Текст книги "Joe Victim"

Автор книги: Paul Cleave

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Chapter Forty

The outer shell of the building is complete. Inside are offices in various stages of completion. The complex won’t reach the finish line until hard economic times become good economic times. Nobody knows when that will be. Opposite the building are the Christchurch Criminal Courts that, until recently, were also under construction. Hard times or good times—it doesn’t matter where the economy is at when it comes to prosecuting crime. The old courts are a few blocks away, but Christchurch was a growing city with bigger problems, and it needed bigger courts to reflect that and to feed bad people into the prison population at a faster rate.

The offices on the third floor of the complex where Melissa and Raphael are standing range from fairly complete to hardly started. The one they’ve chosen is mostly complete. All the walls are in place and there are light fittings and power fittings and no exposed wires. There are some tins of paint resting against a wall, some cleaning supplies, some loose tools, a couple of sawhorses, and a plank of wood that doubles as scaffolding. There’s a whole lot of dust. Things have been sanded down, but nobody cleaned up. Everything looks settled, like it’s been that way for some time and there’s no reason to think that’ll change.

Six months ago she killed a security guard who worked the building two blocks away, the one that overlooked the front of the courts that she was originally going to use. In an unfortunate twist of fate—at least for the guard—she wasn’t trying to kill him. Just pickpocket his keys. He caught her doing it. She had no choice. She thought back then that that building was going to be part of the plan. She thought they’d be taking a shot from the roof. This building is easier. She didn’t need to kill anybody. All she needed on Thursday when she picked this building was a minute with the lock of the entrance around the back. A child with a toothpick could have picked that thing. Once she opened the door, she used a screwdriver to remove the lock on the inside, leaving it so the door couldn’t latch closed. She had to. If she locked up, then re-picked the lock in front of Raphael, she thought at the time that he’d ask too many questions. It’s a miracle the offices in here aren’t all like two-star hotel rooms for the homeless. She’s surprised anything nailed down hasn’t been stolen and sold.

Raphael opens up the case. He starts to assemble the gun. She could tell he loved shooting it. He loved being the man. All she could do was hit dirt. Or that’s what she showed him. It cemented the dynamic in their relationship. He was the shooter. She wasn’t the shooter. She was the collector. He wasn’t the collector. It was a shooting and collecting relationship, hence it’s a two-person plan. Nothing wrong with that.

Raphael doesn’t put the scope on the gun. Instead he stands in front of the windows holding the scope in both hands. He’s wearing a pair of latex gloves. They both are. There’s no reason to leave their fingerprints everywhere. The police uniform is still in the bag.

“I can see everything,” he says.

“What about the courthouse? How does it look?” she asks, but she knows how it looks. She’s been here already. The office has a direct line of sight into the back entrance of the courthouse. A nice, clear view of the parking lot and the courthouse doors and the ten-yard strip of concrete between the parking lot and those doors. A lot can happen in a ten-yard strip of land. There are going to be thousands of people out in the street, but within the parking lot there’s only going to be a couple of cops and Joe. Shouldn’t be a problem. Crowd won’t be in the way. All Raphael has to do is stay calm. Six months ago the view from the other building she chose was very different. Six months ago it looked like a mess from any angle. Cranes. Bulldozers. Work crews.

“Everything is so clear,” he says.

“May I?”

He hands her the scope. It has higher-quality optics than the binoculars. She looks at the courthouse, then up and down the street where there is going to be lots of traffic. The courthouse is a single story. The elevated view from the third floor of the office complex means she can see over the top of the courthouse and further into town. The courthouse takes up an entire block, with the back entrance right in the middle. She can see roads leading in all directions, two main roads running parallel up and down the city—one road passing by the courts on the left, the other on the right. So many protesters will be here on Monday that some of these roads will be closed off. It’s going to be perfect. Right now the roads are almost empty. Saturday evening in the middle of winter in a part of town where there are office buildings and a courthouse and nowhere serving beer—why would there be people down there?

“Here,” she says, and hands the scope back to him.

He lies down and holds the scope. A nice elevation. Simple to look down on the parking lot without anything in the way. Not too high that they have to worry about wind swirling between the buildings. And not too high that they won’t be able to escape quickly.

