by Claire Adams
It’s not rational, I know, but part of me expects that, at any moment, those cell doors are going to open and I’m going to become the piñata/scapegoat for everyone that’s ever been jerked around by someone in my parents’ tax bracket.
It’s a very specific fear to be sure. Fortunately, nothing comes of it.
“Took you about long enough,” the guard says. “Surprise, surprise: Someone posted your bail. Must be nice not to have to play by the same rules as everyone else, huh?”
I’m not taking the bait. At this moment, though no tragedy other than bad food and bad water has really befallen me, I just want to get out of here and I’m not going to do anything to delay that.
“I’m ready, officer,” I tell the slovenly, unshaved guard.
He lifts one corner of his mouth into a sneer and looks down at me. “Come on, princess. Let’s get you out of here so you can get back to trampling all over the peasantry.”
People really must hate my parents.
Of course, right now I’m the one that’s in jail, and I seriously doubt Mason has the kind of nest egg it must have taken to bail me out of here. Right now, it’s not my parents that people hate. Right now, that person is me.
I keep my mouth shut as I’m walking through the halls that always seem to narrow, but never quite close in entirely.
We get to a room and the guard holds a card up to a black pad next to the door. There’s a quick beep and a green light and the guard opens the door.
“Your clothes are in there,” he says. “Get changed.”
“Thank you,” I tell him. What do I know? Maybe the guy’s just having a bad day and I might just be able to help him turn that around.
“Don’t spend too much time on your makeup princess,” he says. “It’s not going to change the sucking pit where once there dwelled a heart, now torn and immolated by the anti-social nature of plutocracy.”
Okay, the guy just takes politics way too seriously.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell him and go into the room.
For a brief moment, I’m thinking that because I’m being released on bail, they’re pretty much done with the invasions of privacy, assuming I don’t commit any crimes on the way out. Of course, there’s a female guard in the tiny space, standing next to the clothes I was wearing when they brought me in.
She stays in the room, her eyes quite active while I go through the process of returning their garb. We don’t talk.
Now dressed and ready, I’m led down another hallway. We go through three separate passkey-locked doors before we get to an area with an exit sign that actually means something.
“See you soon, honey,” the new guard says, giving me what I’m hoping is meant to be an encouraging pat on the butt.
I’m feeling pretty good about things until someone new is telling me, “This way.”
The third guard now leads me away from the exit and down another hallway. We get a couple of doors in and he opens one, motioning for me to go inside.
“What is this?” I ask. “I thought you were letting me go.”
“I was told to bring you by here before releasing you,” the guard says. “I’m just doing my job, ma’am.”
“I wasn’t accusing you of not doing your—fine, whatever,” I say and enter the new room.
No sooner am I past the doorway than I spot the person who must have paid my bail: Johnson B. Witherton VI, Esq.
“Ashley,” the aging lawyer says, getting up from his seat and motioning toward mine. “If you’ll close the door and have a seat.”
I do.
“Am I getting out of here or what?” I ask.
“First off, let me tell you how deeply sorry I am that you are in the position you’re in right now,” he says.
“I’m glad someone’s going to apologize,” I respond. “Did my parents tell you I was actually involved in their little scheme?”
“I can’t talk about other clients,” the lawyer says. “First off—”
“You already did a ‘first off,’” I interrupt.
“So I did,” he responds with a painfully fake laugh. “Well, second off, then,” he says. “My fees are taken care of, and I will be your attorney throughout this unfortunate business. Let me assure you, they have no case. All that’s happening is that enemies of your parents are trying to hurt them by hurting you. There is no justification for what they’re doing and it is absolutely criminal, criminal that they would attempt to hurt my clients by setting their sights on—”
“Mr. Witherton?” I interrupt. “Is someone listening in on this conversation, or did you forget that me and my parents do, occasionally, talk?”
The lawyer stops and takes a breath. A beautiful smile comes over his face and he says, “Your bail will be processed here momentarily. There was a little hiccup, but things are all squared away. I just didn’t want to have you sitting in that cell a moment longer than you had to.”
“One cell for another,” I say. “Great.”
“I’m going to go make sure everything is taken care of, and when I come back, I want you to walk with me. There are some people I think you should talk to before we go too much farther,” Mr. Witherton says.
“Where are my doting parents?” I ask.
“I don’t keep track of my clients’ whereabouts twenty-four hours a day!” he comes back, almost yelling.
I blink a few times. “Mr. Witherton, who are you talking to right now?”
“I’m very sorry,” he says. “It’s just stuff like this makes me so mad!”
Okay, this guy’s in on it. I don’t know what part he played, but from the bizarre way he’s acting, he’s got to be in this deeper than just knowing about it.
“Mr. Witherton?” I ask.
“Yes?” he returns.
He’s not inspiring a whole lot of confidence right now.
“Two things: My bail and my parents,” I answer. “Which one do we want to discuss first?”
“I’ll go take care of your bail here,” he says. “Just wait in here. I had to pull some strings to get you some privacy while I’m taking care of getting you out of here.”
