Like Father Like Daughter

by Christina Morgan

  So then if I killed him in some strange blackout rage, which I highly doubted, it still didn’t explain why I would do it. True, our relationship was in a rut, but that didn’t mean I would want him dead. Marriages go dull all the time and spouses don’t just randomly kill each other. There’s always a motive of some kind. Adultery. Money. Revenge. None of those applied to our marriage. We still loved each other very much. I couldn’t have killed him. I just couldn’t. But that still left the question of who did kill him. And I was still at a loss on that one.

  ***

  The thought that twelve random people all came to the conclusion that there was enough evidence to suggest I might have killed him hurt my feelings. That’s all that was needed for an indictment—just enough evidence to prove probable cause. But these people didn’t know me. It was hard not to take it personally. It’s not fair that I wasn’t allowed to plead my case. I knew if they’d met me, heard my side of the story, they’d believe me. Instead, I was just some nameless, faceless woman who, according to the prosecutor, had flown into a blind rage and murdered her husband with a large-caliber pistol. Of course they believed Dorne. There was no mitigating evidence presented to a grand jury—just the prosecutor’s case. So unfair.

  But here I was. Nothing I could do about it; I had to resign myself to my fate. I was going to jail, and there was nothing I could do to get out of it.

  I eventually fell asleep around two o’clock in the morning. I usually didn’t dream, or at least I never remembered my dreams. But when I woke up Friday morning, I was covered in sweat, my t-shirt sticking to me in all the wrong places. I was breathing heavily.

  In my dream, I was standing next to Ryan’s side of the bed, holding a gun which was almost too large for my small hands, pointing it right at his head. I stood there for what seemed like an eternity, trying to decide whether or not to pull the trigger. But before I could make up my mind, Ryan woke up and looked right at me. Instead of begging for his life, a Cheshire Cat-like smile spread across his beautiful face. “Go ahead, do it,” he said confidently. When I didn’t pull the trigger immediately, he let out a loud, maniacal laugh. “You can’t do it, can you? You’re weak. Weak and barren and no good for me. Go ahead. You’ve already killed me. I’m dead in this marriage. You can’t even give me a child. What do I have to live for?” That did it. I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. The imagined sound of the gunshot was what woke me.

  I shook the dream off as best I could and padded into the upstairs bathroom. As I went through my normal morning routine of showering and brushing my hair, then my teeth, I wondered how on earth I was going share a shower with dozens, maybe hundreds, of other women. I was never all that modest; nakedness never bothered me. But something about actually parading around naked in front of hardened female criminals made me uneasy. I wondered if they really put soap on a rope. Or was that just for male prisoners?

  I debated on whether to fix my hair and put on makeup. After all, what’s the point? By noon I’d be in jail wearing a black-and-white striped jumpsuit with a chain around my ankle…okay, maybe that’s a bit melodramatic. Ultimately, I remembered there would probably be news reporters there, taking pictures of me as I did my perp walk into the jail. I wanted to look my best, vain as that may sound. I knew that whatever pictures they took of me today would be plastered all over the television, newspapers, and internet, which meant they’d be out there forever. So I applied some of the makeup I’d bought at Walmart and blew my hair out with a round brush. Those stupid roots still bothered me, and I wished I had thought to get them touched up before today. But I quickly realized that in the grand scheme of things, imperfect hair was the least of my concerns.

  I said goodbye to Mom, which was more difficult than I had imagined. She hugged me as if she never wanted to let me go. I’m sure she didn’t; I didn’t want to let her go, either. But ultimately I was running late, and we had to say goodbye. She kissed me on both cheeks and then my forehead, just as she had when I was little.

  Thinking of the old days, as I prepared myself for jail, reminded me of the first and only time I had visited Randy in prison.

