Takeover (6 page)

I’m not entirely sure what Nicolette’s response is, because I’m already halfway back to sleep. I can only assume that it’s some usage of the word “bitch.”

When I finally wake up for good, the small amount of sunlight creeping through what I guess is still called a window has grown, giving the inside of the cell the appearance of heat.

“Look who finally decided to wake up,” Nicolette says. “You missed your breakfast. That sort of thing’s going to get you in trouble, ya know?”

“Why’s that?” I ask, shaking my head as if it’ll make my body less tense about being here. I’m pretty sure this is the same conversation that she was trying to have with me earlier, but I was too tired then to care.

“Guards think you’re not eatin’, they gonna start thinkin’ you got a disorder or somethin’.”

“Yeah,” I say, taking a moment to admire myself for being able to sleep in “the canoe.”

“You got some mail,” Sam adds.

“Thanks,” I say, looking around for it. “Where is it?”

“It’s on the sink, yo,” Sam says and lies back down on her bunk.

I take a minute to stretch before I get out of “bed,” feeling every muscle that I’ve never been aware of before screaming at me in pain. When I finally hobble to my feet, I become livid at what I see.

“You read my mail?” I shout.

“Keep it down,” Sam says, not looking at me.

Then Nicolette explains. “Wasn’t us. Guards go through everybody’s shit before they hand it over. Wouldn’t want someone to send you some coke or a shiv, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head at the obviousness of it. The return address is removed, and the top part of the envelope is slit open. I take it and sit back down. What I’d really love to do is pee, and I know that at some point, my modesty will be outweighed by the sheer force of my body’s needs, but I’m not quite there yet.

“Oh,” Nicolette says, as if reading my mind, “if you’re going to drop a deuce, do us all a favor and flush every time somethin’ comes out.”

“Yeah, like you did first day you was in here?” Sam asks, jokingly. “That shit stank up the room for a month.”

“You’ve been in here a month?” I ask.

“She’s just dramatic,” Nicolette answers. “I think it’s a Latina thing, but Sam down there disagrees. Nobody’s kept on lockdown for a month, ‘less they in solitary. My first day in here, I thought I’d be clever and do my thing after everyone else was asleep. You know, I didn’t want to go in front of two other girls who couldn’t not watch me while I was goin’, you know? ‘Bout a minute into it though, they woke up, and they chewed my ass. We got a ventilation problem in here, so you shit, you flush like five, six times before you done, all right?”

“All right,” I say, starting to lose the battle between me and my bladder. What a lovely world I’ve been dropped into. I wonder if one of the reasons for prison violence has something to do with having to be around other people while you’re doing your business. I haven’t even done it yet, and the thought is making me a little cranky.

I finally give in and drop my pants, my skin cold against the stainless steel bog as I pull the letter from the opened envelope. It’s from James. It reads:

Rose,

I can’t even imagine what you’re going through right now, but I hope you’re holding up. I still don’t know why you didn’t tell me what kind of man your boss was, but I hope you know that I forgive you and I love you.

I don’t know why this happened, but I know that you couldn’t have had anything to do with it. Andrew and Jillian came over last night to talk to me about what I knew, but I guess I didn’t know nearly as much as I thought I did. They seemed pretty disappointed.

I’ve been trying to decide whether I should tell you this or not, but your mug shot was on the news last night. Nobody’s been by the house though. For the record, how is it that even in a mug shot you’re beautiful?

Please don’t worry, we’re going to get you out of there soon, and you’ll have a warm place to come home to when all of this is straightened out. It’s funny, I haven’t even had dinner yet, and I’m writing to you in prison. Is it prison, or is it jail? I guess it’s not important. Jillian said that she’d make sure you got this by tomorrow.

Just hang in there. I love you.

James

A smile starts to form on my face, but quickly retreats as Sam asks, “You get to that part ‘bout him sayin’ you got a
warm
place to go back to?”

“You idiot,” Nicolette says. “Now she knows we read it.”

Sam’s continues undaunted, “You know what that means...” She makes a dry-humping motion and mimics the sound of a creaky bed. I don’t know why, but I’m actually not as mortified as I probably should be.

