want me to record this?” Melissa said reluctantly.
“Hell yeah.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea…”
“Periscope it. Live broadcast on your channel. Just in case they take the phone away.”
The slamming of two car doors interrupted Howie. Melissa glanced in the side mirror and saw two cops, both male, both white, both with hands on their holsters, approaching the SUV. One hung back while the other approached the driver’s side.
Howie lowered the window, his hands on the wheel, one still clutching his pile of papers. Melissa did her best to cover him and the cop with the phone camera.
“This your vehicle?” the cop by Howie’s window asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“You got license and registration?”
“Yes, sir, it’s all here. I’m going to hand it to you now, okay?”
Howie slowly and deliberately held out the stack of papers to the officer, who didn’t take them.
“You armed?”
“Yes, sir. My concealed permit is right here.”
The cop took a step backwards, away from the open window.
“Step out of the vehicle, sir.”
Melissa thought he might protest. Instead, Howie opened his car door and stepped out. She had to twist around in her seat now to keep the camera on them.
“Is your companion armed also?”
“No,” said Howie.
“Ma’am, step out of the vehicle please.” This instruction came from the second cop, his voice muffled through Melissa’s window. Her heart hammering, Melissa opened her door and stepped out, phone still in her hand but held to her side so it wasn’t obvious it was recording. The roar of a passing truck made it hard to hear what Howie’s cop said next, but to her surprise he now had his hands on the hood of the car and the cop was searching him.
Melissa’s cop directed her to do the same. She placed her hands on the hood, the phone still in her right, its camera facing back towards her. She tried to remain calm as his hands patted her shoulders and underarms and then travelled down her body. To her relief, he didn’t grope her. It was still uncomfortable, and when he was done he didn’t say she could take her hands off the car.
She glanced over at Howie, also still facing her. The cop was taking longer to search him. He flashed her a weak smile, but he was clearly scared. She tried to angle the phone in her hand towards her boyfriend so that the camera could see what was happening to him.
The cop found and removed Howie’s gun, then checked to see if it was loaded. After that he pushed it into his belt and snatched the papers out of Howie’s hand, who was still pressed to the metal hood. As he did so, one of the documents slipped out and fell to the ground. Instinctively, Howie bent to pick it up.
The cops reacted like a bomb had gone off. Both drew their weapons. Both shouted at him to stand still.
Howie froze. Melissa couldn’t see his face as it was below the hood of the car, but he saw his back. The cops weren’t looking at her so she raised the phone camera.
“I’m just getting my permit,” Howie said, his voice hard to hear with the traffic thundering past.
“Do not move!” the cop screamed. His gun was pointing straight at Howie.
Time seemed to slow down. The cars rushing by now seemed to be taking their time. Each whoosh, whoosh, whoosh accompanied by a flash from the gun. Melissa heard only the first shot. At least three more followed. Howie dropped out of sight behind the car. Her hand flew to her mouth. She might have screamed but as she was slammed into the car hood, it knocked the breath from her lungs. The phone fell from her hand as she dropped to the ground. The cop kicked her arm as she lay there. She was distantly aware of the pain. She tried to beg them to stop. For some reason the only word she could get out was the one that made him stop kicking her.
The cop bent over, his face looming and angry.
“What did you say?”
“Canadian,” she wheezed.
“You got a passport?”
She managed to reach a trembling hand into her jacket pocket. Her passport fell out onto the asphalt. The cop picked it up, flicked through it and showed it to his partner.
“Shit,” he said.
Melissa paced her cell with her hands in her hair and tears in her eyes. Whenever anyone passed she would call out to them, asking if they knew what had happened to her boyfriend. They ignored her.
She had little idea of how long she’d been in there. They’d taken her phone and she didn’t have any other way to tell the time, so she paced up and down behind the bars, chewed her fingernails and demanded answers from any person she saw. Her ribs and arm ached from where the cop kicked her. They hadn’t even given her water. She needed to pee but refused to use the highly public metal toilet in the corner of the cell. Nobody offered her a phone call or provided a lawyer.
But she didn’t care about her own condition. She only wanted to know if her boyfriend was alive or dead.
Eventually an officer in uniform took her out of her cell and escorted her to an interview room. Melissa wasn’t handcuffed, but the woman tugged on her injured arm and refused to say a word.
She sat in silence for some time, the female cop in the corner still not talking.
“Where’s my boyfriend?” she asked. The woman ignored her. “Can I use the washroom please?” No response. “The bathroom? The restroom? Whatever the fuck you call it?”
Still nothing.
“I’m going to pee right here all over your chair,” Melissa warned her. The officer seemed to come to a decision. She strode over, pulled Melissa to her feet by her injured arm, then hurried her from the room to the washroom.
The officer stood outside the cubicle while Melissa did her business, then escorted her back to the room once she’d washed her hands.
Another cop was waiting when she returned. He was white with grey hair and a heavily lined face, like he did a lot of frowning.
“Where’s my boyfriend?” Melissa said as she sat down opposite the cop.
“Name?”
“You know my name. You have my passport. Where’s Howie?”
“Name?”
“Melissa Jones.”
“Nationality?”
“Canadian.
