCrory reviewed his notes for a minute, flipping between the ten or so pages that he had used during the interview, before standing up and looking down at Christina.

“Sorry again-“ he began before being interrupted for a second time.

“It’s quite alright,” Christina said as she stood up and extended a hand to McCrory, “I understand. Believe me.”

McCrory shook her hand and lead the way out of the room. As his hand was on the doorknob he turned around for a final question.

“How did I do?”

Christina flashed him another rare smile and patted him on the back.

“You did fine.”

***

As she returned to her desk, Christina felt a small twinge of guilt for not telling the fledgling officer about the imprint of the cross on the boy’s left palm, or that his name was David and the Impala was registered to his father; information she ascertained by running the license plate number.

Despite her intentions, however, David was found and charged about a week later. He was eventually sentenced with 500 hours of community service, which he spent, Christina would later learn, picking up trash on the highway.