Tortured Teardrops

by P. D. Workman

  Brett continued to proceed up the counter, keeping pace with the rest of the line. She took a quick scan around the canteen to see who was watching them. She frowned.

  “I don’t see your pet bull. Guess maybe he stepped out for a smoke break. Or maybe he’s making time with another honey.”

  A wave of cold went over Tamara. She had thought that she and Zobel had been careful about their relationship—which wasn’t romantic—but apparently, others had still noticed the friendship.

  Tamara didn’t say anything in response to Brett’s comments, but she strode forward in time with Brett, stepping on the heel of her shoe.

  Brett wheeled around, throwing down her tray with a crash. Tamara had not picked hers up from the counter in the first place, keeping her hands free in case the situation developed. She clawed for Brett’s eyes, going for distraction rather than brute force. Brett reacted as expected, shielding her face with one hand and reaching out with the other. But Tamara hadn’t been lying about having eyes on her; she and Brett barely had time to try to get ahold of each other before a couple of the guards were there breaking them up. Tamara let Millican pull her back. One of the junior guards grappled with Brett, having a more difficult time getting her under control even though one of her shoes was flopping loose and tripping her up.

  “Back of the line,” Millican growled in Tamara’s ear, holding her arms behind her back, “and no more nonsense from you.”

  Tamara didn’t argue or try to pull away from him, but she turned her head slightly toward Chase. Millican looked at Chase and swore.

  “What are you doing starting fights when you’ve got a greenie to look after?”

  “I didn’t start it.”

  “Sure, you didn’t.”

  The younger guard finally managed to get Brett under control, handcuffing her hands behind her back. “What do you want me to do with this one?”

  “Better take her to iso. Let her cool off.” Millican glared at Brett. “Happy with yourself? Now you’re going to miss dinner.”

  “Who wants to eat this crap day after day?” Brett growled.

  But Tamara knew that, like Glock, Brett had an appetite and didn’t really care about the quality of what she put in her mouth. Glock had always cleaned Tamara’s plate as well as her own. While Tamara wouldn’t have cared one way or the other about losing her supper, Brett would be upset about it, and that made Tamara smile. If Brett were going to pick fights, she had better do it at a time other than mealtimes.

  Brett was taken out of the canteen, still struggling and growling at the guard escorting her. Still tripping over her loose shoe and trying to get it back on. Millican released his hold on Tamara and let her take her own place in line.

  “No more trouble out of you.”

  “I didn’t do anything.” Tamara smiled sweetly. “Why would I do that when I’ve got a greenie to babysit?”

  Millican shook his head. He looked at Chase.

  “I’m Millican.” He tapped his name bar. “Saw your name come up on the briefing this morning. You’re Chase?”

  Chase nodded. She looked over at Tamara to make sure she wasn’t doing anything wrong in talking to one of the security guards. Tamara slid her tray along the counter to collect the rest of her dinner.

  “You keep your nose clean and let me or one of the others know if you have any problems,” Millican advised.

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Millican drifted away, returning to his post. Chase blew out her breath and looked at Tamara. “Should I have said sir? Is he going to have it out for me now?”

  “Nah. If you’re in trouble, or talking to Rice or someone in admin, then ‘sir’ them for all you’re worth. But just casual conversation… no, most of them don’t care. If they do, they’ll let you know.”

  “He seemed okay.”

  Tamara resisted looking back toward Millican, looking down at her tray and then taking another look around to make sure that no one else was going to pick up where Brett had left off. “Yeah. He’s been here a long time. He’s pretty good.”

  Chase nodded. She was looking at what appeared to be a tray full of slop, her nose wrinkled. “What’s that?”

  “That’s dinner.” Tamara examined what was on her tray. “I think it’s supposed to be beef stew today.”

  “Looks like someone threw up in there.”

  Tamara snorted. “Sometimes it tastes like it too.” She picked up a sad little half-cup of gelatin at the end of the counter and added it to Chase’s tray. “There. Now you got dessert.”

  Chase studied it. “Is that what it’s supposed to be?”

  Tamara picked up her plate and looked around. Chase stood beside her and motioned to a couple of empty chairs. “Couple over there.”

