Tortured Teardrops (Tamara's Teardrops Book 3)

by P. D. Workman

  “Uh… what?” Tamara asked for clarification, hoping she wasn’t talking to a ghost.

  “You have a visitor.” He pronounced it slowly and clearly as if she were deaf or stupid. He still didn’t disappear.

  “Who?”

  He tilted his head. “French. Get your butt out of your bunk and come. I’m not your personal secretary.”

  Tamara got up slowly. She moved toward him and he stayed solid and substantial even close up. He moved out of the doorway and she followed him down the hall. She kept her eyes out for other guards who might actually be real and would take away her privileges if they found her walking in the hallway, talking to herself.

  No one stopped them. Kirk opened the security doors with his code and escorted Tamara to the visitor room. She had to walk through an x-ray machine to prove she wasn’t carrying any weapons and then he led her to a small meeting room. Not a wide-open visitor room like Minimum had, and not the little cubicles with bullet-proof glass between them and a telephone to talk to each other on. A small meeting room, where she was patted down, and then sat on the stained chair that looked like it had come from a garage sale or salvage store. She was not handcuffed or shackled. The door was shut and she sat there by herself, wondering what was going on. It had to be a dream, a new nightmare that she hadn’t experienced before. Pinching herself and biting the inside of her cheek did not help. She didn’t wake up from the strange dream.

  The door opened again, and Mrs. Henson walked in. Tamara blinked at her. From strange to stranger. Mrs. Henson smiled.

  “Tamara! How are you doing?”

  Tamara just stared at her. Mrs. Henson didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands. Maybe Tamara was supposed to hug her or shake her hand, but she was glued to her seat, unable to fathom what the strange dream meant.

  “Uh—hi.”

  Mrs. Henson moved to the other side of the table and sat down. She leaned her elbows on the table, making herself closer to Tamara.

  “It’s nice to see you again. How are you getting along?”

  “I’m… I dunno.” Tamara had no script for the situation. She had no idea what she was supposed to say.

  Mrs. Henson smiled. She brush a lock of blond hair back from her face. “I don’t mean for this to be awkward. I just thought… I knew you weren’t getting any visitors… and I couldn’t imagine not ever having anyone from the outside to talk to. So I thought… I could visit you now and then, if you didn’t mind.”

  “Okay… I guess so.”

  “Are you settling back in? You’re looking better than you did. Your face, I mean.”

  The last time Mrs. Henson had seen Tamara was after Tamara had been beaten by Vernon and Sly. Bruised face, cut up inside and out, having had hardly anything to eat or any sleep. Taking care of the baby that was literally driving her crazy. Not Tamara’s finest moment.

  “I guess I’m better.”

  Mrs. Henson studied her for a minute, silent. “But maybe having some trouble settling back in?” she suggested.

  “Yeah.”

  “I can’t imagine how difficult it must be. Everything you’ve gone through over the last few months.”

  Tamara nodded.

  “Do you have friends here?”

  “No, no friends.”

  Mrs. Henson seemed at a loss for words for a moment. “How about classes? What is your favorite class?”

  Tamara thought about it. Classes were something that she did to fill the time. Something other than sitting in her cell all day. She didn’t have a favorite class or teacher. Most of the work was remedial, so boring that she felt like she was sitting in a kindergarten class. One of the teachers had tried to get her to sign up for some distance-learning college courses, but Tamara had just rolled her eyes and brushed it off. She wasn’t advanced enough to be taking college courses. She wasn’t even taking high school classes.

  “I dunno. Maybe… English.”

  Mrs. Henson nodded. “I always liked English. Even when we had assigned books we had to read. I really enjoyed that part.”

  Tamara nodded. She looked around the room for a moment. Just a plain white meeting room, with the furniture and a camera bubble in the ceiling. Were they watching her talking to Mrs. Henson? Listening in? They were allowed to listen to visitor conversations, Tamara knew. Unless she was talking to her lawyer. And there was no reason for her to be talking to a lawyer. She’d never even had one come to see her.

