Chapter 3
TANIA
“Make sure your pockets are empty and step through the metal detector.”
I do as the guard says, having just signed in.
My purse is locked in my trunk, and I made sure to adhere strictly to the dress code with a simple long sleeved shirt, jeans, and sneakers.
Visiting the women’s correctional facility in NY where Celeste ended up always makes my stomach twist into complete knots, even though I’ve done it a few times now.
It’s not that I feel like I’m in danger.
It’s the fact that one of the most important people in my life is in this unforgiving place.
She tells me it’s not bad when we talk or have visits, that she eats pretty well, and doesn’t mind laundry duty at all.
The couple who took us in also had an older, biological son.
He resented having foster sisters and physically abused us.
Celeste took the brunt of it, always fighting back and making sure I was protected from him.
Our foster parents had no idea what to do about it, or what to do with two daughters.
They got in over their heads, started to resent having us as much as their son did, and we were quickly placed elsewhere.
Since we had bonded, the next family thankfully took Celeste and me together.
It was a much better situation because the couple had been desperately trying to have children and finally decided to foster instead.
We were wanted and were well cared for, though it never truly felt like a home.
I think they didn’t quite know what to do with us either, in spite of them trying.
Celeste started to have anger issues and acted out a lot.
She had been bounced around a lot more than me, and endured more than she probably ever would tell me.
While I’ve found an outlet in drawing ever since my Grandma took me in, Celeste much prefers to let out her feelings physically.
Anytime the foster parents tried to get her into therapy or anger management, it never worked out.
Celeste is a stubborn mule, and was in too much of a haze to see through it enough to work on herself.
I can be just as stubborn as she is, and I’ll never give up on her like so many others have.
She’s the only family I have, and I’m hers.
Part of her fighting was for me, to protect me from having to do it, and that is not something for which I can ever be grateful enough.
It’s not like I’ve been some angel. I’ve fought too and we both got caught shoplifting together when I was 12 and she was 16.
She took the fall, and made sure I never did anything like that again.
Once she’s out, I am getting her ass some help.
Celeste’s outlet for her anger has always been physical because that’s one of the few ways she knows how to feel things, and it’s landed her into a lot of trouble.
Which is how she ended up here, and why she needs help.
A man groped her at a bar, and when he wouldn’t leave her alone, she completely flipped out.
She even knocked out a couple of his teeth and broke his nose.
Turns out he is the son of some local state senator and she got her ass handed to her in her initial court appearance.
It didn’t help that she already had a record of bar fights.
We’ve been trying to get her charge lowered or even maybe dismissed, or at least her sentence reduced, because that shithead had it coming for harassing her.
I can’t afford to bail her out, our foster parents refuse to do so, and we only have the court appointed defense attorney who is barely competent and does not seem to like or understand her.
“Follow me,” the guard all but barks once I’m through security.
I’m led down the hall into the visitation room, where she directs me to one of the tables in the back.
It’s a stark room with cheap wooden tables and chairs, white walls, and harsh fluorescent lighting.
Celeste is brought in a few short minutes later.
Her normally shiny, fiery red hair is a little dull, her freckles are more pronounced since she looks paler, and her slate gray eyes have purple rings underneath from lack of sleep.
Her heart shaped face cracks into a smile all the same, the dimple I used to poke to tease her when we were kids popping out.
Even in this harsh environment, she’s her usual stunning self, the same woman I’ve always looked up to.
I give her the brief hug that’s allowed when she gets to the table.
“Ask for a visit and you shall receive, Cece,” I tell her by way of greeting. Her lips tip up more at my nickname for her as she sits, or because she thinks I’m being dramatic. Probably both, actually.
“Thanks for coming so soon. It’s good to see your face,” she says sincerely. Then she shakes her head ruefully.
“So what’s going on with the appeal? It’s not looking good?”