  “No. Not there.”

  “Why not? They saving for someone else?”

  “TMJ.”

  “TMJ?”

  “Gang. Only the gang sits there. And over there,” she nodded to another of the tables without meeting anyone’s eyes. “Sharks. Control of the block usually goes to one of them. Don’t let anyone in any smaller gang tell you that they’re going to take over because they all got together into a coalition. Ain’t gonna happen.”

  “So I should join one of the others. Sharks or… whatsit.”

  “TMJ. Yeah, if you want to join up, go with one of them.”

  “The girl you were fighting with. She’s…?”

  “TMJ. They used to have control, but lately, it’s the Sharks.”

  “That one?” Chase pointed to the Sharks’ table.

  Tamara swore and grabbed Chase’s hand, pulling it down. Too late; Lewis and a couple of her girls had already seen Chase’s pointing finger and stood up.

  “What?” Chase yanked her hand way from Tamara. “Keep your hands off me!”

  Lewis strode over quickly, her two goons flanking her, then moving outward to get in behind Tamara and Chase, to pincer them from both sides.

  “You oughta listen to your cellie,” Lewis sneered at Chase. “You gonna point at someone, you’d better be ready to fight. That finger better be a gun, or you’re gonna get your face stomped in.”

  Chase was sheet-white, her eyes going from Lewis to the goons and back again. She gulped and balled her free hand up in a fist, held uncertainly, ready to defend herself but not sure if she was going to have to or if she was just challenging Lewis further by assuming an aggressive posture.

  Lewis reached out and shoved Chase in the middle of the chest, forcing her to take a couple of steps back. “You’re stupid. They send you here for being an idiot? Too stupid to be allowed to walk around loose on the outside?”

  Chase’s lips moved, but nothing came out. Which Tamara was glad for, because it wasn’t the time for a smart-aleck reply. If they could draw the confrontation out for long enough, the guards would break it up before it became physical. Tamara didn’t think she could defend both herself and Chase against three attackers without a weapon, and the only things she had were her tray and her plate. She’d used both before, but they weren’t very effective.

  “She’s almost as stupid as you, French!” Lewis sneered.

  Tamara tilted her tray and shoved it forward into Lewis’s chest as hard as she could, forcing the bigger girl back with the force of it. Chase was lagging behind, not sure what to do with herself. Tamara turned to her right, where she knew one of the goons was coming up on her flank, and kicked into her assailant’s knee as hard as she could manage. She came in at a bad angle, and the girl, Cinco, had seen her use that move often enough to expect it. She grabbed Tamara’s leg and used it as leverage to flip Tamara, sending her crashing to the floor. Tamara saw red. The rest of the canteen dissolved around her and she aimed her rage at Cinco, sweeping her legs to bring her down to where Tamara could get in close to her.

  She pummeled Cinco, only getting in a good blow with one out of every five she threw, but moving fast enough, she managed to get several in before the guards could sound the alarm and
get in to stop them.

  The alarm whooped in her ears. Crouched low, Tamara looked around, trying to locate Chase to see if she needed protection. Tamara had not disabled Lewis and there had been a third girl somewhere behind them and to the left.

  “Get your hands up! Drop your weapons! All of you!”

  Tamara wasn’t about to be the first to obey. Not if there were weapons involved, which she hadn’t even seen. She wrenched her neck looking for Chase and found her in a clinch with the other goon. Rafferty. And Rafferty was the one with a knife.

  Tamara didn’t wait for the security staff to follow their protocols and de-escalate Rafferty. Tamara’s cellie wasn’t even a day old and Tamara had already let her get herself into a fight against a shiv. Tamara launched herself at Rafferty, hitting her low in the back and side to knock her away from Chase and to the floor. As she tried to wrestle the shiv from Rafferty or at least get her into a position where the guards could get control of her, she kicked at Chase, who had also fallen. “Get out of here!”

  Chase was moving like a dazed calf, eyes all big and hardly able to get her wobbly legs underneath her. But she got to her feet and Tamara hadn’t seen any blood, so Tamara turned her attention back to Rafferty and trying to get the knife away from her or pinned beneath her.

