Mesopotamia by Arthur Nersesian Page B

talk. My personal effects were removed, then I was fingerprinted, photographed, and a pair of oversized flip-flops were located for me. Since I was permitted one phone call, I dialed the boy editor. Expecting to get his voice mail at that hour, I was surprised when he picked up. I told him that someone had killed Gustavo Benoit and I had been arrested. If he would call someone to try to post bail for me tomorrow morning, I’d greatly appreciate it.
    “Why were you arrested?”
    “Drunk and disorderly and trespassing, I think, but that doesn’t excuse him.”
    “Who?”
    “The cop who shot him.”
    “Are you okay?”
    “I guess.”
    He asked for a variety of details, contact information and such, then said: “I’ll call our legal department.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Cassandra, I’m sure you’re a fine reporter and I’m truly sorry about Gustavo, I really liked him, but in this business we’d rather find the news than make it. We’re already regarded as one of the most hated professions, and stories like this don’t help us—”
    Without even waiting until I was out of jail or had mourned the death of my closest friend, the jerk was firing me. Instead of letting him get there, I hung up.
    Led back to my lonely little cell—no other women were incarcerated on that stormy night—I laid down on the hard cot and thought about poor Gustavo and wondered how I would get by without him. I don’t think either of us ever felt discriminated against in a major way, but we initially bonded because we felt like two outsiders in a white male profession. Perhaps because he was gay, I always thought of him as my best girlfriend, and felt painfully at fault for his death. I shouldn’t have even gotten out of his car, but I certainly never envisioned anyone shooting him. Danger was where you least expected it. As I tried to keep my eyes dry, staring up at the ceiling of my smelly claustrophobic cell, I knew that this was undoubtedly the single worst day of my life.
    Early the next morning, a paunchy, balding man introduced himself as Sheriff Nick politely through the bars. Fearful that he might already be suspicious of me, I decided not to let on that we had briefly spoken just a few days earlier regarding the Vinetta Compton Loyd case. He informed me that he had elected to drop the drunk and disorderly charge, but could not dismiss the trespassing charge. He asked if I wanted to call anyone before going before the judge at ten o’clock.
    “For a misdemeanor, I imagine they’ll ask if I’m guilty and if I say yes, it goes right to sentencing, right?”
    “Usually it’s pretty informal. He’ll give you either a fine or a short stretch of jail time.”
    “What kind of fine?”
    “Well, I’m not supposed to be advising you on account of the fact that our office is pressing the charges, but for a tresspassing charge with no priors that led to your friend’s unfortunate death …”
    “I didn’t shoot anyone.”
    “But whatever hanky-pank you two were up to cost him his life, didn’t it?” When tears came to my eyes, he softly asked, “What exactly were you doing up there anyhow?”
    “It was cold, we were wet. We just figured we’d stop for a drink. I never imagined anyone would shoot us.”
    “If you don’t piss off the judge, you’ll probably get three hundred bucks or three days. Something like that.”
    “Shit.” I had given the last of my cash to the plumber. I asked him if I could use a phone.
    “How ’bout that one.” He pointed to a public phone just outside the cell and started opening the door.
    “I’m sort of broke, but it’s only a local call,” I replied. I had decided to try to reconcile with Rodmilla for the second time in three days.
    He took out his own private cell phone and handed it to me. “Keep it short.”
    I dialed her number. The phone rang continuously for about two minutes before it turned into a busy signal. Either she wasn’t home or she wasn’t picking up.
    “Is there