Criminal (14 page)

The idea of goddess braids came first, but since I'd never worked with Priscilla's hair before, something simpler seemed better. I separated out some strands at the top of her head and started plaiting. Pretty soon, I fell into the rhythm of what I was doing, and I hardly noticed anything or anyone else.

“You look good,” I told Priscilla when I'd finished. It was
like coming out of a daze, stepping back and taking in my work.

I hadn't done the tightest or smoothest braid ever. At the salon I'd been mostly doing straightenings or weaves, so I was a little rusty at this kind of do, but it was nice. A French braid started at the top left of Priscilla's head and then crossed over to the right, then moved down and around left again, and then back across the bottom of her head, in an S shape. I hadn't done something like that since middle school, probably. I was impressed my fingers had remembered.

Cam clapped and Bindi smiled.

“You can't do that with mine, can you?” Bindi said, looking at the thin end of her long, straight ponytail.

I frowned. “I wish I had some pins. And some hair spray.”

“We can get you some,” Cam said hopefully, but then her eyebrows came together. “Or some rollers at least. I forget what we can have.” She looked at Priscilla.

“No hair spray, that's for sure.”

“It's all right,” I said. “What I really need are some stamps.”

THE NEXT DAY I GAVE CAM CORNROWS. WE USED THREADS
she pulled out from the unraveling hem of her T-shirt to tie off the ends. It took forever, but while I was working, about four or five other girls came to sit around and watch, talk. I asked Cam why she was in here—I didn't know most of the girls' stories at all—and she laughed and told how she'd tried to hold up a convenience store with her boyfriend when they were both high on meth. The cashier had gone for something under the counter—she said she had no idea what, but the motion scared her—and she'd shot him in the shoulder. Her boyfriend was so freaked he just dropped everything and ran. So Cam ran out with him. The police found them only a few hours later, back at home smoking more to calm down. The way she told it, it was like she
was telling a story about somebody else—someone she couldn't believe could ever be that dumb. Part of me wanted to jump in and say it wasn't her fault. That it had just been the drugs. But I didn't have even that to blame in my own situation, and I could relate anyway. So I kept quiet.

Besides that, I had to concentrate. It was harder doing cornrows on white girl hair than I remembered, and Cam couldn't keep still. But when I was done, she ran to the bathroom to look and came out beaming. So I guess I did okay.

Bindi was next up. And she was less talkative about her crime than Cam.

“My roommate and I got in a fight, and she . . . cut herself. She was in the hospital. She told everyone it was me. And since no one else was there, I—”

Cam reached over and squeezed Bindi's hand, told her it was okay. I finished up braiding and could already see, because her hair was just so thin and slippery, that it was all going to fall out before too long, but I hoped it would stay nice as long as it could.

Two other girls asked me could I do theirs after lunch, and even one of the woman guards seemed curious. So, after everyone took their time outside in the yard, I did hair all afternoon. I laughed, heard stories, and thought about trying to do this for some kind of job if I was going to be here long enough. I hadn't seen Doug since just after the hearing, and most of what he'd
told me was a blur, but from what the other girls were saying about their own time here, I knew it could be a long wait.

For once, the day went by pretty fast. After dinner, I tried to write to Jamelee while Priscilla and a bunch of others went to the nightly AA meeting. After several tries though, I hadn't gotten anywhere. Writing about the day, and my new friends, made life in here seem almost normal. Normal like I used to have with Bird, helping her in her kitchen, cutting up with Kenyetta or whoever. Remembering how my real life used to be—picturing what she'd have to say about these women I was wanting to think of as my friends—made me miss Bird in a shadowy place just under the edges of my ribs. And missing Bird made me miss Dee.

To forget both of them, I watched TV with everyone instead. Before lights-out—as we were cleaning things up in the common room and getting ready to head off to brush our teeth—Bindi slipped past, handed me two envelopes and a book of stamps.