  “French, back!” one of the guard’s voices boomed.

  Tamara squeezed her eyes shut and threw herself to the side, rolling away from Rafferty. She held her breath and heard the hiss of the pepper spray. Rafferty shouted, which meant she took in an even bigger breath of the spray. She coughed and sputtered as they disarmed her.

  “On your belly! Get down on your belly!”

  Tamara turned her head and opened her eyes a crack to make sure it was safe. None of the guards were threatening to spray Rafferty again, so Tamara opened her eyes the rest of the way. Rafferty had her hands up to her eyes, face dyed a bright red, and she coughed and spasmed uncontrollably. Millican forced Rafferty onto her stomach, shouting and smacking her with his baton and eventually kneeling on her back while she writhed and shouted. With the help of the other guards, he managed to pull her hands away from her face and twist them around behind her to cuff them. Rafferty’s coughing was interspersed with protests and swearing. Two of them hauled her up to her feet to take her to the infirmary, leaving Millican behind. Tamara didn’t envy Rafferty the sore eyes and throat she was going to have, even after they were properly washed out.

  Tamara looked around to see where everyone else was. Cinco and Lewis were both on the floor, hands secured behind their backs. Chase was still on her feet, looking around at the scene with wide eyes.

  “Belly down, French.”

  Tamara obeyed Kirk’s instruction, rolling over onto her stomach and putting her hands behind her head. Kirk gave her a cursory pat-down, probably figuring that Tamara would have pulled any weapon she was carrying during the fight instead of going after Rafferty bare-handed. He zip-tied her wrists and helped her to her feet.

  “You injured?” His eyes flicked over her.

  “No.”

  “Catch any of the pepper spray?”

  “No.”

  His hands were red with the back-spray from the pepper spray, so he was the one who had sprayed Rafferty. Tamara blinked, her eyes burning a little at his suggestion.

  “You,” Kirk motioned to Chase, “hands behind your head.”

  Chase looked at him, frowning.

  “Come on,” Kirk encouraged, motioning to her. “Hands.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Chase protested.

  “You were involved. Everyone involved gets checked.”

  “But I didn’t…”

  “Chase,” Tamara growled, “just shut up and do it.”

  Chase moved slowly, bringing her hands up to her head as she had been told. She still looked confused. Kirk left Tamara standing where she was and went over to Chase, patting her down and restraining her.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Chase repeated.

  Kirk paid no attention to her protest. He looked down at his hands. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  Kirk rubbed his fingers together, smeared red not just with the bright pepper spray dye, but also with darker red blood. He patted Chase’s torso down again, then looked at her hands.

  “You are hurt. Rafferty get you?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Kirk cut the zip tie he’d just put on to free up Chase’s arms, pushed her uniform sleeves up, and found a cut on one arm. “She did get you.”

  Chase looked down at the cut and swore in surprise. “Didn’t even feel it.”

  Tamara studied the tattoos Kirk had revealed on Chase’s arms. Mostly gang ink. Tamara wondered where she was from. For being in a gang, she wasn’t a very good fighter. Or maybe she was when it was a planned fight, but she didn’t know what to do when surprised.

  It wasn’t a bad cut, not arterial like when Zobel was slashed. But it was more than a surface cut. Blood dripping steadily down Chase’s arm.

  Tamara was hot, but shivered like she was cold. She tried to force herself to breathe slowly and deeply. “Not here.”

  Kirk’s eyes flicked over to her. “What?”

  “Not here,” Tamara repeated, even though she hadn’t been talking to him and he wouldn’t understand. She said the words aloud for herself, trying to keep herself calm and present.

  She heard screaming. Shouting and swearing all around her. She felt the warm spray of Zobel’s blood against her face. She could taste it, coppery, on her tongue.

  “It was Tabby,” Tamara whispered. “She had a shiv.”

  “Tabby is dead,” Kirk said, his voice gruff. “It was Rafferty. We all saw.”

  “It was Tabby.”

  “No. Pull it together, French.” He shook her arm. “French. Come on.”

