In Defense of Good Women

Sometime later, in another cell, a toilet whooshes and a thick body in a brown uniform appears outside my cell.  It’s Art Jones, the burly undersheriff, the man in charge of this place.  He switches on the fluorescents; the hall lights buzz and snap to attention, and he steps back, rocks on his heels and watches me.  Despite the oppressive heat, I feel a chill.

“The prosecutor’s here,” he says in a low voice.

Barrett?

Josephine, the day-shift matron, appears in my cell, removes the untouched tray and returns, holding a chain and a pair of handcuffs.  “Use the toilet.”  She’s a large woman who pronounces her words sharply, loud enough for Art to hear.  “There’s none where we’re going.”

“Move it, Counselor,” Art says.  “Just get yourself in those cuffs so we can bring you up front.”

I stand, raise my chin and square my shoulders. 

Josephine points to the floor in front of her. “Arms up.  By your face.”   

Stepping closer, I raise my arms and clasp my hands together.  She wraps the chain around my waist and loops the handcuffs through.  I start when the metal touches my bruises.

“What happened?” she asks.

“A present from the bondsman.”     

Her eyes don’t leave my face when she locks the metal bands, giving the key an exaggerated twist.  Not tight enough to rub.  “He prob’ly just didn’t want you to slip away.  Again.”  Spoken so Art can hear.  I wonder if she’s on my side in all this but I don’t trust her enough to ask.  Women, in particular, seem to have strong feelings about what I’ve done. 

I silently mouth my thanks, and she cradles my elbow with her hand as she propels me forward, following Art past the other women’s cells, most of which are empty.  A toothless woman in one grins at us; her pasty arm reaches into the hall and points ominously at our little parade.  

We reach the men’s block, and Art unlocks a heavy door, slams it behind us, then leads us through the periphery of cells.  There’s hollering, the giggling of perky hosts on a local morning TV show, a series of doors to be unlocked and resecured.  We reach the rear of the building, the side facing the river, and Art nods toward the opening of a dingy room.  When he flips a light switch and points, I step inside, resisting the urge to jostle my chains as I walk past him.  Art’s a cog in this screwed-up machine but he’s not the reason I’m in here. 

A beat-up metal desk, a couple of wooden chairs, and a grimy, barred window await.  The room’s chilly; there’s no heat other than what leaks from the corridor.  In a corner of the dingy glass, a thick-bodied wolf spider stops working.  Beyond the lacy strands of its web, the river’s thick, grey water reflects threatening skies.  On the opposite shore, behind the Ontario petrol plants, a series of large, electrical towers stride toward Toronto like an alien chain gang. 

In the twenty years I’ve practiced, I never showed up to promote a client’s cause without being meticulously prepared.  Unlike my father, extemporaneous speeches were never my forte, so I outlined and memorized each and every point I planned to argue to a prosecutor, a judge, or a jury. 

But I haven’t done a single thing to get ready for this morning’s meeting.  This time I only have one argument to make, and it’s not legal, it’s personal.  Besides, Barrett already knows what I have to say.      

I sense the weight of the chains around my waist, the handcuffs rubbing the thin bones of my tender wrists, and I reflexively shudder.  My eyelids feel heavy; suddenly, even thinking seems a burden I’m not sure I can manage.  I need to be certain Barrett understands the consequences of all this, but can I find the words?  What if he calls my bluff?  These days I don’t know who he is or what he’s capable of. 

I could also say the same about me.  I was a big-shot attorney in a small town, a success according to all my aspirations, the very definition of the word until Callie came into my life.  Then somehow my principles got fuzzy and confusing.  I began questioning, then crossing every boundary I’d always valued: professional, legal, personal, even geographical, it didn’t matter.   

My thoughts drift to her, a seventeen-year-old girl who’s counting on me, and uncharacteristically I whisper a prayer, pleading with God to keep her safe.  I know I’ll sacrifice myself if I have to, but I refuse to let her down.  Not like I did before.

In the hall, Art and Josephine are making small talk.  The spider resumes its spinning, oblivious to my presence.  I take a breath and swallow what little saliva I can muster.  Then I lower myself into the chair behind the desk and wait.