“Stay back! This man is armed and dangerous!” the uniformed officer tells me.
“No, he’s not!” I shout back as tears fill my eyes and overflow.
“He’s the sole suspect wanted for questioning in the murders of six people, ma’am,” a cop comes over and tells me as two others roughly shove Nash into the back of a cruiser. “Once he’s convicted, he’ll be locked up for the rest of his life, so I suggest you don’t waste another tear for him.”
“But…I don’t understand. How did you know he was even out here?”
“We got an anonymous tip that he was raising hell and had a gun on him,” the cop replies. “You should be glad we got here when we did.”
“Right, yeah, glad,” I mutter sarcastically through the sobs.
And I know without a doubt that Nash is the anonymous caller. I just don’t understand why he would do this here and now, making a scene when he could’ve easily walked in tomorrow to the police station with an attorney to answer their questions.
Unless…he wanted me to see him for how he sees himself – a no-good criminal. He was trying to give me closure, seeing him taken away in handcuffs, treated like scum.
But the last thing I want from him is closure. What is it going to take for me to finally prove that to him?
Nash
* * *
I’d never been checked into jail for a long stay before, and it was nothing like just being stuck in a holding cell. For one, they actually took all of my clothes when I arrived, stripping me down and doing a very thorough examination to make sure I wasn’t hiding any contraband in any unusual areas. After that, I had to stand in some weird-ass fucking line-up with my face covered. Then, they gave me a set of cheap polyester boxers, an overly large brown top and bottom to wear, a pillow and a scratchy blanket.
When the guard escorts me out of intake and to the cell block I’ll be staying on, I’m appalled at the wave of noise that hits me, as well as the stench of bleach barely covering a vile mix of urine, feces, and absolutely unholy body odor.
“This garden’s got quite an aroma, don’t it?” the guard escorting me snorts as he points towards a cell. “Things starts to get real stinky when you’ve got this many weeds in one place.”
“Aren’t you just a fucking poet?” a man inside the cell he leads me to snarls. “Missed your calling in life when you took this shit job, didn’t you?”
“Shut the fuck up, Frankie, and say hello to your new roommate,” the guard replies, seeming completely unoffended by the man’s insults.
I stare at the small cell, which has a set of bunk beds on each side, all four currently occupied. “So, uh…I’m on the floor or what?” I ask in confusion.
“We’ll get you a cot to set up in the center,” the guard clarifies.
“Oh…great,” I sigh.
“It ain’t so bad,” the prisoner named Frankie says, waving me over. “We’ve had to cram two cots in here before, between the bunks. End up climbing all over each other at night trying to get to the toilet. One cot ain’t so bad, gives us a little room to walk at least.”
“Yeah, all kinds of room for activities with only five of us stuffed in here,” I gripe.
“Hey, get used to it, man,” Frankie grins. “Unless you’re a short-timer, you gotta adjust to this life, or it will fuck you up. I’ve been to prison, and it ain’t no better once you get to the state facilities. Fed can be a little better, if it’s a low security place, but something tells me that ain’t where you’re headed. Am I right?”
“Man, I don’t even know where the fuck I’m headed right now,” I tell him. "I’m still not entirely sure how I ended up here.”
“That’s the spirit, brother,” Frankie says with a grin. “Maintain your innocence — deny, deny, deny. Be careful talking to anyone in here; most of these chumps will try to pry something out of you, just so they can use it against you and try to get their own time reduced. Unless you know someone in here from outside, fuck ‘em.”
“Solid advice,” I concede as I stand awkwardly in the cell, still holding onto the pillow and blanket I was given. “So, uh…any other words of wisdom?”
“Hah, words of wisdom, he says!” Frankie barks. “Not really. But, look, if this shit gets to be too much for you, you can try to get tossed in the hole. Solitary fucks some people up in the head; they can’t take it for long periods. But for a week or two at a time, it can be real fucking pleasant. You can actually get some sleep, and no one tries to steal your fucking food. If worse comes to worse, you can always do something to get yourself a little mini vacation down there. Probably get time added to your sentence, though, so it might not be worth it. Keep that in mind.”
“Thanks, man,” I sigh as I see the guard coming back with a folding cot that he tosses carelessly on the ground near me. “Guess I’ll get comfortable.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lucy
* * *
“What are you doing to help Nash?” I ask Malcolm and the rest of the men sitting around the table in the back of the pool hall when I bust in on them the morning after Nash was arrested.
“Who is she?” a buff blonde man asks. “Someone’s kid sister?”
“I think she wants to be Nash’s old lady,” Malcolm replies. “What are you doing here, Lucy?”
“Well, after seeing Nash get handcuffed right in front of my apartment and dragged to jail, I’ve been driving myself crazy all last night wondering if there’s something I can do to get him out.”
“What the hell do you think you can do?” the guy with his head shaved on the sides snaps at me. “Sprinkle pixie dust on the cops to make them go to sleep so we can sneak in and unlock the cell block?”
“Actually, I’m a damn good hacker, asshole!” I reply.
“She really is,” Malcolm vouches for me.
“So, what can I do, Malcolm?”
“Jay Hughes, the attorney we hired for Nash, finally talked to the district attorney this morning. He said that they have eye-witness testimony; someone picked him out of a lineup. Only two people were there other than the ones in this room, and I’m certain that none of us are the rat. We’re looking for the guard we let walk even though it doesn’t make sense to only call out Nash,” Malcolm explains.
“You’re seriously telling her our business?” the big jerk with grease stains peeking out from under his cut says.
Malcolm sighs heavily as he runs his fingers through his long hair. “If it will help Nash, then yeah, I am!”
“My laptop’s in the car. Let me grab it, and then you can give me his name so I can track this bastard down,” I reply.
“Our PI has been searching for him since we found out about the warrants last week and can’t find him. What makes you think you can?” the guy with long, black hair asks. I’m pretty sure he must be Devlin, Jetta’s man. He’s almost too pretty; and with all that perfect hair, well, he’s a cosmetologist’s wet dream.