HUNTER (The Corbin Brothers Book 1) (104 page)

You know the saying, “it’s not over till the fat lady sings?”

It’s not true. The fat lady doesn’t have to sing if she doesn’t want to. If there are enough other people who sing, the fat lady never has to sing.

I was proud of it, in a twisted way. Of course, I was always good at keeping my mouth buttoned shut, closed tight. In my business—my former business—I had to be discreet or face getting run out of town.

But sitting at that table in the courtroom and seeing some of my girls come back to testify against me was something of a reunion. There were some that I’d just seen a couple of weeks ago, when the nightclub got raided. And there were others who I hadn’t seen in years, talking about times I could barely remember.

If it hadn’t been in court, and I hadn’t been wearing an orange jumpsuit and shackles, maybe it would’ve even been pleasant to see all of them again. I would’ve liked to have headphones on, though. They all were witnesses for the prosecution, and they all said the same thing.

“Mama gave us a place to live and food to eat, but she always kept our money.”

“Mama let us have our money—a little bit at a time—at first.”

“After a while, we started stealing bits of the money we were supposed to be giving her, hiding it in our rooms because we were afraid of her.”

“She tried to kill a girl because she tried to get her money from Mama. Mama came in there shooting a gun at the girl, and the girl jumped out the window.”

“You always had to do what Mama said. If she wanted you to sleep with someone, you had to. If you didn’t want to, you were out on the streets again or worse.”

“All Mama cared about was money. She didn’t care about any of us girls. She pretended she did, but we were just a way for her to get her precious money.”

I couldn’t access any of that precious money to get a good defense attorney for my trial. All of that money I’d worked so hard to save was tied up in the justice system. Instead, I got a court-appointed lawyer. He met with me all of two times before the start of the trial.

“Tell me what you’d like me to do, Wanda,” he said, staring hard at the blank pad of paper in front of him. He never once looked me in my eyes.

“I’d like you to help me,” I said, fighting to make eye contact. Why wasn’t he looking at me?

“It seems to be everyone’s opinion, Wanda, that you’re beyond help,” he said, fidgeting with his pen.

“My lawyer’s opinion, too?” I asked clasping my hands to keep them from shaking. I wouldn’t give this man the pleasure of knowing I was upset.

“Have you heard what the media is already saying about you?” he asked. “That you were in charge of a brothel in the heart of New York. That you exploited desperate young women. That you’re basically the scum of the earth.”

I didn’t hear anything in my holding cell at the jail. All I got were dirty looks from the cops who shoved trays of food at me or happened to walk by the cell. After all, I had accused the police chief of frequenting a brothel. Oh, the stories I could tell them about Johnny French if they’d simply asked.

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” I said. “Even the scum of the earth has a story. I could tell it in court.”

“You mean testify?” The lawyer finally looked up from his pad of paper, but he stared at some point around my left ear. I tried to shift my head to make him meet my eyes, but he stubbornly avoided them.

“Yes. I could testify.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” the lawyer said. “Everyone is eager for this trial to be over as quickly as possible. Everyone except the media, of course. No, Wanda, I think it would be in your best interests not to testify. You’d be ripped apart by the prosecution. Everyone is out to get you here. Don’t forget that.”

I was swiftly taking that to heart. Not even my own lawyer was in my corner.

So all I did was sit still and keep quiet at my own hanging.

I probably shouldn’t have fought the cops when they raided the nightclub. I’d been sleeping—drinking, before that—and they’d surprised me in my office. I thought they were gangsters, some mob-hired heavies sent to shake me down. It’d happened before, back when I was still trying to get the nightclub on its feet and fell into debt with the wrong people.

I’ll be perfectly honest. Even when I realized they were cops and not mobsters, I still kept fighting. I’d put everything into that nightclub. Everything. I couldn’t just watch it go under without trying to do something.

