“He’s like a minute ahead of you.” She checked a
thick-banded, masculine-looking watch on her freck-
led forearm. “Make that two minutes, now.” She
looked up and winked at Audra. “If you hurry, you
might be able to catch him,” she finished, and Audra
was pretty sure she didn’t just mean in the hallway.
“Sit down, Marks. Sit down,” Deputy Warden Wood-
burn said as Audra appeared in the open doorway
of his office.
Art Bradshaw had already settled his massive col-
lection of muscles into one of the Warden’s two side
chairs, but he jumped to his feet as soon as Wood-
burn’s words indicated her presence. He didn’t
speak—or even turn in her direction—just stood at
attention as gallant as any movie prince for the few
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33
seconds it took for Audra to navigate the room and
ease herself nervously into the proffered chair be-
side him. Audra took a quick second to admire his
profile, the breadth of his football-player-wide
shoulders and the smooth skin of his shaved skull,
wishing in spite of herself that he’d turn so she
could see his eyes. Her heart was doing a vaudeville
soft shoe in her chest: If the man had spoken to
her, she might have had another kind of accident—
and she didn’t have any more uniform pants to
change into right now.
She squared her shoulders, imagining herself en-
cased in one of those big-shouldered suits of the
1940s, concentrated her attention on the deputy war-
den and sat, making a futile attempt to cross her
legs, diva-style, before giving up and folding them
against each other, ankle to ankle. “Sir,” she said,
crisply. “You wanted to see me?”
Deputy Warden Stephen Woodburn looked like
he’d been at work for hours. His desk was cluttered
with papers, and a huge mug, running over with
coffee, sat fresh and steaming on a manila folder,
making a dark stain. On a credenza behind him
were pictures of a brown-haired woman and three
towheaded kids dressed in their Sunday best, an-
gled for maximum visitor admiration.
“Don’t look so nervous, Marks,” Woodburn said,
grabbing the stained folder beneath his coffee cup.
Audra read her name on a white label across its
tab. “I don’t think you have any real reason to be.
But . . .” he paused to skim through the folder’s con-
tents, giving Audra a moment to skim her eyes over
his short, graying hair, very precisely trimmed in a
34
Karyn Langhorne
conservative cut, and the rimless glasses perched on
a straight nose. The man’s eyes left the folder and
found hers again. “We do have a slight problem that
impacts you, and to a lesser degree, Officer Brad-
shaw. That’s why I’ve asked you both to drop by be-
fore assuming your duties this morning.”
He paused the pause Audra knew came before
any climactic bombshell in every movie worth its
salt. Audra had just counted one, two, three in her
mind when Warden Woodburn said:
“So yesterday, there was an incident in the day
room. Or rather, a couple of incidents,” he corrected,
pale lips curving into something like a smile. “One
involving a couple of inmates in a scuffle . . . and
the other involving . . .” he coughed a little, as
though suddenly uncomfortable. “Shall we call
it . . . uh . . . a wardrobe malfunction?”
Wardrobe malfunction. Am I ever going to live this
down? Audra wondered as, once again, a prickly
embarrassment warmed her cheeks and neck. She
could almost hear her mother in her mind ( What
must he think of you? ) as Woodburn averted his face
from hers as if to spare her shame. She cut her eyes
toward Bradshaw, but got nothing but a stoic profile,
so there was nothing to do for it but sit up a little
straighter and make the most of it, the only way she
knew how. She settled her fist on her hip and leaned
forward.
“Both were contained according to procedure,
sir,” she wisecracked, wiggling a bit and keeping
the Mae West purr in her voice.
Woodburn chuckled a little and Audra whipped
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
35
her head toward Art Bradshaw to gauge his reaction.
Nothing but his profile. Still.
“You’re funny, Marks,” the deputy warden told
the folder. “Humor’s a helpful quality in our profes-
sion, within limits, of course. But unfortunately . . .”
his eyes snapped to her face again. “One of the in-
mates involved . . . a Mr. Haines . . . has filed a brutal-
ity complaint. Apparently he was injured yesterday.
Broken ribs, it appears . . .”
Both humor and Hollywood died the moment the
word brutality hit the air.
“A brutality complaint? Against me?”
“A brutality complaint. Against you,” Woodburn
repeated. “Haines alleges you violated his civil
rights and caused him personal injury when you
lifted him bodily off the floor then threw him
against a table—”
“Threw him against a table!” Audra shook her
head, astonished. “I was breaking up a fight—a fight
he probably started!” She peered toward Wood-
burn’s folder. “Does it say that in there? Because
there were about two dozen witnesses.” She nodded
in Bradshaw’s direction. “Officer Bradshaw can tell
you—”
Woodburn lifted his hand, stopping the rest of the
explanation tumbling form Audra’s lips. “He al-
ready has, Officer Marks. In fact, he says your con-
duct was exemplary, both in dealing with the
inmates involved in the altercation, and in handling
the . . . uh . . . wardrobe malfunction. But I’m not the
one who has to be convinced,” he continued briskly.
