THE CON ED TRUCK had been sitting on our block for the past week.

Consolidated Edison - aka Con Ed - was the utility that provided electricity to the great city of New York. In a city as large and as advanced as New York was, there was absolutely no reason for Con Ed to take more than a couple of days to fix whatever electrical issue our neighborhood needed fixing. For it to take a week was asinine.

After a couple of days, it began to irritate the crap out of me. By the end of the week I was about to have a meltdown. When the following Friday rolled around, and I saw the truck still there, engine off, no employees around it, I knew something had to be done.

I went downstairs, made Alex's breakfast, and plopped down next to him.

I poked him in the arm. "Alex?"

"Yes, Siobhan?" He looked at me around the newspaper he was reading. My old man dinosaur refused to read a newspaper online. Tree killer.

"Why's there a Con Ed truck on our block?"

He gave me a patronizing look, then returned to his paper. Shaking it out, he said, "Ostensibly because someone is having issues with their electric service."

"That takes two weeks to fix?"

He closed and folded the paper; a sign that he knew he'd have to pay full attention to me. "You want the truth. It's surveillance." He patted my knee. "My advice is to ignore them."

"Well, that's crap!" I shouted and banged my fist down on the table. "The 4th amendment of the Constitution affords us the right to be secure in our houses from governmental invasion." I pushed his shoulder. "Do something."

"It won't stop it. They'll swap out the Con Ed truck for something else." He drank down the rest of his coffee. "Look at it this way, baby. At least we know it's there."

"That's so conciliatory!" I fumed. "This is an illegal invasion on the right of privacy in our homes."

Alex smiled, folded the paper, and bopped me on the head with it. "Ignore it, Siobhan. I'm serious."

I crossed my arms and glared at him. "I can't ignore a thwarting of the law by the people tasked with the responsibility of enforcing it."

"Siobhan, I'm going to say it one more time," he rumbled. "If you make an issue out of that truck, they'll make an issue out of you."

That was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. I can't resist a challenge. "I can't just ignore it," I muttered.

"Fine. See for yourself." He kissed me on the side of my head. "If you're not going to listen to me, try to remember that they're not obligated to give you a phone call. If you get taken to a precinct, you're on your own until you can make contact. "

"You have no faith in me," I grumbled.

"No, I don't." He put on his jacket and kissed me again. "We're going to the opera tonight, so try to be out custody by 5pm."

"I don't think you're funny," I pouted.

"Oh, baby." He tapped my nose. "My little sovereign citizen. Have fun with the Feds."

"I'm not a sovereign citizen," I corrected. "I believe in the rule of law and the Constitution of the United States, which is why I'm pissed about this unlawful surveillance!" I flailed my arms towards the outside. "It's unconstitutional! It's un-American! It's..."

The door slammed. He had the nerve to leave in the middle of my rant, for God's sake. Right when I was getting wound up, too. Bastard.

I rolled my eyes, then lumbered over to the living room, crashed on the couch, and used the living room iPad to pull up the parking violation codes table for the city of New York. Scrolling through I found all sorts of funny stuff, like how it's illegal to feed the meter. Come on. Feeding the meter should never be illegal. Damn nanny state.

There was one violation, though, that caught my eye. A commercial vehicle parked legally cannot be parked for more than three hours. It was definitely in the yellow, and about an hour since I first spotted it. If it was there by the time I'd showered and watched Dr. Phil, then I would have a legitimate grievance.

Sure enough, after three hours the truck was still there in the yellow. I printed out the section of the parking code that listed commercial vehicle parking violations and stormed out of the house and up to the truck.

Knocking on the driver's window, I yelled, "Hello? You're in violation of New York Parking Code 85, which restricts a commercial vehicle from parking in a legal parking spot for more than three hours. Hello? Hello?"

No one answered, so I pounded harder. "Hello? Hello in there! You're breaking the law, do you hear me?"

Still no one answered. So I began kicking the sides. "Open the door and admit that you're breaking the law! Open – " I kicked "-the – " another kick "- door."

A siren squawked behind me. I turned. Two of New York's finest got out of a marked police car.

"Can we help you, m'am?" asked the older one as he stepped around from the driver's side.

"Yes," I replied, shaking the law at him. "This van is a commercial vehicle and it's violating the New York Parking Code."

"It is?" he asked, unimpressed. "Well, we better call parking enforcement. Thanks for letting us know, m'am. Now, run along."