My suspicions that my parents are going to try to pin this all on me somehow are only growing. I mean, the man ended his last three sentences with the same word. Who trusts a person like that?
“The faster you go, the faster I get out of here,” I tell him and he finally leaves the room.
I lean up against the wall as there’s nowhere to sit other than the floor. Given that this room smells unmistakably of urine, I’d like to avoid that if possible.
Okay, so the lawyer’s in on this to some degree or another, and with as nervous as he seems to be around me, I’d say he knows that something pretty bad is coming my way. Maybe I’m just paranoid from being in the joint, but the world’s so much different than I remember it.
For one thing, I’m making jokes to myself while standing alone in a concrete box.
Johnson B. Witherton VI, Esq. comes back into the room after a few minutes, and I’m wondering why he didn’t just get this taken care of already. Still, I’m happy enough to get out that I’m not going to start asking too many real questions until I’m outside this building.
“I’m going to take you to see some people now,” Johnson says.
Seriously, did this guy tell my parents to just blame everything on me and he’s feeling that guilty about it or is he just not much of a people person?
“Fine,” I tell him. “Can we go?”
“Of course,” he says and goes to the door of the room. “Did you notice?” he asks.
“What’s that?” I respond.
“They agreed to leave the door to this room unlocked while we’re using it,” he says. “The chief owed me a favor, and I felt that you should be the beneficiary of it!”
“Would you mind giving me a demonstration and then maybe showing me some more doors that you can open?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says and finally opens the door.
We walk back to the room with the actual exit and we leave the building. I haven’t even been in here a day, but I could swear the air actually does smell a little sweeter than I remember.
Maybe it’s finally being out of the urine room my parents’ favorite lawyer was so proud of getting for me.
“My car is the platinum Lexus on the third row,” Johnson says.
“You mean the silver one?” I ask. I know my parents’ crowd well enough to know that question is going to be going through his mind until he sells the car. Maybe it’s a mean thing to do, but I really just don’t like this guy.
“Actually, I brought in a friend who specializes in color palettes and he confirmed that the color was clearly platinum,” Johnson retorts.
“Ooh,” I mock, holding up my hands.
I’m in a bit of a mood.
We’re no less than twenty feet away from the car when I start to make out the silhouettes of people in the backseat, obstructed by the car’s tinted windows. I breathe in slowly through my nose and take as close to an equal amount of time exhaling through my mouth.
Either the people in the back of the car are my parents or they’re hitmen. I’m not sure which I’d be less enthusiastic about seeing.
I open the passenger’s door and take a quick glance to see who’s in there waiting for me.
“You’d think with all your money you’d be able to afford better disguises,” I tell my parents.
It’s bad. Dad’s wearing a bald cap with tufts of fuzzy hair-like matter in a horseshoe pattern along the sides. The edges of the bald cap aren’t quite blended properly, so it looks like my dad has a farmer’s tan under his hair, but nowhere else.
My mom is in a white pantsuit, wearing Elton John glasses and a voluminous and very curly redhead wig. Both of them are holding handkerchiefs to their mouths.
“What are you doing?” I ask, getting in the car.
“We can’t be too careful,” mom says. “The way they just went after you like that—we don’t know how long it’s going to be before they come after us.”
“Dear,” my dad chimes in, “you’ve got to come with us.”
“I’m not putting on a disguise like that,” I tell them. “I’d rather be back in lockup.”
“Darling, she’s speaking like an ordinary criminal,” mom says to dad. She doesn’t lower her voice or shield her mouth. She says it just as loud and clear as everything else she’s said so far.
“Would you prefer I was a bad one like the two of you?” I ask. “At least ordinary criminals seem to have some kind of sense about them. You two—”
“We’re leaving the country,” mom interrupts. “You know the way the US treats its wealthy. We simply cannot weather the PR.”
“On the bright side, they’d probably give you a job in government after you served your week and a half in the Palm Springs Luxury Resort and Detention Center,” I taunt.
“You know, that doesn’t sound so bad,” mom says, turning toward dad.
“She’s mocking us, dear,” dad explains.
“What is your lawyer doing?” I ask.
Johnson B. Witherton VI, Esq. is standing in front of the car, pacing back and forth talking to no one.
“He’s used to a finer quality institution,” dad says. “Coming to a common jail is a bit of a step outside all our comfort zones.”
“Where are you going?” I ask. “Which country, I mean.”
“I don’t think we should discuss this until we’re already on the plane,” mom says, turning toward dad again.
I’m gritting my teeth. “Unless it’s a private plane,” I start, “it would be good for me to know before we walk up to the counter at the—”
“Of course it’s a private plane, dear,” mom says. “You don’t think we’re going to abscond to another country flying coach, do you?”
They both laugh their affected laughs and I really think there’s a chance the two of them were dropped on their heads as children…and then again as teenagers…and then another time when they entered adulthood.
