She stopped in front of us, her eyes huge as she turned to the officers. “Why are you doing this to my family? I want to talk to Frank McKinney.”
“Ma’am, please remain calm,” the officer said, then repeated to me, “Do you understand what I have told you?”
“Yes, but you have the wrong person. I didn’t—”
He said, “Do you want to call a lawyer?”
I looked at my father. “Dad—”
“We’ll call someone right away. Just listen to the officers, Toni, and do what they say. Don’t say anything to anybody until you speak to our lawyer.” I’d never heard him sound so scared. My heart was pounding.
The officer said, “I want you to know, Toni Murphy, that you are not obligated to say anything, but anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”
I stammered, “Yes, I guess…” Then they were leading me out to the patrol car. Neighbors were watching from their houses. A car slowed down as it drove past. I recognized a girl from my school in the backseat. She was staring, her mouth open.
Outside near the car, the gray-haired officer said, “Do you have any sharps or weapons on you?”
“What? No.”
He said matter-of-factly, “We’re just going to search you.” They patted me down. Behind me, I could hear my mom crying. I couldn’t think, didn’t understand what was happening. Where was Ryan? Were they arresting him too?
“It will be okay,” my dad shouted as the officer put me in the back of the cruiser, his hands on top of my head, guiding me in. The door slammed shut. Dad ran over, touched his hands to the window, his face covered in tears. I was crying too, hard gasping breaths, screaming, “Dad!”
The officer said, “Sir, I need you to move away from the vehicle.” Dad stepped back. My mom ran out to stand by his side, grabbing at his arm, her face scared. As the officers drove away, I could see Dad mouthing, It will be okay.
But it wasn’t okay. At the station they removed my handcuffs and took my photo, asked for my name and birth date and medical history, then took my fingerprints. I tried to follow everything they were saying, but I was frantic with fear. I kept trying to ask them why they arrested me but no one would explain anything. A female guard took me to a search room where I was only allowed to keep my underwear and pants and shirt. I was told that the rest—jewelry, shoes, my bra—would be put in a locker. Then I was taken to a jail cell, bare except for a stainless steel sink and toilet and bed. They gave me a pad and blankets for the bed. After a couple of hours they brought me to a room where I met with my lawyer. He had a big belly and bushy eyebrows, looked like a dark-haired Santa. I could see a bit of ketchup on his tie. He told me his name, Angus Reed, and I recognized him as a well-known criminal attorney in town.
“I don’t want you to tell me anything yet,” he said. “The rooms are wired. Don’t talk to any cell mates, don’t say anything to anyone. Okay?”
I nodded, my heart hammering in my ears, his serious voice scaring me even more, making it clear the severity of the situation that I was in.
“My job is to help you from now on,” he said. “I don’t care what you’ve done or what you’ve said. Be polite to the police but don’t tell them anything, don’t describe anything, don’t point to anything. They’re going to try to talk to you again, they will lie, and they’ll do whatever they can to trip you up. I want you to keep saying, ‘On the advice of my lawyer I wish to remain silent,’ okay?”
I nodded again. “Ryan—”
“He’s probably been arrested too. It’s Friday, so they’re going to keep you in here until Monday, when you can be brought before the provincial judge. They want to wear you down. Again, don’t speak to them about anything. Don’t ask about Ryan, don’t say anything about him. You understand?”
“Yes.” But I didn’t understand why I was there or what was going to happen. I just wanted to go home.
*