Go-Between (4 page)

She'd nodded, even though he couldn't see that. Taken notes. Sipped her meritage.

“What happens next?”

“We'll petition for another bail hearing. Line up witnesses and documents showing that Jeff isn't a flight risk.”

Good luck with that, she'd thought.

“You'll do that from San Francisco?”

“There's no point in my staying in Houston. You don't want to get billed for all those hours, and I'm limited in what I can do for you right now. I'm not licensed to practice in Texas. But I'm working with a local firm and petitioning the judge for
pro hac vice
—that's representation ‘for this occasion.' They usually will grant motions like this, and I should be able to act as Jeff's official counsel going forward. In the meantime, my counterpart in Houston, Marisol Acosta, is on the case and a very sharp gal who specializes in federal drug trafficking. If you have any questions or concerns, call her.”

Michelle lay on the
queen bed in her hotel room and listened to the fan blowing cool air through the room. She'd closed the blinds and the curtains so no light leaked in, but she could still hear the rush of cars from the freeway, like a low ocean wave that never stopped hitting the shore.

Christ, she thought. How are we going to pay for all this? She'd paid Derek the ten thousand, but in a case like this
. . .
the bills would add up.

Plus, asset seizures. Derek had warned her about that. Things you owned that might be funded by drug money, police departments and federal agencies, they seized those. All the time. People in Arcata complained about that, how the federal authorities would confiscate property if they could reasonably claim it was connected to drug profits.

Vehicles. Houses. Businesses.

Like Evergreen.

You can't worry about that now, she told herself. First things first. See Danny. Tell him what was going on. Find out what he thought she should do.

She'd worked through all the options, and she thought she knew what the best one was, but maybe he had a better idea. An angle she hadn't thought of. Because the best option she'd thought of for this situation wasn't very good at all.

Chapter Four

Michelle hoped she was
in the right line.

The jail reminded her of a bank in a seedy neighborhood crossed with a DMV. It had that institutional smell: stale air, dust and old sweat, mixed with the chemical tang of industrial cleaner, chilled by air conditioning. White brick walls. Plexiglas windows. Long lines. The people who waited were mostly women. Black women. White women. Latinas. Some Asians too. A lot of them looked poor, going by their clothing, by the extra weight they carried.

She'd found a tiny metal table with white paper slips that had to be filled out with Danny's information, “Jeff's,” rather: his SPN number—the number for the jail, his cellblock, his bunk. Found the lockers farther back, and stowed her purse in one for a quarter. Stood in the line for the 6th floor, at least, she thought it was. The line stretched the length of the institutional lobby. She'd glimpsed a row of Plexiglas windows, where the deputies waited, the ones who would process her request, and check her for outstanding warrants.

“This your first visit?”

Michelle flinched.

The woman who'd asked the question stood behind her in line. A tall, middle-aged black woman, dressed in a matching turquoise skirt and cardigan, like she'd wear to an office. Processed hair neatly curled.

“Yes,” Michelle said. “Yes, it is.”

“It gets better after you've done it a few times.”

“It does?”

The woman shrugged. “Well, not really. You just learn what to expect, that's all.”

Her name was Deondra, and she was visiting her son.

“Off his meds,” she said with a sigh. “Not that it's clear they work. At various times they've diagnosed him manic-depressive, mildly schizophrenic, ADD, Asperger's
. . .
Anyway, he was creating a disturbance and had some marijuana on him, and that was that. A hundred eighty days for the marijuana and a hundred eighty days for disturbing the peace.”

“How much marijuana?” Michelle had to ask.

“Oh, it was about half an ounce or so.”

Great, Michelle thought. Half a year for half an ounce.

And Danny? Coming in between 200 pounds and a ton?

“That seems pretty harsh,” she said.

“Well, it was the second time he got caught with it.” Deondra's smile was more of a grimace. “At least he might get some treatment, if I can get him transferred to MHU.”

“MHU?”

“The mental health unit. They've got more resources inside here than they do out in the community, I'm sorry to say.”

They'd reached the front of the line. The Latina woman standing at the window stepped aside. It was Michelle's turn.

