“Meds. So she
is
nuts,” Hutch said. “I mean, no big surprise there. Any guy who’d go and have his—”
“Lynn Ingram is legally and physiologically a female,” Dr. Varda cut in sharply, his voice no longer flat nor his words measured. “And she is not ‘nuts’. I did put her on an antidepressant shortly after she was placed in isolation at Grafton—who wouldn’t suffer depression being stuck in that kind of a setting never mind the horrific assaults that required her placement in protective custody in the first place. However, with the prospect of being transferred to a prerelease facility, Lynn’s depression lifted substantially, and I approved her discontinuing the Zoloft. She is now only on a maintenance dosage of hormone replacement therapy.”
Jack gave the psychiatrist a curious look. “How’d she get the okay on the hormones?” A good question. Certainly inmates suffering diabetes received insulin; those suffering HIV or AIDS got whatever drug therapy was required. In short, the Department of Corrections had to, by law, provide life-supportive medical treatment to all men and women under its charge. It could easily be argued that hormonal treatment for a transsexual was not a medical health imperative. But Nat imagined that without the hormones, the threat to her mental health would be another matter altogether.
“She was forbidden her hormones at first,” Varda said, an edge of irritation in his voice. “However, with my help, her lawyer appealed and got the decision reversed by an appellate judge.”
Hutch snickered. “Otherwise what? Cinderella would have turned back into Cinder/e//^? Only without a dick?”
“That’s enough, Hutch,” Nat snapped. Although she was plenty angry at her CO for these crude, not to mention biased, remarks, she was pretty sure none of them, except perhaps Dr. Varda, was immune to disquieting feelings about a person who had undergone sex-reassignment surgery. It was just a matter of how they each processed those feelings. Nat had encountered a fair number of both male and female cross-dressing inmates in her eight years with Corrections, but none of those she’d encountered had undergone an actual sex-change operation. Still, what experience had taught her was, in general, when all you saw was a stereotype, you saw nothing. And you missed everything.
The psychiatrist was frowning at Hutch. “It’s precisely that kind of ignorant thinking that will provoke problems for Lynn here at Horizon House. I’m very sad to learn I was misled into thinking that this facility was both progressive and inclusive.”
Admittedly, the psychiatrist was not getting the best picture of her progressive staff, but whenever any of Nat’s people were attacked by outsiders she got very testy.
“You don’t have to concern yourself about Gordon Hutchins causing any problems if Ingram’s transferred,” she told Varda crisply. “He’s the best chief corrections officer I’ve ever had the good fortune to come across. I’m exceedingly lucky to have him.” Varda parted his thin lips, mostly hidden by the sandy-colored full beard-and-mustache combo (a compensation for his prematurely thinning reddish hair?), but then pressed his lips together, clearly—and wisely—thinking better of arguing with her.
Hutch, never one to appreciate a woman fighting his battles— even a woman he liked and begrudgingly admired—nailed the shrink with a smirk. “You call all your patients by their first names? Or just the pretty ones?” Hutch needled, then caught Nat’s
cool it
gaze in his direction. He heaved a sigh. “Sorry, Doc.” He didn’t say it like he meant it. He didn’t even try.
Red blotches decorated Varda’s cheeks, or what could be seen of them above the beard. Nat wasn’t sure if the psychiatrist was angry or embarrassed. He wouldn’t be the first shrink to get overly and inappropriately involved with an attractive patient. From what Nat had seen of Lynn Ingram on Court TV and in the tabloids four years back, the transsexual was more than attractive. She was stunning.
“Can I raise a point here?” Jack wasn’t really asking permission. “We can all vouch for Hutch, no question about it,” he added, eyeballing Varda, “and for the rest of our staff. The inmates, though, that’s another question. Some of them could be a problem. And we don’t need problems.” He leaned back in his chair. “Which is precisely why I say we pass.”
“And I say that if we start eliminating inmates who qualify for the program based on our inability to provide a safe environment for them, we might as well close up shop and go home.” Nat’s tone was emphatic.
Jack shifted focus to the psychiatrist. “I’m curious about something, Doc. Has Ingram ever accepted the manslaughter charge the jury handed down?” Jack posed the question with a deadpan delivery that only made Varda shift some more in his chair.
