by LeAnn Mason
My own lawyer had wanted me to plead guilty and cut a deal with the state, completely foregoing a trial. That should have clued me in to the likely outcome.
It took the jury a whopping hour to rule that I’d murdered a man in cold blood. I’m sure, like others, they’d judged me quite harshly by my appearance. Even with my gauges and piercings removed by the “Correctional Facility” and my tattoo hidden beneath my penitentiary-issued clothes, I screamed—pun intended—bad news. They must not have known what a junkie really looked like.
In short, the verdict was guilty.
My innocence didn’t matter now. I’d been convicted, and the sentencing had been passed. Fifteen years.
Fifteen years!
That’s how long I’d been sentenced to lock up in my new maximum-security concrete home. I’d be thirty-five before I could even think about getting out. Eighty percent of a sentence needed to be served to be considered for parole unless I won an appeal, which I wouldn’t because I was certain my trusty lawyer would not be filing for one on my behalf.
The chains were heavy where they wrapped around my belly and extended to link to my shackled hands as well as feet. I felt like a freaking chain-gang member as I shuffled from the blacked-out van that delivered me back from the disastrous trial. The concrete walls of the prison loomed heavily before me, rising up like a throne of a ruinous god bent on delivering justice whether merited or not.
Intake was old hat by this point, and all the parts of the machine went through our motions like the greased cogs we were. Except now, I would be moving out into the permanent cells. I’d lose the last comfort that I’d retained these last months: a room to myself. From here on out, I would have the same sized cell but would be splitting the cramped space with another human being.
A criminal.
I wanted to say another criminal. But that was false because, although I had been convicted of this heinous crime, I was not the guilty party. I was not a criminal. There would be only one of those in my cell.
And that kinda freaked me out.
Don’t show weakness; it can and will be exploited. Don’t show arrogance; you can and will be tested.
Somehow, I would have to try to fall in the middle of the pack; not so meek that I’d be bullied or worse and not so haughty that I needed to be knocked down a peg… or ten. It would be best if I could just kind of slip in unnoticed, but I highly doubted that would be the case.
With a place rife with routine, every little disruption would be like a rock lobbed into a puddle. The waves of my arrival would be felt all right; it was up to me how big the crest would be.
Before long, I was moving further into the bowels of the iron-laden beast I’d now call home. The cushy days of solo cells and lax schedules were over.
It was explained that, starting tomorrow, I would be expected to fulfill a duty. Everyone played a part in upkeep like roommates sharing chores. I’d have trash duty. Sanitation they’d called it. Just a fancy way of saying I’d literally be the maid service for convicts. Go, me!
I’d get paid for my work. A grand total of fifteen dollars a month. Total. No personal items were provided, not even things like toothpaste and tampons—I’d asked. Apparently, most people brought those items in with them from the outside. No one had told me that was an option.
Not that I’d had much to my name anyway, but hygiene products were something I’d have scrounged for.
And to put the icing on the proverbial cake, it seemed like even those necessary items might be hard to attain on my meager wages… assuming I didn’t get beat up for my milk money as had happened to some weaker kids on the playground.
Funny how life circled ‘round. Things we thought we’d left behind with our childhood seemed to find a way to pop up and make life miserable all over again.
It could be argued that I deserved such things seeing as I was a convicted murderer, but again, I was innocent.
Protestation is a red flag.
I’d be keeping quiet on the innocent thing to my new roomie and anyone else who asked…
After what felt like an endless droning lecture from my escort and tour guide, a tall dark-skinned man who was way too gorgeous to be a corrections officer, he pierced me with bright amber eyes and motioned into an open cell. The slated iron bars comprising the doorway of the room withdrew along a track to allow entry. All the cells we’d passed along the way had been open and empty. This one was no exception.
“Where is everyone?” It couldn’t be any later than three in the afternoon, and I hadn’t seen anyone on my journey. In fact, the place was eerily quiet—foreboding.
