# 47 I, Isabel Scheherazade, have a heart-stopping moment. It’s still almost stopped. Really.
I look up to see why she stopped. My eyes lock onto the face of one very scary dude. He’s dressed in a policeman’s uniform, and his hands are holding onto a utility belt loaded with serious flashlight, Taser, baton, handcuffs, pepper spray with all sorts of other hooks and devices to stun and stop Bad Guys.
On TV you know how you see the police tilt their heads and sort of mutter into one of their collars? That’s exactly what this police type guy did. He says, They’re here. He listens and says, Yup, both of ‘em. Then he listens again and says, Roger.
He looks at us square on. Which one of you is Isabel? His voice is a lot nicer than his face and uniform would lead you to believe. He looks at Olivia.
For a second I think Olivia is going to pretend she’s me. In fact, she starts to say, I’m–when I step next to her and look up at the policeman.
I’m Isabel. I look at his shirt pocket and read his label. I see that he isn’t a policeman; he’s a marshall.
I decide to be confident. I’m Isabel, Marshall. Is there a problem, sir?
He looks at me with what seems like pity. Pity! He doesn’t answer my question. Come with me, Isabel. And you too, young lady. You must be Olivia then? He turns, and we follow him to a little room in the front hallway.
We don’t even get to go through the metal detectors.
I’m wondering how he knows who we are when I get this huge shock.
I mean, I almost faint.
Seated in two wooden armchairs like you see in movies of old courthouses is–can you guess? Right.
Mimi and Pop.
Isabel Scheherazade, thwarted court interloper who must again regain her composure before continuing my story. (And, yes yes, I realize I’m talking like Olivia right now, but all the words keep me from wilting like a daisy in drought.)