Chapter 37 Zainab
ZAINAB
The time spent with him ended way too quickly.
That’s what I kept thinking as they walked me back through processing, the echo of Prime’s voice still ringing in my ears.
His hands pressing against the glass. His eyes telling me everything his mouth couldn’t say with guards listening.
I love you. I’m coming for you. Hold on.
But holding on was getting harder every day.
Officer Cooper was the one escorting me back to my unit, because of course it was.
This man had made it his personal mission to make my life miserable since the day I landed in LA County.
He gripped my arm too tight, fingers digging into the soft part above my elbow, yanking me forward every time my swollen feet moved too slow for his liking.
“Pick it up, Ali. I ain’t got all night.”
“I’m eight months pregnant,” I said through my teeth. “I’m moving as fast as I can.”
“Should’ve thought about that before you caught a body.”
I didn’t respond. Learned real quick that talking back to COs only made shit worse.
These people had all the power and no accountability, and they knew it.
They could make your life hell with a word—throw you in solitary, deny you phone privileges, “lose” your commissary orders.
I wasn’t about to give Cooper any more ammunition than he already had.
We passed the blonde CO at the checkpoint, the thick white woman with the ponytail pulled so tight it was giving her a facelift. She looked up from her magazine which was some celebrity gossip trash, and smirked when she saw me.
“Oh look, baby mama’s back from her visit.” She made a show of checking her watch. “Conjugal go okay? Or can’t y’all do that with the whole murder charge hanging over your head?”
Cooper laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
I kept my face blank. Kept walking. Kept my hands pressed to my belly where my baby was doing somersaults, probably feeling my stress through the womb.
I’m sorry, princess. Mama’s trying. I promise I’m trying.
“You know what I heard?” Blondie continued, clearly not done. “I heard her baby daddy owns all that fancy liquor. Banks Reserve.” She whistled low. “Must be nice, having money like that. Too bad all that money couldn’t keep her out of here, huh?”
“Rich bitches always think they above the law,” Cooper added. “Then they end up in the same place as everybody else. Wearing the same orange. Eating the same slop. Ain’t no VIP section in county.”
I wanted to tell them that Prime was going to get me out. That I had one of the best lawyers in the country working my case. That I wasn’t going to die in this hellhole like they seemed to want.
But I didn’t.
Because what was the point? These people didn’t see me as a person. I was just another number to them. Another Black girl in the system. Another “baby mama” who probably deserved whatever she got.
The walk back to my cell felt endless. Every step sent pain shooting through my lower back, through my hips, through places I didn’t even know could hurt.
I’d been having cramps all week. The prison doctor said it was Braxton Hicks, just “practice contractions,” nothing to worry about.
But something about these felt different. Sharper. More insistent.
I wished I was back in DC with Dr. Okonkwo, the world-renowned OBGYN that Prime had found for me.
She ran the most prestigious maternal-fetal medicine practice on the East Coast, had delivered babies for senators’ wives and diplomats’ daughters, and had agreed to take me on as a personal favor to Creed and Sloane King, who apparently funded half her research.
Prime had also hired a midwife—this beautiful Jamaican woman named Miss Della who came to the house twice a week to check on me, who massaged my feet and taught me breathing exercises, and made me feel like everything was going to be okay.
Now I had Dr. Patrice Coleman, who was kind enough but stretched thin between hundreds of inmates. Who saw me once every two weeks if I was lucky. Who didn’t have time to hold my hand and tell me my baby was going to thrive.
Cooper shoved me toward my cell door with more force than necessary. “Home sweet home, Banks. Try not to kill anybody else before lights out.”
The door buzzed open.
I stepped inside.
LaLa was on her bunk, flipping through one of those old magazines she’d somehow accumulated, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She looked up when I walked in, and her face immediately shifted into concern.
“Damn, mami. You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine.” I lowered myself onto my bunk carefully, pressing one hand to my lower back where the pain was throbbing. “Just tired. The visit took a lot out of me.”
“How’d it go? Your man came through?”
“Yeah. He came through.”
Even saying it made my chest tight. Seeing Prime through that glass, not being able to touch him, not being able to fall into his arms and let him hold me until everything felt okay again…
it was torture. He’d pressed his hand against the barrier and I’d pressed mine against his, and we’d both pretended like we couldn’t feel the cold plastic between us.
