First Degree Innocence (18 page)

Di’s forehead furrowed. “That doesn’t sound very easy. How do you propose to discover the culprit’s identity?”

The whistle sounded, marking the end of rec. Susanna stood and glared across the room where her nemesis worked out with weights. Jet dropped the barbell she hoisted and mopped her brow, then joined the lineup at the door.

Turning back to the group, Susanna rubbed the tenseness in her jaw. “I’m not sure how to proceed, but until we find out more, just keep your eyes and ears open.”

* * * * *

Falling out of line, Carrie entered her cell, cringing at the thought of facing Jet. Every passing day dawned with the nauseating fear that the time had come for the woman to put her secret plan in motion, and Carrie wanted no part of it. The old saying, “backed into a corner” took on new meaning with Jet. No one told her no and escaped injury … or worse.

Carrie clambered up on her bunk and turned to the wall. Maybe if she feigned sleep, Jet wouldn’t disturb her. A laugh bubbled up in her throat at her own naiveté. Jet did what she wanted whenever she wished. The woman wouldn’t hesitate to try to wake someone in a coma.

The cold gray closed in. Carrie pulled her thin blanket over her and eyed the porous blocks a few inches from her face. Tears welled. Why couldn’t rec last longer than two hours? The time outside the cell provided a welcome respite to wandering her eight by ten foot enclosure, being confined to a hard bunk, or, if she dared, perching on the edge of Jet’s mattress for lack of a chair. Hell, even caged rats got a wheel to keep them entertained. Niggling fright over being involved in something that might cause injury or death to Susanna was all Carrie had to look forward to, and she couldn’t even tell anyone. Dread pooled in her stomach and bubbled up with the taste of bile in her throat.

“Hey, Lang!” Her cellmate’s voice sent a shudder through Carrie.

She didn’t respond, instead scrunched her eyes tight and slowed her breathing.

“I know you’re not sleeping.” Jet grabbed Carrie’s leg and jiggled it. “Get up, we need to talk.”

Carrie expelled a sigh in a loud whoosh, turned over and propped herself on her elbow. “What do you want? I’m tired and I have a headache.”

She hadn’t lied. Stress hammered at her temples, and she was tired—tired of this infernal waiting game.

“Maybe you’ll feel better if I tell you the time has come for you to go back to your beloved Susanna’s cell.”

Bolting straight up, Carrie stared at Jet. “I told you I don’t want any part of your scheme. Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

Jet’s laughter bounced around the room. “Evidently you don’t know me very well. I don’t leave people alone if they’ve fucked me or my family.”

Seeing no point in arguing, Carrie drooped back onto her mattress and flung her arm across her eyes. Seth was her only hope. She had to find a way to get to him. But how?

* * * * *

Jet had gone to shower. Carrie decided to pass and paced the cell, wondering how to avoid the inevitable. She chewed on a fingernail until she tasted blood. Pulling her lips taut, she stared at her once-manicured hands and wanted to cry. Nails no longer painted had become stubs, and skin once smooth as a baby’s behind now wrinkled in red folds from the harsh prison soap and no lotion. She rolled her eyes. “Who sees my friggin’ hands anyhow?” She continued her march around the cell.

Her mind spun, mixing her yesterdays with her tomorrows, and anger replaced her fear. There had to be a way to get out of the mess looming in front of her, but damned if she knew what she needed to do. Escaping was out of the question; though getting shot by a guard might be a blessing. She ceased pacing, her eyes wide at her revelation. For the first time in her life, living didn’t hold as much importance as it once had.

Like lighting from a clear sky, a thought flashed through her mind. She tapped her chin. What if her health took a turn for the worse? “Hmm, interesting idea.” She slowly bobbed her head up and down.

A nice long stay in the infirmary might be the answer she needed. But, damn! Physically she felt fine. What could she fake that was convincing enough to make the doctors admit her for a week or so? Perhaps Seth could find a way to come visit. She had to try.