"Are you a model?" blurted out his partner, a significantly younger black guy. "Because you look like a model."

I pushed by my hair. Jeez. Sexist much? "If by model, you mean model citizen, then yes, I'm a model. As a model citizen, I demand that it abide by the city code of the municipality of New York and be removed from my neighborhood posthaste."

The cops stared at me.

"Posthaste means fast," I clarified.

The older cop sighed and scratched the back of his head. "M'am, parking enforcement will be notified. Now why don't you run along."

"I want it dealt with faster." I turned and resumed banging on the window. "Get out of my neighborhood, parking code violator."

"M'am have you been drinking?" asked the older cop. "Taken any illicit substances?"

I glared at him over my shoulder. "Why would you ask if I've been drinking? Is demanding that the City of New York to enforce the very regulations they created something a drunk person would do?"

The older cop nodded, turned to his partner, who also nodded. "Yes, m'am. Yes it is."

"New Yorkers," I muttered, rolled my eyes and returned assaulting the truck. "Move the truck," I yelled. "I know you can hear me. You're violating the U.S. Constitution and municipality regulations. You can't break the law to enforce the law!"

"Alright, m'am," sighed the older cop, "hands behind your back."

"What!" I whirled around. "You're arresting me?"

"I am." He handcuffed me quickly and professionally.

"What's the charge?"

"Creating a public nuisance."

"That's an infraction!" I yelled. "Write me a ticket!"

"Is it?" asked the older cop to the younger cop. "Huh. Well, let's figure it out down at the precint."

I was getting arrested over an infraction. I grinned at the truck and mouthed, "Title 42, section 1983. Booyah!"

They led me to a police vehicle illegally parked around the corner. As they piled me inside, I asked, "So, how'd you boys get into law enforcement?"

"You probably shouldn't be talking to us," said the older guy.

"Why? I'm just making conversation. You guys should like it when a suspect makes conversation. Besides, you haven't mirandized me yet, anyway, so you can't use anything."

"You have the right to remain silent," said the older guy. "Please, please embrace that right."

I moved so I was closer to the grate between us. "Tell me, what's it like growing up here? My fiance's from here, but he's rich. What's it like for regular people?"

"It's great, except for when people assault a Con Ed truck."

"So what do you have against Con Ed, anyway?" asked the younger one.

"What's Con Ed?" I asked.

The two officers exchanged a glance.

"What? I'm not from New York," I told them. "I'm actually from Iowa."

"You don't say," said the older one. "I'd never have guessed that."

"I'm serious. I want to know why people choose to live here instead of, you know, choose quality of life."

"It's the culture," said the younger one. "It's all about culture. Greatest city in the world."

"What culture?" I asked as we passed a Bed, Bath, and Beyond. "I mean, being here's like being in a big, outdoor mall. You got everything we got, but you pay ten times as much for it."

"It's a New York thing," said the younger one. "You wouldn't get it."

"Midwestern miscreants, coming here and making trouble," the older guy agreed as he pulled into spot in front of the precinct. "Why don't you just stay home and tip cows?"

"Because it's cruel and hateful," I told him. "Like charging a fortune for real estate. Ow!" I yelped as slammed on the brakes. "Watch it, buddy. I want to look pretty in my mug shot."

"Yeah, yeah. Come on, Red. Move it," said the older one as he pulled me out of the car.

I turned to him and grinned. "Hey, you know this is the first time I've ever been arrested by someone who wasn't a family member? Do you mind getting my phone out and taking a selfie with me?"

"You're a trip, Red," said the older one as I was led through the booking room and into an interview room off to the side.

"Where are we going?" I asked. "Are you kidnapping me?"

The older one pushed me into a room and took off my handcuffs. "Have a seat, Red. Some people will be in to talk to you in a minute."

"Aren't you the arresting officer? Aren't I your collar?"

"Somebody watches too much Law and Order," he muttered.

The younger one popped his head back in. "Hey, if you want somebody to show you around the city, give me a call."

I waved. "Sure thing. My fiancé is super understanding about me dating other guys."

The door shut. I tried to open it, but sure enough, it was locked. By law, the state can hold you in custody for 72 hours without charging you with a crime. I might be missing Don Giovanni tonight.