Biggest thing they have to worry about is weather. They don’t need great weather, but bad weather won’t work. It can’t be pouring heavy with rain. Can’t be gusts of wind. Problem with Christchurch weather is the way you forecast it is the same way you forecast who’s going to win a horse race. You go with the favorite, but everything has a chance.

“I won’t be able to lie down,” he says. “It’d mean shooting through the window. Windows open waist high and above.”

She looks at her watch. It’s ten minutes from six o’clock. The transport is arriving at the back entrance of the court at six o’clock on the dot. She knows that because it was in the itinerary she stole from Schroder. She also knows the solution to Raphael’s problem. She’d figured that out when she came here on Thursday.

“Help me with this,” she says, and she moves over to the paints where a large, canvas drop cloth has been folded up into a neat square foot. They unfold it and carry it over to the window.

“What’s the deal with this?”

“We hang it up,” she says, and reaches into her bag for some duct tape.

Raphael seems to figure it out and together they start stripping off lengths of tape and a few minutes later they have a curtain that shields them from the street. The room, dark to begin with, now becomes pitch-black, and she uses a flashlight function on her cell phone to shed some light. She takes a knife and cuts a square of drop cloth away from in front of one of the opening windows, leaving a hole not much bigger than her head.

“I shoot through this?” Raphael asks.

“And you’ll be lying down too,” she says. “From out on the street nobody is going to see a thing.”

“Lying down on what?” he asks, and she turns toward the sawhorses and the plank of wood and he doesn’t have to ask anything else.

They drag the makeshift platform into place. He lies down on it and shuffles himself into position so he can see out through the drop cloth.

“Try it out,” she says, and she attaches the scope to the gun and hands it over.

He shuffles himself a little further up the planks. He puts the scope against his eye. Tightens the gun into his shoulder.

“It’s good,” he says.

“So you’ll be able to pull off the shot?”

He smiles up at her. “With the window open, yeah.”

“Just don’t open it when you’re in the uniform,” she says. “You open it before that.”

“I know,” he says.

She looks at her watch. “It’s almost time,” she says.

Raphael stays in position. Melissa moves to the edge of their makeshift curtain and kills the light on her phone before pulling the curtain aside. Street lights, building lights, tungsten and neon burning from every direction in the city, more than enough to see clearly. They don’t make any further conversation. They just wait in silence. Somewhere in an adjoining office, or perhaps even the one below or above, an air-conditioning unit kicks into action, the low hum creating a background noise that makes the office complex feel less like a building in a ghost town. But not a lot less.

Right on time a series of headlights comes from the south. Three police cars leading a van, three police cars following it. They’re driving slowly. None of the lights are flashing. They disappear from view, as the angle of the courthouse gets in the way as the cars get close to it, but she knows they’re turning toward the front of the building.

On Monday their progress will be made slower by the traffic and by the crowds of people.

They’re the decoy.

At the same time a van comes into view from the parallel street. It disappears from view as the courthouse blocks them, but then comes back into view as it comes around the back. It turns into the street between the office building and the back entrance. There’s a chain-link fence stretching the perimeter of the court’s parking lot. Somebody inside the compound pushes a button and part of the fence rolls open. The van drives in. The fence rolls closed.

The van parks up close to the door. The back of the van is facing the office window. Its doors swing open.

“I can see all of it,” Raphael says.

“Focus,” she says. “Don’t miss the shot.”

She can see it all too, but not in any great detail. Two men dressed in black step out of the back of the van. Then out shuffles a man in orange. She can’t see the chains, but can tell by the way he’s moving he must be wearing them around his ankles as well as his wrists. He steps down. People are pointing weapons at him. For two seconds nobody moves.

A lot can happen in two seconds.

The prisoner starts his thirty-foot walk.

“Do you have the shot?”

“I have it,” Raphael says.

“How clear is it?”

“Clear enough.”

The thirty feet get eaten up. The group stands around the back door.

“May I?” she asks, and she turns toward Raphael, but can’t see him. She puts out a hand and takes a step toward him. The only light in the office is what’s coming through the hole in the curtain. She feels nothing at first, then touches the side of the gun that’s being held toward her. She grabs it and moves back into position. She looks at the four cops and the man in orange. Almost like a painted target. The man in orange is a police officer. She’s seen him before. On TV or in real life she can’t remember, and it doesn’t rightly matter. Tonight he’s playing the part of Joe. This small field trip’s a rehearsal for Monday morning’s big event.