I love you, he’d said, his voice crackling through the phone they made us use. You’re coming home. I promise you.
I believed him. I had to believe him. But sitting in this cell, wearing these scratchy-ass clothes, smelling like industrial soap and despair… it was hard to hold onto hope.
“You sure you okay?” LaLa was watching me with those sharp brown eyes. “You look pale. And you’re sweating.”
“It’s hot in here.”
“It’s actually kinda cold.”
I didn’t have energy to argue. Just laid back against my pillow and tried to breathe through the cramping. It would pass. It always passed. Just Braxton Hicks. Just my body practicing for the real thing.
“I think I’m going to go call my sister before I go to bed.”
The phone bank was crowded this time of night, but I found an empty spot near the end of the row. Dialed Mehar’s number and pressed the receiver to my ear, trying to ignore the way my hands were shaking.
It rang twice before she picked up.
“Zainab!” Her voice was bright. Happy. It made something in my chest crack. “Oh my God, I’ve been waiting for you to call. How was the visit with Prime?”
“It was good.” I forced a smile even though she couldn’t see me. “He looked good. Tired, but good. We didn’t have long, but… it helped. Seeing him helped.”
“I bet. I can’t even imagine how hard it must be being away from him.” A pause. “How are YOU doing? For real. Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m…” I hesitated. Thought about telling her about the cramps, the fatigue, the way everything hurt all the time.
But she didn’t need that weight on her shoulders.
She had enough to worry about. “I’m hanging in there.
Tell me about you. I need to hear something good. Something that’s not about this place.”
“You sure?”
“Please, Mehar. I need it. Tell me all the good things happening in your life. Distract me.”
She laughed, and the sound was like medicine.
“Okay, okay. Well, the bakery is doing AMAZING. We’re getting so much buzz from the news coverage—I know that sounds messed up, but apparently ‘bakery owner wrongfully accused’ is a sympathetic story.
People are coming from all over to support Sweet Zin.
We’re sold out of cinnamon rolls every day by like, well before closing. ”
“Really?” Despite everything, that made me smile. “That’s incredible.”
“Right. I’m just so glad you trusted me to help you with your dream. I wanna make you proud.”
“You are Mehar. I’m so proud of you but tell me more. What else?” I asked. “What else is going on?”
“Oh! I’ve been training at the shooting range. Like, seriously training. There’s this instructor named Denise who’s been working with me, and she says I’m a natural. My groupings at twenty-five yards are getting super tight.”
I laughed for real this time. “Look at you, becoming a whole marksman. I’m scared of you.”
“You should be.” I could hear the grin in her voice. “I’ve been thinking… when things calm down, maybe Prime can coach me on some more advanced stuff. Like sniping or whatever. He’s a sharpshooter, right?”
“Girl, we should have never let you loose on Ahmad. You got a taste for blood now.”
“Maybe I do.” Her voice shifted, got a little harder around the edges.
“I’m tired of men hurting me. Hurting us.
A man hurt you, Z. A man killed Zahara. A man kept me prisoner for years pretending to be my husband.
I’m done being a victim. I want to be able to protect myself. Protect the people I love.”
“I understand,” I said softly. “I really do.”
We were quiet for a moment. Then Mehar’s voice brightened again.
“Oh! Speaking of protection… I actually have someone looking out for me now. Like, romantically.”
“Oh word?” That made me smile through the pain. My baby sister, finally finding happiness after everything Ahmad put her through. “Tell me about him. What’s he like?”
“He’s amazing, Z. Patient. Attentive. He doesn’t push me to do anything I’m not ready for. He actually listens when I talk. Remembers things I tell him.” She laughed, sounding almost giddy. “He makes me feel safe. Like, actually safe. For the first time in my life.”
“That’s beautiful, Mehar. I’m so happy for you.” And I meant it. After eight years of hell with Ahmad, she deserved someone who treated her right. “So when do I get to meet this mystery man?”
“When you come home! Which is gonna be soon, I know it.” A pause. “His name is Thad. He’s actually Prime’s cousin—can you believe it? Small world, right? You’ll love him, Z. He’s—”
Everything stopped.
The fluorescent lights above me flickered, or maybe that was my vision. The phone suddenly weighed a thousand pounds in my hand.
Thad.