Together they tidied away the last of the mess, clearing the counters and stacking the desks and chairs in a corner. Mrs Tate looked tired. She thanked Jodie briefly, then led the way out of the room, Jodie following her as far as the door. There she hung back, watching as Mrs Tate took a left down the corridor.
Jodie scooted a look around. Then she quick-stepped back into the art room, reached up into a cupboard and retrieved the plastic mannequin.
Her fingers were shaking. She twisted the head to detach it at the neck, at the same time moving closer to the tray of tweezers Mrs Tate kept for jewellery-making. She’d need them to prise out the cotton wad of pills from inside the hollow doll.
‘Garrett!’
Jodie froze. Her gaze snapped to the door. To the scowling, heavyset officer standing on the threshold.
Groucho.
The mannequin seemed to scorch her hands.
But Groucho’s eyes weren’t on the plastic doll. He jerked his chin in the direction of the corridor.
‘Let’s go. You got a visitor.’
‘If it’s my lawyer, I don’t want to see him.’
Jodie trudged down the corridor after Groucho. From behind, he looked bulky with protective gear, his heavy leather duty belt creaking with every step. He spoke over his shoulder.
‘This guy’s no lawyer. He’s a real live human being.’
Jodie frowned. ‘But I didn’t sign any visitation form. I didn’t ask to see anyone.’
‘Got the paperwork upstairs, your signature’s on it.’
‘That can’t be right.’
‘You saying it’s a fake?’
Jodie’s step faltered. Visitors had to be approved by inmates in advance, with a signed form submitted to the Department of Corrections. She hadn’t signed one, but the niggling in her gut told her she knew who had.
She trotted to keep up. ‘This visitor, is it a guy called Novak?’
‘You should know, you put his name down on the form.’
‘Is it him?’
Groucho relented. ‘Yeah, it’s him.’
Shit. Matt Novak. The reporter who’d written to her, asking for an interview; the guy Dixie kept urging her to see. Dixie, who was locked up for falsifying cheques and counterfeiting identification documents; who could copy a signature after seeing it only once, in Jodie’s case probably from the painting Mrs Tate had brought in to show the class.
Groucho swung round to face her, his belt clinking with keys and cuffs. ‘Do we have a problem here? You saying the paperwork’s not legit?’
Jodie took in the grumpy lines of his face, the pouches under his eyes. The guy had a tough job. The first to unlock the inmates in the mornings, he usually took the brunt of everyone’s resentment. Jodie let him do his job, never gave him any lip. In exchange, he wasn’t above bending the rules, often letting her stay longer in the art room than she should. But rumour had it he was close to retirement now, and Jodie guessed he wasn’t about to risk his pension by breaching major rules.
She dropped her gaze, then made herself shrug, sidestepping the fuss that would only get Dixie into trouble.
‘The paperwork’s fine. I guess I just forgot.’
He gave her a long, penetrating look. Then, with a quick glance around, he stepped up closer and pointed a finger at her face.
‘You need to watch out for Magda. She’s a psycho, and she won’t be in Seg for long.’
Jodie opened her mouth to reply, but he’d already turned on his heel and was continuing on towards the visiting room. She hurried after him. The blare of loud voices echoed through the closed door, like the racket of a large, unruly class left unattended. She hung back, her stomach knotted, while Groucho stepped in to deal with the Officer in Charge.
She’d never had any visitors. No family to worry about how she was doing, no friends who hadn’t already moved on. All except for Nancy, who’d written two or three times, asking if she could come. But Jodie wouldn’t see her. They’d be strangers now, separated by Jodie’s pain and by the magnitude of what she’d done. A visit like that would take down both of them.
Groucho gestured her forward, and Jodie hesitated, suddenly tuning in to the sound of children in the room. She swallowed hard.
She’d get in and get out. No chit-chat with Novak, just a long enough visit to allay suspicion over Dixie’s handiwork. If she was quick, she might even get back to the art room before it closed and retrieve the mannequin she’d replaced inside the cupboard.
Jodie lifted her chin and stepped forward through the door. The din of voices filled the air. She took in the rows of tables and chairs, all occupied by inmates and their families. Most of the women in prison here were mothers.
She averted her eyes from the toddlers in the play area, and let her gaze travel the room. The windows in here were larger than most. Sunlight slanted through the grilles, casting trellises onto the floor. Jodie’s eyes followed the grid lines to the far corner of the room, where a dishevelled-looking man sat alone, drumming his fingers on the table.
Her arrival snagged his attention. He clambered to his feet, as she started off across the room. Up close, he looked younger than she’d thought: probably about her own age, mid-thirties at most, though his raggedy, days-old stubble made it hard to tell. She stood in front of him, assessing his unkempt, curly hair, the wrinkled shirt, the crumpled jacket slung across the back of his chair. He looked like he belonged in prison more than she did.
‘I’m Jodie Garrett.’
‘Yeah, I know. Matt Novak.’
He made as if to shake her hand, then glanced at the Officer in Charge and seemed to think better of it. He gestured instead at the chair opposite his, and waited for her to sit down before resuming his own seat.
‘Thanks for agreeing to see me.’
‘Actually, I didn’t.’ She went on, forestalling objections. ‘My cellmate forged the paperwork on my behalf, she thought the visit would do me good. I disagree.’
His expression shifted into neutral while he processed the information. He regarded her with clear, slate-grey eyes.
‘And yet you’re still here.’
‘I’m here for five minutes. We can talk about the weather or your favourite baseball team, but I’m not interested in discussing my past with you, Mr Novak.’
‘I think you’ll want to hear what I’ve got to say.’
He gave her a long, assessing look, and eventually, he added,
‘I was in court for your trial. You haven’t changed much. Thinner maybe.’
‘You were doing a story about me back then, too?’
‘No offence, but my story’s not about you.’
‘I see. Who, then?’
‘Your husband.’
‘Ah, I get it.’ Jodie closed her eyes briefly. ‘Successful lawyer, popular family man, tragically slain by evil wife.’
She felt her lips compress. The media had run that angle for