  It was right after he had confessed. Mom had insisted, and since I was only sixteen at the time, I didn’t have much say in the matter. We sat across from him at an institutional steel table. Mom was calm and happy to see him, but I was nervous, uncomfortable, and unable to look up from my lap. Randy was smiling and trying to exude confidence, but I just couldn’t bring myself to look at him for more than a few seconds at a time. He kept trying to speak to me, but I just ignored him and looked either at my hands or out the window to the right. Mom kept trying to make small talk, as if we weren’t sitting in a maximum security prison, but I couldn’t bring myself to say one word to him. If I opened my mouth, I knew I would upset Mom, so I remained silent. I swore then and there I would never return to prison.

  I was so naïve back then.

  ***

  Dave and I arrived at the jail promptly at ten o’clock in the morning. Just as I had expected, there were news crews and reporters surrounding the square, red-brick building in the center of town, with black letters across the front that read ‘Jessamine County Detention Center.’ We sat in his car in the parking lot across from the jail. So far, no one had noticed our arrival.

  “Libby,” he began with a sigh. “There’s something I have to tell you. I’m sorry to tell you now, but I only found out this morning myself.”

  My heart started beating a mile a minute, and I could feel my pulse throbbing at my temples. What could possibly be worse than being five minutes away from surrendering myself to jail for a crime I—probably—didn’t commit?

  “What is it?” I asked hesitantly.

  “It’s about Ryan. Detective Dorne called me this morning. Apparently, he’s known for several days, and even presented this information to the grand jury, which explains a lot, quite frankly.”

  “What is it, Dave?” I looked at him and noticed for the first time how handsome he was, even though he was old enough to be my father. His hair was almost fully grey, and his skin was smooth and free of wrinkles, except for the worry lines that were evident around his deep blue eyes.

  “Ryan was having an affair. I’m sorry, Libby.”

  I laid my head back against the firm leather headrest of Dave’s black Lexus. An affair. Ryan was screwing somebody else. There was the motive they needed. This was why I had been indicted. But how could I not know?

  “How do they know for sure? I mean, I didn’t know. You have to believe me, Dave. I had no idea.”

  He held out his hand in an apparent effort to keep me from flipping out on him. “I believe you. I don’t think anyone knew, to be honest. But Detective Dorne figured it out after reviewing Ryan’s cell phone records and email history.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Her name is Lindsey Unser. Do you know her?”

  “No, I have no idea who that is.”

  I looked out the window at the place that quite possibly could be my home for the foreseeable future. The more I thought about it, the more things started to fall into place, like a puzzle missing that one stubborn piece you just can’t find. I thought of all the time Ryan spent in the bathroom “reading.” All the “extra hours” at work over the past year. The lull in our sex life. Of course he was having an affair. And I was too naïve to see it. Or too dumb. Or too ignorant. Or all of the above.

  “Well, as I’m sure you can imagine, in Detective Dorne’s mind, it’s all the motive he needs. He told the grand jury you found out about the affair and that’s why you killed him.”

  “But I didn’t know!”

  “I know, I know. And we’ll explain that to a jury if it comes to that, and we’ll point out there’s no evidence whatsoever that you had any idea about the affair. Libby, I’m very sorry to be the one to tell you, but I certainly didn’t want you to hear it from Dorne…or in there.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Now, unfortunately, we rea
lly have to go.”

  As soon as we crossed the street, reporters noticed us and swarmed around me like a flock of seagulls, squawking and snapping pictures.

  “Did you kill Ryan?”

  “Libby, over here!”

  “Why did you kill Ryan?”

  “Did you know about his affair?”

  So the press had already gotten wind of my husband’s indiscretion. That was quick. Good thing Dave had told me just a few moments earlier. What a way to find out—as if there’s any good way to discover your husband is screwing around behind your back.

  I held my arms up in a vain attempt to cover my face, and Dave ushered me quickly in through the front door.

  A guard in a black-and-white uniform scanned his card and opened the second set of doors for us. Dave and I walked right up to the reception desk, where an older female guard was standing at a computer.

  “Name?” she asked without even looking up at me.

  Dave spoke first. “I’m Dave Rogers, and I’m here with my client, Elizabeth Barrett Carter. She’s here to self-surrender.”

