Some time later–minutes or hours, I don’t know–Sig comes. I don’t get up. I can’t. My legs, my arms, my head, they’re so heavy. So, so heavy.
He waits for me to move. When I don’t, he leaves for a few seconds and then comes back to an electronic click and the opening of my cell door.
He walks slowly into my little cubicle of hell. He says nothing. I say nothing. He watches me for a few seconds and then gently picks up my feet, sits on the end of my tiny bed, and sets them softly in his lap. Immediately, I feel his warmth seeping through my jumpsuit like he’s the only source of heat in a thousand miles. It almost scalds the skin of my calves. He doesn’t touch me for the longest time, like he’s afraid to. But then, as he relaxes against the cold concrete block of my cell, I feel his hand fall on my leg and he begins to trace imaginary shapes on my ankle.
That night, he comes back again. I pretend to sleep. He watches me without a word. Like a carbon copy of the night before.
The next day, the DA returns early. He shows me all kinds of papers and reads me all kinds of laws.
Basically, what the M.E. found corroborates my story. My brother was killed with one blow to the back of his head. He died instantly. Strangely, that gives me great comfort. I close my eyes. Squeeze them tight, fighting off another bout of tears. It surprises me to feel the burn and prickle of them. They seem to be the only thing sharp enough to penetrate my fog of late. But it doesn’t last long. Afterward, I’m merely apathetic as the DA talks to me about a confession and what it would mean, about the deal he would recommend to the judge and the implications of it. And his hope, not his promise, that it will go as planned.
All in all, despite the fancy terms that make it sound as though I’ll be a free woman if this works out, he still treats me like a common criminal, right down to the way his lips curl up in disgust when he looks at me.
I can’t blame him, though. When it boils down to it, I am a criminal. No judge will be able to wash that away, no matter what they decide to do with me. It’s the way the world will see me. The way Travis will see me. And Sig. The way I’ll see myself. I’ll always be a murderer. A girl who sold her soul to the devil. A woman who’s more a liability to the people around her than a help. Somehow bringing it all out into the light like this makes it seem more real. Uglier. Less escapable. I’ll never be able to leave the past behind. Because I’m the past. I’m the black stain on our lives now.
It occurs to me, on more than one occasion, that it might be better if they’d just put me to death. There are two people I love who would be so much better off without me. I bring nothing good to their lives. Because I am nothing good.
They’ll be fine. Great, even. Sig will make sure Travis is taken care of. I know in my heart that he will. They’ll put Momma in a facility where she can be better cared for, by someone smarter than me. And without that to worry about, the two things that I’ve worried about for half of my life, there’s nothing keeping me here. I will only bring hurt and embarrassment and shame to those I love if I stay.
I wrap my arms around my waist, drawing my legs up and turning my face into the musty County pillow. The hollow ache, the soul-deep pain–I don’t know how much longer I can suffer through it. I only want to be put out of my misery. And if the State of Georgia won’t do it, I wonder if I will have the courage to?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - SIG
Eight days. That’s how long it takes the law to realize and accept the things that I’ve known all along–Tommi isn’t a felon. She’s a woman who grew from a girl who reacted in fear to a dangerous situation. Simple as that.
The judge agreed to the misdemeanor charges on both counts. He gave her community service for forging her mother’s checks, mainly because her mother is still alive and the recipient of the care afforded by the checks. If she had been dead, he might not have gone so easy on her. As for the murder, with all the facts that they were able to obtain, including the medical examiner’s report and Travis’s sworn statement about what he witnessed the night of his brother’s death, the case was open and closed.
Travis’s situation will take a little more time, but I’m not worried. He’s in better shape, legally, than Tommi was. He has agreed to testify against Chaps, which gained him a lot of leniency. And that fact that he’s no flight risk, which I personally guaranteed, means he gets to remain free.
All in all, everything worked out as I had hoped and planned. Tommi is free to pursue her life as Tia Lawrence with only a couple of misdemeanors attached to her sealed juvenile record, nothing that would ever prevent her from becoming gainfully employed. Travis will continue on in school. Everyone should live happily ever after.
Only it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like there’s a dark cloud and I can’t quite put my finger on it.
Travis and I arrived here at the jail fifteen minutes ago to get Tommi. We brought her clean street clothes to wear home rather than the ones she was booked in. If I had to guess, I’d say she’ll burn those as soon as she can. I probably would.
Tommi took the clothes with a vacant smile and when she was changed, the officer brought her down to collect her belongings and sign out. A free woman. But a changed one, it seems.
In the truck, I ask her, “Wanna get something to eat?”
“Let’s get pizza. We haven’t had it in a while,” Travis says, smiling at me in the rearview mirror.
I laugh. “Yeah, it’s not like we’ve had it twice for dinner and once for lunch in the last eight days.”
I glance over at Tommi. She’s staring out the windshield, a sad curve to her lips and a haunted look in her eyes. “Maybe we could get it to go. That way, you two could drop me at the house and then go get it to bring home. I’m a little tired and I could use a few minutes alone, if you don’t mind.”
I want to argue. I want to ask her what’s wrong. I want to make her smile and appreciate the second chance she’s been given. But I do none of those things. I guess she just needs time and space. It’s hard to tell what this whole traumatic experience has done to her.