Page 112 of Deep Cover

8

Annie

He sent for me at noon.

Breakfast had been solo, a plate of fish and green stuff. I sometimes tried to identify it but apparently green healthy food has endless variations and in the end it didn't matter if it was seaweed or chard: It was all disgusting.

One time Cole had laughed and told me I was like a child, unwilling to eat what was good for me because I found it "yucky." He pointed out the importance of a balanced diet and laughed when I suggested ice cream was part of a balanced diet. Then he'd fed me the green stuff, bite by bite. It didn't make it less repellant. It didn't get me any ice cream, either.

The next time I took exception to the amount of healthy food on my plate versus the amount I was anxious and willing to put in my mouth, he slammed both fists down on the table, cleared it by the expediency of swiping all dishes onto the floor. He lifted me bodily onto the table and beat the hell out of my ass until I shrieked in pain and cried.

This morning it was green stuff and a book, a plate of eggs, and a spiral paper notebook and pen to take notes. I was getting an unofficial degree in criminal justice, it seemed. Cole felt that I might be with him for a year, though he hadn't actually said that to me yet. What he had said was that the time I spent with him should be worthwhile. Therefore I was studying so when I left, if I chose not to go back to Seattle PD or Seattle PD decided it was better off without me even if I was totally rehabbed, I'd have some options.

He thought DEA was a good choice for me. Having beaten an addiction and having a good arrest rate, they'd be lucky to have me, he'd said in a tone of voice that suggested he knew enough people in the agency to make certain of it.

That day during the boredom of yoga and meditation I'd pondered whether I'd be happy to get into the DEA that way. It was food for thought.

So was what I was reading as I ate. It was currently constitutional law, the case law that had come to be the go-to for amendments like Miranda, the case that led to the Miranda statement given to anyone arrested. Miranda came into being in a 1966 case in which the suspect had kidnapped and raped and after being arrested by officers at his house, was held in isolation and interrogated for two hours.

That seemed a fairly innocuous amount of time to me after having lived with Cole St. Martin for more than a month now, closer to two months with the amount of time I'd been gone.

But apparently two hours was enough for Miranda, who didn't have counsel with him or anyone advocating for him or telling him he had the right not to incriminate himself.

The Supreme Court of Arizona said his rights hadn't been violated and he could go ahead and serve those 20 to 30 years.

The U.S. Supreme Court didn't agree and found for Miranda. Out of that case law came the requirement to advise people upon arrest of their rights.

On some level I knew a lot of this. On others, it was interesting. It wasn't enough to keep me reading all day and when Cole was gone, I had too much time on my hands. But it was interesting. The idea that I could sail through classes after doing the coursework in my own form of custody and maybe start over in a different, more intense form of police work - That was welcome. It was something else to think about during meditation.

It wasn't enough to think about during other things.

Cole sent for me as I was finishing lunch, which was fish and green stuff and coffee. No bread, no chips, no lunch meat, no strawberries. I had a bad feeling about that. Cole knew I loved strawberries and since they're perfectly healthy, usually included them with my meals since – of course – there was no dessert.

When I got out of here, I was going to fall face-first into a German chocolate cake before I went out searching for the people on my list who were going to pay for their treatment of me.

For the first time ever, it occurred to me that Cole might make that list. What he'd done to me in the bathroom – my face flamed with humiliation again and I forced myself to concentrate again on the case law.

Then a guard came and told me to get up and accompany him.

I didn't know him. The guards sometimes changed and sometimes were the same assholes as usual. They were uniformly big and muscled, the kind of muscle that knows how to work, not the kind that's just for show. He carried a baton, a taser, and a gun.

I stood instantly. There was no point arguing with him, he wasn't the problem, and there was nothing except my badge, hidden back in my room, that belonged to me in this compound. The notebook, the case law book, the pen, the clothes I was wearing, they were all Cole's. I had no need to protect any of that stuff, or make sure no one fucked with it.

And then – I was Cole's, also. I was still working on stopping him from fucking with me.

The guard dropped me off at the door to the room where most of Cole's debasements took place. I still didn't know what to call it. Dungeon, prison cell, playroom, punishment room, therapy office.

There were no instructions from the guard. He simply let go of me and thundered away in the other direction, leaving me to my own devices.

That was one of the most dangerous of tricks. Cole would wait to see what I would do. There were few ways to win. There were myriad ways to screw up.

After a couple minutes of contemplating my options, my heart pounding and my ears ringing, I stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind me, then sank instantly to my knees at the edge of the room, hands in my lap, head bowed.

I kept my gaze down even when I heard Cole sometime later, crossing the room to me. He stopped just short of me, standing there, probably looking down at me. I kept my eyes down.

He wore black motorcycle boots and blue jeans. Past that I had no more information.

His voice came from above me. "That's a good start."

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