The stench of the holding cell is not the sweat and urine crime fiction makes it out to be. It’s stale air and old paper that thins the air until it catches sharply in my throat.
Blood rushes through my veins, accelerated by the adrenalin after facing down the prosecution’s questions.
They had photographs. Photographs of me. In his house. On the road. At the club. They thought they had it all wrapped up – enough evidence to secure a conviction and a long jail term.
But they didn’t count on my confession. No contest to possession with intent to supply. Admission of guilt – and it was case over.
And now I am sitting here, waiting for the paperwork to be done. Seems to me that there is more than is strictly necessary and the clerk is in no hurry. I sit in silence, not wanting to slow the process down by being noticed.
“All right, Mr. Luce…” he gets my name wrong; I don’t care. Call me anything you like – just say the goddamn words…
“…you’re free to go.”
The stench of freedom and the city’s night time air burns my eyes, almost like an emotion.
God, I’d kill for a line, right now – but who is watching? Am I being followed? No…no…it’s just paranoia.
I make the call.
“Dave.” Paul doesn’t waste time with niceties.
“Paul, where are you?” I breathe into the phone, followed by the magic words “I need a gram.”
Soon. It’s not long now. I won’t have to feel…anymore.
© Dave Luis 2015. All Rights Reserved.
‘Magic Words’ is the final installment in the second series of a creative writing exercise by six bloggers. Read, like and share my friends’ blogs here:
Image by Yu-chuan Hsu at Unsplash