Page 59 of Shame
Hour after hour pass by. People come and go.
Every sense of self-preservation suddenly stands on high alert as a tall, broad man with tattoos crawling up along his neck, a thick, dark mane of hair, and dark eyes, saunters into the holding cell. I flinch when the door slams shut behind him.
He shoves a smaller guy off a bench and sits, his legs spread so wide no one else would even think of trying to sit next to him.
I keep track of him out of the corner of my eye, and the hair at my nape rises when I feel his eyes on me. I am at the opposite side of the room, having found a space on a bench myself. Lifting my head, I face him head on, meeting his dark gaze. He oozes of threat. He keeps looking at me, stone faced. He doesn’t move. I don’t even see him blink. I fight to keep my breathing calm when every instinct tells me to run. But run where? There’s no getting away.
He’s here for me. I know it. He’s been let in on some fake charges, and he’s here to tell me I’m dead.
It was obviously unfathomably stupid to attempt to take down Salvatore. But at least I was man enough to try. I had to try to give some justice to Carmen.
He doesn’t budge, the fucker, and finally I can’t stand the pissing contest and look away, trying to look bored, and as if I’m totally uninterested. My heart slams hard in my chest, though, and every limb feels as if they’re carbonated. I glance at the other men. Everyone is quiet, observing our exchange, except for the doped-up guy in the corner, who probably needs to be in the hospital and not locked up here.
The door opens, making everybody flinch in the tense atmosphere.
“Payne!”
I breathe a sigh of relief. At least a few moments of respite. As I walk past him, I square my shoulders, refusing to show my fear.
I’m pushed to a spot in front of a desk and place my feet on the two painted foot-shaped well-worn patches on the floor.
“Name and social security number.”
I don’t answer, making my face neutral, zoning out. I have no reason to cooperate. My insides crawl with the anticipation of what’s to come, but I refuse to show it. Fuck them.
The lady repeats the question. The two guards next to me grip my arms.
“Answer, you little weasel.”
When I don’t, they sigh, an irritated hiss through clenched teeth, and pull me with them for further processing. Pictures. Frontal, side. Fingerprints. Then I’m led through one corridor after another. We end up in a cold gray room with three chairs and a table attached to the floor. There’s a surveillance camera in the upper far corner, and a large one-way mirror taking up most of the wall opposite from the chair they push me down on.
Then I’m left alone.
It feels like forever before two new cops arrive, these ones in civilian clothes. One is a tired mess of a man, a thick blond mustache with streaks of gray, bags under his hooded eyes, his beige pants and yellow short-sleeved shirt wrinkled. There are sweat stains in his armpits, and he stinks. The other is his opposite, a dark gray suit, a neatly trimmed, intentional two day-stubble, well-combed hair. I wonder if they’re both bought, or just the fancy cop.
“I’m Holsom. This is detective Channing.” Fancy Cop points to himself and then to his colleague.
He presses a button on a recorder and puts it on the table in front of me. “Can you state your name for the record?”
I don’t say a word.
They keep asking. I’m quiet. There is no reason for me to say shit. They caught me, gun in hand, in a slaughterhouse. I know there won’t be a trial, because I’ll be dead long before that, so asking for a lawyer is pointless. Staring at them, but not really seeing them, I wonder exactly how painful my death will be? Will I cry and beg like some do? Will I be strong until the very end? I’ve seen it all. I know how it feels to deal death. I’ve never been at the receiving end. Obviously.
Finally, they look at each other and sigh. Wrinkly has an expression of deep distaste while Fancy keeps his face as neutral as I do. He’s the bought one. He’s got that air of self-confidence you get from knowing you’re untouchable.
Fancy reaches for the inner pocket in his suit jacket and brings out a note that he begins to read from.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”
I interlace my fingers and rest my arms on the table, staring him down.
“Oh for fuck’s sake. Get him back to holding. He won’t be as fucking cocky tonight in county.”
County jail. Where I’ll meet my inevitable fate.
Carmen
The little one lies on my bed with the comforter arranged around him like a wall. He can’t turn yet, though, so he won’t fall off anyway. I’ve just fed him and he’s sound asleep. I didn’t plan on breastfeeding the little bastard, I don’t want to be close to him, but my boobs are so swollen I can scream. They leak and ache. It’s fucking horrible. It’s worse than giving birth, because that ended. This I live with day and night for two and a half weeks now, every moment torture, except for right after he’s fed.
