18. The Good Life
Chapter eighteen
The Good Life
— Tobias —
The roar of the penitentiary cafeteria battered against the cinderblock walls. Hundreds of shouting men crowded around bolted metal tables under the glare of caged fluorescent lights. I pushed the industrial mop forward.
The splintered wooden handle dug directly into my uncalloused palms. Fresh blisters tore open from the friction. The sting forced my grip to slip, sending the wet strings sliding across the stained concrete.
The air reeked of cheap bleach and unwashed bodies. I hunched my shoulders forward, trying to bury my neck inside the rough collar of my faded orange jumpsuit. My buzzed scalp prickled under the harsh lighting.
A pair of scuffed work boots stomped through my peripheral vision. I flinched, shrinking backward until I hit the concrete wall. I waited there, gripping the mop, until the inmate disappeared into the massive crowd.
“Keep the floor clean,” I muttered to the sticky concrete.
Spilled juice pooled near the metal leg of the closest table. I shoved the mop head into the mess. The resistance pulled at my aching arms. I leaned my weight into the pole, scrubbing the stubborn stain.
Six months ago, I commanded a corner office. I moved millions of dollars across the globe with a single signature. Now, the only thing I controlled was a dirty yellow mop bucket.
I adjusted my grip on the wood, wincing as the raw skin of my palm snagged on a stray splinter.
I used to snap my fingers to summon valets.
I used to wear tailored Italian suits and drink scotch worth more than the warden’s salary.
My old life felt like a distant fever dream.
The brutal, unforgiving noise of the cafeteria reminded me exactly where I was.
“I’ll clear my schedule, sweetheart,” I had told her.
The memory of my own arrogant voice mocked me over the clatter of plastic food trays. I stared at the dirty water splashing against the concrete.
I believed I possessed superior intellect. I thought I controlled Cecilia, the trust fund, and my own destiny. Now, the only reality I knew was the raw, throbbing ache in my fingers. I was a coward wearing state fabric.
Another burst of laughter erupted from the tables behind me. I kept my head bowed, scrubbing at the same patch of floor. The men in this room were actual predators.
They did not care about stock portfolios. The silver-tongued manipulation that had built my career couldn’t protect me in here. To them, I was just a weak target waiting to be exploited.
I dragged the mop back to the bucket and pushed the heavy wringer down. Lukewarm water splashed against the cuffs of my jumpsuit, soaking through the thin material. The wet fabric clung to my ankles, adding to the miserable chill of the room. A massive shadow fell across the floor near my boots.
I froze in place. I focused my stare on the plastic wheels of the bucket, tracking a single drop of dirty water sliding down the side.
I refused to lift my chin. I gripped the splintered wood tighter, ignoring the burning tear of my blisters.
Eye contact invited questions. Eye contact invited violence.
If you don’t look at them, they won’t look at you.
The shadow did not move. I kept my eyes locked on the yellow plastic of the bucket, working the mop over the exact same spot until my shoulders ached. A scuffed leather work boot stepped heavily into the puddle. Mud and grime smeared across the clean floor. I stopped moving.
“You missed a spot,” a rough voice grunted.
I looked up. The man standing over me possessed a massive frame, his thick arms covered in faded prison ink.
A jagged scar cut through his collarbone, disappearing beneath the neckline of his orange uniform.
He smelled of stale sweat and cheap tobacco.
I swallowed, tasting a metallic tang in the back of my mouth.
“I’ll clean it,” I croaked. I pulled the mop back, aiming for the mud track. “I’ll get it right now.”
He did not step aside. Instead, he reached out and wrapped a massive fist around the wooden handle of my mop. He shoved the pole forward. The blunt end of the wood jammed straight into my sternum. The force threw me backward. My shoulder blades slammed into the painted cinderblock wall.
Don’t fight back. I squeezed my eyes shut, clinging to the survival rule as I stayed there, trapped between the concrete and the wooden pole pinning me in place. The inmate leaned his weight into the mop, restricting my movement. The rough wood dug painfully into my bruised chest.
“You think you’re too good to look at me, Wall Street?” he asked. His breath hit my face in a warm, sour wave.
“No,” I stammered. I kept my hands visible by my sides. “No, I just… I was just cleaning the floor.”
“You’ve been in here six months acting like you own the place,” he said. He pressed the handle deeper into my chest. “Walking around with that country-club posture. I know who you are. I saw you on the news before the judge locked you up.”