Also a rehearsal for Raphael and her too.

The cops are chatting with a security guard at the entrance. One of them throws back his head and laughs and the others are grinning at him.

“Can’t miss,” Raphael says.

“There are going to be a lot of people down there,” she says. “People will figure out the police may use the back entrance. The police may panic and have a couple of cars escort it. But no matter how many there are, there’s still only going to be one van. One Joe. And he’ll be covering the same ground his stand-in just covered.”

Raphael gets onto his feet. He picks up the gun case and sits it on the plank he was lying on a moment earlier. Melissa uses duct tape to put the hole she cut in the curtain back into place. Then she switches her cell-phone light back on. Raphael starts taking apart the gun and putting it away. The magazine is empty. There is a mostly empty packet of bullets in the gun case—it’s the last of their supply. There are only two bullets left inside it. Plus the bullet she had to order especially. That one she hands to Raphael.

“This one goes at the top of the magazine,” she says.

He hefts it in his hand, checking the weight, as if it would make a difference.

“This is the armor-piercing bullet?” he asks.

“Don’t miss with it. It’s our only one.”

“I won’t,” he says.

He puts the round into the case, jamming it downward into the foam to separate it from everything else.

“Try not to use the other two rounds,” she says. “The longer you stay up here, the higher chance of getting caught. We need this done in one round. More rounds also means more people being put at risk.”

“It’ll get done in one.”

Melissa climbs up onto the platform and gets to her feet.

“What are you doing?” Raphael asks.

She reaches up and pushes a ceiling panel aside.

“Safer for us if the gun stays here,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think it’ll look good on Monday morning if you have to carry it in here. We hide it up here, you use it, then you put it back up there. The police are going to figure out where the shot came from, but there’s no reason for them to think the gun will still be here. And even if they do somehow get lucky, it’s going to be clean.”

“Makes sense,” he says. “Here, let me get it.”

They swap positions. He reaches up and puts the case into the ceiling. She hands him the bag with his police uniform in it. “We keep this here too,” she says.

He slides the panel back into place then climbs down.

“So you won’t be back here,” he says.

She shakes her head. “No reason to,” she says, because she’s going to be down among all the action, among the cops and the protesters, right in the middle of the tension and the chanting and the screamed insults. Raphael is the shooter. She is the collector. No reason to pretend any different.

“We’re not going to practice anymore?”

She shakes her head. She tucks aside the curtain and looks out the window at the van as it starts to pull away. The only difference in the layout between now and Monday is there will be an ambulance there too. There’ll be a few of them scattered around the streets near the courthouse.

There’ll need to be because the protesting is a powder keg ready to explode.

That’s why she got her hand on a paramedic’s uniform months ago. After all, she’s the one who’s playing the collector.

Chapter Forty-One

The prison comes up on the left. We turn off. Having the windows down in the van has helped, but only marginally. Being cold was a sacrifice everybody seemed prepared to make, only the damp air that flooded in seemed to soak up the smell and then cause it to stick to every surface like a thin film of condensation. We pass the barrier gates and go to the same entrance I was taken out of earlier. The warden is there to greet me. He looks at me with disgust. Everybody does. Just because I’m used to that look doesn’t mean I like it. In a fair and just world, I wouldn’t be in chains and these people would all be drawing short straws.

“Get him cleaned up,” the warden says to nobody in particular, and nobody in particular takes any notice because I end up standing there with people who don’t want to look at me. I’m standing on a slight angle because of my missing shoe. The warden seems the most annoyed out of everybody, and if he’d joined our trip and been part of the vote I’m sure I’d still be out there now, surrounded by spotlights and crime-scene tape. There is more paperwork. I stand there watching it get filled out and signed. Then the same four guards that escorted me out earlier escort me back in. They don’t look pleased with the job. They don’t want to touch me. I’m tossed the key for the cuffs and told to undo them myself then step away from the chain. I’m told to take my remaining shoe off first because it’s muddy, and the opposite sock too. The concrete floor is cold. The pressure in my stomach has built back up. I’m taken directly to the showers. I’m given sixty seconds to clean myself up. I make use of every one of them. I don’t think I’ve ever had a shower feel so good. When the water is shut off I’m thrown a towel and a fresh jumpsuit and socks and given another minute to get dressed. Then I’m taken back to my cellblock. There are others sitting around playing cards and watching TV and making idle chitchat, the kind of idle five-or-ten-or-twenty-year-passing chitchat that gets repetitive after day one. I don’t partake in it, instead I head into my cell and I climb onto the toilet and I spend ten minutes feeling about as sorry as a guy can for himself, the toilet no doubt feeling even sorrier.

