It was a different thing, being arrested and thrown into jail for something she didn’t do. But no one at the jail gave Emily the benefit of the doubt. The guards treated her like a criminal.
If she couldn’t prove her innocence, she might end up in prison for years. Maybe the rest of her life. Both Georgia and Alabama had a death penalty for murder.
The six-inch pad on the top bunk was a huge step down from her comfortable mattress and comforter at home.
Her cellmate, a thirty-something woman named Hattie, was suffering through withdrawal from painkillers — with fever, nausea, and other flu-like symptoms. Jail was the worst place to detox from a drug like that. In hospitals, they gave you meds to keep you from having seizures, and the nausea and intense flu-like symptoms were more bearable if you knew your caretakers wouldn’t let you die. But here, no one cared how lousy you felt.
Hattie retched into the toilet. Emily slid off her bed and touched the woman’s back. When she didn’t recoil, she bent over and pulled Hattie’s dirty hair back from her face. She’d been through this herself, detoxing in a prison of sorts, with no one to help her through it. She didn’t know what Hattie had done to get herself put in jail, but it probably had its roots in drug abuse. Most of the people in jail committed crimes for the same reason.
Finally, Hattie stopped retching and sat back on the concrete floor. Emily got a paper towel, wet it, and put it on the back of Hattie’s neck. “Are you okay?”
“I think so. For now.”
As Hattie sat back on the floor, Emily lowered to the cement facing her, leaning back against the wall next to the toilet. Dark circles hung under Hattie’s eyes. “Been there, done that,” Emily said. “It gets better, but in the beginning it’s no fun.”
“I shoulda gone to treatment last time,” Hattie said. “Stupid, holding up a convenience store.”
Emily winced. “Armed robbery?”
“Yeah.” The girl’s face was ashen, as if her heart couldn’t pump blood all the way to her face. “Man, this ain’t me. This ain’t how I was raised.”
“I know,” Emily said.
“No, I mean really. I grew up in church, walkin’ the straight and narrow. Used to sing in the choir. Solos, even.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she took the paper towel out of Emily’s hand and wiped her mouth. “I was really a good singer.”
“I understand. I was raised that way, too. I bet you’re still a good singer.”
The woman looked at the wet paper towel. “And then I was in a car accident, broke my back. Doctors got me started on Oxycontin for the pain. Before I knew it, I was dependent. Needed more and more to fight the pain.”
Emily couldn’t imagine dealing with severe back pain in a place like this. Hattie was going to have a tough time. “Did you tell your doctor you were getting dependent?”
“He knew. He warned me. And at first I was real careful. But then . . .”
Emily knew the drill. At first the pills deadened the pain — physical and emotional. Then your body built a tolerance, and you needed more to get the same effect. Then came the day when you knew that if you got one more bottle and raised the dose another time, you’d be in total bondage. And your life would be about drugs and nothing else.
And she understood making the decision to go on using.
She fully understood being desperate enough to hold up a convenience store for drug money. “If you can talk to your lawyer, have him ask the judge to send you to treatment. He might. A lot of judges are pro-recovery.”
“No, he done that once already. I jumped bond, didn’t go to treatment, violated probation. And now here I am. Still gotta live with the pain, but I gotta do it here.”
Emily didn’t know what to say. Being without hope was even worse than drug detox. She took Hattie’s hand. “Can I pray for you?”
The woman’s face twisted, and color seeped back into her cheeks. “Yes,” she whispered.
Emily scooted closer and put her arms around her, pressed her head against Hattie’s, and asked God to help with Hattie’s withdrawals, with her physical pain, and with her legal problems. Then she asked him to give her peace. Before she ended the prayer, Hattie interjected her own sorrow at what she’d done, and asked God to forgive her. They both wept as they brought the prayer to an end.
When it was over, Hattie hugged Emily back. “You’re a blessing,” she told her. “Never thought I’d find a Christian in here. Do you think I could really be a child of God and do the things I done?”
Emily drew in a deep breath. “I guess it doesn’t really matter what we were before . . . what matters is what we are now. We’re supposed to move forward from wherever we are, and not look back.”
“Gon’ be hard to do in here.”
“I don’t know. There are a lot of people here who need him.”
“I’d rather they heard about him from somebody else.”
