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Signs of Life

By Valerie Banfield

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(EXCERPT)A shiver rippled across Juanita Hoyt’s shoulders, an involuntary spasm induced by the cold metal encircling her wrists. The officer must have hung his handcuffs from his side-view mirror while he roamed the streets looking for offenders. Before she could grab her coat from her SUV, he shoved her into the back seat of his patrol car. She didn’t hear Zach’s protests, but watched as the officer who arrived in the second cruiser forced him to his knees. The last she’d seen of her husband was his hands, raised behind his head, his fingers knitted together. That was hours ago.
Juanita lifted her manacled hands to her face and brushed the tender bruise on her cheek. The damage to her skin most likely complimented her soiled dress and her broken spirit. If the officers’ treatment of her was rough, what might they have done to Zach? Her hero, her defender. What might he have done to protest their unrestrained behavior? Juanita knew two things: her incessant shivering was a product of trauma; Zach’s situation, regardless of where he was at this instant in time, was a thousand times worse.
The dusky sky on the other side of the window conveyed the passage of time, and the lengthening interlude between her arrival at the station and the present left Juanita stymied. Instead of the expected fingerprints, crude photograph, and escort to some sort of holding cell, those in charge seemed not to know what to do with her. She sat in a chair in what looked like one of those interrogation rooms the police in the television shows always used to confront the accused.
The woman of the pair of officers who upended Juanita’s evening took pity on her charge and replaced the handcuffs so that Juanita’s hands were in her lap instead of behind her back. Why they wouldn’t remove them altogether was beyond her imagination, just like everything that had transpired since the flashing lights in her rearview mirror directed her to pull the SUV to the side of the road.
She rocked her torso back and forth, a motion that did little to calm her agitated state. Her head and her shoulders ached. Her body craved food. Her heart, wrenched inside out, begged to know the condition of her spouse. And what of Conner and Izzy? How long would it take them to worry over their parents’ absence?
Juanita stiffened her spine and shrank back against her chair as both arresting officers came into view. When they stopped in the hallway, the gruff male placed his feet apart, much as a wrestler preparing to take down his opponent. In those brief moments when he didn’t curl his hands into fists, his fingers twitched.
The female officer waved her arms at her partner while her face went from pink to fiery red. Whatever she spewed at him . . . A little more. Come on. She needed to turn just a little more. Yes. Like that. Juanita narrowed her eyes and studied the woman’s mouth.
“Yes you are,” the woman said.
The man, who had his back toward Juanita, pushed his pointy finger into the woman’s arm. His partner reacted in kind and shoved the base of her palm against his chest.
“I won’t cover for you. Not again. You were out of line, Benton. You come to work in a foul mood and then you take your nasty temper out on the first person who crosses your path. This time—” She snapped her mouth shut as her eyes met Juanita’s inspection.
Juanita winced and dropped her gaze. She pressed her lips together and took tiny sips of air. They didn’t know. She refused to give herself away, but instead of fortitude, her intake of oxygen produced another shiver.
Too late. She didn’t have to look up to know one—no, both—of the arresting officers were standing inches from her chair. The female cop’s sweet perfume and his acrid breath gave them away; that, and Juanita’s keen ability to sense the presence of another living soul. She had only four senses left, but they worked overtime to compensate for the missing piece. Should she continue to hang her head? Could she pretend she didn’t know they were there?
The woman’s index finger appeared below Juanita’s chin. As the officer crooked her finger and lifted it, Juanita raised her face until her dark brown eyes met the unflinching hazel orbs of one very angry policewoman—the one whose partner liked taking charge.

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