Lady Jail

by John Farrow

  Jodi considered all that. Courtney only waited for her answer. ‘I swear,’ Jodi said, ‘both of us, we don’t know a damn thing.’

  The detective nodded again, gave nothing away.

  ‘Do you believe me?’ Jodi pressed him.

  Cinq-Mars returned a slight smile that mirrored her own. ‘I believe everyone, Jodi. Until I don’t.’ They stared each other down a moment. Raising a finger for emphasis, he asked, ‘You tell me. Do you think I believe you?’

  Stumped only momentarily, Jodi resurfaced with a reply. ‘I’m an honest girl. A regular straight arrow. You’re a smart guy. You can see that.’

  ‘I heard you were funny,’ Cinq-Mars noted. ‘It’s true. That’s the best laugh I’ve had in here.’

  ‘Then why aren’t you laughing?’ Courtney inquired. Her question seemed sincere as though she was genuinely confused.

  ‘I’ll explain it to you later,’ Jodi promised.

  ‘You should be so lucky,’ Cinq-Mars cautioned her. ‘You don’t have a “later” anytime soon. Last I heard, you’re headed for solitary.’

  ‘Oh fuck. I keep forgetting. Sorry, pet. I’ll explain it somewhere over the rainbow.’

  Cinq-Mars broached a new subject. ‘One more thing.’

  ‘We heard that about you,’ Jodi piped up. ‘You always have one more fucking thing.’

  Ignoring that remark, Cinq-Mars asked, ‘Aside from battling her gang in the yard, tell me about your relationship with Marie-Philomène.’

  ‘Find out who killed Flo, all right?’ Jodi said. ‘Then I can go ask whoever that was to waste Marie-P next. I soooo hate that bitch.’

  Courtney gazed at her but otherwise did not respond.

  v

  The women talked about being sent down to solitary. In reality, the cells were located on the same level they occupied. Yet the chambers felt subterranean, as if they were in a cellar below light and sound, removed from the realm of effects and occurrences. An abyss. When conversation was denied, madness spoke up instead. They called it the hole. The few who were outwardly sanguine about solitary were secretly no less terrified than anyone else.

  Some could handle it. A few could not. Most survived.

  Jodi knew she’d hate it and might come undone. She’d be weak in there. Solitary was an internal nightmare that both attracted her, as a moth to the flame, and repelled her. She wanted to see if she could stand it yet knew that she could not. ‘If I come out like a babbling brook,’ she told others, making her lips flutter with a forefinger while she moaned, ‘throw a few goldfish into me, will ya? Be a pal. Let them swim around.’

  Inmates laughed at lines like that. They thought her a hoot.

  Down in the hole, even if it wasn’t a hole, she’d have no opportunity to make folks laugh. In the hole, life was no joke.

  Harder on some than on others. Jodi could intellectually rationalize her situation yet still not bear it. Humans are social creatures; the total absence of others is difficult for most and impossible to tolerate for others. She fitted herself among the latter. Her brittle toughness, her cool social arts, her sarcasm, her edgy rejoinders, all fell away when she was alone. Didn’t matter if she was as free as a bird on a mountaintop or down in the hole, she could not stomach being alone. She could not be herself or resemble herself without having others around, as though she did not exist if she had no one to talk to, no one with whom to catch a reflection of herself. She knew herself only when bouncing her personality off others. Whether shooting the breeze or firing a pistol in a mom-and-pop convenience store, making love or smartass remarks, arguing or encouraging, getting ripped or just chilling, she was only up and running when connected to someone else. By herself, she did not know who or what she was or how she could hang on for another minute without screaming.

  Some people believed in God. Jodi thought it was because they needed someone to talk to when nobody was around. She figured she was too evil to invite that sort of make-believe companion into her life, no one would arrive, not even a made-up make-believe replica. Anyway, she wouldn’t survive with only a monologue or a prayer. She needed a response. A quip, a kiss, a nod, another voice. A fight. A burning bush. Something. Any response. Otherwise, she’d go nuts.

  Away from the hole, she could laugh about it.

  In the hole, she could not.