  “The girls have been asking after you,” Mrs. Henson said. “They were very excited that I was coming to see you. They want to know how you’re doing.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Say ‘hi’ for me, I guess.”

  “I will. They both send their love.”

  There was another lull in conversation. Tamara knew she should be doing better about holding up her end of the conversation. But she couldn’t think of anything to say. She hadn’t expected anyone to come and see her, and she hadn’t prepared any conversation topics. What would she tell Mrs. Henson about? Fights in the showers? Losing track of the schedule that had been engraved into her brain for three years? How she seemed to be gradually falling to pieces?

  “Have you heard anything? About… the Bakers? Do you know if… is he still in prison? And Mrs. Baker…?” Tamara took a deep breath, suddenly unable to get enough oxygen. “I just want to know… if they’re…”

  “I don’t really know any details. As far as I know, Mr. Baker is still in prison. He wasn’t given bail. Mrs. Baker… there’s an investigation, but I don’t know if they’ve made any determination.”

  “They didn’t give Amy back to her, did they?”

  Mrs. Henson hesitated. Tamara was afraid she knew the answer.

  “I just don’t know, Tamara. They wouldn’t tell me anything like that. It isn’t any of my business.”

  Tamara nodded. She looked down at the table.

  “You know we’re proud of you, don’t you, Tamara? The way you helped Mr. Collins, back when… you were on parole. And coming to the house with the baby to try to make things right… Those were hard decisions. But you did the right thing. We’re proud of you for that.”

  “Two decisions out of two hundred,” Tamara sighed. “Yay, me.”

  “You can only make one at a time. Just keep moving forward.”

  “I guess.”

  “Is there anything… I could do for you? Or get for you?”

  Tamara lifted her head. That was a benefit of having visitors that she hadn’t thought about.

  “You mean like cigarettes?”

  Mrs. Henson shook her head. “That’s not exactly what I was thinking, no. It’s not even legal for me to buy you cigarettes.”

  Tamara considered this. “Other girls have them.”

  “I don’t know who is buying them, or why the administration would be allowing them to be brought in. There are some very strict laws about supplying tobacco to minors. Even some of the adult prisons aren’t allowing tobacco products anymore.”

  All of a sudden, Tamara was really craving a nicotine fix. Nothing like telling her she couldn’t have something to make her want it more.

  “Does the administration know the inmates have cigarettes?” Mrs. Henson asked, frowning.

  Back when Glock had first gotten Tamara hooked, the inmates had been allowed to carry their own matches and lighters. But, of course, there had been problems with people using them for things other than lighting cigarettes. Then they had been banned and for a week no one could light up. All of the smokers were climbing the walls, many of them experimenting with other ways of getting their fix from the tobacco supplies they had. Glock had been a terror, and Tamara was sure that one reason the new policy had evolved was to get her calmed down. The guards in the yard carrying lighters became the new normal and things settled back down.

  Were the senior administrators like Rice aware of the use and traffic of cigarettes within the facility? Tamara didn’t see how they could not be. While there were progressively fewer inmates who smoked
or had access to cigarettes, those who did couldn’t hide the smell. The yard was always littered with cigarettes in spite of the prominent garbage receptacles. Cigarettes might not be available through the commissary, but the administration would have to be blind not to be aware of them.

  Mrs. Henson was still looking at Tamara inquiringly. Tamara tried to pick up the thread of the conversation.

  “I guess… they look the other way.” She shrugged. “It’s not like it’s crack.”

  “It is still very detrimental to your health. Do you know how many kids die of oral cancers?”

  Tamara shifted in her chair. She looked toward the door to see if Kirk or one of the other guards was nearby. She scratched the back of her neck.

  “I could bring you other things,” Mrs. Henson suggested. “I’ll get a list of what’s allowed.”

