Love’s Inmate

It’s September 17th, 2019. My cell-mate is on a court run. We are both unsentenced inmates, therefore, we are housed in the A Building with limited privileges and maximum security. Such a high profile case she has, and no one thinks to interview the woman she’s been housed with since her arrest on murder charges about a year ago? Information is currency in here, a place where U.S. dollars hold no value; unlike a stamped envelope, a roll of toilet paper, a stapler, scotch tape, keys. KEYS! Oh, do I miss their pleasant jingle, that POWERfully satisfying feeling of their weight, the sense of authority and control, the limitless potential possibilities and opportunities each one holds.

Nancy was moved into my cell in September of 2018. I remember watching a bizarre and surreal turn of events on TV during rec time. I’m a bit of a noetic; typically I don’t interact with the other inmates, opting for a book or pen and paper. This case was so riveting I couldn’t wait for TV time. I guess it did take my mind off my own situation and my wounded worried family. I can only imagine the stupefaction and wonder written all over my face when the lock popped open to my cell during a lock-down.

“New Bunkie, Saserry,” CO Morrison announced with a shit-eating grin. Stepping aside with a grand sweeping gesture, she ushered Nancy Crompton Brophy into my life.

I didn’t ask her to tell me what happened. This is prison, where everyone is innocent or wrongfully accused. The “don’t, ask don’t tell” policy is never more fully understood while getting booked and processed, strip searched and deloused. Then, standing naked, soaking wet, freezing cold, and terrified, I was handed a stiff itchy prison issue uniform to wear, and an extra one, for the remainder of my stay. TWO outfits, and they are identical?! I should be arrested and jailed by the fashion police, if I weren’t already here.

My lawyer is confident my charges will be dropped, which is very comforting, although my life has been altered in so many very real ways, it’s overwhelming to picture the aftermath of this. I went on one blind date with the wrong guy. When he got pulled over for a busted tail light, as the cop is approaching the driver side window, my date gently stroked my hair, looked into my eyes and placed a red bandanna into my hand. It was sticky and damp. I rubbed my itchy nose, which happens when I get nervous. The unmistakeable salty copper taste of blood on my upper lip prompted me to check my face in the sun-visor mirror. The moment the officer taps on the window, seeking license and registration, I see that he sees me with blood smeared across my face, looking like a lion that has just finished consuming a live gazelle. Of course he first asks if I am ok, was there a fight? An accident? Did my face hit the dashboard? He ends up calling for back-up, the car is searched, my blind date was a perfect-neighbor-type of serial killer. I was arrested as an accessory. This kind of thing can happen to anyone. I get it, sounds a little implausible, but that’s my story, and anyway, the pressing issue here is what Nancy told me.

My life as Inez must seem unimportant, perhaps a waste of your time. Anyone can accidentally be on a date with a mass-murderer. I also know I was supposed to put the information about Nancy at the beginning, like how a journalist would, except I’m not intending to work for the press; too slanted, not my style. I only want to be the best version of me. Your reading of my words and hearing my testimony does exactly that, as Inez Saserry is necessary.

“It’s more complicated than you think, and things are NEVER what they appear,” Nancy starts out by way of introduction, tossing her prison bundle of belongings on the top bunk. “I’m Nancy,” she offers, extending her hand in my direction.

“I’m Inez,” was all I could eek out, hoping my smile looked genuine, not ogle-y.

When she offered no response, I can’t believe I went all “Julie McCoy Cruise Director” on her and sing-sang melodiously, “Welcome aboard, we’ve been expecting you.” I knew enough to skip the part about the Lido Deck.

“Yes I killed him, and no I’m not sorry.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know that’s what you want to know but will never ask; figured I’d open with an ice-breaker.”

“You certainly shoot straight into the heart of the matter; nice aim, one shot this time.”

“You have been paying attention; Daniel was shot twice. Nobody ‘on the outside’ pays attention anymore, TO ANYTHING; it’s very easy to make one thing look like something else.”

“I’m sorry Nancy, but, could I ask if that story’s true about Daniel making pre-coital hors d'oeuvres while you were soaking in the bathtub?”

“Yes, my dear, it’s true.”

“Then you must have been bat-shit crazy to shoot him.”

“Honey, like I said, there is WAY more here than meets the eye. I loved, ahem, er, STILL love him. I don’t write my romance novels as an escape, concocting some fantasy life, living through my characters. I took the first piece of writing advice I got, “write what you know” and didn’t look back. My books are inspired by my passion not my desire.”

“Wow, you must really know what true love feels like.”

“Indeed I do, and consider my life complete. Here’s the thing, though, Daniel had diffuse Lewy body dementia, a combination of Parkinson’s and dementia.”

“What Robin William’s had?”

“Yup. He and I promised each other if either of us contracted something terminal, we would help the other die with dignity and respect.

“Gunning him down at his place of employment isn’t very dignified or respectful.”

“Insurance companies have made it more and more difficult to collect on life Insurance policies and I didn’t want Nathaniel, our, well, technically Daniel’s son, to get screwed. Accidents are investigated for years and if suicide is even suspected, the monies are tied up in the courts forEVER. This had to look like murder.”

“Working in insurance must have taught you a lot.”

“You have no idea.”

“But now you are here and the world thinks you are the villain instead of the savior.”

“And Daniel is resting peacefully and my step-son will live comfortably ever after. I should have been given your name, for I necessary, too.”