“Lynn—Dr. Ingram”—Varda spoke through pinched lips, more red blotches on his cheeks (a wry smile on Hutch’s lips)— “has -been consistent in holding to her original statement of selfdefense. Nonetheless, there is no question she feels deep remorse for having been the cause, unintended though it was, of Matthew Slater’s death.”
Sharon Johnson, her expression openly showing her growing irritation and frustration with the way the proceedings were going, noisily removed a sheet of paper from the thick file in front of her. “I have a letter here from Dr. Harrison Bell at the Boston Harbor Community Pain Clinic, where Dr. Ingram previously worked, requesting that she be allowed to do her work-release program at his facility.”
“She can’t treat patients anymore.” Hutch was quick to correct the employment counselor. “She lost her license to practice psychology when she was convicted of second-degree manslaughter.”
“Dr. Bell understands that Ingram is no longer licensed as a clinical psychologist,” Sharon said impatiently, then glanced down at the letter. “He indicates, however, that she can still work in a lay capacity as his assistant. I don’t see any reason why this wouldn’t be an ideal placement—”
Hutch eyed Nat. “Look, I hear what you’ve been saying, Nat, and . . . okay—in general I’m with you one hundred percent. ” A snicker from Sharon produced an honest smile on the CO’s face. “Okay, maybe seventy-five percent. I don’t wanna be the bad guy here, but I also remember that not too long ago, we came damn close to being forced to close up shop thanks to another inmate fiasco. Are we really ready to dive back into that fray again?” Although the question was addressed to the group, Nat knew that Hutch’s words were meant expressly for her.
No one spoke, but Nat had no doubt everyone around the table was vividly recalling that all-too-recent debacle. Less than a year had gone by since Dean Thomas Walsh, an inmate at the center who was finishing up a sentence for rape, escaped after being accused of murdering a beautiful young English professor who’d become his writing mentor. The professor, Maggie Austin, also happened to be Natalie Price’s closest friend. And Jack Dwyer’s lover.
Hutch was right. It was truly a miracle that their then-one-year-old prerelease facility had withstood the maelstrom of public outrage resulting from the Walsh debacle. Nat was still suffering the effects of that catastrophe. She’d lost her best friend, and her job had been put in jeopardy, not to mention her life. She’d also come dangerously close to getting romantically involved with her deputy, and—maybe worse—fallen for the detective in charge of the Walsh case. Leo Coscarelli. The same guy who’d been the lead detective in the Matthew Slater murder investigation.
Dr. Varda broke the long silence: “I should mention that one of the current residents at Horizon House shared a cell with Ms. Ingram before she was placed in protective custody. They became friends. Lynn feels she’ll be a good ally here. Her name’s Suzanne Holden.”
As if there weren’t enough complications. Suzanne Holden also happened to be the mother of Leo Coscarelli’s child.
two
IS SHE OR IS SHE NOT
.. . A SHE? And a Murderess to Bootf Jury’s Still Out.
(tabloid headline during Ingram murder trial)
THE INTAKE CONFERENCE was over a few minutes before noon with Lynn Ingram’s transfer to Horizon House still up in the air. Nat announced to the team that she’d decided to go to CCI Grafton that afternoon and have a one-on-one meeting with Ingram before making her final decision.
Everyone cleared out of Nat’s office except her deputy. Jack remained seated at the round conference table as Nat purposefully walked diagonally across the large oak-paneled room over to her desk near the bay window that looked out on Providence Street. She was acutely conscious of the pulse of stop-and-go traffic outside.
“If you’re hanging around to continue your argument with me about Ingram, forget it, Jack,” she said, studiously avoiding eye contact. “I’ve got a budget meeting first thing tomorrow that I’ve got to get ready for, not to mention a half-dozen exit reports to go over, a review-board hearing—”
Jack rose from the table and crossed over to her desk, perching himself on one corner of it while she busily riffled through a sheaf of papers that made up the semiannual budget report. The lists of numbers were a blur.
“You’re wearing that
no trespassing
sign around your neck again.”*
“Don’t start with me, Jack.”
“I started with you way before now.”
She glanced up at him. He was smiling. Not one of his seemingly chiseled “sneering” smiles that were usually laced either with sarcasm or derision, and which Nat had learned to, handle with aplomb over time. This was one of his rarer smiles, one that had a touch of tenderness in it. Jack always threw her off when he came across as endearing. Until she rushed back in and reminded herself of his two disastrous marriages, his secret love affair with her best friend, and his on-again, off-again bouts with the bottle.