Suddenly they were laughing, wiping tears. “Yeah, me too,” Emily said. “When I was a little girl, I dreamed of being a ballerina or a rock star. Never thought I’d be sitting in jail. Somehow I don’t think this is what God wanted for us.”
“Nope. It ain’t.”
“But he does have a way of using even the bad things. I was scared when I got arrested. Thought I’d be in here with a three-hundred-pound bully who hated blondes.”
Hattie laughed again. “Instead you got a hundred-pound loser puking her guts out.”
“Hey, that’s better than the alternatives. You puke away, girl. We’re good.”
Later that night, when Hattie’s stomach settled, she curled up in pain on her bunk and slept in a fetal position, shivering yet drenched with sweat. Emily gave her her own thin blanket to help with her chills. It was freezing in their cell from the overzealous use of air conditioning, but Emily could take it.
She lay on the top bunk, arms inside her brown jail shirt to keep warm. Outside the cell, she heard the occasional fight break out, profanity flying, and voices echoing over the stone walls in this circle of cells. It was a little taste of hell. Why didn’t people take that concept more seriously? Who would want to spend an eternity like this?
Or even another day.
How could she have been so stupid? Why hadn’t it even occurred to her that her behavior today looked suspicious?
I was trying to live with integrity, Lord. I was trying to do the Next Right Thing. I promised I would. Why would you let me end up here?
Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to remember Scripture she’d learned at New Day Treatment Center, where she’d spent a year.
I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Did that include suffering for a murder someone else had committed?
Be of sober spirit, be on the alert. Your adversary, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.
Man, if that wasn’t the truth. Her adversary had done this to her. She had been thoroughly devoured, then spat out to be devoured again.
So either Bo or Carter was to blame for this. Which one would have taken things this far?
She closed her eyes and replayed the afternoon the residents of Haven House had watched the movie. At first, others had been watching, too. Jack, the guy she didn’t like because he was constantly stirring up trouble, and Jeffrey, the banker, who sat on the couch fidgeting. Eventually they’d both gotten bored. Analee and Scarlet had watched for the first ten minutes or so, but the need for nicotine and rehab romance had called them back outside.
By the time the conversation took place, only the three of them were left. Carter and Bo, talking about murdering their wives, and Emily behind the desk.
She thought about the character of the two men. By his own admission, Bo was mean when he was intoxicated. He’d confessed to slapping his wife around. He was poor and had several legal challenges. It was possible that things had gone badly when he got home. And if he’d relapsed, he might have had it in him to do the things that had happened today.
But was he smart enough? Emily made it a rule not to give any of them her address or phone number. She knew better than to get too close to anyone at Haven House. Would Bo be smart enough to track her down, make a homemade bomb, and put it under her car? Would he know how to pick a lock? Would he leave the kind of cryptic message he’d left?
Maybe, but Bo seemed more like the kind of person who sat around talking about doing such things, but would never take the initiative to do them.
Carter, on the other hand, had a sly edge. He was a welder, made a little more money, and had a quicker wit. Though he wasn’t that savvy on the computer, and rarely joined them on Facebook, he probably could have figured out how to track Emily down. Though she kept a professional distance between them, he did seem to have a bit of a crush on her. She hadn’t encouraged it. Maybe that was it. Maybe he felt she’d been too dismissive of him. But it was more than that. If Carter really meant to kill Bo’s wife and have Bo return the favor, it was no wonder he’d try to kill the one person who knew the truth.
And when that failed and he was sure that Emily had called the police, he had to figure out a way to discredit her. Pinning the murder of his own wife on Emily with a stolen necklace . . . and the bottle of pills . . . Making Emily look like an active addict had hammered the nail in her coffin. Even her mother and Kent probably had doubts about her now.
She hated herself for not listening to her mother about taking the job at the rehab. But she’d been so careful. There were some residents at Haven House who rode her because she took her job seriously and didn’t tolerate people who tried to smuggle drugs in. When someone violated the rules, she reported them for the sake of those who really wanted to change. But some of those she’d gotten thrown out — especially if that meant they had to go to jail — might hold long grudges. But she couldn’t think of anything she’d done to make Carter or Bo mad. Nothing for which they’d plan so carefully to ruin her life.
She prayed God would clear her name soon. He was the champion of truth, after all, wasn’t he? She wished that knowledge would calm her spirit, help her to sleep in peace. But fear kept her awake, and the threat of tomorrow made her shiver.