by Britt Morrow
When he’s satisfied that my anal cavity is free of unauthorized materials, he hands me an orange uniform and waits impassively while I change into it. I wonder if stripping me of my dignity is an intentional part of the process, or just a side-effect of having to continually process guys in and out.
“First time in?” he asks me.
“Yeah.”
He nods like he expected that answer. I hope it’s because I don’t look like as much of a derelict as the other guys in here and not because I look like fresh meat.
“I’ll take you to your cell. You’ll spend twenty-four hours a day in here, at least until your bail hearing. This ain’t like prison where they have meal and rec facilities.”
He walks me down a noisy, putrid hallway. The cells’ occupants either leer and shout obscenities as I walk by, or are clearly experiencing withdrawals so agonizing that they’re not even aware of my passing. I’m relieved when we stop in front of a cell with a relatively sane-looking man who’s seated quietly on his bed.
The cell isn’t that unlike the dorm I share with Jeremiah. Used to share. I’ve been so focused on the loss of the life that I was building with Charlie, that I haven’t even acknowledged the loss of my education. All of my hours spent dreaming about going to college probably greatly outnumber the number of hours I actually spent there; I didn’t even last a full school year.
I take a seat on the unoccupied bed. It’s harder than the one in the dorm, but not by much. The one big difference from the dorm is the toilet in the middle of the room; modesty is a concept of the past.
“What’re you in for?” my cellmate asks.
He phrases it like a question, but his intonation is dull, like it’s something he’s obligated to ask. During the walk down the hallway, I’d thought about what I’d say when the question inevitably arose.
“Murder. Second degree.” I decide to go with the truth. I have no reason to lie, and I figure it will keep the other inmates from bothering me.
“Didya do it?”
“Yes.”
He sniggers. “That’s a first.”
“What about you?”
“Child molestation. I didn’t do it though.” He winks at me.
I want to throw up. I’m pretty sure that approaching the foul-smelling toilet will only make the situation worse though, so I just lay down on the bed, as far away from him as I can get. Surprisingly, despite the day’s disconcerting events and the fact that I’m little more than a foot away from a pedophile, I manage to drift quickly off to sleep.
Chapter 24
It turns out that my impressions of both Gabrielle and George were entirely correct. Gabrielle’s maternal instincts have paid off in selecting a hyper-competent lawyer for my defense. I’m feeling more optimistic within seconds of meeting him.
He’s even more city than I expected. His shoes are so shiny that, not only am I sure that they’ve never set foot in a field or a dirt driveway, I’m pretty sure they’ve never been worn outside at all. He’s older than I expected, probably in his early sixties, and wearing a three-piece suit even though we’re not going to court until tomorrow. This tells me that he’s old and rich enough to retire, but likes his job enough to choose not to.
“George,” he asserts, holding out a hand for me to shake. It’s a firm, confident shake, but not tight enough to convey that he’s making up for some other personal failing. I like it.
“Levi. I really appreciate you making the drive out here.”
I don’t know exactly where he came from, but I’m assuming that it’s an even nicer house close to Dwayne and Gabrielle’s. In a suburb bordering a golf course probably.
“How are you?” His earnestness is disarming. He’s not asking me to tell him that I’m fine, but genuinely asking how I’ve been faring over the past few days.
Maybe it’s the incongruousness of the situation - this well-groomed and even better dressed man seated across from me in a dank, cinderblock room that’s been made presentable for guests with some cheesy motivational posters - that makes everything seem surreal, and therefore much easier to talk about. Or maybe I just really need someone to talk to. Either way, I can feel myself opening up to him.
“Still in shock, probably. I have weird thoughts, like worrying about how I’m ever going to catch up in my classes. Then I remember that I’m not going back to university - ever, I guess.”
He makes a face but doesn’t interrupt me.
“Most of the time, I worry about Charlie. I don’t know how to get into contact with her. Or if I even should.”
“Do you worry about what’s going to happen to you?” he asks.
“A little. It isn’t as bad as I expected in here though, aside from the smell. I get fed enough, and none of the guys have tried anything with me.”
He makes another face, this one clearly a frown. “Don’t become complacent. We have a fighting chance at getting you out of this with minimal time served, but only as long as you’re willing to fight.”
I’ve been overtaken by an odd sense of calm during the past few hours, an acceptance of the situation. There’s something reassuring about not having to constantly scheme and contemplate next steps. George is right though; now more than ever, I need to figure out a way to push through. I’ve worked far too hard to defy my circumstances. I can’t quit now.
“What does fighting entail?” I ask.
“You have your first appearance in front of a judge tomorrow. The judge will make a determination of your bond amount. You don’t have to do anything except sit there and do your best to convey that you’re a good kid who got caught up in an awful situation. We’ll get you a suit, and you can practice some repentant nodding before tomorrow.”
I’m not sure whether he’s joking or not, but I nod vigorously, eager to convey that I’m listening.