“I’m a—” I start to respond with
I’m a virgin
, but I think better of it, so I finish the phrase with, “aware. I’m aware, Sam.”

A loud buzzing sound comes inside the cell, and a woman’s voice is saying, “Pearson, you’ve got court. Get your shit together.”

“Court?” I ask, but the woman on the intercom has already moved on to her next item of business. “There’s court today?”

“It’s a weekday, boo,” Sam says. “You must got you a damn good lawyer.”

“I do,” I say. “What does she mean get my stuff together? I don’t have any
stuff
to take with me.”

Nicolette shrugs. “Probably means she wants you to make sure that you brush your teeth and comb your hair, you know, wouldn’t want to go to court looking like a criminal, otherwise people start getting ideas.”

“Yeah,” I say as I wipe, flush, pull up what I’m choosing to call pants and walk over to the “mirror.”

Apart from the fact that I’m still blushing from having to use the bathroom in front of two people, I suppose I’ve looked worse. This red and white striped thing that they’ve got me in isn’t exactly flattering, though. Not much I can do about that now. I brush my teeth, run my fingers through my hair—because apparently combs and brushes are frequently used as weapons in here—and I just sit here, waiting for something to happen.

My Day in Court

––––––––

J
illian meets me in the holding area outside of the courtroom and explains what’s going to happen.

“Okay,” she says, “this is just arraignment, but this can be a good thing for you. You have no priors, no indication of a past history of violence...” she looks over some notes, and I can’t help but wonder where she got the information. I guess that’s what I’m paying her for. “Do you have a passport?”

“No,” I say. “I’ve barely left the state in my life.”

“Good,” she says, “that’s good. Do you have any money stashed away?”

“Why?”

“Well, I’ve already done a check on your financials and they’re not stellar,” she says, biting the end of her pencil. Apparently she’s allowed to smoke in the interrogation room, but not in the courthouse.

“Why did you—”

“If you have any money set aside that they’ve found out about, it could really hurt your chance of getting bail. Now, any rainy-day funds, anything I should know about going in there?”

“No,” I say. “I mean, James has a windfall from his parents’ death, but I think that’s all tied up in CDs or something.”

“There’s no windfall,” Jillian says as if it’s an utterly inconsequential statement.

“He’s kind of loaded,” I say, not sure what I’m trying to talk my lawyer/sister-in-law into or out of. “They left him everything in their wills and their life insurance went to him. He’s an only child, no other family.”

“It looks like he has about a thousand in his savings account. Other than that, your man is flat broke.”

“That doesn’t make any sense—”

“Rose,” she says. “It’s good news. It shows that you’re not a flight risk.”

“But he wouldn’t—”

“Do you have a juvenile record? Anything that may be sealed?”

“Shouldn’t you know this stuff already?”

“I do,” she says. “I just need to see how you answer a question when asked directly.”

“No,” I say, “nothing.” I think for a moment. “Well, there was that time that I tagged a Type-O-Negative symbol behind the grocery store by my house when I was like fifteen, but nobody ever knew about that except for me and a few people that I was trying to impress.”

“What were their names?” she asks, taking the pencil out of her mouth and putting the tip to her paper in anticipation.

I think for a minute, but all I come up with is an epiphany. “I have absolutely no idea,” I say, smiling a little to myself. I tried so hard to fit in with so many people, but when it comes down to it, I don’t even remember their names. It’s only been ten years. I continue to smile and stare off into space, just reminiscing about all the hell I put myself through back then.

“Rose?” Jillian asks. “Rose?”

I look up at her. “Yeah?”

“Their names,” she says. “That sort of thing probably wouldn’t amount to much, but you never know what’s going to piss off a judge.”

I think about it a little bit harder, and it finally starts to come back to me. I tell her the names, and a female guard comes into the room.

“You’re up,” she says and, before I can even think of the kind of question that I might want to ask a bailiff, she’s turned on her heel and out of the room.

“You ready?” Jillian asks.

“Nope,” I answer.

She smiles. “When we get up there, say ‘not guilty’ when the judge asks you how you plea. Other than that, I don’t want to hear a single word out of your mouth.”

