Jet fingered her prison garment with distaste as she paced in the holding area where she’d been left before being assimilated into the general population. She’d overheard one of the guards saying the prison was overcrowded and complaining about a new, undocumented prisoner being added to the problem, and the response had been to keep quiet about it and find room in one of the community cells.
From what she’d been able to gather, the facility was a sort of purgatory, a halfway point for prisoners who’d been charged with crimes but not yet convicted, along with low-level petty career criminals. Although the majority were recidivists doing their time before being released to repeat the crimes again, many were simply accused, which to Jet was a ray of hope. A jail that specialized in minor offenses and the yet-to-be-convicted might have lax security, and she wouldn’t require much of an opportunity to use it to her benefit.
Everything she’d seen so far spoke to that impression, from the processing to the demeanor of the guards. There was a certain relaxed quality that she knew was at odds with maximum-security prisons that dealt with serious, violent criminals. While not the equivalent of the American Club Fed white-collar facilities, it was as close to a Russian version that she’d seen.
Two male guards came for her after an hour and handed her off to a female guard, who directed her to a large cell with bunk beds for forty-eight prisoners.
“Don’t cause trouble or you’ll be dealt with harshly. Keep your head down and things will be easier,” the guard advised her before pushing her through the door and locking it. She looked through the bars at Jet and pointed to a row of beds. “You’re in C-2.”
Jet glanced around at the other unfortunates and moved to the vacant bunk, her blanket clutched to her chest. C-2 was an upper bed, which was fine with Jet, although the woman in the lower bunk looked annoyed with her. Jet ignored her and climbed onto the slab, which was hard as concrete, sighed, and pulled the threadbare blanket over her legs. Engineering an escape with almost fifty inmates around complicated matters, and her brief optimism faded as she considered her surroundings.
The other prisoners kept to themselves, and Jet was fine with the isolation. She needed time to think, not build bridges with other captives, which would be nothing but a distraction. She had no idea how much time she had before the attorney’s brother came for her, but judging by what she’d gleaned, it wouldn’t be long, a day or two at most, so she’d need to move fast.
At dinnertime, the prisoners filed out of the cell and into the cafeteria, where slop was ladled onto plastic trays by other inmates with the monotonous regularity of an assembly line. When it was Jet’s turn, she asked the woman behind the pot what the substance was. The inmate, about Jet’s age with hair the color of wet pecans, rolled her eyes. “Stew. You don’t want to know what’s in it.”
“That bad?”
“Depends on how long it’s been since you ate.” The woman eyed Jet. “You’re not Russian.” Statement, not question; Jet’s accent gave her away – or rather, the lack of any. Her Russian was fluent, but absent any trace of local coloring.
“That’s right.”
“Where are you from?”
The woman behind Jet nudged her. “Come on. This isn’t a dating service. Move.”
Jet let it go, in keeping with her commitment to avoid trouble. Besides, the woman was right – the line needed to move if everyone was to eat within the allocated time frame.
Jet carried her tray to one of the metal tables and sat at the end. The other women gave her space, everyone seeming to have the same fear of conflict she did. Which made sense. Short-timers or those who hadn’t been sentenced wanted no part of anything that might cause the system to weigh against them.
She tried a mouthful of the stew and almost gagged. She’d tasted worse, but not for a long time. Whatever the meat was – most likely horse, by the tang – had turned or was on the brink of going bad, judging by the putrid flavor. She tore off a chunk of bread from the crust that accompanied her meal and studied the faint mold before dropping it back onto the tray in disgust.
The other prisoners didn’t seem to notice how foul the concoction was, spooning it into their mouths as fast as they could. What little conversation was hushed and between bites, and Jet couldn’t make out much.
A shadow fell across the table and Jet looked up. It was the woman who’d been serving the stew. She sat down across from Jet and eyed her portion, and then Jet’s. “And they wonder why prisoner suicide is so high,” the woman said with a wry smile.
“It’s inedible,” Jet agreed.