hadnât even noticed her own childâs misery.
She had been a terrible mother, she decided. It didnât matter that her heart had been in the right place; that she had only been out trying to secure a place in Baronâs life so that she and Shane could have a better existence. None of that mattered now. Shane had been victimized and Misa felt that it was all her fault.
They arrived at the precinct and Misa was ushered inside, the cold winter wind howling in her ears, whistling through the trees and nudging them all forward toward the big doors leading into the police station, to her fate. Once inside, one of her captors ordered her to sit on a bench as he approached the desk sergeant and was handed a logbook.
Misa sat on the bench and shivered slightly as her body warmed up from the cold January air outside. She watched the officers gather around and talk about her in hushed tones. âMurdered the guy ⦠said he was molesting her kid ⦠her brother-in-law, can you imagine?â
She felt like an exhibit at the zoo. After several agonizing minutes, she was led up an old, paint-chipped staircase that reminded her of the one in her former high school. The handcuffs still tore at her wrists and she hoped, as they reached the landing, that someone would take them off her soon. They stepped into a room and a heavy iron door shut behind them. She looked around and saw four officers and a few holding cells. She was mercifully uncuffed and ordered to step out of her shoes. Misa was searched again and made to pass through a metal detector. Once they were satisfied that she had no weapons of mass destruction, they gave her back her shoesâwithout the laces. Next, she was led into a cell that was smaller than her tiny bathroom at home, and she sat on the bench inside as the officer shut and locked the cell door behind her. She massaged her sore wrists as she peered through the bars at the officers filling out paperwork and milling about.
Misa looked around. This place was filthy. Previous poor, unfortunate souls had carved their names into the bench on which she sat, onto the walls surrounding her. Misa couldnât imagine what would possess a person to want to leave their mark here of all places. She had certainly never imagined that she would find herself in this situation. No one could have predicted that things wouldâve turned out the way they had.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a female officer who came and unlocked Misaâs cell. She informed her that she was about to be fingerprinted and photographed. Misa let out a soft moan as she was led to the photographing station. She was familiar enough with the justice system to know that her mug shot would inevitably appear in the newspaper the next day. She stepped into the white-painted square on the floor as the officer instructed her and looked into the camera as she was told.
âHowâs my hair?â Misa half jokingly asked the woman wielding the camera.
The brunette seemed caught off guard by the question, but nodded, offered Misa a weak smile. âGood.â
It was true. Compared to most of the people who slid through the precinct late at night, she did look all right. Misa had a fresh new weave, which was less than a week old and still looked great.
She glared into the camera, her expression defiant. The officer told her to turn to her left and another picture was taken. Then she was led over to a high-tech fingerprinting station and processed. When she was done, the officer who had brought her in appeared again and handcuffed her, looser this time, before leading her up another flight of stairs. This time, Misa was led down a maze of hallways and brought into an office where an older white woman with glasses and plainclothes sat behind a large oak desk.
The cop ushered her into a nearby room and ordered her to sit on a folding chair. He left her in there and went back outside the room to speak with the woman at
She had been a terrible mother, she decided. It didnât matter that her heart had been in the right place; that she had only been out trying to secure a place in Baronâs life so that she and Shane could have a better existence. None of that mattered now. Shane had been victimized and Misa felt that it was all her fault.
They arrived at the precinct and Misa was ushered inside, the cold winter wind howling in her ears, whistling through the trees and nudging them all forward toward the big doors leading into the police station, to her fate. Once inside, one of her captors ordered her to sit on a bench as he approached the desk sergeant and was handed a logbook.
Misa sat on the bench and shivered slightly as her body warmed up from the cold January air outside. She watched the officers gather around and talk about her in hushed tones. âMurdered the guy ⦠said he was molesting her kid ⦠her brother-in-law, can you imagine?â
She felt like an exhibit at the zoo. After several agonizing minutes, she was led up an old, paint-chipped staircase that reminded her of the one in her former high school. The handcuffs still tore at her wrists and she hoped, as they reached the landing, that someone would take them off her soon. They stepped into a room and a heavy iron door shut behind them. She looked around and saw four officers and a few holding cells. She was mercifully uncuffed and ordered to step out of her shoes. Misa was searched again and made to pass through a metal detector. Once they were satisfied that she had no weapons of mass destruction, they gave her back her shoesâwithout the laces. Next, she was led into a cell that was smaller than her tiny bathroom at home, and she sat on the bench inside as the officer shut and locked the cell door behind her. She massaged her sore wrists as she peered through the bars at the officers filling out paperwork and milling about.
Misa looked around. This place was filthy. Previous poor, unfortunate souls had carved their names into the bench on which she sat, onto the walls surrounding her. Misa couldnât imagine what would possess a person to want to leave their mark here of all places. She had certainly never imagined that she would find herself in this situation. No one could have predicted that things wouldâve turned out the way they had.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a female officer who came and unlocked Misaâs cell. She informed her that she was about to be fingerprinted and photographed. Misa let out a soft moan as she was led to the photographing station. She was familiar enough with the justice system to know that her mug shot would inevitably appear in the newspaper the next day. She stepped into the white-painted square on the floor as the officer instructed her and looked into the camera as she was told.
âHowâs my hair?â Misa half jokingly asked the woman wielding the camera.
The brunette seemed caught off guard by the question, but nodded, offered Misa a weak smile. âGood.â
It was true. Compared to most of the people who slid through the precinct late at night, she did look all right. Misa had a fresh new weave, which was less than a week old and still looked great.
She glared into the camera, her expression defiant. The officer told her to turn to her left and another picture was taken. Then she was led over to a high-tech fingerprinting station and processed. When she was done, the officer who had brought her in appeared again and handcuffed her, looser this time, before leading her up another flight of stairs. This time, Misa was led down a maze of hallways and brought into an office where an older white woman with glasses and plainclothes sat behind a large oak desk.
The cop ushered her into a nearby room and ordered her to sit on a folding chair. He left her in there and went back outside the room to speak with the woman at
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