Nat focused on the budget report, pretending intense concentration.
Jack cupped a hand under her chin, forcing her head up. “Let’s go get some lunch.”
She brusquely shoved his hand away. “No,” she said firmly. What gave her the edge in her battle not to fall prey to her juvenile sexual attraction to Jack was her not-so-secret weapon: Leo Coscarelli. Now, Leo didn’t have the obvious charisma of Jack Dwyer, but what he lacked in overt allure he made up for one-hundredfold in genuineness. In his own inimitable way Leo was as sexy, tough, and tender as Jack. And Leo had it all without the drinking problem, and without any previous marriages, disastrous or otherwise. Which wasn’t to say Leo had no baggage of his own. He did—the heaviest “carry-on bag” being inmate number 479984, Suzanne Holden . . . and their four-year-old son,Jacob.
Nat didn’t want to get hurt—again. The ink on her divorce papers was still wet. No matter how hard she tried to analyze the disintegration of her marriage to Ethan Price, the word
failure
glared like a 300-watt bulb in front of her eyes. Nat did not take well to failing. Or to having rugs pulled out from under her. You would think that with all the radically shifting rugs of her dysfunctional childhood, she would have learned by experience, if nothing else, how to handle failure better in adulthood. You’d be wrong.
“Come on, Nat. Even a busy super’s gotta eat,” Jack coaxed, his voice piercing her meandering thoughts. She glanced up, catching his smug look.
Smug
was better. Safer.
Smug
reminded her of Ethan. Ethan reminded her of why she had gone through with the divorce even when her errant husband was having second thoughts . . .
“We owe it to ourselves to try again, Nat. We had eight good years
—”
“Good for you, maybe. ”
“I made a mistake. A big mistake. ”
“So did I, Ethan.”
“I brought a sandwich,” Nat told Jack brusquely, turning her attention back to the budget report, not adding that she’d brought an extra sandwich in case a certain little boy who was presently out in the visiting room decided to pop into her office.
Complicated as her relationship was with Leo Coscarelli, there was nothing complicated about Nat’s feelings for his four-year-old son, Jakey, She adored the child.
“You look pale, Nat. And too thin. I really think you should let me take you out for a nice, hearty lunch,” he pressed.
Nat was not about to argue with him about her appearance. At five foot seven she should probably have weighed a good twenty more pounds than the hundred and eighteen her scale had been reading for months now. She’d tried to put on some weight, to no avail. Even went to her doctor for a checkup a few weeks ago. Ltesaid it was stress. Nat had said,
“So what else is newV’
Jack snatched at an errant corkscrew strand of her impossibly unruly auburn hair that had escaped its French knot. Nat shoved the strand back into the knot. Jack cocked his head, checking her out.
“You’re still beautiful.” _
She gave him a wry look. “I can’t still be something I never was, Jack.” Nat wasn’t being coy or digging for more compliments. She’d always been realistic about her looks. In her selfanalysis, she came off as merely attractive. She had olive skin that rarely broke out, hazel eyes, slender nose, lips that were neither too thin nor full enough for the current vogue. Her curly auburn hair was her most striking feature, and her most irritating. It kept fighting her. The “her” that wanted to present a crisp, professional, no-nonsense image. The kind of image appropriate to her position. That was why she always wore her hair pulled back into a French knot when she was at work. That was also why she wore almost no makeup, low-heeled pumps, and tailored suits—gray, black, blue—the skirts always hitting below her kneecap.
Jack was not swayed from his determinedly seductive mode.
“You’re always so hard on yourself, Nat. You need to lighten up a little. Smile more. You’ve got a knockout smile. It makes the corners of your eyes crinkle—”
“Those crinkles are age lines. I’m edging onto thirty-three, and on days like today, I feel and probably look about one hundred. So cut the bullshit, Jack. I’m not in the mood—”
“For trouble?”
“Exactly,” she said.
“So then tell me why you’re asking for it, Nat.”
She looked up at him. The charm was gone. So was the smugness. Back to business. Nat should have known he was simply looking for an “in” to continue the argument he’d left off during the Ingram intake meeting.