  “Social Security number?”

  I gave her my Social Security number and stood there chewing on my bottom lip. I hadn’t been that nervous until that very moment. All of a sudden, I could barely breathe.

  Finally, the guard at the computer looked up at me. “If you have anything in your pockets, now’s the time to hand them over. Put them in that basket on the desk.”

  Dave had warned me not to bring anything with me, so I just shook my head.

  “All right then, this is where you say goodbye.”

  I turned to Dave, and for a moment, wasn’t sure whether to shake his hand or hug him. He reached in and pulled me into a tight embrace, patting me on the back.

  “Arraignment’s just in a few hours.”

  Still too nervous to talk, I just nodded my head.

  I watched as Dave walked back through the doors and reporters surrounded him. He held up his hands, shook his head, and walked across the street to his car.

  “This way,” the guard next to me said kindly. The large, very dark-skinned man with perfectly white teeth motioned for me to follow him through the metal detector. Once on the other side, he told me to stand with my back against the wall with a measuring stick taped to it. I did as commanded and stood facing the camera. The guard, whose nametag read ‘Correctional Officer Fugate’ told me to hold still. I stood there with a blank look on my face and waited for the flash.

  I was then escorted to a small room off to the side where I went through the humiliating process of stripping off my street clothes. I had hoped the whole “bend over and spread ’em” thing was just on TV, but it was real. Embarrassingly real. The female correctional officer made me squat and cough before she let me stand back up and put on the orange jumpsuit with ‘JCDC’—Jessamine County Detention Center—written in black across the front.

  Two more corrections officers guided me through two sets of iron bars that slid open when they swiped their cards over the card reader. I walked with my hands held out, holding a folded wool blanket, bedsheets, and a pillow in front of me until we reached a dormitory-style room filled with bunk beds and women in orange jumpsuits.

  “Here’s your bunk,” one of the guards said brusquely, pointing at the bunk closest to the front entrance of the dormitory. Mine was the top bunk, but I couldn’t tell if there was anyone already occupying the bottom because, like all the other beds, it was made up to perfection.

  After the guards left me standing there by myself, I laid my blankets and pillow on the top mattress. Just when I was about to climb up on the top bed and have myself a good cry, a short female with a half-blue Mohawk approached me. The top half of her jumpsuit was folded down, revealing her white wife beater and her full-sleeve tattoos. A hand jutted out in front of me, and the boyish girl looked at me and said, “Name’s Dom. What’s your name?”

  “Uh…Libby,” I said shyly as I took her hand and shook it quickly.

  “Libby. Pretty name. For a pretty girl, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

  I shook my head and could feel myself blushing at the compliment, even though it was coming from a woman.

  “What’s Dom short for?” I just had to ask.

  “Dominique. Stupid fuckin’ name, I know. That’s why I go by Dom. It’s more…ambiguous. Get it?”

  I nodded my head slowly. “Yeah, I get it.”

  “So,” she said as she leaned against the bunk bed. “I’m on the bottom here. But that’s okay. That’s how I like it.” She threw her head back and laughed at her own joke. I smiled and gave a weak laugh in return.

  “Whatcha in for?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t know anything about jail politics. Was I supposed to be honest? Tell them I was in for murder? Make myself seem dangerous and therefore less likely to be messed with? Or did I lie and say it was some drug offense so no one thought I was a husband-killer? Ultimately, I remembered my mom’s words when she told me to always tell the truth because then you have no lies to remember.

  “Murder,” I answered her finally. “They say I killed my husband.”

  Chapter 7

  “Whaddya mean they say you killed your husband? What does that mean?” Dom asked me with disbelief written all over her face.

  “I…it’s a long story,” I admitted. “But I can’t remember what happened. I just woke up and he was…dead.”

  “Holy shit,” she said, louder than I wished she had.

  “Shhhhh!” I put my finger to my lips. “I don’t want everyone knowing what I’m here for.”

