Marston straightened his hat and marched out of the cell, keeping as steady a stride as he could manage. He head was throbbing and his stomach was sending up sour waves. Outside the cell he turned back and said, “Don’t call me princess, princess.”
The cop grabbed him by the elbow and steered him down the corridor. It was lined with cells. The cop didn’t say a word. Neither did Marston.
They passed through a doorway and into another corridor. The cop steered Marston into a room the size of a closet and slammed the door behind him. There was a table in the middle of the room. There were three chairs. They were wooden and hard and had been painted during the Warren G. Harding Administration. There was a cracked pitcher on the table, and a filthy glass. The pitcher looked like it was full of
