Black Cat Weekly #90

Chapter 7-3

Crusher is more impatient than ever to get out, so we go over the details of my plan. We agree to make the attempt tomorrow, when Curtsy returns me to our cell at the end of my shift.

The explosion, of course, is key. In addition to blowing open our cell door, it must also disable Officer Curtsy. The trick will be to time the explosion as Curtsy closes the door. I just hope our small volume of nitro will provide enough oomph to do the job.

I explain that Crusher will quickly exchange clothes with Curtsy, then stroll right out of the jail. If the bill of her cap is pulled down low, none of the guards should notice that the big redhead isn’t their colleague.

As I expected, Crusher interrupts me at this point.

“But what about you? How do you get out?”

“I’m not leaving,” I answer. “It’s not worth the risk. I’ve only got two years left. You have what, eight more?”

Crusher laughs. “You mean you went to all this trouble just to get rid of me? You must really want a new cellie.”

“Like Curtsy says,” I reply, “it’s just bad chemistry. Nothing personal.”

“Right,” Crusher nods, choosing to ignore my obvious prevarication. “And you’ll pin it all on me.”

I spread out my hands in supplication. “Yes, but it won’t matter. You’ll be gone, and I don’t want any more time tacked onto my sentence. I’ll just pretend the explosion knocked me out, then plead ignorance about everything. They’ll find out about the nitro, of course, but it came from your pills.”

“And they’ll know I smuggled the acetone too. You must think you’re really smart, don’t you?”

“Look, we’re both getting want we want. It’s a win-win.”

We go over the rest of the plan, then review it several times, searching for any weaknesses or omissions. Crusher offers to arrange for some other inmates to raise a ruckus when the time is right. Something loud enough to divert attention and cover the noise of the explosion.

It’s a good idea that I hadn’t thought of, and for the first time I really start believing my brilliant plan just might work.

Crusher was as good as her word. The good women of C Block are pounding on their cell doors, and the noise is thundering through the jail. Such fits of pique among inmates are not infrequent, and the guards are happy to let it run its course until their charges grow tired or disinterested.

Returning from the library, Curtsy shepherds me through the deserted common area and stops at my cell door. Crusher presents her wrists at the tray slot. She holds a moist tissue in one hand, an unremarkable sight given the number of stuffy noses in the jail.

Curtsy cuffs Crusher, unlocks the door, and pulls it open. When I fail to step inside, Curtsy grunts and gives me a rough shove. Still handcuffed, I stumble through the doorway and do a face-plant on the concrete floor.

I turn my head and smile. The momentary distraction worked. Crusher’s tissue, soaked with nitroglycerin, is dangling out of the bolt hole in the doorframe.

Angered by my recalcitrance, Officer Curtsy slams the door. Instantly, there’s a fiery red flash and a staccato roar. A shock wave steamrolls my body against the floor.

I roll over on my back. Our cell door is ajar, the bolt hole wrecked. Though my ears are ringing, I can still hear the pandemonium of the other inmates, and hope to God that it masked the explosion.

By the time I stagger to my feet, Crusher’s already outside, sitting on the floor next to Curtsy’s prone, motionless body, feeling behind her back for the key ring on the guard’s belt clip.

Finding it, Crusher fumbles around with the keys, blindly trying to insert the right one into the cuffs’ keyhole. After forty seconds that seem like an eternity, the cuffs finally spring open.

Crusher grabs Curtsy by the boots and drags her into our cell. She’s out cold and has an ugly, gaping black gash above her left eye. As planned, the steel door must have struck her a terrible blow. Blood gushes down her temple, pooling in her ear and puddling on the floor.

I pull the door shut and Crusher uncuffs me. We strip Curtsy down to her underclothes and discover more injuries. Her left forearm is crooked and bendy, and there’s a huge goose egg beside her kneecap.

Crusher goes pale, and I think she’s going to hurl. Instead, she swallows hard, zips out of her orange jumper, and puts on Curtsy’s uniform. All the while, she’s grimacing. It’s another angina attack, no doubt triggered by the stress.

As Crusher pulls on Curtsy’s boots, the mangled guard shudders and lets out a moan. Her eyes flutter open, glassy and wide, then fix upon my face.

Officer Curtsy screams.

I snatch the pillow from my bunk and press it into her ugly face.

“What do you think you’re doin’?” Crusher asks, jumping to her feet.

“Giving her what she deserves!” I hiss, leaning harder into the pillow. “Now get out of here before it’s too late!”

“That ain’t right,” Crusher says, donning Curtsy’s cap.

“That’s really funny coming from someone who killed her own sister for eating the last pepperoni roll.”

Crusher picks Curtsy’s nightstick off the floor. I turn my attention back to Curtsy as Crusher turns to leave.

“Are you foolish enough to believe all the gossip you hear?” Crusher asks. “Especially in a place like this? I thought you was smarter than that.”

As I open my mouth to reply, a sharp pain bursts in the back of my head. The world vanishes.

I regain consciousness and try to push myself off the floor but quickly realize my hands are cuffed behind me. Crusher. In addition to knocking me out, she made sure I couldn’t finish off Curtsy after she left.

