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.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 12, 1969
After Sergeant Pilcher had arrested the Harrisons, they had been carted down to the Esher police station where they sat in an office for quite some time, alone. Despite being alone with plenty of time to talk privately about what had just happened, they sat in complete silence. Neither of them knew what to say. Really, neither of them had had enough time to process today's events, and they likely wouldn't. Not for quite some time, at least.
After probably an hour, an officer came and led them to another room where they were once again told to sit in some chairs. Alexandria felt a bit more nauseous every second she spent in this building. She wondered if she'd vomit sometime soon...and she pondered which officer she hated enough to do it on. Just out of spite, of course.
Alexandria and George were informed that they'd be fingerprinted, and the officer that informed them then scampered off to find the machine. After looking for an impressive twenty minutes, they put the machine to use. Or rather, they tried to put the machine to use. George went first while Alexandria watched to try and get an idea of how the process transpired. George waited for another twenty minutes while they figured out what to do first, and then from there, it was about fifteen more minutes until they had finished.
Alexandria would have laughed at the officers' cluelessness...if she wasn't so bloody nauseous.
After George was finally fingerprinted, it was Alexandria's turn. The process repeated, this time done in an impressive thirty minutes, contrary to the thirty-five that was spent on George, and once again, they were left in a room, alone. And once again, it was completely silent. They had not a clue of what to say.
Finally, Alexandria spoke. "Was it yours?" she asked, her voice hoarse from crying on and off all afternoon. She dreaded the answer. She wanted to believe that George had rid the house of all drugs in preparation for the arrival of their baby in October.
George sighed. He'd known the question was coming. That didn't mean a part of him wasn't hoping that it wouldn't. A part of him hoped that Alexandria would just believe the truth—he'd tossed all his drug use aside. Meditating was better, after all. "No, it wasn't," he responded. "I'm a tidy man, you know. I keep my socks in the sock drawer and my stash in the stash box. It's that simple. It isn't mine."
Alexandria nodded. "Well, that's a relief," she muttered. "But, whose is it, then?"
"We're obviously being framed," he said. "If they knew about—you know—the baby, then maybe they'd believe me whenever I say that it isn't mine."
"What reason would they have to frame us?" Alexandria asked, and tears welled in her eyes again. She wrapped her arms around herself. "You've never done anyone any harm. You don't deserve this." She scooted her chair over and leaned her head against his shoulder. "I'm scared, George. Not of being fined, or even arrested. I'm scared of what this could do to the baby. I'm scared of how much stress this is causing. I'm scared of it all, George."
