Revelations(44)

Does he seriously consider that lucky? But I bite my tongue before I say something untoward, something that will only predispose him against what I’m about to ask for next. Two days. It will feel a hell of a lot longer. Maybe I can think of something else in the meantime. But for now, I know what it is I want to do. “I wish to confer with my client, it’s my right,” I insist. “Do you have an office we can use, for privacy?”

“Sorry, I can’t give you that kind of privacy,” he responds, and I feel my face flush with the implications of what he thinks I am asking for. I didn’t even say conjugal visit, now did I? I think that man needs to get his mind out of the gutter.

“But I tell you what. I’ll let you in here, and then I’ll just go do some paperwork in my office, and let you and your…client…talk. How’s that?” Before I can make what is undoubtedly a smartass, ungracious reply, Jesus speaks first, smoothing any potential ruffled feathers. “That would be just fine, Sheriff. We appreciate your kindness.” The look he gives me clearly tells me if I want even half a chance of getting some time in this cell, I’d best behave. So I do, albeit grudgingly.

Two minutes later I find myself on the inside of the cell, and Kaplan on the outside, locking the barred door between us. “I’ll be in my office if anyone comes looking for me,” he says with a wink, before disappearing from view, closing his door firmly. Good riddance to his cornpone self. I don’t foresee anyone needing him very urgently. Somehow I doubt anything of any major importance goes on in this place. We’re probably the biggest event to happen here in years. Lucky us.

“Judas,” Jesus begins, once the sheriff is out of sight, but I silence any possible words of protest with a kiss.

Nothing is said between us for all of two minutes until we have to come up for air. “Are you all right?” I begin anxiously, colliding with his own words, “Judas, what are you doing here?” He has a right to be surprised. In all the time we’ve been doing this, I’ve never been permitted to visit him before the trial. Not that I’m being permitted to now, this is my own idea, after all. Always before, I’ve been forced to sit on the sidelines, play the part of the traitor. No longer. At the moment, though, I’m hesitant to tell him what it is I’m planning to do…both because my plans aren’t close to being formulated, and also because I know he’ll protest, say we must follow the plan. Which I have no intention of doing. My only concern is for his safety. Hopefully it will be for both our benefits, but if I can’t work that out, at least I’ll make sure he’s safe. No discussion allowed.

I decide to give him a break, answer his question first, so he can relax and answer mine. “I’m here to see my client, of course.” I fairly smirk, which produces a small chuckle from Jesus.

“So you’ve added a law degree to your credentials now, have you?” He reaches out and fingers my braids, and then looks at me as if to say, whose idea was this?

“It was Mary M’s idea, she says she got the idea from some movie, I don’t know which one,” I admit, watching his eyebrows arch in astonishment at the admission. Not the idea that the hairstyle comes from a movie, of course, or that there is something which I do not know—I confess, I do have a tendency to be an arrogant, know-it-all prick at times—but because I actually allowed Mary M to not only help me and to touch me, but I actually listened to her, for once. I’ll have to ask Thomas later if he knows which movie she means, see if it’s a good one.

“Are you all right?” I repeat my question, scan his visage anxiously for any signs of maltreatment. Not that I think Kaplan necessarily looks the type to do something like that, but you never know. And it’s happened before. More times than I care to think about. The first time had to be the worst, I think. I was forced to watch as he received thirty-nine fucking lashes—I would’ve taken them for him, if I could. I know, that’s easy to say now, but it was true then and it’s still true. The intervening years have yet to dull that particular memory, and probably never will.

So I worry about him, each and every time. There’s always something, always someone that wishes to hurt him. It never fails to astound me. Or to tear me up inside.

“I’m fine,” he replies serenely in his resigned martyr’s voice, the one I know only too well, the one I hate to hear. It tells me he doesn’t intend to try, he’s simply going along with the way things have always been, down to the bitter end. Well, I’m not. I’m done following the game plan. But I don’t think I should let him know that quite yet, lest he try to work against me for any reason. Or argue me out of it.