Blood in the Water(31)

The shuffling feet in the corridor stopped directly outside his door. Arthur knew the tread. It was the small Hispanic woman. He’d asked himself a dozen times why anybody thought it made sense to let this tiny little thing be a guard in a prison, even if it was really only a jail. Arthur was not physically fit, but he could have taken that woman down in a minute and a half or less, and if she hadn’t had backup, he could have been off and on his way before anybody else knew he was gone.

The little Hispanic woman dropped the flap and said, “Come on. You’re going downstairs.”

“At seven o’clock in the morning?” Arthur asked.

“Your lawyer’s here,” the little Hispanic woman said.

Arthur got off the bed and turned his back to the door. He put his wrists together behind his back and pushed them through the slot. He felt the cuffs snap over his wrists.

He stepped away from the door and turned to look at it. The little Hispanic woman unlocked it and stepped back. He stepped out into the corridor and let her take his arm.

“You don’t think it’s a little odd for my lawyer to be here at seven o’clock in the morning?”

“Your lawyer’s here,” she said again.

“He’s a public definder,” Arthur said. “He doesn’t go anywhere at seven o’clock in the morning.”

The little Hispanic woman didn’t say anything, and Arthur let it go. It was a break in the routine. He thought he should be grateful for it. He looked behind him at the cart bringing the breakfast trays. He had no idea what happened if he missed the breakfast tray. He probably just missed breakfast. He didn’t like the idea. He never ate much of anything at home, but he was hungry all the time in here.

They went to the end of the corridor and around a corner. The little Hispanic woman opened another set of doors. They were in yet another corridor with doors, but these doors didn’t seem to lead to cells. She stopped and unlocked one of them and then opened it wide.

“Go ahead,” she said. “You’ve got to get dressed for court.”

Arthur looked into the room and saw his clothes there, his jacket, his tie, his shirt, his trousers, the entire suit he was wearing when he’d been brought to this place. The suit was folded instead of hung up. It looked a little tired. He’d already worn it four or five times. They kept making him change into it when he had a court hearing.

“Am I supposed to go to court, really?” he said. “Now? At this hour of the morning? I didn’t even think courts were open at this hour of the morning. What’s going on here?”

“Get dressed,” the little Hispanic woman said as she removed Arthur’s handcuffs.

Then she locked the door behind him.

Arthur went over to the shelf where the suit was and looked at it. He remembered putting it on the morning he was arrested. He’d been very careful about picking it out. They were already looking at him oddly in the office. They were already talking about him behind his back. Then there were the secretaries, who hadn’t liked coming anywhere near his desk. He kept expecting to be fired, or, if not fired—that might look bad, firing somebody who hadn’t been convicted of anything, or even arrested—then put on some kind of leave of absence “until all this was over.” People were supposed to be innocent until proven guilty, but it didn’t work that way in everyday life. It was especially not the case once you’d been arrested.

He shucked off his orange jumpsuit and started putting on the parts of the suit, putting them on one after the other. His belt was not here, probably as a precaution against suicide, but that was par for the course with the way things were done around here. If he’d wanted to commit suicide, he could have used the tie, and they had given him that. Besides, why would anyone want to commit suicide in just these circumstances? He hadn’t been convicted of anything. He wasn’t on his way to the death house. The only thing that made him feel like he wanted to die was the endless boredom, and now the boredom had been relieved by all this.

He went to the door, knocked so that she’d know he was done, and turned his back so that she could put the handcuffs on. Instead, she swung the door open all the way and stepped back.

“He’s in the conference room,” she said.

Then she turned her back to him and started walking. Arthur was nonplussed. If this had been one of those movies he liked so much, this would have been a setup. She would have tricked him into following her down a corridor unbound, and then somebody would have raised the alarm that he was about to escape. Then there would have been a hail of bullets. Then he would have been dead.