“I’m sure Mr. Haines’s charges will be dismissed in
36
Karyn Langhorne
short order. But Haines is within his rights to file it,
and, as you know, it will have to be investigated by
the Internal Review Board—”
Charges? Internal Review? Me? Audra swallowed
back an A to Z catalog of emotions: from anger to the
zealous desire to wring Princeton Haine’s sneaky,
scrawny neck. Only that would be police brutality, now,
wouldn’t it? wisecracked a voice in her head, and for
a wild half-second, Audra wasn’t sure she would be
able to stop herself from laughing—knowing full
well that if the laughter started, the tears wouldn’t
be too far behind.
“But sir, it’s a waste of their time!” Audra insisted.
“It’s utterly groundless—”
Woodburn raised his silencing hand again. “I
know this is frustrating, Marks, but that’s procedure
and we’re going to follow it to the letter,” he said,
>
and his nonexistent lips disappeared that much
deeper into his face. “The rules require that any offi-
cer accused of misconduct toward an inmate be re-
moved from duty until a cause/no cause inquiry is
completed, so you’re officially on administrative leave
pending resolution of the investigation. Shouldn’t
be more than a week, I would guess.” He curved the
lower half of his face into a grim smile. “Try to think
of it as a well-deserved vacation, not as a discipli-
nary action.”
Audra suppressed a sigh. “I understand, sir.”
Woodburn took a nervous sip of his coffee.
“There’s . . . uh . . . one other thing,” he continued,
licking his lips. “Regarding the . . . uh . . . wardrobe
malfunction? That’s not likely to happen again, is it?
Because it poses . . . uh . . . all kinds of problems. I
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
37
mean, this is a men’s correctional institution and—”
“I know, sir. It’s not appropriate for a woman to—”
“Oh, it’s not that,” Woodburn said, dismissing her
femininity behind another quick gulp of his mug.
“It’s a question of maintaining authority and order
here, Marks. This is a prison, not a comedy club. Im-
pressions and wisecracks are fine, but they are sec-
ondary to the realities of what we do. Just lose
weight or buy the right size or . . . whatever . . .” His
eyes found hers. “Right?”
“It won’t happen again,” Audra said quickly be-
fore the man could skip down this yellow brick road
any further. She cut another surreptitious glance
Bradshaw-ward, but if the size of Audra’s ass was of
any interest to him at all, she couldn’t read it on his
face.
Woodburn shifted his attention to Bradshaw, too.
“How are you adjusting, Bradshaw? I suspect Man-
hattan Men’s is a walk in the park compared to Up-
state, huh?”
“Yes, sir,” Bradshaw said, filling the room with
his mellow baritone for the first time. Audra turned
toward him, reveling in the sound of his voice, but
again, the man wasn’t looking at her.
He hadn’t spoken to her, hadn’t looked at her at
all, not even when she was wiggling her ample hips
Mae West style . . .
Audra frowned, suddenly unsure. Maybe it was
just being in Woodburn’s office. Or maybe he was
concerned about being involved with anyone who
was accused of brutality and now relieved of duty.
Or maybe . . . maybe . . . maybe her mother was
right, and he didn’t like the way she looked—
38
Karyn Langhorne
Audra smoothed a nervous hand over her hair and
then along the crease of her new uniform pants. She
licked her dry lips, wondering if she still had the
nerve to vamp up to him with the lines of a movie on
her lips. Abort, abort, abort, something in her brain
was screaming, and Audra was inclined to obey.
“Anything else?” The deputy warden’s eyes
flicked over them both one last time, dismissing
them. “If not . . . thank you, Officers.”
And before she could even turn to glance at him,
Art Bradshaw had unfolded his big, tall body and
made a quick, silent exit.
“There’s a speed limit in this state, mister—uh—I
mean, ma’am.”
Audra stopped short. There was no doubt who
was speaking—there was no one else in this silent
office corridor far from the day-to-day activities of
prison life.
Relieved of duty, after leaving Woodburn’s office
Audra had changed back into street clothes and was
about to leave the building when the big man’s voice
arrested her, not far from the officers’ break room.
Audra whirled around, staring into the man’s
face in surprise.
He was so handsome, with those liquid amber
eyes and perfect bow-shaped lips . . .
“There’s a speed limit in this state. Forty-five
miles an hour,” he repeated, and then paused,
clearly waiting for her response.
