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“Fuck all of that.” I slam my hand down on the table, fingers trembling with anger. “How long do I have to be in here if I’m convicted?”
“If you take the plea bargain?” Beth puts her hands in the air with a slight shrug, shaking her head. “A year, if you’re lucky, and you might get to serve the sentence concomitantly with the conviction you’re in for. You’re young. You were defending your sister. You know, the small things that will work in your favor.”
“And if I’m not lucky?”
“Ten years. Maybe more.”
“They want me to spend ten years of my life in here?”
“It’s small pennies compared to some of these inmates here.” Beth says this like she’s trying to make me feel better. I’m surprised by how shitty she is at her job. Are all lawyers this useless?
“So I plead guilty to the charges?”
Beth nods. “That’s what I would suggest, yes. The sentencing guidelines are lighter for manslaughter.”
There’s nothing more to say, not right now at least. I get to my feet and hold out my hand to shake Beth’s.
“Then I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”
The next morningcomes far too quickly. I’ve barely slept, but honestly it doesn’t make a difference, because I always look like shit. Lace does my hair nice, though, curling tendrils of brown that flow over my shoulders like an overdone shampoo commercial. Sabine dots my lashes with dark mascara, and even Ronnie comes in to wish me luck, though her tone isn’t very convincing. I wonder if she truly cares one way or the other whether I’m released or if I end up here forever. It’s not her problem.
Jaxon and Ms. Armstrong escort me in handcuffs out of the prison and into the back of the large, black van used to transfer the bad guys like me. There are bars on the windows, just like inside, and it’s cold back here, but even the cold doesn’t dilute the stench of fear and sweat from prior prisoners. It’s heavy in the air, stinging my nose hairs. When the back door of the van closes, engulfing me in darkness, I shut my eyes, take a deep breath, and imagine that I’m in a better place. Away from here, away from Ronnie and Lulu and the rest of the women who have threatened me already.
Except for Lace. I imagine I’m still in bed with her, our bodies curled around each other, the heat of her body warming me from the outside in.
The van begins to roll, and I rest my head against the cold steel of the wall, trying to keep my composure. I don’t know what will come of today; but whatever it is, I’m not ready for it.
I don’t believe I ever will be.
Chapter Eight
It’s snowingwhen we get back to the prison. Light, fluffy flakes that stick to my hair and lashes, making me shiver. It coats the ground and the pine trees like powdered sugar on a cake, and everything looks so much more beautiful than it did without it.
Normally, I love the snow.
But today, I feel like I won’t love anything ever again.
Jaxon doesn’t say anything as he escorts me back into the solid iron bars of Ashgate, but I know he heard the judge’s decision. Three years for manslaughter, with the possibility of parole in eighteen months. You know, if I’m a good girl. It’s not the worst they could have done, but it’s not the best, either.
Julie wasn’t there. She hadn’t even shown up. I don’t know why, and it hurts too much to consider the possibilities.
As we enter the strip search room before I can be released back into general, a middle-aged woman meets us. She’s small but fierce, and something about the way she walks and holds herself tells me all I need to know about her. This is the warden.
“Warden,” Jaxon says, nodding once in her direction.
“Mr. Jaxon,” she replies with a curt nod, and then her eyes land on me. Her hands are held behind her back, like a member of the military, and her dark hair is pulled tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck. She’s short, shorter than me probably, and her foundation-caked face looks kind of silly, like she’s trying too hard to fit in though she never actually will.
“Hi,” I say, because I really don’t know what’s appropriate.
“Hello, Warden,” she corrects me. It’s not in a mean way, more a firm way, like she needs that respect straight off the bat or she may not get any at all. I don’t repeat myself though. I don’t care to, not anymore.
“This is—” Nick starts, but the warden nods, cutting him off.
“Josephine Taylor.”
“Joey, actually,” I say. The warden’s lips tighten, and she stares at me until I utter, “Warden.”
“I heard about your sentence.” She moves away from me and pours a cup of water from a jug, then hands it over. I don’t drink it. After a moment of silence, she continues. “I only like to get to know the inmates that will be staying with us long-term.”
