“El diputado Miller lo escribió”, le dije. “Lo mantuvo durante catorce meses”.
Aunt Lorraine opened her eyes. They were wet.
“That boy’s mama goes to Mount Zion,” she said. “Sylvia Miller. She told me last year her son wasn’t sleeping. Said he’d come home from shifts and sit in his truck in the driveway for an hour before he’d come inside.” She shook her head. “I thought it was just the job.”
“It was the job,” I said. “Just not the way she thought.”
Aunt Lorraine reached over with her good hand and touched my splint gently.
“Baby, you could have told that man who you were the minute he put the first cuff on you.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
I considered it. I’d been thinking about it all night.
“Because if I’d told him, he’d have let me go,” I said. “He’d have apologized and taken off the cuffs. And then tomorrow he’d have put them on somebody else who didn’t have a badge in her purse. Somebody like Hattie.” I studied my hands. “I wanted to know what he did to people who couldn’t stop him. And I wanted the people in that diner to see it.”
