The newspaper article was from three months ago. I wish I’d had time to search for the update. Did the friends give up? Or are they still out there looking? If I disappeared, how long would they look for me?
69
All of my hair is gone, but the woman continues to rub her hands over my scalp, searching for anything she might have missed. She stops every now and then to pick up the razor, rub in some lotion, shave a real or imagined follicle. She seems obsessed, terrified of unknown consequences. Her hair is coiffed in the tasteful manner common to well-to-do women of her age—expensively bobbed, blond but not too blond, highlighted in a way that draws attention to her attractive cheekbones. I sense that she spends a lot of time on it each morning. I can understand why she made the choice she made. Still, the thoroughness with which she shaves my head seems almost cruel.
Stepping back, she says, “It looks perfect.”
The guilty always find a way of rationalizing their behavior, making it sound as though they’ve done you a favor.
From the intercom speaker in the ceiling, we hear a woman’s voice. “Well done. Now, Jake, it is your turn to choose.”
I knew it was coming. Still, my body tenses.
“We have two holding cells,” the voice says. “One is dark and cold, the other is bright and hot. Which would you like?”
I look at the woman. I sense that she has a husband who always allows her to choose—chocolate or vanilla, window or aisle, chicken or fish. Fortunately, I am not her husband. As she begins to open her mouth to tell me which she would prefer, I say, “Light and hot.”
“Good choice, Jake.”
The door swings open and a lighted path leads us down a hallway and into a common area with eight cells. The intercom comes on again: “Jake, please step into cell thirty-six. Barbara, cell thirty-five.”
So that’s her name. Barbara and I look at each other, but neither of us moves. “Go on,” the voice says.
Barbara steps toward her cell, stopping just short of the door. It’s dark inside. Barbara reaches out and clutches my hand as if I might somehow save her. “Go ahead,” the voice says. Tentatively, she lets go of my hand and inches inside. When the door slams shut, Barbara lets out a frightened yelp. I walk resolutely into the other cell, acting braver than I feel. The fluorescent lights are painfully bright, and the temperature must be close to a hundred degrees. The door slams behind me.
There is a narrow metal bed attached to the wall. One sheet, no pillow. A toilet hangs from the wall. A worn copy of The Manual sits alone on a single shelf. I ignore the book and lie on the bed. The lights are so bright that I have to lie facedown with my head buried in the sheet.
Hours pass. I sweat, I fidget, I don’t fall asleep. From the cell next door, I hear Barbara scream twice, then nothing. I survey my cell again, my eyes still trying to adjust to the blinding light. I’m so thirsty, but they haven’t brought water. If all goes wrong, I tell myself, I can drink the water in the toilet. It would probably last for five or six days. And then what? I try not to think that far ahead.
70
I can’t say for sure, but I think a day passes before the door opens. I feel the hot air from my cell rush out into the common area. My jumpsuit is soaked in sweat. I get off my cot and step out of the cell. The cool air makes me dizzy.
The door to the other cell has also opened. Barbara emerges, holding both hands over her face to protect her eyes from the light. I feel guilty for choosing the dark cell for her. I rest a hand on her shoulder, and she whimpers. We have been given no instructions, but I see an exit sign up ahead. I lead her down the corridor and out the exit. I feel like a rat in a familiar maze, following the mandated path, my free will no more than a fiction.
Barbara has opened her eyes now, although it is clearly painful for her, and she walks close behind me, clutching my hand.
“Where are we going?” she whispers.
“Is this your first time?”
“Yes.”
“Every door leads to another door. I figure we just keep going. When they want us to stop, we’ll know. If it helps, just count. That way, at least we’ll know how long we walked.”
“One Mississippi,” she says. “Two Mississippi, three…”
I walk slowly but deliberately. Just as I expected, when we reach the end of each hallway, a door opens, then closes behind us. Is it all controlled by sensors? Or is the impeccable timing the work of someone watching the cameras?
