THE GUARDS CAME for Mischa after breakfast. She didn't know why. They marched her to the showers, which were otherwise empty. They ordered her to strip, and her darkest fears quickly surfaced.337Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEfG1Bgzq2f
But sexual assault wasn't on the agenda this morning. Mischa disrobed and got two whole minutes under the weak spray with soap they tossed her. She dried off with a towel the size of a bath mat and put on a new, clean set of prison garb. She was eager to scrub the soup broth off her body---as best she could with arms that were just regaining function.
They marched her down one of the prison hallways, apart from the four cell blocks, through lots of security----hydraulic gates and doors requiring key cards. She saw a metal sign that said LE GARDIEN and she finally realized she was going to visit the warden of the prison.
Inside, the office was spacious and orderly, the walls filled with photos that displayed the warden's ego to the hilt, awards and citations and diplomas and photos of the warden with various dignitaries----including one with the fallen president, Cesar Diderot.
His name was Delannoy. He looked like a man of power. Dark hair slicked back. Expensive clothes, a vest over his crisply starched shirt and yellow satin tie----a three-piece suit with the jacket off. His manicured hand clutched a gold timepiece as he looked Mischa over. It only took the actress five minutes to dislike him.
"Welcome," he said to her, as if they'd thrown a Hawaiian lei over her neck when she got off the bus. Mischa thought it best not to reply to him.
"It is always difficult at first." He waved a hand. "Most learn to adjust to this life. Some do not. It is all a choice, Ms. Barton."
He hadn't offered her a seat, which she supposed was his attempt to establish superiority. Under the circumstances, he didn't have to try very hard.
Delannoy weighed the timepiece in his hand. "You have the choice to be cooperative. Your time can be----difficult if you do not."
"Like last night? Would that be an example of difficult?"
He winked at Mischa. This asshole actually winked at her!
"Your friends? They cooperated last night. They slept comfortably in their cells.
Mischa revered to silence, unsure of what she might blurt out. She'd developed a defense, a defense mechanism during her ten-month stay in the French penal system. It was how she was wired. Call it stubbornness. Call it pride. She wasn't going to make it easy for these people to break her. Thank-you-sir-may-I-have-another wasn't in her vocabulary.
"Your attitude, Ms. Barton----did not lead to good results. Not for you. Not for your friends. I am correct? I am told your friends have you to thank for their harsh sentences."
Mischa didn't need to be of reminded of that. It was on her mind constantly. "They have your government to thank," she said.
Serve and volley. He wasn't going to debate Mischa. He didn't need to.
"Choices," he said again. "You have a----unique opportunity, no? Another chance to----correct?----correct your mistake."
The appeal, he meant. In France, every convict gets a second trial with new jurors or, in her case, judges. But nobody was holding out hope. Mischa's lawyer, Aubrey, had explained that the court would likely rely almost entirely on the investigating judge's report and not call live witnesses. They wouldn't want to reopen the nation's wounds.
No chance, Aubrey had bluntly assessed. No chance of winning.
But Delannoy was talking about the sentence. If she confessed, he was saying, perhaps the court might lighten her sentence.337Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqaBTnO1wHl
"A written confession," said Villette. "That is your choice."
"I'm innocent."
He found that amusing and made sure she knew it. Then he grew serious.
"Confess," he said, "and your conditions here will be----better."
They could stick her head in a toilet and it would be better than last night.
"Safe," he elaborated. "You will be protected. And a personal recommendation from me to the court for a less harsh sentence. You understand, this is a difficult thing for me personally." Villette got up and lifted the photo of himself standing next to President Diderot off the wall, staring at it with reverence. "I considered Cesar Diderot a personal friend."
"Did he consider you one?"
Delannooy looked at Mischa as if she'd slapped him. "What is this you say?"337Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgmRIyEzwNw
Mischa pointed at the photograph. "It looks like this was some fancy event where everybody in the room wanted their picture taken with the president. He probably posed for a hundred photos that night. See how his shoulders are turned away from you? And his eyes are looking past you? It looks to me like he'd never met you before, and he wouldn't care if he never saw you again."
Nice one, Mischa, she thought. Way to make friends. But I'd hit my limit with this dickhead.
Delannoy's face colored. He didn't want to give her the satisfaction of a reaction, but he gave her one regardless. His jaw clenched and his eyes bored into Mischa. It was obvious to both of them that she hit the nail on the head.
"Okay, suit yourself," she said. "You guys were best friends."
Delannoy took a moment to reboot, to regain the upper hand in the room. He sat back down and formed a tent with his hands. A wry smile appeared on his lips. He nodded to the guards flanking her.
"Ms. Barton needs some time to consider my offer," he said as the guards escorted her out. "Make sure she has all the time she needs."
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