  Tamara shrugged. She hadn’t had any personal items or allowance in the three years she had been there, so she was used to making do without any of the extras.

  “Books?” Mrs. Henson suggested. “Something to help pass the time?”

  “Yeah, sure. They only allow paperbacks. No hardcovers.”

  Mrs. Henson smiled. “Great! I’ll pick something up for you, then. What do you like to read?”

  “Anything. I’ve read all of what’s in the library.”

  “I’ll bring you something next time, then.”

  Tamara nodded. Mrs. Henson drummed her fingers on the table. “I’m hoping that we can help you get to a place where you can succeed next time you’re paroled.”

  Tamara vaguely remembered Collins talking to her about the next time she could try for parole. He would talk to the parole board in her support. She had royally screwed up her parole the first time and she was sure the parole board would take into account the fact that she’d been part of a prison-break and kidnapping since then.

  “That’s nice of you… but I don’t think I’m going to be getting out of here anytime soon.”

  “I know it seems like a long time, but before you know it, you’ll be at the year mark and able to apply again.”

  “They’re not going to approve me.”

  “If you demonstrate good behavior between now and then, show that you’re back on the right track, they’ll certainly consider it.”

  Tamara shook her head.

  “You’ve got a good record. You’ve demonstrated remorse for your crime, you’ve followed the rules in detention and been a mentor for other inmates. Those are all things in your favor. Not everybody is able to make it the first try, but if we work with you, make sure you’re more ready next time…”

  Tamara French has been a model inmate throughout her incarceration. Had they really said that about her just a few months before? Tamara was quite sure that if she went before the parole board now, they would be presented with a very different point of view.

  “Is something wrong, Tamara?”

  “Just… don’t count on it. Things are different now.”

  Mrs. Henson’s eyes were searching. “What is it? I suppose since you’ve gotten so much time in the spotlight, maybe some of the others are giving you attitude. Are you being bullied? Is the administration giving you a hard time for what happened?”

  Tamara rubbed the space between her eyebrows. “I dunno. Nothing seems… nothing is the same anymore. And I’m not…” She searched for a way to say that she wasn’t a model inmate anymore. How many times had she been told that if she followed the rules she would get what she wanted? Obeying didn’t mean she got justice. It just meant she was easier for the rule-makers to control. Just like Glock had said. Tamara didn’t actually get any benefit out of it. “I’m… not that girl anymore.”

  She pressed her palms against her aching eyeballs. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she was back on the track she had been on before juvie. A girl who was trapped and could only escape by breaking the rules. By doing something awful.

  “Do you want me to talk to someone?” Mrs. Henson suggested. “You sound like you could use some help… maybe some counseling?”

  Talk therapy wasn’t going to get Tamara anywhere. She had been talking for three years and it hadn’t gotten her anything she wanted.

  “No. I already do that.”

  “I’d like to know how I can help you, Tamara. I don’t usually work with kids while they’re still in juvie, but we’ve dealt with enough of them over the years that I think I have a lot to offer. I’m not going to be shocked by anything you say.”

  “I just… I don’t need your help. Maybe you shouldn’t come back. Just don’t worry about me.”

  “I’m going to come back.” Mrs. Henson put her hand over Tamara’s on the table. “I’ll bring you back some books and we’ll talk again. Maybe then you’ll be in a better mood.”

  Tamara shook off her touch.

  “It’s not just a mood.”

  6

  SHE HAD SPENT a good deal of the day thinking about how to handle the threat from the Sharks. She knew that there was no point in relying on security or administration to deal with it. As much as they might think they could keep her from getting hurt, they couldn’t watch her twenty-four hours a day. There were too many girls, too many opportunities for someone to get hurt.

  Instead, she had to figure out how to address the threat herself. She would have to make the first strike. It would have to be good, because if she screwed it up they would just think she was weak and an even more attractive target. Gone were the days when she could rely on someone else to watch her back for her. She didn’t want to be that girl anymore anyway, trading favors to hide behind someone who was bigger and stronger. Being small didn’t mean that she was weak. Being one person didn’t mean she couldn’t stand up to the gang. But she had to be smart about it.