  She swallowed and blinked her eyes, trying to focus and shift herself back to the present. Chase was looking at her, eyes so wide that Tamara could see the whites all the way around her dark irises.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Chase asked.

  Kirk gave Tamara another shake. “No more nonsense, French. Pay attention.”

  “You should put pressure on it,” Tamara said. “Slow the bleeding down.”

  Kirk nodded. He let go of Tamara’s arm and fumbled with fat fingers with the pouches in his belt to find gloves and gauze. He pressed the gauze over the cut in Chase’s arm, making her wince. Chase turned her attention from Tamara to her arm.

  “Does it need stitches?” she demanded. “How bad is it?”

  “Not bad,” Kirk assured her. “We’ll see what Doc Eastport says. He can stitch it if it needs to be.”

  Millican, who had been talking with the other guards and seeing Cinco and Lewis off, walked over. “We got an injury?” he demanded.

  “Just a nick,” Kirk said. “Not serious.”

  Millican shook his head. He looked at Tamara. “What do I gotta do to keep you out of trouble?”

  “It wasn’t me. I was minding my own business.”

  “What happened, then? Lewis was already settled. Why was she back over here mixing it up with you again?”

  Tamara glanced sideways at Chase. She wasn’t going to blame the greenie for breaching the unwritten rules at juvie. Coming from a gang, Chase should have known that pointing to the Sharks might cause problems, but the rules on the inside weren’t always the same as the rules on the outside.

  “They just wanted fresh meat,” Tamara said, shrugging. “Wanted to recruit Chase, I guess.”

  “You don’t recruit someone by cutting them!” Chase objected, her voice rising. Now that the danger was over, she was left with her system filled with adrenaline and nothing to do with it. Her muscles were probably all shaking, her brain revved up. Just two steps from hysteria.

  “Sometimes they do,” Kirk admitted.

  One cut to persuade you to join up. A worse one if you said no.

  Millican shook his head. “What a me
ss. I’ll need to hear everyone’s stories.” He sighed. A mountain of paperwork was required with a gang-initiated fight, especially one with injuries or where pepper spray or tasers had to be deployed. “You’ve got Chase, so why don’t you take her down to the infirmary? I’ll return French to her room.”

  Tamara gave a shrug. Chase resisted Kirk’s pull on her arm and he attempted to escort her out of the canteen.

  “Wait a minute,” she protested, “I haven’t had anything to eat!”

  Tamara and Millican just looked at each other and laughed.

  21

  IT SEEMED LIKE it was only a day or two before Tamara was again being shackled and chained for her court appearance, though a number of weeks had passed.

  “Don’t know why we’re bothering,” Durham complained, as he checked each of the locks. “It’s just going to be another catastrophe.”

  Tamara bit the inside of her cheek. She did not want to go through with it, but she had to try to redeem herself. Prove to everyone else that she wasn’t a total screw-up. She could testify in court. It wasn’t going to be like facing Mr. and Mrs. Baker. She wouldn’t be sick. She could face Glock and confirm what everyone was going to hear on the recording. That it was Glock who had attacked McClure, not Tamara. That was all she had to do.

  “It’s not going to be like that again,” Tamara insisted.

  Durham looked at her face and shook his head. “You’re already freaking out. By the time we get there you’re going to be a complete mess.”

  Tamara breathed slowly. She welcomed the surge of anger at his words. She’d rather be mad at him than dreading what was to come. She wasn’t freaking out. She was perfectly calm. She could face Glock in the courtroom. She could face McClure. All she had to do was to sit down and confirm what had happened. It was a no-brainer.

  “I’m fine,” she insisted.

  She was sweating and her heart was beating hard and fast. But that didn’t mean she was going to have a meltdown. She wasn’t going to be sick this time. She wasn’t going to be facing her abusers.

  Living with Glock as her cellie hadn’t been all unicorns and rainbows, but Glock had protected her from the worst elements at juvie until Tamara was strong enough and skilled enough to look after herself. That had meant putting up with Glock’s bad moods and bloodlust, but those hadn’t been nonstop. Glock could easily be mellow for a week or two when everything was going the right way.