IN THE MORNING, I LOOKED AT THE THREE LETTERS I'D
written to Jamelee. I wasn't sure if Bird, seeing where they were from, would even open them. I thought for a long time about not sending them at all. I could keep them, maybe, and give them to Jamelee when I was out. When she was older. But that didn't feel right either. So I folded them up quick and stuck them in the envelope, wrote Bird's address, fast. Nervous as it made me, uncertain as I was about what they said or why I'd even written them, I knew they had to go out in the world.

THAT AFTERNOON A NEW PRISONER GOT TRANSFERRED
into our block. Right away, the other girls started giggling and fussing over her. Priscilla muttered that it was probably because she'd snuck in pills, which made me feel extra strange about paying her any attention, but when Bindi led her over to me, I told her to sit down. Asked her what she wanted me to do to her hair.

I wasn't too long into it when a guard called for me. Because Doug was here.

The guard took me to the same conference room where I'd met him before. Right away he stood up. I didn't know how to feel, seeing him. Was he mad at me? Did he want to stop being my lawyer? I looked at him for clues. His face was small, pale.
Suit still too big for him. The guard shut the door behind her, stood outside, and watched us through the glass window.

“Hello, Nikki.”

“Doug.”

He started talking, and pretty quick I realized this time I was actually following what he was saying. He seemed to notice and relaxed more. After what had happened at my arraignment, he explained, things became complicated. Refusing to speak, even after being prompted by both Doug and the judge (which I didn't really remember), was the same as a not-guilty plea. Which meant I was going to have to go through a trial.

“And, in this case, unless there's proof that you were truly coerced by Mr. Pavon at the time or out of your mind on drugs, though even then nothing's guaranteed—”

He stopped, looking at me. Hoping I would say it had been drugs. That maybe I didn't even remember that day, really. Didn't remember ever talking to the detectives. He was hoping I'd tell him I'd done it because—but I didn't know what. The only drug I'd been on was love. The only thing that made me insane was my desire to please Dee. And I knew, even if it was true, that wasn't going to hold up in any kind of court.

Doug saw the expression on my face and went on. “I'm just not sure there's a lot for us to do, Nikki, to be honest. I mean, I'll defend you, of course, to the best of my abilities. I've already
gotten some background information on Mr. Pavon, and I can certainly demonstrate that you were under an incredibly bad influence. Gang background. Prior suspect in another murder. Robbery. But with these lies of yours, Nikki, and the confession, with a jury . . .”

His eyes met mine.

But it was hard to think past the other things he'd said about Dee: “prior murder,” “gang background,” and “robbery.” It was bringing Dee too close to me again, and I didn't want to see any of it. I couldn't cling to the need of him—not if I wanted to survive—but this new bright reality was too much. I still wanted at least a tiny scrap of the old him left for me to hold on to, to love.

“That's why I've arranged a meeting,” Doug said, pulling out papers from his briefcase.

“A meeting?”

“With the lawyers for the state. They're moving as fast as they can. And they want to talk to you.”

I didn't know what he was getting at. He saw my confusion and nodded.

“These aren't the lawyers who will eventually be prosecuting you, Nikki. They're prosecuting Mr. Pavon. What you told the police was helpful in arresting him, but they feel you might have more information. They'd like to know what it is because
they think your story might truly convince a jury of his guilt. Put him behind bars forever. Talking to them could . . .” He cleared his throat, wiped his hands on the table in front of him. “It could dramatically affect your own sentencing, Nikki, if you gave them a full, truthful testimony. As of now, you're still going to be tried for your part in this murder, no matter what you tell them. You've got to remember that. What you've told the police so far doesn't make anything look good for you in that case. But you could make it look a lot worse for him. And, in the long run, that might help you.”

I was shocked. How did they know there was more to say? And how could I tell them everything anyway? The idea of discussing that Saturday again—with anyone—brought the sound of gunshots back. Dee's crazy laugh. His pride and gratitude. His hands all over me. I'd managed not think about him much, not after a while. And now he was here. Here, and filling up the room. Needing my loyalty more than ever.

“Will you talk with them? Hear what they have to say? As your lawyer”—Doug smiled in a sad way—“I would definitely advise it.”

