The sky was turning gray by the time the police were done talking to me. But for all that time, all I could see, over and over, was the moment when they'd handcuffed Sy and ducked him into a police cruiser. There was an ambulance for the drunk, who had finally registered the pain in his jaw even through the alcohol haze. In their absence, there was a circus: statements taken, more cruisers, sirens and lights…And then the photographers arrived.
The cops didn't seem too concerned with letting me shield myself from the paparazzi. I tried not to think too deeply about how they pivoted and positioned themselves, as if trying to get their own faces in the photos too. They were professionally blunt, cold, impersonal, but I couldn't stop shaking. Over and over again, I related the quick sequence