Carrie thrummed her fingers on her pant leg. If only she had access to a computer. She could look up poisons and find an available substance that wouldn’t kill her, just make her really sick. Reality shuddered through her. God, she never expected to get this desperate. Worry over Jet and the plan weighed more than concern for her own health at this moment. Shampoo seemed the only thing she could drink, and she smacked her lips, almost tasting the vileness. What was worse, the alternative and the guilt she’d feel over setting up her best friend or suffering through a moment of distaste? Maybe she wouldn’t totally rule out a foamy drink as an option.

Carrie lowered her head and rubbed her brow. What kind of animal had she become? Jet had driven her too far—waged a war and Carrie was determined to win the battle.

* * * * *

Seth paced the beige carpet in his apartment, the phone at his ear. “Ryan, tell me you found something to help Carrie’s case.” He rubbed his brow, aware of the ever present crease.

Sagging down on his worn, floral sofa, he leaned forward and supported his arms on his knees. “You’re kidding? The witness is holding firm to his story? Well then find something or someone to negate his statement. That liar couldn’t have seen Carrie! She wasn’t there.”

His blood pressure soared when Ryan voiced doubt about the case. Seth pressed his narrowed lips against the receiver. “Hell yes I believe her or I wouldn’t have involved you in trying to prove her innocence. You can’t give up on this, Ryan—you just can’t. Call me when you have good news.” Seth’s jaw was so tight his teeth hurt when he hung up the phone.

“Damn!” He flung the phone aside and drooped back against the cushions. Staring at the ceiling, he prayed for help. His hope for freeing Carrie faded with each passing day they made no progress. Ryan had an excellent reputation as a P.I., and if he couldn’t uncover any new clues, no one could.

The tears burning the back of Seth’s eyes stunned him. He blotted the wetness on the back of his hand and swallowed. Carrie meant more to him than he realized, and no matter what, she wasn’t going to serve a sentence for something she didn’t do. He couldn’t shake the niggling feeling that Marie was the missing puzzle piece. If only Seth could see the resemblance between the two, but how could he get Marie’s mug shot picture? There were bound to be questions.

He checked his watch. His shift started in a couple of hours, and he planned to find a way to get some answers. How? He wasn’t sure, but if Carrie’s twin knew something, Seth was going to get it out of her.

He meandered into the bedroom, his mind still churning with ideas. Maybe Ryan wasn’t asking the right questions. He never had mentioned to Seth anything about where Marie lived when she was nabbed, where she worked, or what she did. How did she know Jet? They hadn’t spent any time together in the joint? There was a connection there, but how to find out posed a big hurdle. He’d take his shower, dress and call Ryan back. The time had come for Seth to be more proactive if he wanted a positive outcome.

* * * * *

“Lang,” a shrill voice sounded through the cell speaker. “Report to the gate. You have a visitor.”

Before Carrie could react to the shock, the bunk swayed with movement and Jet’s icy gaze, beneath a raised brow, peered over the edge of Carrie’s mattress. “You’ve never had a visitor before. Who could be coming to see you?” She paced to the bars and peered into the hallway.

Carrie dangled her feet over the bed’s edge and shook her head. “How should I know? I’m as surprised as you are, of course not for the same reasons.” She laced the end of her sentence with sarcasm. “You’re probably worried some fancy pants lawyer is here to spring me, and you’ll have to get some other wimp to do your dirty work.”

In her heart, Carrie prayed it was true, but she was too old to believe in fairy tales.

Curiosity gnawed at her as she donned her rubber shoes. She ran a comb through her hair just as the cell door clicked open. Her palms damp, her heart thudding, she pushed the steel bars apart and stepped through the door out into the long corridor. Who could the visitor be? In the six months she’d been here, she hadn’t received even one piece of mail, let alone been summoned to the visitation lounge. The only faces running through her mind were her inmate friends. Who in the hell could it be? She quickened her pace. From where she stood, the gate where the guard waited looked miles away.

Chapter Twenty-One

Carrie shivered beneath the air conditioning vent in the visitor’s area, her mind spinning with questions. She’d been escorted to window number nine to wait, so where was her visitor? Moreover, who? Her reflection in the thick glass separating her from the folding chair on the other side showed a grim expression. She opened and closed her mouth a few times to ease the tenseness and tried to find a smile. Someone cared enough to go through the personal search and scan required for admission to this area. But why was it taking so long? She fidgeted against the hard and uncomfortable steel chair.

