Yeah, not going to feel bad about this one.
The band cranks up as soon as the last auction item is sold. The line to check out wraps along the back wall of the ballroom and the waitstaff jump into action so that any member stuck waiting in line doesn’t want for anything. I even hold a few places while they excuse themselves to go to the restroom.
As the evening starts to wind down, I stick close to the organizers’ table so I can retrieve the scanner.
“Can I be of service?” I ask the woman in charge as her team starts breaking down their area.
“Yes! We could use all the help we can get!” she says, a little overexcited. She reaches over and squeezes my arm in what is probably meant to be a Thank god you’re here way, but I get a ping in my gut that makes me straighten my spine and survey the scene with a critical eye. Something feels off. I start loading the leftover programs into boxes, then stack them on the cart they will use to transport everything to the parking lot while I keep an eye on everyone else. It seems the same as any other weekend, and I swallow my apprehension. Waiting until they are distracted, I move to the credit card machine and pick it up quickly, popping the scanner out in one swift move.
“What’s in your hand?” a voice behind me asks.
A cold chill settles over me. Spinning around, I hold both hands out, the machine in one and the small scanner piece in the other. “I’m so sorry. You can take it out of my pay. I didn’t realize how fragile it was when I picked it up.”
I offer both pieces to my manager, then look him in the eye. I can tell he’s a little thrown for a second or two, but then seems to pull himself back together.
“You can cut the wide-eyed innocent look. We know what you’ve done. Stealing from our members and their guests.” Mr. Sullivan yanks the pieces out of my hands and thrusts them toward the pair of uniformed officers who have appeared at his side. But neither officer takes the device. The one closest to him offers a big plastic bag for Mr. Sullivan to drop the evidence into instead.
My forehead is creased in confusion. My lower jaw hangs open just enough.
There are a few members still loitering around the room, and my interaction with the cops has caught their attention, which causes them to move closer. My mind is racing. I’m thinking about my laptop and modem hiding under the dessert table just a few feet away from where we’re standing. The cleaning crew is only minutes away from pulling the tablecloth off and exposing it.
I hold both my hands up, palms out toward Mr. Sullivan. “Wait. You think I have been stealing from people? With that black plastic thing?” My voice is soft and breaks on a few words, as if I’m too choked up to get them out whole. I turn toward the officers, reading their name badges quickly. “Officer Ford, I was only trying to help clean up!” Tears gather in my eyes until a big fat one spills over. I just need a moment to grab my stuff and get out of here. I can’t let them take me in. I’m employed under a fake name and social security number that won’t hold up under any type of scrutiny. I need to disappear.
Mr. Sullivan turns to Officer Williams, since Officer Ford seems like he’s willing to believe me. “I want her out of here. Now.”
Williams nods but pulls a small notebook from his back pocket. “Of course, but I’m going to have to get a little information before we go.” He points to a chair beside the table and indicates that I should take a seat. I consider running for about three seconds, but without my laptop I won’t get far.
I settle in and scan the room, taking in every face still present, while Williams speaks with the organizers and Ford stands next to him.
“Can you tell me how you determined there was a problem with one of the machines?” Williams asks the woman who squeezed my arm earlier.
“Of course,” she says, beaming. “We ran a card earlier in the evening and when we pulled it out, we noticed that black piece came out with the card. After looking at the other machines, we discovered it was an addition made only to this machine, and that made us question what it was. We brought it to the attention of Mr. Sullivan, and we determined it was one of those scanner things. We didn’t use that machine again.”
He’s writing everything down. “Can you tell me which one of you was working the machine in question?”
A short blond woman nearby raises her hand. “It was me,” she says, then throws me an apologetic look, like she feels bad she played a part in my getting busted.
Williams takes her name and asks question after question.
Mr. Sullivan finally interrupts Williams’s questioning. “You should know all of this. The police sent you here so you could wait and watch to see if the perpetrator would try to retrieve that device.” It’s been about thirty minutes since he first caught me and the members still present are circling closer; it’s clear he wants me gone from this room before they butt in. “We want to press charges and I’d like her removed from the property immediately.”
“Excuse me, someone left their stuff under the table.” One of the guys on the cleanup crew is standing not far away, holding a rolled-up tablecloth in one hand and pointing to the floor with the other.
My equipment has been discovered. The laptop is password protected so they won’t be able to get in, but if they take it from me, I lose everything.
The woman in charge walks closer to look at it, then turns toward the cops. “It’s not ours.”
Ford moves toward the table, and using napkins so he doesn’t touch it directly, he picks up both the computer and modem. He looks at me and asks, “I’m guessing this is yours?”
I ignore him. He puts both into a box one of the organizers provided. They take my backpack, retrieved from the breakroom, too.
“Get her out of here,” Mr. Sullivan says, his voice full of disgust.
Williams pulls me up from the chair then turns me to face the room. “Give me your hands.”
He cuffs me while reading me my rights. My head hangs as Williams ushers me out and Ford follows behind us carrying all my gear. I’m so mad at myself. Mad for getting caught. Mad for not listening when my gut was trying to tell me something felt off.
We’re out in the parking lot next to the cop car, and Ford puts the box down on the ground so he can dig out his keys. As soon as the car is unlocked, Williams opens the back door and motions me forward.
“I guess you have to take me in,” I say, not really a question.
At least he looks less than enthusiastic when he replies, “Yeah, I do. But if this is your first offense, there’s a good chance they’ll be easy on you.”
Ford moves to put the box of my stuff in the trunk just as an older man in slacks and a cheap brown jacket approaches us.
“Williams,” he calls out, and the officer turns in his direction just before he can stuff me inside the car.
“Detective Sanders,” Officer Williams says in a surprised voice. “Did they call you in for this?”
The detective looks me over then turns his attention to Williams. “Yeah, some bigwig in there is worried about his credit card information blah, blah, blah and called the captain. Told me to hustle on down here and handle it so we don’t hear shit later.”
His arms are stretched out and he clearly wants Ford to hand him the box with my laptop, modem, and backpack, which he does with little resistance.
Officer Williams nods at me. “Want me to take her in or is she with you?”
“With me,” he says. “Uncuff her. I’ll secure her with my set.”
Within seconds I’m free, only to be handed over to the new guy.
He towers over me. “Can you walk with me to my car without causing a problem or do I need to put the cuffs back on you right now?”
“I’ll cooperate,” I say.