Getting arrested feels exactly how I always imagined it’d feel: shitty.
“Name?”
“Valerie Simons.”
“Age?”
“Eighteen.”
The officer types in my information with an alarming speed, her fingers hammering at the keys like she has seen my kind before, and she’s sick of it. I answer each of her questions calmly but respectfully. I can hear Jax’s voice telling me to play the good girl and I have no problems whatsoever doing so. Act scared, act clueless.
“No criminal record,” the officer says as she reviews my information. Her eyes stay on the computer screen, barely acknowledging my presence. “What were you doing at the rally?”
“Just showing my support,” I respond. “I was really sad to hear they were going to tear down that corner store.”
“How’d you hear about it? The protest.”
“Twitter.”
“Twitter?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She makes a note of this. While she types, I can feel sweat beading at the back of my neck underneath my jacket. So far, no one has seen my tattoo.
“Have you attended an event like this before, and are you affiliated with any of the local groups who supposedly hosted said rally?”
“No, ma’am,” I answer, feigning shock. “My mom would kill me if I joined any of the gangs, or whatever. Hell, she’s going to kill me if she ever finds out about this.”
The officer doesn’t give any hint that she cares, and instead stays all business. “Officer Ramirez will take you to booking. Next.”
The whole process feels almost made up, like I’m an extra on CSI. I hand over my phone and everything else in my pockets. They pat me down again, this second time just as thoroughly as when the officer pinned me to the sidewalk.
After the pat down is fingerprinting. The officer has to shove my shaking hand to the paper. The black ink seals itself to the paper as surely as one thought has sealed itself in my mind over and over again—I am so fucked.
Finally, the grand finale—the photograph. The camera flashes before I have a chance to sit up straight, but they don’t care about the formalities. I can still see the afterimage of the flash as I’m shoved into the holding cell.
There are six other women here. Immediately, I spot Juliet. Her head tilts back, propped against the concrete wall. A trail of dried blood runs from her bottom lip down to her chin.
Taking the seat next to her, she almost imperceptibly touches her knee to mine. Then she pulls it away. I try to understand her signal—I’m here for you, but we should act like we don’t know each other.
Jax will get me out. Someone will post my bail. I’m shivering, scared, and feeling absolutely stupid for getting caught. Well, at least I’m not alone.
“Some fucker grabbed my leg and my knee buckled,” Juliet whispers out of nowhere. “Once I was on the ground, I clocked him pretty hard, but here we are.”
“What do we do now?” I whisper.
“Wait,” Juliet replies.
I huddle down as best I can, wishing my jacket hadn’t been among the items confiscated. Goose bumps creep along my arms, and I draw my knees to my chest to try and keep warm.
Hours tick by. Outside, daytime fades to an unforgiving night. A door opens, and an officer walks in front of the cell, eyes low on a clipboard. “Flora Santos?” she asks.
One of the women on the opposite side of the cell sits up and shuffles over to the door. The officer tells us all to keep back as the metal bars slide open, and Flora goes. My heart sinks, and I shift on the metal bench just as the officer comes back around.
“Valerie Simons?”
Jumping up, I look back at Juliet, who gives me a look that says: Go on, get outta here.
I follow behind the officer as another attendant hands her a plastic tub with my stuff—jacket, phone, wallet.
“Your charges have been formally dropped,” the female officer says to me. “And you’re free to go. But I’d advise you not to participate in such protests again. They’ve been known to get pretty violent.”
With that, she pushes open a side door leading into what I imagine is the rest of the police station. I tug on my jacket, my heart pounding, as if someone might try to stop me from leaving.
But no one does, and I step outside to get my bearings. A rush of cold wind greets me, and after spotting a sign for Fillmore Street, I walk a block or so on Turk, which I know will eventually get me back toward Civic Center and a BART station. Pressing the power button on my phone, I wait for it to turn on. A whistle sounds from my right. I turn.
“Mako!”
“What up, V?” he responds, opening his arms for a hug. His muscular arms give me a tight squeeze. “You okay? What’d they say?”
“No charges,” I respond. “I didn’t have a weapon on me.”
“Atta girl,” he replies. “Where’d you drop it?”
I cringe, guiltily. “I didn’t bring one. I know Jax said to in case we needed it. But I was really hoping I wouldn’t need it.”
“Damn, okay,” he replies, putting an arm around me and steering me in the opposite direction of where I was going. “My phone’s dead. Can you text Jaws you’re out? He’s somewhere around here with the car.”
After a few minutes of waiting, the man in question pulls up and we climb in. When we get back to Holloway, everyone’s in the kitchen. Their faces light up when they see me—but my eyes are only on Jax. Which Jax am I going to get—pissed or concerned?
My leader gets up and saunters over to me—and immediately pulls me into a hug.
“Sorry I lost track of you,” he says. “You okay?” I nod into his chest, taken aback by the gesture. Shit, he smells good.
Jax guides me over to the others, and I get hugs from each of them. When I finally sit, Nianna slides me a glass of water and I drink heartily.
“How’s Jules?” she asks, tugging at the end of her sleeves and bundling herself in her sweater.
