Judging from the main portions of the history of the world, so far, justice is always in jeopardy. -Walt Whitman
The police station is bustling with life. Radios are chirping. The officers are engaged in conversation. Stepping up to the information window, watchful eyes appraise us. Much of the murmuring halts. Sitting in the waiting room, reminds me of a fish in a bowl out on display at a carnival or fair.
There're several water stains in the dingy square ceiling tiles overhead. When the air comes on, strings of dust attached to the vents wave through the air like a miniature inflatable, arm flailing, tube man. The cool air is a welcome change from the humid, stale air.
Approaching footsteps draws my attention directly to the left of where Drake and I are sitting. A pair of dark-brown loafers slaps the floor. They stop in front of me. Leveling my chin, I lock eyes with Detective Jackson.
"Miss Herrington, thank you for coming in this morning."