“Nope,” she says tersely, putting an extra pop on the p. “It’s my word against his that he was harassing me. No one was really paying attention to our interactions. He maintains I beat him up because he rejected me. With my record, and who his daddy is, who is going to believe me?”
I scrub my hand down my face, trying to think. “There has to be something we can do.”
“There’s not much to do, Nia. I promise I’ll behave myself here, then I’ll hopefully get out early on parole.
” My heart sinks at how defeated she sounds, and how dull her eyes look.
In all of her years of getting into scraps, this is the first time she landed an aggravated assault charge with a prison sentence.
“Where’s your usual fight, Cece? You want to be here for possibly 3 years if you don’t get parole?” My voice comes out small and pleading without my permission.
“My fight is what got me into this,” she says drily. “Don’t you think I should lay low and ride out my sentence? Learn my lesson? Hopefully get out early? The appeal to lower the charge or lower the sentence is going nowhere. No one believes he assaulted me, not even my own lawyer probably.”
“It’s not right,” I challenge.
“Of course it’s not, but it’s reality, and I wanted you to come visit to just sit with me in it and help me accept it. I did beat a man up, it’s not like I’m innocent.”
“He’s not either, and he’s not suffering any consequences for assaulting you and lying about it,” I remind her.
“Welcome to the fuckery of privilege and patriarchy,” she says simply. “He did get a broken nose and busted teeth for his trouble.”
I sigh. “I want to fight for you and protect you for once, ok? Please let me? I’m going to figure something out. Yes, you’re not innocent but you don’t deserve possibly 3 years in here while he walks around like nothing happened.”
“I’ll be a model inmate and get out early. It’ll be fine. You’re not going to magically be able to persuade people to believe me, be realistic Nia. I want you to focus on your own life, ok? That is what you can do for me.”
I can feel my face going hard and stubborn.
Her face is just as resolute, so we’re at loggerheads for now.
My time is nearly up anyway, so we make the unspoken decision to drop it and focus on catching up about more mundane things, and try to enjoy the rest of the visit.
When the guard lets us know it’s over, I promise I’ll visit again soon and she promises to call next week.
My feelings are so overwhelming as I drive home.
It seems hopeless to try and help her, but my stubbornness won’t allow me to let it go.
The wheels are turning on what I can realistically do, who I could possibly contact, maybe a better defense lawyer who would be willing to take her case.
She could request a new court appointed attorney, though that might mean she’d have to represent herself if she couldn’t get a new one, which would suck.
Judges normally don’t like appointing new ones unless there is a very compelling reason.
I found that out when this all went down.
What I do know is that she would not have received such a long sentence if it hadn’t been for the state senator howling for the maximum penalty.
She’s received community service for brawls like that in the past, not prison time.
When I get home after the almost 2 hour drive, I’m greeted by my landlord, Mr. Zarelli, standing outside like he’s been waiting for me.
Grey shoots through his ink black hair, his olive skin looks like tanned leather, and he’s a short king at probably 5’4.
I definitely have an inch or two on him.
He also doesn’t look happy, and I have no idea why.
I’m not behind on rent, I’m not loud, and I pretty much keep to myself.
“Hi, Mr. Zarelli. Everything ok?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and snorts in frustration like an angry bull. Now I’m starting to panic about what the hell is wrong.
“Your apartment is a complete fucking mess right now. Mr. Phong downstairs called saying water was coming into his ceiling. Your kitchen sink was running and the plug was pushed in. The entire kitchen, dining, and living area got a layer of water before I stopped it. Both of your damn cats were hissing and soaked, so I toweled them off and locked them in your bathroom to dry off,” he yells, brandishing his forearms to show me the battle scars of attempting to corral and dry off my asshole troublemakers.
I can feel the blood draining out of my face, and I clench my jaw fiercely to keep from crying.
“I’m so sorry. One of them must have been on the counter and moved the lever of the faucet on. They play in the sink sometimes and must have pushed the plug into place, too. I’ve only had them for 7 months, I’ll make sure I cat proof better.”