And when the nightclub was exposed for what it actually was—a prostitution hub—all my powerful friends deserted me. Particularly the ones who had tasted some of the sweetness the nightclub had to offer. They ran as fast and as far away as they could possibly get.

Like the police chief, for one. Back at the beginning, when I was younger and Johnny French was a promising young detective rising through the ranks, he’d even paid for the pleasure of my personal companionship. As we both got older, he continued coming to the nightclub, but his tastes ran younger. I had several girls who always made him a very happy customer.

I treated Johnny right, but he ran screaming away from me when I really needed him. Of course, I might or might not have shouted at the cops shoving me into the back of a patrol car to get their boss for me. Forget professional courtesy. I was a drowning woman and flailing for anything that might save me.

I was drowning. I had been drowning for a long time, but it took that holding cell in the jail to show me just how far gone I was.

By the second night in the holding cell, after they’d raided my nightclub, I was hearing things, seeing things that couldn’t possibly be there.

“Suck my cock, Mama,”
Johnny French would wheedle, stroking my hair like he liked to do.
“I’ll get you out of here for just one more blow job. That’s the cost of your freedom.”

“Pay us what you owe us,”
my girls would say, clambering at the bars of my cell. There were so many of them, so many faces both dark and pale, featureless beyond the steel bars.
“You owe us.”

“Where are you going?”
A little boy, standing there at the edge of the crowd, one slender hand wrapped around the bars.
“Why did you leave me?”

My son. My heart wrenched in my chest and I clutched at the orange jumpsuit covering it.

“Leave me!” I screamed, ripping off one of my slip-on shoes and heaving it at the crowd. “I can’t take it! Leave me!”

“What is she hollering about?”

“Maybe she’s really gone crazy.”

I couldn’t tell if the two figures standing outside my cell were real or not. My jumpsuit was soaked through with cold sweat, and I couldn’t stop shaking.

“Please,” I said, my teeth chattering. “Please help me.”

“I think you’re beyond help,” one of the figures volunteered.

“I’m not,” I said, starting to sob. “Please help me.”

“Why’s she shaking like that?”

“Who cares? Let’s go.”

“Please,” I said again, shaking so hard that I couldn’t stand up. “Please, something’s wrong. A doctor.”

“A miracle, you mean.”

I didn’t know who was talking to me anymore, whether they were real or in my dreams. What was real? Maybe tomorrow I’d wake up in my nightclub to find that this was all just an alcohol-driven nightmare.

I heaved myself toward the toilet and managed to land most of the vomit in the bowl. It was mostly bile. I’d been having trouble eating.

“Maybe we should get a doctor.”

“It’s probably just DTs.”

“Just DTs? Those can kill a person, you know. What if she’s dead in the morning, when dayside starts working? You know who’ll be blamed, right?”

“I think a lot of people would like it if she just disappeared. Think of how many lives she’s ruined. I say we let fate decide.”

Lying on the floor of my cell, my world spinning, my reality in shambles, and I might die. With the way I was feeling, I was ready for it. I would welcome it. And if I really deserved it, well, then all the more reason. Still, it was unbearable to listen to two strangers judge me so harshly.

“If you’re not getting a doctor, then get the fuck out!” I roared, throwing my other shoe at the figures. I still didn’t know whether they were real or not.

One of them laughed a little incredulously. “I guess we really will let fate decide.”

When they left, the others crowded back in.

“You sold us. You sold our bodies. You sold our souls.”

“C’mon, Mama. Suck me off. It’s for the best. It’s what’ll help you the most.”

“You left me. You left me. Why did you leave me?”

“Enough!” I screamed, covering my face in my hands.

This wasn’t a dream or a nightmare. This was hell. This was my own personal hell, one that I had created through my own choice and actions, and maybe I even deserved it.

“We the jury find the defendant guilty.”

I had wondered if there would be cheering. With my lawyer’s attitude from the beginning of the trial, I knew there was no chance of any other verdict. And from what I could separate as fact from hallucination from my terrible detox in the holding cell, everyone wanted to see me burn.

