Fade In:
SLIP BACK INTO CAMI’S SKIN
You, Camilla Renee Whittington Bingham, are a freaking idiot. To have wound up here in a holding cell in the Pima County Jail, surrounded by strange women, some no more than protesters caught up in a swirl of pre-rally violence, others pretending innocence for crimes so much worse than your own.
Ah, but give it time, Cami.
You have both the ability
and the means, and all it takes
is circumstance to move beyond
petty crime into the felony realm.
Somewhere in your brain you must’ve known this outcome was a distinct possibility. You’ve been associating with a heavyweight drug trafficker, for God’s sake. But you’re just one little fish in a very large school of his dealers. It was as much bad luck and crappy timing as lack of caution that put you here.
Maybe karma had something to do with it, too. To escape the house this morning, you made up a totally false story about taking Noelle to the rally. You wonder if she actually went and how it would be the height of irony if she wound up here, too.
Rand asked you not to go. “What if the demonstration turns violent? You could get hurt.”
But you owed Hector that money, promised it to him this morning, and he is not someone you want to mess with. So you made your husband feel guilty. “Won’t hurt you to spend a couple of hours with your son, you know.”
Karma. If you manipulate others, especially people who love you, it often nips you in the ass. This time it excised a chunk.
You got to Hector’s a little after nine. In your purse was the money you owed him, plus a decent profit, and the whole way over, you’d been arguing with yourself. After the robbery, your bank account is terribly low, and the extra cash you earned yesterday could go toward groceries or bills. But then you wouldn’t have enough to score again for quite a while, and since Rand said he’d ask his dad for some extra. . . .
As usual, you parked on the street. Still immersed in the internal debate, you never noticed the dark sedans. Had you recognized them for what they were, you wouldn’t have exited your car, or started up the cracked sidewalk, avoiding the toys littering it.
When you knocked, Hector’s Akita announced your arrival and Melinda was called to put him outside. Routine. Inside, you could hear kids making noise in the kitchen as you settled up with Hector and made the decision. “Could I get an o.z.? I’ve got the cash.”
An ounce would have to do. You didn’t want to be in debt to him again. You figured you’d off it quickly, maybe borrow a little from whatever Rand could get from his dad and be back for a couple more before the end of the week.
As Hector reached into the cabinet for the weed, the Akita started freaking out in the backyard. “What the hell? Melinda. What the fuck’s up with that damn dog?”
He tossed you the ounce, and you put it in your purse as he went to the sliding glass door. At the same time, someone banged on the front door.
Melinda came running in. “Hay policías en el traspatio.”
There were police in the backyard. And also out front. Several of them. Ignoring you, Hector tried to escape down the hallway and out his bedroom window. There was a cop there, too. The one at the front door had a search warrant.
It all happened so fast, you never thought to eighty-six the dope, which was still in your purse when Officer Cardoza took it from you. “Any weapons in here?” she asked.
You were quite relieved to say, “No, ma’am.” And even more relieved that you weren’t in possession of any when she patted you down, not that there were a lot of hiding places in the shorts and cropped tee you were wearing.
She escorted you outside. “Is that your car?”
There wasn’t much use lying. They’d witnessed your arrival. In fact, it was a good thing you said yes, because when they ran your license plates, no negative information came back. No wants, no warrants, not even a ticket. Which made your claim of just being a customer there to purchase a personal stash seem valid.
That is one of the few good things that happened today. You’ve never been in trouble with the law before (also good), but they’ve got you dead to rights on a possession charge. Fortunately, the ounce was in a single bag. Had it been divvied up, they could have gone for intent to sell. And thank God Waylon wasn’t with you, or he would’ve wound up in protective custody, along with Hector’s brood.
You’ve been handcuffed, stuffed into the backseat of a patrol car. Hustled inside the jail to be searched, probed, fingerprinted, photographed, and questioned. Booked on a misdemeanor marijuana charge. Allowed the phone call that will, hopefully, secure your release today, if Rand is successful in posting bail.
And then the real fun will begin.