The rest of the cafeteria continued its deafening roar. Nobody looked in our direction. The guards stood near the exit doors, ignoring the shakedown. A sick knot formed in my stomach. No one was coming to help me. I tried to shift my weight, seeking relief from the pressure on my ribs.
The inmate checked my movement with another violent shove.
“I don’t have anything,” I whispered, the effort burning in my dry, raw throat. “You have the wrong guy.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he sneered. “Guys like you always have a stash. Offshore accounts. Shell companies. You think I don’t know how the rich operate?”
“It’s gone,” I said. “All of it.”
“You missed a spot, Wall Street,” he said. “Tell your fancy outside lawyer to drop five hundred on my JPay account by tomorrow morning.”
He still believed the illusion. He thought the tailored suits and the Vandeveer fortune still existed. The estate lawyers had frozen every account, the firm had fired me, and I was relying on an exhausted public defender. I had absolutely nothing to give him.
I reached down, digging my trembling fingers into the deep pockets of my jumpsuit. The rough fabric scraped against my blistered skin. My hands fumbled against the seams. I frantically searched for anything I could offer him.
“What are you doing?” he demanded. He lowered his voice to a lethal whisper. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“I have to show you,” I pleaded. I pulled my hands out, revealing my meager commissary stash in my cupped palms.
Three books of postage stamps and four crumpled packets of instant coffee rested there. It was the only currency I had left in the world. The foil crinkled under my sweaty thumbs. The paper edges of the stamp books threatened to tear.
He stared at the items, his upper lip curling in open disgust. He scoffed, releasing the wooden mop handle. The pole clattered to the floor with a hollow thwack. He stepped directly into my personal space, towering over me.
“I can’t!” I stuttered. I held the items out like a pathetic offering. “I don’t have a lawyer, my wife took everything! My accounts are frozen! Please, just take my commissary stash, it’s all I have!”
The inmate did not blink. He studied the miserable pile of stamps and coffee in my hands, then looked back at my terrified face. He let the silence stretch, forcing me to wait while he decided what I was worth.
My hands shook so much that one of the coffee packets slipped. It hit the concrete floor by his boots. I did not dare bend down to retrieve it. I waited for him to strike me.
Instead, he snatched the remaining items from my palms. The paper stamps crumpled in his heavy fist. He shoved the ruined goods into his pants.
He leaned in, pressing his forearm against the cinderblock right next to my ear.
“I’ll take this today. But you better figure out how to be useful in here, Stanton, or you’re dead meat.”
The inmate turned his broad back to me, swallowed by the chaotic sea of orange jumpsuits and shouting men. I remained frozen against the painted wall.
I forced myself to take a single, ragged breath, tasting the harsh chemical bite of industrial bleach lingering in the humid air. I knew with absolute certainty that he would be back. My hands were empty, my protection was gone, and the day had only just begun.
I stepped away from the wall. My knees wobbled beneath the thin fabric of the county uniform. I dragged the mop across the scuffed concrete, aiming for the yellow plastic bucket parked near a bolted metal table.
I shoved the dirty strings into the murky, lukewarm water.
They sloshed against the plastic sides, washing away the mud the inmate had tracked across my floor.
I pulled the mop up and jammed it into the mechanical wringer.
My fingers were trembling so much I could barely maintain my grip on the wood.
I reached down, trapping the pole against my shoulder while I clamped both hands over the hard plastic lever of the wringer. I pressed my forearms against it, letting my shoulders slump forward. I dropped my upper body weight onto the lever, locking my arms in place just to hide my trembling.
“I was supposed to win,” I muttered to the dirty water.
The water squeezed from the strings, splashing back into the bucket in a filthy cascade.
I stared into the ripples, thinking of the last time I had watched ice swirl in a glass.
Six months ago, I had stood in the center of Lavinia’s sprawling, modern condo.
I had held a crystal tumbler of aged single malt, the cubes clinking against the rim while I wore my bespoke wool suit.
“Cecilia is too weak and stupid to ever figure it out, Lavinia. She’s reliant on me,” I had told her.
My own voice echoed in my head, dripping with arrogance. I had believed it. I thought I controlled the board. I thought I was manipulating a fragile, traumatized wife who clung to my coat and begged for my protection.