She pushed the piece of paper with Danny's information into the battered aluminum trough.

“ID?” the deputy asked.

She gave him her California driver's license. Emily's license.

There was nothing to worry about, she thought. Emily didn't have any outstanding warrants.

She wasn't so sure about Michelle.

The deputy held up the license, studying the photo, then shifted his attention to her face.

Sweat beaded on her forehead, dripped down her back.

Well, it's over 90 degrees outside, she thought, so he won't think that's strange.

Will he?

She shivered in the cold draft from the air conditioning vent.

“California?”

She managed a smile. “Yes.”

He turned away to stare at a computer screen, and started typing on a keyboard.

She stood there. Waited.

Finally, he scribbled something on the white slip of paper with Danny's information, and slid that under the window.

“You get the license back after,” he said. “Have a nice visit.”

The next line was
for the metal detector.

It should have been quick, but it wasn't. The detector seemed to buzz for every third person passing through it.

“They've got that thing set so sensitive,” Deondra said, rolling her eyes. She busied herself taking off her earrings, her necklace, a bracelet, and putting them in a Baggie. “You never know what's going to set it off. Sometimes it's the hooks in your brassiere, I swear.”

Michelle was glad that Derek had warned her about underwire.

It took her two tries to get through the metal detector, the second time passing it by removing her shoes. On the other side of the metal detector was an elevator. She stood at the back of the crowd waiting for it to return from the upper floors.

Behind her, Deondra asked. “Did you bring a wet wipe?”

“A wet wipe?”

Deondra reached inside the Baggie she'd used for her jewelry and pulled out a small packet. Stretched her hand out to Michelle.

A sanitary wipe.

“I brought two. Believe me, you'll want to use it.”

Inside the elevator, Michelle
faced the doors. She was nearly pressed up against them. Close enough to stare at the scratches in the aluminum that spelled out,
suck pussy
.

Another Plexiglas window with
a uniformed deputy behind it. Another line, a short one this time. It was colder than downstairs, ridiculously cold. “Yeah, that's why I wear the sweater set,” Deondra told her. “Supposedly keeping it cold helps with sanitation. There's a lot of diseases here. Staph infections. Chicken pox.”

She hadn't seen a single window on the floor. Nothing but artificial light. The visitation room reeked, the scent of stale sweat and sewage carried on the chilled air. To her right were a series of windows, barely separated by narrow acoustic dividers. Visitors crowded around them, most leaning against the cement pillars that served as stools rather than sitting on them, some even perched on the narrow counters, carrying on conversations in shouts.

“You just hand the deputy your slip.” Deondra explained, over the din. “Then you go find a window and wait. They'll bring him in.”

It was nearly Michelle's turn. “Thanks,” she said. “Thanks for all your help.”

Deondra made a little shrug, smiled her grimace of a smile. “It's best we help each other. Believe me, you won't get much help from anyone else.”

Michelle found an empty
window. At the window to her left was what looked like a family: a young Latina and two small children, the mother holding the smaller of the two up to the glass, so the kid's father could see. At least, she assumed the young man on the other side was the father. To her right, a rare male visitor, white, middle-aged. She watched as the visitors changed positions, putting their mouths and then their ears up against the circular metal speaker. Even so, how could anyone hear the other? Every word seemed to be bellowed.

She studied the speaker grate, the Plexiglas around it. Dried spit. A smear of lipstick.

She opened Deondra's wet wipe and cleaned the area as best she could. Then sat on the pillar and waited.

The visitation room on the inmate side had two banks of windows, the one she faced, and one on the wall opposite. She could see the visitors on the other side of those windows, and she had a sudden flash, a vision, of an endless series of windows, of prisoners and visitors, lined up, yelling through the glass.

She fought off a wave of dizziness, of nausea. Suck it up, she told herself. After almost two hours in various lines, the visit would be over soon enough—you were only allowed twenty minutes.

Finally, a deputy brought him in.

Like the other prisoners, he wore orange scrubs with
Harris County
stenciled in black, and rubber shower shoes.

Unlike most of the other prisoners, he was handcuffed, hands behind his back. Why was that?

