Dead Man Sitting

Jeffrey sat slumped on the lower bunk of his cell, staring at his hands in silence. His attorney lifted the creases in his trouser legs a fraction, then sat on the only chair in the small, close room. He was accustomed to the smell of latrines and sweaty clothes. He often met his clients in their cells but not usually so late in the evening.

“Good evening.” Jeffrey glanced up at the visitor; from his well-oiled hair to his polished shoes, the attorney glistened. “I see you have a cell to yourself. And your own clothes still.” The attorney wrinkled his nose over the sweatshirt and jeans, in which his client had been arrested five days earlier. Jeffrey raised his left hand in a gesture encompassing the cell, his world, in its entirety.

“These are privileges, Jeffrey. Because you are still on remand and because--- of who you are.” A smile slid across the lawyer´s face and Jeffrey, encouraged by this recognition of his status, straightened his back and tried to speak. At first just a croak came from his mouth but then he swallowed, licked his lips and said,

“Get me out of here. I´ll pay. Whatever. I'll pay. You know I can.” The attorney frowned and ran the palm of his hand across the table top.

“Not this time, Jeffrey. Not this time.” He sighed, took a clean, white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hand. From the belt loops in his trousers, he pulled a longer piece of cloth, folded it over and over, and laid it on the table. “Frankly, Jeffrey, you have come to the end of the road.” The prisoner flinched and turned slightly away, dropping his shoulders. “They have every chance of getting convictions on the trafficking and child abuse charges and that will get you one of those bizarre sentences, two hundred years plus life or something.” The attorney nodded and smiled, as if satisfied with this judgement. “They´re not planning to segregate you either. Some extremely powerful people are asking themselves, how long before you start naming names? If you choose to hang on, you’ll be locked up with the dealers and rapists for the rest of your life”.

After a long silence, he pulled himself upright and breathed in through his nose, a mistake in that atmosphere. The attorney lowered his hand to the table again and moved the coiled piece of canvas to the edge of the board, where his client could see it clearly.

“I brought you this, a belt from your home. Use it wisely.” The attorney stood, strode the two steps to the cell door, and knocked. The lock ground harshly, as the door was opened from outside. “Goodbye, Jeffrey.”

***

After two weeks in jail, Jeffrey seemed even to himself a dangerous criminal. Guards hurried him down narrow, brightly lit corridors and across wide, open hallways full of bored, hostile men. His cheek hurt where his cellmate had hit him, had called it a bitch-slap and nothing serious, but Jeffrey thought the bone was broken under the blue and red bruise. He wore the same orange pajama as everyone else, but his hands were cuffed behind his back. If the guards abandoned him here, he would be helpless, exposed to whatever games the other inmates wanted to play. At last, they rushed him up steep stairs and opened a door at the top of the flight. A door, which gave onto another passageway and another door, behind which his attorney waited, in a small, windowless room. The guards seated him in the free chair and left.

“Good morning, Jeffrey.” The attorney seemed indifferent to his client´s appearance, wild eyed and bruised, in soiled prison clothing.

“Help me! They’re killing me. Help me!”

“I tried, Jeffrey. On my last visit, I tried to help you, but you didn't take my advice. You didn't use the belt I brought for you. I came here today to tell you that I can no longer act for you. You’ll be getting a new defense attorney, provided by the state, and they will be handling your case in future.”

“Please, we have known each other so long---Don´t desert me now”.

“I´m not deserting you, Jeffrey, but I do have other clients, other fish to fry, as they say. I have been able to do one last thing for you, however.” Jeffrey looked up eagerly. “You will be in a cell on your own again tonight. Just tonight, understand?” Jeffrey nodded, then shook his head, unsure, what he was supposed to understand.

“Good. Well done.” The lawyer stood up, ready to leave the jailhouse interview-room. At the door, he turned, “Goodbye Jeffrey.” He nodded a friendly adieu to his erstwhile client and was gone.

Back in the cell, on his own again, Jeffrey found a small television set on the corner shelf. The cable had been left hanging almost to the floor, weighted down by the plug at its end. He inspected the cable; the strand of insulated copper wire came away in his hand. He turned it over twice before coming to a decision. Carefully, he tied a slipknot in one end leaving a loop big enough to get his head through. He tied the other end to the rail at the foot of the upper bunk and stood looking at the wall with the cell door, as he pulled the noose over his head. The spyhole in the door was blind. Should he say a prayer? To whom? He smiled a wry smile and looked back briefly on a life of pleasure, beholden to no-one, leaving no-one to mourn, a life of secrets bought and sold and, finally, of secrets kept.

Jeffrey sat abruptly but did not reach the floor, halted by the cable around his neck, which closed his throat and stopped his breathing. His eyes opened wide, but saw nothing, leaving only the gasps from his mouth and the stink of shit, erupting into his pajama trousers.