“Anything?” she called.
Samuel came trotting over, holding up a clear plastic bag. Inside was a Navy SEALs custom-engraved six-inch commemorative blade.
“No gross residue,” he said, “but the size and color match.”
“This is insane,” I said. “Samuel, do you really think I’d hide a murder weapon in my own damn car? You think I’d drive over to Anthony’s and kill him with my own monogrammed knife? Am I really that stupid? Samuel, look at me.”
But he’d already turned his back and walked away. Heidi held up the bag, studied the knife.
“All right,” she said to no one in particular, “let’s wrap this up.”
Two uniforms I’d never seen before steered me toward the back of a squad car. The news vultures had arrived in force. There must have been a dozen cameras on me. I figured, why not give them something worth filming?
“I’ve got shit on every one of you!” I screamed, swinging my head around, eyeballing my former friends and colleagues one by one. “You think I’ll forget this? You think I’ll go quietly? I’ll bring down every one of you. You think I’m stupid? You just flushed your careers down the goddamn toilet. I’m taking this prime time. The story of the Tampa PD is about to be writ large. Think about that when you’re kissing your kids good night.”
I felt a hand on my head, pushing me down into the car. I took a last look around. My eyes settled on Heidi. She gave my stare right back, then broke into a wide and vicious grin.
Part II
Chapter 34Sarah Roberts-Walsh
MOST OF what people say about jail is true. The roaches are so big you can hear their footsteps. Showering is a spectator sport. The guards are at least as terrifying as the inmates. And every meal is one part powder, two parts grease.
Luckily, the subhuman chow came in handy for me. Once my fellow inmates found out I could cook they went from wanting to have some fun with the newbie to making sure I didn’t break so much as a fingernail. We had access to a microwave and an electric kettle, which was pretty much all the equipment I needed. Twenty-four hours into my stay they were calling me M.S.—short for Martha Stewart, another inmate who famously brightened up her tier.
My shtick was this: I’d take whatever someone bought at the commissary and turn it into something they might actually want to eat. You’d be amazed at what you can do with a packet of ramen noodles. Crush them up, boil them to mush, then tamp the mush down and let it cool and you have the wrap for a burrito. What you fill it with is up to you, but the most popular items were American cheese and fake sausage, two of the pricier commissary foods.
As for dessert, Oreo cookies make a nice base for mini cakes and pie crusts. Break them up, mix the crumbs with Kool-Aid or cola, and you’ve got a kind of batter that fluffs out like a yeast after just a few minutes in the microwave.
If you’re feeling fancy, you can scrape away the creamy center and use it later as icing.
In short, I was accepted—even celebrated. Which isn’t to say I’d ever want to go back to jail, but I learned something about myself I never would have guessed: when my back’s to the wall, I find a way to survive.
All told, I was incarcerated for three days and three nights. On the morning of what would have been the fourth day, a CO the inmates called Gangrene because of her mossy-colored skin told me to come with her and leave my blanket behind. Once we were off the tiers and out of the cellblock, she handed me off to a young social worker in a turquoise pantsuit. Her name was Karen, and her handshake was limp bordering on submissive—as if it was her way of saying I’m no threat.
I was being released—Gangrene had made that much clear—but Karen wondered if she might have a word with me first.
“A kind of exit interview,” she said.
I had no objections. The truth is, I didn’t know where I’d go once they let me walk back through those gates. I followed her into a small office that was tiled with yellow subway tiles and furnished with a laminate desk and plastic chairs. It reminded me of my high school principal’s office, only smaller.
“You know that the police have arrested your husband for the murder of Anthony Costello?” Karen asked once we were seated.
“I heard rumors,” I said. “I didn’t know for sure if they were true. There are a lot of stories flying around this place.”
“You don’t seem surprised,” Karen said.
I tugged at the collar of my orange jumpsuit—a nervous tic I’d picked up in no time at all.
“I guess I’m not,” I said. “Sean is a violent man. Anthony was a violent man. Something was bound to give.”
Karen plucked a paper clip from a tray on her desk and started straightening it, then bending it back to its original shape—her own nervous tic.
“I’m just wondering why you didn’t come forward with a full report.”
“Full report?”
“About the abuse. The physical abuse in your marriage.”
She made her voice sound as if she was consoling me when really she was blaming me for something. After all those hours in the box with Heidi, I’d played enough games to last me a lifetime.
“You might as well ask why I didn’t report the rape,” I said.
“The rape?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Don’t you people talk to each other? Anthony Costello raped me. He drugged me, and then he raped me.”
A piece of paper clip broke off in her hands. She was blushing. Her cheeks turned phosphorescent under the cheap overhead lights. I was glad I got a young one. Karen couldn’t have been more than a year or two out of social work school. Maybe less. Maybe this was her prison internship.
“I didn’t know,” she said.
“Neither did Sean.
