Chapter 15 - The Jailhouse Visit
Three days before the federal trial was scheduled to begin, I received an official request through the U.S. Marshals Service.
Wesley wanted to see me.
Sarah Bennett advised against it. “You don't owe him a single second of your breath, Nina. Let him rot.”
“I know I don't owe him anything,” I said, looking out Sarah’s office window at the city skyline. “I’m not going for him. I’m going for me.”
At 1:00 p.m., I sat down behind the thick bulletproof glass in the federal detention facility’s non-contact visitation room.
When the guard led Wesley in, I barely recognized him.
He had lost fifteen pounds. His orange jumpsuit hung loosely from his narrow frame. His once-coiffed hair was shaved down to the scalp due to jail intake regulations, and his charming smile had been replaced by a hollow, sullen scowl.
He sat down heavily, picking up the black telephone handset with chained wrists.
I picked up mine.
“You came,” he said, his voice flat, stripped of its former theatrical cadence.
“I came to return something,” I replied.
I took the three-carat moissanite engagement ring out of my pocket and placed it on the stainless steel counter against the glass.
Wesley stared at the ring. His jaw clenched. “You destroyed my mother. She’s seventy years old, Nina. She’s in an infirmary ward because her blood pressure won't stabilize.”
“Your mother destroyed herself the day she started using her children to ruin innocent people,” I said evenly.
“I loved you,” Wesley spat, a sudden flash of his old venom surfacing behind his bloodshot eyes. “I really did! If you had just waited eight minutes... if you had just learned to respect my authority, we could have had an amazing life. I was going to buy you a clinic!”
I looked at him with genuine pity.
“You didn't love me, Wesley. You loved my credit score. You loved that I worked seventy hours a week saving lives while you played high-roller on stolen money. You thought because I was kind, I was weak.”
Wesley slammed his chained fists against the counter, rattling the glass. “You think you’re so righteous! You’re just a miserable nurse who got lucky!”
The guard stepped forward, resting a heavy hand on Wesley’s shoulder, forcing him back into his seat.
I picked up my purse and stood up.
“I didn't get lucky, Wesley,” I said, looking down through the glass. “I paid attention. And by the way—the harvest table in my kitchen looks much better than the one you kicked.”
May you like
I hung up the phone while he was still screaming into the receiver, turned my back, and walked through the heavy steel doors into the bright afternoon sunlight.
***