The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [76]
There were no photographs of Sean and Jenny Cole in Laurel’s dossier, but they were much as Nikola had expected: a couple aging with the graceless air of those who had scurried through life without intellectual pursuits, doomed to wither away quietly, watching TV.
Nikola took in the side wall flanking the seating area, scanning a predictable array of traditional photographs in glazed picture frames interspaced with a few modern displays that changed views every few minutes. Next to portraits of old people, probably ancestors, stood a large color photograph of a much younger Sean and Jenny in wedding garb—the smiling bride in an elaborate white dress next to a gangly young man in an ill-fitting tuxedo, probably rented for the occasion. Mixed with snapshots of flower shows and gardening events were scores of photographs of Laurel. On a far corner, flanked by two remarkable photographs of an alert tabby cat, Nikola spotted a portrait of Sean, looking terribly naive and self-conscious in his Navy uniform. His national service had been uneventful, correct, but gray; a recurrent normalcy permeated his file.
Centered on the mantelpiece over a fireplace with a basket of dried flowers stood a piece of wood with a carved motto: Dum Spiro Spero. While I Breathe, I Hope. Nikola pursed his lips at Cicero’s quote from Letters to Atticus and the incorrect use of capital letters—the Latin should have been all lowercase—before realizing it was also the state motto of South Carolina, where Jenny was from. How appropriate. Next to the carving, a photo frame flickered and then faded. A garden scene with a group in the background too small to identify from a distance blended into a portrait of Laurel holding a furry ball.
When Mrs. Cole returned, carrying a small tray with three mugs, her eyes were reddened and shiny; she’d been crying.
Nikola pasted an innocent expression on his face and blinked twice when, probably by force of habit, she neared the sofa. She did a quick double take, assessing the seating arrangement, and made for the other easy chair after setting the tray on a coffee table.
A century earlier, B. F. Skinner had revolutionized marketing with his “radical behaviorism,” but his work paled in significance before Oleg Bosky’s seminal Control. An obscure Russian psychiatrist, Bosky had transformed motivational analysis into an awesome tool, affording his followers an unparalleled capacity to predict reactions to stimuli.
Hard-sale closing-technique number one: Never pitch to a single member of a couple. To do so will allow the punter an excuse to check with the other half before signing. Hard-sale closing-technique number two: Never allow a couple to sit next to each other. To do so will allow the punters a chance to seek the comfort of nearness and strengthen their resistance.
“Mr. Ma—sek.” Mr. Cole squinted at Nikola’s visiting card. “How is Laurel?”
“Please, call me Nikola. I hate formality.”
Mr. Cole nodded, a glimmer of relief scuttling across tired eyes. “I’m Sean.” He nodded at his wife. “She’s Jenny.”
“Thank you. Yes—Laurel. A dreadful episode. I checked. She’s fine; asleep.” No reaction from either of them. Not that he expected any, but Nikola relaxed further after analyzing their body language. So far they knew nothing of their wretched daughter’s breakout.
“Is there a chance she may be set free?” Jenny Cole blurted. “I mean, before the two-year sentence is over?”
Nikola tore his eyes again from the photographic display, with the unpleasant sensation that he was missing something important, something about the photographs. She already is free, Nikola thought. “Indeed,” he said.
“Over the phone you mentioned your department has considered reviewing her case.”
Nikola noticed a brimming glint in Jenny’s eyes, her fingers busy twisting a brown button on her aged cardigan, before he turned toward Sean. “All three: Laurel’s, Bastien’s, and Raul’s. Youth. Foolish. Such a waste.” Nikola reached for a mug of tea and sniffed the delicate aroma of bergamot orange rind. Earl Grey. He