“Free time,” the beautiful man returned shortly.
“Don’t suppose I get this bad boy all to myself?” I asked, patting a cold metal bar as if it were a source of pride. It would be amazing to be able to continue being the only inhabitant of my space.
“No one gets that treatment, least of all you, Grey.”
One bubble of hope burst. How many did I have floating up there? How many could be popped before all hope was lost? What would I do when that happened?
I was officially in the system as: Aria Grey, inmate #8429. My false surname and a number, that’s what I’d been reduced to. Not that I’d ever been much more than that. Not since my family left me, anyway.
“You have an hour to settle in. Then it’s chow time. Dinner is at five. You get thirty minutes to eat, and then you can go about making friends.” The smile he gave me was chilling, a little on the feral side, showing too many teeth and a brightness in those unusually light eyes.
“I wouldn’t think your hairstyle would be wise around a bunch of deviant women who probably like to pull hair…” Oops. Didn’t mean to say that out loud. He was probably—
I pulled my face back as he ducked into my space, his nose nearly pressed to mine. The long, corded hair in question swayed, brushing my shoulders and the tops of my breasts.
“I pity the one who tries,” he growled, his warm breath puffing to brush against my cheeks.
Holy crap, this dude was scary. Scary and beautiful, a lethal combination. With a quick chin jut in the direction of the tiny barren room, he indicated our chat was over.
“I get it. Don’t touch the hair. Done.” I sidestepped into the cramped room and away from Mr. Scary Dreads, giving a small half-hearted wave as he yanked the door closed and started to walk off.
“Don’t mess with Raven, Grey.”
I pushed to the now-closed bars, squeezing my hands around the unyielding metal, watching the man saunter back down the open hall. After a few short moments, he was out of sight.
What was that about? Was it an actual warning or something more… sentimental? Just who was this Raven? Would she be as intimidating as Mr. Dreads? I probably should make a point to read his nametag. After all, we’d get to know each other pretty damn well over the next... decade.
Fuck my life.
◆◆◆
Cole told her she’d be getting a new roommate. “You are the last single, Raven,” he’d apologized.
Damn overcrowding.
Brenna walked tentatively to the closed bars of her formerly singularly occupied space. God, she hated these longer gigs. She often cursed her luck for being put on the prison unit, but the idea was short-lived as thoughts of her squad pushed in.
She did love them, especially Cole, who had a soft spot for her. Brenna’s diminutive form was easy to overlook, but that was the point. It’s why she was the lookout. People didn’t pay attention to the quiet, unobtrusive woman.
Not many had challenged her this stint, luckily. She hated to put disillusioned badasses in their places so thoroughly. This location had only presented one challenger so far. Would the willowy, pale youngster drawing invisible circles on the concrete wall of their cell be number two?
After a moment of observation, Brenna was allowed entry as the barred door to the space clanked along its track. The new girl, startled from whatever mental hidey-hole she’d been
in, shot pale blue irises toward where Brenna strode silently into the room. Rolling onto her bottom bunk without a word, Brenna resigned herself to no longer having true solitude to perform her duties while stuck in the current job.
Couldn’t the mark hurry up and die already so she could get the hell out of this pathetic existence? She much preferred the long days of training for ops to the tedious days spent on the actual missions. But then, who besides Jessica really enjoyed prison? And even she had her limits.
“Uh, hi. My name is Aria,” the girl’s voice ventured boldly from above.
Kudos for that, kiddo.
Brenna didn’t respond. She didn’t really even know why she’d come back here. It was dinner time, but tonight she wasn’t really hungry, so she’d bypassed the cafeteria in favor of a few moments of alone time, forgetting that that was shot. It was bad enough that every other waking moment was observed and dictated. Now, even here, she wouldn’t find peace.
“The guard didn’t really show me how to get to the cafeteria. I’m starving. Hope I won’t get lost. I mean, it can’t be too hard, right?”
