She recovered enough to know that Zobel wasn’t injured. Not again. Glock hadn’t had anything to do with Zobel getting hurt. That had been Tabby. Tamara had already taken care of Tabby. Zobel was okay.
So she talked to him.
Tamara didn’t know why Zobel wasn’t there to help her to sort out what had happened and what she should do or think once it was all over. He wasn’t there to tell her to relax or that everything was going to be okay. She didn’t know why he wasn’t there, so she made him there. She pictured him in her mind, heard him talking to her.
“You really screwed things up this time, French.”
“I had to,” Tamara murmured to him, trying to keep her voice low enough that the courthouse guards wouldn’t be able to tell what she was saying. “You get that, don’t you? She wasn’t going to stop. She was just going to keep killing.”
“But it wasn’t your place to act. You were supposed to be testifying, putting her behind bars for as long as you could. That was your job.”
“You weren’t there or you would understand.” Had he been there? He should have been. Maybe he was. Maybe he was one of the other guards she hadn’t looked closely at. Security staff turnover was brutal. There were always new guards and it didn’t make sense to try to get to know them all when most would last only a few days.
“Ground yourself,” Zobel advised, noting her disconnected thinking. “Feel what’s going on in this time and place. You keep slipping.”
“I am here. I’m here with you now, in a holding cell at the courthouse.”
“That’s right.”
“Floor, bars, lights,” Tamara listed off the things she could see. The things that she was sure were there in front of her. “Guards, doors. Sandwiches.” She couldn’t see the sandwiches, but she could smell them. She hadn’t been offered anything when lunch had been brought around. Not even water. Luckily, it wasn’t as hot as the other day. She wouldn’t get heat stroke again. Slightly dehydrated and low blood sugar, maybe, but not enough to kill her. She listed things she could hear. “People talking. Air vents.” She wasn’t in the courtroom anymore. She wasn’t at juvie. She wasn’t in that little basement office with Glock beating Coach McClure senseless. “In the holding cell. In the holding cell at the courthouse.”
“That’s right,” Zobel encouraged. “Just stay focused. You can do this. You have to hold it together so you can testify against Glock Spielman. And Denny Baker.”
Tamara shook her head, confused. “No… I can’t… I can’t do that anymore.”
“Pull yourself together. You have to. You have to do the right thing.”
“No. It’s too late, I can’t do anything.”
“Why do you think you’re still waiting here? You still have something to do.”
Tamara blinked, looking around. What was left for her to do? She was done testifying. They wouldn’t call her in again. So what else was she supposed to do? Why was she still there?
There was a knock at the door and, after checking to see who it was, the guard let Durham in. Tamara stared at him. Why was he there when Zobel was already there to do the job? It didn’t make sense for both of them to be there.
Durham looked down at Tamara, still lying on the floor where the guards had left her.
“Didn’t I tell you not to cause any more trouble, French?”
“I had my orders,” Tamara told him.
His brows and the corners of his mouth drew down in a deep frown. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Don’t expect her to make sense,” Snipes said. “She’s been babbling all afternoon, completely off her nut.”
“What happened?”
“She and the defendant got into a shouting match. Then she attacked Spielman with a weapon.”
“A weapon?” Durham looked baffled. “I searched her for a weapon myself. Twice. She was secure. How did she get a weapon?”
At that, Snipes shifted uncomfortably, aware that that shortcoming was to his account. He and the other guards had been distracted by the verbal exchange between Glock and Tamara and had not been standing close enough to Tamara. They hadn’t seen the danger of the judge’s sharply pointed, silver-plated pen. They had zeroed in on Glock when she had stood up, forgetting that Tamara had already been identified as a security risk.
“She, uh, got her hands on a pen.”
“She attacked Spielman with a pen.”
It shouldn’t have been a shock to Durham. He’d been supervising juvie long enough to know that virtually any object could be made into a weapon, given enough motivation and creativity on the part of the wielder.
“Yeah. Stabbed her twice.”
“Any damage?”
Tamara raised her head slightly to look at the guard, wanting to hear the details.
“Haven’t had word back. They took her to the hospital.”
Durham tilted his head toward the courtroom. “Doesn’t sound like they adjourned the trial.”
“Judge’s decision. I think he’d like to get as much done as possible while Spielman is out of the way. She’s been… disruptive.”
Durham looked back at Tamara. “I can’t understand it. From what I hear, they always got along in juvie. If there were ever any problems, it was always French on the receiving end.”
“Maybe she got tired of it.”
“Has she been seen by a doctor?” Durham stared down at Tamara. “She’s a mess.”
The guard rolled his eyes. “One of the paramedics came in. But she wouldn’t calm down enough for him to examine and treat her. She doesn’t have any serious injuries. Just a lacerated lip. It will heal on its own. Your doc can put a couple of stitches in it.”
Durham hooked his thumbs in his belt, looking Tamara over. “Transport time,” he snapped. “Up on your feet.”
Tamara moved stiffly. She’d obeyed the guard’s instructions to stay put and not try to sit up, and her whole body ached from lying for so long on the floor without a reprieve. She managed to get up into a sitting position, then used her feet to propel herself, sliding on her butt, over to the bars of the cage. She sat there for a moment, getting her bearings.