  For the first twenty minutes after she was thrust inside and the door had slammed behind her, she shut her eyes and breathed through her jumpsuit, using it as a brown bag to keep from hyperventilating. It didn’t work. Her lungs cracked open, she felt her spine snap, her eyes popped out of her head, a wonder she was still alive. She only knew that she remained alive because of the pain which zipped through her. Settling down took time and was both a blessing and a curse. She could breathe, she could open her eyes voluntarily and shut them, she could weep, she could sit on the floor and grab her feet and roar. But the aloneness, she feared it so much that she was overtaken quickly and wholly and if one spell relinquished its hold another immediately seized residency.

  She was going nuts. Her only hope: she knew what was happening.

  The room was narrow. Four feet wide. Six-six long. Six-two high. The toilet built into the floor required a squat to the ankles. It flushed every four hours.

  She tried to keep her hands off herself.

  Then the door opened, and she had another calamity to confront.

  Corrections Officer Isaure Dabrezil was on her in a trice. Seized her by the ankles and lifted her upside down so that her head grazed the floor. The cuffs of her solitary jumpsuit fell below her knees. The guard shook her. She was three times her weight; ten times her muscle mass. Jodi warded off blows to her noggin from the floor with her hands. ‘Shaking the bullshit out,’ Isaure incanted. ‘Shaking the stupid out from you! Shaking the crap from your stupid head! What’s in your ass comes out your ears, Jodi! Shaking you! Shaking you, Jodi!’

  She flung her down and Jodi landed in a wrecked heap.

  At least she had company.

  Not the most desirable companion, but they could rant and rail back and forth, which Jodi welcomed.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Jodi objected.

  ‘Watch your language with me! I’m a Christian woman.’

  ‘You swear like a pirate.’

  ‘I’ll cut your throat like one, too.’

  Jodi suddenly had time to be afraid. She felt her skin crawl, a surge of fear inundate her bloodstream. ‘Wait,’ she whispered. ‘What?’

  Isaure grabbed hold of her and turned her on to the floor. She smothered her with her great weight. Jodi struggled to breathe. ‘Don’t you fuck with me, Jodi,’ Isaure whispered in an ear. ‘Don’t you fuck with me, child.’

  ‘I won’t. I’m not!’

  ‘What you given so far? What you given me? Say it out loud.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Say it out loud! I want to hear it. What you given me, Jodi? Say it!’

  ‘Nothing, I—’

  ‘Louder. Say it!’

  Pinned to the floor, Jodi understood then. She didn’t know yet if this attack was sexual or merely violent, but she had an inkling now. She said, ‘Nothing. I gave you nothing.’

  ‘Louder, the fuck!’ Isaure insisted, her weight like a bulldozer on top of a skinny stick.

  ‘Nothing!’ Jodi shouted out. She had no option. She couldn’t breathe. ‘Nothing!’

  Isaure got off her then. She appeared to be satisfied. But she kept one large hand on the other woman’s ankle, a threat to upend her again at any moment for any whim that struck her fancy. She clutched that ankle, yet also rubbed the girl’s opposite kneecap, gently circling her hand over it. ‘What you here for, Jodi? Right here. What you here for?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘You tell me now.’

  ‘I shot up a corner store.’

  ‘Not that. Not asking about that. What you doing right here, how come you are way out here in Joliette? You don’t know? You don’t rem
ember? It’s not something you want to forget. Do I need to shake you to remind you?’

  ‘You know?’

  ‘What’re you here for?’

  ‘You know? You tell me.’

  ‘Why should I tell you what you know for yourself.’

  ‘Could be a trick. I don’t know you.’

  ‘I do believe that you are here for Abigail. Am I right or am I never wrong, child?’

  Jodi’s lower jaw sagged.

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ Isaure said. ‘What I’m looking at is not a sight to see.’

  Jodi did so. Then she said, ‘Yeah. Abigail. I’m here about her.’

  ‘What you doing about Abigail ’til now?’

  ‘Gaining ground. We’re closer. I got stuff going on.’

  ‘Stuff? You’re picking fights in the schoolyard like you’re an eight-year-old kid. What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘No, see, I was defending Abigail. Right? Right? That gets me closer. You can see that.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘I was. I wasn’t out there for a fucking picnic. I don’t enjoy getting my head kicked in.’

