Hank
The newly-convicted men stood in a line behind the courthouse. Their wrists were cuffed, their ankles were all chained together, and they were wearing the same clothes they'd had on during their trials and sentencing hearings—mostly cheap, rumpled, ill-fitting suits that looked about as natural on them as party hats and red clown noses.
Hank was no different. He hadn't owned a suit or tie at the time of his arrest, so Bib had bought them for him. Even though Hank had provided his measurements, the suit still felt tight on him in all the wrong places and the dress shoes pinched.
Given the predictable outcome of the case, Hank wished he hadn't bothered with the damn suit after all. If he was going to do time anyway, he would have preferred to face the judge wearing his MC patches and standing in his own two boots.
A repurposed school bus with flaking gray paint slowly backed up in front of the men, beeping. “Department of Corrections” was stenciled in black on the sides and back. The beeping stopped and the courthouse guards opened the back door of the bus, hustling the men into it. The individual seats had been replaced with long metal benches welded to the sides of the bus. The convicts sat in rows facing each other and the guards shackled their ankle-chains to bars running under the benches.
Then the guards withdrew, the door slammed shut behind them, the bus lurched forward, and Hank was on his way to prison.
He looked around to see if any of his traveling companions might be dangerous, but the other men mostly kept their heads down, staring pointedly at the floor. One of the only exceptions was a black boy sitting across from Hank, who couldn't have been older than sixteen. He stared out the windows of the bus with wide, frightened eyes, as though he was fervently trying to memorize every tree and building they passed. His jaw was slack, and his hands kept fidgeting in his lap.
Well, we've got at least an hour ahead of us before we get to Bluebonnet, Hank thought. If all I do is stare at the dirt and boot prints on the floor of the bus, I'll be dead from boredom long before we arrive.
“What's your name, kid?” he asked.
The boy looked at Hank with a stunned expression, as though a boulder had suddenly started speaking to him. “Raheem. Raheem Jenkins.”
Hank nodded. “Nice to meet you, Raheem. My name's Hank. What did a kid like you do to get sent to Bluebonnet?”
“Oh, I didn't do nothin',” Raheem answered, shaking his head vigorously. “I'm innocent. They said I robbed Mr. Getty's store an' shot him, just 'cause I was wearin' the same shirt as the guy who did it. I ain't never even fired no gun before. My lawyer said I hadda tell people I did it anyway, though, or I'd go to prison for longer. Maybe even life.”
“Didn't they do a powder residue test to see if you'd fired the gun?” Hank asked. “Seems like that'd clear things up pretty quick.”
Raheem blinked. “No, they didn't do nothin' like that. They just showed me to Mr. Getty, an' he said 'Yeah, that sure was him,' an' that was pretty much it. Mr. Getty, see, he's white, an' he always had trouble tellin' black folks apart. Most times I went into his store, he thought I was my cousin D'Aundre.”
Jesus, kid, Hank thought ruefully. When they were handing out public defenders, you sure did get the shitty end of the stick. No GSR tests, no proper lineup—nothing but a pat on the ass on your way to the slammer.
“Well, I damn sure ain't innocent, ha,” the man beside Hank piped up cheerfully. He was an overweight white guy in his late thirties with rosy cheeks and thinning blonde hair. He offered a pudgy hand to Hank. “Foley Cartwright. Pleased to meet you.”
Hank shook the man's hand, grimacing at how sweaty his palm was. “What are you in for, Foley?”
Foley grinned like a jack-o-lantern. “I'm a con artist, ha. Swindled a bunch of retired folks out of their savings. One of them got wise to it at the end, though, so I had to crack the old bitch upside the head. Put her in a coma for a couple weeks, ha. They gave me ten years, but my shyster said if I play my cards right, I can be out in three.”
Several of the other men sitting around Foley were starting to steal sideways glances at him. If he noticed, he gave no sign.
“You don't seem that worried about heading up to Bluebonnet,” Hank observed. “You been there before? Got anyone there to watch your back?”
Foley chuckled. “No and no, ha. But ain't you been listening, pal? I told you, I'm a con artist. Emphasis on the 'artist.' I can see all the angles, figure out all the right moves. Just give me a day or two and I'll own the fucking place, ha.”
The guard in the passenger's seat slammed his baton against the metal grate that separated the drivers from the prisoners. “All right, that's enough of the gettin'-to-know-you bullshit! You men can keep your mouths shut for the rest of the ride.”
“Why?” Hank asked mildly. “Talking isn't against the rules, is it?”
The guard glared at him. “First of all, convict, you're in my bus on the way to my prison, which means 'Y' ain't a letter in your fuckin' alphabet no more. You'll do what you're goddamn told if you know what's good for you. And second, you want to keep flappin' your lips an' pissin' me off, go right ahead. But you're gonna look pretty fuckin' funny tryin' to talk with all your teeth busted out.”
Hank lowered his head and stayed silent for the rest of the ride. He found his mind drifting to thoughts of Beth. He wished he'd been more sober that night, so he could have retained clearer memories of fucking her—as it was, he was only left with a series of vague impressions of the way she'd looked at him, how she'd smelled and felt and tasted.
He'd been disappointed that she hadn't visited him in jail, but not surprised. How could she still have feelings for him after seeing what he'd done to that yahoo?
Had she had genuine feelings for him that night? Or had it just been a childish crush, mixed with booze and pity?
And what about his feelings for her? Were they real, or...?
Hank shook his head, trying to clear it. Playing tug-of-war with himself over this was a waste of time. Whether they'd had feelings for each other was a moot point now. He was going to prison for two years, and by the time he got out, she'd be with someone new. They probably wouldn't even bring up the thing in the bathroom ever again—it'd be just another experience for both of them, something to carry around without dwelling on it.
Just focus on keeping your head down and doing your time, Hank told himself. Let go of everything else.
Especially her.