Jail (Chapter 11, Story 1)

About five years later, James' mother received a perplexing call from the local police station. "Your son has requested to see you, Mrs. Jones," the officer informed her curtly. Mrs. Jones promptly picked up her keys, got into her car, and drove toward the police station. She had no idea what James could have done to deserve being locked up. He had always been a good, obedient son, always telling the truth and rarely getting into trouble. For reasons she couldn't explain, sometimes Mrs. Jones secretly wished that James would do something mischievous just once, but James remained an angelic child until the day he left home. Mrs. Jones turned onto a side street called Dylan Avenue. It was not a busy street, but there was enough traffic to make Mrs. Jones wonder why the mothers of the dozens of children playing in the street didn't make them play in a safer spot. The street was lined with ugly, dirty brownstone apartments, and the sidewalks were littered with cola cans and fast food wrappers. The smell of cigarette smoke and body odor seeped into Mrs. Jones' car. She shuddered when she glimpsed a haggard old woman laughing loudly and lifting a bottle to her lips. As she turned onto a quieter street, Mrs. Jones prayed that her son would never end up living in a place like that. Within a few minutes, Mrs. Jones had arrived at the police station. She had never been inside one before, and she wasn't sure how she should go about tracking down her son. A tall, muscular policewoman approached Mrs. Jones where she stood in the middle of the small parking lot. "Excuse me, can I help you?" the policewoman asked. "Yes, please, my name is Hilda Jones, and I am trying to find my son, James Jones. I was called a little while ago by a policeman who told me James wanted to see me." "Okay, Mrs. Jones, follow me." The policewoman led Hilda into a dismal, gray building. There was a policeman sitting behind a large green desk, and his eyes were glued to a computer monitor. "Ask him about your son," the policeman said. "Alright." Mrs. Jones approached the man behind the desk and cleared her throat to get his attention. "What?" he snapped. "I'm sorry to interrupt you, sir, but I was called about my son and--" "Name?" "Pardon me?" The policeman sighed. "What is your son's name, lady?" "Oh, his name is James. James Jones." "Sorry, lady, but your son's not here." "Excuse me?" Hilda said nervously, tightening her grip on her keys. "He was released yesterday," the policeman said. "But sir, I was called not even an hour ago, and I was told he was here." "Well somebody made a mistake, because he's not here." "Well where is he?" Hilda asked. "How should I know? Home, maybe." "Can you tell me where that is?" "Where what is?" "His home. Where does he live?" "You're his mother and you don't know?" The policeman raised an eyebrow. "We've been out of contact for the past few years. Would you please tell me where he lives?" "I'm not supposed to do that." The policeman looked back at his computer. Hilda transitioned her keys to her left hand, wondering if he was finished speaking to her. "Sir?" The policeman looked up, seeming to have forgotten her existence. "What now, lady?" "It's very, very important that I find my son." "I'm sorry lady, but even if I could give you that information, I don't have it." "You mean to tell me that you lock people up without asking for their address?" The policeman shrugged. Hilda felt as though she might cry. "Oh dear," she said, her voice cracking. The policeman looked at her for a moment, shook his head, and looked back at his computer. Hilda had been looking forward to seeing her son, and now all chances of that were gone. She opened the door, stepped out of the police station, and crashed into something tall and wet.