So I took a look around. It was a small room, with an office table, four chairs, and a flat screen against the wall. There were two cameras mounted overhead, and I'd been money there were more I couldn't see. There was also a large two-way mirror. No doubt there was a group of state actors watching me, and evaluating me as to state of mind and whatnot.

I decided I'd evaluate them back, so I hopped on the table, crossed my legs, and finger parted my hair. I'd been meaning to do my hair in a loose Dutch braid for the opera tonight, and this was as good as time as any. That way, if I got out of here by five, I'd at least have that done.

Amelia and I had been working on multitasking. I couldn't wait to tell her how I'd made use of my time in custody.

I had finished one side when the door opened and three people walked in. The first was a woman, youngish - maybe 30s? - brown hair highlighted blond, and pretty. The second was an older white dude. The third was Special Agent Donnelly.

"Special Agent Donnelly!" I cried. "Look at you, in New York." I paused for a moment, stunned by the sight of two black eyes, a swollen, taped up nose, and an arm in a sling. "Whoa. You look like shit. Did you run into a door?"

He gave me a chin lift. "McIver. No. I got into with some guys who broke into my condo. Why don't you have a seat?"

I hopped down off the table, sat in the traditional interviewee's / suspect chair, and said, "Well, I'm sure those guys look worse than you do. Am I right? I'm totes right, right?"

Donnelly took the seat on left, the woman sat on the right, and the old dude stood holding up the wall. "Nope. I got the crap beaten out of me," Donnelly replied."It's all good, though. I never did really like my nose."

"I'm sorry to hear that, buddy," I told him. "If it makes you feel any better, I got shot." I showed him my arm. "I know, you can't tell, but still. I totes got shot."

"Who shot you?" asked the old dude. I could tell by looking at him he wasn't a Fed, even though he was wearing a suit and looked all official. He was definitely local; I'd say an NYPD liaison. Looking at him made me wonder why the hell don't they just federalize Manhattan and make it a District, like DC? It would cut down on the red tape.

Regardless, I generously answered, "My brother. It was a hunting accident."

"You McIvers and your hunting accidents," sighed Donnelly.

"I know, right?" I turned to him. "We really could use a refresher course in firearm safety."

"Was it reported?" the cop continued, ignoring my witty repartee with Donnelly. Some people have no sense of humor.

I shrugged and put a foot on my chair. "I'm sure it was, Officer. You can call Skip McIver, the sheriff of McIver, Iowa, where the incident occurred. He can tell you whatever it is you need to hear."

The cop studied me. "You're quick, aren't you?"

"Who's the cop?" I asked Donnelly.

"Siobhan McIver, meet Detective Stephen Reilly of the N.Y.P.D. and Anna Edwards of the F.B.I., New York division."

I ignored the woman and studied the Detective. Hmm. I smiled at him flirtatiously. "Detective? Are you a homicide detective, like on Law and Order?"

He didn't answer, his only expression a slightly narrowed eye. Hello, rudeness? Whatever. The Force is strong in this one. I sat up and pushed out my Double Ds for his viewing pleasure.

The woman decided that she was tired of being ignored. She cleared her throat then with an attempt at a sisterly smile she said, "HI Siobhan. It's really nice to meet you."

So we were going with the big sister thing. Interesting. Not a choice I would have made. I'm not a mean girl bully, but I'm also not so friendly with girls in authority. It's an alpha thing.

While she tried her best to like all nice and nonthreatening, I took her inventory. I figured she was either off the charts competent and had to work hard to overcome her looks, or she used her looks to gain herself position in the Bureau. I hoped it was the second. I could work with the first, but the second would be a shit ton easier to manipulate. Maybe she was a lawyer, that would help, too. Most federal agents were. I figured she probably went to a top tier law school; even if she was competent, I could definitely play her pride of place against her.

I blinked at her, yawned, then turned to Donnelly. "Why are you here? Don't tell me they transferred you on my account."

"They transferred me on your account."

"Dude. I'm so sorry. I think it sucks here, too."

The Detective coughed, "Bullshit."

I looked at him. "What? I do think it sucks. And I worry about all the electrical issues you guys have that cause you to need to leave Con Ed trucks in my neighborhood."

He didn't say anything, with his crossed arms and stupid New York attitude. I turned back to Donnelly. "I don't think he likes me."

"Probably not."

I sighed and began braiding the other side of my head. "So sad to be prejudged like that."