Brenna rolled her eyes behind her closed lids, not moving from her spot flat on her back, hands folded underneath her head and feet crossed at the ankles. Peeking through a barely opened eyelid, Brenna toed off the dark blue fabric slip-on shoes. Cheap, uncomfortable, and sweat-inducing, she often chose to go barefoot when able. Not that those times were frequent while they were on the job. The Correction Officers got all uppity about the “uniforms” in public areas.
“Okay, well, I guess I’m going to try to find the food. I figure it’s better than subjecting you to my stomach vocalizing its displeasure if I skip nourishment.”
A navy-clad leg appeared from overhead, foot depressing the mattress next to Brenna’s shoulder and shifting her weight toward the intrusion.
She wanted to peck at the offending limb daring to barge into her space, but because that would be “weird” by human standards, Brenna kept her bird under wraps.
Tonight, she thought. Once “lights out” was called and everyone went into their fitful sleep, then Raven could stretch her wings.
Until then, Brenna sincerely hoped the new girl left her alone. She needed to recharge. Then, maybe she would be more amenable.
Maybe.
7
I wandered down hallways and catwalks, not seeing a soul, and growing more and more convinced I had contracted some rare infectious disease from that dying man’s blood and this whole thing was a fever dream. The place reminded me of an Escher drawing, lending merit to the whole dream concept.
A girl could hope, right? It was clear my roommate wasn’t going to be my new bestie. The girl hadn’t said a peep, but her glares spoke volumes. I guessed I had to get used to that kind of attitude in here. We were all forced together against our wills and for a variety of reasons. Each offense boiled down to some kind of violent disregard for others. Theft, abuse, rape, murder… Whatever the crime, to break the rules, you had to ignore at least those who made them and those who enforced them. I wasn’t a fan of the police or legal system right then, but I respected them.
The law is not your enemy but, also, rarely your friend.
Too true.
I’d come willingly once apprehended. I’d bet many in here weren’t that compliant. Fighters, gang members, and those with a general disdain for authority packed in a cement can like sardines wasn’t the best recipe for camaraderie. Proof was lying on that mattress somewhere behind me with long, fine, dark hair and bare feet that picked up all the dirt of the place. I’d bet their stink was potent.
I’d taken a peek as I departed, trying to learn the woman I’d be sharing a metal toilet with. She hadn’t appeared tough and was skinny enough to explain why she wasn’t headed to dinner. She looked almost frail, but I didn’t see any bruises on her porcelain skin, the color rosier than mine. I wondered if she had some kind of partner, someone else in the prison. If she’d made a deal for protection. Perhaps she was the brains and someone else was her brawn, keeping her safe.
The mocha-skinned guard from earlier came to mind as the sound of a heated argument filtered to my ears. Maybe I should have tried harder to befriend him. I bet I could take on that skinny witch if push came to shove, but based on the rampant shouting I heard, there would be other unfriendlies in this hell. Ones I wouldn’t be able to fend off if they found my existence as offensive as the witch did.
Play nice, strategically. Pick those whose influence will benefit you in some way.
Okay, time to take Dad’s advice and find a partner, if not a friend, like the guard had said might happen. Because obviously, I would be getting neither from my cellmate.
I wanted to take a moment to gather my wits, so I pulled back my shoulders and lifted my chin before entering the mess hall. What I walked in on was… chaos. A disgruntled verbal spar of what seemed to be a life-threatening match over a piece of pie had taken over the majority of what I assumed to be the cafeteria.
My mouth dropped. Holy shit.
It wasn’t so much the sudden surprise of being greeted by a room the size of an elementary school cafeteria jam-packed with bodies. A stark contrast to being left alone in a cell for hours. It wasn’t the creepy cultish nature of all those bodies wearing identical blue outfits to mine. It was the view of two of the largest women I’d ever seen, wrestling on the floor next to a long picnic-style table on which sat one pristine plate of what appeared to be cherry pie.
My ears had not deceived me.
