He tries to give me a look of comfort. He stands and leans over placing his hand on mine. He gives it a small pat. I nearly pull away. It feels strange but oddly comforting.

“This will all be over soon,” he says, and he starts to walk out of the office.

“Bob,” I call out to him. Stopping him mid-exit.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Sheriff Stevens. His line of questioning the other night. I had no idea he was going to take it there, and it was completely inappropriate.” My phone rings jolting me and interrupting our conversation.

“It’s… fine,” he replies. “You should get that.” And he turns and leaves my office.

I pick up the phone from the coffee table. “Sarah Morgan.”

“This is Sheriff Stevens. I wanted to inform you that your client escaped from our premises sometime yesterday. We think we’ve located him. We need you to come down to the station.” The line clicks dead as he hangs up abruptly.

“Motherfucker!” I throw the phone down and grab a coffee mug from my desk, whipping it against the wall. It shatters into a million pieces.

58. Adam Morgan

58

Adam Morgan

Back at the station, a familiar scene of yelling and finger pointing unfolds before me. The saliva of countless sheriffs and deputies giving orders rains onto me. To say they were gentle in their handling would be quite false indeed, but I suppose this is the treatment a murder suspect who has escaped and been recaptured deserves, so I don’t complain.

Before I had a sort of status: only my hands were cuffed in front of me, and only during transfers. That’s gone. Now both my hands and feet are cuffed and attached to each other. I am never left unsupervised and barely allowed to speak without being met by a chorus of yelling.

Of the things that have been screamed at me since my return, the few that stick out are, “…transfer to max holding…” “…fucked up one too many times!” and “…your attorney will be here shortly before your transfer.” The last one is particularly disappointing as I once again get to play the fuck-up in front of Sarah.

After what seems like a very, very long time enduring verbal abuse, albeit deserved, I am informed that my attorney has arrived, and I am transferred to an interrogation room and handcuffed to the table.

Not long after, Sarah and Sheriff Stevens enter.

The first words out of Sarah’s mouth are, “Is that really necessary?” as she points to my hands cuffed to the table.

“Don’t even fucking start with me,” Sheriff Stevens says. His anger is visible all over him.

“Fine,” Sarah huffs.