Dipping her chin, she gazed at the myriad of graffiti etched into the shelf in front of her. Freedom appeared in large text over names and symbols. “Yeah.” She chuckled. “Who doesn’t want that?”

She stretched out her legs and crossed her ankles. Thrumming her fingers on the aged wood, she eyed the telephone receiver—big, black and straight from every prison movie she’d ever watched. Who would she talk to through the archaic contraption? Suspense chafed her nerves. Could it be Seth’s P.I. friend?

The visitation door still hadn’t opened. She leaned forward, picked up the phone and sensed its weightiness. Since the inception of cellular technology, no one used phone booths anymore. Was this where AT&T shipped all their spare parts?  How many mouths had pressed against the receiver since its last cleaning?  She shuddered at the thought.

The receiver back on its hook, her fingers returned to their sequential drumming. Why had she been summoned so soon? To torture her with the wait? She fisted her hands in her lap and stared through the arched window at the door.

A commotion from behind made her turn. Other women entered and filled the chairs on the inmate side, but no one she recognized. A few of the dozen or so nodded and smiled, but the aura of excitement her sister inmates brought with them did nothing to ease Carrie’s apprehension. Her first visitor and she had no idea who the hell it might be.

After long, agonizing moments, the door opened and a plump, gray-haired woman wearing glasses and a visitor pass pushed through. Carrie sat straight, anticipation dancing along her spine. The grandmotherly visitor walked past and seated herself at the last window. Carrie jerked her gaze back to the door.

This time, a thin black woman wearing a sweatshirt with the Dodger’s logo entered. She too, passed Carrie and took a seat two windows away. Leaning on the shelf, Carrie entwined her fingers and rested on her arms. Her mouth turned dry and she wished for a drink. Not water—real alcohol to ease her nerves. Of course, she’d never had anything stronger than a taste of beer. The thought brought a grimace. Beer tasted gross! Even if she could place a cocktail order, she had no idea what it would be. “Got milk?” The image of a milk moustache broke the tension, and she chuckled.  Her levity disappeared with a sigh.

The string of visitors continued.  Still she waited. Shoulders sagging, she immediately ruled out the next person through the door—a man appearing close to fifty, balding, and wearing a stylish gray business suit.  Her attention returned to the door, but snapped back and focused on the person who slipped into the chair in front of her. Her mouth gaped, and she viewed the stranger with a critical stare. He had pasted his visitor’s pass crookedly on his jacket, and beads of sweat dotted his brow. His pale pallor made his green eyes even more prominent.

Had he sat in front of the wrong window?

The stranger avoided eye contact, but his narrow lips formed a lopsided smile. As his hand went for the phone, so did hers.

Her heart tap-danced beneath her orange shirt, and with a moist palm, she held the receiver to her ear and waited for him to speak. He stared into his lap, reminding her of the time in a school play when she forgot her lines. His lips moved but nothing came out.

“H-hello, Carrie.” Finally, he spoke in a faltering voice.

“Hello…” She arched her brow and waited for him to introduce himself.

His Adam’s apple bobbed with a large swallow.

The drawn out silence wore on her nerves. She refused to wait another second for him to give his name and the reason for the visit. “Do I know you?”

His tongue swept across his lips.

“I-I’m your father.” He raised his eyes level with hers and smiled.

Surprise sucked the air from her lungs, leaving her light-headed. She took a moment to compose before responding, mentally counting to five and taking deep even breaths.

She shook her head. “You must be mistaken. My father left me a long time ago.”

The man removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his forehead. “There’s no mistake. Your name is Carrie Lang, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s my name.” She sat ramrod straight in her chair. The anxiety she’d felt only moments ago turned to fiery anger. “But I no longer have a father.” She fixed an icy stare on his round, clean-shaven face. Even if the man told the truth, she had little recollection of how her father looked, and time changed people. “If I did, surely he wouldn’t have the nerve to show up after he deserted me and my mother fifteen years ago.”

Again a hard swallow wobbled his neck. “I don’t expect you to understand and forgive me, but I am your father, Carrie.”

“Why are you here?” She narrowed her lips.