"Siobhan," the woman started again, her patience starting to wear thin, and working hard to maintain the nonthreatening smile, "we brought in Agent Donnelly based on your established relationship with him, but he's only here temporarily. While you're here in New York, Detective Reilly of the Organized Crime unit and I will be your primary contacts." She paused with this meaningful, big sisterish look. "I'm looking forward to getting to know you. I was...we were all very impressed with your information about Nicolae Constantinov."

Having finished that braid, I tied them in a knot in the back of my head and turned to Donnelly. "Dude, you told people? I explicitly stated that it was all hypothetical."

He shrugged. "Yeah. I can't keep a secret for shit."

"For God's sake," barked the Detective, who walked over and leaned on the desk. Staring at my face and not my chest – that was a first – he barked, "How old are you?"

I looked up at him, surprised. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"You're a kid," he growled. "I mean, you may look like a live action Jessica Rabbit and you got a ring on your finger the size of a golf ball, but you're a kid. Jesus." He looked at the woman. "Is she even legal?"

"What's a Jessica Rabbit?" I asked Donnelly.

"Before your time," Donnelly answered. "I'd say you look like a classy, ginger version of Courtney Stoddard."

I scratched the corner of my eye with my middle finger. He puckered me a kiss.

The Detective slammed his hand on the table. "Focus!" he yelled. "How old are you?"

I ignored him and continued to address Donnelly. "This is the best interactive police experience ever," I told him. "I'm waiting for the part where you charge me. Because you know you have to do that, right?"

"She's 20," said Donnelly to the Detective.

"I'm 19," I corrected, offended. "Do I look 20 to you?"

"19. For the love...I have a niece your age," said the Detective. "She's as big a mess as you. This is bullshit."

"I'm a mess? I am not a mess." I looked at Donnelly. "Tell him I'm not a mess."

"I think you're a mess," he replied. "I've always thought you were a mess."

"Donnelly! You're just mad because you got beat up."

"I am holding a grudge," he conceded.

"I didn't do it!"

"Your boyfriend did."

"Alex didn't do it, either. " I crossed my arms. "Where's the probable cause?"

He smiled. "Sitting in front of me."

"Oh, please. You'd have him in custody if he did."

"He instigated it," he replied, all testy. "You believe what you want to, though. You always do."

For some reason that hurt my feelings. "So, it's like that, is it?

"

He gave me a flat look. "The moment you put that ring on, it became like that."

"You're jealous."

"Cosetino's jealous," he snapped back. "I'm in pain."

"Maybe we should leave," said the Detective to the woman. "It's getting a little uncomfortable in here."

"Agent Donnelly," said the women, her voice filled with warning and maybe just a touch of jealousy, "that's enough. Siobhan, I understand that you've been...mishandled by the men in your life, and that may have been a factor in what occurred at the McIver Group Home Office. I just want you to know that there are resources we can provide for you to help you overcome your past." She gave me a compassionate look, her large blue eyes just brimming with sincerity. "I'd like to help you, if you'd let me."

I looked at her like the idiot she was, and turned back to Donnelly. "What's she talking about?"

"She thinks you're a victim of sexual abuse," he answered.

"Oh." I thought about it and turned back to her. "I'm not, but thanks anyway."

"You don't have to protect anybody, Siobhan," she told me. "We're here to help you."

"I'm not protecting anybody, and since when did the FBI start featuring social services?" I turned back to Donnelly. "Besides, isn't unlawful sexual intercourse with a child a state issue? You all wouldn't have jurisdiction even if I was abused. " I turned back to the woman. "Which I wasn't, by the way."

"It's not going to work," said Donnelly to the woman.

I scrunched my face. "What's not going...wait a minute. Oh, you're going with the whole broken doll thing with me. Who came up with that one? Really?"

The woman looked flustered, but gave it one more college try. "Siobhan. We only want to help you. You can be better...you deserve better."

"What's so bad?" I wiggled my left hand at her. "I'm the one with the 20 karat ring here."

"You don't need to continue to be sexually exploited – " she began.

"Am I being sexually exploited?" I interrupted, and turned to Donnelly, confused. "Who says I'm being sexually exploited?"

"They did a profile," he replied.

"Huh. So that's what they came up with?" I asked. "I wonder where they came up with that. Wait until I tell Alex."

"You shouldn't really tell him," said the woman. "It may not be safe..."

"Don't bother," interrupted Donnelly. "She's just going to tell him, anyway."

