Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

It took little time for the beatings to start. On the first day, the guards focused on her legs, using clubs. The second day, her arms. The third day, her back. She knew today would be the face. Or worse.

Emily guessed that Hellman had either died before talking to the warden, or he hadn't sold her story successfully. Either way, it had been worth it. If Hellman lived, he'd think twice before touching a woman again.

Still, that didn't resolve the Roberts issue, nor the warden issue or the "everyone else who was sick as fuck in this place" issue. They were an organized group of degenerates preying on inmates.

Not that Emily didn't believe in punishment for one's crime. If you strangled your wife, shot ten people in a drive-by, or killed fifty kids with fent, you had to pay. Just like Ed had to pay for what he'd done to the trafficking victims.

However, it wasn't up to the employees of the prison to decide the punishment. That was up to the law. The prison staff's job, plain and simple, was to carry out the legal punishment and nothing more. Emily had been tortured many times by Ed and then by the cartel who'd captured her once. Charge had saved her, but not before they'd hit her and shot her up. Not fun. In short, torturing people wasn't okay. Not even criminals. They were human beings, too. Daughters, sons, mothers, fathers. No, there could be no sympathy for the truly cruel individuals of this world, but the abuse in this place wasn't about them so much as it was about living in a decent society.

Good people deserved to know that the law would protect them. Good people deserved a legal system and government who obeyed the law—aka the will of the people. People had to know that if they were somehow convicted of a crime—wrongfully or deservedly—that they wouldn't be beaten and raped by the very people paid to carry out their incarceration. Punishment had to be carried out legally. Period. Otherwise, what were we? Animals? Third world thugs?

Emily sighed. Who was she to lecture anyone about legal justice? She'd just tried to kill a man with a pen. Hell, maybe she'd succeeded. Judge, jury, and executioner here. And let's not forget working for a group of vigilantes.

As Emily lay on the concrete floor, unable to move, she couldn't stop thinking about the choices she'd made leading to this moment. It had all started when she was seventeen after her legal guardian, Aunt Mary, died. Her father, Big Carl, had died five years before at sea, living the life of a North Atlantic fisherman, and Emily's mother had run off when she was little. With everyone gone, and Emily not being eighteen yet, she'd been placed in a group home.

That was the moment her life had really begun this slow crawl towards death. She had been young and so alone. She'd been placed in a new town, new school, new home where everyone either ignored her or looked at her like she was trash. And for what? Because the people she'd loved were dead?

Justine Hays hadn't been trash. She'd been a child who'd lost everything and everyone.

It was no wonder that she welcomed the first hand of friendship to reach out—a girl at the group home named Larissa. Larissa had come there under very different circumstances. The crackwhore mom. The no-show dad. The state intervening after Larissa's fifth arrest for stealing and possession. The home was where they'd placed Larissa after a year in juvy.

When Emily met her, however, she didn't see Larissa's past or recklessness. She saw another girl her age who was angry at the world, saying, "Fuck it. Let's party. What else do I have to live for?"

Larissa's eighteenth birthday had come two weeks before Emily's. The moment she walked out of the home, Larissa took her to a dive bar where IDs weren't needed. Just cash.

They drank. They laughed. They ate the most disgusting chilidogs. Later that night, Monica, another girl who'd left the home several months earlier, showed up. In a drunken stupor, the three decided to go to Atlantic City.

When Emily asked what they'd do for money, Monica told her not to worry. "We're hot. We're young. We don't need money."

Emily would soon find out that what Monica had really meant was hitting the clubs and bars, looking for old horny men who'd pay for things—booze, food, a room—in exchange for sex.

"That makes us prostitutes," Emily had argued with Larissa that first night in Atlantic City.

"Women let men take them out, buy them clothes, cars, and even houses. Fucking in exchange for pampering isn't prostitution. It's life. It's what everyone does."

"No. Not everyone," Emily had said.

"Wake up, girl. Even if you work at a gas station, you're required to haul your ass down there and stand around all day. You're using your body for money. I mean, not like you can just show up with your mind and get a paycheck."

Emily hadn't agreed, nor did she participate, but her decision hadn't been any better. The other girls flirted, danced, and fucked. And in return, Emily ate. She had a clean bed every night. She had clean clothes. She found herself living off them, and it somehow felt worse than if she'd done all those things herself.

After one week, she told Larissa she was going back to Maine to look for work.

Larissa gave her two hundred bucks and then disappeared inside the motel without a word.

Maybe that was the moment things truly changed for me. Emily had bought a bus ticket and went to a diner across the street to wait for her departure. That was when Ed walked in. Nice suit. Tall. Broad shoulders. Hot. He looked so confident and respectable. She couldn't take her eyes off him.

After a few minutes of trading side glances, he came over and sat next to her at the counter.

Looking back, she now knew he'd been there fishing for "merchandise." What made him take her out to dinner that night, she'd never really know, but in a strange, sick way, she was grateful he had. Otherwise, she would've ended up in one of those houses where women were locked up and, well, the worst happened.

