Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,57

trailed off and he stared at the wall. Of course I understood Tucker’s concern. Out of solitary confinement, or “suicide watch,” he would be placed with the general population, mixing with hardened criminals—some already convicted of heinous crimes. A sheep to snarling wolves.

“It won’t come to that,” I said firmly. “We’ll have you out of here in no time.”

“But if we don’t manage that trick, I have a few suggestions for surviving this place unscathed,” said Madame. “I’ve learned these tricks from my own experiences.”

Both Tucker and I stared at her in amazement. “Are you telling us you’ve been in jail?” asked Tucker.

Madame nodded. “I was imprisoned within this very compound, many years ago,” she declared.

“Why?” I asked.

“It’s not important,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Ancient history…”

We both urged Madame to give us details, but she simply refused to elaborate, and her stern expression told us to drop the subject. Of course, we did—one does not “press” Madame.

Eventually, Tucker changed the subject, asking about the coffeehouse, about Esther and Moira. Finally, Madame faced Tucker, took his right hand in hers and looked into his eyes. “I know imprisonment feels like the end of your life, but don’t you ever give up hope. Don’t look anyone in the eye or they’ll take it as a challenge. But don’t look away, either, or they will think you are weak.”

Tucker nodded with each suggestion.

“Keep to yourself, but do not spurn friendship if it is offered. Deal carefully with the guards. If you get too close to them, the inmates will think you’re a stool pigeon.”

In all the years I’d known Madame, I’d never once heard the words “stool pigeon” (one of my dear old dad’s typical terms) come out of her mouth. And as shocked as I was to hear prison advice issued from a woman in floor-length Fen outerwear, I had to admit her suggestions seemed sound.

“Don’t be anyone’s fool, Tucker,” she continued. “But do not assume everyone around you is a criminal or out to harm you simply because they are locked up in here. Most of these inmates are in the same situation you find yourself—blameless, but too impoverished to get bail. They await justice with the hope the system will eventually exonerate them.”

Misty eyed, Tucker opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the heavy door swinging open.

“Time’s up,” said the guard.

We offered Tucker a final hug, and watched unhappily as the guard cuffed him and led him away. The woman who brought us to this windowless room appeared in the door a moment later, then guided us back to the Control Building where we checked out and were given back our cell phones and other personals.

Outside, Madame waved to Mr. Raj, who was parked in the visitor’s area. As the Lincoln pulled up to us, Madame sighed deeply. “Oh, Clare, I feel so badly for the boy. I do wish there was something more we could do.”

“There is,” I replied.

TWENTY

MADAME and I were both so intimidated by the quiet, ordered oppressiveness of Rikers Island that I don’t think we dared breathe normally until we’d crossed the bridge back over the East River and merged with the normal flow of traffic on the Grand Central Parkway.

For once, I felt happy to be stuck in the noisy chaos of pre-rush hour and I gazed out the window, watching an airplane wing its way over Rikers before making a banking approach to one of LaGuardia’s runways. I wondered how it would feel to be trapped inside that prison and hear—hour after hour, day in and day out—the whine of airplanes filled with happy, free people going about their lives just over your head.

“Where would you like to go, Mrs. Dubois?” asked Mr. Raj.

Madame offered him a blank stare. “Very good question.”

I cursed. “I’m so stupid. I should have asked Tucker where Jeff Lugar is being treated. That’s the kind of information that’s difficult to pry out of hospital administrators.”

Madame leaned forward. “Just make it Manhattan, for now,” she told Mr. Raj, who nodded and continued heading for the Queensboro Bridge.

“Have you a clue where he is, Clare?” Madame asked.

“I believe at least one ambulance came from St. Vincent’s,” I said.

Madame nodded. “That’s a start, my dear.” She fumbled in her tiny purse until she located her cell. “Now relax while I make a few inquiries.”

Madame dialed her cell, then spoke. “Dr. McTavish, please. It’s Mrs. Dubois calling.”

The good doctor immediately took the call. No surprise, since Madame