Eight
Selene
While the uniformed guard double checks my ID, I sign my alias on the dotted line. He hands me the driver’s license back once he’s satisfied, and orders me to stand in line against the bleak white wall with the rest of the grim-looking visitors here. I’m not one to follow orders anymore, but I know this routine by now, and if I want to see James, I have to submit to the jailers’ demands.
One by one, each visitor’s belongings are searched, as well as the customary pat down to ensure no contraband makes it within the facility’s walls. The Cheatham County Jail likes to be known for having a zero-tolerance rule with any visitor trying to smuggle in goods for its inmates. But since I’ve been here every weekend for the past two months, I’ve seen enough to know that a few guards can be bought to turn a blind eye—a little piece of information which may become useful, if push comes to shove.
The loud ring of the opening door sends a cold shiver down my spine, as all of us file into the solemn visitors’ room with its round steel tables and bolted-down chairs. I loathe being in this place. I was sure I had escaped the despicable fate of visiting a loved one in a horrid facility such as this one. But karma seems to think it ironically funny to have me live out the same experiences I thought I’d run away from long ago.
It could be worse. At least I won’t have to talk to James behind a glass partition, separating us completely. It’s a small comfort to be allowed to hug him briefly at hello and goodbye. No other contact can be made, not even a simple, inoffensive gesture like holding hands. That’s crossing the line in the eyes of the law, apparently. This place was built to break spirits, not offer solace.
I take my seat nearer to a window, hoping the sight of the clear Tennessee sky will bring him some joy—a feeling he hasn’t been able to experience these last couple of months, something that I’m hoping to fix.
The clank of another opening door grabs all of the visitors’ attention as, one by one, orange jumpsuits come into view.
James’ eyes lock on mine immediately, and his endearing grin surfaces as he walks in my direction. After our three-second hug ends, he sits down opposite me with his carefree smile no longer in place.
“You look like shit, Beautiful,” he appraises, his brow furrowed in alarm. But I’m too worried to pay him any mind when he’s showcasing an ugly shiner and a split lip as its companion.
“You don’t look too hot yourself, Handsome,” I reply, trying to taunt him, but it falls flat as I see him cringe when he grazes himself against the table. He shifts until he’s found a sitting position comfortable enough, favoring his left side to avoid further pain. “Got some ribs broken there, too, huh?”
“What can I say? I’m a people person. Some of the fellas here like to play rough, and you know me. I hate to disappoint,” he jokes with his Nashville, country-boy swagger.
“Nice to see you’re making friends then,” I counter lightly, even though it hurts to look at him this way. It is unforgivable to me that such a strong man, who survived so much ugliness in his life, is forced to defend himself in a prison brawl.
“How are you? How is everything back home?” James questions, trying to divert my attention from his injuries.
“As expected, considering the circumstances,” I reply sullenly at his attempt to move the conversation to a safer topic. “Is roughhousing the reason why I couldn’t visit you last weekend?”
“Sorry about that, Beautiful. Had to spend some quality time with a hot nurse instead. You don’t mind, do ya?” He winks flirtatiously, and I have to smile at his optimistic spirits.
“Not one bit, Handsome. Knock yourself out.” I know he’s trying to make me laugh with his feeble attempts at provoking jealousy, but seeing his body so broken is no laughing matter.
“I have to get you out of here,” I mumble under my breath, not wanting anyone nearby to hear our conversation.
His teasing smile thins, and he takes a cautious look around before beginning the reprimand I know he’s itching to give.
“Selene,” he hushes out, so no one else hears him say my real name. “We talked about this. Let the legal system do its job. I’m an innocent man. The court will prove that.”
“James, how many times do we see murderers, rapists, and lowlifes get off on a technicality while innocent men get life sentences? The justice system is blind in more ways than one. I don’t have faith in it, and neither should you,” I reproach, annoyed he somehow still believes the truth will set him free.
“It’s all we have, and I need you to keep your wits about you, okay? I can’t think straight as it is inside this place, and if you start to fall apart, then I’m going to lose it. You hear me? Trust that everything will play as it should and, before you know it, I’ll be home,” he explains, and I see genuine belief in his eyes.
I adore this man for being the safe haven I longed for when I was so lost and broken, but his trust in people—and society as a whole—is so innocent and naive that it’s painfully aggravating. No beating or unjust circumstance could knock sense into him in thinking the contrary. He’s seen so much violence and despair, yet he continues to hold on to his rainbow-like vision of the human race. A sweeter woman would find the trait endearing. I find it mind-bogglingly frustrating.
“You do what you have to do, and so will I. Let’s see who is going to get you out of that disgusting jumpsuit and back home where you belong,” I advise adamantly.
“What are you talking about?” he questions suspiciously.
“You can’t stay here, James. Both you and I know you weren’t built to be incarcerated. You need the wind in your face and the sun on your back. This place and these normals will steal it away from you,” I sneer.
“ Normals? You mean people? Haven’t heard you say that word in a long time,” he counters, crossing his arms over his chest and scrutinizing my every detail. “You haven’t done anything stupid, have you? Like, oh, I don’t know, take a trip to talk to people who may want to see you dead?” he adds, his quirked eyebrow now high on his forehead.
I lean back in my seat and mimic his statuesque, disapproving form in reply. He leans closer to the table, with little amusement in his dark brown eyes.
“Don’t do it. Not even for me, Selene. Don’t go to Chicago,” he pleads, and my eyes cringe at the sides at his aversion to my past life.
“I already did,” I deadpan with no remorse whatsoever.
“Sweet baby Jesus. You really are fixin’ for a game day, aren’t ya?” he scolds, eyes wide in fear. “They’ll murder, ya! Is that what you want? Leave me to mourn another death and—”
“Enough!” I shout and immediately bite my lip as my outburst gains unwanted attention from one of the guards. I produce a sweet, fake smile at the beady-eyed man and gather my composure to the placid, well-mannered, southern lady they believe me to be.
James looks thunderous in his worry, but I have little time for that as the bell rings, announcing the end of this short visit. He gives me another hug, this one tighter than his first, revealing just how anxious he feels.
“I’m fine, Beautiful. Trust me. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself in here. Don’t do anything you may come to regret later. Okay?” he whispers in my ear, and I give him a small, rigid nod in reply.
I watch him return to his iron-barred cage, resolved in going through with my original plan, no matter how upsetting it is to him.
Although James wants me to let the legal system take its course, I know the evidence against him is too incriminating for any judge or jury to reach a ‘not guilty’ verdict. James has faith in the good guys and that they will do their jobs to clear his name.
Me?
I have a feeling only evil men will be able to help me get James home.
No matter the costs, I will end this nightmare one way or another.