“Don’t show weakness” has been my number one rule so far, and I think I’ve been quite good at it. The inmates all know who I am because of the extensive media coverage there’s been around my case. They knew I’d come and had enough time to research me and realize what this means. Within my first twenty-four hours, I received threats and demands, but also shows of support and appreciation. Several people here have family members or friends who benefited from Nammota’s actions, so they’re thankful for what I allegedly did. Others, even though untouched by it, appreciate the philosophy of my illegal deeds and volunteered to come to my aid if need be.
Still, I remain vigilant, trying to distinguish friends from foes. As someone who’s always struggled reading people, it’s been exhausting. I have a hard time guessing when someone’s being genuine about their support or manipulative—aiming for me to lower my guard only to strike harder. Some hostile inmates have made themselves quite obvious to me, so I avoid them, which isn’t always easy living in such close proximity.
I still can’t tell if having a cell to myself is a good or a bad thing. It certainly adds to the image of being a privileged asshole, but I’m also thankful to sleep without worrying about what might happen at night—not that I sleep much, regardless. Being close to the guards’ room is also a perk, even though they haven’t needed to intervene yet.
Eventually, I’ll figure out how to make things work in a world where power comes from connections, even though I have none.
In the meantime, I spend my days at the prison library, going through the many volumes of the US Code. Once I’m done with that, I’ll move on to law books more specific to my case, to maybe find something that’ll get me out of here.
“Coleman,” a guard calls, appearing at the door. “You have visitors.”
Andrea …
I put the book down and sit up, suddenly nervous. I’m eager to see her, but I wish she didn’t have to see me like this, in this khaki uniform, looking like I haven’t slept in weeks. Shit, I should have shaved. I look like a hermit.
With a nervous hand, I smooth my week-old beard. The last time I took care of myself was for the trial, to look presentable in front of the judge. I haven’t cared much about my appearance since, but I should have. At least today.
“Come on, Coleman. I don’t have all day,” the guard presses.
I stand up, smoothing the khaki down my torso, and return the book to its shelf. When I reach the guard, he grips my arm for good measure and leads me toward the visitor room. An incoherent mix of emotions has my mind in a frenzy.
I am apprehensive yet long to see her. What’s been happening doesn’t feel like real life, but rather like an alternate reality. I wish I could separate the outside world from all this, so that Andrea would never have to see me within these walls. But I can’t not see her.
She’s my lifeline, my reason to fight. I need her for my sanity, no matter how rarely she’ll make the drive here. Until the trial, I’ll take it.
If I lose the trial, though… It’ll be another story.
As we get closer, I notice the chatter from the visiting room. My chest tightens at the thought of Andrea being so close. And Kevin.
When he realized what I was doing seven years ago, he, of course, scolded me, telling me I was too smart to make such terrible decisions. I distinctly remember him telling me he wouldn’t visit me in prison if I ever got caught—empty threats thrown in anger, which I’d realized even then. The attempt at shaking some sense into me hadn’t quite worked. Three years later, though, I was quitting it all in favor of our great enterprise together.
The guard leads me to the desk by the door and gives my name to the one posted there. “Do you know the common visiting room rules?” the woman asks.
“Yes, I’ve read them.”
“Good. If a guard notices prolonged contact, you will go through a full search.”
“I know, I’ve read the rules.”
“Alright. Table eighteen. You have twenty minutes.”
I nod and let the guard lead me to the door. As soon as we pass it, my eyes scan the people there, seeking the freckled face that populates my scattered dreams. I pay no mind to the others here, ignoring everyone that isn’t her.
The moment I find her, turned away from me, my body stops working. My lungs forget to release the breath trapped in there, and my heart freezes in my chest.
Her curly hair is up, held together by a claw clip, so I can see the delicate slope of her neck. Twisted away from me like she is, all I can see of her pretty face is the apple of her cheek, the tip of her nose, and the corner of her lush lips. But that’s enough for me to notice the tension within her. She’s as anxious as I am about this encounter.
As if drawn by my gaze, she turns around, revealing the rest of her perfect face to me. Her eyes find mine, and something lights up in them as a sudden smile illuminates the rest of her face.
“Go on,” the guard presses, tugging on my arm.
I resume the walk toward table eighteen, my attention locked on Andrea, who taps on Kevin’s shoulder before standing up. Despite her weary features, she’s like a ray of sunshine in her pretty blue dress and white cardigan. Her hands fidget with nervousness as I come closer, or maybe it’s impatience.
The moment I’m near her, she lunges forward and wraps her arms around me. The subtle scent of jasmine reaches my nose, familiar and comforting. Every bone in my body longs to hold her back, but I’m not sure I’d be able to let her go.
“That’s enough,” the guard commands.
Andrea tightens her arms around me for another second and then moves back, looking up at me with shiny eyes. “Hi,” she whispers with a weak smile. Only she could make me forget where we are. But as I lose myself in the intricate details of her face, in the pattern of her freckles, and the delicate curve of her lips, I’m not in jail anymore.