But there wasn’t any sort of applause. There weren’t any sounds at all.

It was as if all of the people in the courtroom had already anticipated this outcome, just as I had. There was an air of acceptance, of resignation, even. Yes, of course she’s guilty. We knew it all along.

There were a litany of charges against me, all of them having to do with promoting prostitution and compelling prostitution. The real feather in the prosecution’s hat was the sex trafficking conviction. That meant real time.

Time. It was a funny thing. At night, it dragged by, the darkness absolute in my holding cell. I was left alone and it gave me so many long hours to think about my life. What I’d done. What I hadn’t.

The day after the verdict, I’d met with my lawyer.

“We could always appeal,” he said, not looking at me.

“And how do you think that would go?” I asked, just to see what he’d say.

“It’d only put off the inevitable, Wanda,” he said. “I’ll be honest with you.”

“I’ve appreciated your honesty from the beginning,” I said sardonically. I’d never even bothered asking for my lawyer’s name.

Time passed—several months’ worth. After the verdict came the sentencing. The judge made sure that all my girls were compensated. I didn’t know how I felt about it anymore. I used to think all the money that the nightclub was earning was mine. I’d started the nightclub, after all, and I’d done it to make enough money to build a life for my family.

Now it was all gone.

Time was the only thing I had left, miserable time, and the judge gave me a whole twenty years of it in prison. I was rich with time.

I don’t know what I expected to happen with the sentencing. If I knew that the verdict was already set in stone before I went to trial, then it was the sentencing that was the mystery. Twenty years in prison and not a cent to my name. By the time I got out, I’d nearly be seventy years old. An old woman, and most of her prime spent locked up.

“Don’t despair,” my lawyer told me as he almost cheerfully packed up his blank pad of paper in his briefcase.

“What should I be doing?” I asked, raising my eyebrows at him. Twenty years and no money? Life was pretty much over for me.

“With good behavior, you could be paroled in about six or seven years,” he said, putting his pen in his jacket pocket.

Six or seven years? That didn’t sound nearly as bad as twenty.

“How does that work?” I asked as the bailiff approached.

“Adhere to the rules of the facility,” my lawyer said, looking at some spot around my nose. Was the man incapable of making eye contact with me?

“That’s it?” I asked. “Follow the rules?”

“Show that you’re willing to change and ready to do so,” he said. “Let no good deed go unnoticed. Don’t waste the time you were sentenced to. Think of it as a gift.”

“A gift? Prison? Really?”

“A chance to get your life put back together,” the lawyer said. “Did you really think that you were going to run a brothel for the rest of your life? Learn a skill. Figure things out. Get yourself together again. Move on.”

It was funny, in a way, that the most valuable advice my lawyer had given me came after the trial and the sentencing—neither of which outcome he’d even attempted to influence.

“Thanks, I guess,” I said, looking at his wan face, his overpriced suit. I still didn’t know his name, and I still didn’t care to know it. The bailiff led me away, out of the courtroom, away from the spectators and the cameras and everything that had happened.

Maybe the lawyer was right. Maybe it was time, now, to move forward. To find a different plan. To make a new life.

They shuttled me from the courthouse to the prison in a van that had a cage separating me from the driver, like I was some kind of animal. When we got to the prison, I was sure I was an animal. I was stripped and searched, hosed off, given a new jumpsuit to wear and a bundle of blankets.

I had a quick meeting with a corrections officer assigned to me—Pitt Harrison. He was an older man, his hair more salt than pepper, but his figure was still trim—no expanding, old man’s belly. In another time and place, I might even consider his polite smile, his blue eyes handsome, but this was neither the time nor the place. He was my corrections officer, in charge of my time here. His desk was neat, orderly. There was a framed picture on the surface that featured him smiling with a pretty blonde woman, a tow-headed child grinning up adoringly at them.