I didn't want to. Wasn't going to. Not just for Dee's sake, but because things had been so nice lately. Not nice, exactly, but . . . easier. Dee's fury felt put away for a while. All of it did. I didn't want it—or anything about him—to come any closer. Not in
here. Not when I was trying to be normal. When I'd just started thinking about Bird and how to get her to forgive me.

But Doug's face said I didn't have much choice in the matter. So after a minute of thinking—not thinking—I told him I guessed I would.

“Okay, good,” he said. “Because they're here.”

RIGHT AWAY I DIDN'T LIKE HER. THE STATE PROSECUTOR
against Dee. She was tall. Too tall. Shoulders like a football player, stuffed into that burgundy suit. Long-fingered hands, with no polish on the nails. Skin the color of parchment paper and hair in a million tiny dreads, pulled back and tied at the nape of her neck. Dark freckles clustered in two crescents under her eyes, like war paint.

Her giant hand dwarfed mine. She had a grip like a construction worker.

“Miss Dougherty, I'm Marjorie Hampton. Have a seat, will you?”

I took the chair she indicated, across from everyone: her, Doug, and a younger woman, also in a suit. Though they hadn't
bothered me while I was talking to Doug before, I suddenly hated the fluorescent lights in here, the standard-issue office table. Everything felt darker now, full of more judgment.

The younger woman reached across the table to shake my hand, introducing herself as Bianca Pousner. When I glanced at her face, she gave me a small smile, told me to sit down. Nicely. More like asked. I thought she was my age, maybe, but then of course she couldn't be because she was a lawyer and not a dropout.

“Are you comfortable?” she asked.

The main prosecutor cut over her: “You can call me whatever you're comfortable with. This is Bianca, if you like.”

She was trying to smile like this was a favor she was doing.

“What would you like for us to call you?” Bianca said.

“Nikki.” My voice was a small noise.

“All right, Nikki,” Marjorie said. Though I felt better thinking of her as Hampton. “You do understand the charges against you?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

I watched her long, naked fingers spread out the papers in front of her.

“Good. And I hope you've been adjusting all right?”

“I guess so, ma'am.”

“Splendid.” But she didn't sound so. “Well, as Mr. Jacobsen
may have explained, we are part of the team involved in prosecuting Denarius Pavon in the alleged murder of Deputy Palmer. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Even the sound of Dee's name brought flashes in me.

“And, since you yourself were an alleged participant, we have some questions for you about what happened on August twenty-fourth, as well as events on the day leading up to it. And after.”

I could feel her eyes on me. Feel them even though I couldn't see her through the curtain of other things I was seeing. Him. Me. The yellow house.

“It's important that I let you know that cooperation in this case against Mr. Pavon could possibly have an effect on your own sentencing if the judge decides to be lenient with you. But I want to be clear that I am not here to offer you any kind of deal.”

Then I could look at her. Briefly.

“That will remain solely up to the judge who hears your case. Right now, we're here to see if you're willing to answer some questions. Because there are some gaps in the information we have that I think you could be of help with.”

When I looked at Doug, he was nodding for the prosecutor to go on.

She held up a paper filled with cop's handwriting. What I'd told them the day they arrested me.

“I understand that this is your statement to the police about the events on August twenty-fourth. Is that correct?”

I couldn't remember anymore what it said on that paper. But her tone of voice, and Doug's hopeful posture gave me no choice. “Yes, ma'am.”

“And you know, as well as I do, that this statement clearly implicates you in the murder of Deputy Palmer and is also full of gaps?”

Her face seemed carved of concrete. Hard. Disapproving. Full of distrust. She hated me. She hated what I had done, and she wasn't hiding it.

“That's my statement,” I managed to say.

She cleared her throat and shifted in her chair.

Then Bianca took over, leaning toward me in a friendly way. “The thing is, Nikki, we've reviewed all the evidence that's come in so far. But if there's anything you think is missing . . . anything you need to add or want us to know, now's the time. To be honest, we need to know as much as possible.”