Soon, the line is stationary in front of us. Most of the people are just looking down, avoiding eye contact, though others—first-timers?—seem fascinated, horrified. One man, twenty-something with black hair and perfect teeth, is even smiling. He seems cruelly amused. Others just seem bored, passing time, eating another lunch at Fernley. As if they’ve seen it all before.
At first, I avoid everyone’s eyes. Out of shame, humiliation. But then it occurs to me that if this is the end, I want to force them to look at me. To see me. To know that tomorrow, this could be them. If I can end up here, any Friend can end up here.
The crowd is about half men, half women. The red jumpsuits can’t hide the fact that nearly everyone is well groomed, probably well-off. Not your usual prison population. I wonder what crimes brought them here. As the crowd increases, the line doubles in on itself, and triples. It’s so crowded that some are pressed against my plexiglass prison, only the clear pane separating them from my nude body. The noise intensifies, and I am filled with rage and disappointment. I want them to do something. Anything. I want them to rise up against The Pact.
How is it that we have all allowed this to happen to us?
A woman with auburn hair, an elegant streak of gray at the temple, smiles at me. She glances around to see that no one is watching, then quickly she kisses the plexiglass where my mouth is. She says something, though I can’t hear her over the din. What? I mouth. She mouths the words back to me, slowly: Don’t give in.
At least I think that’s what she says. Don’t give in.
72
Back in the holding cell, back in the red jumpsuit, back on the thin mattress. I try to fall asleep, but it’s too bright and too hot. There is nothing to do in here, nothing to read except The Manual. I refuse to touch it.
My mind drifts. For some reason I think of one of my patients, Marcus, the one who asked me the purpose of life. He’s writing a paper about Larsen B, a sheet of ice the size of Rhode Island that sat on the edge of Antarctica. In 2004, after nearly twelve thousand years of strength and stability, Larsen B cracked, fragmented, and went hurtling into the ocean. Twelve thousand years, yet it only took three weeks to disintegrate. Scientists aren’t sure why, though they suspect that it was a monumental confluence of events—a changing water stream, a hotter sun, ozone depletion, and the usual summer cycle of twenty-four hours of light—that did Larsen B in. The warm water stream caused some tiny cracks, and then the hot sun melted the thin top layer. The droplets rolled down, slowly working their way into the cracks, which then expanded until the entire structure weakened. Finally, in a matter of minutes, a catastrophe that had seemed inconceivable for twelve thousand years suddenly became entirely imminent.
Then I think of my new clients the Rosendins. Darlene and Rich have been married for twenty-three mostly happy years. Nice home, decent jobs, two kids, both in college. Everything was great until about six months ago, when Darlene did a couple of dumb things. In the grand scheme of life, her infractions weren’t huge, but in the weeks since then a domino effect began, anger and distrust, and the entire marriage has crumbled. I admit that it left me a little pessimistic about marriage. You hold things together every second of every day, then one time, just for an instant, one person loses concentration, lets go of the thread, and the whole thing unravels.
73
“Ready to talk?”
I stand stiffly and follow Gordon and Maurie out of the cell, down the hallway, and into the interview room. This time, they don’t secure me to the table. Maybe they can tell I’m too exhausted to fight.
Gordon sits there, staring at me across the table. Maurie takes up his position at the door. He won’t meet my eyes.
“So,” Gordon says. “Can we find some common ground? Have you had some time to think?”
I don’t answer. I’m not sure there’s anything I can say. When I was wheeled into the cafeteria, it felt as though I’d opened the door to a rabbit hole that led to hell. I was ready to make it all right—for JoAnne and for me, for Alice—but then when the stranger mouthed those words, it gave me the strength to stand my ground. Don’t give in.
“This isn’t really about you,” Gordon tells me. “JoAnne is a tricky one. Would it interest you to know this isn’t her first Crime of Infidelity? Neil has asked me to get to the bottom of it.” This is the first time anyone at Fernley has referred to someone in authority by name; that can’t be good. Does it mean he’s planning to eliminate the witness?
“Look, Jake, I understand you’re in a predicament here. You feel that you can’t help me solve the problem without incriminating yourself.” Gordon stands and moves to a mini-refrigerator in the corner. “Drink?”
“Yes. Please.”
He places a plastic bottle in front of me. Icelandic water again—blueberry and mint.
“You seem to have serious resolve, Jake. So, I’ve been giving it some thought. We have two ways to go. Either I break your resolve—which is a lot of work for me and not much fun for you—or we find a way out of this whereby you can help me solve my problem, but we do it in a manner that allows you to walk away relatively unscathed.”
“After the shit you just put me through, I don’t trust your definition of unscathed.”
“Trust me. That was nothing.”
“Is this normal?”
“Is what normal?”
“I thought The Pact was supposed to be about fostering successful, healthy, long-lasting marriages. Where do interrogation and torture fit into a healthy marriage?”
Gordon sighs. “Here’s where we’re at. I’ve been asked to solve the problem with JoAnne. Usually, in most cases, I confront the adulterer, she pleads guilty, faces the judge, takes her medicine. The couple moves on. Simple. A marriage is a remarkably resilient thing. I’ve seen marriages withstand horrible, devastating blows, and somehow they bounce back. It’s uncanny. Most of the marriages turn out to be even stronger once the ordeal is over. Do you know why that is?”
I refuse to answer.
“When the offending partner accepts the consequences of his or her actions, Jake, it returns balance to the relationship. It brings back stasis. It eliminates the noise, resolves the problem, and starts the relationship anew. Balance is the key. Balance is the fuel that powers a successful marriage.”
While it sounds like a rehearsed speech, it does have a ring of truth. I remember saying something quite similar to my patients.
“Most couples can’t bring balance back to their relationship on their own. That’s what I’m here for.”
“So,” I ask, “what is it exactly you need?”
“Because JoAnne has refused to fully confess, this is one of those extremely rare instances where I have been forced to intervene.”
“Have you ever considered the possibility that there is simply nothing to confess?”
Gordon sighs again. “The first day my team ran surveillance on JoAnne, she lied to Neil. She snuck out of the house and met you in the food court. For years, I worked for a foreign intelligence service. My subjects were professionals; they knew how to cover their tracks. That was difficult. This is not.”