THREE
I HUNG MY TOWEL ON the hook and turned the shower on, dipping my hand into the spray while waiting for the heat. When the steam rolled over me, I dipped the rest of my body and tried to relax beneath the pelting water while soaping my legs and arms. With my eyes closed, this was the only place where I felt like I was back in my home. I could imagine being in my own bathroom. It would be morning, with me standing beneath the shower, and with my husband Steve at the mirror, humming an off-key tune the way he sometimes did. I could almost hear my son Michael from his room, chatting aloud with his online friends and I could see my daughter, Snacks, her face at the door, asking if I was almost done, if she could help me cook the pancakes with lots of butter. But it was the showers that also showed me what twenty years in prison had done. I never stared at the younger inmates, not in that way, but I couldn’t help but catch glimpses of their bodies—their tight arms, the seemingly magical lift of their breasts, and the smooth, dimple-less tone of their stomach and thighs. I’d looked the same once, a long time ago. I tried staying in shape, but prison took my years and gave me my age.
The shower floor groaned and shook, breaking my thoughts. I spun around in time to see Roxanne lumbering toward me, her thumping footfalls were like tiny earthquakes. She snorted like a boar and her lips parted in a snarl. Her large naked body trudged across the shower, shoving inmates out of her way with little effort—rolls of fat around her middle lifted and dropped with each heavy step. Her long stringy hair thinned in the damp air, turning the dirty-blond color to a dingy brown, her scalp bleeding through a raging bright red. My heart went to my throat in one huge walloping beat. I took hold of my towel, guessing I had seconds before she’d be on top of me.
“Ah shit, here we go,” someone yelled as inmates parted, their feet slapping against the wet floor, clearing a path for Roxanne. The girls fell in behind her, blocking my only exit. She held a shiv—slammer slang for a knife—a sharpened tooth-brush clutched in her hand and crooked in my direction like a witch’s finger. I tightened my grip on the towel, stretching it taut and lowering it to wrap around Roxanne’s arm. She didn’t need the shiv. Roxanne didn’t need a weapon of any kind. She was a weapon.
She’s a giant, I heard in my head, sizing her up against the other women. Cheers and screams erupted around us, the yells bouncing off the tiled walls until the sound became a deafening roar. I thought briefly of the guard, but she’d be outside, a smoke break maybe, waiting for us to finish. For all I knew, she might’ve even been a part of this—a setup, paid on the sly by Roxanne to help get me in here and to watch the door. I was terrified and thought my bladder would give at any moment. In my career as a vigilante contract killer, I’d faced death several times, and even defended myself once from being strangled. But this was different. This wasn’t a murder I’d planned and executed with detailed precision and exactness. This was a prison fight, and I had little chance of winning.
Roxanne sped forward into a gallop, her lips peeled back, showing a row of decayed teeth in a morbid and a grimacing smile. A wall of skin went up suddenly—brown and white and black and yellow, slick with shower sweat, the inmates crowding around us and forcing me to move closer.
“Come and get yours!” Roxanne yelled, sneering and spitting onto the floor. “Come on, Smarty!”
“Fuck off!” I screamed at her, bracing for the shiv and setting my towel to catch what was coming. “You fat, ugly cow!”
Her face emptied briefly and then filled with a fiery expression. The fury in her eyes forced a memory. I’d called her a cow during her first day in prison. We were in line for chow and she’d stomped on my foot. I remember she’d broken a bone, a toe maybe. I didn’t think before I reacted. I was still new and didn’t know my place yet. As my cellmate would say, I was just a bumpkin. I’d turned to Roxanne and pushed her off of me, screaming at her. In fact, I’d called her exactly the same thing: a fat, ugly cow. I recall little after that, other than her being spry for her size and her being on me before I could do anything to defend myself. The next thing I remember were the guards dragging Roxanne away as a massive pain blew up in my face. I sat up, spitting blood as it poured from my broken nose.