CrusherCurtsy hasn’t moved, but she’s moaning again, more loudly than before.

As I struggle awkwardly to my feet, the cell door swings open and two guards rush inside.

They see Curtsy lying there, battered and half-n***d in her undergarments, and immediately radio for help. One of them covers her with a blanket ripped from Crusher’s bunk, while the other kneels at her side.

“Help’s on the way,” the guard reassures her, taking Curtsy’s hand in her own. “Everything’s gonna be okay. I’ve gotcha now. I’ve gotcha.”

The other guard orders me into our chair and uses her cuffs to shackle my ankle to the desk.

The paramedics arrive, apply a bandage to Curtsy’s head, and wheel her out on a stretcher.

The guard who had been holding Curtsy’s hand pokes her index finger into my chest.

“You’re gonna pay for this, Salem.”

I shrug my shoulders. “I didn’t do anything. It was Crusher. You know how crazy she is.”

“Really?” the guard asks, the word dripping with sarcasm. “Because Officer Curtsy just told me you tried to smother her with a pillow.”

“The event happened over eighteen months ago,” my defense attorney says to Officer Curtsy. “You had a severe head injury. You were in shock. Given your compromised state, can you really be absolutely certain it was Ms. Salem, and not her cellmate, Ms. Charity Cottrill, who attempted to smother you to death?”

absolutelyHe grips the edge of the witness box, his expression a mixture of sympathy and doubt. The former for Officer Curtsy, the latter for the jury.

“You think I can mistake a Black face for a White one?” Curtsy shoots back. “I was in bad shape all right, but wasn’t that far gone.”

BlackWhiteShe points at me across the courtroom. “It was Inmate Salem. For sure. I’ll never forget her eyes, so full of hatred and malice and, and…triumph, right before she pushed that pillow in my face.”

triumphThe jurors turn to look at me, and I know I’m in trouble. Curtsy’s response was resolute, emotional, and evocative. It’s probably the only thing these twelve hicks will remember. Never mind the straightforward logic my attorney had raised in my defense.

During the first two days of my trial, he had reminded them that shortly after Crusher—her real name is Charity Cottrill—had completed her violent escape, the guards discovered me and Officer Curtsy in my cell. Both of us had been injured in the blast, and my hands were still cuffed helplessly behind my back. My attorney had argued that I was completely ignorant of Ms. Cottrill’s plans, and physically incapable of assaulting Officer Curtsy in the manner she described. Accordingly, he had concluded that it must have been Ms. Cottrill, and not me, who attempted to smother Officer Curtsy.

The prosecuting attorney calls Crusher to the stand. Her ankles are chained and she’s clad in orange—not exactly the picture of a reliable witness. Unsurprisingly, Cro-Magnon Crusher hadn’t enjoyed her freedom very long before getting herself apprehended. Fortunately for me, they found room for her in the state prison and didn’t send her back to Heartbreak Holler.

I brace myself for Crusher’s testimony. If I’m convicted of attempted murder of a public official, the minimum mandatory sentence is fifteen years. If I’m acquitted, I’ll finish my remaining time in just six months.

The prosecutor smiles at the jurors. It’s an empathetic, almost conspiratorial smile. It says, “Let’s finish this nasty business up, now, shall we? Let’s put this murderous, d**g-dealing menace back where she belongs. For good, this time.”

He clasps his hands behind his back and tilts his head to one side. He’s relaxed and confident.

“Ms. Cottrill, after the explosion, as Officer Curtsy was lying incapacitated and bleeding on the floor of your cell, you were changing into her uniform, correct? Making ready to sneak out?”

“Yessir,” Crusher answers softly.

“And while you did that, would you please tell the jury what Ms. Salem was doing?”

“She was just lyin’ there too, sir.”

The prosecutor, who had ambled nonchalantly toward the jury, wheels around.

“Excuse me? What do you mean, she was just…lying there?”

“She was unconscious, sir,” Crusher explains. “Hit the back of her head on the toilet or somethin’ when my nitro exploded. Couldn’t catch herself ’cause her hands were cuffed up.”

I gasp. What is Crusher up to?

What is Crusher up to?The prosecutor starts to say something, but stops. For a few moments, he paces back and forth in front of the witness box as the jurors and everyone else in the courtroom stare at my former cellie.

“But later on,” the prosecutor resumes, “when Officer Curtsy started moaning… At that point in time, who was it that you witnessed pressing a pillow into Officer Curtsy’s face?”

“That was me, sir. I was the one who tried to smother Officer Curtsy.”

I’m stunned. Murmurs erupt in the courtroom. The judge pounds her gavel.

Red-faced, the prosecutor strides away from the dock. “Your witness.”

My attorney rises for the cross-examination. We had planned my defense around implicating Crusher, but never dreamed she would do it to herself.

“Members of the jury, I direct your attention to Exhibit F. It summarizes the testimony given by Mr. Vincent Lee Claypoole when he served as a character witness for Ms. Cottrill, back when she was sentenced for the murder of her sister, Ginger Cottrill. If it would please the court, I would like to read from Mr. Claypoole’s testimony, starting in the second paragraph.