The Row(67)
“Oh.” This brings me up short. “So why are you looking into it now?”
His voice softens. “You need the truth. You deserve it. And I’m going to give it to you if I can.”
I’m filled with gratitude. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. It’s been so long now that I’m not certain I remember which side of the room he was on, let alone the specific panel,” Mr. Masters says, sounding frustrated. “To make it plain: I’m working on it and hope to have answers soon. Even if I find this hidden panel, though, it could be anything—from a key to solving this case to a journal of his escapades with his mistresses, or something much worse that we wish we hadn’t found. In any case, it could help us find the truth that you’re after.”
I feel ill at that last thought and don’t speak.
“I’m sorry to be so blunt, Miss Riley, but I thought you’d want to know.” Masters listens for a response even though he didn’t technically ask a question.
“Thank you, Mr. Masters. Apparently my father had far more secrets than I gave him credit for,” I murmur quietly, keeping my eyes glued to the road in front of me. “Please let me know if you find anything. Good luck with the panel.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, and I need a favor.” I bite my lip, hoping that he’ll say yes.
“Such as?”
“Can you call Polunsky right now and have them leave a one-day pass at the front desk for me to bring in a visitor?”
He’s quiet for several seconds, and then he starts laughing. “Oh, Miss Riley, after what we did to him on Wednesday, are you sure you want to go in there and start a ruckus like this plan is bound to do?”
I glance over at Jordan, who is staring out the window, his jaw clenched.
“I’ve seen him when he’s prepared, and I’ve seen him with you. Now I want to catch him off guard a bit.” I try to make my voice sound as sure as I want to be.
“Well, showing up with Vega’s son ought to do it.” He laughs one last time. “I’ll call the jail as soon as we’re off the phone.”
“Thank you.”
“Not a problem.” Masters doesn’t hang up. His voice muffles a bit and it sounds like he’s moving. “But be careful, young lady. Something about this whole mess is crooked as a barrel of snakes.”
Before I can say a word, he jumps in with his final advice. “Do me a favor. Don’t trust anyone.” And the line goes dead.
30
THE VISITING ROOM AT POLUNSKY is no more than eight feet long, but I can’t hold still. If anyone had asked me an hour ago who was more nervous for this visit, I would’ve said Jordan, but on the drive it’s like all the anxiety seeped out of him and found its way into me. Jordan sits at the table, his hands clasped in front of him, looking totally relaxed.
Only a few twitches from him hint at the truth. His hands clasp so tight that the skin beneath his fingers stands out white next to the rest of his olive complexion.
We tried several times during the drive out here to come up with a plan for our visit. What questions did we want to ask? What should we do? How do we best convince him to answer?
But we gave up when we realized that we don’t have a clue if he will even stay to talk once he sees Jordan. If we can’t anticipate how he’ll react to Jordan’s presence, how can we hope to guess how he might respond to our questions?
The guard opens the door and leads Daddy in. His face is tense from the moment he enters, but when his gaze lands on Jordan, it’s clear that throwing him off balance is a tame way to put it. His eyes go so wide they seem to bulge out, and he actually stumbles over the guard’s foot, landing with his shoulder against the guard’s chest. Even though it is immediately obvious that this was an accident, the guard reacts as though Daddy just pulled a knife.
He grabs onto the front of my father’s jumpsuit and slams him hard against the doorframe. The guard shouts directly into Daddy’s face, “Don’t move!” Which seems redundant since the force of being slammed against the frame has obviously knocked the wind out of his body.
Jordan comes suddenly to his feet, eyes wide. I slide quickly over, grab his shoulder, and gently push him back down into the seat. “Be still. If you do anything it will only get worse.”
We’d learned that the hard way over the years.
The guard turns Daddy around and shoves his face against the wall with enough force that his cheekbone starts to swell immediately. I want to shout at the guard, to scream and claw his back. Anything I can do just to make him stop, but I’ve tried that before. I was escorted out of the building, and Daddy wound up in the infirmary.
I’ve spent years trying not to focus on the problems with prisons, but it’s impossible not to recognize how messed up it is. Daddy has lost fifteen pounds in just the last year. He’s been served rotten food or not received his meals at all. The skeletal body he has now barely resembles the pictures of him before his arrest. He’d been healthy and strong and now he’s becoming sickly and weak. Which only makes it easier for the guards to “keep him in line” like this. Guilty or not, people are people and shouldn’t be treated worse than animals.
The guard checks his pockets for anything my father might be hiding. The only thing he pulls out is a picture that shows Daddy and me when I was little. I’m sitting on his shoulders and he looks up at me with a wide grin on his face. I’ve never seen that photo before.