  At breakfast, she sat down in one corner, with her piece of toast and roiling, knotted stomach, and watched the girls who sat down at the Sharks’ table. She knew who they all were. Some had been there a couple of years. Some only a couple of weeks. None of them were old hands, there for as long as Tamara had been. So she had the advantage of experience over them.

  Being an independent, a lone wolf, meant that she could get around without being noticed as easily as the gang girls. They usually had to move in groups. Being in a gang in juvie was supposed to make them stronger, like having a family, but it did put a big target on their backs as far as the guards were concerned. They had to always be aware of which gangs each of the girls was in, to watch for political tensions between them.

  Perez said something to Lewis, who turned around to look at Tamara. Tamara easily adjusted her gaze to middle-distance, not focused on anyone in the gang, and in a few moments, Lewis turned back to her gang and continued her breakfast, unconcerned.

  Tamara switched her focus to the back of Lewis’s head, staring hard at her, transmitting enmity and loathing, seeing if she could make Lewis turn back around again with the intensity of her gaze. Lewis put her hand over the back of her neck as if blocking the stare. She moved her hand up to rub the back of her head. Several of the Sharks were swiveling to look at Tamara. As soon as Lewis’s hand started to drop from her head, Tamara turned and looked in the other direction and, in her peripheral vision, was rewarded by the sight of Lewis turning around again to look at her, but finding Tamara was looking away. Let Lewis be paranoid about whether Tamara was watching her or whether her own gang was gaslighting her.

  Meanwhile, Tamara was tallying the strengths and weaknesses of each of the Sharks, picking her target and her timing.

  She was counting on the Sharks waiting two days before coming after her. Just long enough for everyone to be letting down their guard, not long enough for anyone to forget what the retaliation was for. There was no lesson to be learned if the population at large didn’t know what behavior Tamara was being punished for.

  That meant that Tamara had only one day to plan her own approach.

  She picked early afternoon. People had a post-lunch slump early in the aftern
oon. The sun was high in the sky so no one anticipated danger the same way they did when it started to get dark out or the return-to-cell bell rang. People were lazy and sloppy early in the afternoon.

  Tamara watched Waterson break away from the main group of the Sharks and head to the bathroom. It wasn’t far, and no one thought there was a need for her to be protected. Tamara left the room and headed in the direction of her own cell. Nobody paid any mind. She circled around and walked back in the direction of the toilets.

  There was a blind corner, a little alcove a short distance away from the restroom door. Tamara picked up her speed and jogged along, silent in her worn, prison-issue tennis shoes. When she was almost caught up to Waterson, she slowed back down again, took a deep, calming breath, and called out.

  “Hey! Hey, Waterson.” She used a little voice, barely above a whisper, a scared girl, not a threat.

  Waterson turned around. She looked at Tamara, and Tamara saw all concern fade from her expression. That was good. Lewis hadn’t given her any reason to be worried about Tamara. Waterson gave a broad sneer.

  “Frenchie. What are you doing here? Did you get lost?”

  “Listen. I wanted to talk to you.” Tamara looked around, as if she were afraid someone might overhear them. She drew closer to Waterson. Just a jump away from her. Waterson wasn’t bothered. If anything, the sneer grew even more scornful.

  “Talk to me about what? You’re dead meat, don’t you realize that, French?”

  “No—I—can’t I just talk to you? If I could explain, and you could tell Lewis…”

  Waterson reached out a long arm and gave Tamara a shove. It wasn’t even a hard shove, to show her who was boss. It was a weak, uncaring, unconcerned push, like she couldn’t even be bothered.

  “Tell Lewis? Why don’t you tell Lewis yourself, princess? You think you got everyone here eating out of your hand. Why don’t you have one of your pet guards talk to Lewis, if you’re too scared?”