Unintended Consequences - By Marti Green Page 0,16

if he was guilty of something—maybe murder, maybe something else. But what?

The crystal-blue skies of New York were nowhere to be seen when the plane landed at Indianapolis International Airport. The drenching rain that kept the plane circling for almost an hour before landing had stopped, but deep puddles permeated the roadways. They piled into their rented car, airport map in hand, and made their way downtown to the Indianapolis Women’s Prison. If Sallie had been convicted later, it’s likely she’d have been sent to the newer women’s prison, in Rockville. Most of the women incarcerated now in Indianapolis had special needs: some elderly, some mentally ill, some even pregnant. Sallie didn’t seem to fit into those categories, but Dani could be wrong. Maybe she was mentally ill. She’d get a better sense when she met her.

“Ladies, what say we stop for lunch first?” Tommy always had food on his mind, but he had a point. They didn’t know how long they’d be at the prison.

“I’m up for that,” both women answered in unison.

They parked near the prison and began walking. Almost immediately, Tommy spotted a coffee shop just a block from the parking garage. They strolled over, checked the menu in the front window and peeked inside. It looked clean and homey, so they went in. The tufted benches in their booth were faded and cracked, with strands of cotton wadding sticking out from the red vinyl fabric. The waitress, a pretty young woman with rouged cheeks and dirty blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, came over to the table to take their order.

Flying always revved up Dani’s appetite. She didn’t know why. Doug was the opposite. On family vacations, she and Jonah would fight over Doug’s airplane snack. “I’ll have a hamburger, rare, no mayonnaise, just ketchup on the roll.”

“You want fries with that?”

She hesitated. Fries were diet-killers.

“It’s only a dollar more and they’re real good here. Everybody says so,” the waitress said with an inviting smile.

Dani shrugged. It was hard enough to eat well at home. On the road it was impossible. “Sure, add the fries.”

“And anything to drink?” she asked like Lucifer drawing her into the inferno. She knew she should just have water, especially after flying, but she’d already blown the diet with a hamburger and fries.

“Do you have milkshakes?” Dani asked, dropping her voice so Tommy and Melanie wouldn’t hear.

“Sure do,” the waitress said loudly enough for the next table to hear. “Chocolate, vanilla and strawberry, but chocolate’s definitely the best.”

“Make it a chocolate shake,” Dani mumbled.

She leaned back and let her thoughts wander, drifting away from Tommy and Melanie’s conversation. Each city she traveled to when she argued an appeal seemed both different and the same as New York City. No place was like Manhattan, of course. No place had the mass humanity on its city streets. No place had the crowded skyscrapers or bustling energy or unending streams of neon lights. She supposed people living in Chicago or Los Angeles or maybe even Houston or Atlanta might argue with that. But they were wrong. Manhattan was unique. Yet despite its uniqueness, every city, large or small, shared common characteristics. Every city had paved roads heading to its center; every city had its office buildings and restaurants, gas stations and pharmacies, doctors’ offices and schools; every city had its residents trudging off to work to earn a living. Some worked to support themselves—Dani guessed that was the case with their waitress. Maybe she was a college student, working part time to pay her tuition. Or maybe she’d forgone college and worked to pay her rent and have a little fun on the weekends. Or perhaps she didn’t work to support only herself. Maybe, like the woman Dani would meet with in a few hours, she worked to support her child. What would make a woman, a woman like this young waitress with her cheery smile and warm eyes, stand by and watch her child being murdered? Horribly murdered—burned beyond recognition and tossed away like a chewed-over turkey bone. And then say nothing for two years?

Sallie Calhoun had been a young waitress once, working nights so she could be home with her baby during the daytime. Neighbors described her as a devoted mother. They never heard her yell at Angelina, never even heard her raise her voice. They never saw her plopped in front of the television while Angelina ran about on her own. No, she showered attention on her daughter, hugging her