He didn't see her, at first; she watched his head swivel back and forth, trying to spot her. She stood up and waved.

His eyes fixed on her. His face changed. She wasn't sure what to make of the expression. Sad? Worried? Angry? Then he put on the familiar half-smile. The one he used to cover everything up.

The deputy walked him over to the stool. He moved stiffly, like he was guarding an injury. He hadn't shaved today. His eyes were bloodshot, the lids dark with fatigue.

For a moment, Michelle didn't know what to say. “Are you okay?” she managed.

He frowned a little. He hadn't heard her. She pressed her lips against the metal speaker grate and yelled, like everyone else. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said. But his eyes and expression said something else. A fractional headshake. A warning. Don't ask.

He leaned in toward the grate, wincing as he did, arms pressed tight against his sides, his torso held too straight. Had he hurt his ribs? She remembered moving like that, when she had that injury. She put her ear up to the grate. “I'm sorry,” he said.

Michelle closed her eyes for a moment. As tempting as it was to say, “I told you so,” it didn't seem like the time.

And besides, that might sound incriminating.

“We'll deal with it,” she said.

“You didn't need to come. We'll have another bail hearing in the next two weeks, and Derek's sure I'll be getting out this time.”

Now it was Michelle's turn to shake her head. She gestured for him to listen and spoke as clearly as she could into the speaker without shouting.

“Gary's in Arcata. He showed up Tuesday night.”

She pulled away from the window so she could see his face. For a moment he looked stunned. Then he swallowed, and his face turned still with rage.

“Motherfucker,” he mouthed.

“Yeah.”

She gestured for him to listen. Waited as he shifted position, grimacing as he did, and pressed his ear against the grate. “He's got some kind of job for me.”

“No.”

Michelle didn't need to put her ear to the speaker grate to hear that.

“I think I need to take it.”

“You can't.” His voice was faint, tinny. This wasn't something he was willing to shout to be heard. She pressed her ear against the speaker and let him have his turn.

“You know what his endgame is,” he said. “No matter what he promises.”

“I don't think there's a better choice.”

“There is. Call Sam.”

One of Danny's old contacts, who'd helped set them up in Arcata with their shiny new identities. Michelle wasn't sure she trusted Sam either. He'd be in an even better position than Derek to have sold them out. But she nodded anyway.

“I will. But look
. . .
” She forced a smile. “We're going to need the extra money to pay for Derek, and this other attorney here. And the job sounds like it could be fun.”

That, of course, was a lie, one she told on purpose, in case anyone was listening. Danny knew it, too.

“What about Evergreen?” he asked suddenly. “I mean, you put so much work into the place.”

The rush of affection she felt for him just then, the intensity of it, took her by surprise. Suddenly it was clear to her how she felt about him, like a switch had been flipped.

Great timing, she thought. Just great.

“I can hire someone. Don't worry about it.”

“Em
. . .
” He drew in a deep breath, and flinched. “Why don't you
. . .
just
. . .
get away for a while? You know? Go someplace nice. Until this gets settled.”

Run, he meant. Hide.

“No. I want to help.”

“But this—”

“It's the best option.”

“It's not.” He laughed shortly. “Believe me, I can think of a bunch of better ones.”

Like you doing time? she wanted to ask. Because if she knew one thing for certain, it was that Gary had set Danny up, and people that Gary set up were pretty thoroughly screwed.

“I'll handle it,” she said. “Don't worry. It's temporary.”

After she left the
jail, all she wanted to do was go back to her hotel and take a shower. A long one. The jail's stink clung to her clothes, to her skin, her hair. Her own stink clung to her as well, the panic sweat from when she'd given the deputy Emily's license.

And have a drink. God, did she want a drink.

But she didn't have time to do either of those things. She'd made an appointment with Marisol Acosta, the Houston attorney Derek had partnered with, and the offices weren't far from the jail. Especially since she hadn't rented a car, just taken a taxi here, it made sense to go see Marisol first.

It was almost 6
p.m
. They didn't start visits in the jail until afternoons, 4
p.m
. weekdays on the days they allowed visitors, and 3:30 on weekends.