The Italian
Her sympathy-filled eyes hold mine, and in that moment, I know something’s wrong.
“What’s going on?” I demand as they lead me into the office. One of the men puts his hand on my shoulder and pushes me down into a seat.
He takes my passport, and then sits down opposite me. “Are you aware it is a federal offence to transport drugs?”
I frown. What the fuck is he talking about? “Yes.”
“And are you aware that the imprisonment for such an offence carries a minimum of twenty years imprisonment.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
He lifts the cover of a trolley that I didn’t see in the corner to expose five big bags of white powder. “Explain to me why this was in your bag? Twenty-five kilograms of cocaine, with a street value of approximately nine million euro.” He picks up the bags and counts them one by one.
My face falls. This can’t be happening…
Oh, my fucking God.
“What?” I gasp. “That was not in my bag.”
“It was, and we have footage of the moment it was discovered.”
My heart begins to race, and I look between them all in a panic. Why didn’t I put the locks on my bag?
“This is a mistake, I don’t.” I begin to shake my head. “That’s not mine. I swear to you, that’s not mine.”
“Do you have any more drugs on your body?”
“What?” I shriek. “No.” I try to stand and am pushed back into the chair. “Those drugs are not mine. You have the wrong person.” My heart is beating so hard that it feels like I’m about to go into cardiac arrest.
Suddenly, there’s a knock on the door.
“Come in,” the security officer calls out.
Three policemen walk into the room.
“Oh, thank God. Officer! There has been a terrible mistake. They think I’m a drug trafficker. You need to help me.”
They begin to talk to the airport staff in Italian, and I look between them hopefully. What are they saying? They will know this is a mistake, surely, they will.
“We’ll take it from here,” the policeman says.
“She hasn’t had a cavity search yet,” the security guard says.
“What?” I shriek. “I haven’t done anything wrong. You have to believe me. I’m not a drug trafficker. I swear to you,” I cry in an outrage. I try to stand again and am pushed back into my chair with force.
Fuck.
“We’ll take it from here,” the policeman says to the airport staff before he turns to me. “Olivia Reynolds, you are under arrest for the possession and trafficking of cocaine.”
“I didn’t do this. I swear to you. Please, you have to believe me,” I beg as tears well in my eyes. This can’t be happening. You hear about this stuff in the media all the time, but never in a million years did I think it would happen to me.
“We will search her down at the station.”
The police officer drags me to my feet, and I dig my heels into the carpet.
“I did not do this!” I cry. “I want an attorney.” Yes, yes. I need an attorney. They will make them see sense. “I have a right to call an attorney.”
The policeman grabs my hands and puts me into handcuffs. They snap shut hard—too tight around my wrist. The bite of the metal hurts and I wince. I’m lifted from my chair and yanked out the door with an officer on each arm, I’m led out of the office and through the airport. People stop and stare as we walk past, and my eyes fill with even more tears.