“What was she arrested for?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Something to do with student loans and—oh, I remember someone saying the word ‘fraud,’ bu
t I didn’t really catch much more than that. It was kinda scary, you know, having police show up at your door.”
“Where did they take her?” I ask.
Jana furrows her brow. “Jail, probably,” she says.
“County or city?” I ask.
“There’s only one jail in town,” she says. “They probably took her there.”
“Were they local or state police?” I ask.
“How should I know?” Jana asks, narrowing her eyes. “Anyway, you should probably go check on her or something. Last I knew, she’s still not talking to me after I had a perfectly innocent conversation with her mom, so maybe it’s a good thing she’s got some time to cool out.”
I just got back from my therapist’s office and I really don’t want to start yelling at someone within the same hour, so I just shake my head and walk away.
From the conversation between Ash and her mom I overheard through the bedroom door, I already know why this happened. Ash’s parents just used her as their fall guy.
Chapter Eighteen
The Life and Style of Johnson B. Witherton VI, Esq.
Ash
The water in jail tastes like sulfur. The food in jail tastes like sulfur. Everything is brimstone for about five hours and then I’m jarred by a piercing screech from near the cell door.
“Butcher!” a harsh voice barks through the intercom. It’s so seldom anyone refers to me with my last name attached, much less by surname only, that it takes a couple of seconds before it clicks that he’s talking to me.
“Yes?” I respond.
My cellmates chuckle at my very non-jail-hardened tone. At least that’s what I think they’re laughing at. They haven’t really talked to me since I was put in here. They just giggle and nudge each other at irregular intervals.
It’s kind of like high school, but here, if you get on the wrong side of the “popular girls,” there’s a decent chance you’re going to get shanked…whatever that means.
“Grab your stuff and come out of the cell,” the voice commands.
I don’t know what stuff he wants me to grab. Other than the Bob Barker soap (I’m not making that up) and the falling-apart jail clothes, I wasn’t really given a lot.
Not wanting to offend the two other women in this cramped concrete-and-cinderblock room, I leave the amenities behind and just stand in front of the door to my cell.
I’m standing here for about a minute, and I’m really starting to feel a little exposed here. Behind me, the women, who have literally said nothing to me at all, just continue to laugh infrequently and seemingly acontextually.
Finally, one of them finds a modicum of mercy.
“They got the cell unlocked for you, Porcelain,” one of them says. “You better get out there before they think you’re tryin’ to resist release or somethin’.”
“Maybe she’s goin’ to the SHU,” the other one says. “You peeled anyone since you been in yet, Porcelain?”
“No,” I say and, for reasons I cannot begin to understand, much less explain, I add, “thank you.”
Apparently I’m Porcelain. I’m not sure if they’re calling me that because I don’t really get much sun or because I’d be so breakable if one of them decided to “peel” me. I don’t know what that one means either, but it sounds a lot less pleasant than being shanked, so I just push against the door, hoping this isn’t some sick joke.
It gives way.
My cell is on the second level, but it’s an open view. Ever since I came into this block, I could just see myself going over this cold metal railing in the inevitable riot that would come once the people in here found out who I am. I guess nobody really cares who I am so much as they’d care about who my parents are.