Fearful that dinner would not be any better, Alan forced himself to eat half of it. Also in the bag, compliments of the state of New Jersey, was a plastic bottle of water.
He was later moved to the commons area in the general population. About twenty inmates were seated on folding chairs watching CNN. Small groups were off to the sides playing chess, checkers and cards. Recreation time, Alan thought bitterly.
In the late afternoon they were marched into what passed for a dining room. He followed the lead of others who took a tray and a plate and walked past the servers who put scoops on their plates. The utensils were plastic.
He spotted a half-filled table where the inmates appeared to be near his age. They were exchanging stories about why they had been arrested. Two of them had been caught with heroin. Another was serving a drunk driving sentence, his third. They looked at him, obviously expecting to hear his story. “My girlfriend died in an accident. They’re blaming me.”
“Which judge you got?”
“I don’t know.”
After dinner they were herded back to the community room. One of the inmates who had been at the dinner table asked Alan, “You play chess?”
“Yeah, I do,” he said as he followed the other prisoner to a table. In the time he had been in the jail, it was the only hour that passed relatively quickly.
A few minutes after the game ended, the prisoners stood up and formed a queue along the wall. “Back to the cells,” Alan’s chess opponent announced. “See you tomorrow.”
The guard unlocked a cell and directed him into it. There were bunk beds along the left wall. A stainless steel toilet was in the right corner. A very small window overlooked the parking area behind the courthouse.
A man who appeared to be in his thirties, in the lower bunk, glanced at him as he came in, but then went back to whatever he was reading. Alan wanted to find out where he could get something to read, but he was too nervous to ask.
The top bunk was his, but Alan was uncertain about what to do. There was no ladder. In order to hoist himself up, he would have to put one foot on the lower bunk. Should I ask permission or just do it?
Better not to disturb him, Alan thought as he put a foot on the lower end of the bottom bunk and vaulted himself to the top. He waited apprehensively for a protest from below. There was none.
The mattress was thin and lumpy. The blanket and sheet had a strong smell of disinfectant.
Alan put his hands behind his head on the small pillow and stared at the ceiling. It was several hours before he fell asleep. It was a challenge to tune out the loud snoring emanating from the bunk beneath him.
He was startled awake by the sound of voices, footsteps and cell doors sliding open. Following a line of prisoners, he went to the same room where he had had dinner the previous evening, this time for breakfast.
He had just followed the procession to the recreation room when a guard barked, “Alan Crowley.”
Alan meekly raised his hand. “Let’s go,” the guard said, gesturing him to follow. He was led down a long corridor with doors on each side. Above each door was a plate that read ATTORNEY-CLIENT ROOM followed by a number. The guard opened the door to number 7. Alan spotted Lester Parker seated at the table, with his briefcase next to him. He took a chair opposite him.
“Alan, how are you doing?” Parker said as they shook hands.
“I’m undefeated in chess,” Alan said wryly.
Parker smiled. “I’ve spoken to the assistant prosecutor. We went over the charges against you. They’ll bring you into court tomorrow at eleven. I’ll be there.”
“After court tomorrow, will I be getting out of here?”
“I can’t say with certainty what’s going to happen tomorrow, but I’m going to make a strong argument that you be allowed to go home.”
“Will my parents be there, in court?”
“Yes, and they want you home just as much as you want to go home. I’ll see you tomorrow. And remember, talk to no one about your case.”
35
Word of Alan Crowley’s arrest had begun to spread in the afternoon. Aline saw students in their breaks between classes, at their lockers, staring down at their phones. NorthJersey.com had been the first to report the story. She picked up her phone, but then decided against calling her mother.
When she drove up the driveway a few minutes before six that evening, Steve pulled in right behind her. When they were both out of their cars, she said, “I am sure that Alan’s arrest will be on the television news tonight.”
Steve nodded. “Yes. I was thinking the same thing.”
As he opened the front door, Steve called, “Fran.”
“In here.”
Steve and Aline went to the den, where Fran had the TV on Channel 2. They watched in silence as the segment that had been on the five o’clock news was repeated.
Steve moved quickly to where Fran was sitting and put his arm around her. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “In fact I’m . . .” She paused. “ ‘Glad’ is not the right word. I’ll never have real peace, but when Alan goes to prison, I’ll have some sense that justice has been served.”
“Mom,” Aline said, “remember, Alan’s only been accused of the crime. That doesn’t mean—”
Steve interrupted her. “They usually don’t arrest somebody until they’ve got the right guy and have enough to convict him.”
“Aline, why are you defending him?” Fran snapped. “He killed your sister, and then he lied about it.”
“Mom, Dad, please,” Aline said. “I’m not trying to start a fight. When Kerry and Alan were going out, they were constantly quarreling, breaking up and then getting back together. They repeated that cycle a bunch of times. But after they quarrel at Kerry’s party, this time he
