1
Denim
The prison walls were closing in on me. Six fucking years behind bars were enough to make a man go batshit crazy. What was more maddening was the fact that I was innocent. I swore if I found out who’d set me up, I would slice and dice the fucker.
A chair scraped along the floor in the library. A big-ass-dude carried a book to a shelf while a guard stood watch at the door. It wasn’t as if any of us would break out of the library and use books as weapons. Then again, inmates hid shivs in books.
Rubbing my eyes, I flopped my head back, taking in the smell of old and worn books. For the last hour, I’d been trying to prepare a speech for my parole hearing. On the advice of my lawyer, I should be ready to paint a pretty picture of what my future looked like if they granted me parole. Unfortunately, my brain wasn’t working.
Just tell them how you reformed. College classes. A model prisoner.
I pulled on my shoulder-length blond hair as I righted my head and squinted at the blank notepad. I’d torn up about ten sheets of paper after starting and stopping several times.
I snagged the pen and tried tosay what I felt.
Dear Parole Board, I’m angry as fuck for spending six years in this hellhole for a murder I DID NOT commit.
Maybe if I emphasized some words, they would get the message.
I crossed out my first sentence and tried again.
Dear Parole Board, how can I reform for a crime I didn’t commit?
I could hear them answering with, “Mr. Hart, the jury found you guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.”
I blamed the moronic court-appointed attorney who’d tried my case. He hadn’t gone to bat for me. He’d given up before I’d even sat down in court.
“Your best bet is to plead guilty,” he’d said. “Save the taxpayers’ money.”
I would’ve hired my own lawyer if I had the money.
Asshole.
Many times in the last six years, I’d dreamed of strangling him. I’d argued with the fucker until I’d been blue in the face.
“Do you think I’m stupid enough to leave the murder weapon at a crime scene? And in my backpack no less!” I’d shouted at the man.
I’d forgotten my backpack on the night in question when I’d left Hector Alvarez’s apartment. More importantly, Hector had been alive and kicking when I left.
Regardless, murder wasn’t my MO. Never in a million years would I shoot a person unless it was in self-defense, and Hector hadn’t given me any reason to defend myself. He and I had gotten along great except when I was late turning in the loot after a night of drug sales. I had been late that night, which was what I’d explained in my statement to the cops.
Hector had yelled, but I’d taken my licks, and we’d moved on.No need to kill him for reprimanding me.Besides, Hector hadn’t been a hothead like his younger brother, Tito. That fucker wouldn’t think twice about shooting me if I pissed him off or he didn’t get his way.
I tapped my pen on the pad, my nerves singing as I tried for the millionth time to figure out who had put the Glock used to kill Alvarez in my backpack—the same gun I’d seen sitting on the coffee table in front of Hector.
I growled low as a big-ass dude strutted by, snarling at me as though he wanted to snap my neck.
I ground my back teeth together. “What’s your problem?” I’d never seen him around before, and I knew just about everyone in most cellblocks.
He backtracked then slapped his fat hands down on the table across from me, causing the stack of books next to me to bounce. “You.”
I debated if I wanted to mitigate my frustration by knocking his crooked yellow teeth from his mouth, break his large nose, or squeeze his bulging eyes out of his pointed head.
I shucked the idea. The hole was the last place I wanted to go, and one fight could put my good behavior in jeopardy, which meant I might not get parole.
But my mouth impeded my brain. “Feeling’s mutual.”
He flared his nostrils.
