The Fury - Jason Pinter [56]
bars, not unlike those on an actual jail cell. Beyond we
could see several more guards, and the unmistakable
orange of prison jumpsuits. The guard took a key card
from his pocket, slid it onto a keypad and unlocked the
door. Opening it, the guard ushered us into a smaller
room lined with metal benches. Guards took both of our
bags and patted us down. Guards with shotguns and
handcuffs adorned the walls, their eyes traveling the
length of the room and back again, dispassionate.
Security cameras with weapons.
We sat down at a table at the end of the room. There
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were two other people seated at a table twenty feet from
us. An older balding man wearing an orange prison
jumpsuit, thick glasses and a thick paunch sat, chin in
his hands, while a bejeweled woman many years
younger (with many half-priced plastic surgeries under
her belt) rattled on about something the man couldn't
have seemed less interested in. In fact, he looked
slightly relieved that he would end the night in his cell
as opposed to in bed next to her.
We sat waiting. I wanted to take Amanda's hand. Felt
like I needed to hold on to something that was right.
Being here in this place accentuated my simple need to
feel like I was a part of something wholesome and decent.
Amanda represented everything I had in that department.
Soon I heard a jangling of chains, and my father
appeared behind a set of metal doors. Two guards were
poised on either side of him. They looked somewhat
disinterested, but the tense muscles in their forearms
told me differently.
They led him over to our table, hands under his
elbows as he struggled to walk with chains binding
both his wrists and ankles.
Finally he took a seat across from us, and I could see
what this place had done to him.
My father looked pale. Thin, reedy. He was never a
very muscular man, but any tone he had seemed to have
dissipated over the last week. His hair was stringy and
looked unwashed. His eyes wandered around the room.
They looked scared, as though he expected something
or someone to jump out of the shadows.
I wondered just what kind of hell this man was
enduring here.
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Jason Pinter
Part of me, and man I wished I didn't feel this way,
wondered if it was penance.
"Henry, good to see you, son." He smiled weakly as
he said this, and I knew he meant it. Those were the
warmest words my father had spoken to me since...I
couldn't recall when. And it was a shame they came
under these circumstances.
"How you holding up?"
He made a psh sound and leaned back. "S'not so bad.
You see all those movies where guys get gang-raped in
the shower and they're all getting stabbed waiting on
line for food."
"Nobody's tried to hurt you, have they?" Amanda
asked.
"No...well, one guy did get stabbed in the shower,
but I didn't know him."
My mouth dropped as Amanda looked at me. "We
need to get you out of here," I said.
"Well, what in the hell is taking you so long?" he
shouted. The other couple turned and started. I heard a
rustling as two guards moved closer. He looked at them
and shrank back. Suddenly the warmth was gone. This
was the man I grew up with. But that didn't mean he
was a murderer.
"We're working on it," I said.
"How's your attorney?" Amanda asked. "Has he
been to see you regularly?"
"He's been down here two or three times. How the
heck should I know if he's any good?" my father
seethed. "I mean, he knows more about this legal stuff
than me, but so does the janitor here. He could be the
smartest damn lawyer in New York or the dumbest and
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I wouldn't know the difference between him and the
Maytag repairman."
"What's his name?" she asked.
"Marvin something. Marvin Fleischman."
She shook her head. "Don't know him."
"Have you spoken to Mom?" I asked.
"Once," he said. "Her sister drove in from Seattle."
"She didn't want to be here?"
"I wouldn't let her be here," he said.
"If you're worried about the money, she could stay
with me," I said.
"She's not here because I don't want her to be. The