The Ending You Waited For.
The Ending You Deserved.
Who Killed Jenny Schecter?
A Shane and Carmen Novel
by Alice Pieszecki and O. G. Salli
Chapter 1 Orange Is the New Alice
"McCutcheon!"
They called it "The Farm," but it was just a prison with a touchy-feely nickname, and at this touchy-feely prison they called the guards "correction officers," COs for short, which was a better term than the old one from generations ago, which was "screws." "Screw" was an unfortunate nickname for a guard at a woman's prison, so they didn't use it. And they didn't always call them prisons any more, they called them "correctional facilities," which was more politically correct and euphemistic than "penitentiaries." This one, though, was called Humboldt State Farm and Prison for Women. "Farm" was a cute marketing touch, murderers growing avocados and carrots. As far as Shane McCutcheon was concerned, a prison was a prison was a prison, even a women's prison. Not many inmates came out "corrected," and very few were "penitent" before, during or after they were inside one. Shane didn't like being in a prison. Not one little bit.
The CO who called Shane's name from the clipboard in his hand was a man, a tall dude with blue eyes. He looked like a clean-shaven biker, and his name badge identified him as Perry comma Mark. His attitude was friendlier than Shane had expected. She got up and went to the door where he stood, and passed through while he held it for her. Then, while she waited, he locked it behind them from a big ring of keys. He wasn't carrying a gun, or even a nightstick. He was big enough he didn't need to.
Perry comma Mark didn't say anything more, but walked down the hall to another door, and unlocked it. Like the first door, it had a pane of bulletproof glass with a grid of reinforcing wire in it. He held it open for Shane, who walked through. Again, he followed, locking the door behind them. That's all they did in this place, walk down corridors and hallways, unlocking and locking doors as they went.
As far as prisons went, this one wasn't quite as bad as most people's nightmares, but it was by no means pleasant. It was, on its best days, "neutral." Bland institutional paint on the walls. Bland, boring linoleum floors. Faint odor of some industrial cleaner/disinfectant. COs everywhere, significantly more than half of them women, since this was, after all, a women's prison, and there was never a moment when someone wasn't watching you. There were surveillance cameras mounted high up in the corridor corners, looking this way and that, and no one had bothered to try to conceal them. There were cameras in the waiting areas. Cameras in the yards. And Shane knew that somewhere there was a room with a bank of monitors, and people sitting there watching the monitors. Maybe in the low-security areas it was better, but this was the part of the prison where they kept the baddest of the bad-ass bad girls, murderesses and drug queenpins, the incorrigibles, the hard cases. Smile, girls, you're on uncandid camera.
The CO unlocked a door and let Shane enter the next room, which was the visitation room. It was divided in half by a wall that was solid below and glass above. It was also divided into small sections with side panels for what was laughingly called "privacy." There was a table top on each side, and on each side a telephone without a dial. There was one metal chair in each visitation space, and there were a total of five such cubicles. A woman in her late forties sat in the cubicle at the far end, talking to a 20-something woman who might have been her daughter on the other side of the glass.
"Take a seat," the CO said, and left the room. Shane waited a beat and then heard the lock click behind her. She sighed, and looked around the room. She wanted a cigarette. No, make that a joint. She sat down in the second cubicle and waited.
After a minute a door on the other side of the glass partition opened, and a CO came in, followed a second later by Alice Pieszecki. Alice walked to her side of the partition opposite Shane, sat down in the chair, picked up the telephone, and burst into tears. The phone fell to the tabletop. She held her hands over her face, crying silently, her shoulders shaking.
"Alice, Alice," Shane said from her side of the glass, but of course Alice couldn't hear her. Shane was very close to tears herself. "Hey, come on, Alice," she said gently. She held the phone up to her ear, waiting. She put her free hand up to the glass, palm pressed against it, wanting Alice to do the same.
Alice slowly dropped her hands and pulled herself together. She mopped her face, half smiling through the tears. When she was able, she held her palm up to the glass against Shane's, picked up the phone, and said, "Hey."
"Hey," Shane responded.
"Ya know, in all this time, all these months, this is the very first time I lost it," Alice said.
"It's okay," Shane said softly. "You don't have to apologize."
"I know," Alice said. "I wasn't apologizing. I was just ... you know ... just saying."
"I know. We've all been worried about you. Everybody said to say hello, and that they all love you."
Alice smiled. "Tell them all I said 'Hey.'"
"I will." Shane said. "Is there anything you need? Anything at all? Just name it."
"I guess some clothes. Socks and sweatshirts and stuff. There's a list they give you, stuff you can have. A cake with a file in it."
"I'll get the list," Shane said.
"Cigarettes," Alice said. "They use them as money in here."
"Okay."
"Hey, you haven't complimented me on my outfit. I wore it just for you."
Alice was wearing an orange jumpsuit provided by the prison. There was a white patch stitched over the left breast that said "Humboldt State Farm and Women's Prison," and below it in much larger letters her prisoner number, 92530.
"It's fab, Alice," Shane said into the phone. "It was the first thing I noticed. I think the color does wonders for you."
"You don't think it's a little brash?"
"Well, maybe a little over the top, yes. It makes a statement. But the shape and fit are just, well, really hard to describe."
"I think 'baggy,' 'shapeless' and 'unflattering' say it all."
"I can't disagree."
"But it's comfortable. You can lounge around in it all day. And you don't need to change for dinner."
"No, I guess not."
"They could make a TV prison show about it. Put lots of lesbians in it."
"Absolutely. I'd watch."
"You'd watch anything with lesbians in it. I know I would."
"That's true. How bad's the food?"
"It's tolerable. I don't think managing my weight is going to be an issue."
"No."
Alice heaved a sigh. "Oh, Shane."
"I'm so sorry," Shane said. "We were all so shocked. We couldn't believe it."
"So what's the consensus?"
Shane smiled, sadly. "Half of us think you're delusional, you lost your mind. Maybe a bump on the head, or a brain tumor, or post-traumatic whatsy-whatsis. The other half of us think you're covering up for somebody, but we don't know who or why. Not one of us thinks you did it. Not one. I mean, there's not even anybody who says, 'Well, maybe, under the right circumstances ... .'"
"They're all sweet," Alice said. "I guess I don't project as homicidal material. So which half were you in?"
"Me? I guess I'm in the delusional camp. When I heard you confessed, I was just, like ... I dunno. I was stunned. It made no sense."
"Well, like Ahnold said, 'It's not a tumah.' Who told you I had confessed?"
"The detective. What's-her-name, the sergeant. The one in charge."
