“What did you do before you joined Row? Your job,” Cunningham asked.
I shrugged. “Nothing. I was arrested at eighteen.”
They shared a look and shook their heads.
“Well, I was a violinist for the San Francisco Symphony,” Cunningham told me. His face didn’t change as he moved his rook.
“I was a luxury architect. Shame you didn’t even get a chance to do something.” Hargenson shook his head. “I had a fun time back in the nineties.”
Cunningham chuckled. “Me too. A little too much fun.”
For the rest of our hour, I listened to their stories of the rich and famous. The women they fucked, the men they drank with. Celebrities of all types, foods and places I couldonly imagine experiencing. I took it all in, growing more and more invested in their lives before their crimes.
“What about you? Did you have anything you wanted to do before you... did what you did?” Cunningham asked.
“I want to be a tattoo artist,” I answered, my face growing warm underneath my mask. I bit back the urge to add that just because I was convicted didn’t mean I was guilty. Everyone said that here.
“Tattoos? You like to draw then? Well, I guess you’re in a good place for that,” Cunningham muttered.
“Why did you choose to sit with us, rather than people who’d be more interested in your passion for art?” Hargenson asked, moving a pawn.
“Because I don’t want to be like them.”
They both turned their heads curiously.
“And you want to be like us?” Cunningham laughed.
“You walk different. You talk different. I don’t want to be just another number. You’re educated. I want to sound like you sound.”
“And for what reason?” Hargenson turned to face me. “You are one of the most dangerous inmates. We’ve heard about what you did to that woman. I don’t think any type of education can fix that.”
Because I’m getting out of here one day.
A loud bell went off through the speakers, indicating that our hour was up. Groans came from around the yard as everyone started to form a line to return back to their cells.
“Well, it was good talking to you, Dumas. You’re welcome to come back tomorrow, if they let you.” Cunningham nodded.
“I will. Thank you, sir,” I said politely.
I was taken back to my cell, where my cuffs and mask were removed, and I was able to relax in my bed. I pulled out my sketchbook and continued the drawing of Daisythat I’d been working on since the day I heard of her engagement.
A few hours later, the guards came by with dinner.
“Whatcha drawing—your next meal, Emile?” He cackled.
I ignored him and waited for him to disappear before going for my tray. I ate my bland chicken, mashed potatoes, and dinner roll. When the night shift guard came by to make his last rounds, I called to him.
“Gus?”
“Yes, inmate?”
“Is there any update?”
Gus was one of the few people who had some hint of what my situation was. I could never allow anyone to know the full truth, but I needed help, and Gus seemed to like me for some reason.
“DW? He’s been permanently placed on oxygen. They say not long now, but they’ve been saying that for a while now, haven’t they?”
“That they have.” I sighed. Dennis Wolfsheim had been dying since the day he emailed me, almost five years ago. The motherfucker was hanging on by a thread, and each day he continued to breathe, the risk of them executing me grew as well.
