With the greetings over, the three of them made fast time to escalators that went up to the open second floor.
“She’s in general.” Mitch led the way to the pedi-way. “But I’ve cleared the delays for her bail hearing. As soon as you’re ready, Mr. Lodge—”
“Call me Samuel or Sam.”
“Samuel.” Mitch nodded. “Soon as you’re ready, I’ll slide her in with Judge McQuaid. I’ve spoken with the prosecutor. His hands are tied, especially with Mr. Baldwine pushing as hard as he is. The only thing I can really do is expedite, expedite, expedite.”
Lane gritted his molars. Gin was a lot to handle, and clearly, their father had had it with her—but this was so damned public. “I’m going to owe you for this one, Mitch.”
“Not the way I see it.”
The deputy got them through the various security points, and then they were in the jail portion of the facility. Although Lane had pulled a number of less-than-legal stunts as a kid, all of his transgressions had been discreetly “taken care of.” So this was his first trip into the county clink, and he couldn’t say he was in a big hurry to ever come back.
The waiting area had cream concrete walls. Cream floor. Plastic chairs in orange and yellow and red. The smell in the air was old sweat, dirty clothes, and Lysol.
Thanks to Mitch, they steamed right over to the registration counter with its bulletproof glass windows and lineups of officers with their various catches of the day. Talk about a wake-up call on the other half. Oily men and stringy young boys … barely clothed working girls … seedy, worn-out older women … all of them stood or weaved in place next to their arresting officers, their faces showing the grind of hard lives lived badly.
“Over here, Deputy Ramsey,” someone called out by a reinforced door.
After going through the checkpoint, they headed by a number of conference rooms that had red lights above the entrances and bars over little chicken-wired windows.
“If you’ll wait in here,” the officer said by one of the rooms, “I’ll bring her down.”
“Thanks, Stu.” Mitch opened the door and stood to the side. “I’ll be out here.”
“Much appreciated.” Lane clapped the guy on the shoulder. “And we’re probably going to need more of your help.”
“Anything you want, I’m here.”
Samuel T. paused by the deputy. “Has anyone talked to the press yet?”
“Not on our side,” Mitch replied. “And I’ll try to keep it that way.”
“My sister doesn’t have the best reputation.” Lane shook his head. “The fewer people who know about this, the better.”
Mitch closed them in together, and although there were four chairs bolted to the floor around a steel table that was likewise secured, Lane couldn’t sit down. Samuel T. did, though, putting his ancient briefcase to the side and steepling his hands.
The attorney shook his head. “She’s going to be pissed to high heaven you brought me here.”
“Like I’d call anyone else?” Lane rubbed his aching eyes. “And after this, you’re still helping me with my divorce, right?”
“Just another busy morning with the Bradfords.”
At least they let her keep her own clothes on, Gin thought as she was led down yet another concrete corridor painted the color of month-old vichyssoise.
She’d had a terror of undressing in front of some hairy-chested female officer and then getting violated by a gloved hand before being thrown into an orange jumpsuit the size of a circus tent. When that had not happened, she’d then become obsessed about being put in some kind of filthy holding cell with a bunch of drug-addled prostitutes coughing AIDS all over her.
Instead, she’d been put in a cell by herself. A cold cell, with just a bench and a stainless-steel toilet with no seat or toilet paper.
Not that she would ever use something like that.
Her diamond stud earrings and her Chanel watch had been confiscated, along with her LV bag, her phone, and those hundred-dollar bills and useless credit cards she had in her wallet.
One call. That was all she’d been allowed—just like in the movies.
“In here,” the guard said, stopping by an African-American man in uniform and opening a thick door.
“Lane—!” Except she stopped rushing toward her brother when she saw who was sitting at the table. “Oh, God. Not him.”
Lane came in for a tight embrace as the door was shut. “You need a lawyer.”
“And I’m free,” Samuel T. drawled. “Relatively speaking.”
“I am not talking in front of him.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Not one word.”
“Gin—”
Samuel T. cut her brother off. “Told you. Guess I’ll just take my things and go.”
“Sit. Down,” Lane barked. “Both of you.”
There was a heartbeat of silence—which Gin took as a sign that Samuel T. was as surprised by that tone of command as she was. Lane had always been, out of the four Baldwine children, the go-with-the-flow type. Now, he sounded like Edward.