Barbara is at 1,014 Mississippi when we reach two glass doors. Both have a plastic sign inscribed with the words PUBLIC DEFENDER. The voice emanates from overhead. “Barbara, now it’s your choice. For your attorney, would you like David Renton or Elizabeth Watson?”
I barely know my fellow prisoner, but I am certain whom she will select.
“David Renton,” she says without hesitation.
Both doors open to reveal a desk with someone standing beside it. Barbara goes to the left, toward the man, and I step right, toward the woman.
Elizabeth Watson—tall, thin, and pale—looks like a mannequin in a navy suit. At first, she doesn’t move, and I sense she is sizing me up. My clothes and slippers are drenched in sweat—I imagine it’s not an appealing sight. The room is heavily air-conditioned, and I begin to shiver in my damp clothes. My attorney motions me to the chair opposite the desk. Before taking her seat, she casually pushes the window open to let in some hot desert air.
“Freezing in here,” she mutters. “I grew up in Tallahassee. My mom kept our house at a constant sixty-five. Can’t stand air-conditioning.”
I’m stunned by her candor. She’s the first person I’ve met at Fernley who has ever revealed anything about herself.
She swivels her chair and opens her big leather purse.
I realize this isn’t actually her office. There are no pictures or personal belongings of any sort. Up close, I can see that her suit is wrinkled, a crease along the right side, maybe from a suitcase, a stain on her left sleeve. The purse is filled to the brim. She must have just flown in, unexpectedly summoned.
She places three beverages on the desk: Diet Coke, Icelandic water with essence of raspberry, and iced tea. “Your choice,” she says with an empathetic smile. I imagine her grabbing the bottles in a rush on her way out of a fancy law office. Unlike Declan and Diane, Elizabeth Watson is likely a member of The Pact. Perhaps she did something wrong once or twice, and now on occasion she flies in to represent her “Friends.”
I reach for the water, and she takes the iced tea for herself. “So,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “First offense, right?”
“Yes.”
“The first time is the worst.” She opens a file on her desk.
As I guzzle the water, Elizabeth begins reading the paperwork. “They haven’t filed charges yet. That’s unusual. They want to talk to you first.”
“Do I have a choice?”
Elizabeth glances out the window, across the shimmering desert. “Not really, no. We still have a few minutes. Hungry?”
“Starving.”
She rummages through her purse and pulls out half of a sandwich, wrapped in blue wax paper, and pushes it across the table. “Sorry, it’s all I have. It’s good, though, turkey and Brie.”
“Thank you.” I eat the sandwich in four bites.
“Want to call your wife?”
“Really?” It seems too good to be true.
“Yes, you can use my cell.” She pushes the cellphone across to me and says quietly, “We always register our cells when we get to Fernley.” She puts air quotes around the word register, warning me my call might not be exactly private. It seems she really is on my side. But then, maybe this is just another sick game, another test. Maybe she’s playing good cop.
“Thank you,” I say uncertainly. I pick up the phone. I’m desperate to talk to Alice, but what will I say?
Alice picks up on the first ring, her voice a breathy, frightened “Hello.”
“It’s me, sweetheart.”
“Oh my God. Jake! Are you okay?”
“I got a haircut, but other than that, I’m fine.”
“What do you mean, a haircut? When are you coming home?”
“I’m bald. And unfortunately, I don’t know when I’m coming home.”
The bald part doesn’t even seem to register. “Where are you?”
“With my attorney. I haven’t been charged yet. They want to interview me first.”
I glance up at Elizabeth, who seems engrossed in my file. “How’s Vadim?” I ask quietly.
“Working hard,” Alice says. “He found more paperwork.”
Elizabeth looks up at me and taps her watch.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Not yet,” Alice says. I can hear that she’s crying. “Whatever you do, don’t tell them anything incriminating.”
“I won’t,” I promise. “Alice? I love you.”