It takes several hours, and during that time the holding cells swell with protesters and counterprotesters. Here on the women’s side, it’s mostly the latter. Apparently white supremacy skews male. There’s plenty of drama to entertain you, and as the morning drags into afternoon, the stories become more and more steeped in viciousness.
Some of the women come in, bruised and bloodied, they say, by clubs and flags and even fists, wielded by men flaunting their white power as the two sides went at each other.
Windows have been smashed.
Cars have been torched.
Shots have been fired randomly into the crowd, people hit and hurt, maybe worse. Who can say, when you’re running away?
Law enforcement has been coerced into action, lobbing tear gas and firing rubber bullets.
You could be there instead of here.
As far as you can tell, this is all outside the stadium, site of the peaceful rally in favor of immigration, none of it the fault of those gathered inside, though leaving makes them targets.
Again you wonder if your sister has been caught up in the violence. Worrying about Noelle takes your mind off your own troubles. At least, until a cop calls, “Camilla Bingham?”
Rand has managed to arrange bail. It takes a while to complete the paperwork and get your stuff back. Well, everything but the o.z., which is now evidence. More money you can’t afford to lose down the drain, along with three hundred seventy-five dollars to the bail bondsman. It’s been an expensive few days, with nothing to show for it but a huge net loss.
When you finally see Rand, you flush with happiness, but that blush vanishes immediately. He’s pissed. He should be, you get that. But you need his support now more than ever, and the first words out of your mouth are, “I love you.”
When you reach for his hand, he shakes you off. “Damn funny way of showing it. Let’s get out of here.”
Instinct tells you to toss a joke at him, but you refrain. Inappropriate humor would not be appreciated. Instead you aim a question at his back. “Where’s Waylon?”
“Not here.”
Rand keeps walking, but you hesitate, anger puffing up at his curtness.
You’re the injured party here.
He could offer a little sympathy.
He turns. “Can we go?”
You follow him to the truck, climb up into the cab, where you have to move Waylon’s car seat out of the way to take your place on the passenger side. You touch it gently. “Who’s taking care of him?”
“Grace, as if you care.”
“Of course I care.”
“Really. Then why are we here?”
“Because I’m stupid. Rand, I’m sorry.”
He rolls down the windows, unwilling to go anywhere just yet, and you can actually witness confusion behind his creased forehead.
“How long have you been smoking weed?”
“Since the eighth grade. I used to get high every day, but not anymore. Now it’s just once in a while.”
He digests that for a minute. “How much was in your possession?”
You’ve got some decisions to make, and you’d better make them quickly. You must decide how much to tell him, and how honest you’re willing to be. Your marriage could disintegrate right here unless you fight for it.
“Can we get out of here, please?” This is not where you want to give your confession.
“We have to go pick up your car. Thank God they didn’t impound it.”
“Okay, but first can we go somewhere and talk?”
His sigh is heavy-duty, but he starts the truck. Both of you stay silent, mired in thought, as he motors to a park between the jail and Hector’s neighborhood. When he stops, he stares out the window.
You’ve decided to confess almost everything. “Would you please look at me?”
“I had an ounce in my purse.”
His cheeks puff scarlet. “That’s an awful lot for smoking once in a while.”
“You’re right. I’ve been dealing a little. Not much, just to a select few, and just enough to earn a little extra cash.”
“What the hell? How could you take a chance like that? I don’t get it. We’re doing okay.”
“No, we’re not. I mean, we’re getting by, but there’s never any extra. It’s not your fault. I know how hard you work.” You pause to consider. There’s more he should know. “Okay, I want to be honest. I’m tired of keeping secrets. Tired of feeling like I can’t talk to you because you won’t care about what I’ve got to say.”
Now he turns and looks at you. “Cami, you can always talk to me.”
“Yeah. About what’s for dinner. Can I please go to the bank? Did I pay the phone bill today? Never about what’s bothering me, or what’s bothering you, for that matter. I hear you’re tired, and I understand why that is. But you never mention what’s making you happy. If you’re ever happy. Or what you’re angry about. Sad about. Afraid of.”