If there was anything that confirmed that prison would not be ‘fun camp,’ it was that folks were literally willing to kill each other and, perhaps more telling for a bunch of criminals, willing to take a beating for a single tiny slice of a sugary treat.
Buck up, Aria. You killed a guy… as far as they know.
The crowd, amassed on the fringes, egged the pair on, chanting and roaring. Fists pounded tables and feet stomped the floor. Quickly seeing that this was an opportunity to get in without fanfare, I slipped around the brawl. Keeping to the edges of the room to avoid becoming collateral, I finally spied the bar to pick up food.
I was sort of hoping I could get in, eat, and get out without being noticed. My courageous plans to find a companion had fallen out my mouth with my bravado while it gaped at the pie fight. If every day was like this, I might be able to conceal my arrival for… well, probably not fifteen years but for some time, assuming my surly roommate was as tight-lipped as she had advertised so far.
I literally tip-toed, appreciating the soft foam soles of the slip-on shoes. They were obviously meant to be designed in such a way as to prevent them being used as a weapon, but right now, they were my stealth utensils.
Use what tools you find around you. The less attention you draw, the better.
Two lessons mashed in my mind, and I focused on them to rebuild my waning confidence.
Picking up a tray, I placed it on the metal-grooved counter and slid it along the outside of the plastic sneeze-guards. Peering through the steamed-up windows with only cursory glances, I shoved forward, not wanting to dally. I was pretty hungry after my trial, so I was willing to accept whatever pie-less sustenance they had to offer. The battle still raged behind me, making me jittery and agitated. I didn’t like such heated temperaments at my back. On the other hand, in detainment, my meals had all been delivered to me, so it was a unique experience to get a choice.
“Tray.” A messy, gloved hand appeared above the divider. The voice was barely audible over the clash of dozens of others.
“Oh, uh.” I took another glance at the blobs and gloops of supposedly edible substances, trying to discern the contents. “I’ll have…”
I obviously took too long deciding because the hand shook impatiently. “Tray.”
“One of everything,” I decided and passed it over. Sampling was good, and I needed all the calories I could get. It was more food than I’d had for a long time, and it was free. Yeah, Aria, at the cost o
f your freedom.
The tray reappeared above the glass in a second, loaded with food of some alien sort. It was less recognizable than some of the terrible cardboard-flavored TV dinners I’d scarfed when low on money. I took it with a shrug. It couldn’t taste worse than said dinners. “Is this meat?” Protein was a luxury. It wouldn’t hurt if I could build up some muscle.
“What are you, new?” the voice spat. “Move on.”
I did as told, sliding down the row. No need to upset anyone just yet if I could avoid it. Was there more? All of the sectors on the tray were full, but I was hoping I could get a drink. My throat was parched, and I was unwilling to gauge the duration of time that had passed since the cup I’d been allowed at my trial.
“Oh, don’t get your britches in a bunch, Martha. I think she is new,” said a beautiful, melodic, very southern drawl. “How about a tall glass of water for a tall glass of water?”
I looked up into the bright and inviting blue eyes of a gorgeous woman who was tall enough to be seen over the partition. Somehow, she had loose, bouncy curls that insinuated the woman had a hairdryer and curling iron stashed in a carved-out nook in her cell. I’d bet she brought in some make-up based on the redness to her plump, gently smiling lips and thickness of her dark lashes.
Damn, I wish I’d known about the BYO toiletries rule, I lamented silently while staring at the bombshell. Mind you, no amount of beauty product could make me look that good.
“Don’t mind ol’ Martha. She’s always got a bee in her bonnet,” the newcomer said conspiratorially with a wink. “How ‘bout it, huh?” She lifted a cup again, the movement made me realize that the clear plastic cup she held was, in fact, full of water.
I took it. “Thanks.” This lady didn’t seem so bad. She wouldn’t be a potential bodyguard, but being allies with someone who could control whether I ate or not seemed wise.
A smile can go a long way: encourage trust, infer innocence, relax tension, and entice empathy.
