No Way Back (Mia's Way, #1) (9 page)

“Ms. Abbottt-Renou, I’m the DA, Eric Tenet,” another of the men in suits speaks up. “You will be booked, processed, charged and released. While you are in police custody, you will provide us all the details of where you got your ID, down to sketches, if deemed appropriate. Afterwards, the plea deal your attorney has agreed to will require you to attend counseling for alcohol and do a hundred hours of community service.”

“Your records will be sealed, since you’re a minor,” the judge adds.

Their words make me feel sick.

“In exchange, the DA has agreed to dismiss the felony charges of ID theft and to drop the possession of stolen material to a misdemeanor,” Chris says. “And, they will keep this all out of the papers.”

His last sentence rings the loudest in my thoughts. I don’t understand much aside from the fact they’re hushing it up. Another move by Daddy or Shea. Anger replaces my nausea.

“You won’t be cuffed, but you’ll have to be escorted to the station adjacent to the courthouse. You’ll be home by dinner time,” the judge says, giving a stern look at the DA and the police officer with all the junk on his uniform.

“As long as Ms. Abbottt-Renou is forthcoming,” the DA replies.

“Do you understand that?” the judge asks me.

“Yes,” I say.

“Do you understand if you don’t complete your community service or alcohol counseling, you will be put in juvenile detention?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“Does my attorney have to come with me?”

“If you would like him to, he can.”

“I would like him
not
to,” I say clearly.

“Mia –” Chris starts.

“Thanks for keeping it out of the papers,” I cut him off. “Tell Daddy I’ll be home for dinner.” I stand and cross my arms. “I’m ready.”

Chris won’t make a scene; this much I know. The DA is looking at him curiously, as if uncertain how my uncle will respond. Chris nods to him. They are all quiet for a moment. It’s their turn to stare at me. The judge is the first to react.

“I will note that the defendant declines the presence of her attorney,” he says. “Ms. Abbottt-Renou, please go with Captain Yeager and DA Tenet.”

So, I’m getting arrested. I hate my life.

Chapter Seven

The two men stand. I join them at the door and follow them into the hallway. I’m on a death march, but I’d rather be on a death march alone than let one of Daddy’s lackeys go with me. The two men get into an elevator, and I’m surprised who else is already in the elevator.

“Hey,” Dom says. He’s taller and beefier than I remember. Then again, I can’t remember much about him, except his accent and eyes. He’s far younger than the other two men in the elevator. He doesn’t smile, but his gaze is warm. I feel like I’m running into an old friend.

“Hey,” I say, relaxing. “How’s Kiesha?”

“She’s good. Real good,” Dom says. “How you doin’?”

I look at the grim DA and unsmiling Captain then shrug. Dom tries not to smile and clears his throat.

“We asked Dom to be here. Kiesha is on vacation,” the DA says at last. “We wanted to try to ease some of the stress this might cause.”

My eyes go to my feet. I never thought I’d be treated better by people charging me with a crime than by Daddy’s lackeys.

“We didn’t expect you to dismiss your counsel,” the DA adds. “If at any time, you want him here, we will call him.”

“I understand,” I say.

We reach the floor, and they get off. I walk ahead of Dom then stop to wait for him, feeling safer with him around than anyone else. Dr. Thompkins said I should never see him again, because I needed to learn to deal with what happened without feeling the need for a crutch.

I can’t help thinking Dom isn’t a crutch. He’s a guardian angel, and not just for me. I never thought twice about police before I met Dom and Kiesha. Even now, I feel surprised there are people out there the complete opposite of my family, people who want to help others and not just themselves. It’s really weird, but I like the idea.

We walk past an area of open desks teeming with police officers, past a thick door and into a waiting room with benches. There are two police officers at two computers. As we get closer, I can see the black pads for fingerprints.

“Ms. Abbottt-Renou, the Captain and I will leave you here. You’ll be booked then escorted to an interview room.”

“Dom will stay with me?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I take a deep breath and nod. The two older men leave, and Dom sits on the bench.

“Full name,” the booking officer says, staring at the computer.

“Mia Elizabeth Abbottt-Renou,” I reply.

“That’s quite a mouthful,” the officer says. “Take you long to learn to spell it?”

I don’t realize she’s telling a joke until she smiles.

“Hey, hero!” someone calls cheerfully, walking into the booking area. “Need your autograph.” The lanky cop walks up to Dom, who grins. He signs some paperwork.

“Relax,” the booking agent tells me, taking my hand.

I look down to see my hands are shaking. I will them to be still, but they won’t obey. She grips them securely and inks then rolls my fingertips one by one across a small screen. I watch as they pop up on the computer screen over her shoulder.

Dom and the other officer are joking back and forth, their easy rapport nothing I’ve seen before, outside of Ari and me. As long as I can see him, I don’t feel like panicking and running for the car, screaming. Because that thought is in the back of my mind, along with the one that’s waiting for Robert Connor to appear suddenly. I’ve been outside my house once since coming home for a check-up with the doctor.

The booking officer takes my pictures with a digital camera then types into the computer. I watch her, reading my file over her shoulder. She has a lot of pictures of me, many from the hospital. I can’t look at them and step away, feeling overwhelmed again.

I look at Dom, who’s watching from his seat on the bench. He pats the spot beside him. I sit down.

“Watta?” he asks.

“What?”

“Water?”

