Chapter 11
Two weeks later, I drove to the federal detention facility where Marcus was being held pending his formal bail hearing.
The visitor room was cold, quiet, and smelled faintly of floor wax and industrial disinfectant.
Marcus was led into the room by a correction officer, wearing a faded orange jumpsuit with his hands cuffed in front of him.
He had lost weight, his hair was unwashed, and the arrogant, bully posture he had carried at Dad’s funeral was completely shattered.
He sat down heavily in the plastic chair across from me, looking at my bruised lip, which was now almost entirely healed.
He picked up the black telephone receiver, his eyes dull, hollow, and filled with deep, bitter despair.
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“Are you satisfied now, Clara?” Marcus asked through the static line, his voice dry and scratchy.
“Vanessa filed for divorce, she took the kids to Florida, and my lawyer says I’m facing seven years in federal prison.”