  ‘You did a lot of the kicking yourself, what I saw.’

  ‘Yeah, I did, didn’t I? You see? Don’t you see? Gets me closer. What counts is the long-term gain. I’m working on that. I’m getting there. I’m closer. I know I am. Is Abi in solitary, too?’

  ‘Walked in like nobody’s business, like she was booking into the Ritz.’

  ‘Help me out here, Isaure, please.’

  ‘Nothing I can do for you, Jodi.’

  ‘You can stay. Keep me company in here.’

  ‘They call it solitary. A reason for that.’

  ‘I can’t— It’s not for me. I can’t take it. Stay.’

  ‘That I cannot do.’

  ‘Visit a lot.’

  ‘Oh white girl, I can’t do that neither.’

  ‘Help me out here, Isaure. I’ll lose it. I’ll fucking lose it. I know I will.’

  Isaure sighed, and finally took her hand away from Jodi’s ankle. She pushed herself up to her feet which took a major effort. ‘Tell you what. Let’s see what I got here.’

  She went through her pockets. She found a small tin container for aspirin. She emptied the few remaining pills into her shirt pocket and handed Jodi the empty little box.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Jodi asked.

  ‘Wait for it.’ Isaure went through her pockets again and found a ballpoint pen. She removed the refill and handed Jodi the empty pen.

  ‘What’s this?’ Jodi asked.

  ‘Tap the pen on the tin.’

  Jodi did so.

  ‘Makes noise, right?’

  Jodi agreed, nodding.

  ‘Now make music. Find a rhythm. Find a beat. Make music. Dance to your music. You can get through this. You’re feeling blue. The lights are on now. You’ll be in the dark, too. Tap the pen against the tin. Let the music talk to you. You won’t be alone if you’re beating on a drum. You’ll get through it that way.’

  Isaure didn’t stand on ceremony. She departed without another word and the door slammed hard shut. Jodi heard the lock wrench into place. She was locked inside – alone – again.

  She felt her inner panic raging on.

  She listened to that terrifying stillness. No voice spoke back.

  She tapped the empty pen against the wee tin box.

  She made sound. She tapped and tapped. She found rhythms.

  She made sound her trusted companion.

  After a while, deep inside her head, she danced.

  LAGARDE

  i

  Bikers in gangs can look a mess, but not their bikes. Pipes shine and tires gleam. Riders won’t drive a mile without reaching for a microfiber cloth to polish their hog again. If she fails to sparkle in the sunlight a pressure washer or an air hose is hauled out to correct the blemish. The Harley parked directly in front of Cinq-Mars’s motel room door was the exception proving the rule. Its dustiness indicated that it hadn’t moved all day with no one handy to give it a loving buff. A brief shower spotted the fuel tank and smeared the road dust on the saddlebags. A light greenish pollen suffused the chrome surfaces.

  In biker-world, a disgrace.

  Taking his ease on the porch as a few hours passed gently under the lens of his whisky glass, making a few calls on the motel’s porch thanks to a long extension cord, Cinq-Mars was adroitly positioned to observe the biker’s return. The leader arrived in a taxi without his gang colors. Not quite a suit upon his frame as the jacket and trousers didn’t match, nonetheless he was duded up. Burgundy sports coat. Pressed charcoal pants. Polished winged-tip brown Oxfords. An honest to God white shirt. He had drawn the line at a tie, but still, the man turned out as sharp as a mannequin.

  Even so, he clunked his way up the steps.

  Passed in front of the visiting Montreal detective.

  ‘On your own?’ the policeman inquired. One bike only remained in the parking lot.

  ‘I know what you think.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Up to no good, the others, that’s what you think,’ the biker said.

  ‘Curious is all.’ As he spoke, Cinq-Mars realized that he could no longer qualify himself as sober.

  ‘More like suspicious,’ the biker declared. ‘Stupid way to live. My friends left. I stayed put. I had work to do. Makes you no safer, if that’s what’s gnawing on your pecker.’