“You’ll come to me with any concerns,” he said, looking over my file, dragging my attention away from the picture. “And I’ll make sure you know about any concerns that I have about you.”

I wondered what was in that file. Was it my measurements? My crimes? Every heinous thing I’d done? If it shocked him, Pitt’s face didn’t reveal a thing.

“How—how does this all work?” I asked. I could really, really go for a drink about now. This seemed too overwhelming. There were so many women here, so many mistakes that had been made. Where was I going to fit in?

Perhaps I’d find that this was the place I belonged the most.

“First time inside, I see,” Pitt said. “Keep your head down until you figure out how to live in here. Careful who you trust. Do you have anyone on the outside who can send you money or care packages?”

That was a laugh. Would Johnny French send me anything? That was a resounding no, and he’d perhaps been one of the customers I was closest to. I was also pretty sure that the mob didn’t do care packages.

“No,” I said, shaking my head and staring down at the tips of my rubber-soled shoes. There had been a time in my life when I’d taken great pride in my appearance—fixing my hair until it was just perfect, sweeping on makeup until I glittered under the lights, picking out just the right dress or shoes or outfit to pull everything together. Now, it was going to be jumpsuits and rubber-soled shoes for years. It was a foreign concept. I knew exactly what I was going to be doing years from now. It would be staring down at these ugly ass shoes.

“There has to be someone, Wanda,” Pitt said, looking up at me. That was a small degree of comfort. At least my officer could look me in the eyes. “Don’t you have any family?”

“I have a son,” I said, hesitating to even say anything about it, “but we’re estranged.” As an understatement. I hadn’t seen my child in years and years. Even if I’d had a gun to my head, I wouldn’t be able to say what he was doing, recite his address or phone number. He was a stranger to me, even thought it hurt my heart to admit it.

“Well, all you have is time in here,” Pitt said. “Maybe you should try to spend it mending fences. Improving yourself.”

“That’s something to think about,” I said, nodding. “Thank you.” I wondered if he was speaking from experience. With a family in that picture frame as happy as his looked, I somehow doubted it.

There was a knock on the office door.

“Enter,” Pitt called, closing my file and bumping it against his desk to ensure that all the papers within it were straight.

“You called me, Mr. Harrison?”

I turned in my chair to see a thin brunette at the door, her hair twisted into tight cornrows. The bottoms of the braids had been decorated with pink plastic beads, which made her rattle whenever she moved even a little bit. I wondered if she ever got sick of the sound and resigned myself to the fact that I probably would very soon. Her skin was on the sallow side of fair, and she had a thermal shirt beneath her jumpsuit. I couldn’t fathom why—I was hot and uncomfortable, sweat prickling my scalp.

“Yes. Wanda, this is Willow Masterson. Willow, this is Wanda Dupree. Your new cellmate.”

I stood as Pitt did, turning to face the door. Willow eyed me a little balefully.

“We’ll have to un-bunk the beds,” she said. “I don’t know if I’d trust you on the top bunk, above me.”

“Suits me just fine,” I said calmly. I should choke this bitch. Nobody talked about my weight like that.

“You all will work out the details, I’m sure,” Pitt said. “Just ask Willow if you have any questions about anything. She’s already used to the system, aren’t you, Willow?”

She ducked her head in agreement, but her eyes flashed. I recognized it as a jibe from Pitt. Was he sticking up for me, hitting Willow where it hurt after she’d insulted me? The thought was nice, that I might have a friend on the inside, but I could fight my own battles. I didn’t need someone else stirring up shit. If this girl was going to be my cellmate, I’d prefer to have a decent relationship with her.

“Let’s go,” Willow said disdainfully, jutting her chin out at me. I followed her dutifully out of the office and into the heart of the prison. I thought I’d get some kind of running commentary as we walked through, but Willows mouth stayed shut. I eyed some kind of glass-encased office that contained computers and other corrections officers. They eyed me right back, and I looked away. A smell of food wafted down from another hallway, and I surmised that the cafeteria had to be that way. A woman adjusting her crotch after walking out of another door and the flush of toilets let me know where the restroom was.

