Indigo by Richard Wiley Read Free Book Online Page A

would know how best to take advantage of the horrible mistake.
    The policemen surrounded him and marched him down a narrow hallway to a dismal room. There was a table in the room, and there was a chair.
    â€œEmpty pocket, take off shoe and belt,” said one of the younger men. His entry into the station had caused a stir and he could not now be sure whether this young man had been in the car with him or not. But he did as he was told, moving slowly and trying to remember how much money he had. He usually carried one hundred naira or so but he didn’t think he had that much today. He remembered, however, that there was a one-hundred-dollar bill tucked inside the photo section of his wallet, behind a favorite photograph of Charlotte. He kept it for emergencies, though it alone was illegal enough to keep him here. He took his wallet out and counted the money before placing it on the table.
    â€œWatch,” said the young policeman.
    Jerry unstrapped his wristwatch and buckled it around his wallet, which was inside the circle made by his belt. The young policeman held out a detergent box, and when Jerry moved his belongings from the table to the box, the policeman told him to hold out his hands.
    â€œAh,” he said. “Ring also.”
    Jerry’s only ring was his wedding ring, which he never removed. “My wife gave it to me,” he said, but the young policeman shook the box, so he took the ring off, then reached back into the box and picked out his wallet once again, unstrapping the watch and placing his wedding ring down into the wallet’s pocket, among the worthless coins.
    â€œI want these things back,” he said, but the young man left the room without speaking, closing the heavy door and locking it from the outside.
    Once Jerry was alone fatigue hit him and he sat down hard. He was injured and filthy and no one knew where he was. And the reality of what had happened, that someone had actually gone to the trouble of setting him up, still seemed dreamlike and completely impossible. He was beaten and broken-toothed and waiting in the dismal back room of a police station. It was too much to believe and he wanted to get to a phone.
    Jerry went to the door and spoke. “I want my phone call,” he said, but the sound of his voice made him feel pitiful so he sat back down. Now was not the time to show fear. He concentrated on his belief that he would be home before nightfall, and that thought calmed him.
    An hour passed and Jerry used it to assess the physical damage done to him and then to stretch out on the table and try to nap. The table wasn’t long enough to hold him, but with his knees up he could just catch his heels on the edge of it. He was surprised to find that whatever he had spit from his mouth had apparently not been a piece of tooth, and when he pressed his palms against the places on his body that ached he thought he was discovering that there was no serious damage done, nothing broken anyway, and probably no blood seeping quietly into him and sapping his strength.
    Though Jerry did not actually sleep, he was able to breath evenly and keep his eyes closed, and by the time he heard the key in the door he had regained some of the buoyancy of his spirit, his naturally optimistic mood.
    When the door opened the captain of police came into the room. He was carrying a clipboard, and Jerry thought of Nurudeen again.
    â€œMr. Jerry Neal?” asked the captain of police.
    â€œYes,” Jerry said.
    â€œIt is my duty to inform you that you are being held pending charges by the Republic of Nigeria for the crime of arson in the first degree.” The captain paused, watching for the power of his words to register on Jerry’s face, but Jerry had prepared himself, and all he did was nod.
    â€œHave you anything to say? I have always found that a confession makes things easier. After that the days go by.”
    â€œI am not guilty,” Jerry said. “Surely you