chance! Then I think it might be Emily, with a growing
sense of jealousy and protectiveness over Quinton, who is acting as my de facto legal advisor.
But when I close one eye and press the other up against the peephole in the door, my blood
runs cold and my heart skips a beat.
Two uniformed police officers stand on the other side of my front door, and they do not look
happy. I open the door and stand there, innocently and honestly confused.
“Addison Danielle Compo?” one of them asks.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“We have a warrant for your arrest.”
Another beat skipped, my heart goes right to frantic pounding. “Arrest? For what, on what
charges?”
“Distribution, trafficking and manufacturing of a controlled substance.”
“Controlled substance?”
“Heroin,” the other officer says as he turns me around and pulls my hands behind my back.
The cuffs are cold, hard metal as he bangs one lightly against my wrist and it locks tight.
“But those are just the charges we’re bringing you in for,” the other officer says. “The feds
have their own list.”
“The feds?!”
“That’s right. Until then, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will
be used against you in a court of law ... ”
CHAPTER SEVEN
They process me at the local police station, Rampart Division, and I can hardly stay on my
feet throughout the ordeal. I’m put on bench after bench, stand in line after line; being
photographed, fingerprinted, thrown into a holding cell filled with female gang members, crack
addicts and prostitutes. The smell of the cage is beyond my ability to describe, except to say that
the smell of urine, body odor and stale perfume is persistent at the very least.
I’m finally allowed to make a call; and it’s to Quinton, of course. He’s as close to a lawyer
as I’ve got. Unfortunately, Emily answers the phone and she picks this moment to say how sick
and tired she is of me trying to steal her man (which I never tried to do and explain as such with
increasing desperation). Before slamming the phone down, Emily expresses her fondest wish
that I should rot in hell, where she strongly feels I belong.
And they only give a person one phone call. Finally, they pull me in and sit me down and
take my statement.
“I want my lawyer,” I say. “Quinton James, his number is in my phone.”
A plainclothes police detective whose desk nameplate reads Charles Vincent offers me a
reassuring smile. “He’s already contacted us, Miss Compo.” Thank God, I hear myself silently
exclaim, she told Quinton and he’s coming for me after all! Detective Vincent goes on to say,
“And you do have a right for an attorney to be present at all times. If you’d rather wait, we can
make you comfortable here for some time until we can get a proper meeting arranged. Or you
can justtell us what you know and maybe we can get this whole thing sorted out. I wouldn’t
take you for an international drug kingpin, Miss Compo. Won’t you trust me enough to help me
straighten all this out as quickly as possible? Surely, it’s some kind of mistake, right?”
“Yes, exactly, it is a mistake.”
“Okay then, why not cooperate and we’ll all work together to get you out of here and back
home where you belong, eh?”
I give it a little thought. This guy must be playing Good Cop, I tell myself. Well, better that
than have to sit here while somebody plays Bad Cop and screams at me that I’m going to be
passed around the federal prison like currency.
I don’t like the idea of saying anything without a lawyer around, but I like the idea of
spending another forty-eight hours here even less. And I truly am innocent, which I feel will
definitely rise to the surface. I’m confident that justice will prevail. So I nod and he leans back,
eyes glancing at my file on the desk.
“You’ve been quite a busy woman over the p
ast year or so, Miss Compo; two properties, one
an apartment building, even have a limited liability