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?
"How could I," she muttered to herself. "How could
you desert me? That's the question."
Brent's "undying love" was merely an illusion. She had
to accept the fact
"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?
"How could I," she muttered to herself. "How could
you desert me? That's the question."
Brent's "undying love" was merely an illusion. She had
to accept the fact
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