Author bio: I live in Waitsfield with my parents, sister, dog, and tortoise. I enjoy playing soccer and I get to travel all over New England for games, camps, and tournaments. Art class is my favorite part of the day and I also do a lot of baking. I listen to the entire Hamilton soundtrack (all 46 songs) on repeat, and you can almost always find me watching "Friends". The only lesson that I think everybody needs to know is that Mad River Glen french fries rule the world.
Blurb: When Eleanor Clark is accused of murdering her best friend her whole life is twisted in knots. Through perseverance and risk taking, Eleanor must prove that she is innocent. However this is no easy feat. With handcuffs around her wrists and a large burden on her shoulders, Eleanor learns that sometimes what you are looking for is staring right at you. And even though you might not want to look it in the eye, it is what will get you out from behind bars.
The music from the car radio is loud and staticy. Bailey sits next to me, pumping her fists in the air to the music as if she is at a concert. I keep my hands on the steering wheel but she knows I am dancing a little too. Bailey has always been the enthusiastic one between the two of us. She urges me to go to parties and “Have some fun with life, Eleanor! You won’t be here forever.”
We are the perfect pair, if we didn’t have each other I would be buried to my neck in stress and boredom, and she would probably be in a full body cast from making some crazy exciting decision without thinking about the consequences.
I pull into her driveway she gets out of the car with a big sigh.
“Just as my favorite talk show is coming on?! You better tell me what happens tomorrow!”
It has always surprised me how much Bailey loves talk shows. She always says to live life to the fullest and to not waste a second, and yet she will sit for hours listening to people talk on the radio. She disappears into the darkness and I drive away.
As I drive further from her house I feel a small tug inside me, like a pang of sadness? Maybe regret? It is hard to place. I contemplate turning around and going to make sure everything is in order, but I decide not to. Who ever heard of feeling a sensation when something bad happens? I chuckle slightly at myself as I drive through the sleek blanket of darkness.
I am startled awake by the sound of the landline ringing. I am confused at first, I never get calls to anywhere but my cell, especially at 3:00 in the morning! I get up and stumble on a few mystery objects on the ground before making it into the kitchen.
“Hello?” I speak into the phone with a tired, gritty voice.
A deep voice comes from the other end. “Is this the Clark residence?”
“Um, yes,” he sounds suspiciously formal.
“This is officer Patrick Sanderson From the Hartford Police Department. I am calling to report that Bailey Rodriguez was found dead at 10:34 last night. She appeared to have been murdered. She seems to have not made it into her house. Am I correct that you drove her home?”
I stumble for words. How could this happen? 10:34, that was only about ten minutes after I dropped her off. Questions race frantically through my head. What happened? Was it murder? I remember the small feeling I felt when I was pulling out of her driveway, and a wave of guilt washes over me. My palms start to sweat, I feel dizzy and my knees buckle.
The man on the phone doesn’t wait for an answer.
“Based on the current evidence you are our main suspect. You must report to the Hartford Police department immediately…”
The words sound far away, “no choice… come… but…”
I can barely hear the small muffled voice still on the other line. I drop the phone and sink to the ground.
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Strong, rough hands grasp my arms and pull me back into consciousness. They are large and scarred from calluses. Then they clip cold metal rings around my wrists and hoist me to my feet. My vision is still blurry, but I can tell that this can’t be good. I struggle to get away but then I see the red, white, and blue flashing lights of a police car.
The phone call comes rushing back to me.
“Main suspect” “Report to Hartford Police Department.”
I decide that the best way to play this is to stay still and be obedient. They already think that I was hiding from them, and it will only make it worse if I struggle. I still can’t see correctly when they push me into the car and close the door with a slam.
“You are being taken to the Hartford Police Department for questioning,” says the driver without looking back. “Stay still and don’t try anything.”
She pulls the car out of the driveway, and speeds down the road towards the police station. My heart is beating in my ears and my face is hot. The handcuffs are tight and uncomfortable on my wrists. They pinch the tender skin above my hands, and chafe repetitively against my hand every time the car gets jostled by a bump or rut.
The car pulls into the police department garage and the driver gets out of her seat. She comes around to my door and ushers me out. Then she grabs my handcuffs and walks me to a small room with a table and one chair.
“Sit,” she orders.