As I was coming out of the jail, a thought began to occur, but I quelled it before it had formed entirely. I don’t have to go with my parents. I mean, I’m not leaving the country with them no matter what, but right now, I don’t have to be here in a car with them waiting for the press to show up.
Actually, it’s kind of weird that there haven’t been any reporters or cameramen at all.
“Did you guys pay off the press?” I ask. “Why haven’t they turned the front of the jail into a temporary red carpet?”
“John takes care of those things,” mom says, waving her hand as if swatting at a fly.
As if he’d heard his name, Johnson B. Witherton VI, Esq. opens the driver’s side door and gets in, saying, “All right, it looks like we’re clear for now at least. Is she going with you?”
“No,” I answer, though both my parents respond differently. “I didn’t do anything wrong and I’m not going to start acting like I did just to take the focus off the two of you.”
I don’t usually talk to my parents like this, but they’ve crossed the line a bit more than usual this time.
“That is true, dear,” mom says. “Once we’ve touched down in Urug—I mean, wherever we’re going—”
“Smooth,” I quip.
“We can start leaking the story—trusted associates, of course. Once everyone’s heard what we’ll say happened, they’ll have to exonerate her, won’t they, Charles?” mom asks dad.
“What exactly are you planning on saying happened?” I ask.
“I still think it’d be better if she came with us,” dad says. “If they do take her in after we’ve left the country, they might try to use her in order to get us to return and face prosecution.”
“I’m not going with you,” I tell him. “Whatever you’re planning, it better include me being cleared of any kind of involvement in any of this.”
“Of course, dear,” mom says, flipping her hand up and down in my direction in a gesture I’ve seen a few thousand times, but have never been quite able to decipher. It’s not a shooing motion, it’s not a wave. It’s kind of like a come here/go away thing, though I doubt that’s what my mom’s thinking when she does it. “Your safety and peace of mind through all of this is most important.”
“We need to leave now!” Johnson shouts out of nowhere. Honestly, I’d kind of forgotten he was in the car there for a minute.
“I’m not going,” I tell him. “You can just drop me off at my place and be on your way.”
“You’re just being ungrateful!” Johnson yells. “We’re going to the airport.”
I look at the lawyer. I really would have thought someone like him would be better in a crisis. If this is the way he’s dealing with things, though, they must be a lot worse than I think they are.
“Ungrateful?” I ask. “Should I be grateful that I was just put in jail for something I had nothing to do with? Should I be grateful that you guys thought it’d be a good idea to basically steal my identity so you could fund your fraudulent enterprise?”
“I really do think it should be her choice, John,” dad says.
The lawyer huffs, “We don’t have time. We need to get out of the country and we need to do it now. If one of us stays behind, how do we know that person’s not going to call the cops while we’re still on the way to the airport?”
“I just want out of this,” I tell the lawyer. “I want nothing to do with it. I’m not going to talk to anyone, I just want to—”
“Get out,” Johnson B. Witherton VI, Esq., who had previously been so nice to me, says. Maybe nice wasn’t the word, but he wasn’t this hostile when he was bragging about getting me into the pee room.
“John, please,” mom says.
“It’s fine, really,” I say. “You guys have a fun trip to Uruguay. Let me know if you’re going to be extradited back home and I’ll come visit you at whichever white-collar resort they send you to.”
Be
fore anyone utters another ridiculous syllable, I open the car door and get out.
The door’s barely closed before Johnson peels out of his spot, though given the space between the rows, he has to stop again just as quickly and make a three point turn to get pointed in the right direction.
I really don’t think that’s the guy I’d choose to be my lawyer, but what do I know?
Now comes the thing I’ve really been dreading: I pull my phone from my pocket and dial Mason’s number.
When I was coming out of the jail, I considered telling the lawyer that I already had a ride and call Mason to come pick me up. It was more a fantasy than a real plan, though.
Whatever he feels about Chris being locked up, there’s no way it’s going to go over well that I’m already out on bail while Mason’s brother sits remanded. Town’s five miles away, though, and I’d just really like to get as far away from this building and this parking lot as possible.
Chapter Nineteen
La Petit Mort
Mason
This is so stupid.
I was trying to get some kind of answer out of the clerk at the city jail when Ash called. I guess I should have figured they’d take her to county.
I’m about half a mile away from the same building my brother’s locked up in, and my knuckles are white as I grip the wheel. He’s there on remand and Ash is out the same day.
I’m not mad at her, though.
When I get close enough to the county jail to see into the parking lot, I immediately spot Ash sitting on a low concrete barrier. Her shoulders hunch forward a little as I can see her letting out a deep breath.
I pull up in front of her and unlock the doors to the car. She gets in.
“Hey,” she says. “Thanks for coming to get me. I’m sure you’re sick of this place by now.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I wasn’t just going to leave you here, though.”
“Mason, I want to start by telling you that—” she starts, but I interrupt her.
I tell her, “Let’s just get you home and then we can go from there. You must’ve had a pretty rotten day.”