SEVENTEEN HUNDRED HOURS, or five in the evening, was the time for "lockup." With very few exceptions, all prisoners were required to be in their cells from then until morning. For la compte, the nightly counting of inmates before nightfall, they had to stand at attention in the middle of their cells for the guards to see them through the hatch and count them. Usually, somewhere along the way they would miscount and have to start over. Once they were all accounted for, dinner was served.363Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡs7JRkx6E2t
After they were counted and recounted, they settled in and waited for dinner. Mischa watched with indifference as a rat the size of a Chihuahua poked its head out from under one of the beds and then retreated. He must've heard about dinner, too.
"Beatrice," Rosalie called out. Mischa wasn't sure what Rosalie had done to become the unofficial leader of the cell, but the leader she was. She was telling Beatrice, the deranged firebug who never left the cell, that she had to find the spot from which the rat had entered the cell and plug the hole. All along the intersection of the floor and the wall, they had stuffed newspapers, pages from magazines, or if they had nothing else, balled-up underwear or T-shirts in the cracks.
Beatrice jumped off the bunk, pulled some newspaper out of the trash, and crawled under the bed. Beatrice was afraid of leaving her cell---hell, the bitch was afraid of her own shadow---but the rats and roaches didn't faze her.
"Where's Lise?" Mischa asked. Lise, the only overweight one of their bunch, usually ate her own dinner and then some of theirs.
"La bibliotheque." The library, Rosalie explained. Lise worked there, and tonight a new shipment of books had come in that would require the removal of some of the old periodicals to make room.
The prisoners with the most privileges---or, to be more precise, the drug pushers---were the "porters." who delivered the food on wheeled carts. They knocked on the door and they held out their tin plates, on which they dropped their meat and vegetable and starch, plus water or juice. Usually a quarter loaf of French bread as well. And then some extra goodies, like a hash cigarette or pills, for those who had made their purchase.
They slipped the hash to Rosalie tonight, not even trying to hide it from the rest of them. Mischa retreated to the corner with his plate of mystery meat, green beans, and something brown that could have been sweet potatoes or maybe baked beans. Another gourmet meal from chez JRF.
At midnight, the door latch popped open. Mischa's heart fluttered. It was Josette. That meant another night of torture!
They walked in silence, the two of them. Josette kept a distance behind her. Mischa wasn't handcuffed but she'd frisked her, as usual, so she knew she wasn't carrying a weapon.
Josette hummed a tune to herself. Having a grand time. After descending the stairs, they walked back through several barred doors to the middle of the prison----to get from any block or wing to another, you first had to return to the center---and turned toward H wing.
This was different. Usually they went into the basement.
Each wing was secured by a guard at the intersection of the wing and the center. If there was a way out on the other side of the wing, such as H wing's exit into the prison yard; there was a guard at that end, too. Always in a boot with bulletproof glass and a weapons stash.
Josette removed her pepper spray and handed it to the guard in the booth. Same for her handcuffs. That was also different. Mischa had never seen her surrender these weapons.
Where the hell were they going?
It was sickeningly hot in the corridor, the humidity lingering from the scorching temperatures today. And her nerves were twitching. It wasn't like she enjoyed being subjected to the "scarecrow" or the "chair" or the pepper spray----but at least she knew what to expect. Something was different tonight, and she doubted it would be a pleasant surprise.
They stopped at room H-11. When the door opened, Mischa saw a cot and a card table, on top of which was a bottle of vodka and three paper cups.
And Coralie, the head guard, standing in one corner, a sadistic ear-to-ear grin on her face.
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