Chapter 7 #3
“I’m guilty of being selfish. I’m guilty of encouraging my daughter to leave the man she chose to marry. If that’s against the law, then so be it.”
The judge stared at mother and daughter. “We will recess for fifteen minutes, and when we resume, I will adjudicate the sentencing.”
What the two women didn’t know—what they hadn’t seen—was the man they’d tried to destroy, sitting in a dark corner at the back of the room.
He was there for one reason: to witness their punishment or lack thereof.
That was him, driving the final nail to the end of his marriage.
And Floy, being the man he was, always drove the last nail into every project he’d begun.
Fifteen minutes later, the judge returned. He’d seen the man sitting at the back of the room, but it wasn’t a closed hearing, and for the moment, his focus was on this matter only.
“Both of you . . . please stand,” he said shortly.
The court-appointed lawyer stood with them.
“Mayrene Beaudine, on the count of Wanton Endangerment, I am sentencing you to six months in the county jail.”
Mayrene’s reaction was unreadable. She didn’t cry. She didn’t gasp. She stood firmly on two feet, waiting to be led away.
Quilla was horrified now and trembled as she stared at the judge in wide-eyed disbelief.
“Quilla Schultz. You are cold, manipulating, and an appalling representative of motherhood, but unfortunately, none of those qualities are against the law. Therefore, and quite regrettably, I am forced to dismiss the charges against you. You are free to go.”
The judge pounded the gavel once, then got up and left the courtroom.
Quilla’s mouth opened, but there were no words left to express what she was feeling as she watched her daughter being led from the courtroom in handcuffs.
She looked at the court-appointed lawyer. “What do I do now?”
“Go home,” he said, as he gathered up the paperwork needed to file within the court-appointed system,. He then walked out behind a tall, dark-haired man wearing a short-sleeved blue T-shirt, old blue jeans, and brown boots worn down at the heels.
Quilla glanced at Officer Dub, who’d been in court on Chief Arnold’s behalf. “I don’t have a way to get home,” she mumbled.
Dub reached for his phone and called the station. “Boss, it’s over. Mayrene got six months. Charges were dropped against Quilla. She doesn’t have a way home.”
“Son-of-a-bitch. Why does it feel like the wrong one went free?” Arnold muttered. “So, take her home, but make her ride in the back the same way she came to town.”
“Yes, sir,” Dub said. He dropped the phone in his pocket and pointed at Quilla. “Follow me.”
Quilla crawled into the backseat, this time minus handcuffs, as Dub took her back down Main Street on their way out of town.
When they arrived at her home, he stopped long enough to let her out, then backed up and drove away before she had reached the front door.
The knob didn’t turn for a reason. She’d demanded it be locked, and now here she was.
She walked around to the back porch, got the spare key from beneath the chipped garden gnome at the bottom step, and let herself in the back door.
She could still smell the scent of Mayrene’s lilac shampoo and the odor of cold coffee as she walked down the hall to her daughter’s bedroom.
She stared for a few moments at the furnishings from her daughter’s childhood and the clothes hanging in the closet, then she pulled the door closed with the firm thump of a door being slammed shut on a vault, telling herself six months wasn’t forever.
She’d be back, and all her things would be here waiting.
Floy didn’t go straight home. He drove to the Beers and Cues, walked inside to the music of George Strait singing “Old Troubadour,” and went straight to the bar.
Jerry stood there wearing another fitted shirt, with the outline of the compression wraps where his man boobs used to be clearly visible.
“What’ll it be?” Jerry asked.
Floy didn’t look up. “Double-shot of whiskey.”
Jerry’s eyebrows arched. Floy didn’t drink.
He poured the whiskey, set the shot glass in front of him, and put a little bowl of pretzels near Floy’s right hand.
Most of the salt from the pretzels was in the bottom of the dish from being recycled from one dish to another as customers came and went.
Mary Lou didn’t believe in wasting food.
Floy downed the shot like the worst dose of medicine he’d ever tasted, laid a five-dollar bill on the bar, then went toward the pool tables.
He chose the one at the back of the room, picked up a cue stick, then racked up the table’s billiard balls.
He needed to hit something in the very worst way, and those balls wouldn’t take it personally.
Mayrene rode to County Jail in handcuffs and was processed with the same mindless routine every prisoner received upon arrival.
The strip down and shower were humiliating.
The check for head lice and concealed weapons was even worse.
She was issued the smallest size clothing they had, all of which was slightly frayed at the hems. The fabric was coarse—the color shatteringly orange.
She got one pair of socks and one pair of jailhouse slippers.
Government-issue underwear and shower shoes completed the ensemble.
She carried her own pillow and bedding into the cell, flinching as the sound of the door clanged shut behind her.
The jailed prisoners had seen her moving through the cell block. After the door slammed shut behind her and the jailer left, one woman made a joke about Mayrene’s red hair.
“Looky, looky. We got a new one. Hey shorty. What are you in for? Impersonating Little Debbie to steal her cupcakes?”
The cupcake reference to the Little Debbie logo made Mayrene cringe.
She turned slowly, blinking with the studied stare of a sadist— still holding the bedding in front of her like a tray—and drawled, “Naw . . . I just tried to feed my ex to a ten-foot python named Elvis. You wouldn’t believe how big a python’s jaws can stretch. Damn thing ate a hog instead.”
Shocked silence ensued. Catcalls ended. The jeers trailed off.
She walked to the cot, made up her bed, then stretched out on her back and began inspecting her nails, as if they were the most interesting parts of her body.
Her size had always been a handicap, and in prison, it could be viewed as a dangerous weakness.
It stood to reason that being five feet tall and weighing less than a hundred pounds required a badass persona to get through this unscathed.
She’d just chosen the snake swallowing version of Jeffrey Dahmer as the crime that put her here.
All she had to do was survive six months.
Whatever it took.