Chapter 31
Elliott’s “day in court” ended with a ride on a green and white jail bus. Felony inmates were assigned rear seats, where mesh-covered
windows made it virtually impossible to see the outside world. The bus returned to the detention center at dinnertime. After
a quick pat-down by the intake guards, the inmates were funneled to the cafeteria. The line was long, which made Elliott anxious.
The best way to survive a jailhouse cafeteria was to get through the line quickly, grab an empty table, and let others fill
in as they pleased. Latecomers had to finagle a seat at a “taken” table, which was a risky proposition with the wrong women.
“Close the gaps,” one of the guards said as he passed, meaning that the inmates needed to tighten the line.
Elliott shuffled forward, but he had one eye on the cafeteria seating situation. There were only two empty tables left, and
Elliott wasn’t in a gambling mood. He skipped the hot-entree line and headed across the hall to the canteen. The food for
purchase through the commissary was even less healthy than the cafeteria menu, but it was quicker.
“You don’t like the fish patties the kitchen cooked up tonight?” the server asked.
Her name was Lucy, and she was one of the few who was nice to Elliott. Nice enough that he was willing to bend the rules of
his “speech strike” with her, if only to allow for nonverbal communication.
Elliott pointed at the printed menu, indicating the burrito.
Lucy made a face. “Don’t recommend it.”
He pointed again, harder this time, as if to say, “I’m really in a hurry.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” said Lucy. “Lemme heat it up for you.”
Elliott shook his head with an exaggerated motion, trying to convey the urgency of the situation.
Lucy raised an eyebrow. “You want a cold burrito?”
Elliott glanced again at the cafeteria seating. Just one empty table remained. He gave Lucy a thumbs-ups on the cold burrito.
She placed it on a tray.
“Some Rolaids with that? Extra strength. Mint. Three bucks.”
Elliott paid on account, hurried back to the cafeteria, and grabbed the last empty table. The sense of relief was short-lived.
A tray landed on the table, and the uninvited inmate took the seat opposite him.
“How goes it, Elle?” she asked.
Elliott’s jaw dropped, but not because the inmate had called him by his dead name. He was sitting across from his mother.
“Yeah, it’s me,” she said. “Do I look that different now that I can’t dye my hair blond?”
Elliott’s mother was an attractive brunette in her early forties, and the dye jobs had only made her look cheap. Elliott was
in no mood to send any compliments her way, but it was hard to hide his surprise at seeing her.
“Why’re you looking at me like that? You don’t like my hair? Or you just don’t like me?”
Elliott hated her, but he chose not to clarify the matter.
The last time Elliott had laid eyes on his mother, his name was still Elle, and Serena Carpenter was in handcuffs. It was
bad enough that she’d lied to the Pollards at the hospital, told them Elle had changed her mind, and extorted them out of
more cash to close the adoption. But Serena hadn’t stopped there. She’d turned that first con into a business model, brokering
three more scams using eighteen- and nineteen-year-old mothers-to-be who had no one to turn to except Serena, who could be
quite good at pretending to care. An anonymous tip to police led to her arrest. She’d pleaded guilty and last he knew, she
had been serving a ten-year sentence at Lowell Correctional Institute for Women in central Florida.
“Look at you,” Serena said with disgust. “I barely recognize you, and I’m your mother. It’s revolting, what you’ve done to yourself.”
Elliott wanted to get up and leave, but he knew Serena would make a scene, which would be worse than sitting quietly and taking
the abuse. Elliott looked off toward the serving line, as if Serena weren’t even there.
Serena rested her forearms on the table, lowering her voice as she spoke. “I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, honey.
You didn’t have to become a man to fuck women. Ask half the inmates in this joint.”
It was enough to draw a reaction from Elliott, and he looked right at Serena, his eyes smoldering.
“Ah-ha!” she said with a chuckle. “I almost got you to say something, didn’t I? I heard you was on some kind of ‘speech strike.’
Won’t even talk to your own lawyer. But I saw you communicating with Lucy over at the canteen, so I know you aren’t a zombie.
Lord knows you never shut up when you were a girl. So, consider this one last opportunity to talk back to your momma and tell
her to fuck off, like you used to.”
Elliott would have loved to say it but held his tongue.
“All right,” said Serena. “You don’t have to say nothing. Just listen to what I have to say. And then I’ll take my tray and
go. Deal?”
