Stories From The 6 Train 1(190)

Two security guards enter the Warden's office, and they approach me, one on each side. "We're here to escort you out, Ms. Curtis."

I'm numb and trying to hold in hot tears that are threatening to spill down my face. Keep it together, I tell myself. You're stronger than this. Remember that.

I stand up. I suddenly don't want to be in this place a minute longer. I have the urge to get out of this office—this building.

Security escorts me out through Cell-Block D. Inmates are whistling and heckling me as I leave. "Was his dick worth it?" one inmate yells. "You could've had mine for free. I wouldn't have ratted you out." I can hear him laughing but I don't respond. I keep my gaze straight ahead and I can feel my cheeks grow flush. I can't get out of here fast enough.

It isn't until I reach my car, lock the doors, and strap the seatbelt across my chest that I lose it—and I mean 'release-the-flood-gates' lose it. I'm gripping the steering wheel and I'm crying in heavy sobs. I no longer care if anyone can see me. My eyes are growing red and swollen and my pain starts to morph into anger, and I can't help but to hit the steering wheel with the palm of my hand, and then I hit the seat next to me. How could he? I wonder. And then it hits me. This isn't Lucien. He wouldn't just turn me in to get me fired. He's far from perfect—and he's certainly no saint, but he isn't evil and vindictive. There must be something I'm not seeing—a hidden piece to this puzzle.

Just then I hear my phone buzz with an incoming text message. I see it's from Brie. I open it and can see that it's a GIF from the movie, "Thelma and Louise." It's taken from the moment they are about to drive off a cliff and they are holding hands in the front seat of their convertible. Underneath, her message reads, "Ride or die, xoxo."

Seeing this snaps me to reality and I smile for the first time all day. Thank God for friends.



For the next week, my thoughts are bouncing from one corner of my mind to the next like a Ping-Pong ball at high speed. One minute, I'm crying and downing a pint of Ben & Jerry's, and the next minute, I'm determined to pull my life together. I'm trying to network for a new job—I won't make it otherwise. So I'm talking to anyone who might have a lead, and while some leads are warm, I can't help but think if anyone will want to employ a pregnant woman. I know they can't outright discriminate against my situation, but let's be honest—who wants to hire someone who will need to take a short leave in the immediate future? And beyond that—every little thing is making me sick. The smell of toothpaste, the smell of a cooked dinner, and even the smell of dish soap have me running for the toilet. I'm guessing morning sickness is starting to creep in, but honestly, I'm not even sure why they call it that because I'm sick all day.

To help get my mind off of all this, I'm determined to not give up on Lucien's case. I spend my free moments researching the circumstances surrounding his conviction, even now. I'm searching Google, entering in every possible combination of search terms and then I see a link to a document that looks interesting. I click it and read through the material. Half way through, I have my hand over my mouth in shock. I can't believe what I'm reading. A set of bloody boot prints were found at the scene of the crime—prints that did not match anything Lucien owned, and they were ultimately dismissed Why did this get thrown out at trial? Immediately, I dial an attorney who I've known for a while, J. Edgar. He picks up on the second ring and we chat.

"I really think we have enough for a retrial," I tell him. "This man is innocent."

"I'd need to take a closer look," he says, after a long pause. "But you may be right. My afternoon appointment canceled and I have some free time. Can you stop by?"

"Of course! Thank you, I appreciate it! I'll be right over."

I hang up and close my laptop, and then search for my shoes, jacket, and purse. I'm feeling better than I have all week. If J. Edgar is willing to review this case, then that gives me hope. Now if I can just find my keys… I look on my desk, where I thought I left them, but I don't see anything. Maybe I left them in the kitchen. With my purse on one shoulder, I quickly walk into the kitchen and look at the counter—there they are. I grab them and turn around to leave, and then I feel it—an arm is hooked around my neck.

The suddenness of it all leaves me frozen and terrified. I think for a moment and then try to break free but the man squeezes harder and I'm forced to stay still. Was I being watched? How did he get into my house? Panic starts to flood my entire body and my heart is thumping in my chest. I'm feeling dizzy with adrenaline.

"Don't move or I'll kill you!" he growls, and his voice sounds muffled, as if something is covering his face.