I keep waiting to feel better. I don’t.

I try to figure out what happened with Melissa. I can’t.

I should have been free by now. I’m not.

Optimistic Joe is struggling to live up to his name.

I’m off the toilet for barely a minute before the guards come in and lead us all away for dinner. I still have no shoes. There are no new people in our group. Nobody has left. It’s the same mystery meat. Caleb Cole is sitting a few tables away. He’s sitting by himself. Seeing him, my face starts to hurt. I look at the food and can’t touch any of it.

“Looking forward to Monday?” Santa Suit Kenny asks me. He sits down on my left and starts in on the meat that could have easily started out the day as somebody’s pet. Or as somebody.

I think about his question. I’m not sure. In some ways no, because there could be a travesty of justice and I’m found guilty. In other ways yes, because it’ll be different from the rest of this bullshit. It gives me a chance to clear my name.

I sum all of this up by shrugging.

“Yeah, I know what you’re saying,” he says, which really goes to prove I should sum more things up by shrugging. I’ll remember that for when I’m on the stand. Mr. Middleton, did you kill those women? You’re shrugging? I see . . . well, I think we all understand now.

“Trials are tough,” Santa Kenny says. “People don’t see the real you. They judge on the potential of bad things you can do just because of the bad things they think you’ve done, and that potential grows with every cop show and serial-killer movie they’ve seen. To them, we’re all Hannibal Lecter, but without the class.”

I don’t bother pointing out that to them Kenny is just a child rapist in a Santa Claus suit, and no amount of cop movies or Christmas movies is going to alter that.

“It’s totally unfair,” he adds.

I push my tray aside. At this stage any food entering my body would trigger a violent reaction. Santa Kenny stuffs in his mouth some mashed potatoes that, like the meat, probably started the day as something completely different. He chews quickly and swallows it with an audible gulp, then starts up the conversation again. No matter what anybody hears, prison can be full of really friendly folk.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, “of what I should do with my life if the band doesn’t want to get back together.”

For the first time I answer him. “It seems being an inmate is something you’re good at,” I tell him. “And you’re experienced at it.”

“I’ve always wanted to be an author.”

I can’t contain my surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah. A crime writer,” he says. “You read romance books right? Well, people love crime books more than romance books,” he says.

I have the urge to tell him to fuck off.

“I think I’d try and combine the two,” Santa Kenny says.

“Yeah? How’s that going to work out?”

“I don’t know, that’s the thing. I just need one really good idea.”

“You probably need lots of really good ideas,” I tell him, but I’m not looking at him, but over his shoulder at Caleb Cole a few tables away. Cole is looking at me too. He looks angry. If I were a betting man I’d bet that after dinner and before we’re put back into our cell, he’s going to come for me. My heart starts racing at the thought and my stomach starts to rumble, but not the hunger rumble—the rumble of things getting ready to let go. “Especially if you want to write more than one novel.”

He starts nodding. “Yeah, that’s true. Completely true,” he says, almost as though he hadn’t thought of this. “Between you and me,” he says, but he doesn’t lower his voice so it’s between him and me and the guy to my left and the guy to his right, and the few guys sitting opposite us too, “I’ve tried a few times, you know. Back before I was arrested. I’d sit at the kitchen table with a computer and try to come up with something, but it never happened. I thought it’d be like writing lyrics, you know? But it’s not.”

“You need to write what you know,” I tell him, which is something authors always tend to go on about.

“Yeah, I’ve read that before,” he says. “And it makes sense. I need to write what I know,” he says, his voice trailing off.

“The problem is I don’t think people want to read books on how to molest children.”

He frowns at me and tries to figure out if I’m joking or being mean or being helpful, and comes to the right conclusion. “You really can be an asshole, Joe,” he says, then picks up his tray and walks off.

When dinner is over I ask one of the guards who isn’t Adam or Glen if I can use the phone. He’s a big guy made up of as much muscle as fast food, the kind of guy who looks like he could knock your head off in a single blow, but would double over after it from the exertion.

