One million dollars -- a dream come true for struggling college student Ashlynn Morgan. All she has to do is sign on the dotted line and agree to become surrogate mother for CEO multi billionaire Felix Dunnerson and his wife Deborah.
Yet, during th...
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Rose M. Singer Center.
The large sign over the door of the red-paneled building keeps my gaze captured as if there were nothing else left in the world. I shuffle along with my hands and legs shackled; the hand of the Marshall is supporting my elbow so I won't fall. He told me his name was Deputy Bleaker, but those were the only words spoken during the car ride on our way from Syracuse. As we passed the bridge onto Riker's Island, it finally hit me. I'm going to jail.
"Where did you take my son?"
"Worry about yourself and not him. You are facing aggravated kidnapping charges out in California. That carries a life sentence. The way I see it, you'll likely never see him again."
I fight the lump in my throat that threatens to choke me. "Please. I have to make a phone call."
"They'll allow you one after you are booked." When I sway, he pulls my arm. "Don't act up now. Otherwise, they might stick you in solitary because they think you're suicidal."
Let them. For the moment, nothing really seems to matter anymore. I lost Quentin, and he's probably already on his way to Felix and Deborah. He will grow up in an abusive household while I'll be locked away behind bars, unable to help him. What was I thinking, just taking off like that?
The doors to the center slide open and the Marshall leads me inside the building.
"Open up. Got a prisoner here on a fugitive warrant."
"Has she been arraigned yet?"
"Nope. Should happen in a couple of hours. They're moving fast on this one. With any luck, she waves extradition and will be out of your hair by dinner time."
They are talking about me as if I weren't even here.
The guard at the desk gives me a good once over before grabbing a clipboard and guiding us into a smaller room. Deputy Bleaker fumbles with the hand and leg shackles; after he removes them, I rub my sore wrists.
The guard juts his chin at a table. "Place all your personal belongings on there including any contraband. Then strip."
"Excuse me?" I stare at him with my mouth hanging slightly ajar. He can't be serious. "Isn't there a female officer who is supposed to do that?"
"Jesus Christ, we got ourselves a stuck-up bitch." He gets right in my face, his nose only a mere inch from mine. "If you're going to give me hassle, I swear you'll regret it."
"But—"
"Zip it. Now get stripping or I'll make you."
With trembling hands, I start to empty my pockets. It's not much, considering that Deputy Bleaker already patted me down and took my wallet and keys. An empty gum wrapper and a receipt from a coffee shop. When I pull out the crumbled tissue I used to wipe off a little spit-up Quentin left on my sweater this morning, the tears begin to roll. The emptiness inside me threatens to swallow me alive.
