Stories From The 6 Train 1(187)

"Take that, bitch!" one of the tanks growls, and I see his lip turn up in a curl that exposes a series of missing teeth. I feel myself going down—sinking with the weight of the blows, and the heaviness of being overpowered. The only thing left for me to do is to protect my face. My entire body crashes to the hard floor, blood smears creating streaks like warning signs everywhere I look. Instinctively, I raise my arms and curl them around my face as a shield. I'm in a ball now—practically in the fucking fetal position, and I see and feel their feet like hammers, whacking my body. Blow after blow—the violence of it all seems to excite them. Thwack, I hear what sounds like a rib breaking. I try to edge my body away, but it doesn't work. They continue to kick me, and when one shoe lands in the middle of my gut with so much force that I can't breath, my vision goes dark. I can't see anything now, but I can still hear and one man says, "We know you're fucking Kerri." He says it like he's spitting venom. I can't speak; I can't breath. I try to tilt my head and say no, that they've got it all wrong, that she's got nothing to do with any of this, but nothing comes out.

I stay conscience long enough to hear the words that make my blood run cold, "Next time, she's going to die."

And with that, my world fades to black.





Kerri





The pregnancy has caused me to get a second wind in exploring Lucien’s incarceration.

Actually, I've spent the last few days obsessing over Lucien’s case. Pouring over newspaper reports and court transcripts, and Googling every possible search term I can think of to dig up even obscure details. I honestly can't believe what I've been reading. The findings are shocking. There are a number of discrepancies that even to an untrained eye like mine stand out as glaringly obvious.

Lucien is sitting next to me. I can't wait to tell him everything I've learned in the last 24 hours. Does he even realize what a shitty job his lawyer did representing him?

I set everything up so that we could meet in the infirmary today, and now here he is. But I'm nervous because I know there's another reason why I wanted to meet with him today, and I don't know how he's going to handle it. But I have to say it. Holding it in is driving me crazy and clouding my thoughts.

When I told him I had something to share with him, I figured he'd be in a better mood, but he's acting sullen and withdrawn, as if he's preoccupied. But I know this could be the break he needs—all of these discrepancies—and honestly this is a break I need too. Maybe he'll snap out of whatever mood he's in when I tell him what I've found.

I touch his hand with mine. They are big and calloused—working-man hands—and sit in stark contrast to my own. He may feel that there's no hope, but I'm not buying that. I think he's wrong. Not wanting to waste anymore time, I start to tell him about what I've dug up.

"I've been researching your case and I've found some factors that haven't—"

He cuts me off. "You've what? Are you fucking serious?" The look on his face is pure anger.

"What do you mean?" I ask, taken aback. That wasn't the response I was expecting.

"Stop. Just stop, okay? You have no business digging through my case. I've been convicted, remember? That means a judge and jury have found me guilty. It's the beginning and the end of my story."

"Don't say that. Your story is just beginning," I contest, trying to keep him optimistic. He shakes his head. "Do you even hear yourself? You shouldn't be sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

I can't believe what he's saying. "Sticking my nose where it doesn't belong? Oh I see. Sure, you can stick your dick in me, but the minute I want to help… Lucien, look at me. What are you even talking about?"

"What don't you understand exactly?" he asks. "You need me to spell it all out for you? I thought you were smarter than that."

"I don't understand any of it. Why are you so mad? I thought you'd be happy about the info I dug up. This info could get you out here. I thought that's what you wanted."

"Looks like you don't know me at all," he says with such finality that I have a sinking feeling in my stomach.

"I refuse to believe that. I'm trying to help you—us. We have something between us, and excuse me if I don't want to see you rot in here. You don't deserve to be doing time for a crime you didn't commit!"

He refuses to look at me, and instead is slumped forward, his eyes focusing on the linoleum floor. "I want to end this—us," he says at just above a whisper. "You should quit this job, and find something new."

What? It feels as if I've been punched in the gut. I can hardly breath. How could he be saying these things? How could he do this to me? And more importantly, how could I be such a fool to fall for any of it. My pain is turning to anger. I can hear my friend Brie's words ringing in my head: This man is serving a life sentence for murder and you're willing to overlook that just because he's hot?