Cold. That’s what Grant woke up to, his head aching due to the lack of water and his daily caffeine regimen. The concrete was solid and cold. Not to mention that his back was aching from laying on it all night. The holding cell wasn’t supposed to be accommodating. At least that’s what his limited experience and countless hours of Law & Order, N.C.I.S., and C.S.I. taught him what it was theoretically like inside a holding cell. The Federal cells, evidently, were more inviting, albeit nothing about sitting in a locked cell seemed appealing. Scrubbing his eyes, he yawned and stretched – not that it helped the cricks in his neck and back. It’d been hours since he last saw an officer, and he didn’t know if or when he’d be allowed to speak to his attorney. He thought about whether or not anyone would’ve called his Aunt. Probably not. He didn’t really talk to his brother or sister. Being the middle child was like that, often forgotten for days, weeks, months, or eleven years in Grant’s case.

                Wandering over to the small, open toilet, he decided he couldn’t hold it any longer, letting out a thin, pale yellow stream. It made him feel a little better. But not much. Flushing the toilet, he wandered around the cell, as much as you could call it walking. It was big enough to pace back and forth, but not by much. He wasn’t quite sure what happened, other than the cops found drugs in the quarter panel of a car he bought. A salvaged car, at that! According to the tiny bits of conversation he overheard between the officers, the Toyota had been thoroughly searched multiple times, with nothing coming from the scans. Grant was trying to figure out how, if it was, in fact, X-rayed, managed to avoid the coke in the rear quarter panel. That didn’t make sense. He couldn’t figure out that part, nor could the officers who eventually found it in Grant’s possession.

                “McNamar,” the pudgy officer said. Either he was extremely bored, or he hadn’t had enough coffee. “Phone call. You can make your call now,” he opened the cell, sliding the bars open enough for Grant to walk out the door. “Hands,” the officer said, pointing down to Grant’s. Holding his arms in front of him, Grant balled up his fists, waiting for the steel cuffs to clamp down on his wrists. With a click-click, he was secured, the officer grabbing his shoulder. His fat fingers felt like sausages on his shoulder. He was grateful that he wasn’t naked. Being touched by the greasy man was bad enough, but the thin t-shirt was enough to keep him from touching his skin. Grant could smell pepperoni or salami oozing from his pores. It was a wonder that the man kept his job.

                “Sit,” the officer said, pushing down on Grant’s shoulder, making him collapse under the weight of the fat-fingered hand. “Phone.” He stuck a pudgy finger out, pointing at the black phone. The telephone had no numbers, pushbuttons, or rotary dial, only the handset and the cradle. The operator, a young woman, maybe twenty years old, asked, “What number?”

                “Stanton Anderson. I’m not sure of the number. He’s a private practicing attorney.”

                “Grant?” the young woman asked. He tried to place her voice, but it wasn’t coming. Probably because he was handcuffed. “Grant McNamar? Is that you?”

                “Yeah,” he said, a little hesitantly. Would the officers try to get him to talk to an operator, confessing his crimes before he spoke to his attorney? He wasn’t taking any chances. “Who’s this?”

                “It’s Angie. Angie Harris. We had Swope’s chemistry class last semester.”

                “Oh. Right.” Grant did his best to remember the young lady. “So, can you place the call?”

                “You’re lucky it’s a weekday, Grant.” A few clicks on the line and then silence from Angie. He couldn’t hear so much as a dial tone, much less anyone’s voice. He figured they did that so that you wouldn’t know if someone failed to accept a collect call from the jail.

                “Grant? Grant McNamar? Is that you, son? What are you doing in jail?”

                “It’s a long story, and I don’t know how long I have.”

                “Not long. What is Danville P.D. charging you with?”

                “Possession with intent to distribute.”

                “Not another word!” Stanton shouted into the receiver. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. DO NOT. I REPEAT. DO NOT SAY ANOTHER WORD TO ANYONE BUT ME UNTIL I GET THERE. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

                “Yes. I understand.”

                “Good. Angie, you still there?”

                “Yes, Mr. Anderson.”

                “Call me Stanton, Angela.”

                “It’s Angie.”

                “Fair enough, Angie. Hang up on Grant now, Angie.”

                CLICK. The line went dead. Grant hung up the receiver, Officer Fatty nodding in a chair facing the phone. Grant snapped his fingers a few times, just enough to wake up the portly man, smelling of bologna and cheddar cheese. Grant looked over. Next to the chair was a half-eaten bologna and cheese sub sandwich. Shuffling over to Grant, he motioned for him to stand up. Could you be any slower? Grant thought to himself, not that he wanted back inside the cell. Smelling the bologna made Grant want to puke. He anticipated returning to his cell to scrub the smell off his skin. Even though the fat man didn’t touch him, washing his hands would make him feel better.

The bars slid open, and the guard shoved him inside. Grant didn’t feel like it was a push; more like a guiding hand, making sure you didn’t try to back out of the cell. The bars slid back into place, a greasy handprint showing on the bars. Grant scrubbed his hands with the soap before turning the water on as high as possible. It was barely a trickle, but enough to get his hands sudsy. Once he felt thoroughly cleansed, he dried them on his jeans. Just being in the cell made him feel dirty.

                He sat down on the cement slab that doubled as a bed, trying to get comfortable. He thought I’ll just close my eyes for a second. Folding his arms over his chest, he leaned back, closing his eyes. “McNamar!” Grant’s eyes shot open, arms still folded over his chest. “Let’s go.” The fat guy was sleeping on his chair over in the corner. The officer in front of the cell was tall, thin, and wiry. Even the bulletproof Kevlar vest he wore barely hung off his shoulders. He was the kind of skinny that Garfield, the cartoon cat, made fun of sliding down the shower drain. Grant snickered at the thought as he stood up.

                “Something funny?” the guard spat. (To be continued . . .)