“After that, we’ll go to a preliminary hearing during which the prosecution must establish that there is enough evidence for the case to move forward to a trial. Given your confession and the fact that they probably managed to pull prints from the gun, I don’t think they’ll have a lot of trouble establishing the sufficiency of the evidence.”
“So, a trial is inevitable?”
I have no idea what a trial actually entails, but I know that I don’t want Charlie up on a stand facing down a belligerent lawyer.
“Not at all. The vast majority of cases don’t go to trial and are instead resolved through a plea agreement. I’m confident that we can plea bargain your charges down to voluntary manslaughter.” He speaks slowly and clearly, in a way that reminds me of an elementary school teacher. He manages to do it in a way that’s kindly instructing, not condescending, though.
I want to ask him what the difference is between second-degree murder and voluntary manslaughter, but I don’t want to look like an uneducated hick. Just in case the fact that I’m currently sitting behind bars for having taken off a guy’s head with a shotgun doesn’t convey that impression clearly enough.
He can either read my mind though, or he’s accustomed to working for uneducated hicks. “Second-degree murder is the knowing killing of another individual and carries a minimum sentence of fifteen years. Voluntary manslaughter is also the knowing killing of another individual, but it results from a state of passion arising from sufficient provocation to cause a reasonable individual to act irrationally.”
Maybe his plea bargain rationale is more than just empty reassurances. I can’t think of anything more likely to provoke irrational behavior than watching the woman you love be raped.
“What’s the minimum sentence for voluntary manslaughter?”
He smiles at me benevolently, as if I’m a particularly gifted student. “Three years.”
Three years. Three years of not touching Charlie, of only being able to speak to her over a telephone, or see her through bullet-proof glass. Three years during which she’ll have to figure out how to make ends meet with a child and a wage that puts her well-below the poverty line. I’m s
ure she’ll make a better single mother than Brandi, but I’m not sure by how much. The thanklessness of a minimum wage job and raising a toddler whose favorite hobby is throwing spaghetti at the wall can turn anyone hard.
“You could be out before your baby is old enough to realize that he doesn’t have a father.”
I hadn’t told him about the baby. I wonder what Gabrielle has divulged about me and how much it influenced his decision to take on my case. I don’t like the idea of being some kind of pity project for him.
“We haven’t talked about payment yet,” I remind him. “Isn’t there some kind of deposit or something I need to make for your services?”
He seemed unflappable to me, but I can tell that this question leaves him a little flustered. He looks down at his shoes instead of meeting my eyes. They’re so shiny I wonder if he can see his reflection.
“There’s no retainer required. I’m taking this one on as a favor to Gabrielle,” he pauses before continuing. “And as an opportunity to end my career on a high note.”
The last part was clearly an attempt to make me feel better. Whether about the prospects of my case or the fact that he’s basically performing charity for me, I’m not sure. He glances at his watch - one that probably costs significantly more than Brandi’s trailer - and I feel slightly less guilty about the situation.
“I need to get back to the office, but I’ll see you before court tomorrow,” he says, pausing before exiting the room. “What size suit do you wear?”
“I’m not sure.”
I’ve never worn anything other than an athletic shirt or a flannel. I’ve thought about the circumstances under which I might wear a nicely-tailored suit: my wedding to Charlie, my first post-college job interview. My first court appearance for murder wasn’t on the list.
He gives me an appraising once-over. “I’m sure I can find something that will fit. Have a good afternoon, Levi.”
He gives me another firm handshake before turning on his shiny heels and exiting the visitation room, leaving me once again with nothing but morose thoughts for company.
My cellmate, Burns, whose surname I learned from one of the guards shouting it disdainfully this morning, is sitting on his bed when I return. Although the cell isn’t that much different than the dorm I shared with Jeremiah, my companion couldn’t be any more opposite.
He’s thin, but in the way that comes from eating an insufficient amount of knock-off Spaghetti-Os and Spam, not from being healthy. We’re permitted a daily dignity-stripping shower under the supervision of the guards but, judging by Burns’ lank hair and body odor, he hasn’t taken advantage of it in at least a couple of days. His only redeeming quality is that he’s usually pretty quiet and keeps to himself.
“You talk to your girl today?” His voice suits him: thin and whiny.
I shake my head in an attempt to discourage further conversation. It’s incredibly monotonous in here, but not so much so that I feel the need to chitchat with a pedophile - especially about something as intimate as my relationship with Charlie.
“I heard she’s real pretty,” he leers.
The most shocking revelation about prison thus far is the abundance of drugs and gossip. I thought that jail would be a reprieve from the hollowed eyes and listless stares I grew accustomed to growing up. But pills are more ubiquitous than ever here, their omnipresence rivaled only by chatter. In a place where entertainment is virtually nonexistent, information is nearly as valuable as currency, and everyone seems to know everything about everyone else.
I don’t know whether Charlie has somehow become the subject of the jailhouse grapevine, or if he’s just trying to get under my skin. Apparently, the rumor mill hasn’t yet seized on the fact that I shot a man for committing the same crime that Burns is accused of, though. Either that, or he’s brazen enough to taunt me despite this knowledge.