I was attracting some attention. There were women of all shapes and sizes in here, but I had always been pretty imposing. The jumpsuit didn’t do much for my figure, but I tried to keep my head up regardless.

No—keep my head down. That’s what Pitt had told me to do. Maybe that’s why everyone was staring at me. Not because I was new, but because I was new and walking in here like I owned the joint. Jesus. It would be a miracle if I didn’t get jumped before dinner.

When Willow entered a cell, I figured it was because it was ours. It was hard to tell. There was shit everywhere—packets of instant noodles scattered everywhere, a couple of spare jumpsuits and other clothes, shoes, books, pencils, notebooks, letters, and just trash.

Once we were inside and I’d taken stock of this new situation, Willow wheeled around.

“I didn’t ask for this,” she said fiercely, poking a sharp finger into the meat of my shoulder.

“Ask for what?” I asked, confused.

“For a new cellmate,” she said. This close, I could see that her eyes were hazel.

“Well, I didn’t ask to be in prison in the first place,” I said easily, biting down the kneejerk desire to snap the finger jabbed into my shoulder like a dry twig. I wouldn’t make any friends if I started out like that.

“You think I did?” Willow demanded. “You think any of us did? You think you’re better than all this?”

Shit. This was escalating and getting far too loud for my liking. Was I having my first fight with my cellmate before I’d even made my bed?

“I’m just here to do my time,” I said. “That’s all. I don’t think I’m better.”

This was absolute bullshit. I was so thirsty that it made my hands shake. I wanted nothing more than a bottle of whiskey to make all of this go away. Why couldn’t I have that? I bit my lip hard. At this point, I would drink anything. Vodka. Gin. Rum. Tequila. Hell, even beer. I hadn’t drunk beer in years and yet I still craved the idea of the cold bubbles rushing down my throat. Anything for a buzz. Anything to make this situation go away.

“What are you in here for, anyway?” she asked, peering at me, those hazel eyes damning and suspicious.

“That’s none of your goddamn business, sugar,” I said, wanting nothing less than to rehash my trial. I’d already been judged once. Would I spend the rest of my days being judged again and again for the same crimes?

Willow shrugged, so I figured that was a standard response to the question.

“Help me with the bed,” she instructed.

I set my bundle of things on a chair and got on the other side of the stacked bunk bed. It was easy enough to lift down, though I suspected that Willow was doing less than her share of the work. We got it settled against the wall, Willow grimacing at me as I accidentally stepped on one of her packets of noodles.

“Don’t touch my shit,” she warned me.

“Don’t leave your shit strung all over the room,” I retorted. I had no patience for this, no desire to play the little political and emotional games that prison was evidently going to be filled with. I was bone tired and had a terrible thirst. I had to grip the material of my jumpsuit to keep my fingers from twitching with the desire of it.

Willow scowled at me as she gathered up her belongings, stuffing them into a cabinet on her side of the room. She crossed and opened up what I presumed was my cabinet, yanking out even more things before tossing them in her own cabinet. I was stunned that someone in prison could amass so many possessions. It was clear that Willow had people on the outside that cared about her, that she had the means to have possessions.

My cabinet was going to be depressingly bare. I might as well allow her to keep some of her things in there, but I didn’t want to seem weak.

I made my bed with the mattress and blankets they’d given me upon my entrance. It was lumpy, and when I sat down on it experimentally, I could feel the bed frame beneath me. It was extremely uncomfortable and I knew it was going to be hell on my back. Well, this was prison. It was meant to be a punishment, thought my sentence now was seemed to stretch longer and longer. I guessed I had at least six or seven years to sleep uncomfortably, to exist without friends, to just be in this wretched place.