I hear a hand on the office doorknob, quickly hang up, and slide the cellphone across the desk to Elizabeth. The office door opens. Gordon, the guy who questioned me on my first visit to Fernley, stands there in a black suit, holding a briefcase. Beside him is a different guy—bigger and rougher than his partner last time, with a tattoo of a serpent snaking up his massive neck. “Time to go,” Gordon says.
Elizabeth stands, comes around the desk, and places herself between me and Gordon. I like her more already. “How long will the interview last?” she asks.
“Depends,” Gordon says.
“I’d like to sit in on it.”
“That won’t be possible.”
“Damn it, I’m his attorney. Why does he even have an attorney if I can’t be there for the interview?”
“Look,” Gordon says impatiently. “Just let me do my job. When I’m finished, I’ll bring him back. Deal?”
“Will it be an hour? Two hours?”
“That’s up to our friend here.” Gordon grabs me by the elbow and pulls me toward the door. Elizabeth starts to follow us, but Gordon glances back, snaps his fingers, and says, “Maurie, handle this.” Serpent guy stands in the doorway, blocking Elizabeth’s exit.
We walk through more long corridors. Eventually Gordon punches a code into a keypad and we enter a windowless room with a table and three chairs. I can feel Maurie breathing behind me.
“Sit,” Gordon says, and I obey. He sits across from me, setting his briefcase on the table between us.
There is a metal hoop affixed to the table. “Hands,” Maurie says.
I place my hands on the table. Maurie threads handcuffs through the hoop and then clicks them tightly onto my wrists. Gordon pulls a red folder out of his briefcase and opens it. It’s stuffed with papers. Are all of those about me?
“Is there anything you want to talk about before we get started?” he asks.
Before Alice showed me the newspaper article, I’d planned to just lay it all out in the open, tell them the truth, 100 percent, and take whatever came my way. Now I’m not sure.
I shouldn’t ask the next question, but I do. Because I have to know. “Is JoAnne okay?”
“I’m very surprised that you would ask that.” Gordon frowns. “Why are you so concerned about JoAnne? Have you learned nothing?” He glances at Maurie. “He’s apparently learned nothing.”
Maurie grins.
“I ask,” I say, “because last time I saw her, you had her trapped, naked, in a shrinking chamber.”
“We did,” Gordon says amiably, “didn’t we?”
He flips through the file, then leans forward, so that his face is inches from mine. “So, I understand you want to make a confession.”
I don’t respond.
“This might jar your memory.” He slides a photograph across the table. Maurie leans up against the door, bored. The photo is black and white, grainy, yet it is impossible to deny what I’m seeing.
“Let me ask you again,” Gordon says, “something I asked you the last time we met. Do you recall meeting with JoAnne in the food court at the Hillsdale mall?”
I look down at the photo. It appears to have been taken from a CCTV security video. I nod.
“Okay,” he says. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Could you characterize your relationship with JoAnne?”
“We met in college. We worked together. For a very brief time, we were lovers. After graduation, I didn’t see her until my wife, Alice, and I attended our first quarterly dinner with The Pact in Hillsborough, California.”
“And then?”
“I saw her at our second Pact party, in Woodside, California. A week later, at my request, we met for lunch at the food court in the Hillsdale mall in San Mateo. We ate hot dogs on a stick and drank lemonade. We talked.”
“About what?”
“The Pact.”
“And what did JoAnne say about The Pact?”
“I was having some concerns about whether it was a good fit for my wife and me. JoAnne reassured me. She said it had been very good for her marriage.” I’ve rehearsed this line in my head a hundred times, yet when I say it, it sounds forced.
“What else?”
“We agreed to meet a second time, but she didn’t show.”
“And then?”
“And then, as you know, I saw her here.” I try to rein in the impatience in my tone. I remind myself Gordon holds all the power here.
“Did you tell your wife about these meetings?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because you intended to sleep with JoAnne?”
“No.” I say it emphatically.
“You were just meeting her to talk about old times? To enjoy the delicacy known as hot dogs on a stick? For the incredible ambience at the Hillsdale mall food court? Did you not try to seduce her?”