I drop into the chair so fast I nearly fall off. I do not want to get any further onto this woman’s bad side. She walks away and closes the thick metal door behind her.
The interrogation room smells musty, and crime lurks in the air. The room is small, too small. Small enough to make my eyes dart frantically around the cement walls, looking for a way out. Small enough to cause a drop of sweat roll down my forehead. Small enough to make the walls seem like they are closing in on me. Just as I begin to feel lightheaded the door swings open.
The officer in the doorway studies me. I can tell that his suspicions are growing with every inch of my body he scans. Shaking hands, dripping sweat, fidgety and frantic, all red flags for officers searching for a criminal. He walks to the opposite side of the table from me and stands with his knuckles on the table, his hands in tight fists. He stares at me for a suspenseful few seconds before breaking his gaze and opening his file.
“Eleanor Clark,” he begins, “you have been accused of murdering Bailey Rodriguez. We have surveyed the evidence, and we have come to the conclusion that you are guilty of murder. The body was found at 10:34 tonight, time of death unknown. At what time did you supposedly drop off Bailey at her house?”
I can barely choke the words out. “Around 10:20.”
He makes a scribble on his paper then continues on.
“Traces of gunshots were left behind at the crime scene, and a gun was found in your house after the authorities had to forcefully retrieve you. What do you have to say about that?”
My eyes widen as he tells me. A gun? I have never used a gun, nor do I even know anything about guns! How could they have found one in my house?
“Uh… I… I don’t know anything about guns, I have never used one and I don’t have any in my house.”
He shakes his head like he doesn’t believe me. Then he walks out of the room and I am left sitting alone, unsure of what to do. I sit in silence for a few minutes before another officer walks in. He asks me the same questions and I give the same answers. He tells me the same information, and I say I am not guilty. The second officer is followed by a third officer.
He is very different from the others. He has a thin smile on his face, like he is happy to see a criminal. The officer is tall and lanky. He towers over me as he scowls from the other side of the table. His eyes are as black and beady as an eagle’s. His cheekbones protrude from his face, giving him a sharp, intimidating figure. The name tag on his chest and large file read Officer Patrick Sanderson in large, gold letters, the same person who was on the phone.
He begins questioning the same way as the first and second officers. My name, Bailey’s name, me being accused. Then he goes on to talk about the murder.
“The murder took place at exactly 10:02, two minutes after YOU dropped Bailey Rodriguez off in her driveway. Then the gun was found in your house the next morning, and bullets were found in the victim as well as bullet holes left in her surroundings. All the evidence traces back to you. What do you have to say?”
I am puzzled by his first sentence. I told the other officers 10:20, and they said they didn’t know the time of the murder. I think back to the night in the car. Dark, music blaring. Then I remember, Bailey’s favorite 10:00 p.m. talk show had just started. I did drop her off at exactly 10:00, and she would still be walking into her house at 10:02, but how did Officer Sanderson know?
Before I can think more I catch his eagle eyes staring at me and I snap back to the room and the interrogation. I try to answer as truthfully as possible, because in this case, the truth will get me out from behind bars.
Every time I look up from the table Officer Sanderson is either fiercely scribbling in his file, or has his eyes fixed on me. When he is satisfied, the officer gathers his things, grabs my arm and begins leading me down a long, dark hallway. His touch is familiar on my arm. The strong, rough hands. The large hands scarred with calluses. He was the person who grabbed me, and put handcuffs on me, and brought me into the police car. I flinch away but his grasp is tight.
He sits me down in a green, scratchy chair and disappears into an office halfway down the long hallway. When he emerges back into the light Officer Sanderson is followed by two large men.
The men grab my shoulders and begin walking me down the hallway.
Officer Sanderson walks ahead of us and keeps his eyes pointed forward. “We have found you guilty of murder. You are being detained in one of our secure facilities until your plea, followed by your trial.”
My mind scans every part of the interrogation, looking for hints at what Officer Sanderson could be doing. He knew that I dropped Bailey off at 10:00, and that she was killed at 10:02. The other officers didn’t know that information, and I gave them the wrong times. I trace further back into the questioning. The authorities found a gun in my house. I start thinking closer into the whole equation. Did they find one or did they plant one? If Officer Sanderson was the person that grabbed me from my house, and he was the first responder. He would have been able to plant a gun in my house without any suspicions arising.
