Chapter 13 - The Visit to the Holding Cell
On Friday afternoon, the county sheriff granted a special twenty-minute administrative visitation in the secure wing of the downtown detention center.
David had insisted on going alone, but I drove him down in the truck and waited in the small glass vestibule beside the processing desk.
The visitation room was a narrow, windowless box separated down the middle by a partition of two-inch shatterproof Plexiglas.
On one side sat Mark, wearing his faded orange jumpsuit with his arm strapped tightly to his side, his posture bent and defensive.
On the other side sat David, his arm resting on the steel counter, the dark stitches on his forehead standing out against his pale skin.
There was no telephone receiver between them; the sound carried through a small perforated steel grille set low into the center of the partition.
For two full minutes, neither brother spoke.
The only sound was the low, steady hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant clanging of a steel gate somewhere down the cellblock corridor.
“You didn't have to come here, Dave,” Mark said finally, his eyes fixed on the scratches in the steel counter.
“I came because Mom told us before she died that brothers don't let debts go unsettled without looking each other in the eye,” David answered, his voice devoid of anger, carrying only a heavy, sorrowful weight.
Mark lifted his head, his swollen lip trembling slightly.
“They were going to take the house, Dave,” Mark said, his voice cracking with self-pity.
“Evelyn was packing her bags to leave for her sister’s place in Detroit.”
“I was drowning, and Vance made it look so simple.”
“He said it was just a technical transfer between family trusts.”
“You hit me with an iron pipe, Mark,” David said, leaning forward until his forehead was inches from the glass.
“You locked me in a pump house cellar with water rising past my boots and you told me I’d be washed into the river if I didn't sign.”
“You brought ice into my living room and let your wife twist my three-year-old daughter’s wrist until the ligaments tore.”
Mark pulled back against the concrete wall, as if David’s words were physical blows striking his bruised ribs.
“I didn't want Evelyn to hurt her,” Mark sobbed, dropping his face into his good hand.
“The ice was Evelyn’s idea.”
“She read somewhere that a severe cold shock makes the muscles contract so the EMTs think it’s a seizure.”
“We were just trying to keep Sarah from asking questions until the probate judge signed the preliminary custody order.”
“Evelyn is going to prison for eight years, Mark,” David told him, his voice unwavering and clear.
“The state social services board has permanently revoked her nursing license, and the bank is foreclosing on your house on Monday morning.”
“Everything you tried to save by selling my child’s land is gone.”
Mark looked up through a curtain of greasy hair, his face pale and wet with tears.
“What about the kids, Dave?” Mark begged, pressing his cuffed wrists against the glass.
“Tommy and little Megan... who’s going to take care of them while Evelyn and I are locked up?”
David paused for a long, heavy breath, looking through the glass at the brother he had shared a bedroom with for sixteen years.
“Sarah and I went to family court yesterday afternoon,” David said quietly.
“We filed for emergency kinship foster care.”
“Tommy and Megan are moving into our guest room tomorrow morning.”
Mark froze, his mouth hanging open in utter disbelief.
“You’re... you’re taking my kids?” Mark stammered.
“After what I did to Clara?”
“We’re taking your kids because they are our blood, and because they didn't ask to have parents who sold their souls to a loan shark,” David answered, rising from the steel chair.
“They will have a clean bed, warm clothes, and three meals a day.”
“They will play with Clara on the rug, and nobody will ever hold them down with ice or threaten them with an iron pipe.”
David turned toward the heavy metal exit door, tapping his knuckles against the glass to signal the guard.
“Dave!” Mark cried out, his voice cracking against the steel grille as he tried to stand on his chained legs.
“Dave, please... tell me you’ll let them write to me!”
David stopped at the threshold of the open door, looking back over his shoulder one last time.
May you like
“They will write to you once a month, Mark,” David said, his hand resting on the doorframe.
“And every letter will remind you of the family that survived the fire you started.”