“Are you here now?” she asked Durham.
“What?” He scowled down at her.
Tamara looked around for Zobel. He was the one who had been with her all afternoon. He was the one she expected to take her back to the bus. But then she remembered. “He got slashed. Tabby got him. I tried to stop her…”
Durham looked at Snipes, who shook his head. Durham shook his in response, expressing some unspoken agreement.
Tamara used her feet to push her back against the bars and then to slide herself up, getting to her feet. Durham studied her for a minute, then nodded at Snipes. “Okay. Let’s get her chains on. You unlock the cage and stand watch.” His head turned back toward Tamara. “You’re not going to cause me any trouble, are you?”
“You’re talking to someone who’s been having discussions with invisible people all afternoon,” Snipes said. “You can’t trust any answer you get from her. Expect anything.”
“She’s been searched? She doesn’t have any other weapons?”
“She only had the one,” Snipes growled. “Obviously, we took that away from her.”
“And searched her?”
There was a silence of several seconds. “No.”
Durham swore under his breath. “Get the gate unlocked. French, turn around. Back to me.”
Tamara obeyed, turning to face the back wall while the guard unlocked the door and Durham approached her. Blue gloves on, he gave her a thorough pat-down and made her kick off her shoes. He put the belly chain on her and ran the other chains from hand to foot. Normally, they transported juvies with their hands cuffed in front, but Durham made no move to unlock Tamara’s wrists and re-cuff them in front of her. Tamara rolled her stiff shoulders. After checking her shoes, Durham allowed her to slide them back onto her feet, but she couldn’t get her heels in without her hands, so they flopped on her fe
et like sandals.
“Exactly what possessed you to attack Spielman?” Durham asked as he pointed her toward the door of the cell.
“Someone has to kill her,” Tamara informed him.
Durham gave a short bark of laughter. “Okay, then.”
When the bus reached juvie, Tamara expected to be offloaded immediately. She was still bleeding and should have been the priority. But the other girls were removed first. Then Durham got back onto the bus, Eli closed the door, and the bus started moving again. Tamara sat up, alarmed.
“Wait! What’s going on? Where are you going? You have to let me off.”
“You’re being transferred, French.”
“Transferred? Where? I’m… supposed to be… where else would you take me?” Her thoughts jumped to the other state facilities. The juvenile prison upstate where Glock had been transferred. The women’s prison Vernon had been transferred to. Tamara couldn’t go either of those places. They had to know that they couldn’t put her into either of those facilities. How could they transfer her that quickly? Transfers usually took several days, with lots of paperwork to be filled out and arrangements to be made.
“Just chill.”
“But, I’m not…”
Tamara couldn’t find the words to protest the move. She knew she’d been causing a lot of extra trouble over the previous months, but a transfer was completely unexpected.
The bus didn’t pick up speed and didn’t exit the grounds. Instead, it went around the long loop of sprawling buildings that were unfamiliar to Tamara from the outside. The bus stopped in front of an attractive brick building that looked more like a school or community center than the bigger buildings.
“What’s this?” Tamara’s heart was in her throat, pounding so hard she could hardly breathe. Nothing was making sense to her.
“Forensic unit,” Durham said, getting to his feet and walking toward Tamara. “Just stay calm. Everything is all right.”
“What’s a forensic unit?” Tamara demanded, but she had a feeling she already knew. And she didn’t like it.
“This is where they’re going to try to help you. Figure out what’s going on with you and get you treatment.”
“Psych? This isn’t Psych.”
“Psychiatric is short-term,” Durham explained. “Somewhere to hold you for a day or two for suicide watch or evaluation. Forensic is… housing quarters. A treatment unit.”
“No…” Tamara pulled back when Durham reached down to free her from the anchor. “No, take me back to my room.”
He shook his head. “Your new room is over here. They’ll help figure out what’s wrong—what’s going on with you.”
“You can’t do that. You can’t just move me to a different unit…”
“Actually, we can. It’s not me, I’m just the grunt. If it was my decision… you would have been here a couple of months ago.”
Tamara tried to jerk away from him when he stood her up, but he hung on.
“I’m not crazy!”
“French… you need help. Everybody knows it. So they’re finally moving you to where you can get the help you need.”
“This is because I attacked Glock? You’re punishing me for attacking her in the courthouse?”
“You’re not rational. If you were, you never would have gone after her. You would have just given your testimony and been done with it. Like a normal person. Going after her was…” Tamara knew he was thinking ‘crazy,’ but he caught himself before saying it. “It wasn’t smart, French. No one who was thinking about what they were doing would have done that.”
“It was an impulse.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I just… I just did it. I got mad…”
“Sure you did. Anyone would have gotten mad. But not just anyone would have grabbed the judge’s pen and tried to stab her to death with it.”
