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29
Callie
My knee bounces while I wait at the cold, metal table for Luke’s wife. The empty feeling in the pit of my stomach grows more acute with each passing minute.
She should be here by now.
The other prisoners are already sitting with their visitors. I can’t work out why Jolene hasn’t entered the courtyard yet. Unless she’s refusing to see me.
As my head throbs with a headache, I wish I had my handbag with me, but they forbid any personal belongings here. I had to lock them away in a locker. I have no notebook or pen either; everything she says—if she comes out—will need to be filed in my brain for later note taking.
The allowed visiting time is one hour only. At this point, I think we’re down to fifty minutes if she comes soon.
More time passes and my hope begins to fade. It appears I’ve taken the morning off work for nothing. And without speaking to Jolene, I’m not sure I’ll have much to continue this investigation with.
Another few minutes slide by. Just as I’m about to concede defeat today, a woman walks my way.
Jolene.
I’ve seen photos of her online and in Marion’s file. This woman is a ghost of her former self, but I can make out that it’s her. The long dark hair is gone, replaced by short hair that looks like she hacked at it herself. Dull skin sits in place of the glowing, tanned skin she once had. Her weight has dropped considerably. Jolene had curves in the photos I saw; she’s now stick thin, almost skin and bones.
Luke’s wife was once beautiful.
She’s not anymore.
I stand as she approaches. I smile, unsure if that’s the right thing to do. She doesn’t return it, so I let it go.
“Hi. Jolene?” My voice gives away my uncertainty.
“Yes. Who are you?” Her voice is suspicious.
I sit and wait for her to follow, but she doesn’t. Looking up at her, I give her the information she’s looking for, only fudging it a little. “I’m Callie St James, a reporter. Marion Kowaski showed me the file she had on your case and I’m following up on some leads.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re investigating the murder again?” The ice surrounding her slices through me and I see why people describe her the way they do.
“Please sit and I’ll explain everything.”
She holds back.
I meet her gaze and wait. When she continues standing, I decide my time is running out too fast to delay any longer. “Marion told me she believes in your innocence. I’ve gone over all her notes numerous times and I’ve spoken with Mr Beacon. Now I’d like to talk with you and hear what you have to say.”
“Are you writing another piece on this?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m trying to help you, that’s all.”
She begins picking at the blue shirt she’s wearing. “No… No, I don’t want your help.”
I stand, growing impatient for this to move forward. “Jolene, from where I’m standing I’d say you need all the help you can get. You’re facing decades behind these bars if you don’t accept what I’m offering. Every article I read declares your guilt. No one believes you except Marion and your old neighbour. But more importantly, no one believes them. You’re all out of options. Except for me.”
She steps closer to the table. Her eyes bore into me. “Do you believe me?”
My heart speeds up. “I honestly don’t know. But I have serious doubts and that’s enough for me to pursue this.”
“Well, at least you’re honest.” Her gaze drops to the cement floor for a long moment. Finally, she sits and looks at me. “If you’re not doing a piece for the paper, why are you bothering? What do you get out of this?”
I stare at her. Negative energy seeps out of her. She’s beaten and bruised so deeply I can see her wounds if I dig past the hostile veneer. “I can’t, in good conscience, sit back and let an innocent woman pay for a crime she didn’t commit. I get nothing out of this except knowing I tried to help a human being who is alone in this world and who desperately needs someone in her corner. If you really don’t want my help, just say so now and we can go our separate ways. But if you want me to help prove your innocence, you need to lose the attitude and start talking.”
She shows no response; gives no indication that she is ready to do what I’ve requested. That is until she starts talking. “My first memory of my mother is a night when I was about four or five. We were living in this run-down sorry excuse for a home—a one bedroom flat in one of the worst areas in the city that was always littered with garbage and never cleaned. We had one bed between my mother, my sister and me. I was the youngest, so I often got booted to the floor.” She stops for a moment and glances down at the nail she’s picking.
