2019.

When Gracie had seen them on TV, the insides of police stations contained an almost-boiling-over chaos of phones ringing from a scattered array of desks, where beleaguered detectives all sat somewhere near the verge of losing their sanity, sobriety, and spouses, and suspects being marched past them in hand-cuffs proudly proclaimed their hate for society and its laws.

But the TCPD headquarters where Hancock escorted her, there under the Titan City Justice Center, had a somber stillness. A large desk dominated the room, part of a low wall that delineated liberty from incarceration. The officers who sat there went about their tasks in hushed tones that never rose to challenge the hum of the fluorescent lighting above. Every surface around them — floor, walls, and ceiling — were a smooth, hard hospital gray, and the air carried the sting of powerful cleaning products meant to disinfect with extreme prejudice, not to make it smell pretty.

Beside the booking desk stood Esperanza Villagrana — TCPD Captain Esperanza Villagrana — wearing a similar professional navy blue pantsuit as she wore to Gracie’s apartment. It wasn’t just Gracie’s imagination though, there was more authority in Esperanza’s stance. This was her territory after all.

Hancock and Villagrana nodded at each other as they approached.

Gracie noticed the way Hancock stiffened and his eyes brightened at the sight of Villagrana, and also the pinched but kind smile she gave in return. It was clear to Gracie that Hancock had a thing for Captain Villagrana, and she knew it, without returning the sentiment. 

Gracie could see it. Hot for a cop, I guess, she thought, deeply aware of the uneasy squirm in her stomach.

“Captain,” said Hancock.

“Mr. Hancock,” said Villagrana, who turned to acknowledge Gracie. “Miss Chapel, thank you for coming in. Please step this way.”

Gracie looked to Hancock, who nodded. “See you on the other side.”

After handing over her jacket, wallet, belt, shoelaces, phone and jewelry, and signing those personal items away, the barrier beside the desk was opened to Gracie, and she submitted to arrest. It felt strange that was all it took. They hadn’t even put her in handcuffs.

She didn’t have to hold up a placard with her name and the date on it for mugshots either, so that part was also different from the movies. And her fingerprints were taken by an electronic scanner instead of stamped with ink.

Then, Villagrana brought Gracie to a waiting area with chairs all bolted to the floor to join the other women there — other criminals — each of them still wearing their street clothes, minus accessories, many with hair disheveled, a few with smeared make-up.

“Please, be seated,” Villagrana said. “Your name will be called in a bit.” And she left Gracie to await her fate among the other souls awaiting theirs.

Although it was her first arrest, Gracie knew to avoid eye contact while the women around her sized her up. She ignored muttered commentary about her supposed background and sexuality. There was nothing said she needed to engage with. Not hearing things was a survival skill. 

About an hour later, Gracie’s name was called and was she directed down a hallway to the magistrate, a woman behind bulletproof glass who seemed a lot like a bank teller. The magistrate reviewed Gracie’s charges. “One count of Assault with a Deadly Weapon. Bail set at five thousand dollars. Sign here.”

The magistrate printed a form with Gracie’s charge and bail and pushed it through a slot in the glass between them. Gracie signed and returned it. Then the magistrate made a copy that she sent back through. “You may return to your seat.” But now that Gracie had a dollar amount, she went to the phone. 

There was only one, a land-line phone attached to the wall. Someone was making a call when she got back, so she sat and waited. But then another woman grabbed the receiver before Gracie could get up. That was fine, Gracie told herself. Don’t risk conflict. Just sit and wait, do nothing and be nothing until she could call the number on her arm that promised salvation.

Finally, Gracie was able to place her call. On the second ring, she had a moment of quiet terror where she wondered if maybe there really wasn’t anyone expecting to hear from her. Maybe this had just been a lie Hancock told to keep her calm and make her go quietly. But on the fourth ring, an older man answered, his voice smooth, with a hint of a cat-like purr, his diction crisp as an actor on the stage.

“Is this Miss Chapel?” he said.

Weird when someone who you don’t know knows your name. “Yeah, it’s Gracie. I was told to call?”

“By Mr. Hancock, yes. You have been provided with a dollar amount then?”

“I have. Five thousand.”

“Very good, Miss Chapel. I will commence with your release.”

“Okay,” she said. After the line clicked, Gracie thought it would have been nice to have gotten a name from that guy.

She went back to her seat, and at around hours of counting cracks in the walls, Gracie’s name was called a second time, and she was pointed toward the door.

Just under four hours she’d been in there, like Hancock promised. Her belongings were returned, and they pointed her to an outgoing desk where a well-dressed man in his seventies stood waiting, hands clasped behind his back.

“Miss Chapel, I believe?” She recognized that purr from the phone. His hair and mustache, both bright white, shone in contrast to skin too deeply tanned to ever fade. He smiled at her through glasses so thick they made his eyes seem small and far away.

Gracie nodded. “That’s me. And you are?”

“My name is Stephen, Miss Chapel.” He bowed slightly.

“Okay, so you’re the guy who… um…”

“I am in the employ of ‘the guy,’ as you put it. My employer has seen fit to cover your bail and offer you a place to stay while you await your trial.”

“Right,” she said. “Okay, let’s do this then.”

“This way, Miss Chapel,” he said, and led her toward the parking deck.

She did not enjoy this “Miss Chapel” business, but when she saw the car he was taking her to, she figured she could put up with it a little longer.

It was a classic so classic that if you see it on the road, you stop and stare out of respect, even if you don’t know a thing about cars. Gracie had no idea how old it was but wouldn’t have been surprised if someone told her Al Capone had one just like it.

Its dark red exterior shone like a candy-coated apple laced with chrome. Its hood rose high and proud like the prow of a ship, and she couldn’t see a speck of road grime on its white-wall tires.

“The fuck kind of ride is this?” Gracie asked.

“This,” said Stephen, holding the door open to her, “is a 1939 Lincoln-Zephyr.”