“Yes,” Gordon says. “Patience.”
We walk through another door and emerge into an octagon-shaped room. There are eight doors around a central area. Each door has a narrow slot in the middle. It occurs to me, horrifically, that we’ve arrived in some sort of solitary-confinement block. I listen for signs of life from within the cells. There is a single cough, then silence.
The therapist in me is not only horrified but incensed. How can they use solitary confinement? “Who’s there?” I say, half-expecting to hear JoAnne’s frightened voice calling back to me.
Gordon grabs my arm. “Relax,” he says, but his grip is anything but relaxing. “Did anyone force you to be here?”
“No.”
“Precisely. Every inmate in this building is like you. Like your lovely wife, Alice.”
I shudder to hear her name coming out of his mouth. “No one is here against his or her will, Jake. All of our inmates understand their crimes and are grateful to have the opportunity for realignment in a supportive environment.”
He steps over to the cell and leans down to speak through the slot. “Are you here on your own recognizance?”
For a moment, nothing. And then a male voice answers, “Yes.”
“Are you being held against your will?”
“No.” His voice is thin, tired.
“What is the nature of your stay here?”
More quickly this time, no hesitation: “Realignment due to repeat crimes of Emotional Infidelity.” I can’t place his accent. Japanese, maybe.
“And how is your progress?”
“Steady. I am grateful to have the opportunity to realign my actions within the parameters of my marriage and the laws of The Pact.”
“Wonderful,” Gordon says into the cell. “Do you need anything?”
“I have everything I need.”
Shit. Can this be real?
Gordon turns back to me. “I know what you’re thinking, Jake. I see the concern on your face. I can assure you that, while these cells may originally have been constructed for solitary confinement, we prefer to think of them as monastic rooms in which members who have gone far afield can reacquaint themselves, in their own good time, with their vows.”
“How long has he been in there?”
Gordon smiles. “Does one ask the monk how long he has been in his monastic cell? Does one require the nun to answer for her devotion to her God?”
He places his hand on my arm again, gently this time. “Come, we’re almost there.”
We step through yet another door, and he points to the right, toward what looks like a waiting room. “That section is the holding area for pretrial. I believe your wife spent some time with us over there. She was extremely cooperative. An ideal visitor, really, to our facility. The courtrooms, pretrial meeting rooms, and attorneys are all down there. But that’s not where we’re going today.”
He turns left, toward a set of double doors. While all of the other doors have keypads, this one is secured with a chain and padlock.
“This is our special wing for long-term pretrial. This is where we will find your friend JoAnne. Actually, this business with JoAnne is interesting, unexpected. Most of our visitors find that honesty helps move things along quickly. It’s better that way for everyone.”
Gordon spins the wheel on the padlock. The padlock pops open, and he noisily unloops the chain. Once we’re inside, the door slams shut behind us. The motion sensor clicks and a spotlight comes on, shining down into the middle of the room, where a square platform rises out of the floor. Two concrete steps lead up to the platform. Around it are thick glass walls. One of the walls has a lock and a handle. Gordon stands on the top step, slips a key into the lock, and opens the glass door.
“You’re free to go inside, Jake.”
There, in the corner, pressed against the glass, beneath the harsh lights, someone is curled in a fetal position. I don’t want to go inside. I want to turn, fight off Gordon if I have to, flee this horrible building. But I know instantly that I cannot. The door has locked behind us, the sound of it still echoing around the concrete walls.
I walk up the steps and into the glass-walled room. When I hear the door shut behind me, my stomach churns. There are no chairs inside this glass box. There is no bed. No blanket. Only a metal toilet in the corner and a cold, hard floor all around. The room beyond us is pitch-black. I know Gordon is there, outside the glass, but I can’t see him.
“JoAnne?” I whisper.
She uncurls from her ball and looks up at me. She blinks, then shields her eyes, crying out. She must have been in the dark for a day or two, possibly longer. She is entirely naked, matted brown hair falling around her shoulders. Slowly, she moves her hands, peering at me from dazed eyes as if I have yanked her out of a very deep sleep. “Jake?”
“It’s me.”
She sits up, back pressed to the wall. She pulls her knees up to her chest, trying to cover her nudity.
“They took my contact lenses,” she says. “You’re a blur.”
I look around the room for microphones. I don’t see any, but what does that mean? I sense Gordon, just outside the box. Watching. Listening.
I sit down across from JoAnne, my back to the glass, hoping to provide her with some sense of protection from Gordon’s prying eyes. “They asked me about you.” I want to get my story out before she says something that could get us both into trouble. Of course, it’s possible that she already told them about our meeting at Hillsdale. I tremble at the thought that they already know everything.
“I told them the truth,” I say in a loud, clear voice. “How I haven’t seen you since Gene’s party in Woodside.” She still seems groggy, so I’m not even sure if she understands what I’m saying. “I told them how you and Neil were so happy.”
“I’m embarrassed,” she says, blinking. Have they drugged her? “It’s been twenty years since you saw me naked.”
I am swept back to the memory of a sweet, blundering night in her dorm room. How awkward she had been.
I cringe. Why did she have to mention that? It contradicts everything I’ve said.
“You must be thinking of someone else.” I sense that Gordon is parsing every word, scrutinizing every movement, and it dawns on me, with horrifying clarity, that my entire trip—the deceptively luxurious room, the disorienting journey through the prison maze, the interrogation, the glimpse of solitary confinement—has been arranged to bring me to this exact moment.
“I shouldn’t be embarrassed by my nudity,” she continues, as if she hadn’t heard me. “That’s what they want, but there’s no reason for it.” She unfolds her arms and lays her legs flat. Her feet are pointed directly at me. Her breasts are small, her body pale. Suddenly, she spreads her legs slightly. Involuntarily, my eyes flicker there. I blush and raise my gaze back to her face. She gives me a quick, strange smile.