“Grab your stuff and come out of the cell,” the voice commands.
I don’t know what stuff he wants me to grab. Other than the Bob Barker soap (I’m not making that up) and the falling-apart jail clothes, I wasn’t really given a lot.
Not wanting to offend the two other women in this cramped concrete-and-cinderblock room, I leave the amenities behind and just stand in front of the door to my cell.
I’m standing here for about a minute, and I’m really starting to feel a little exposed here. Behind me, the women, who have literally said nothing to me at all, just continue to laugh infrequently and seemingly acontextually.
Finally, one of them finds a modicum of mercy.
“They got the cell unlocked for you, Porcelain,” one of them says. “You better get out there before they think you’re tryin’ to resist release or somethin’.”
“Maybe she’s goin’ to the SHU,” the other one says. “You peeled anyone since you been in yet, Porcelain?”
“No,” I say and, for reasons I cannot begin to understand, much less explain, I add, “thank you.”
Apparently I’m Porcelain. I’m not sure if they’re calling me that because I don’t really get much sun or because I’d be so breakable if one of them decided to “peel” me. I don’t know what that one means either, but it sounds a lot less pleasant than being shanked, so I just push against the door, hoping this isn’t some sick joke.
It gives way.
My cell is on the second level, but it’s an open view. Ever since I came into this block, I could just see myself going over this cold metal railing in the inevitable riot that would come once the people in here found out who I am. I guess nobody really cares who I am so much as they’d care about who my parents are.
Either way, I can just see the situation devolving into me being held for ransom on a near-daily basis.
The thick door to the cellblock opens up and one of the guards steps through. Looking up, he motions for me to come toward him.
This block is for people who are either new to jail and haven’t been given their assignments yet, like me, or are considered too dangerous to be outside a locked cell longer than to grab a tray and go back to their cell. The guard on the way in got pretty chatty when she recognized me from the news.
Apparently, this isn’t going to be a quiet thing.
The point, though, is that everyone is in their cells and, as far as I know, the only cell that was unlocked was the one I just came out of. Still, as I’m walking down the metal stairs, I can feel dozens of eyes on me.
It’s not rational, I know, but part of me expects that, at any moment, those cell doors are going to open and I’m going to become the piñata/scapegoat for everyone that’s ever been jerked around by someone in my parents’ tax bracket.
It’s a very specific fear to be sure. Fortunately, nothing comes of it.
“Took you about long enough,” the guard says. “Surprise, surprise: Someone posted your bail. Must be nice not to have to play by the same rules as everyone else, huh?”
I’m not taking the bait. At this moment, though no tragedy other than bad food and bad water has really befallen me, I just want to get out of here and I’m not going to do anything to delay that.
“I’m ready, officer,” I tell the slovenly, unshaved guard.
He lifts one corner of his mouth into a sneer and looks down at me. “Come on, princess. Let’s get you out of here so you can get back to trampling all over the peasantry.”
People really must hate my parents.
Of course, right now I’m the one that’s in jail, and I seriously doubt Mason has the kind of nest egg it must have taken to bail me out of here. Right now, it’s not my parents that people hate. Right now, that person is me.
I keep my mouth shut as I’m walking through the halls that always seem to narrow, but never quite close in entirely.
We get to a room and the guard holds a card up to a black pad next to the door. There’s a quick beep and a green light and the guard opens the door.
“Your clothes are in there,” he says. “Get changed.”
“Thank you,” I tell him. What do I know? Maybe the guy’s just having a bad day and I might just be able to help him turn that around.
“Don’t spend too much time on your makeup princess,” he says. “It’s not going to change the sucking pit where once there dwelled a heart, now torn and immolated by the anti-social nature of plutocracy.”
Okay, the guy just takes politics way too seriously.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell him and go into the room.
For a brief moment, I’m thinking that because I’m being released on bail, they’re pretty much done with the invasions of privacy, assuming I don’t commit any crimes on the way out. Of course, there’s a female guard in the tiny space, standing next to the clothes I was wearing when they brought me in.
She stays in the room, her eyes quite active while I go through the process of returning their garb. We don’t talk.
Now dressed and ready, I’m led down another hallway. We go through three separate passkey-locked doors before we get to an area with an exit sign that actually means something.
“See you soon, honey,” the new guard says, giving me what I’m hoping is meant to be an encouraging pat on the butt.
I’m feeling pretty good about things until someone new is telling me, “This way.”
The third guard now leads me away from the exit and down another hallway. We get a couple of doors in and he opens one, motioning for me to go inside.
“What is this?” I ask. “I thought you were letting me go.”
“I was told to bring you by here before releasing you,” the guard says. “I’m just doing my job, ma’am.”
“I wasn’t accusing you of not doing your—fine, whatever,” I say and enter the new room.
No sooner am I past the doorway than I spot the person who must have paid my bail: Johnson B. Witherton VI, Esq.
“Ashley,” the aging lawyer says, getting up from his seat and motioning toward mine. “If you’ll close the door and have a seat.”
I do.
“Am I getting out of here or what?” I ask.
“First off, let me tell you how deeply sorry I am that you are in the position you’re in right now,” he says.
“I’m glad someone’s going to apologize,” I respond. “Did my parents tell you I was actually involved in their little scheme?”
“I can’t talk about other clients,” the lawyer says. “First off—”
“You already did a ‘first off,’” I interrupt.
“So I did,” he responds with a painfully fake laugh. “Well, second off, then,” he says. “My fees are taken care of, and I will be your attorney throughout this unfortunate business. Let me assure you, they have no case. All that’s happening is that enemies of your parents are trying to hurt them by hurting you. There is no justification for what they’re doing and it is absolutely criminal, criminal that they would attempt to hurt my clients by setting their sights on—”
“Mr. Witherton?” I interrupt. “Is someone listening in on this conversation, or did you forget that me and my parents do, occasionally, talk?”