[Scene I: A woman stands at an ATM machine on a busy street in a large U.S. city. She looks up at the camera, which registers her face – the latest security feature – then inserts her card and types in her PIN. She is definitely over forty, and maybe over fifty, about five-four, wearing jeans, sneakers, and a button-down shirt. Her hair is covered by large scarf, but her face – which even liberal use of cosmetics cannot make look anything but ordinary – is clearly visible. She turns from the machine and is confronted by two police officers, guns drawn. She screams and drops her purse.]

     “What’s the matter? I was just getting some money. The bank will verify I have an account. Here, check out my card.

    “Oh, okay, you get it from my purse then. I’ve been banking with them for twenty years. They know me. Or at least, their computers know me.

    “Yes, I saw the sign about removing hats and scarves. But I didn’t think it meant me. This scarf doesn’t cover my face or anything. It’s so windy on this street and I just had my hair done; I didn’t want it messed up. It’s my anniversary; my husband’s taking me to some fancy place for dinner. He wouldn’t tell me where – it’s a surprise.

    “Why do I have to go to the police station? This is just some misunderstanding. Oh, please don’t take off the scarf. You’re going to ruin my hair.”

***

    [Scene II. The woman sits in a metal folding chair at a battered metal table in a small room that smells of sweat and pine-scented cleaner. Two men sit across the table from her. Their metal chairs are padded. The scarf lies on the table. The woman’s hair, which is black and curly and styled in an elaborate do, is disarranged.]

    “I don’t understand. Why am I here? I was just using the ATM.

    “Why would I think the scarf rule applies to me? Isn’t it just for Muslims, especially the ones whose scarves cover their faces? I’m not a Muslim, not that there’s anything wrong with that.

    “So what if my skin is dark-complected? So is yours. Excuse me. I didn’t mean that as an insult. Some of my ancestors were from Sicily, some from who knows where. We’re real American mutts.

    “Sorry. That’s just our family joke. We don’t know much about our family. I guess somebody back there could have been some kind of Arab. But we’re Methodist.

    “Maybe if you got a woman officer in here she’d understand about my hair. I mean, you spend sixty bucks getting your hair fixed, you want to make sure it stays nice, you know.

    “Can I call my husband? He’ll explain everything. He’s going to be wondering where I am.

    “Why not? Isn’t this just a misunderstanding? Can’t you check with the bank?

    “Oh. Well. Then I think I better call a lawyer. My neighbor, she’s a lawyer, she’s the one to …

    “What do you mean, I can’t call a lawyer? This is America. I’m a citizen. I have a right to a lawyer. It’s in the Constitution. Everybody knows that. You have to let me call a lawyer.

    “Matter of national security? It’s just a head scarf, for Christ’s sake. You use it to protect your hair. That’s all it is. I want to call my lawyer. I want to call my lawyer.”

*** 

    [Scene III: A cell too small for even a bunk. The woman sits on the floor next to the wall, her knees pulled up to her. Her hair is completely messed up and she keeps running her fingers through it. She wears an orange jumpsuit, and is crying. She uses her sleeve to dry her face; it is smudged with makeup.]

    “It’s just a head scarf.”