“This isn’t a vacation you’re on,” the guard says. He’s one of the night-shift guards. He starts at six o’clock and escorts us to and from dinner or showers then sits in a cubicle watching TV for seven hours while we’re all stuck in our cells. I think his name is something like Satan, but not Satan—Stan or Simon.

“I have a right to use the phone,” I tell him. “It’s important and my trial starts in two days.”

“You don’t have any rights in here,” he says, but at least he doesn’t laugh.

“A hundred dollars,” I tell him.

His eyes narrow as he stares down at me from the few inches of extra height he has. “What?”

I figure I have money to spare. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars.”

“Hand it over.”

“I don’t have it, but my lawyer can bring it in tomorrow.”

“Two hundred,” he tells me.

“Deal,” I tell him.

“If there’s no cash tomorrow your day around here is going to become a little more difficult,” he says. “Don’t fuck with me.”

I think about how bad today was, and the sad thing is that he’s right—it could have been worse. It’s like what Santa Kenny said—it’s all about the potential. The guard leads me down to the phone. He leans against the same patch of wall that Adam leaned against earlier, but he doesn’t keep making the same threats.

“Two calls,” I tell him.

“Just make it quick.”

First call is to my lawyer. It’s getting late and it’s a Saturday, but I have his cell number. He picks it up after a few rings. I can hear conversation and music in the background.

“It’s Joe,” I tell him.

“I know,” he says, and I figure he probably has the prison phone in his caller ID. I figure I’m lucky he even answered. Could be the ball is still falling when it comes to my luck—after all, I wasn’t shot this afternoon. From here on out I’m going to be living the good life.

“Did the deal go ahead?”

“You’ve held up your end of the bargain,” he says. “Of course it’s going ahead. Once the body is identified the money will be transferred into your mother’s account. I have the details. Your mother is . . . well, she’s quite something,” he says, which on one hand is exceptionally accurate, but on the other hand doesn’t sum her up in the least.

“How long until they identify the body?” I ask him.

“You’ve got a break,” he says. “Five years ago Calhoun was chasing a rapist in his car,” he says, and I wonder if that’s the way most rapists get caught. “There was an accident. So now Calhoun has a metal pin in his leg. Pin has a serial number on it. So if the body you led them to has that same pin, then the money will be cleared. Jones is going to have a vision in the morning. It’s too late tonight and too dark and he wants a buildup. Autopsy will take place tomorrow afternoon. Funds will be transferred tomorrow night. Monday morning your mother will have them.”

“What time are you coming in tomorrow?”

“It’s my day off tomorrow,” he says. “It’s Sunday.”

“But we need to talk about the trial. It’s our last day,” I say, more desperate now since Melissa hasn’t set me free, so maybe the luck ball isn’t falling that much at all.

“Well, we’ll see what happens. If I can make it I’ll make it.”

“And I need you to spot me two hundred dollars,” I tell him.

“Good night, Joe,” he says, and hangs up.

The prison guard is still leaning against the wall. He’s playing a game on his cell phone. I make the second of my two calls listening to the theme music and then to the explosions coming from the guard’s direction. My mother answers after the first ring, as if she were expecting the call.

“Hello, Mom. It’s me.”

“Joe?” she asks, as if it could have been one of any amount of people ringing and calling her mom.

“It’s me,” I tell her.

“Why are you calling? It’s Saturday night. Date night. We’re about to head out for dinner.”

“I wanted to—”

“You can’t come along, Joe. It’s date night. Why would you try to ruin date night?” she asks, sounding annoyed, and I can picture her on the end of the phone frowning at the wall. “It’s our last one before the wedding.”

“I’m not calling about date night,” I tell her.

“Why? You’re too embarrassed to be seen with your mother on a Saturday night?”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?” she asks, no doubt the frown now being joined by, rather than replaced by, a look of confusion.

“I’m calling about something else.”

“About the wedding?”

“No. Remember how I called you last night?”

“Yes. Of course. You called about your girlfriend,” she says. “I’m so glad you have a good woman in your life, Joe. Every man deserves a good woman,” she says, sounding happy again. “Do you think you’ll get married? Is that why you’re calling? Oh my, I’m so excited for you! Perhaps we can have weddings on the same day! Just think about it. It’s so fantastic isn’t it? Oh, oh, how about if Walt is your best man? By golly, that’s a great thought!”