“No!”
Gordon pushes his chair back and stands, hands on the table. Maurie is beginning to look a little more interested in the conversation. “Did you not suggest that you should rekindle your relationship?”
“Of course I didn’t.”
“Did you suggest a meeting at the Hyatt hotel?”
“What the fuck? No!”
He comes to stand beside me and places a hand on my shoulder, like we’re buddies again. “Here’s the difficulty I’m having with you right now, Jake. You have this little story you want to tell. You’re determined to stick with it. I get that. Self-preservation and all. But our sources have confirmed that you had sex with JoAnne Charles in the Hyatt hotel in Burlingame, California, on March first.”
“What source? That’s insanity!”
Gordon sighs. “We were making such nice progress, Jake. I had high hopes. I thought we could be out of here by lunchtime.” He sits down again.
“I did not sleep with JoAnne Charles.” As the words come out of my mouth, I realize that it sounds wrong.
“But you did. You’ve already confessed!”
“Seventeen years ago! Not recently. The thought hasn’t even crossed my mind.” Of course, that isn’t true. The thought has definitely crossed my mind. Fuck. JoAnne, naked, spreading her legs, that weird defiant smile on her lips. How could the thought not cross my mind? But is that a crime? I never would have acted on it. Never.
“Who can know a man’s thoughts?” Gordon asks. The timing is uncanny. Yet I know it’s just a tactic. The Pact wants me to think they’re inside my head. But they can’t be inside my head. Can they?
“Jake,” Gordon says, almost crooning my name. “I’m going to ask you something extremely important. I want you to think about it. I don’t want you to answer right away. Would you agree to testify against JoAnne in order to make this all go away?”
I already know the answer, but I delay just to make it appear that I’m considering his offer.
Finally, I simply say, “No.”
Gordon blinks as if I’ve just slapped him. “All right then, Jake. I don’t understand it, given our information, the source of our information, but I respect your dec
ision. If down the road, you have a change of heart, just let them know that you want to talk to me.”
What the hell does he mean, given the source? He’s implying that JoAnne was the one who said we had sex at the Hyatt. But what reason would JoAnne have for saying that? She could only have said it under terrible duress. I think of the shrinking cage. Torture may elicit answers, but it rarely elicits the truth.
“I won’t have a change of heart. I met JoAnne Charles one time in a mall food court. The rest of what you are saying is a lie.”
Gordon gives me a dismissive look. Then he stands and exits the room. Maurie follows.
I sit with my hands chained to the table. I can hear air hissing through the vent overhead. The room grows steadily colder. I’m so tired, so hungry, so cold, I can’t even think. I wish I could talk to Alice. I put my head down on the table, and immediately the light switches off. I lift my head, and it goes on again. I try it several more times. Every time, the same thing. Is there a sensor somewhere, or is someone fucking with me? Finally, I lay my head down and sleep.
Later, I wake to utter darkness. How much time has passed? An hour? Five? I lift my head from the table and the light comes on. The room is cold. The handcuffs have begun to dig into my skin. There are a few dried drops of blood on the metal table. There’s a mossy taste in my mouth. It’s possible that I’ve been asleep for a long time. Was I drugged?
More time passes. The boredom is its own kind of torture. I think of Alice back in San Francisco. What is she doing? Is she at work? At home? Is she alone?
The door swings open. “Hi, Maurie,” I say. He doesn’t respond. He unlocks the handcuffs and I lift my hands from the table. They feel heavy, not my own. I move my fingers, rub my hands, shake them out. Maurie grabs my arms, roughly pulls them behind my back, and handcuffs me again.
He leads me down the hallway and into an elevator.
“Where are you taking me?”
No response. He seems nervous all of a sudden, even more nervous than me. I remember the Düsseldorf study: When frightened or panicked, humans release a chemical through their sweat that sets off certain receptors in the human brain. I can smell Maurie’s anxiety coming off of his skin.
The Marriage Pact Page 28