Speed limit? There wasn’t a statewide speed limit,
and in the city the limit was more like thirty or
thirty-five.
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
39
“Come on, Marks,” he rumbled at her, a glimmer
of playfulness in his eyes. “Double Indemnity, re-
member?”
Audra cleared her throat.
“How fast was I going, Officer?” In her nervous-
ness and surprise, her voice was less Barbara Stan-
wyck and more hoarse whisper, but somehow even
that felt loud in this quiet corridor. Audra could
barely hear herself at all over the knocking of her
heart. Her fingers twitched to reach for her ankle—
checking for that telltale anklet the screen legend
had worn. There couldn’t be an anklet—she didn’t
own one, but if Art Bradshaw had actually tracked
her down to quote Double Indemnity, some kind of
magic was afoot, perhaps the same kind that could
produce an anklet where there had been none.
I told you, Ma! I told you, Audra thought, doing a
happy dance in her head. I knew he liked me! I knew
it—
As if reading her mind, Art Bradshaw’s perfect
lips curved upward into a shy smile. “I’d say about
ninety,” he said softly.
That was the next line. Audra knew the scene by
heart. Almost without realizing it, she took a step up
the corridor toward him. “Suppose you get off your
motorcycle and write me a ticket?”
“Suppose I give you a warning?” he said, tracking
the dialogue from the movie, word for word.
“Suppose it doesn’t take?” Audra shot back, right
on cue.
Bradshaw’s shy smile had widened into a big grin.
He took a long step toward her, narrowing the dis-
tance between them.
40
Karyn Langhorne
“Suppose I’ll have to rap your knuckles then.”
“Suppose I put my head on your shoulder and
cry,” Audra said.
Bradshaw hesitated. “Next line is Stanwyck’s,
‘Suppose you put your head on my husband’s shoul-
der,’ but that doesn’t fit, does it?” He lifted an eye-
brow over those striking light eyes. “For a couple of
reasons.”
Audra stared at him, the spell only partly broken
now that the dialogue was his own words and not
the words of a movie script. “I didn’t think anyone
knew that scene but me.”
Bradshaw shrugged. “I love movies,” he said, his
deep voice soft. “Had a film noir phase. A few years
back. Double Indemnity is one of my favorites.”
“Mine, too,” Audra agreed. “I love the banter.
And it’s kind of a love story—”
“Pretty sour ending, though.” Bradshaw grimaced.
“Not many people know the old black-and-whites.
Nice.”
> “Yeah . . .” Audra said, and before she knew it,
her face had gone all gaga and gushy and she was
staring at him like he was dessert and she hadn’t
had chocolate in over a year. “Nice for me, too.”
In the pause that followed, Bradshaw’s eyes slid
off her face and focused so steadily on a spot over
her shoulder that Audra turned. There wasn’t any-
thing behind her but wall.
“What are you looking at?”
He hesitated again, and for a flash of a second,
Audra feared her mother might be right. After all,
he’d heard the inmates’ remarks—heard the litany
of fat, black and ugly—and he had eyes after all. For a
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
41
moment her mask of bravado slipped and she
wanted to cover herself head to toe like the Muslim
women in the foreign land where Petra was now
stationed.
“Uh . . . nothing,” he said. His eyes snapped back to
her face and Audra’s concerns were swept away again,
lost in those bright, honeyed orbs fringed by black
lashes. “I . . . uh . . .” he hesitated until Audra quirked
a curious eyebrow at him. “Forget Haines,” he offered
in his clipped, not-a-single-unnecessary-word way.
John Wayne, Audra thought. He talks like John Wayne.
“Warden’s right: be cleared up in a few days.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt him—”
“You’re a tough woman. Strong,” Bradshaw said
with a nod.
“Is that a good thing . . . or a bad one?” Audra
laughed, rolling her eyes girlishly.
Bradshaw considered for a long time before reply-
ing, “Good. If you’re a corrections officer,” in a tone
as serious as if she’d asked him to opine on death.
“Which you are.”
Audra stared at him, parsing through the words
fifteen different ways before she decided to just
mark it down as a compliment and move on. She
gazed up into Bradshaw’s eyes, a grin spread over
her face like margarine on burnt toast, and he
stared back, looking unsettled and nervous, like he
was waiting for something to happen and wasn’t
sure it would. They stared at each other a good ten
seconds past the comfortable point as Audra
racked her brain, trying to think of just one of the
clever lines she’d practiced all night—just one fa-
mous movie quip or quote to fill the space—but
42
Karyn Langhorne
now that he was standing right in front of her, it
was as if she’d never seen a movie in her life. But it
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