“I’m not so sure that’s going to happen, Mom.”

“Because you’re embarrassed to be seen with me. You know, Joe, I didn’t raise you to be this way.”

We’re getting off track—but of course my mom has been off track for at least thirty years. “Mom, did you call her?”

“What?”

“Did you call my girlfriend? Did you tell her that I’d gotten the message?”

“What message?”

“Did you call her?”

“Yes, of course I called her. That’s what you asked me to do. She didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“The message,” I tell her, “the message in the books.”

“What books?”

“The books you brought in for me. The books she gave you to give me.”

“Oh, oh those books,” she says, and I hope the force of everything flooding back to her knocks her over. That way she’ll break a hip and the wedding will have to be postponed. “Did you enjoy them?” she asks. “I thought they were okay. Not as good as TV, but nothing ever is. I can’t count how many times I’ve read a book after seeing the movie on telly and been so disappointed. I just wish authors could get it right. Don’t you think so, Joe?”

I don’t answer her. I can’t spare the energy, because I’m using all of my strength to have an out-of-body experience. I’m trying to figure a way to reach my arm down the phone line and put my fingers around her throat.

“Joe? Are you still there?” she asks, and then she taps the phone against her hand—I can hear it banging once and twice, then a third time, and then it’s back and her lips are against it and I’m still trying to reach her with my hand. “Joe?”

“You read them?” I ask.

“Of course I did.”

“But you’re a slow reader.”

“So?”

I face the concrete wall. I wonder how far I could bury my forehead into it. “So when exactly did my girlfriend give them to you to give to me?”

“When?” she asks, then she goes quiet as she’s figuring it out. I can picture my mom standing in the kitchen on the phone, dishes behind her, cold meat loaf on the counter, using her fingers to count off the days. “Well, it wasn’t last month,” she says.

“So it was this month.”

“Oh Lord no. No, it was, now let me see . . . it was before Christmas, no, no, wait—it was after. Yes, I think it was after. Probably around four months ago, I suppose.”

I tighten my grip on the receiver. The other hand curls into a ball. I can’t hear my mom choking. “Four months?”

“Maybe five.”

I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the wall. It’s painted-over cinder block, so it’s cold and smooth and easy to wipe blood off.

“Five months,” I say, and somehow my voice stays level.

“No more than six,” she says.

“No more,” I say. “Mom. Listen to me. Very carefully. Now, why the fuck didn’t you bring those books to me straightaway?”

“Joe! How dare you speak to me like that! After all I’ve done for you? After raising you, looking after you, after squeezing you out of my vagina!” she shouts.

And sixteen years later I was being squeezed into my auntie’s one. I figure between them both they owe me some Goddamn consideration.

“Six months!” I shout, and I don’t even make the decision to do it, it just starts happening, my hand starts crashing the receiver against the wall. “Six months!” I scream back into it, only it’s just shattered plastic holding a string of wires and components. I smash it against the wall again. All I have now is a disconnect signal and a blossoming headache. I don’t get to speak into it again because then I’m being tackled. I’m on the ground and my arms are being pulled behind me. I’m being shouted at to stay calm. I shout six months again, and then the guard puts his knee in my back and I’m punched really hard in the kidneys, so hard that I almost throw up.

He rolls me onto my back. He’s been joined by a second guard.

“Let’s go,” he says.

They drag me to my feet. It’s Saturday night. Date night. I’m not taken back to my cell. Instead I’m taken in a different direction, through two more sets of doors that are buzzed open from a control booth somewhere. We’re watched by cameras in the ceilings. I haven’t been in this direction before, but I’m pretty sure I know where it heads. It’s solitary confinement—and my first thought is it has to be better than what I’ve had so far, then my second thought is that this has actually worked out pretty well. Not the part where my mother fucked up, but the part where I fucked up and broke the phone. I’m going to be safe here. Caleb Cole can’t get me here.

The cells are wider apart. All the doors are closed and there’s no sound coming from within any of them. There is no communal area. Everything is darker. Even the cinder-block walls seem to be a different shade of gray. The two guards march me to the end of a corridor and then we wait as a cell door is buzzed open. None of us make conversation along the way. A piece of my soul is still back at the phone, trying to figure out a way to get to my mother. The second guard disappears.