I shrug off his question. The only thing viler than a child molester is a shameless one, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of antagonizing me. I’ve been in jail for less than seventy-two hours, but it’s been long enough to figure out that the most surefire way to increase the length of your stay is by exhibiting any form of violence.
“She showed up while you were with your lawyer to put some money on your commissary. Sinclair was on cleaning duty and said she’s a real nice piece of ass.” He punctuates the statement with a low whistle.
I’m not even bothered by the vulgarity of his comment; I’ve only latched on to the fact that Charlie managed to fund my commissary. This means that A) even after having had time to process the situation, she isn’t livid with me for having ruined the future we planned together and, B) I can use the money to call her. This news has me so overjoyed that, if I wasn’t so thoroughly repulsed by Burns, I might consider hugging him.
I spend the remainder of the afternoon, or at least what I think is still afternoon considering I have no watch and the only way to judge time is by the sporadic arrival of meals, on the grubby cell floor doing push-ups and sit-ups. I haven’t developed a sudden desire to mimic Jeremiah’s fitness routine, but my excitement over the news about Charlie has imbued me with an abundance of energy that I need to channel somehow. I’m so intent on my calisthenics that I almost miss the guard when he comes by with dinner.
“How do I make a phone call?” I ask, breathless from my efforts.
He pauses as if considering whether he wants to answer me or not. “I can take you after I finish the dinner rounds,” he eventually answers reluctantly.
The wait for the guard to return feels hours-long, although it’s probably only been twenty minutes or so. I’m worried that he forgot, either deliberately or not, and I’m starting to consider rattling the bars on the cell and really playing out the part of the caged beast he probably thinks I am, when I finally see him round the corner. My relief is palpable.
“Let’s go,” he barks.
“Thank you!” I reply effusively, hurrying to match his rapid clip down the hallway.
The phone room smells worse than any locker room I’ve ever encountered. Women display emotion, men emit it. The plastic chairs and cinderblock walls are rank with years’ worth of the anxiety-riddled sweat produced by lawyers’ phone calls, the impassioned pheromones generated by conversations with friends and family, and maybe even some bodily fluids resulting from communication with significant others. The stench doesn’t bother me, though; nothing could dampen my excitement over the possibility of being able to contact Charlie.
“You need to submit a list of a maximum of ten phone numbers that you’re able to call. I’ll make an exception today, but the next time you make a call, it has to be from the list,” the guard warns.
I nod. That’s not an issue; aside from George and Charlie, and maybe Jeremiah and Dawson, assuming they still want to speak with me, there’s no one I can anticipate wanting to call.
Based on the recently-received spam and Kraft Singles sandwich, and the fact that it’s a weekday - whether Monday or Tuesday I’m not entirely sure - I take a chance and dial Pete’s. It’s a number I know by heart after years of pre-ordering post-game burgers so that the food is piping and a booth is reserved when we arrive.
“Pete’s Diner, Shayna speaking.” She punctuates the greeting with a snap of gum.
I’m initially shocked that the collect call was picked up. But on further reflection, it’s unsurprising that a waitress there would be getting a call from an inmate. I can imagine a bleached-blonde with inch-long roots instructing her thrilling, moderately-abusive B&E boyfriend to call her at work where she won’t be charged for it.
“Hi. Is Charlie there?” I ask.
“She’s cleaning the bathroom,” Shayna drawls, no doubt worried the task will fall to her if Charlie comes to the phone.
“It’s important,” I emphasize. “A family emergency.”
Shayna sighs deeply as if I’m asking a great sacrifice of her.“Charlieeee!” she screams shrilly, making no effort to cover the receiver.
“Hey. It’s Levi.”
“Oh,” she exhales, clearly taken by surprise. “Oh, god. How are you?”
Hearing her voice, especially so overrun with emotion, leaves me speechless for a minute. In the silence, I hear her choke back a sob.
“I’m fine. It’s better here than I expected,” I answer, eager to reassure her. “The food is pretty good, and the guys don’t bother me much. How are you?”
“I’m tired,” she admits. “I’ve been sleeping in your truck. I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course.”
As if my twenty-year-old Ford, comprised more of rust than anything else, is a decent trade-off for everything that I’ve robbed from her: aspirations, family, stability, god only knows how much else.
“Colt’s coming down for the weekend to help me clean things up and deal with everything. I should be back in the trailer after that.”
Clean things up and deal with everything. A very euphemistic way of saying that she and Colt are going to spend the weekend scrubbing their father’s blood and grey-matter off the peeling wallpaper and choosing a casket to put him in. The casual way she says it makes my stomach clench. What kind of monster do you have to be for your brutal murder to provoke absolutely no emotion from your daughter? Probably a monster similar to the one who would put his fiancée in a position where she has to spend the weekend cleaning her father’s brain off the wall.
“How’s the baby?”
“Still in there,” she replies wryly. “It’s getting harder to maneuver around the tables at work. I don’t feel like I’m in control of my body anymore. Or of anything, really.”
I can certainly relate to the loss of control. Or maybe not. My actions put us here.