Sawyer, Meryl (11 page)

For a split second she thought there was a photographer nearby
shooting pictures. But the intense flashes of light she saw weren't from a
camera. The diamond earrings
were
in her purse.

"This is somebody's crazy idea of a joke." Royce turned
to Brent, but he'd moved away, joining his parents.

"Royce, how could you?" Brent's voice echoed his
disgust.

Fear mushroomed inside her as she appealed to him. "Why would
I open my purse, if I'd known—"

"You're under arrest." A muscular hand latched on to her
arm.

"This is a mistake," she argued, aware of the crowd
crushing closer each moment, straining to see the earrings in the purse the
security guard had just grabbed.

"I knew she'd do something like this," Eleanor said to
her son.

Ruddy splotches of color mottled Brent's handsome face, his jaw
set in a censuring line. Could he actually believe she'd done it? Yes. How
could he? He loved her, didn't he? Why didn't he say something?

No one was saying anything. She saw nothing but condemnation in
their eyes as she searched the throng for a friendly face. To the rear of the
group she spotted Mitch, staring at her, his expression unreadable.

"Why would I do anything so stupid?" she protested.

"Don't say anything." Val suddenly appeared at her side,
and Royce saw Talia elbowing her way toward them. "We'll get you help.
Don't worry."

Several guards approached, parting the curious crowd.
This is
really happening. They're going to take me away.
A white-hot wave of shame
surged through her. Her face set in the stubborn, lockjawed expression her
father used to tease her about, Royce trained her eyes on the exit, barely
conscious of the exploding flashbulbs or the phalanx of mini- cameras recording
her humiliation to boost their late-night ratings.

The ride to the station passed in a blur of images and sensations
she was too numb to feel. The staticky squawk of the radio. The wail of the
siren. The worn vinyl of the backseat tinged with the odor of stale tobacco.
The steel mesh screen that separated her from the front, caging her in like a
dangerous animal.

This was no joke, she realized, a juggernaut of debilitating panic
hitting her full force. Someone had planted those earrings in her purse. That
person intended for her to be arrested. And she'd played into their hands by
leaving her bag at the table. It could have been anyone, but the triumphant
glow in Eleanor Farenholt's eyes came to mind.

Did she hate me that much? All the little digs, the veiled and
not-so-veiled insults paraded through Royce's mind. The signs had been there,
but she'd arrogantly ignored them.

"What am I going to do?" she whispered to herself.
"Surely, Brent will help me." But even as she said it, she knew it
wasn't true. He'd claimed to love her, but he hadn't given her the benefit of
the doubt. Somehow that hurt as much as being arrested.

Didn't her love her? The question kept echoing through her mind as
she remembered all the times he'd told her how much she'd meant to him. She'd
thought he was a sensitive, caring man—like her father. But tonight he'd sided
with his parents—against her.

At the station she was taken to a large room filled with women
waiting to be officially processed. The steel door to the holding cell clanged
shut behind Royce. She stared at the rows of metal benches. All of the seats
were filled; the only sound was the droning hum of the fluorescent lights. Some
women stared at her suspiciously while others looked openly hostile.

"What's wrong?" she asked herself when no one made a
space for her. These women didn't know her, yet they seemed to dislike her.
Obviously, they were poor. A hooker in thigh-high boots of worn vinyl. A woman
in stained sweats and tennis shoes without laces.

My dress, she decided after a few seconds. It set her apart as
surely as if she'd been wearing a space suit. An expensive gown like hers was
as alien to these women as sable coats were to the homeless.

Like the crowd at the auction they were judging her; only, these
women were finding her guilty of being rich.
I'm not rich,
she longed to
scream.
I
bought this dress on sale.

Finally, a butter-blond with a body like a tombstone slid over,
leaving a space the size of a hand for Royce. She wedged herself into the spot
as the blond boldly leered at her, a glare that would have backed down a pit
bull. The other women stared, too, even more curious now that she'd been
offered a seat. The hefty woman was a leader, she realized. Or someone they
feared.

Facing forward, Royce was conscious of the muscular woman beside
her, studying her, cataloguing everything about her. Then she laid a chunky
hand on Royce's thigh, fingering the metallic beads on her gown.

"Stop it." Royce swatted her hand aside, meeting the
woman's eyes. They were as black as the roots of her bleached hair, radiating
an intense hatred Royce only had imagined existed until this moment.

"Honey," the blond said, her voice blatantly masculine,
"you're as good as dead." She yanked off a handful of beads, tearing
the dress, and tossed them into the air. "Count on it."

Royce vaulted to her feet and marched to the door, seeing the
matron through the small window. She knocked, but the guard ignored her. Then
she pounded on the door, but the guard didn't look up from the comic book in
her lap. Beating on the door with both fists, she screamed, "Let me out."

Finally, the guard inched open the door, looking every bit as
hostilely at Royce as the women inside. Pointing to the blond Royce said,
"That woman's bothering me."

"Settle down, Maisie. I don't want no trouble tonight."

The guard's placating tone told Royce even the guards were afraid
of the woman called Maisie. The door slammed shut before Royce could say
another word. She turned, her feet aching in her high heels, and forced herself
to look directly at Maisie, instinctively knowing not to show her fear.

"I'll be waiting for you... inside," Maisie promised.

Royce went to the corner and stood with her back against the wall,
her eyes trained on the door, waiting for the matron to call her so she could
be formally booked and put into her own cell. But like the wheels of justice it
fed, the booking system was so overworked that it had almost collapsed under
its own weight. Women poured into the room, but few were taken out.

The women on the benches shifted, making room for new arrivals. An
outsider. Royce was as unwanted here as she'd been at the Farenholts'. She had
no illusions about what would happen to her if she were convicted.