Her eyes fixed on mine, “You mother fuck—”
Roxanne never finished. She never advanced. From my left, a blur shot across the shower room, breaking through the cheering women like they were bowling pins. It was Wilma Marshall, one of the few friends I’d made in prison. She rushed Roxanne, charging her like a bull chasing the color red in a bullfight. The crowding women went quiet the way people do when faced with the unexpected, the sudden interruption catching them by surprise. I held my footing, bracing and lowered my stance, uncertain which direction the storm in front of me would blow. The sound of wet flesh crashed like a crack of thunder, followed by the heavy thud of their bodies slamming onto the shower floor. Roxanne’s face fixed with shock, a breathy wheeze shooting from her mouth like a gust of wind, leaving a crimson dribble on her portly chin.
“You owe me, Harris!” Wilma shouted over her shoulder, her shiny black skin blanketing Roxanne’s, their arms and legs knotted in a death grip. “You owe me big! I took this bitch down for you.”
I nodded and dropped to my knees, nearly coming face to face with Roxanne. I could have done something at that moment—maybe shoved the end of the shiv deep into her eyeball, plunging it until the sharpened tip touched her brain. Or I could have broken her nose and kicked in her foul teeth, maybe even kissed her putrid homophobic mouth (what a terrific insult that would have been). But I did nothing. Instead, I peeled her clutching fingers from the shiv and wrapped my towel around it. I’d take it with me, removing the evidence Roxanne would use against Wilma when telling the guards it was Wilma who had come at her with the shiv. Of course, a dozen witnesses would confirm Roxanne’s claims. Taking the shiv would limit Wilma’s time in the hole.
Grunts came next as Roxanne caught her breath and jabbed a thumb into Wilma’s eye. Blood gushed over Roxanne’s hand. Wilma screamed and rolled onto her shoulder briefly, freeing her from Roxanne’s hold. I slipped back toward the wall as the two women launched upward briefly. They towered over me like two giant sycamores, bracing and pivoting in a clumsy pirouette before tumbling back down. I scurried out of the way like a mouse fleeing a falling tree. A fight was on, feeding what the cheering inmates wanted to see. None of them had a care in the world who was fighting who, just as long as they got to see a fight. For now, the prison’s cycle of blow-ups followed by calm would be completed. The cheering inmates closed around the sprawl, clamoring, screaming, yelling for the women to fight to the death. I stood fixated and unable to move, watching in awe at what would have surely been the end of me.
Wilma was my friend, and I felt frightened for her. We’d met ten years earlier—a not so accidental meeting. By then I’d learned it was useful, even good, to have a few friends inside, and from what I’d learned of her case, she was the kind of friend I wanted. A woman my age, and big like Roxanne, Wilma was serving her tenth of fifteen years for having attacked her boyfriend, Derek Robbins. It was attempted murder, and if you ask me, he deserved worse. Wilma learned he’d molested her twelve-year-old daughter. And while she’d collected evidence, the cops declared it wasn’t enough. The boyfriend was released, and it wasn’t long before he did it again. The boyfriend had talked his way back into the house while Wilma was at work. But when she came home that afternoon, she found her daughter cowering beneath his body. That’s when Wilma took matters into her own hands, cutting up Derek and nearly killing him. She was sentenced to fifteen years and no parole—it was her third strike, making her a habitual offender. Derek Robbins had no record and was only sentenced to serve three years with the availability for parole before reaching his second year. And now, Wilma was in prison while her boyfriend was on the outside. If Wilma made it through the fight, I had a good idea of what it was she’d want me to do for her.
Roxanne had Wilma in a choke hold, a flurry of
hefty punches closed my friend’s left eye and sent the other to roll white. For a moment, I thought Roxanne had my friend, but Wilma was strong and surprised Roxanne with a low-blow punch to her privates. The meaty sound was followed by a screaming jeer and a roaring awe. Wilma didn’t stop there though and broke free of the chokehold. She launched upward like an Olympic wrestler and clutched Roxanne’s privates, holding her like a bowling ball. Wilma worked the crowd, waving a hand, encouraging them to make noise. They obliged. Wilma squeezed until Roxanne cried out, her arms flailing, her screams carrying mercy in her pleas. But Wilma didn’t let go. She held on, squeezing even harder. Inmates cringed, some of them turning away when blood splattered onto the shower floor. Roxanne’s arms fell limp, and she slumped forward, crying. The fight was over. When Wilma finally turned toward me, she was smiling, her teeth bloodied, and her left eye bulging and bruised the color of a storm cloud. She forced a painful wink, and I nodded to her, knowing she’d saved my life, knowing I owed her.