“Okay,” I say and start to get up.

“I mean it,” she says. “You have no idea how many people I’ve had get a cushy judgment turned around on them because they had something stupid to say to the judge. If you have
anything
to say during the proceedings, you whisper it into my ear, and I’ll decide whether or not it’s something that we should bring up. Otherwise, you are going to be what?”

She’s giving me the strangest look, and even though I know what I’m supposed to say, it doesn’t feel like there’s a right answer, so I just remain silent.

“That’s right,” she says. “You are going to be quiet.”

Jillian walks out there before I do. Apparently, I have to be escorted by a guard. I guess they’ve had problems with legal counsellors getting lost with the inmates they represent in the past.

When I’m finally led slowly through the doors, the shackles more than a little chafing, I’m taken aback by what’s on the other side. The courtroom is packed. I don’t know who these people are, although I can see a few of my brothers and their wives sitting with James. It’s almost like the people want me to say something, but I’m not about to go against what Jillian said.

“Order,” the judge says, pounding his gavel, and only now is this actually starting to feel real. I find my place next to Jillian and I face the judge.

The bailiff reads, “Docket ending in 5813, the people of the state of Pennsylvania against Rose Nylund Pearson.” Yes, I was named after one of The Golden Girls. “The charge is murder in the second degree.”

The judge looks at me like this is an everyday occurrence. Come to think of it, for him, it probably is. “How does the defendant plea?”

I don’t know what to say. The words are in there somewhere, but I’ve never been so intimidated in my life. Finally, Jillian nudges me, and my vocabulary comes back. “Guilty,” I say, then quickly correct myself, “
not
guilty.”

“Well, which is it?” the judge asks, hardly amused as the entire courtroom takes a deep breath at the same time, and through some unconscious choreography, holds it.

I look up at Jillian. Her eyes are beyond feral: they’re rabid.

“
Not
guilty,” I say. I’m about to explain that my throat was closing up, due to nerves, but Jillian is quick to nudge me again.

“Where are the people on bail?” the judge asks.

A man who I hadn’t seen before says, “I’m sorry Your Honor, I’m waiting to hear back from the D.A. on bail.”

“You do realize that this is arraignment, do you not, counsellor?” the judge asks, less amused than ever.

“I do, Your Honor. There may be new information regarding the case. I’m supposed to hear any minute.”

“Well,” the judge says, mockingly, “since the people seem to have their heads up each other’s asses, you have a unique opportunity here, Miss Pearson.”

It takes me a moment to realize that he’s not talking to me, but my sister-in-law. “Your Honor, the people’s case rests solely on the unreliable account of one witness who said that my client walked into the office of Mr. McDaniel after she was yelled at. There’s no causality, no motive, nobody who heard or saw my client do anything violent, illegal or even questionable, and it’s this same witness who informed my client that her boss was dead, moments before the police arrived and assaulted her and her fiancé without identifying themselves or showing a warrant when asked—”

“I may have unintentionally misled you there, counsellor. What I meant by unique opportunity was that you had the chance to speak first. I didn’t mean to imply that you had the opportunity to tell me your client’s life story, although I’m sure it’s positively heartbreaking.”

“My life is—”

I don’t know how it’s possible that everyone seems to miss the sight of Jillian’s elbow going between my third and fourth ribs, but apparently they do. “I move that the case be dismissed, due to a lack of evidence, Your Honor,” Jillian says.

“Mr. Eckhart?” the judge asks. “Do you have anything to say?”

I look over to find the prosecutor, Mr. Eckhart, talking to someone from the gallery.

“Mr. Eckhart, you are seriously trying my patience,” the judge says as the prosecutor holds up his index finger, indicating that he’ll be with the judge in a moment.

“Your Honor,” Jillian starts up again, “my client is as clean-cut as they come. She’s never been in trouble for anything in her life. To even suspect that she could—” the judge mimics the prosecutor’s gesture, interrupting my lawyer-in-law.

“Your Honor,” Mr. Eckhart says, finally. “Due to new information, and a present lack of evidence, we are dropping all charges against Miss Pearson at this time, but we do intend to refile, should more evidence come to light.”