“Remember the part of the trip where I committed myself to you?”
He sighed, looking resigned in a way I’d never seen. “I have no idea what this is about. But the LAPD is on the tarmac, waiting for me.”
I didn’t realize my mouth was hanging open until I had to close it to speak. “Why?”
“I don’t know. But I want you to stay on the plane until I’m gone or until I come and get you. I’ll have Lil make sure you get home. Pack. I’ll call you. We may be off to Korea later then planned, but make sure you’re ready.”
“No.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is there a good reason you need to exit the plane immediately?”
“I want to be with you.”
“Sweet, but no.” He must have seen my determined look. He added, “Please.”
I sat back as the wheels touched down. We held hands as the plane taxied to the gate. Two black and whites waited, lights flashing. I didn’t like it. I knew plenty about cops. I knew how they stood and how they walked. Sonny Rodriguez had been shot gangland style on my corner. On the other end of my block was a narrow strip called “Ghost Alley” because of all the murders there. Those days were done in the neighborhood, but the cops, the questions, and the tension lived and breathed in my mind.
The Santa Ana winds whipped around the plane and bent every palm tree in sight. The wind sock on top of the control tower was held still and erect.
Jacques came back, not his usual polite self, and opened the door with the steps behind it. It fell with a scrape to the concrete. Jonathan stood up, and with a look back to me and a raised finger indicating I should stay put, he walked out.
I unbuckled and went to the other side of the plane, pressing my face to the window. There was talk, and four officers surrounded him, which didn’t happen unless some sort of violence was involved. Weird. Unless there was a great donut shop by the airport and two extras needed an excuse to come.
My view was obscured by the wing, but it looked as if they were handcuffing Jonathan.
No.
Sorry, but no.
I don’t know what I expected to do, but I ran out as he was led to the car by the stocky cop on his left. I didn’t call out or demand anything because another cop stepped between us with her hands out.
“Stop. Are you Monica Faulkner?” she asked.
“Yes.”
I held up my hands to show they were empty and craned my neck to see around her. I heard the stocky cop’s voice uttering the words of the Miranda Act. Jonathan asked something, seeming so together and calm, a picture of control. The Santa Ana winds brought two words of the cop’s answer.
Domestic violence.
Jonathan glanced at me and smiled before the cop helped him into the back seat of the cruiser.