Emily laughed, rolling onto her side, the cool concrete soothing her swollen leg. "How fucking sad." She was actually grateful for being his punching-bag wife.

"Good morning, Justine. Ready for breakfast?" said a sour female voice, one Emily wasn't familiar with.

"Go fuck yourself." She stared at the wall, remembering how she used to cower when Ed would play the same games. But if this was her last day on earth, she'd spend it as a whole person. Not some street dog people kick.

"You can eat or not. I don't give a shit, inmate. Either way, you're leaving in thirty minutes."

Emily slowly turned her head, her body screaming with pain as the muscles stretched. "Where am I going?"

"To hell, where you belong. And after that, hopefully the electric chair for murder."

"I didn't kill Summers," she muttered.

"Maybe not, but you sure as hell killed Hellman."

Emily smiled and turned her head back toward the wall. Good riddance, motherfucker.

***

"I can't take her like that," said the US marshal standing just outside the door of the office where they admitted prisoners or released them. "They'll ask what happened, and I'm not about to try to explain it."

Sitting against the wall inside the office, Emily heard the warden grumble something under his breath.

"No," said the marshal, "you either give me paperwork—a full incident report, signed off by you, the involved staff, and the doctor—or she stays here until she doesn't look like she's been through a meat grinder."

Did she really look that bad? Funny, because she actually felt pretty good, considering her ribs hurt and she had bruises on every inch of her body.

"You should see what the cartel did to me once," she mumbled. "This is nothing."

"What did she say?" asked the marshal.

"Who the fuck cares? You need to take her." Warden Mitchel lowered his voice, but Emily could still make out his words. "I'm already under fire for the deaths of two staff members, thanks to her."

"And?" said the marshal.

"I can't guarantee her safety. Just look at what they did to her," said the warden.

"You run this place."

"The staff isn't exactly under twenty-four-hour surveillance, if you know what I mean. The prison is designed to monitor inmates, not correctional officers."

Liar. Charge had said that the warden ran things and hired everyone. He had complete control of this place. If Warden Mitchel wanted her shipped out, it had to be for another reason.

Mitchel added, "I need her gone before she ends up dead and I've got another investigation to deal with. Just name your price."

Ah. There's the real reason. Mitchel didn't want to come under more fire because then someone might start digging around and find out about his side hustle.

"Sorry, but no," said the marshal. "Take it up with my boss if you want, but I'm not touching this with a ten-foot pole unless it's by the book."

Emily heard the man walking away and Mitchel swearing under his breath.

"So I guess you have to keep me alive now, huh, Warden?" she mumbled.

He marched inside the office. "Do you have any idea the mess you've caused?"

"You started it," Emily replied.

"Think you're funny?"

"Not really." Because now that her head had cleared a little, she realized that she needed that marshal to transfer her to another prison so that Charge could break her free.

"Let me talk to the marshal. I can convince him to take me," she said.

"How?"

"Convincing people is my specialty." So was taking a punch, apparently. "Just give me two seconds with him." She winced and cradled her sore ribs.

"Why should I trust you?"

"Because I want to live." She coughed and spit on the floor.

"I'll be back, Justine. But if you double-cross me, I'll personally make sure you never see the light of day."

"I believe you."

A few minutes later, the marshal returned. He was a clean-cut man with leathery skin, dark eyes, and a bald head.

"What do you want to tell me?" he asked.

She tried to smile. "What would it take to convince you to transfer me out of here right now?"

"Proper documentation of how you got your wounds and that you won't die during transport."

"What if I told you that the person responsible is dead now and there were no witnesses?" she asked.

"Then I'd say you have to stay here until you're healed. I'm not getting involved."

"You've already seen me, and you know a staff member did this in retaliation for killing two guards. All I'm asking for is my day in court, which I won't get if I stay here."

"Why did you kill them?" he asked.

She had two choices: tell the truth or make up a big ugly lie to scare the crap out of him. Lie. "One guard pissed off my boss, so I was ordered to kill him. The other tried to rape me. Either way, my boss has eyes everywhere. They know you're here, and they'll know you refused to help me. Is that what you want?"

"You threatening me?" asked the marshal.

She laughed. "Funny, that's just what the last guy said. To which I replied, ‘Nope. Just telling the truth.' He didn't believe me either when I said I'd kill him if he touched me. Now, I'm telling you that my boss won't be happy if you leave me here to die."

Jesus, where did she come up with this BS?

The marshal shook his head. "And if I transfer you? How am I going to explain your condition?"

"Anyone who asks why I look like a spoiled banana will be told the truth: the staff here did this—just like I told you. Then you go your way. I go mine."

He looked away for a moment.

She added, "Hey, it's not like I'm asking you to break me out. I'm just going to a different prison."

"Fine. I'll sign for you, but if you give me any trouble, I'll bring you right back."

Relief washed over her. She'd be getting away from this terrible nightmare. Afterwards, she'd deal with Charge and break ties forever. She wanted out. No more hit men, cartels, suite forty-five, or prisons. "I'll be on my best behavior. I promise."