Tortured Teardrops

by P. D. Workman

  “What difference is that going to make?”

  They talked in circles without coming up with a solution. Tamara tried to shake off the conversation as it buzzed around in her head.

  They finally came to some kind of agreement. What it was, Tamara really wasn’t awake enough to process. They pulled her away from the wall, handcuffed her, and escorted her through the corridors again.

  Not back to her cell, but to the isolation block. Tamara waited at each sealed door for them to punch in the security code and go through. The isolation unit had apparently already been informed of the situation before her arrival.

  “She needs to be searched before she’s put in a cell,” said Enfield, the guard who was in charge of the isolation unit for the night. The only one of the guards on duty that night who was senior enough for Tamara to know his name.

  “Already searched her,” one of the others said.

  “Not a pat-down. A real search.”

  The younger guard swore, annoyed.

  “Did you have somewhere else to be?” Enfield demanded. “Planning a nap, were you?”

  “No,” the guard who had complained was sullen. “I just don’t think there’s a need for all that bother.”

  “Obviously, if you can’t keep her in a cell in the quarters, there is.”

  “She hasn’t got a key. She couldn’t open these doors with a key.”

  “She’s getting around somehow.”

  Tamara was rerouted to a small room to be strip-searched, which was incredibly annoying when all she wanted to do was sleep. She was half dead on her feet. They didn’t find anything in the search. There was nothing to find. Then she was taken to an observation cell.

  Big windows, unlike her cell in the living quarters. It was like being a fish in a tank. The cell was bare, not even a pillow or blanket on the bunk. At least they had given Tamara her clothes back. She lay down on the bunk, her back to the big windows, and closed her eyes, seeking to find sleep one more time.

  The general lockdown continued the next day, as Tamara had been sure that it would. But for her, there was no peace. If she’d had her choice, she would have been sleeping in her usual cell, having a quiet breakfast and lunch brought to her on trays, spending the day sleeping to catch up after all of the disruption of the night before. Instead, she was in a meeting room similar to the one she had talked to Mrs. Henson in. Two chairs, one square table, a camera bubble in the ceiling.

  “Why do I have to sit here?” Tamara complained.

  “Because you’re a security risk,” a high-ranking security guard called Buxton snapped. She didn’t know him; she gathered he worked with administration and maybe in the control room.

  “Why can’t I just be in my bunk or iso? This is stupid.”

  “I have questions for you and we’re going to have more questions for you as the day goes by. I want you here where you’re secure.”

  “Why is this more secure than iso?”

  He just stared at her, his face as blank as a brick wall. She wasn’t getting anything out of him. She had been planning to ask him about the lockdown to see if he would tell her about Waterson and Tabby, but she abandoned that idea. He wasn’t going to be the one to leak it.

  “How about you tell me how you got out of your cell last night?”

  “I don’t know. Must have been one of the guards. I don’t know the codes to get past the locked doors.”

  “You’re telling me that one of the guards released you from your cell and through each of the doors back to the quarantined corridor.”

  “I couldn’t have done it myself. I don’t know the security codes.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “How else would I get through the locked doors?”

  “You tell me.”

  Tamara folded her arms across her chest. “I was sleeping. I don’t know what happened.”

  “I’ve got my staff checking the cameras and unlock logs, so I’ll have all of the details in a few minutes. Why don’t you just tell me?”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “Because you were sleepwalking,” he sneered.

  “I don’t know. I guess.”

  “You’ve been here for three years, sleepwalking has never been a problem before.”

  Tamara didn’t say anything.

  “What would make you start sleepwalking after three years?”

  “I dunno. I’ve been segregated most of a week… maybe my subconscious doesn’t like being cooped up.”

  “How did you get through the locked doors?”

  “I don’t know.”

  One of the other guards opened the door of the meeting room and motioned to his boss. Buxton went to him, stepping out into the hall but not closing the door all the way. Tamara saw papers passed from the younger guard to Buxton. Their heads both bent over them, studying the data.

  “You have video that matches up?” Buxton demanded.

  “Yes. Just getting copies compiled right now.”

  “And what do they show? Who was keying the codes?”

  “She was doing it herself.”

  “No one with her at any time?”

  “Not until she was returned to her room. Like he reported.”

  “And then…” Buxton glanced over his shoulder at Tamara, then continued the conversation in a lower voice. Exactly what was he afraid that she would hear? If they thought she had done something wrong and somehow pulled something over on security, then she would already know all of the details they were discussing.

  When he finished the conversation, Buxton returned to the table. He threw the papers down and looked at her. Tamara knew he was trying to use his height to intimidate her. Even if he hadn’t been taller—and he most certainly was—he had the advantage over her. She had to sit and listen to whatever he had to say while he was allowed freedom of movement.

  “So, can I go back to my room now?” Tamara demanded.

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  He looked at the papers in front of him. Several columns of numbers, densely written, too far away for her to make any sense of.

  “What code were you using to open the security doors last night?”

