The Jodi Picoult Collection #3 Read online

  For nearly a half hour, I wait in the jury box; watching lawyers filter into the courtroom and talk to one another, or read through their motions. The judge is nowhere in sight. I admire the soaring ceiling, the span between walls—architecture that I’ve forgotten.

  A young woman hurries down the center aisle and corrals a deputy. She is wearing a pinstriped suit that clings to the curves of her waist and hips, and sensible black heels. Her cornrowed hair has been twisted into a neat knot, and her skin is the color of maple syrup. “Yes, I’m a paralegal for Eric Talcott,” I hear her say, and she points right at me. “He needs his client to review a motion for today’s appearance. If I could just . . .” She smiles into his eyes.

  A moment later, she comes toward me. “Mr. Talcott wanted you to take a look at this,” she says, and she leans over the divider of the jury box with a manila folder.

  There is absolutely nothing written on the papers in the file. She points to them and whispers, “Nod.” I do, and a tiny knotted balloon slides out of the crease of the folder to drop softly between my feet.

  She snaps her folder shut and makes her way out of the courtroom. I try to imagine her with Blue Loc when he is not Blue Loc, but just some guy living with a girl downtown. Then I bend down and tuck the balloon into my fist. Slip it into the waistband of my pants.

  Eric arrives a few minutes later and asks the deputy’s permission to approach me, too. By now, I’m sweating so hard there are stains beneath my arms. I feel like I’m on the verge of passing out. “You okay?” he asks.

  “Great. Fine.”

  He gives me a funny look. “What the hell was that deputy talking about? Some paralegal wanted to see you?”

  “It was a mistake. She was looking for a different guy named Hopkins.”

  Eric shrugs. “Whatever. Look, what’s going to happen today—”

  “Eric,” I interrupt. “Is there any chance you can get me out to use the bathroom?”

  He glances at me, then at the deputy. “Let me see.” Apparently, I am enough of a physical wreck to merit a special break, because a different deputy is summoned to escort me to the restroom. He stands outside the stall and whistles while I drop my pants. From behind my ear I take the dollop of ointment Concise gave me that morning for this purpose—a “keep on person” medication for skin lesions. Grimacing, I wipe the salve over the little white balloon, until it is lubricated enough to be pushed into my rectum.

  Ten minutes later, I take my seat at the defense table beside Eric. I keep my eyes on the parade of potential jurors who walk through the courtroom doors. I scrutinize the woman with acne, the man who keeps checking his watch, the freckled girl who looks just as frightened to be here as I am. They take the jury surveys that Eric hands out. Some of them glance at me with narrowed eyes, others purposely keep their expressions blank. I wish I could speak to them. I would tell them that they couldn’t possibly judge me any more harshly than I’ve judged myself. I would tell them that when you look at a person, you never know what they’re hiding.

  * * *

  Wear gloves. Run water through your Alyn condenser. Very quickly add your red phosphorus, using a coat hanger to unclog it if you have to. It’s the exothermic reaction you’re looking for, and it will be immediate. Quickly plug the top that leads to your vinyl tubing, and tape the connection.

  When yellow fumes rise from the mixture, shake the condenser. If the pressure gets too high, put the flask into an ice bath until it slows down. Eventually, the mixture will swell up, like a mousse, and then recede.

  At some point the cat litter in the milk jug at the other end of your setup will turn hot and purple. Disconnect the rubber tubing from the Alyn condenser. Cut the vinyl tubing off as close to the milk jug as you can. Cover immediately with duct tape.

  Be careful. Do not untape. Inside is the phosgene gas that killed your friend.

  * * *

  Twitch is a twenty-two-year-old who looks fifty. He hangs out in the corners of the rec yard, peeling scabs that fester between his fingers and toes and sniffing at the blood that wells up and still reeks of the meth that runs through his system. When he smiles at you, which isn’t often, you can see the black holes where he’s lost teeth, and the plush white carpet of his tongue.

  Most of the time he is spun out—too high on meth to sleep—and subject to hallucinations. He’s not a violent addict, but a paranoid one, and recently he’s become certain that the DOs are bodysnatchers. He plucks at my shirt as I walk by him. “How much longer,” he whispers. He is talking about our supply.

  That initial balloon I smuggled in from the court was given to the Mau Mau upstairs in close custody—the black prison gang members. Having given his tithe, Concise has opened the proverbial door for business.

  Our first in-house batch arrived in a Bible. The same girl who’d played paralegal at court for me brought a leather-bound edition to the minister who leads the Baptist services here. She cried as she explained how her boyfriend—Concise, this particular day—had found Jesus, and how she’d inscribed a Bible specially for him, only to be told by the detention officers that inmates were only allowed books arriving directly from Amazon.com. Was there any possible way that the minister might be able to get this gift to her boyfriend?

  What self-respecting minister would ever turn down a request like that?

  When Concise received the Bible during his next appearance at services, he thanked the minister profusely, and then came back to the cell and thanked God. Hidden in the spine, under carefully reglued leather, was an ounce of meth to be sold. That ounce, which would net $1,000 on the streets, was worth $400 a gram in prison—or, as Concise figured, $11,200.

  Twitch grabs my sleeve again, and I shake him off. “I told you, I’m not the one who makes the deals.” I turn away just in time to witness a transaction going down between Concise and Flaco, one of the Mexican Nationals.

  “It’s a hundred fifty,” Concise says.

  Flaco’s eyes darken. “You sold Tastee Freak the same quarter gram for a C-note.”

  Concise shrugs. “Tastee Freak ain’t no spic.”

  Flaco agrees to the price and leaves; he will be given his prize after Concise receives word of a money transfer from his friends outside. “You taxed him,” I say, walking up to Concise. “Isn’t that . . . isn’t it . . .”

  I am about to say “wrong,” but realize what a stupid distinction it is.

  “Why?” I ask. “Because he’s Mexican?”

  “Now, that would be jus’ plain racist of me,” Concise says, and he grins. “It’s because he ain’t black.”

  From a rec yard rap:

  Sittin’ in a four-corner cellblock

  My weapon is a shank, not a Glock.

  Early in the mornin’ the cells pop

  Off to the chow hall is our next stop

  Eatin’ cold-ass eggs, that’s what it was

  See my homeboy Coast, what up, cuzz?

  Mobbin’ the yard, our car is deep

  We always strapped and ready to creep.

  Hit the iron pile, gettin’ swoll to the hub

  Ready to war with any scrub

  My big bro Snoop gave us word

  Shit is gonna jump is what he heard

  So post up and get ready to stick

  Any mutha fucca that tries somethin’ slick

  The handball court was the spot

  To run steel in a fool was my plot

  Me and this fool on the killin’ field

  I shanked him in the necc, it got real.

  When his punk-ass gasped, I hit him again

  Ran my shank right under his chin.

  I left the punk dead in his traccs

  187 tat on my bacc

  In this cell I’m left to rot

  Doin’ life on a murder plot

  I don’t care, I’ll do it again

  Doin’ twenty-five to life in the state pen.

  The diabetic who has been providing Concise with needles also gets him an asthma inh