Marcia Talley - This Enemy Town

Crisp released my arm and said, “I’ll see you later in court, Mrs. Ives,” before disappearing through the door we’d just come through. As the door slid shut, I stared after her like a lost friend, feeling completely abandoned.

Arnold took charge. My photo was taken, front and sides like the Unibomber, then transmitted to Washington as data element who-knows-what in the profile being built up on me in JABS.

Afterward, Jesse escorted me to a holding cell painted the color of mucous, handed me a white cardboard box, and slid the door shut behind me.

“What’s this?” I asked, indicating the box.

“Lunch,” he grunted.

I hadn’t had anything to eat since dinner the previous night, but with acid gnawing at the lining of my stomach, just the thought of food made me want to barf.

I set the box unopened on the only furniture in the room-a bench molded into the wall-and paced out my temporary home-eight feet by eight feet. Was this miserable cell a preview of coming attractions? Would I spend the rest of my life pacing and pacing, staring at four blank walls? No, I corrected myself: three blank walls and a fourth wall with bars on it.

I slouched on the bench, with my back against the wall, my feet dangling, not even able to touch the floor.

I was finally, blessedly alone.

But instead of relaxing, I started to shake. My teeth chattered. I longed for my coat, but they’d taken that away. No scarves, no belts, no panty hose, either. If I wanted to end it all, my only hope was to roll off the bench and conk my head on the floor.

Breathe, Hannah, breathe!

I closed my eyes. Behind my eyelids a tropical island began to materialize: palm trees, frangipani, planter’s punch on shaved ice with a tiny umbrella, waves gently licking a white sand beach.

Breathe! In through your nose, out through your mouth.

Warm breezes, sun sparkling on water clear as gin, snorkel and swim fins, a tropical reef with fishes darting in and out and…

Sharks!

My eyelids flew open. I’d have to tell Ruth that I tried, but visualized meditation simply didn’t work in a jail cell. My shui was definitely all fenged up.

For lack of anything better to do, I opened the lunch box and sorted through the contents, laying each item out on the bench next to me. A ham sandwich. A packet of chips. A bottle of water. An apple that looked like it’d lost one too many rounds with a croquet mallet. Who had packed this mess? Prisoners? I leaned my head against the wall, fighting back tears. Would I spend the rest of my life eating crap like this? I had new respect for prisoners of war like Admirals Bill Lawrence and William Stockdale. I was going stir-crazy after only an hour; they’d been locked up and tortured by the North Vietnamese for more than six years.

“I want my lawyer!” I screamed to deaf walls. “I have a right to talk to my lawyer!”

It was probably only a coincidence, but several minutes later Arnold appeared. “Mrs. Ives? Your lawyer is here.”

I could have kissed his scruffy cheek.

Arnold escorted me to a nearby room, where Murray sat at a table on the opposite side of a glass window. I hadn’t seen Murray Simon since the grandchildren were born and Paul and I had updated our wills. Murray had the same round face, a little less sandy hair, and had switched from aviator glasses to a pair of trendy, narrow European-style frames.

As usual, Murray zeroed in on what was bothering me most. Before I could even say “Hi,” Murray got right to the point. “Don’t worry, Hannah, we’ll get you out of here.”

I folded my arms on the table and rested my forehead on them. “Thank God!”

I took a deep breath and gazed up at my attorney. I’d opened my mouth to ask the next question, but once again Murray was ahead of me. “You’re going to be arraigned sometime after three o’clock. There’s nothing I can do about that. You’ll plead not guilty, of course, and we’ll get you home by dinnertime.”

“Not guilty to murder, you mean?” My mouth was dry, my throat so tight I could barely get the word out. Murder .

“No, you’re being charged with manslaughter, Hannah.” Murray paused, waiting for that information to sink in.

“Manslaughter? But what evidence does the FBI have against me?”

“Doesn’t look good. They found the murder weapon.”

I stared at him stupidly.

“It was a hammer, Hannah. They found it in the Dumpster behind Nimitz Library. And I’m afraid your fingerprints are all over it.”

I fell back against the chair. “Of course my fingerprints are all over it, Murray! I was building sets with the damn thing!”

“It gets worse,” Murray said.

“How could it possibly get any worse?”

“The hammer was wrapped in your sweatshirt.”

I shuddered, suddenly remembering the sweatshirt and hot glue gun I’d left lying on a chair in the Jabberwocky room that night I’d fled from Jennifer Goodall’s loathe-some presence. “Oh, shit.”

“And of course there was the argument.”

I nodded. “Can’t bother to deny that.”

Murray whipped off his glasses and laid them on the table in front of him. He leaned forward, his mouth close to the glass. “Hannah, I need you to think carefully. What were you doing the afternoon Jennifer was murdered?”

“I don’t remember exactly, but I know I went downtown to do some shopping.”

“Were you hanging around Mahan auditorium at all, say between three and four in the afternoon?”

“Absolutely not.”

Murray leaned back in his chair. “Then this is a tough one. NCIS has a witness who saw you leaving the auditorium about the time Jennifer was attacked, walking in the direction of the library.”

“What witness?” My head reeled. I remembered the countless times I’d walked between Mahan and the set shop in Alumni Hall, waving to Nimitz staff as they lounged on the loading dock, smoking. I mentioned this to Murray. “Maybe the witness got the day wrong. I know I was shopping that afternoon. There must be credit card receipts somewhere!”

“Paul’s looking into it, Hannah. He’s checking your Amex and Visa card statements.”

“Good.” I relaxed just a fraction. “So, what can I expect?”

“The marshals will escort you into the courtroom. I’ll be there, of course. You’ll stand with me behind the defense table and listen quietly while they read the charges. You’ll plead not guilty-that goes without saying-then the government will request bail.”

“How much bail?” I interrupted.

“About $250,000 is usual in cases like this.”

I gasped, seeing the door that had opened a crack slam shut behind me. “Where are we going to get that kind of money?”

“Don’t worry. Paul and I are already making arrangements for a property bond.”

“Uh-huh,” I said dully, imagining our beautiful old house with a For Sale sign hanging in front of it.

“We’ll counter with a reduced sum,” Murray continued, “because you’re a model citizen with a spotless record, family ties to the community, not a flight risk etcetera etcetera etcetera.”

“Okay.”

“And you’ll have to surrender your passport, I’m afraid.”

“My passport,” I repeated numbly. Did they think I’d head for some South American country with no extradition treaty with the United States? Spend my life drifting aimlessly from one third world town to another? Visit my grandchildren only by video conferencing, assuming said third world country had broad band Internet access? No, I’d simply be a prisoner of another kind.

“But what if they find me guilty, Murray? What then?”

“They won’t.”

“But what if they do?”

“The federal sentencing guideline for manslaughter is ten years.”