  Tamara shrugged. “I don’t remember anything. I don’t know what happened.”

  “What is Gomez’s security code?”

  Tamara had wondered whether they would have records of which codes were used to open which doors. Apparently, they did.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You used it last night.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. We have video of you unlocking the doors, synchronized with which code was used to open the door. You used Gomez’s security code to unlock the doors last night.”

  Tamara didn’t respond. He hadn’t exactly asked her anything. It was best to keep her mouth shut.

  “Did Gomez give you his code? Were you supposed to meet him last night?”

  “No.”

  “Was he supposed to be in that hallway? A little assignation at the crime scene? Did that sound exciting to you?”

  Tamara shook her head in disgust. She knew there were relationships between guards and inmates. Strictly prohibited by the facility, of course, but they could never completely quash illicit activities. Tamara had never responded to overtures from any of the guards and Gomez had never made any toward her. As far as she knew, he had never been involved with any of the inmates. The guards who got involved didn’t usually last long. Juvies had loose lips. They weren’t good at keeping secrets. Gossip spread like wildfire.

  “I never did anything with Gomez. Or any of the others.”

  She thought she detected relief in his eyes and a little dip in his shoulders. He didn’t want to hear that there was anything inappropriate going on with his staff. Tamara could well be lying, but he was happy to hear the denial.

  “Why did he give you his number, then?”

  “He never gave me his number.”

  “No. You jus
t guessed it. Pulled it out of thin air.”

  “I don’t know it.”

  “Give me a guess.”

  “No idea.”

  “And then you got Durham to give you his number.”

  “Durham?”

  “The guard who took you back to your cell the first time. You just turned around and used his number after he was gone.”

  Tamara shook her head.

  “I don’t even know him. Why would he give it to me?”

  They brought in a video machine and played the footage they had compiled. Tamara watched with fascination. She was surprised to see that her eyes were open. She remembered the heavy-lidded, sticky feeling when Durham had woken her up. She would have sworn that her eyes had been shut.

  But on the screen her eyes were open. Squinted like the light bothered her, but open. She approached the keypad at the end of the corridor her room was in and tapped in the numbers without hesitation. The door unlocked and she walked through. The scene jumped to another camera on another door. Tamara stopped for a moment, a guard walked by the other side of the door, and after he was gone, she pressed the buttons and headed in the direction that the guard had come from.

  Buxton shook his head at her boldness. “This isn’t the first time you were out, was it?”

  “If I’d been sleepwalking before, wouldn’t you have caught me before? I’m not exactly avoiding the cameras,” Tamara pointed out, watching herself on the screen.

  He pursed his lips, not disagreeing. She had been caught twice in one night. That wasn’t exactly covert.

  Tamara’s anxiety built as she watched herself drawing closer and closer to the quarantined hallway. She was finding it hard to breathe. Even though she knew that everything had been cleaned up—after all, she’d seen it the night before—she was sure that the next camera was going to show a picture of the dead girls, their blood black on the floor.

  But then Durham had intervened. He shook her awake. Tamara watched herself blinking drowsily, blank-faced as a zombie. She resisted Durham’s grasp, tried to pull away, and spoke little. At least she looked as confused on the screen as she had felt at the time. Anyone could see how muddled she was.

  They watched the reverse route, Tamara being taken back to her room and locked in. They watched Durham standing outside Tamara’s door, looking in the observation window at her. Then eventually, he withdrew, returning to his patrol.

  Tamara looked over at Buxton for his reaction or for a clue as to what was going to happen next. The fact that his eyes remained intent on the screen instead of looking at her for her reaction meant there was still more to come. And really, she already knew that. She hadn’t stayed in her bunk, but had eventually ended up in isolation.

  They watched the screen. In a few minutes, Tamara’s face showed up in the window of her door, looking up and down to see if Durham was still there. Then she reached over to the keypad and punched in a code, letting herself out.

  “Now you’re using Durham’s number,” Buxton said.

  Tamara shook her head. “I don’t know Durham’s number.”

  “You obviously do.”

  “I don’t.” Tamara motioned toward the screen. “I didn’t talk to him. He didn’t give it to me. You would have seen.”

  Buxton watched the image on the screen without acknowledging the fact. The guards had obviously been put on the alert and Tamara didn’t get nearly as far from her cell the second time around. A few corridors away, and she was again caught by a guard. Frisked, other guards brought in to help sort out a plan of action, then a couple of clips of her being marched to the isolation unit, where she was searched and put into the isolation cell. Tamara thought that was the end of the video, but Buxton still didn’t look at her. She turned her eyes back to the screen. Through the big observation window, she watched herself get out of bed again and walk up to the number pad. Before she could tap a number in, a guard opened the door, grabbed her by the arm, and took her back to the bunk.

  Then the tape ended. Buxton turned his gaze on her. His eyes were cold, no indication that he felt any sympathy for her or the situation she now found herself in.

  “You tried to get out of the isolation cell how many times?”

