The two officers—one thin, bald, and dark; the other round, shaggy, and pasty—glance at each other skeptically. They’re so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears, fast and hard, before the lanky one’s face splits into a grin.
“I knew it!” he yells, clapping his hands together. “I knew as soon as y’all walked in here that you were gonna interview me. Finally!” He raises his palms to the sky. “I told myself—I said, ‘Marcel, you just keep doin’ what you doin’, baby. They gon’ notice. And when they do … oooooh … you goin’ to Hollywood!’” He turns to face his partner and slaps him on the arm with the back of his hand. “What did I say? What did I say?”
“Officer Elliott.” Michelle clears her throat. “I’m afraid the governor has instructed us to interview the accused, not the staff.”
The police officer’s face goes somber, and that’s when I recognize him.
He’s the bailiff from TV.
“It would be fantastic if we could have the use of a private room with good lighting, perhaps an interrogation room or—”
“Absolutely not,” a gruff voice interrupts as a man appears from the back hallway. He’s older, weathered, and sporting a military haircut.
“With all due respect, Officer MacArthur, we didn’t bring a lighting crew, and—”
“You will interview the inmate through the bars, and if the governor has a problem with the lighting situation, he can take it up with me.”
“Yes, sir.” Michelle nods before casting me a quick, apologetic look over her shoulder.
My heart sinks.
My palms begin to sweat.
Wes is here.
And I’m going to see him.
Through the bars.
“Very well …” She turns to glance at Flip and me before addressing the officers again, “Shall we get started?”
Here we go.
After a quick pat-down and a trip through the metal detector, we follow all three officers through a security door and down a series of poorly lit hallways. I try to imagine how Wes must have felt while walking down these exact same passageways.
Was he scared? Was he sad? Does he miss me? Have they been mean to him?
The click-clack of my heels and jingle-jangle of the officers’ tool belts echo off the tiled floor as we walk in silence. Each officer is standing next to one of us, and each one has a hand resting on his holstered weapon. We’re completely unarmed—Michelle made sure of that, knowing that we’d be searched and sent through a metal detector—so even though we’re succeeding in getting closer to Wes, my hopes of breaking him out feel further and further away with every step.
Officer Elliott stops in front of an open doorway, bringing our little caravan to a halt. “Can y’all at least get a clip of me introducing the accused before you interview him?” he begs, blocking our path. “Pleeeeease?”
Michelle and Flip exchange a look.
“Uh, sure.” She shrugs.
Officer Elliott’s face morphs from hopeful to elated as he disappears through the doorway. “Hey, handsome! Get up! A reporter lady’s here to interview you on TV, and I get to introduce you! And for God’s sake, comb your hair or somethin’! You look a mess!”
My heart leaps into my throat when I realize who he’s talking to. Who’s on the other side of that doorway.
Oh my God.
It’s him.
It’s actually him.
He’s here.
And I’m here.
How did I even get here?
It doesn’t matter. I’m gonna see Wes.
And it’s gonna be on TV.
Oh no.
I have to interview him.
I don’t know what to say!
I don’t even remember my name! McCartney? Something McCartney!
“Okay, Officer Elliott,” Michelle calls out after getting the thumbs-up from her cameraman, “we’re ready to roll.”
Elliott appears in the doorway with the exuberance of a spokesmodel. He accepts the microphone Flip hands him and takes a deep breath, dropping into the serious bailiff character he plays on TV.
Michelle turns to me. “You ready, Stella?” she asks under her breath.
Stella! That’s it!
I nod and smile through my nerves.
“Okay then. In three … two …” Flip points at Officer Elliott.
“Good afternoon, good people of Georgia. My name”—Elliott turns slightly, giving the camera his best three-quarter profile—“is Officer Marcel Elliott. I’m coming to you from a secure, undisclosed location along with reporter Stella McCartney to bring you an exclusive, behind-the-scenes interview with one of our very own accused. You might remember him from yesterday’s sentencing. He’s a heartthrob with a heart of gold. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you … Wesson … Patrick … Parker!”
Elliott steps to the side and sweeps his hand in the direction of the doorway as Michelle gives me a gentle shove from behind. I stumble three steps forward, almost rolling an ankle in her red stilettos, and look up to find one pale green eye staring at me from beneath a worried, dark brow.
And time.
Stands.
Still.
He’s here.
And I’m here.
And everyone else fades away. Because a lock of shiny brown hair has fallen in front of Wes’s right eye, and all I can think about is reaching through the bars and tucking it behind his ear.
Michelle clears her throat as Elliott shoves the microphone into my hand. I glance behind me at the blinking red light on top of the camera. Then, with my heart thundering in my chest and my legs as wobbly as a newborn foal’s, I take another step closer to the man in the cage.
I watch his posture relax, his attitude go cool. He has no pockets to shove his hands into, so he drapes one over the crosspiece between the bars, resting his weight on his forearm.
His body is playing for the camera, for the cops, and the audience, but his face is all mine. The way he bites the inside of his bottom lip. The way the black of his pupils swallows the green. The way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he tries to force down his emotions.
I try to swallow mine too.
“Ms. McCartney?” Elliott prods.
Wes raises an eyebrow at me and shifts his gaze to the camera over my shoulder.
“Oh, right,” I mumble to myself, looking at the microphone like it’s an alien tool that I have to figure out how to operate. I tap the soft black dome with my finger before I lift it to my mouth. I tell myself to face the camera and say something, but I can’t bear to pull my eyes away from the man standing in front of me.
So, I don’t.
“Mr. Parker—” I clear my throat, hoping no one notices that I sound like I’m about to cry.
“Please, call me Wes.”
He smiles, just for me, and the warmth I feel brings tears to my eyes.
I blink them away and try again.
“Wes”—I swallow—“how are you? I mean, in here. How are you holding up in here?”
God, I’m bombing this!
“How am I?” Wes’s eyes widen in surprise. “I’m …” He shakes his head, looking for the words before a tiny smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’m better than I was a few minutes ago.”