Published August 2011; This is Chapter 4 of a current, incomplete thread from our Writing/Roleplaying Forum. Its title on the board is "National Self Storage- The Disappearance of Jenna Jane Sheridan." Some minor backstory has been added to this thread that does not appear in our forum, simply for ease of reading as a stand-alone story with appropriate tie-ins to the WWE. You will meet more OCs than Superstars in this story, but you will also witness how they blend. Anyone can throw a roomful of Superstars together and call it a story, but this has been crafted to show how the outsiders and insiders intertwine.
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"Answer the fuckin' phone, you dirty little whore," Lizzie Rose muttered as the phone rang four times before kicking over to voicemail.
She called Jenna Jane over and over again, also calling her every name in the book in the process. She hung up before leaving messages, turning Jenna Jane's phone into a non-stop symphony of cheap, pre-programmed ringtone going off.
"ANSWER THE FUCKIN' PHONE!" she was now screaming during the sixth or seventh time she'd made the call. Yes, Lizzie Rose was starting to panic. Rightfully so.
Wouldn't you, if your meal ticket was AWOL?
"You can't prove anything. I didn't do anything."
Steven Novak was sticking to his story, even after the punch to the face received by one of the young, burly detectives who apparently knighted himself Jenna Jane's champion.
"I have a record, yes, but I didn't do anything this time. You're trying to frame me."
The detectives were relentless.
"I want a glass of water. If you don't give it to me, I want a lawyer."
He was being threatened so he threatened back. Cops don't want you to lawyer up, because lawyers know all of an arrestee's rights. Lawyers were taxpayer-provided champions. Yes, Steven Novak knew the system well. He'd have the right to face his accuser, or accusers.
The glass of water was brought and he sipped it almost daintily. He'd been in many an interrogation room, in police precincts, in jailhouses, and in makeshift mobile stations. He was old enough to be these detective's father. Possibly old enough to be the one who punched him's grandfather.
"I know you can't detain me for too long without a statement. You have no proof. Yes, I have a storage unit. Yes, I move around a lot. But that just makes it easier for you to pin things on me rather than looking for your real suspect."
He was told that it was his plate given, his van, his locker. Too many pieces to the puzzle were fitting.
"But you can't hold me for more than 48 hours without official charges. I'd like to be taken to a cell now. I'm an old man. I need some rest. You haven't treated me very nicely."
The cops looked at each other in disbelief. Here was this old man, creepy yet medically fragile, who took a punch without much of a reaction, who was now playing mindgames with them.
Steven Novak was led to the holding cell, where he proceeded to lay down on the bench and sleep like a baby for awhile. The last things he heard before falling into dreamland was a detective frantically trying to call Cassandra's cellphone. They'd taken her phone number at the scene and the victim wasn't answering hers.
Steven Novak was dangerous. He knew the laws, and what he didn't know, a public defender would.
Safety is something the police can assist with, but not provide completely.
