I knew something was up when they found me at work.  Cops only usually go out of their way for me when i accidentally speed on the highway. I am actually a completely law-abiding citizen that aside.  I blame the music I listen to. It's much too enthusiastic to listen to at fifty miles per hour. One just gets too into it and just accidentally keeps pushing on the accelerator, shifting from third to fourth to fifth which only leaves me wishing I had a sixth gear. This is usually the moment I see those pretty blue lights in my rearview mirror.  Back when I was an amateur at getting pulled over, I would use the time hastily getting to the shoulder to come up with my excuse as they do inevitably ask. Now I've learned that telling the truth and smiling sweetly is a better response. 

I was in the process of putting entirely too much sugar into my bland coffee when a coworker at a nearby cubicle had outed me. "Here she is." I heard her say.  When I looked up I was met with two cops and my coworker awkwardly shrugging her shoulders letting me know she was just as confused as I was about to be.

"Are you Ms. Abraham?"  The less attractive, chubbier cop asked with an impatient tone. I assumed that if the situation called for it he would play the bad cop. After all, no one like being the less attractive especially by someone taller than them and he had to be irritated by it. Hopefully the situation wouldn't call for it. Which reminds me, what the hell is the situation?

I contemplated between answering the question or asking for a lawyer. Rather than respond I opened another packet of sugar and dumped it into my coffee. Out of the corner of my eye I saw chubs nudge the taller, more handsome cop. He was pointing out my name tag attached to the gray carpeting along my cubicle that read "Charlotte Abraham."

Damnit.

"Have a seat, Ms. Abraham."

I did as I was told. I am not sure when speeding had become this serious of an issue, but I had obviously pushed my luck. There comes a time when you just start to feel so invincible because you had gotten away with it too many times. You had cheated the system. Over and over again. It had began to feel like a high and for someone who was only getting older, didn't take drugs, have a severe problem with alcohol, and stopped shoplifting at thirteen, highs were pretty difficult to come by. But here it was.  Evidence in the form of two uniformed men that enough was enough.  I had sped so much and so fast that I was being personally taken in like a criminal, handed over to the justice system by the law themselves. If I were being honest, somewhere in my heart I always knew this day would come. The day I disappointed my parents with a jail sentence. When I was fifteen, I dreamt about it. But that was because I was angsty and listened to too much Social Distortion. When I was eighteen, I feared it.  That was a time period of a lot of Arcade FIre and the realization that I could be tried as an adult. Yet, at twenty-six, here I was facing it and I just felt a sense of calm. Okay, and maybe perhaps a bit of arrogance for all the tracking down of me they did.  Think about it.  The cameras  on the Cactus and Pineview intersection had to have caught me.  While the camera snapped it's picture, an alarm went off in the police station. They had decided to spend the extra money on the alarm because I was too much of a risk to be out there in the world just being dangerous. The officers gathered around watching and rewatching the tape (which will be used as evidence in the trial) to be sure that they had really and finally caught me.  They ran my plates, probably petitioned the judge for a warrant against me, and here we all are.

I looked at the two cops with mock envy, trying to feel what they much be feeling by bringing in the city's most (hell, perhaps even the country's most) notorious, dangerous, and quickest speeder. I imagined the speeches they'd give, proudly slapping each other on the back excitedly while the reporters snapped their pictures for the front page of the Times.. And oh shit, I'd have to give a speech as well. I should credit this all to my car as as not to be deemed too cocky. I would begin with my small stick shift Mazda, Molly, for being unassuming in both model and color.  And for also being a four cylinder saving me tons of money in gas which is incredibly important for a speeder in a recession.

"Ms. Abraham, we've come to talk to you about a Justin Timberlake. You've been affiliated with him in the past, is that right?" Good cop asked.  I chuckled.  Justin sold me out.  That makes sense.  Mostly because of the break up.  Boys hate it when you break up with them before they can break up with you first.  It's an ego thing. Of course this was going to force me to review my previous notion about how exactly my information was gotten, but i'd go over that in the jail cell. I was about to have a lot of time to think.

Instead of verbally answering, I chose to just nod.  I needed this time to hone my new persona.  In real life I talked too much and tripped over things a lot.  Seeing as how I was going to be a legitimate enemy of the law soon I needed something else to cement myself.  I was choosing to be discreet and mysterious.  'Just what exactly drives her to speed' they will ask and shrug my shoulders I will respond, therefore forcing them to guess I'm from a broken home and my daddy didn't love me and to act out I took to the road honing my now infamous skills.

"Well, he's been murdered and and we have reason to believe you're involved."

That's when my world came crashing down. I swear I literally heard glass shattering. Turns out the shattering was just a coffee mug being dropped on the concrete floor as I heard someone yell an apology and ask for towels, but nonetheless this was serious and unexpected. I was going to have to rework my new discreet and mysterious persona as I do not think that will come in handy in this case.

"I speed a lot." I responded like a dumbass.