by
The door to the interrogation room at the 14th arrondissement police station was closed. A wooden door with a gleaming brass knob stood before me, separating me from the man inside. The French always keep their door handles immaculate by polishing them with extraordinary amounts of wax. I took a deep breath to relieve my nausea. Cold sweat trickled down the side of my face. I held up my shaking hand to knock, but… just couldn't do it. I'd never confronted the police before.
It was summer of 2006. I was in Paris, studying at the Sorbonne. A guy down the hall of my dormitory was accused of raping an American girl. Out of all the people on my floor, the guy had asked the police to call me as the person to "assess" his personality. I was called to the police station to give my account of the incident. I had spoken to the accused guy on occasion and had "un café" with him. Once.
I'd only one real encounter with the police during my 24 years. It happened when I was seven years old. My biggest fear then was that I'd walk in on a burglary in my house and call the police, but they'd never arrive. I used to have reoccurring nightmares about this. Always the same scenario. I would walk in on masked men emptying my life savings from my beloved pink plastic piggy bank… about 40 dollars worth of pennies and nickels. I would run to the kitchen phone, call 9-1-1 and then hide in a closet… waiting for hours. I would wake from these dreams shaking and hug my stuffed penguin Paddy until it was time to eat my corn flakes.
On a cloudless spring day around that time, I decided to actually call 9-1-1… maybe in an attempt to make the nightmares stop. I was home alone. I pressed the red button on my phone and waited.
A woman picked up and said, "911 emergency." I hung up. The phone immediately started to ring. I got scared.
Finally, I picked up but didn't say anything. The woman on the other line said, "Did someone from this number call 911 emergency?"
Thinking fast, I said in a small voice, "No one called." The woman replied, "Someone did. Can I speak to a grown-up please?"
I knew I was in trouble then. I'd heard about this incident where a couple went to jail after leaving their children home alone for two weeks. I was convinced I was going to jail too… along with my mother.
Trying to keep my voice steady, I told the woman that my grandmother was in the house, but that she couldn't speak English and was sleeping. The woman said, "OK then. I'm sending two police officers over just to check everything is ok."
I hung up the phone. I needed to get out of the house… fast. Barefoot, I forgot to close the back door and ran toward the woods.
I finally collapsed in front of a tall oak tree. I hid my face in my arms and cried. I couldn't go to jail now, I thought. I still had so much growing up to do. I've never worn high-heeled shoes, driven a car, had my first kiss …
After three hours, I thought it was safe to go back. The sun looked like a streak of purple in the quickly darkening sky. From afar, my house looked quiet. I slipped inside through the back door and then stopped with my eyes wide open.
My two teenage cousins stared back at me. They told me I was very lucky that they happened to be next door playing basketball. The police are waiting for an explanation, they said.
No… I sobbed. Please. You go talk to them. I can't do it… tell them I'm sorry.
For much of my life, I ran away when I was scared…
But I felt differently inside that French police station. I couldn't walk away from this situation. Justice hung in my hands. Perhaps even someone's life. I swallowed. I looked at the wooden door. The sparkling brass handle.
I knew what I had to do and did something I'd never done before.
I opened the door.