The holding cell reeks.Piss, sweat, and some sort of industrial disinfectant can’t quite mask the human misery soaked into these concrete walls. I sit on the metal bench with my back straight and my knees tight, trying to look smaller without looking weak.
To my left, a lady with teardrop tattoos under her eyes keeps muttering to herself in Spanish. To my right, a woman who looks barely older than me is shaking like she’s about to come apart at the seams. Withdrawal.
I saw it enough times at Grass Valley.
This is my world, after all.
Let’s be honest. I was gonna end up here one way or another.
Like father, like daughter.
Statistics don’t lie.
I tip my head back against the cinderblock and close my eyes.
I know enough not to say shit without a public defender present, so I kept my mouth shut when they dragged me into that tiny fucking room and questioned me about the weed. McKenzie’s got more connections than I would’ve ever given her credit for to have gotten her hands onthat fucking muchat once.
But then, I guess the bitch was motivated.
I don’t know much about legal shit—just the education Grass Alley gave me. How much time you get depends on the amount of weed they pop you with. A joint or two can be explained away to a sympathetic judge.
But as big as those bags were… It had to be close to five pounds.
When they call my name again an hour later, my body’s stiff from the bench, and my throat is dry. The hallway fluorescents knife into my eyes.
The interrogation room is worse—walls painted institutional white in a room barely bigger than a closet. I sit down at the table, which is bolted down, naturally, and glance at the long mirror along the left wall that’s obviously two-way glass. The air conditioning is either broken or deliberately set to “swamp,” because within minutes, I’m sweating through my T-shirt.
They bring me water in a paper cup that tastes like it came from a garden hose. I drink it anyway because my mouth feels like I’ve been chewing cotton balls.
Detective Riley—in her forties maybe, gray-streaked hair, one of those adults who pretends they aren’t beingcondescending while they give you a friendly smile—sits down with her manila folder and a smile that never touches her eyes.
“So, Harper,” she says, all casual. “Want to tell me about what we found in your locker?”
I grip the cup. “I’d like to speak with a lawyer.”
“You’re not under arrest. This is just a conversation.”
Then why did I arrive here in handcuffs? “I’d like to speak with a lawyer.”
She tries everything, starting friendly, moving on to sympathetic.Good kid, bad choice. I understand your stepmother is ill.She says Helen’s name. I lock my face down tight.
“That was over four pounds of marijuana we found in your locker. Do you understand what that means? We’re not talking simple possession here—that’s possession with intent to distribute. A second-degree felony in the state of Texas.”
She leans forward, her voice dropping into that fake-concerned register. “You’re looking at two totwentyyears in state prison, Harper. Up to ten thousand dollars in fines. And that’s just the criminal consequences. A felony conviction means no federal student aid. No college scholarships. Most employers won’t touch you. You’ll have to check that box for the rest of your life—‘Have you ever been convicted of a felony?’”
She pauses, letting that sink in. “You’re eighteen now, too. That record follows you forever. But if you tell me where you got the product from, maybe I can cut you a deal.”
Lawyer. Lawyer.Lawyer.
Two hours of this. I ask for water. I ask for a lawyer again. For the bathroom. But I don’t say one fucking word about anything else.
By the time they drag me back to holding, my shirt’s soaked through and my hands tremble with adrenaline. But inside?
I feel a flicker of something like pride.
They might manage to pin this on me, but I didn’t do shit wrong.
Here I’ve been, afraid my whole life I’d end up like Darlene.