"She's been trained up to be victimized," began the woman, but the Detective slammed his hand on the table, effectively silencing the three of us.

"I take it back, kid," said the Detective. "You're not a mess at all. You're know exactly what you're doing, don't you?"

"What am I doing?" I asked him and batted my eyes.

"You're an old school femme fatale, aren't you?" he asked, pushing his knee up on the table, leaning forward on it, and staring down at me.

I stared back. God, I love this kind of intimidation. It makes me kind of high. "I don't know. What's a femme fatale?"

He ignored my question. "Everyone underestimates you, don't they? All they see is the body and the hair, isn't it? A person as smart as you must find that tedious."

Well, well, well. Here's a challenge. "About as tired as you are of people looking at you and seeing a badge," I shot back. "We are what we are, Detective."

The Detective gave me a hard look, then turned to the woman. "Play the video, Anna."

She glared at him, clearly affronted. I'd bet money she was the ranking officer, and N.Y.P.D. here was thwarting her. "Detective, I don't think that's a good idea."

The Detective stood up and began to circle them. "This girl has controlled this interview from the time we walked in. She's got Chicago here so hard for her he can barely function, and she's been purposefully negating you by answering your questions through other people or acting confused by your meaning." The Detective looked at me. "Go ahead and show her the video and see how she handles that."

The woman sighed, turned on the flat screen, and pressed play. An image of a blonde girl appeared.

"I am from Mondovia," she began, in good but heavily accented English. "My family was so poor, so when the woman came an offered me a job cleaning houses in America, I said yes." She wiped her eyes. "That's all I wanted to do is clean houses."

I recognized her. She was one of the girls from Patrick's office.

"When I got here, they took my passport and put me in a room. Nicolae made me have sex with him and then there were others..." she paused and looked down. A voice off camera told her to take her time.

"Night after night. I wanted to die. All I wanted was to die. Then they took us to this place and Nicolae told us to have sex, and then this woman came in...she had red hair, and she was tall, and she was...what is the word...brave?" She nodded. "Brave. She gave me a sweater. It was the nicest thing I had happen to me in so long." She bent down and started to cry.

The off camera voice asked about the red haired woman.

The girl wiped her eyes. "I don't know. It was... the way she spoke... it was like she wasn't afraid." She paused and despite her tears, began to smile. "The woman took vodka bottles and she lit them on fire...she made me remember what it meant to fight. I think they shot her, but she didn't care. She made me feel...she made me want to live again. If you see her, tell her thank you for me."

"Did you really make Molotov cocktails at Patrick?" Donnelly turned to me with a shit eating grin. "Because I know it had to be at Patrick. I would have loved to have seen that."

I stared at him. "Lawyer."

"Siobhan..." The woman began.

I leaned forward, done playing. "Either you charge me or you let me go. Lawyer."

"The girl's name is Elena and she is 14," the Detective said, leaning in between Donnelly and the woman. "What you did for her was damned decent, which makes me believe that underneath the hair and the sexed up body, you got a heart." He stared at me like he had X-ray eyes. "When you decide you want to be more than mobbed up Barbie, give us a call." He pulled out a business card and set it down in front of me. "See you around, Red."

I stared back at him. He saw through me quicker than anyone else I'd dealt with in law enforcement. Donnelly was a perv, the woman was arrogant, but this one was dangerous. I'd have to be careful around him.

I picked up the card and fled the room without a backwards glance. I could feel eyes on me as I walked through the precinct and out the door, but I managed to maintain a calm and neutral exterior as I left the building and walked for a few blocks, the thought of that 14-year-old girl's pain and anguish weighing in my chest until I thought it would burst.

I found and alley and ducked in. I leaned my head up against the building's dirty bricks, and cried.

_____ * _____ * _____ * _____ * _____

This is a loooooonngg chapter. I'd cut it in half, but I promised the original FlyGirl, so here it is. All the words and everything. Anyhoo, Siobhan's reached sort of a precipice  here. On one hand, she's got this comfortable, albeit boring AF, life. On the other, she's got the realization that she's kind of a superhero. What to do, what to do?

Thank you so much for taking time to read Siobhan's story! I look forward to your comments, and if you liked it, please remember to vote!

©Copyright Liz Charnes May 2018

This work is protected by copyright and cannot be copied or used in any way without my express consent. Please don't steal it. Thank you!