Throne of Truth

I’d served three years, two months of a four-year sentence—let off once again for good behavior.

The third time had been the night I met Elle. The night when my heart was full and my head hurt, knowing if Arnold had his way, I’d be in prison for a lot longer.

He’d shuttled me back to Hell as fast as he could. The moment dawn arrived, he’d yanked me from the cell and sent me to the district attorney with yet another jaded public defender. By the afternoon, I was in a prison uniform and holding out a plastic tray for food.

Hey, at least I got to eat that day.

That night, though...fuck, that night I couldn’t stop tormenting myself with memories of kissing the girl I’d rescued, imagining we’d been able to finish what we started—that in a better, kinder world, I would’ve asked to see her again and done my best to get off the streets so I could deserve her.

And now, while my bones still cried and my clothes hid a fight-sweaty body, Arnold once again expedited my case.

After our little chat, he personally escorted me to complete the sham of gathering my official information.

I refused to say a word apart from, “bite my ass.”

Besides, I had no reason to give up my name, age, and entire autobiography. They had that information already.

My file listed exactly who I was and precisely what my past convictions entailed.

What was it again? Oh, yeah.

Incident number one—grand theft auto.

Two—aggravated assault and theft.

Three—aggravated assault and rape.

After that waste of time, he arranged for my transfer to central booking where they could keep me up to twenty-four hours in the cells affectionately called the tombs. The rank, filthy pens where homeless, drunks, and low-collar criminals were crammed together like livestock destined for the canning factory.

My statement consisted of, “Call my lawyer,” and Arnold took great joy in repeating my Miranda rights as he slammed the bars closed.

Whatever evidence Greg had fed them while moaning and playing the victim at the hospital ensured my case was a special one. Not only did I have the chief of police ready to bury me in the system, but he also had the power to speed up or slow down my trial.

The meeting with the Criminal Justice Agency ensured a district attorney who bowed to Twig’s every command, agreeing that I was too dangerous a flight risk to allow bond at any amount.

Unfortunately, my prior actions supported such a shitty denial because the last time I’d served in the great state’s penitentiary, the moment I’d been released, I’d moved with Larry to LA to get my head on straight and the fuck away from New York.

Either Larry was too late to attend the hearing, or he was busy putting together my defense. Whatever the reason, I trusted him because he knew what I was up against. If he thought it was worth staying away for now, then fine. I had no doubt he’d file an appeal and request an early trial to set this long-winded, beyond-aggravating system into motion.

Greg had better get fucking arrested, too.

I wouldn’t be able to stomach going to jail while the real perpetrator got away with it.

Again.

At least this time around, I wasn’t a penniless, homeless throwaway.

I had money.

I had friends.

And that made it even more imperative in Arnie’s corrupted mind that he control my reinsertion back into prison with utmost perfection.

I had no intention of keeping his secrets this time. Give me a judge, a jury, a fucking court full of people and I’d tell them all about Arnold’s precious son.

Unless I get shanked, of course.

Fuck, I missed Elle. I missed being free.

Hours had a tendency to blur together in this place. I had no idea how many had passed by the time I was collected in a minivan with bars on the windows and manacles on the floor.

Cuffed hands and ankles, I shuffled onto the bus and a clank of chains locked me into position. The noise of the links reminded me Greg had chained Elle.

That he’d hurt her.

Almost raped her.

My rage and desire to punch him all over again helped overshadow my fear at being trapped against my will. The incessant blistering fury fed me better than any food or liquor, and I didn’t pay attention to the officer closing the door or the driver sliding the van into gear and taking me from police station to prison block.

At least, Arnold had retreated to his office like the scum he was.

* * * * *

Arriving at the Department of Corrections, I was finally given a shower to wash away the blood, a quick check up by the in-house doctor, who kindly prescribed more painkillers, and searched for contraband—which was the single most degrading thing a man could go through.

Once clean and dressed in a dark green prison uniform, I was met with the usual welcome of a blanket, pillow, and toothbrush parcel then ferried into the prison population where remanded felons were kept just in time for the warning bell for lights out.

For now, I had a cell with two bunk beds pressed up against the wall to myself.

I had no doubt that would change, but tonight, I’d enjoy the fucking privacy.

Choosing the top bunk, I spread out my blanket, fluffed my pillow, and lay down to glower at the pockmarked ceiling.

Every inch of me hurt.

My head, my hands, my chest, my legs...everything.

But despite the heat and throbbing in my joints, I waited to feel something other than physical maladies.

To ache with unfairness and suffer discomfort at being somewhere foreign. To crave freedom and open spaces with the unsatisfied appetite of a drug addict.