Page 21 of Pen Pal

She beamed at me innocently. “Any questions?”

Where should I begin?

5

Enzo

The Sergeant banged on the control desk to get all our attention. “Alright, visitation time!” Sergeant Meyer bellowed. “Everyone line up when I call your name. Ackerman, Anderson, Benson…”

He rattled off many names, and I tuned them out. I kept shuffling my playing cards until one of my crew nudged me.

“What?” I snapped.

“Um…they called your name,” Reynolds replied, his eyes widened.

Wait…what?

I never got visitors.

“Ricci! Get your ass down here, inmate, or we’re leaving without you!” Sergeant Meyer shouted.

I rolled my eyes as I stood, throwing my cards back on the table. “Must be my lawyer again,” I muttered as I filed to the visitation line. No one else came to see me, and I was up for another assault charge for beating another inmate a few weeks ago.

I grit my teeth as the doors of Gen Pop opened, and we began to file out. A few of my crew also had lawyer visits today, but I wasn’t worried. I could hold my own.

Through the long hallways, we walked, led by several armed guards, to the visitation rooms. There was a large visitation room for friends and family where inmates sat at a booth and talked to their loved ones through glass. Other prisons allowed them to sit at the same table, but we were a maximum security facility. The only human contact that was allowed was when we were handcuffed and taken to court.

For lawyer visits, we got a private room all to ourselves with no cameras or phones. There were many rooms like those, and the inmates disappeared inside them one by one to speak with their lawyers. I took a deep breath before the door opened to one of the rooms, and the sergeant ushered me inside.

The lights were too bright, and the room was too small. It barely fit the desk and the two chairs inside. The ground had grey carpet, and the walls and ceilings were white. It looked clinical; the only pop of color was the mahogany desk and chairs.

Something was different, I realized as the door shut and locked behind me. The air smelled of a delicate floral perfume that I didn’t recognize. The short woman before me wasn’t my lawyer, though she was dressed like one. She had wide, innocent eyes and pale skin that looked soft. Her hair was pulled back in coils of golden curls, and her eyes were green like the finest emeralds. Her lips were full and pouty, and she bit them nervously as she regarded me. She wore a suit with a skirt, and I loved how that skirt clung to her hips. She was shapely, and I could almost feel the warmth that emanated from her skin. She looked like every fantasy I ever had, wrapped in a deliciously tempting package.

My heart stopped in my chest when our eyes met. She seemed afraid of me, which was the worst thing she could show. I fed off of fear, and it came off her in waves. I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly, taking in her scent and wariness before exhaling sharply.

I opened my eyes and met her stare. “You’re not my lawyer.”

She straightened and motioned for me to sit as she sat on one of the chairs. When I didn’t move, she shifted uncomfortably but opened her briefcase. She removed what looked like a file, and it was pretty thick. That must be mine. I was proud of how big it was.

“Your lawyer, Mr. Blake, retired,” she stammered, licking her lips, much to my fascination. “I’ve been assigned to your case.”

I lifted my head, assessing her. She seemed way too nervous to be a good lawyer, let alone to defend me on a murder charge. “Why?” I questioned.

She didn’t look at me, instead flipping through the pages of my discovery. “I’m a new hire, and they wanted to challenge me.”

She was too honest. I expected lawyers to lie through their teeth at almost every turn. She seemed like a recent graduate, though her age told me otherwise. She tilted her head to get a better look at something, and that’s when I noticed it.

Yellowing bruises around her temple and cheek.

Rage boiled inside me like an inferno. Who laid hands on this woman? What kind of scum of the earth hits women, especially one so drop-dead gorgeous? It explained her lack of confidence and her fear of men, especially a man like me. She was a little wounded mouse, and I was the big, bad wolf licking my chops for a snack.

“Look at me,” I ordered.

She hesitated before her eyes met mine.

“What’s your name?” I asked, approaching the desk. “I should know the name of my new lawyer.”

She nodded. “Of course. I’m Amara Branson.”

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