“Name it!” I yelled to her over the roaring noise. “Whatever you want, girl, I’ll make it happen!”
FOUR
FREEDOM. WELL, ALMOST. It wouldn’t be long before I saw my family again, saw them on the other side of the prison gates. But first, I had to go through the same processing as when I’d entered prison. It was a nearly identical procedure, but would play like a video in reverse . . . minus the cavity search. Even my stomach felt the same—stuck in my chest and filled with a strange fuzzy unease about what would to happen.
“Move it, Harris,” the guard grunted as I fell a few steps behind her. I remained cautious, not knowing if one of Roxanne’s cronies were around a corner and ready to pounce. The guard had barely looked at me when she came to my cell. That told me she’d been on the take with Roxanne, skimming some of their gang’s drug dollars for protection and other services. Escorting me to the release process was about the last thing she probably expected to do this afternoon. She spun around, reaching behind me to take hold of my handcuffs. She hoisted my arms into the air, pushing them higher than necessary. I winced at the sudden strain on my shoulders. “Guess you won’t need these.”
“About time,” I answered, seeking her eyes, trying to meet them and confirm what I suspected. The guard shied away and concentrated on removing the hand-cuffs. I had to think back twenty years to remember the last time I wore any restraints. I guess that was part of the release process, too. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just the guard’s way of giving me a big, fat Fuck you on behalf of Roxanne.
Without another word, the guard turned and left me alone. It wasn’t often I found myself alone in prison. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I was alone. Butterflies woke suddenly with a stretch, setting off a dread-filled tremble in my gut. Was this a part of the exit process or I was about to get jumped—no slammer slang needed. I recognized where she’d left me. It was the same room used during the intake process where I’d officially become the property of the State. I closed my eyes and held my breath. I listened intently, waiting for a sound to come. Silence. I remained alone and let my guard down. A shiver ran through me, the room’s air-conditioner turning my skin to goose flesh. I hadn’t felt the chill of air-conditioning in years and placed my hands on the wall, spreading my arms and legs as if waiting for a pat-down from a corrections officer.
“No need,” I heard with a start. Standing up straight, an older man with sheet-white, pasty skin, plump around the waist, and a short crop of hair walked toward me, stopping when we were almost nose to nose. “Last day?”
“Last minutes,” I corrected him, feeling impatient and wanting to get outside. I followed the portly man until we entered a room where the only other door had an exit sign above it. My heart leapt with excitement. I imagined Snacks and Michael standing just on the other side and wondered if maybe they’d brought their families with them? I imagined Michael with a boy and girl, and Snacks with two girls of her own. What a moment it would be—my kids, and their kids. Family. Anxiously, I asked, “So, do I just leave?”
“Not quite,” he said, his eyes scanning me top to bottom. “I think we can accommodate you better than that.”
I tugged on my shirt, answering, “This’ll do. I’m used to it.”
He shook his head, adding, “You’d likely raise some eyes walking around with Department of Corrections labeled across your back.”
Stamped, I thought, instinctively reaching behind me to feel the lettering across my shoulders. I’d been stamped like a side of beef when handed over to the prison.
“You’re probably right,” I answered, gritting my teeth and searching for a place to change.
The guard went to a closet and brought back a round plastic bag with a long manilla envelope taped to the front showed my name: Amy Sholes. I didn’t recognize the clothes I’d given up years before for a corrections uniform. The guard was right, anything would be better than what I was wearing. “Your stuff. The clothes are twenty-years and may not fit. But try them and if you need something else, I can see what can be dug up.”
