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“No.” Mel sniffs into the Kleenex that the female officer hands her. “No, he didn’t hit me.”
Three pairs of cop eyes turn on me. I shouldn’t be here. It’s eleven at night, but at least the kids are finally calmed down and asleep in their beds.
Interrogator Number One holds a pen poised over a notebook. “You said you saw him run into her with his truck?”
I don’t look at Mel. I know enough to predict how this will turn out. I’ll tell the cops everything, she’ll kick me out of the home, and we’ll never talk to each other again. I may have just kept her boyfriend from murdering her, and she’s going to hate me for the rest of my life.
“She didn’t see anything,” Mel protests into her Kleenex. The female officer stands behind her, which I find funny. I know they bring women to domestic violence cases for the extra support and sympathy, but this particular officer looks about as warm and inviting as David Copperfield’s aunt Betsey.
The two men are looking at me. Glaring at me. As if I’ve wasted their time by concocting some story about my roommate’s insane ex trying to drive over her with his truck. “Yes, I saw him charge straight at her.”
“And you saw him hit her?” asks Officer Two.
How many times will I have to repeat myself before the night’s over? I clench my jaw, certain I’m nailing the lid on both my job as well as my relationship with Mel. What’s that they always say about tough love, right?
“Yes, I saw him hit her with his truck.”
“Which part of the truck hit her?”
I try to reconstruct the scene in my head. I have to twist my body to the side a certain way. Don’t ask me how that helps, but it does. “So, it would have been the right side of his bumper that crashed into her left side.”
“Where on her left side?” The officer points toward Mel. “Her leg?”
“I’m not sure.” What does he think? That I have night goggles and X-ray vision? “The truck was blocking my view.”
Officer One frowns. “The truck was blocking your view, but you say you saw it hit her?”
So we’re back to the basics again. “Yes, I saw him hit her. How many times will you make me tell you that?” I realize now that I’m getting more agitated than Mel, and these guys are treating me like I’m on trial for trying to murder my roommate.
“Ok, let’s back up.” It’s Officer One still. He’s slightly older and talks slower than his partner. As long as he can hold a tune, I think he could make an excellent Javert in a community theater production of Les Mis. “You were standing across the parking lot.”
“Right.”
He walks over to the window and points. “About where that street light is?”
I have to pause to remember. “No. Further over to the left.”
“The left from our vantage point, or the left when you’re looking at the building?”
“From here.” He nods, as if I’ve just proved my own guilt. “Ok. And then you say you saw the suspect pull up and drive toward your friend?”
I stared at my hands. Wonder if he’d talk to me this way if I weren’t a petite Chinese-American woman with a voice that’s far too soft to match my rage. “No, that’s not what I said. I said they were fighting, he got into his truck, and he sped toward her and hit her.”
“Hit her with the right side of his truck.”
“Yes.”
“Which right? The passenger side right or the driver’s side right?”
I feel like I’m back in fourth grade getting drilled on multiplication facts. “The passenger side.”
“But you didn’t actually see him hit her.”
“Yes, I stood there and watched the whole thing.” I don’t care that my voice is rising. Who is this man to tell me what I did or didn’t see? How in the world would he know?
“So you stood there and watched your friend get hit by her ex in his truck.”
“Yes.” Now can we move on to the part where you go after Kai and arrest him?
“But your friend’s not hurt.”
Mel shakes her head. She’s agreeing with him.
“I guess he wasn’t going all that fast,” I admit somewhat deflated.
“You said you heard the tires squeal.”
“Well, he started out like he was backing up, and then he turned real fast and hit her.”
Mel mumbles, “He never hit me,” but she’s said it so many times we all tune her out.
“So you saw the truck hit her? You saw the passenger side of his bumper actually hit your friend and make her fall?”
The words stick in my throat. I feel queasy. “Well ...”
The trio of officers exchange meaningful glances.
I swallow, refusing to look at Mel. “I guess I didn’t really see the truck hit her. I saw him speeding toward her, next thing she was on the ground, and then he drove off.”
“I lost my balance,” Mel insists. The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
Officer Two clears his throat. I assume it’s his turn to take a stab at Good Cop for now. “So it sounds to me like what happened was you heard the tires, you saw him going forward, and you saw your friend on the ground, and you assumed she’d gotten hit. When like she said, maybe all that happened was she lost her balance.”
I feel like we’re arguing semantics at this point, but I realize the officers have got me on a technicality if nothing else. There’s no reason for me to say anything more, and thankfully they don’t push the issue further.
The female officer asks Mel if she wants to press charges, but there’s not a single adult in the room who’s surprised by her answer. “No, he just wanted his old work clothes. I forgot to give them to him when he moved out.” She still won’t meet my eyes, but at least the cold haughtiness in her voice is gone.
“You make sure to tell us if he keeps coming around here bugging you, got that?”
I don’t even look up to detect if it’s Officer One or Two talking. I’ve had enough of policemen to last me a lifetime already.
The cops leave, and I don’t even argue when Mel stares at the wall in front of her and tells me I’ve got until tomorrow morning to find another place to stay. “I just fell,” she insists once more, perhaps for good measure. “He never hit me.”
I don’t reply.
I’ve heard that argument far too many times.