He doesn’t respond. Is any of this sinking in?
“I’m only nineteen, Rand. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed with trying to be a good wife and mother. I know it was a choice I made, but once in a while I really wish I’d have made a different decision.”
“What are you saying? You want a divorce, and that’s why you’re selling dope?”
He can be dense.
“Seriously?”
“Do you want a divorce?”
“No. I love you. And Waylon needs both of us. I don’t want to be a part-time parent, and I know you feel the same way. But I also want to have fun, or at least not be bored all the time. Can’t we figure out a way to do that together? Or maybe you want the divorce.”
Again, he contemplates quietly. Finally, “You’ve changed.”
“I’m older. People change as they grow older.”
“But usually for the better. You’re more self-centered. That isn’t better.”
“And you’re needier. More withdrawn. A lot of times I look at you, and you’re a billion miles away. I feel like you’re keeping secrets. Are you?”
Now that you’ve said the words, you realize you mean them. You’ve never articulated that sentiment before. Truthfully, if you look hard at your relationship, you’re not the only one who’s been driving the two of you apart.
But Rand’s not ready to admit it if he is. “I’ll tell you this. I haven’t lied to you, but you’ve been so untruthful to me, it’s hard to understand. I wondered about all those phone calls, not to mention the ‘errands.’ Duh. They’re bullshit. Taking Noelle to the rally this morning. More bullshit. I have no clue where you’ve been going or who you’ve been hanging out with. How am I supposed to believe anything you say from here on out?”
He’s got you there.
“I’m finished with the lying, Rand. I get that it will take time to prove that to you, but I’ll try. That’s the best I can do.”
He stews for a short while. “Why can’t you be like other girls and babysit or dog walk for extra money?”
“Do you think I’ll have to go to jail?”
“Doubtful. First offense, possession of such a small amount, you’ll get a fine and maybe community service. Plus you’ll have to do regular pee tests for a while. We can’t afford an attorney, so when you’re arraigned, ask for a public defender.”
“Sometime this week.”
“Will I have to testify against Hector?”
“Hec . . . ? Oh, your supplier? Jesus. I can’t believe I just used that word in relationship to you. Cami, how could you hide this from me for so long?”
“You weren’t looking.”
“I never guessed I had to.” A long sigh escapes him. “Ready to get your car?”
“If you are.”
Do not let it go. Don’t.
“Hey, Rand? What is it about you I should be looking for?”
No reply.
Following your directions, Rand threads through Tucson’s eclectic neighborhoods. When you pass Denny’s, he’s reminded, “Oh, they caught the guys who robbed you. One dead, the other in jail. Also a cop in the hospital.”
“Don’t blame me for that.”
“What? I wasn’t. Where did that come from?”
“I don’t know.”
Is this the way you’re going to be from now on? Is this kind of relationship survivable? Even if it is, is it worth the effort of trying to repair something shattered by deceit? Maybe it would be better to admit defeat and start over.
Huge questions looking for answers, when all you really want to do is pick up your car, drive it home, and hug your kid.
Rand turns up Hector’s street. Most of the houses look very much like his.
In need of repair.
Crumbling.
Crashing down on their foundations. Literally. But mostly figuratively.
“You brought Waylon here?”
“Hector has kids, too, you know.”
Did, anyway. Once again, you realize you could have lost your son today, disappeared into the system until you could fight to get him out.
“I’m talking about my kid. You had no right.”
You need to acknowledge the truth of that statement.
“I know.” And, again, “I’m so, so sorry.”
Approaching Hector’s house, it’s apparent someone recognized the significance of the Honda Civic, parked in front. Your staid little family car now sports spray-painted graffiti. It isn’t gorgeous art, nothing like the incredible murals you see downtown. Just squiggles and several unintelligible words.
But the message, front and center on the windshield, is easy enough to interpret.
Shut the Fuck Up Bitch. I Know Where You Live
He knows where you live.
And where Waylon lives, too.
Fade Out