Calvin Hooper shared a holding cell with three men he’d never seen before in his life. The cellblock smelled like sweat: four cells on each side, a narrow corridor straight down the center, locked steel doors at each end. A small rectangular window with crosshatched wire through the glass centered the top halves of the two doors, the fronts of the eight cells were open with bars.
All but Calvin wore the same orange-and-white-striped uniforms. Sharing his cell, a scrawny man with a receding hairline lay with hands interlaced behind his head on one of the two bottom bunks. He wore a thin beard along his jawline and no emotion on his face. A young Cherokee kid with jet-black hair and wide eyes couldn’t sit still. He’d sit down on the bunk, scratch at his arms, stand up, pace the cell, sit back down, scratch his arms, his jaw working like he was chewing bubble gum. The third was an older man with salt-and-pepper hair cut close, had the slimy look of a pedophile. He smiled when they brought Calvin into the cell, and tried to make small talk. He said his name was Atkins and that he got picked up on an out-of-state warrant from Mississippi. “Headed back to the Velvet Ditch,” he kept saying. “I hope they’re holding my spot at City Grocery.” He stood at the bars with his elbows resting on the cross support, his hands dangling outside.
Someone in another cell was beating on the bars, making a sort of two-tone rhythm and singing off-key. Another inmate kept yelling, “Shut the fuck up! For God’s sake, shut the fuck up!” but the drummer kept drumming and his singing never ceased.
Calvin stood at the stainless-steel sink and cupped his hands under a running faucet. He brought the water to his face and wiped it over his eyes. The water was cold against his skin and he stood there letting it drip from his chin, his empty expression staring back in the smudged mirror glass. He had no clue what would come next. There was a short-lived moment standing there on Stillwell’s front porch while Calvin let go of everything he’d held, laying all of it right there at Stillwell’s feet, when he honestly believed that things were going to work out, that they’d bust down Dwayne Brewer’s door and find Angie there in a backroom safe and sound. But happy endings weren’t fit for shit but children’s books and PG movies. Here he was, in a cell, with absolutely no idea what was happening on the outside, no idea whether or not Angie was safe, no idea what would come.
There on that porch Stillwell had explained how Darl covering up what had happened didn’t change the crime, that either way he was guilty of manslaughter. He told Calvin in the state of North Carolina that accessory after the fact was punished two levels below the principal felony and that meant he was facing a year, two tops. There was a chance with a clean record he might even catch probation, though Stillwell doubted a judge would be that lenient. Either way, Calvin wasn’t looking at much time at all for what he’d done to Sissy. Stillwell had told him this to try and ease his burden and convince him that everything was all right. But in truth, knowing that made it all the worse. A year of his life and he’d have been free. He’d risked everything he loved to keep from handing over a year of his life.
A loud buzzing came from the far end of the jail, the lock clacked open on the door. Rubber soles squeaked against the concrete floor followed by the clap of footsteps. He wasn’t paying much attention to the noise until they passed in front of the cell.
Two deputies marched at the sides of Dwayne Brewer, each having one arm hooked at his elbow. One deputy was a medium-built man with his hair shaved high and tight, the other a skinny middle-aged woman with greasy curls draping her shoulders. As soon as Calvin saw him, his heart felt like it was going to explode. He watched silent and dumbstruck like he was witnessing a miracle.
Dwayne’s head turned and their eyes met. He smiled and spun so that he was facing Calvin’s cell and he lumbered toward the bars while the deputies tried their damnedest to turn him. When he was almost to the cell, he stopped. The deputies wrestled, but he was too big to be moved. Dwayne widened his stance and took root. He looked at the two bulls yanking his arms and nodded to the cell in front of him. “I’ll take this one.”
The female deputy slapped out a collapsible blackjack and hammered the backs of his knees. Dwayne collapsed, his face cringing with anger or agony and the place erupted with men shouting as the two officers dragged him away. In a few seconds, Calvin heard the lock click on a cell and the heavy barred door slammed closed soon after. The two deputies marched back through the center aisle, glancing into Calvin’s cell as they passed. The inmates banged on their bars and yelled at the tops of their lungs. The door closed at the end of the hall. There was no one inside now but the prisoners, and they made their wildness known.
Calvin felt dizzy standing there and he braced himself against the sink.
The old man from Mississippi watched him curiously. “You all right?” he asked, but Calvin didn’t have anything to say.
“Calvin Hooper,” Dwayne roared, the rest of the inmates cowering at the sound.
There was a feeling in the air caught between fury and fear, a volatility like the room was filled with gasoline fumes and a single spark would burn them all alive. Calvin’s hands trembled and his ears rang.
“You better pray you get out before I do,” Dwayne yelled.
But praying wouldn’t help a soul.