Page 4 of A Boy is a Gun: Part I
“What’s going on?” Taylor asks. “Why are you being arrested? Why did they arrest Que?”
“I don’t know, but I’m about to find out.” I kiss Taylor and stare into her eyes. “Don’t worry, okay?”
She nods, but I know she’s terrified. “Okay.”
Within seconds, the cops burst through Taylor’s door, about ten deep. This isn’t a simple arrest but a full-blown operation. Leading the charge is my old nemesis, Ethan Underwood.
There are no words that can begin to describe how much I hate this motherfucker. I had to deal with the constant teasing and taunting; he knew he could never pin anything on me. And the optics don’t look great. Who would believe him?
“You’re under arrest for the assault and battery and robbery of Patrice Johnson,” Ethan puts the handcuffs on me, and I suck the inside of my cheeks. His payback is going to be delicious to witness. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. One will be appointed for you if you cannot afford an attorney.”
“No, no, no…” Taylor shakes her head, and I see her watery eyes. Fuck! That is the last thing I wanted to see. We should make plans as she heals and returns to the shop. Instead, she has to watch me get arrested. “There has to be a mistake! There has to be a mistake! Cameron, tell him they got the wrong guy!”
“They do, and he knows it,” my voice is calm as another officer pats me down, “I’ll be out by the end of the day, angel.” I’m led away to an awaiting squad car. Ethan shoves me into the backseat and joins me for no reason other than to get his jollies off. The vehicle soon speeds off, which will be a fun ride for one of us.
I stare straight ahead, slowly counting how I will humiliate this asshole when all is said and done. He damn well knows there was no way I was even remotely close to where that woman was assaulted. I’ve been by Taylor’s side for two days, helping her through labor and Mia’s birth.
And this fool honestly thought I assaulted some lady during that time? I guess he’s smoking the rock I’m selling.
“I finally got you,” I see Ethan looking out the window from my peripheral. I’m not going to bother giving that man anything; he’s just going to have to stay thirsty, my friends. “I’ve been chasing you since you were 16.I didn’t want to believe for one minute that the privileged son of a wealthy and well-respected senator was a drug dealer. Too many whispers for me to believe otherwise. Your parents come from wealthy backgrounds but don’t have that kind of dough.” He shakes his head. “Nah, not even close. I’m not talking a million here or there. I’m talking about the wealth that’ll make thoseCrazy Rich Asianslook poor. I wondered where it all came from.” He sucks his teeth. “Now, I know where and how.”
I remain silent. The last thing I want is any conversation I have with this asshole to be used against me in any form, especially when I’m not controlling its direction. I’ll wait for the right time, and then Mr. Ethan will get the surprise of his motherfucking life.
He looks in my direction, and I stare straight ahead. We don’t have a damn thing to talk about. I’m already full of calm rage because he removed me from being with Taylor and Mia. The last thing I need is to show this dickhead any emotion.
“All those poor families you and your ilk doped up. All of those families who had to bury their children, some of them were teens, even.” He shakes his head. “They get high on the purest heroin and cocaine in the world, and all of it can be traced back to you. This arrest is just the beginning, my friend. It’s only just the beginning. Once I start putting the pieces together, you’re going down Page. I’m taking you down and everyone connected to you. That includes your father.” He stares at me, and I continue to look straight ahead. “Well, Page…?” Ethan sighs like he’s bored. Oh, cut the fucking dramatics. “…anything else you would like to say before we book you for the attempted murder of a poor, defenseless woman?”
Silence is my shield now. I can only use silence against Ethan and whatever bullshit he has planned. He knows he doesn’t have a case. He also knows whoever else he arrested won’t say shit, either.
I know intimidation when I see it. I may have been young and green way back when, but I damn sure ain’t now.
Two
Cameron
Processing took much longer than it should’ve.
Once the assholes patted me down and processed me, I sat in an interview room by myself for hours. I can see why people lose their minds in solitary. It’s cold and cramped, and you feel like the walls are closing. All you think about is when you’ll get out and whatever you can do to get out.
It’s nothing like the movies. There are no bright lights or dark settings. This room looks like it was once someone’s closet. Every jail is set up that way. The more uncomfortable someone is, the more they’ll tell the officer what they want to hear.
I already know how this is going to play out. They’re going to come in and offer refreshments. Then they’re going to pretend we have something in common, and I’ll humor them because that’s what they expect. And then they’ll start telling me what happened and gauging when I will correct them.
Somewhere in there, they’re going to hand me a slip of paper that states they’ve read me my Miranda Rights and I should sign it, but it’s a trick. It’s a declaration stating I’mforgoingmy Miranda Rights because I told them everything.
I’ve always instructed my team never to sign or say shit, not even a hello. Once you say one thing, they’ll coax you to say other things, and the next thing you know, you’re facing five to ten years just because you couldn’t keep your fucking mouth shut.
I hear the door open and close, but to my surprise, it’s not Ethan who’s come in to interview me. This fool looks like every typical detective no matter what city you’re in: short and fat, with a chockful attitude.
He’s the guy who looks like he stands up for the flag, doesn’t understandwhy those Negroes act the way they do, and will still report the news at 11. He’s already declared me guilty, and I hadn’t even greeted him yet.
“Good afternoon…” He looks down at his notes. I’m assuming for dramatic effect. “… Cameron, right?” He sits in the comfortable chair in front of me and smiles.
I stare at him. The moment I say one word, it’s all downhill. We’re both about to test each other’s patience today.
“I’m Detective Martin Sloan,” he nods and waits for a response. He continues once it’s clear it won’t be one. “Did you want anything to drink? To eat?” More silence. “Okay, before we get started here.” He pulls out the sheet of paper I’ve been expecting. “This says you were read your Miranda Rights. I need you to sign there.”
He slides the paper over to me with a pen. I glanced down and read it. Most people don’t read, and that’s what they expect. They go by whatever the officer says because, for whatever reason, criminals don’t think officers won’t lie to them. Here’s a clue:they always do.