Tamara wasn’t sure what part of that was not rational. After all that Glock had done to Tamara, to Coach McClure, and to everyone else, it seemed more rational to kill her than to put on the charade of a trial. Pretending that they might find her not guilty and let her go free, that was crazy. Pretending that they weren’t trying to put her in prison for the rest of her life was crazy. Pretending they wouldn’t all feel safer with her in the ground was crazy.
Tamara didn’t tell Durham that. She allowed him to escort her, not telling him what she was thinking, while she tried to come up with a reasonable argument for returning her to her own cell.
There were several levels of security measures to go through. Locked doors, body search, and x-ray, like she would have had going back to her own unit. They removed her chains and shackles for the search and didn’t put them back on. She thought there were more cameras than in General Population. More double-secure doors, like an air lock, where they had to get through the first set of doors, wait until the doors closed tight and a green light indicated it was okay to go, and then went through the second set of doors.
“I want to go back to my room,” she complained again.
“Just chill. This will be good for you.”
“Never liked broccoli,” Tamara muttered.
Durham smiled tightly, acknowledging the comparison.
They got through the last set of double-secure doors and entered a lobby area that looked like the nursing station or reception area at a hospital. Tamara didn’t have long to look around. Dr. Sutherland turned around and saw her. He smiled and reached out a comforting hand.
“Tamara. I’m glad you made it.”
“Get me back to my own room!”
“I’m afraid this is going to be your home for the next little while.”
“I was stupid at the courthouse. I know. I shouldn’t have done that. You can’t put me here.”
“I’ve been resisting putting you here for some time. All of my arguments and reasons not to have been exhausted. This isn’t just because of what happened at the courthouse, Tamara. You’ve been heading here for some time.”
“No!” Tears sprang to Tamara’s eyes. It was just because of her low blood sugar. She would have been able to stay in control of her emotions otherwise. “No, I just want to go to my room.”
“I know. But here you are. It’s not a bad place. This isn’t a punishment. You need help, and we’re more equipped to give it to you here. We’ll be able to monitor your behavior. Figure out what’s going on with you. Find a treatment plan.”
“No.” Tamara swore between sobs. “I’m not crazy. I don’t need this.”
“You do. And I think deep down, you know you do. You’ve been crying out for help. We’re listening.” He touched her arm. “Come on. I’ll show you your new room.”
The unit was too quiet. Tamara was used to a buzz of activity in all but the quietest halls. People coming and going, chatting with each other, the TV blasting loud enough for everyone to hear it, classes and crafts and living skills. The Forensic unit was too quiet. She expected to hear screams at any moment. Insane people. Electroshock. Uncontrollable hallucinations.
Some of the rooms they walked by were occupied. Apparently, only one person to a cell. No cellmates. At least she’d be able to have some semblance of privacy and not have to worry about taking care of her newbie. The people she saw didn’t look insane. They didn’t have wild hair and eyes and spout off Shakespeare or poetry. They didn’t growl like dogs or threaten her as she walked by their cells.
It was too quiet. And she knew why. They were medicated. Zombies. Unable to fight back because they were being controlled with drugs.
Dr. Sutherland motioned to one of the rooms. “Here you go. Home, sweet home.”
Tamara walked into it. The bunk was made. There was a hygiene kit on the small shelf in the tiny cupboard, obviously brand new and untouched. Not her kit from her own room. There was no sign of her personal possessions. Her books, brought to her by Mrs. Henson.
“Where’s all my stuff?”
Dr. Sutherland raised an eyebrow at her. “All your stuff?” He lo
oked around the bare cell. “I’m sure they’ll transfer any possessions over tomorrow. Sometimes these things take a day or two.”
“I need my stuff. You can’t take away my personal property!”
“Nobody is taking anything away from you. It will come. Just be patient.”
“It’s not fair. You can’t just move me like this. Doesn’t there need to be a hearing? Don’t I get any say?”
“No. We’ve already gone through all of the formalities.”
“This is because I screwed up in court!”
“No. That didn’t help, but it just expedited the process that was already in place. Made us push things ahead a little more quickly. Like I said, your possessions will be brought over. Don’t you worry about that.”
“You can’t do this.”
“Why don’t you sit down and relax? I understand you’ve had a very trying day. A nurse will be around later to bandage up your lip. In the meantime, are you hungry? It’s suppertime.”
Tamara could smell the institutional food. Just like in her own unit, the slop had a distinctive, nauseating smell. But even so, Tamara’s stomach rumbled and she felt like the sides of her stomach were rubbing together, she was so hungry. She wanted to punish Dr. Sutherland by saying no. She wouldn’t eat his food. She’d have a hunger strike. She’d force him to put her back in General Population by refusing to eat. But she couldn’t. She wasn’t strong enough.
“Yes,” she admitted in a small voice. “I’m hungry.”
“I’ll make sure they bring you a tray.”
“Don’t I just go to canteen?”
“No. Different here. Here you take your meals in your room.”
“Is it segregation?” Tamara had seen that everyone wasn’t locked in their cells, but she couldn’t think of any other reason they would have meals served to them in their rooms.
“No. You can still socialize. There is a common room and group sessions. You won’t be segregated. But your food will be served in your room.”
Tortured Teardrops Page 26