Time passed. One hour. Two. She lost track, standing alone, her
back braced against the cold wall. Her mind, though, was alert, processing the
evening's events. Who? Why? Eleanor Farenholt was the only explanation that
made sense.

Brent. It hurt so much to think of him, but she couldn't help
wondering where he was and what he was doing. Surely, by now he'd realized she
hadn't taken those earrings.

She thought of all the good times they'd had together. Long walks
in San Franciso's misty fog. Candlelit dinners. Discussions about current
events. He'd claimed to love her, but where was he now when she needed him?

"Royce Anne Winston," barked the matron, startling her.

She followed the woman to the processing bay, where her fingertips
were pressed against a laser light and a photographer took two shots, full face
and profile. The photo gave her a semiembalmed appearance that would have made
the Pope look like a serial killer. They confiscated her beaded gown and issued
her a Day-Glo orange jumpsuit with the word 'prisoner' stenciled on the back.

Remembering Val's warning she refused to speak with the detectives.
Did she want to call a lawyer? She nodded, then dialed her uncle's number. It
was almost dawn but he didn't answer. She whispered a frantic message to his
machine. The only criminal attorney she knew was Mitch. Uncle Wally, though,
had spent years covering the city. He'd know who to call.

The rubber slippers she'd been issued flopped against the concrete
floor as she was herded down a narrow corridor flanked by cells full of women.
The cellblock was more crowded than the holding room; two extra bunks had been
shoehorned into cubicles originally designed to hold four. It could have been
day or night; in the windowless cavern it was impossible to tell, because they
never turned out the lights.

They stopped at a cell with an unoccupied lower bunk. Inside the
women were lying down, trying to sleep despite the undertone of noise and
blaring overhead lights. The matron nudged Royce forward, then slammed the
iron-barred door behind her.

All Royce could think about was sleeping until Uncle Wally arrived
with an attorney. She angled her body sideways and edged toward the empty bunk.

"Well, if it ain't the rich bitch."

God, no, not Maisie. The beefy blond swung down from the top bunk,
blocking Royce's path. She mumbled a quick Ave Maria.

"No room for you, rich bitch. You'll have to stand."

"That's my bunk." Royce tried to sound tough, but fear
was gathering force inside her like a hurricane.

"Fuck you." Maisie hunkered over Royce, an emotion too
intense to be merely hate set on each coarse feature.

"Guard," Royce yelled. "This woman won't let me in
my bunk."

"Quiet. Aaah, shut up," echoed up and down the
cell-block.

The two guards huddled around the TV at the far end of the
corridor never turned around. Royce had another even more frightening glimpse
of what her life would be like if she were convicted.

Forty-eight hours, she thought, gripping the cold steel bars with
both hands. The authorities had that much time to formally charge her, then she
could post bail and prove her innocence before the preliminary hearing.

The preliminary hearing. How well she remembered her father's
hearing. He'd been innocent and yet a fast-talking attorney—Mitchell Durant—had
convinced the judge to order a trial. Papa had been terrified of jail. Now she
under- stood his fear, but feeling sorry for herself wouldn't help her.

She turned and faced the snickering Maisie. Royce barreled into
her, sledging her thick belly with a punch that carried all her weight. Maisie
staggered backward, more surprised than hurt, and Royce scrambled into the bunk,
hoping Maisie would leave her alone.

Maisie puffed for a second, then sprang at Royce, hurling herself
onto the bunk, landing on Royce like a steel piling. Air whooshed from Royce's
lungs and the mattress bowed, threatening to collapse.

Maisie breathed into Royce's face, hot breath rife with a stale
pickle odor. She touched Royce's hair, stoking it almost like a lover.
"You've had it, rich bitch," she said in a stage whisper designed to
carry up and down the cellblock. "You're dead."

Royce started to scream, but Maisie's hand latched over her mouth.
Intellectually, Royce knew Maisie didn't hate her. This wasn't personal. Royce
was a symbol, a woman who had everything while Maisie had nothing. But this
subtle realization did nothing to bank the primal fear surging through her.

"Easy, Maisie," a calm voice came from the aisle between
bunks. Strong hands, crowned by a chipped set of false nails, hauled Maisie off
Royce, and she looked up at a woman with beet-colored hair and brown eyes ringed
with liner like Cleopatra's.

"Thanks," Royce muttered, still trying to get her
breath.

"I'm Helen Sykes." The woman plopped down beside Royce.
"What brings you to the gray-bar Hilton?"

"Theft. But I didn't do it."

"Mitch Durant's the best mouthpiece—if you can afford
him."

Royce told herself there had to be another lawyer as good as
Mitch. He was the last person she'd call.

"How'd you get caught?" Helen asked, resting back on her
elbows to keep her head from hitting the bunk above them.

"I was framed," Royce insisted, lowering her voice,
conscious of the other prisoners listening. Why should any of them know her
problems? None of them had come to her rescue. She found herself telling Helen
the whole story, concluding with "Would I have opened my purse in front of
everyone if I had actually stolen the earrings?"

The clock over the guard's station read seven-thirty when a matron
came for Helen. "About time. I got the most worthless pimp in Frisco. I
shoulda been outta here hours ago." She gave Royce an affectionate thump
on the back and was gone.

Where was Uncle Wally? She'd been in jail for over ten hours. Why
hadn't he come? Maybe he'd spent the night with Shaun, but he always went to
Sunday Mass. Surely, he'd come home afterward and check his machine.

By noon the sense of alarm she felt when Wally hadn't appeared
among the legions of relatives visiting other prisoners became full-blown
terror magnified by lack of sleep and a growing awareness that she could spend
years behind bars.

Why hadn't Brent come to his senses and realized she was innocent?
She recalled the anger in his voice:
How could you, Royce?