As dawn finally came, I watched the single barred window like a television set. Seeing its slow change, from black, to gray, to blue, was as close as I could get to optimism.
Just when the prisoners around me began to stir, the cell door opened again.
A wiry guard stood at the threshold. He reminded me of a very tall grasshopper. “Cross! Alexander!” he yelled at the top of his voice. “Cross! Over here! Now!”
It was a struggle to look halfway able-bodied as I slowly rose to my feet. I focused on the pain of my chest hairs being pulled out where they had fused with the dried blood in my shirt. It was just instinct, but it got me up on rubbery legs and across the floor.
Then I followed the guard into the corridor. He turned right, and when I saw the dead end ahead of us, I let go of any thoughts I’d had about getting out of the prison.
Maybe ever.
“I am an American policeman,” I said, starting up my story again. “I’m here investigating a murder.”
And then it struck me—was that why I was in this prison?
Chapter 41
THIS DEFINITELY WAS hell. We passed several foreboding, metal doors like the one to my cell. I wondered how many prisoners were kept here, and how many of them were Americans. Most of the guards spoke some English, which made me suspect that I wasn’t the only American here.
The last door on the ward was the only one without a lock. An old office chair sat in front of it, its seat nearly rusted through.
“Inside,” barked the guard. “Quickly now, go ahead, Detective.”
When I went to move the chair out of the way, he shoved it into my hands. Just as well. It was something to sit on besides the floor, and I didn’t feel much like standing right now.
Once I was in, he closed the door and, from the sound of it, walked away.
This room was similar to the holding cell—except that it was maybe half the size and empty. The cement floor and stone walls were streaked dark, which was probably where the putrefying smell came from.
There was no latrine here. Possibly because the whole area had been a latrine at one time.
I looked back at the gray metal door again. Given that there was no lock, was it more foolish to try to get out of here than to just sit and wait for whatever might come next?
Probably not, but I couldn’t be sure about it, could I?
I was halfway to my feet when I heard footsteps again. I sat back down. The door opened and two police officers came in—wearing black uniforms instead of prison-guard blue. My stomach told me it was a bad trade-off.
So did the hard, pissed-off look on the guards’ faces.
“Cross? Alexander?” one barked.
“Could I have some water?” I asked. There was nothing on earth that I wanted more. I could barely speak now.
One officer, in mirror shades, glanced over at the other, who shook his head no.
“What am I charged with?” I asked.
“Stupid question,” said Mirror Shades.
To demonstrate, the second cop walked up and drove his fist into my stomach. My wind was gone, even before I hit the floor like a dry sack.
“Get him up!”
Mirror Shades hoisted me easily, then put his powerful arms around my shoulders from behind. When the next punch came, he kept me from falling over, and also made sure my body absorbed the full impact. I vomited immediately, a little surprised there was anything to bring up.
“I have money,” I said, trying what had worked before in this country, back at Immigration.
The lead cop was huge—as tall as Sampson, with a flopping Idi Amin belly. He looked down the slope of his body right into my eyes. “Let’s see what you have.”