I laugh. “Your accent.”

“Brooklyn taxi driver?” he asks and shakes his head. “I’m from Jersey.” He rubs the top of his buzz cut. His smile is slightly crooked, his olive skin and thick, dark eyebrows and hair indicating his Mediterranean background. He looks Italian or Greek with dimples in his cheeks that only appear when he smiles. He’s so low-key, unlike the high-strung interns about his age that dart around my father’s offices like they’re always late.

I like talking to Dom. He even smells good, like earthly cologne and shower gel.

“I don’t know the difference,” I say. “What’re you doing in DC?”

“My mom moved here a couple of years ago to be near Johns Hopkins. We kids followed. One of my sisters works at a woman’s shelter in town and another is a nurse. My big brother is a cop like me and the youngest in high school,” he explains. “Serving the community runs in our family. Dad was a cop killed in the line of duty in New York City.”

I’m not sure what to think. I’m accustomed to not trusting anyone, because Daddy always says people will use me to get to him. Or put me in the papers to humiliate him or the family. I don’t know what to say to Dom’s honest answers. I haven’t had a real conversation with a stranger – other than Dr. Thompkins – in years.

“We’re finished, Dom,” the booking officer says.

“Alright. Thanks, Kelly.” Dom stands. He offers me a hand and pulls me up. “You need anything to drink or eat?”

“No,” I say. “I’m just nervous about … this.” I wave my hand around. “I’ve never been in trouble before.”

“It’s been handled,” he assures me. “Your attorney did good.”

I don’t doubt it. Daddy wouldn’t keep Chris around, if Chris wasn’t the best.

“We’re going to an interview room,” Dom says. “The DA is gonna talk to you for a bit.”

“Okay,” I say. I trail him down the hall, taking in his frame. He’s bigger than Robert Connor-the-quarterback. Dom is build like a linebacker. I can see him sacking Connor in a football game, and the image makes me happy.

The DA is waiting for me in a room very unlike the one we were in. This one has all white walls, except for one with a mirror I assume is a two-way mirror after watching all those cop shows on TV. There are four chairs around a metal table. The DA has a few files piled up on one side of him and is writing in his ledger on another.

“Come in, Ms. Abbottt-Renou. Do you need anything to drink?” he asks, glancing up.

“No, thank you,” I say. I sit down, hands shaking again. I sit on them.

Dom pulls a chair into the corner and sits.

DA Tenet places a picture of the ID in front of me. “If at any time, you want your attorney, tell me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Tell me about this,” he says and taps the photo.

“There’s a guy from school who … specializes in getting us IDs,” I start. “Whenever we need one, we ask him. We pay him five thousand for an ID.”

“Five thousand?” the DA looks at me. “How do you have five thousand for an ID?”

“I’ve got two trust funds, one from Daddy I can’t touch until I’m twenty one, and one from my maternal grandfather. I was allowed to take money when I turned sixteen.” I shrug. “So I do.”

“No parental oversight?”

“I have shitty parents,” I tell him. “I’ve been taking care of myself since my grandpa died when I was eleven. Daddy’s team keeps me from messing up while he’s doing what he does and mom is drinking. When I need money, I take it out of my fund.”

The DA leans back. He’s about Chris’ age and has the same game face. I can’t read him, but I don’t care. I just have to tell them what I know, and I’m going home.

“What’s the kid’s name you get the IDs from?” he asks.

“Casey King.”

“You have his address or phone number?”

I nod. He slides me the pad of paper.

“Is it one of the numbers under outgoing calls we pulled off your cell phone?” he asks.

“I thought it went into the fountain,” I say, focusing on writing.

“It did. We were able to pull everything off the memory card, though.”

“Then yeah, his number is in there.”

“Where does he get his IDs?”

“I don’t know. I never asked him.” I shrug again. “I didn’t know he stole them. I thought he made them.”

“He did a professional job putting your photo on. Did you ever see his equipment?”

“Nope,” I reply. “We’d just call him and tell him we needed one. Gave him the money and he’d bring it to school or a café.”

“If we can’t find Casey, can you provide a description?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Thank you.” The DA closes the file in front of him and sets his pen down. He gazes at me for a moment. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Are you in any sort of therapy? Seeing doctors?”

“I have a shrink, yes.” My face feels hot at admitting it, and I roll my eyes. “The doctor cleared me a couple weeks ago. Said I was healing fast. No long term damage from the head wounds. My family would probably say my skull is too thick.”

He gives a trace of a smile. He’s in his mid-40s with blue eyes and hair that’s brown streaked with gray. He’s been calm and quiet the whole time, but his eyes are like Chris’s: sharp and cool.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he says. “Do you want something to drink?”

He’s still studying me. I start to feel uncomfortable.

“Uh, no,” I say. “Is that all you wanted to ask me?”

“There is something else.”

I’m starting to get edgy, and his too-calm tone reminds me of when Shea is about to tell Mom or Daddy some bad news. I usually disappear when I hear that tone.

“You forgot to sign your statement about what happened the night you were raped,” the DA says, pulling papers free from one of the file folders. I recognize my handwriting covering the fronts and backs of the papers.

“Okay,” I say.

“These read like a lawyer wrote them,” he says, skimming over them.

“Chris said it needed to be as detailed as possible,” I reply.

“Did Chris tell you about the other girls?” He keeps the statement on top of the folder in front of him.

“What other girls?”