Easy Innocence

Chapter 6

GEORGIA’S HEART pounded, her palms were sweaty, and it was only with a huge effort that she was able to put one foot in front of other. She had been inside Cook County jail before, but each time she went in, her chest tightened and she hyperventilated. The air seemed so much thinner inside. She couldn’t wait to get out. Thank God she could. She thought about the tenuous line that separated cops and criminals and shivered.

This time, though, she’d asked to come down. She wanted to interview Cam Jordan. She arranged to meet his sister, Ruth, at the visitor’s entrance after she checked out the crime scene.

She hadn’t seen much. The clearing in the Forest Preserve where Sara Long was killed was fifty yards from the field where the powder puff football game took place. The only hint it had been disturbed were bits of yellow crime scene tape twisted among the fallen leaves. They’d released it fast, O’Malley said. Then again, there wasn’t any reason not to. They had their man. The had their evidence.

She trod carefully, dodging shafts of sunlight that penetrated the still dense, leafy ceiling. In heater cases, the village cops usually brought in techs from Nortaf or the Crime Lab rather than process the scene themselves. It was safer.

The ground was matted with leaves, but underneath it was bone dry. No chance of footprints. Even if there were, they probably belonged to the girls who brought Sara here. The techs would have looked for hair, fibers, even skull fragments, anything that didn’t belong. She wished she knew what they’d bagged, apart from the baseball bat and Cam Jordan’s shirt. She sighed, missing the access and information that came with being a cop.

An hour later, she met Ruth Jordan at 26th and California. They introduced themselves while the guards ran their ID’s and made them fill out three forms each.

Cam’s sister was a small, slender woman with what Georgia called worry-hair: frizzy, mostly gray strands that looked like they had been scratched and pulled and chewed in frustration. An equally worried expression lined her face.

“Cam’s fifteen years younger than me,” Ruth said as they sat on a bench. Her voice was quiet and sad, and Georgia had to lean forward to catch everything. “My parents waited a long time between kids. It must have been like having a grandson, so many years had passed.” She looked at Georgia. “You have kids?”

“No.” It came out fast. Georgia avoided looking at the woman.

“Me neither. I guess with Cam—well...” She ran her fingers across her forehead, wiping away nonexistent sweat.

A burly guard called Ruth’s name, and they both stood up. After searching their bags, he gave them a sticker for their jackets and motioned them to follow him. As he led them outside and around to another building, Ruth added, “I’m not sure you’ll get much. He won’t talk. I can hardly get him to talk to me.”

The guard took them inside a gloomy building, up a flight of stairs, and down a long hallway. Beneath Georgia’s shoes the floor felt sticky. The smell was part dumpster and part gym locker, overlaid with the stench of urine and stale smoke. She breathed through her mouth.

She heard a few catcalls and whistles as she passed. Most of Cook County jail was divided into wards consisting of large, well-lit day rooms ringed by cells. Tables and benches were bolted to the floor, and a TV was mounted high on the wall. Prisoners spent most of their time lounging at the tables. A wire cage the size of a parking lot booth occupied the front of the room—it was there that guards kept watch on their prisoners. Georgia caught a glimpse of the bathrooms as she passed. Just a row of toilets. No stalls, no seats, no privacy.