  “All right, all right. If we’re going to be bunkies, I’ll keep your secret for ya. But holy fuck! We haven’t had a murderer in here ever, that I can remember. Most the girls in here? They’re here for drugs or stealin’ shit.”

  “And you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, I mean, it’s only fair if you tell me what you’re in for. I told you.”

  “True dat,” she said. “Yo, it’s some crazy shit. They sayin’ I robbed the Ghetto Mart on Main Street.”

  “Ghetto Mart?”

  “Yeah, you know. The gas station on the corner of Main and Chestnut Street. That’s what we call it, anyway.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, did you do it?”

  Dom just gave me a knowing smile and shrugged her right shoulder. “No one in here actually did anything wrong, ya know? If everyone else in here gets to be innocent, then so do I. They set your bail yet?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I think they’re supposed to do that today, though.”

  “Yeah, arraignment is usually at two on Fridays.”

  “You seem to know a lot about this place. I take it this isn’t your first rodeo?”

  “Who me? Shit no. This is my, what…” she counted on her fingers, “…fourth stay here. But I’m not staying this time. No siree, Bob. My lawyer’s gonna get me off this time. They have no evidence, yo.”

  “Well, that’s good,” I said, trying to act like I believed her. Something told me Dom was probably going to spend most of her life in and out of jail. She just seemed like one of those women who seem to fit in better in prison than out in the free world.

  ***

  Dom sat and explained some of the dos and don’ts of jail to me until it was time for lunch. I followed her when the guards came and made us line up along the wall. They marched us out of the dormitory and down the hall until we reached the cafeteria. I continued to follow Dom as she explained the lunch system to me from a few steps ahead.

  “Today is Friday, so it’s pizza day. It’s not so bad, really, ya feel me? Better than Salisbury steak, which is usually served for dinner on Tuesday nights. The mashed potatoes are like cement.”

  The cafeteria worker…not sure if she was an inmate or civilian employee…handed me a tray with a square piece of pizza, an apple, and an orange juice in a plastic container with foil on top. When we reached the end of the food line, Dom stood still for a moment.


  “Where do we sit?” I asked.

  “Well, see, that’s the thing, yo. There are different tables for each group, ya dig? Over there’s the blacks. There’s the beaners over there, and the meth heads right there.” She pointed each group out to me while holding her tray with her other hand.

  “So, where do we sit?”

  “That’s completely up to you. I sit over there, with the other lesbians. I mean, in here, everyone’s a lesbian…gay for the stay…but I’m talking about the tried and true, twenty-four/seven, blue blood lesbians. Now, you’re welcome to sit with us. We’re not as exclusive as the other groups are. But just be warned, whichever group you choose now, you’re going to have to stick with it the whole time you’re here if ya don’t make bail. Ya feel me?”

  I thought on this for a moment. I really had no choice in the matter. I was too white for most of the groups, and I most certainly couldn’t relate with the meth heads with missing teeth and open sores all over their bodies. The lesbians it was, then. Dom sat down next to a very large woman with a buzz cut and a snake tattoo wrapped around her thick neck. I slowly sat down next to Dom in the only empty seat.

  “Who’s your new girlfriend, Dom?” Snake Tattoo asked as she leaned forward to get a better look at me.

  “Oh, I’m not her—”

  “Her name’s Libby. And if ya fuck with her, ya fuck with me. Ya feel me?”

  Snake Tattoo raised her hands defensively and shook her head.

  “Thanks,” I whispered to Dom—my new girlfriend, apparently. At least if everyone thought we were lovers, maybe no one else would hit on me. Dom just brushed me off and said not to worry about it.

  ***

  After lunch, I had an hour of downtime before my arraignment. Dom had already planned a card game with some of her friends, and I begged off by convincing her I was tired and needed a quick nap. In fact, I couldn’t have slept if my life depended on it. But I climbed onto the top bunk, laid my head on the stiff pillow, and closed my eyes just to catch a moment of peace and quiet…well, as quiet as a jail full of females can be.