I glare at the back of his neck, or what I can make out of it in the darkness of the hallway. Could he really have killed Bailey? I want to slash free of the two large officers and attack Officer Sanderson for killing my best friend, but if I did that I would be helpless behind bars for much longer than my detainment. Instead I restrain myself and obediently follow him to the end of the hallway.
The two giant men lead me to the end of the dark hallway, where Officer Sanderson opens a giant door. To my despair, on the other side of the door there are rows of cells, some empty, some occupied. Officer Sanderson closes the door behind us, leaving the two large officers standing in the dark at the end of the hallway.
He walks down the long row of cells before stopping at the second to last from the end of the walkway. He opens the latch with jingling keys and motions for me to step inside.
I hesitate but he pushes me inside. “Nice and cozy,” he remarks.
I can’t help but scowl as he closes the barred door in front of me.
“I will bring you food in a few hours, you are not permitted to eat in the cafeteria. I will retrieve you when needed.” And with that he walks away and leaves me standing alone in a solitary jail cell.
I scan my surroundings. A raised platform with a blanket-thin mattress, a dirty toilet, a sink, an orange jumpsuit, and a yellowed piece of paper alongside the nub of a pencil. The cell reeks with the scent of rot and must. The thick smell fills my lungs and makes my eyes water. I lay down on the mattress made of rocks and drift into a slow, dreery sleep.
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I wake to clanking on my metal cell. I rub my eyelids and see Officer Sanderson standing on the other side of the bars. He is holding a bowl of soup and a piece of bread on a tray. He opens a slit in the door and places the tray on the ground.
“I will be back in 30 minutes for the tray.”
Then he turns and walks away without another word.
I pick at the food on the tray, examining it like a critic. My stomach rumbles, begging me to eat something. I take a slow sip of the lukewarm soup. It is thin and fishy on my tongue. I feel a slimy lump and nearly choke. The soup is tangy and acidic, and stings going down my raw throat like saltwater. After forcing myself to take another sip I put the soup back on the tray.
The bowl makes a hollow clunking sound as it hits the tray. I pick it up to make sure I didn’t break anything and notice a large curve in the bottom of the bowl. At first I don’t think anything of it, only a way to make the bowl look more full of soup. But as I begin to worry about being detained in a jail cell ideas begin to creep into my mind. Risky ideas. Ideas that would either get me out of this cell or bring me to my grave. I look around the room. The cement walls, the horrible food, the orange jumpsuit, the metal bars. Then I make the craziest decision of my life.
I grab the piece of paper and pencil and write down everything I can remember. I write about Officer Sanderson knowing small details. I write about him planting a gun and taking me away. I write everything to prove that he framed me. My hand darts frantically around the page, begging my fingers to move faster. To finish writing before Officer Sanderson comes back.
When both sides of the paper are filled with all the evidence that will prove me innocent I fold up the paper and tuck it under the bowl. My heart is racing and my palms are wet. I sit on the cement floor and wait for Officer Sanderson and his evil personality to come retrieve my tray, and my letter.
He looks surprised when he finds me sitting in the corner, dripping sweat. He carefully picks up the tray, eyeing me the whole time. I let out a small squeak as my entire fate is carried away from me to jail dish cleaners.
Now all I can do is hope. Hope that Officer Sanderson doesn’t find the letter and come for me. Hope that the cafeteria staff finds the evidence and brings it to the authorities. Hope that people trust me and investigate Officer Sanderson. Hope that I get out from behind bars.
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When I hear the keys jingling down the hallway I pray that it is not Officer Sanderson coming to get rid of me. As the footsteps come closer I recognize them as the woman whose car I rode to the police station in. My legs feel like Jello, and I almost fall over with relief. Before she reaches me I hear the static of the large radio strapped to her chest. I strain my ears to capture the words on the end of the line.
“We are taking him to the West Hartford Police station. They can deal with his case.”
The static cuts off and I let a smile spread across my face. I just caught a murderer. The police officer comes to the other side of the bars, keys in hand. I am giddy to get out and I bounce on my toes as she opens the latch and pulls the door open. I am ecstatic with relief and triumph. She walks me down the long hallway I once dreaded so much. I can barely hear the distant clipping of handcuffs followed by the receding of the blaring sirens. I never thought I would be happy to hear those sounds.