The proposal seemed agreeable. Elliott didn’t acknowledge it, but he listened.
“First, let’s be clear about where you stand in my book. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the so-called anonymous
tip that got me arrested didn’t come from a stranger. I know it was you. Bitch.”
Elliott didn’t deny it.
“Lucky for you, I didn’t come here to kick your ass. Fact is, I didn’t even ask for a transfer.”
That seemed hard to believe, but Elliott let her keep talking.
“I go back to my cell at Lowell next week,” said Serena. “The only reason I’m here is because that lady prosecutor needs me
in Miami. What’s her name?”
Clearly, she meant Julianna Weller. Elliott didn’t fill in the blank, though Serena had definitely piqued her interest.
“You look bored,” Serena said, rising. “I was gonna tell you what this is all about, but if you ain’t talking, I’m done here.”
She picked up her tray and started away from the table. A part of Elliott was telling him to let the witch go, but his curiosity
took over.
“Sit,” said Elliott.
Serena stopped, her eyes widening. “What’s that? Did you say something?”
With a jerk of his head, Elliott pointed at the empty chair. “Tell me what you came here to say.”
Serena placed her tray on the table and retook her seat. “The prosecution is making me testify against you,” she said in a
serious voice. “That’s why they brought me down here.”
Elliott felt a chill. “What do you want me to do about that?”
“I want you to put a stop to this nonsense.”
“What nonsense?”
“Stop being so thickheaded. Haven’t you put me through enough?”
Elliott could scarcely believe his ears. “Haven’t I put you through enough?”
“Oh, don’t sit there and act like you were the perfect child. Though I have to admit, I did like you better as a teenage slut
than this—this, whatever it is you are now.”
“You mean happy?”
Serena glanced at the next table. Six women with gang tattoos were enjoying ice cream sandwiches from the canteen, which they’d
undoubtedly charged to the account of their latest mark.
“You call this happiness?” said Serena. “Who do you think you’re fooling with all these hormones and operations?”
“Who were you trying to fool when you sold our car to buy a perfect pair of tits?”
“A boob job is not even remotely the same thing. And stop trying to change the subject. This isn’t about me.”
“It’s entirely about you! Why are you here? What does the prosecutor think you can tell them?”
Serena sipped from her cup of water, then resumed her “I’ve got a secret” posture, leaning on her forearms. “I’m going to
tell them what I know,” she said in a low, threatening tone. “Everything I know.”
“You’ve been in prison. What could you possibly know that is of any value to the prosecution?”
“More than you can imagine.”
Elliott glared, but Serena didn’t flinch. “Am I supposed to be worried?” he asked.
“Worried enough to make this stop.”
“You keep talking as if I have some kind of magic power over the prosecutor. Like all I need to do is push a button. How could
I make this stop, even if I wanted to?”
“Confess.”
Elliott scoffed, almost chuckling. “Is that why the prosecutor brought you here? She thinks I’ll give up a jailhouse confession
to my mommy?”
Serena kept a straight face. “You should confess.”
“To something I didn’t do?”
“Confess.”
“Okay. I’ll play this little game you and Ms. Weller cooked up. Why would I confess?”
Serena’s expression turned even more serious. “Because it saves you from being buried by your own mother’s testimony against
you.”
Their eyes locked. The hatred that had consumed a teenage Elle—that had taken Elliott years to suppress—was rushing to the surface.
There was the constant stream of strange men to their apartment.
The cooked meth on the coffee table from all-night binges.
The teenage girl who had to run to her bedroom and hide from her mother’s so-called boyfriends, as Serena lay passed out on the couch.
With those memories and worse flooding back, the only thing to stop Elliott from standing up and screaming at the top of his voice was the certainty that Serena wasn’t bluffing about a burial.
Elliott needed this conversation to end, so he said what should have been said at the start.
“Fuck off.”
Serena smiled, seemingly satisfied in her own perverse way that she’d gotten to Elliott. She picked up her tray and rose but
lingered at the table for another moment. She had something more to say.
“No mother should have to do what I’m being forced to do. But I guess you wouldn’t know anything about being a mother, would
you—Elliott?”
It was enough to push anyone over the edge, but Elliott still had bruises from that first jail fight with his cellmate, and
a second disciplinary report was far too many. He didn’t make a move. He sat with his fists clenched, watching, as Serena
carried her tray across the cafeteria to another table.