  Tamara gestured toward the screen. “Just once.”

  He shook his head. “Try again.”

  “Well… I don’t know. You only showed me once.”

  “I don’t need to tell you what you did.”

  “I was asleep.”

  “You were very active for someone who was asleep.”

  “I don’t know what happened. Just what you showed me on the tape.”

  “You still tried to get out of the isolation cell another three times.”

  Tamara rubbed her forehead. “It’s no wonder I’m so tired.”

  “You think this is a joke? You think that’s funny?”

  “I… I wasn’t joking. I was just saying. I’m tired. I feel like I was up all night. And I guess… I was.”

  “Stop playing games with me!” Buxton shouted, smacking one palm down on the table with a sharp crack.

  It made Tamara jump, but it didn’t alarm her. How many times had she put up with Glock’s flares of temper? How many times had she been sitting there minding her own business when a fight broke out only inches from her? He wasn’t going to break her down by abusing the table.

  She didn’t protest. She just sat there and looked at him. Buxton whirled around and marched toward the door. Then, like he had changed his mind, he turned around to face her again.

  “Have you ever sleepwalked before?”

  “Uh…” Tamara thought about it. Not as a child. She’d been shifted around between her Gram and various other relatives, but even in all of the upheaval, she hadn’t sleepwalked. She’d sometimes woken up disoriented, not sure where she was, but she’d always been in her room. Whatever room that happened to be. Then with the Bakers… Tamara closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, trying to conjure the memories up. It was a time she had tried to forget. She had done the best she could to keep from thinking about the Bakers and remembering how things had been at their house. But in those last few weeks or months… “Maybe… I think… I think when I was with the Bakers I might have. She’d beat me… say it was because I was trying to run away… I couldn’t figure out why she kept accusing me of stuff I didn’t do.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Before I came here. Three years…”

  “What did you say when she would accuse you of trying to run away?”

  “Nothing… tell her that I didn’t. What else was I supposed to do?”

  “You didn’t think that maybe you’d been sleepwalking?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think you did?”

  “I don’t know.” Tamara shook her head. “Wouldn’t I know if I was sleepwalking?”

  “What do you think you were doing last night?”

  Tamara shook her head, frustrated. “I wasn’t awake… so I guess I was sleepwalking… but I wasn’t dreaming. Aren’t people who are sleepwalking supposed to be dreaming?”

  “How would I know? Do I look like a shrink?”

  Tamara bit back a smart reply. He could have been a shrink. What did a shrink look like? They didn’t all look like Freud or Dr. Sutherland.

  “I’m tired. Can’t I go to bed now?”

  “I don’t think you’d better. Stay up today so you’ll be extra tired at bedtime. Maybe then you’ll sleep through the night.”

  “I can’t stay up all day. I’m too tired. I need to go to sleep.”

  “You’re staying here.”

  “Why do I have to stay here? Why can’t I go sleep where I was last night?”

  “Because we want to keep an eye on you.”

  9

  IT WASN’T MORE than an hour or so later that the guards were brought into the room. Gomez, Durham, and a sprinkling of other guards Tamara supposed had been involved in her capture the night before. It was a small meet
ing room and quickly became crowded, the air getting hot and laden with sweat and body odor. Tamara gagged. How fast would they clear the room if she threw up her breakfast? What did Buxton think he was going to accomplish, stuffing them all into the room like sardines in a tin?

  Tamara breathed through her mouth, trying to avoid smelling all of the bodies and to prevent herself from being sick. She could barely get enough oxygen in the crowded room.

  Buxton called the room to order. He was no orator, snapping at them to all shut up and pay attention. The room went still, all speculation ceasing. There were still questioning glances in Tamara’s direction, but no one said anything to her. Buxton operated the buttons on a remote control to bring the TV back to life again and start playing the recording. Guards watched with open mouths as they saw Tamara moving through the hallways, opening doors at will. There were some glances exchanged back and forth, everyone wondering whether they were somehow to blame.

  Buxton didn’t play the entire recording for them like he had for Tamara. He switched over to another recording, and Tamara saw herself again, this time being escorted by Gomez. Tamara’s movements were jerky. Lots of hand movements when she talked. She was clearly anxious or upset. Gomez was calm. There might have just been a double-homicide, but no one would have recognized it by his expression or his actions. Buxton paused the recording and pointed at Gomez tapping his code into the number pad.

  “What are you doing there?” he challenged.

  Gomez looked at the screen and then looked at Buxton like he was crazy.

  “Taking her back to her cell,” he said. “It was a general lockdown. It’s my job to put them back in their cells.”

  “You’re punching your code into the keypad.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s standing right beside you.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not making any attempt to shield the code from her sight.”

  Gomez swallowed. He looked around the room. They suddenly all knew why they were there. They were all going to be called on the carpet for their involvement in the breach of security.

  “It’s never really been an issue,” he said. “The codes are six digits. You enter them quickly, no one can really see what the number is…”