“Okay,” I reply. “Her lip was cut pretty badly. How come she didn’t get released, too?”
“Not her first offense,” Jax answers. “We’ll get her out on bail, but she’ll probably be arraigned and everything.”
“Shit.”
“Jules will be okay,” he responds pointedly. There’s something else implied there.
“I’m okay, too,” I say, shrugging. “I didn’t even get charged.”
“Good to hear.” He smiles, but not all the way. Something’s up.
“Tell her, Jax,” says Micah. I swivel so I can see him. He shifts his beanie around his black hair and sighs. “She’s gonna find out anyway.”
“Find out what?” I ask.
Jax scratches his head. “You were doxxed. Everyone who was arrested was.”
I know the word, but barely. “What does that mean?”
“SFPD put out your photo and name on their social media accounts. It’s a deterrent, so that others don’t join the next protest for fear of being outed, too.”
Oh. My. God. “They put my fucking mug shot online?”
“Yeah.”
“What?” I am going to throw up. “Can they do that? Is that legal?” Daughter of a lawyer, my first thought is always going to be whether it’s legal.
“Kinda,” Jax replies. “Bit of a gray area, but it’s already done.”
“It’s not a new tactic. Berkeley police have done it before,” Micah chimes in. He scoots around Mako so that he can take the seat next to mine. “We’ve already started the rallying cry for them to be taken down.”
“My parents. All my friends … they’re gonna see me on the news.” My voices rises in disbelief and horror. Mom always watches the eleven o’clock news. I could tell her not to watch, but that might only make her want to watch more. I’ll call, I decide. If they’re gonna hear it, I want it to be from me.
“It’s gonna be okay,” Micah says, and Nianna nods her assent. “We’ve dealt with worse.”
“Until then, you stay here,” says Jax. “I want you—and Jules, once we get her out—to lie low for a few weeks unless I say otherwise.”
“Okay,” I say. My head is still swimming, the pit in my stomach getting worse and worse.
“There’s more,” says Jax. The rest of the Stags look at him, eyes curious.
Nianna frowns. “What do you mean, ‘more’?”
“A message from the Herons.” He shifts and takes out a piece of paper from his back pocket. He holds it out to me. Nianna pauses and, getting an affirmative nod from Jax, leans over my shoulder.
“The Herons want to meet with me?” I ask.
“The Herons,” Jax repeats in a lilting voice. “You know who actually wants to meet with you.”
Matthew. “It … it doesn’t say who.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
“Are you going to let me go?” I ask. “You literally just said to lie low.”
“Unless I say so. So yes, you’re going to this. You’re gonna be my mole. You can find out what the Herons thought about today, as well as what their next move will be.”
I open my mouth, ready to fire back that I would never spy on Matthew, but I hold my tongue. The tattoo on my neck prickles. “Okay.”
He eyes me for a moment, then nods. “I’ll send out the message. Camille will insist on no weapons, but that’s fine. I’ll insist on our turf, which she’ll accept. Somewhere that’s clearly ours and public. You’ll be safe.”
“Okay.”
“All right.” Jax goes back to his room, and I make a beeline for the basement.
I kick off my shoes and dive onto my bed. In the safety of solitude, I read the fragile gray print over and over. Matthew. My Matthew.
I’ll see him, and everything is going to be better. Right now, I have to catch my parents before the eleven o’clock broadcast.
Mom picks up first ring. “Val? Peter! It’s Val!”
There’s the sound of a door quickly opening, followed by my dad’s voice in the background.
“Valerie?”
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.”
“Oh my gosh, honey. Are you okay?” My parents always ask that first. I guess I would, too, if the situations were reversed. I answer all their questions slowly—yes, I’m totally fine. No, I won’t come home.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” I say finally. “And I wanted you to hear it from me before you heard it from someone else.” In any other universe, my parents might be worrying I’m pregnant or flunked out of school. Instead, I explain doxxing and what it means. Which also means admitting I was arrested.
“Oh, Valerie. Oh my god” is my mom’s reply.
“I know,” I say. Tears well up unexpectedly. I’m letting them down, in so many ways. “But the others are working on getting them taken down. I just didn’t want you seeing it on the news.”
Mom must have handed the phone over, because it’s my dad who replies. “Honey, you did the right thing in telling us. But Valerie, this is getting out of hand. You could have gotten hurt, or worse. Just tell us where you are, and we’ll come get you.”
“Please,” Mom echoes.
I’ve done this enough to know that this is the point where I have to be my strongest, even if it feels absolutely and unequivocally wrong.
“I am not coming home. I’m doing this, and I’m making it right. I love you both so much. I’m sorry. I love you.”
And then I hang up. Sobs rack my body and I fall back onto the bed. What am I doing? Turning onto my side, I roll over on the bed and something under my hip crunches. The IRIS.
I clutch the paper to my chest, aware of the girly cliché. But I don’t care. For once it’s for a good reason that I. Don’t. Care. What I need now is something and someone familiar. Someone who made the same choice as me, whose story is intertwined with my own.
And Matthew Weston is the only person on the planet who fits the bill.