Page 48 of The Italian Obsession

“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 wrists. 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.

Oh, God. Things can’t get any worse.

Twenty years’ imprisonment. This can’t be happening.

We walk out of the airport and across to where the police car is parked. I begin to really panic.

They’re not going to put me in jail, are they? They can’t.

I can’t be locked in.

My chest begins to tighten. “I didn’t do this,” I whisper as my vision blurs. “I swear to you, it wasn’t mine. I’ve never seen those drugs before in my life, you have to believe me. Somebody has put it in there. Check the security tapes. I promise you. It was not there when I got to the airport.” I dig my heels into the concrete. “I didn’t do this!” I cry out loud as people around us begin to stop and stare.

I feel a hand go to the top of my head, and I’m pushed into the backseat of the police car. One of the officers climbs in beside me.

The car pulls out, and I stare out the window with tears streaming down my face, but I can’t wipe them away because my hands are cuffed. I feel like I’m about to throw up.

What do I do? What do I do? What the fuck do I do?

They speak Italian among themselves and I have no idea what they’re saying.

Fuck, why didn’t I learn this language?

After what feels like hours later, although I know it’s only a few minutes, we pull into a police station.

I’m lifted from the car and dragged through the front doors. I go into panic mode and begin to sob uncontrollably.

“I want a lawyer!” I cry as I am bustled through reception. “I need a translator.” I glance up and see Enrico at the other side of the desk. He’s writing something. He looks up and his face falls when he sees me. His eyes dart to his co-worker.

“Cosa è successo?” Translation: What’s happened?

“Stava trafficando droga.” Translation: She was trafficking drugs.