“Thank you,” I told him as I opened the bag. The smell of the ocean. The smell of beaches and seawater. I dug in and found a sandal with sand on the sole. I pinched the grains between my forefinger and thumb as the first of many resentments came. My husband put me here. He’d discovered the murder and led the police to our weekend away from the kids, to the beach and the breaking surf.
“Curtains,” he offered, breaking the memory. The guard pointed to a standing partition where I made my way. I peeled off the jumpsuit like a rind from a fruit, discarding it to the side and intending to never feel it on my skin again. “Got anyone to pick you up?”
“Sure,” I answered, and came around the partitions’s curtain. The guard had taken a seat at a desk, my belongings in front of him and laid out in a way I remembered from before. “Inventory?”
“Have to return every item as it was when we received you,” he answered, putting an inkless pen in his hand and a computer tablet in the other. It was good to see that technology hadn’t changed all that much—the shape and model of the tablet looking familiar. I could have been looking at something as old as my time spent in prison. I’d find out soon enough.
“Will this take long?” I asked, peering at the Exit sign. I wanted to see my kids.
He shook his head. For the next ten minutes, he presented each of my belongings, pausing until I’d verbally confirm accepting them into my possession. With each, he flicked a checkbox on the tablet and moved on to the next item. Maybe it was me, but he moved so slow, I thought I would die. The last of my belongings was a cell phone my business partner, Brian Sutherland had given me. It was one of our burner phones, the kind with zero traceability, the kind we’d break into pieces and then toss into the trash after completing a job. I just happened to have it on me when I’d been arrested. I pressed the green button on the top and waited for the screen to come alive. It was dead.
“Haven’t seen one of those in . . . well, you get my meaning.”
“I do,” I said, sounding disappointed. With a slim chance in mind, I pressed my thumb against the button again, holding it there until my fingernail turned white. Confirming what I’d feared, I added, “Battery is dead.”
“Service was likely cut off when you came in,” he added.
I shook my head, knowing my partner, and added, “No. I’m sure if it is at all possible, this phone will still be active.”
“Well then, let’s see what we can do for you.”
The guard tilted the phone until the charging port came into view. He rummaged through a desk drawer, sifting through a spaghetti mess of plugs and wires. He sat back up, his chair’s springs letting out a piggy squeal and gave me an apologetic shrug. “The phones these days, they don’t need chargers, or cords. Thought I might’ve had a left-over that’d fit.”
“No worries,” I told him, almost adding that it didn’t matter since I wouldn’t have to call anyone, anyway. They’d be wai
ting for me on the other side of that door.
“We’re done?” I asked while seeking out the Exit sign again. I pushed my chair back to stand, but stopped when he raised a hand.
“Almost,” he answered. “This part is optional, but I have to ask. And you might even find it beneficial to you, too.”
“Go on,” I said, trying to sound intrigued, but couldn’t hold still and wanted to leave.
The guard straightened up and squared his shoulders with me as though preparing to give a speech. And that is exactly what he was about to do, “In completing your release process—” the guard interrupted himself as he sought out my name on his tablet. “—Amy Harris, the Holmesburg prison administration would like to ask for your feedback on your stay with us.”
I furrowed my brow and shook my head, his suggestion feeling absurd. “An exit interview?” I asked, pulling the vocabulary from somewhere in my previous life.
“Something like that. Shouldn’t take more than a half-hour of your time,” he answered, rocking his head undecidedly. “Give or take a few minutes.”
Time. He wanted more of my time. A burn spread across my neck and chest, but I held my cool. I’d just given twenty-years of my life with no chance for parole. There was no way in hell I was about to give another minute. “Yeah, I don’t think so,” I said, sounding sarcastic. I stood up and made my way to the door, I took in a breath and freshened up my cheeks, preparing myself for my family. Before reaching for the door-handle, I turned around and added, “I’ll tell you what. You can fill it out for me.”
Affair with Murder The Complete Box Set Page 50