  He was slow to comprehend, an effect of the whisky. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Cinq-Mars. We got no interest in you. You’re under no threat. But you never know. Things change. So you’re no safer, neither.’

  ‘Same here. You’re under no threat from me,’ Cinq-Mars assured him.

  ‘How come? You wake up in the morning with a job to do. Put the bad guys away. That’s me, no?’

  ‘Way beyond my jurisdiction. I have no cause to pinch you.’

  ‘Sounds about right. But whatever you doing here, isn’t that outside your jurisdiction?’ the biker inquired. He was softening. ‘This ain’t no place to be hanging out just for the hell of it. Nobody takes a vacation in this town.’

  ‘Same as you in one respect.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Visiting folks in the Joliette Institution for Women.’

  The biker gave him a long look, for while he knew that Cinq-Mars had been visiting the jailhouse, it had not occurred to him that his own comings and goings were under scrutiny. He shifted his gaze to the roadway and a moderate bustle of traffic there. The view was not much of an entertainment, yet provided a destination for his gaze as he sorted through his own reactions. He turned back to Cinq-Mars. ‘I’ll buy the next bottle if you’re in a mood to share the one you got.’

  ‘Take a seat,’ Cinq-Mars invited.

  ‘What the women say’ – he issued a whoop of a belly laugh – ‘let me go freshen up first. For me that means taking a long leak.’

  ‘Come by when you’re ready. I’ll find an extra glass.’

  Early in his career, Cinq-Mars had been advised to make connections. As his mentor had stipulated, he was a loner, yet in his profession he could not go it alone. By connections, his mentor meant people of every stripe, including the nefarious. Paul Lagarde, who was suited up today, was a mid-level criminal biker, perhaps with greater ambitions, who worked outside Montreal. They’d have no occasion to run into each other in the normal discharge of their opposing duties. That being true, the day might come when he could be useful. Who could tell what an unforeseeable future might bring?

  Nothing to lose. Had the man not offered to purchase the next bottle?

  ii

  Paul Lagarde reemerged freshened in biker leather, chains, and his usual bling. The Iron Cross that dangled from an earlobe had not been present ten minutes earlier. He accepted a glass of Laphroaig from Cinq-Mars and took it down a few steps to his Harley. From his saddlebag he pulled out a rag and a plastic bottle of Quick Detailer.
Spritzed his machine and rubbed her down with ardent enthusiasm, returning his beast to its primal glow. As he labored, the two chewed the fat on their upbringings as farm boys, each curious about how two men from the countryside diverged in opposite directions upon entering a wider, wilder world.

  One man stayed righteous, the other chewed on the hard tack of corruption. Which he found tasty. Both were content with their lot in life.

  Lagarde put his stuff away and joined Cinq-Mars on the porch. Cop and biker, side-by-side in the shank of the evening, imbibing.

  ‘Cops I know been crooked the day they got hatched.’

  ‘I hope you don’t know many like that,’ Cinq-Mars responded.

  ‘As many as you, my guess.’

  ‘The wrong ones, then.’

  ‘Your take, not mine.’

  ‘Grant you that.’

  Both grinned.

  ‘Consider though,’ Cinq-Mars asked him to ponder, ‘that a crooked cop can be useful to your needs today, but who knows what’s on the news tomorrow? The time comes when the only hope you got left is a righteous cop.’

  ‘Hard to think that.’

  Cinq-Mars sipped, then said, ‘I’ve seen it. Crooked cops get sorted out. Either by your guys or by ours, in-house. You live on a one-way street, Paul. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not preaching. Just asking. How many bad guys die in old age without losing time inside? Try none. It seems like a good street for a while, yours. Affluent. Can’t argue with you there. Your spare change will outdo my life-long pension. You won’t even miss the wad you blow in Vegas. For all that, for what you know and who you know, the card you play can kill you. Hard times require hard measures.’

  ‘Too long a fall for me. I’m righteous in my own house.’

  Cinq-Mars rubbed his chin. ‘Says to me you lack the imagination to see what’s coming.’

  ‘Possible. But I don’t see a righteous cop offering me a street I’d walk on. The desperation comes around and goes around, but it don’t mean much. I don’t feel that way much anyhow.’