I can’t say for sure, but I think a day passes before the door opens. I feel the hot air from my cell rush out into the common area. My jumpsuit is soaked in sweat. I get off my cot and step out of the cell. The cool air makes me dizzy.
The door to the other cell has also opened. Barbara emerges, holding both hands over her face to protect her eyes from the light. I feel guilty for choosing the dark cell for her. I rest a hand on her shoulder, and she whimpers. We have been given no instructions, but I see an exit sign up ahead. I lead her down the corridor and out the exit. I feel like a rat in a familiar maze, following the mandated path, my free will no more than a fiction.
Barbara has opened her eyes now, although it is clearly painful for her, and she walks close behind me, clutching my hand.
“Where are we going?” she whispers.
“Is this your first time?”
“Yes.”
“Every door leads to another door. I figure we just keep going. When they want us to stop, we’ll know. If it helps, just count. That way, at least we’ll know how long we walked.”
“One Mississippi,” she says. “Two Mississippi, three…”
I walk slowly but deliberately. Just as I expected, when we reach the end of each hallway, a door opens, then closes behind us. Is it all controlled by sensors? Or is the impeccable timing the work of someone watching the cameras?
Barbara is at 1,014 Mississippi when we reach two glass doors. Both have a plastic sign inscribed with the words PUBLIC DEFENDER. The voice emanates from overhead. “Barbara, now it’s your choice. For your attorney, would you like David Renton or Elizabeth Watson?”
I barely know my fellow prisoner, but I am certain whom she will select.
“David Renton,” she says without hesitation.
Both doors open to reveal a desk with someone standing beside it. Barbara goes to the left, toward the man, and I step right, toward the woman.
Elizabeth Watson—tall, thin, and pale—looks like a mannequin in a navy suit. At first, she doesn’t move, and I sense she is sizing me up. My clothes and slippers are drenched in sweat—I imagine it’s not an appealing sight. The room is heavily air-conditioned, and I begin to shiver in my damp clothes. My attorney motions me to the chair opposite the desk. Before taking her seat, she casually pushes the window open to let in some hot desert air.
“Freezing in here,” she mutters. “I grew up in Tallahassee. My mom kept our house at a constant sixty-five. Can’t stand air-conditioning.”
I’m stunned by her candor. She’s the first person I’ve met at Fernley who has ever revealed anything about herself.
She swivels her chair and opens her big leather purse.
I realize this isn’t actually her office. There are no pictures or personal belongings of any sort. Up close, I can see that her suit is wrinkled, a crease along the right side, maybe from a suitcase, a stain on her left sleeve. The purse is filled to the brim. She must have just flown in, unexpectedly summoned.
She places three beverages on the desk: Diet Coke, Icelandic water with essence of raspberry, and iced tea. “Your choice,” she says with an empathetic smile. I imagine her grabbing the bottles in a rush on her way out of a fancy law office. Unlike Declan and Diane, Elizabeth Watson is likely a member of The Pact. Perhaps she did something wrong once or twice, and now on occasion she flies in to represent her “Friends.”
I reach for the water, and she takes the iced tea for herself. “So,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “First offense, right?”
“Yes.”
“The first time is the worst.” She opens a file on her desk.
As I guzzle the water, Elizabeth begins reading the paperwork. “They haven’t filed charges yet. That’s unusual. They want to talk to you first.”
“Do I have a choice?”
Elizabeth glances out the window, across the shimmering desert. “Not really, no. We still have a few minutes. Hungry?”
“Starving.”
She rummages through her purse and pulls out half of a sandwich, wrapped in blue wax paper, and pushes it across the table. “Sorry, it’s all I have. It’s good, though, turkey and Brie.”
“Thank you.” I eat the sandwich in four bites.
“Want to call your wife?”
“Really?” It seems too good to be true.
“Yes, you can use my cell.” She pushes the cellphone across to me and says quietly, “We always register our cells when we get to Fernley.” She puts air quotes around the word register, warning me my call might not be exactly private. It seems she really is on my side. But then, maybe this is just another sick game, another test. Maybe she’s playing good cop.
“Thank you,” I say uncertainly. I pick up the phone. I’m desperate to talk to Alice, but what will I say?
Alice picks up on the first ring, her voice a breathy, frightened “Hello.”
“It’s me, sweetheart.”
“Oh my God. Jake! Are you okay?”
“I got a haircut, but other than that, I’m fine.”
“What do you mean, a haircut? When are you coming home?”
“I’m bald. And unfortunately, I don’t know when I’m coming home.”
The bald part doesn’t even seem to register. “Where are you?”
“With my attorney. I haven’t been charged yet. They want to interview me first.”
I glance up at Elizabeth, who seems engrossed in my file. “How’s Vadim?” I ask quietly.
“Working hard,” Alice says. “He found more paperwork.”
Elizabeth looks up at me and taps her watch.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Not yet,” Alice says. I can hear that she’s crying. “Whatever you do, don’t tell them anything incriminating.”
“I won’t,” I promise. “Alice? I love you.”
I hear a hand on the office doorknob, quickly hang up, and slide the cellphone across the desk to Elizabeth. The office door opens. Gordon, the guy who questioned me on my first visit to Fernley, stands there in a black suit, holding a briefcase. Beside him is a different guy—bigger and rougher than his partner last time, with a tattoo of a serpent snaking up his massive neck. “Time to go,” Gordon says.
Elizabeth stands, comes around the desk, and places herself between me and Gordon. I like her more already. “How long will the interview last?” she asks.
“Depends,” Gordon says.
“I’d like to sit in on it.”
“That won’t be possible.”
“Damn it, I’m his attorney. Why does he even have an attorney if I can’t be there for the interview?”
“Look,” Gordon says impatiently. “Just let me do my job. When I’m finished, I’ll bring him back. Deal?”
“Will it be an hour? Two hours?”
“That’s up to our friend here.” Gordon grabs me by the elbow and pulls me toward the door. Elizabeth starts to follow us, but Gordon glances back, snaps his fingers, and says, “Maurie, handle this.” Serpent guy stands in the doorway, blocking Elizabeth’s exit.
We walk through more long corridors. Eventually Gordon punches a code into a keypad and we enter a windowless room with a table and three chairs. I can feel Maurie breathing behind me.
“Sit,” Gordon says, and I obey. He sits across from me, setting his briefcase on the table between us.