was no answer, she went back home and called the police.
Hardy thought that sounded more like five minutes than a couple. Which meant that either the shots were fired at 9:38 or three or so minutes before then. Could such a small detail make any kind of difference? Maybe. Maybe not.
The facts were beginning their slow accretion. So were the possible interpretations.
9
Jennifer soon realized that she and the people here weren't so different. She had not expected that. They weren't so tough or scary as they'd seemed when she'd first been brought in. And they were beaten down, caged, for the most part docile. Just like her.
Not that it was a knitting bee. There was constant vulgarity, but she found that almost comforting — an acknowledgment of shared feeling, of being in this together. This was their language in their world and to hell with anybody who didn't like it.
Nobody seemed to care at all whether or not she was guilty of killing her husband. But when they heard about her son… well, it got real to them. She could tell, and she couldn't blame them. Everything, though, still seemed unreal to her.
The night before, after her older money-hungry lawyer had gone away with the nicer young one, she had cried on the top bunk of her cell for hours. At 3:00 p.m. they locked everybody back in the cells and had what they called count to make sure no one was missing. That took the better part of the hour, and then they brought the food.
By then Jennifer thought she was all cried out. Without really thinking about it, she took her tray and her plastic utensils and followed some of the other women out to the large common room, the tank. She set herself down at one of the tables under the television set.
She couldn't eat any of it — meatloaf, gravy, fake mashed potatoes, peas, three slices of bread. Larry would have thrown the plate across the room, especially with the gravy slopping over into the peas and the bread. She found herself crying again.
"You best eat up, honey. They's worse shit than this." It was a tall, almost stately black woman. "This your first time?"
Jennifer hadn't even been sure what she was talking about. First time she'd had meatloaf? First time she'd cried. She hung her head, shaking it from side to side. "I don't know, I just don't know…"
The other woman, Clara, didn't pursue it. Whatever Jennifer didn't know, it was all right with her. She sat down next to her, even asked permission, and started to eat, saying she was in — again — for thieving. "What you in for?"
Jennifer put a fork into the meat and brought it to her mouth. There was no taste, good or bad. "They think I killed my husband."
Clara nodded, unimpressed. "Shit, prob'ly deserved it, am I right? How bad he beat you up?"
"I didn't say that. He was a good man, a doctor, and I didn't kill him."
"Course you didn't." Clara went back to her plate. "Don't worry. Say he beat you, they let you go. You see. Get out of here, no problem. Things work out. Nothing to cry about."
Jennifer didn't mean it, but it came out. "I miss my son."
Clara put down her fork. "I know. I miss my baby too — Rodney just two, but he be some beauty. They don't give me more than a year, so I do five months and twenty days and Rodney stay with Else, my sister. She good to Rodney. Sometime he too much for me, so this be maybe some kind of vacation. For us both. May be that's God's plan."
Jennifer shook her head again. "My baby's gone," she said. "He's dead." She felt Clara stop eating next to her. She put a hand on Jennifer's shoulders, her black eyes liquid and soft. "Oh, child."
"They think I killed him too. It's crazy… They say he came in while Larry and I were fighting over the gun, or something like that. It's so stupid, crazy … And there's no bail."
Clara took her hand away. Her voice was hoarse and low. "I never heard of no
Hardy thought that sounded more like five minutes than a couple. Which meant that either the shots were fired at 9:38 or three or so minutes before then. Could such a small detail make any kind of difference? Maybe. Maybe not.
The facts were beginning their slow accretion. So were the possible interpretations.
9
Jennifer soon realized that she and the people here weren't so different. She had not expected that. They weren't so tough or scary as they'd seemed when she'd first been brought in. And they were beaten down, caged, for the most part docile. Just like her.
Not that it was a knitting bee. There was constant vulgarity, but she found that almost comforting — an acknowledgment of shared feeling, of being in this together. This was their language in their world and to hell with anybody who didn't like it.
Nobody seemed to care at all whether or not she was guilty of killing her husband. But when they heard about her son… well, it got real to them. She could tell, and she couldn't blame them. Everything, though, still seemed unreal to her.
The night before, after her older money-hungry lawyer had gone away with the nicer young one, she had cried on the top bunk of her cell for hours. At 3:00 p.m. they locked everybody back in the cells and had what they called count to make sure no one was missing. That took the better part of the hour, and then they brought the food.
By then Jennifer thought she was all cried out. Without really thinking about it, she took her tray and her plastic utensils and followed some of the other women out to the large common room, the tank. She set herself down at one of the tables under the television set.
She couldn't eat any of it — meatloaf, gravy, fake mashed potatoes, peas, three slices of bread. Larry would have thrown the plate across the room, especially with the gravy slopping over into the peas and the bread. She found herself crying again.
"You best eat up, honey. They's worse shit than this." It was a tall, almost stately black woman. "This your first time?"
Jennifer hadn't even been sure what she was talking about. First time she'd had meatloaf? First time she'd cried. She hung her head, shaking it from side to side. "I don't know, I just don't know…"
The other woman, Clara, didn't pursue it. Whatever Jennifer didn't know, it was all right with her. She sat down next to her, even asked permission, and started to eat, saying she was in — again — for thieving. "What you in for?"
Jennifer put a fork into the meat and brought it to her mouth. There was no taste, good or bad. "They think I killed my husband."
Clara nodded, unimpressed. "Shit, prob'ly deserved it, am I right? How bad he beat you up?"
"I didn't say that. He was a good man, a doctor, and I didn't kill him."
"Course you didn't." Clara went back to her plate. "Don't worry. Say he beat you, they let you go. You see. Get out of here, no problem. Things work out. Nothing to cry about."
Jennifer didn't mean it, but it came out. "I miss my son."
Clara put down her fork. "I know. I miss my baby too — Rodney just two, but he be some beauty. They don't give me more than a year, so I do five months and twenty days and Rodney stay with Else, my sister. She good to Rodney. Sometime he too much for me, so this be maybe some kind of vacation. For us both. May be that's God's plan."
Jennifer shook her head again. "My baby's gone," she said. "He's dead." She felt Clara stop eating next to her. She put a hand on Jennifer's shoulders, her black eyes liquid and soft. "Oh, child."
"They think I killed him too. It's crazy… They say he came in while Larry and I were fighting over the gun, or something like that. It's so stupid, crazy … And there's no bail."
Clara took her hand away. Her voice was hoarse and low. "I never heard of no
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