Revealing Marianne’s name to his attorney would be the first crack in the dam. It might seem harmless at first, but it could lead to events he couldn’t control.
“Is it her?” Gray asked, watching him carefully.
Luke met his brother’s eyes. “What makes you think it might be her?” He was glad Gray didn’t bring up Marianne’s name. Mr. Alphonse had promised him confidentiality, but Luke didn’t quite trust him.
“Just a feeling I have,” Gray said. “If it’s her, the law might go easy on her. She has connections.”
Luke’s heart pounded. “Those connections might throw her out into the cold.”
“It was the risk she agreed to take.”
“I won’t.” All hope for a quick release from prison evaporated, and he looked at Mr. Alphonse as a crushing sense of resignation took root. “I’m not saying anything. Please prepare for a trial.”
Twenty-Six
Luke sat in the cafeteria, a plate of unappetizing hash on the table before him. On either side, men wolfed down the meal, but Luke had no appetite. The irony! He was at last off the Poison Squad, but anxiety made it hard to eat. He’d been here a week and was already losing weight.
He lifted his eyes to scrutinize all four corners of the ceiling. It was a tall space, probably around fifteen feet high. There were narrow windows near the tops of the walls for light, but they didn’t open. If he was to escape through those windows, he’d have to bust them out, and there was no guarantee what he’d find on the other side. Barbed wire? Armed guards? Dogs? These cafeteria windows would be a last resort, because he’d seen better means of escape elsewhere.
“If you ain’t eating that, I am,” the man on the bench next to him said.
Luke clutched his plate. “It’s mine,” he said brusquely. He’d get the hash down eventually, but the heaving in his stomach needed to subside first. At least the cafeteria had more space than the cell they locked him in at night, but the smell and the metallic clanging noises were the same as in Cuba.
He lifted his spoon to his mouth, his nose twitching at the scent of bleach still on his hands. His work assignment was in the laundry, generally considered the least desirable job in the entire jail due to the hot dryers and harsh chemicals. Others were assigned to kitchen duty or cleaning the common areas, but most of the men worked in the sewing shop, feeding huge spools of canvas fabric into industrial-sized machines to cut tents, sailcloth, or anything else the US military wanted made with cheap convict labor. The sewing jobs let the men sit down, which made them desirable, but Luke wouldn’t trade his job in the laundry for any of them.
The laundry had the best means of escape.
The next time he made a run for it, he would do it wisely. It might take a while to learn the prison schedules and the best means of escape. He had to be patient, since he’d likely only have one shot at it.
And frankly, he wouldn’t even try until after he was convicted, which was almost a certainty. Unless he turned in Marianne, there was no way he could wiggle off this hook, and that meant he’d probably be sentenced to serve at least five years. He started hyperventilating at the thought, and then the shakes got him.
The man next to him pounded him on the back. “What’s wrong with you?”
Luke slid the plate of hash to him. He wasn’t going to be able to eat it, and the other guy was a mountain of a man who gladly started wolfing it down.
Luke couldn’t take this for five years. He couldn’t. He rested his forehead in his hands, filling his nose with the stink of bleach and despair.
“Fifteen minutes,” a guard shouted, signaling their break for dinner was halfway over. Luke would have another hour of work in the laundry before he’d be returned to his cell.
“Now that’s a sight for sore eyes,” the guy next to him said through his mouthful of hash.
Luke looked up, and his heart nearly stopped. Marianne! It couldn’t be, but it was! A guard escorted her into the cafeteria as she carried her camera looped around her neck. She scanned the crowd, and he lifted his chin.
Her gaze locked with his. He wanted to vault off the bench and run to her, but he stayed stock-still and drank in the sight of her.
She glanced away and quickly took a picture of the steel rolling cart that carried pitchers of water. Somehow she had finagled her way inside the prison to see him. He could tell by the way she’d been searching the faces of the prisoners from the moment she entered the room. She was here for him, and he loved her for it.
She casually strolled toward the first long table of prisoners. “Tell me,” she called out to the group in a loud voice, “if I was to take pictures documenting what it is like to live in this jail, where should I go?”
It was a strange question, but one of the men sitting at the front table stood to answer. “Take a picture of my face,” he said, pointing to the lines fanning from his eyes. “You see those lines? They’ve got Sergeant Holtzman’s name on them.”
“Take a picture of the latrines,” another man said. “You’ve never seen anything so disgusting as those pits.”
Luke instinctively knew what she was asking and waited for the ruckus to calm down.
“Take a picture of the laundry,” he called out.
She met his gaze and moved a few steps closer to him. “The laundry? And where is the laundry?”
“It’s on the west side of the building,” he said. “The inside would make for a good picture . . . but you’d be better off taking pictures from the outside.”
She cocked her head to listen closely. “And why is that?”
“Interesting vents,” he said without hesitation. “Never let it be said that the District of Columbia Jail lacks for modern amenities. Those vents funnel heat outside the building. Moisture too. It’s probably best to photograph them in the early mornings, before lunch.”
She nodded. “I understand.” She gazed at him, and he wallowed in the sensation. Just being in the same room with her was a balm to his soul.
The guard escorting her began to get impatient. “Look, lady, are you going to take pictures in here or not?”
The trance was broken, and she stepped away. “Yes!” she said, quickly preparing her camera for another shot. She moved to the end of the table and beckoned the prisoners to face her.
Luke turned away. This wasn’t how he wanted to be remembered. It was mortifying enough to be stuck in here without it being immortalized on film.
“Thank you,” Marianne said, and he could only assume that meant she’d completed her picture, but he still didn’t turn around. As much as his spirit rejoiced at seeing her, it hurt too. He was beaten down, humbled, and miserable, but Marianne’s arrival sent a jolt of adrenaline into him that could sustain him for weeks.
He finally turned to admire her. She met his gaze, radiating confidence and compassion. He loved her, and somehow they would find a way through this.
The following morning Marianne approached the west side of the prison with a combination of dread and exhilaration. She suspected Luke planned to communicate with her through the vents he’d mentioned.
Which was why a huge chunk of her quivered in trepidation. To the bottom of her soul, she feared his imprisonment was her doing, and their meeting today would probably confirm it.