On Sunday at 7:06 pm, she took her mug shot. Or, rather, she had her mug shot taken.
Look straight ahead, ma'am. Now look left. Now right. Step over here. #justlikethemovies
They cuffed her again while she signed her name to the list of her belongings. A roll of ankle tape (half-depleted), a pair of Nike Overplay’s (black), spare laces (black), backpack, a collection of Anne Sexton, a Swiss Army Knife. The booking area was grey with forest green accents. The other cop was texting someone and smirking. She snuck a glance. Ew. His girlfriend did not look good in a bikini.
The silence in a booking area is leathery. It's a sticky, miasmic vacuum. A parched desert of sound lustily thirsting for something other than the cluck-clop of the best shoes $58,067 a year can buy. The TV, had it not been muted, would’ve been the perfect backdrop as the news anchor pretended to look even more excited than he was above the scrolling headline, “College-bound Southie High honors student arrested for attempted mur . . .”
Her mom always said, “Cawps work hahd,” followed by the Bostonian semi-colon of pursed lips and a silent snort; then… Read more »