Chapter 3: In the Cramped Cell

Jaime’s eyes blazed like twin torches as she faced Steve across their cramped cell, the cold stone walls amplifying her fury into a thunderous echo. “How could you just stand there, doing nothing, while that tyrant ransacked our things and accused us of trafficking drugs?” she snapped, fists clenched, a storm of powerlessness and betrayal raging within her.

Her tongue faltered as she wrestled with the truth, torn between shielding Steve and unburdening herself. The humiliation gnawed at her, a splinter she couldn’t ignore. Finally, she forced the words out, voice trembling. “Captain Torres ... he groped me during the pat-down.” The confession slipped free, raw and jagged, and she instantly regretted it, her heart sinking as she saw the pain flare in Steve’s eyes.

His tension crackled like static, voice thick with desperation. “What was I supposed to do? I didn’t know,” he pleaded, gaze darting between her and the floor, shame staining his cheeks. “I was cuffed, locked in his cruiser. If I’d fought, he’d have charged me—or worse. He had a gun, Jaime, and I didn’t.” His words hung heavy, a shroud of defeat draping them both.

Guilt twisted in Jaime’s chest, sharp as a blade. She shouldn’t have told him—shouldn’t have piled her pain onto his helplessness. Her anger softened, remorse blooming as she studied his bowed head. “I’m sorry, Steve,” she murmured, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to blame you. You couldn’t have stopped him—I see that now. Forgive me for lashing out.” Her eyes stung, forgiveness threading through her words, a fragile bridge between them.

Steve nodded faintly, a flicker of gratitude in his gaze, but the air remained thick with their shared despair. Jaime stepped back from the dingy walls, nose wrinkling at the musty stench clawing the air. The thin mattresses bore dark, splotchy stains—ghosts of past misery—and she shuddered, clutching her sundress tighter, a frail shield against the filth. This wasn’t the sanitized jail of movies; it was a rotting pit, the stone floor an icy slab beneath her feet, urging her escape.

“Which bunk do you want?” Steve asked, his voice a tentative lifeline slicing the silence.

“No, thank you,” Jaime replied, nose wrinkling again. “I’m not touching those disgusting things.” She flexed her wrists, wincing as the cuffs’ bite flared. “When will that creep uncuff us? These are cutting into me.”

“Maybe we should pray together for God’s protection,” Steve suggested, hope edging his tone.

“That’s the best thing you’ve said,” she agreed, a faint smile breaking through her remorse.

Heads bowed, their silent prayer was shattered by a distant door’s creak, hinges groaning like a wounded beast. A metallic clang followed, rippling through the stone, chilling their spines. Steady footsteps grew louder, a grim march heralding multiple arrivals.

Captain Torres approached, keys jangling, flanked by a hulking guard whose menace loomed like a storm cloud. Jaime’s heart lifted briefly—God answering already?—but the illusion crumbled fast.

“This isn’t some cozy conjugal stay,” Torres declared, his voice crisp with a faint Spanish lilt, unlocking the cell with a loud click. The heavy door swung open, creaking ominously.

Jaime’s voice quaked, fear and fury entwined. “Why won’t you take these handcuffs off? They’re strangling my wrists!” She glared, desperation sharpening her plea. “And our phone call? We have rights!”

Trapped in this crumbling Spanish mission turned prison, the dank air seeped into their bones, the stone walls a suffocating embrace. Torres sneered, menace dripping. “You must be thirsty, Señora Jordan.” He barked in Spanish, and the guard thrust a battered tin cup into his hand. Torres stepped close, pressing it hard against Jaime’s lips.

She recoiled, voice firm despite the tremor. “I’m not drinking that. Get it away.”

His face darkened, and with a sharp order, the guard’s fist slammed into Steve’s face. Blood bloomed from his lip, and he staggered, hands bound, defenseless.

“Drink now?” Torres taunted, his smile a predator’s leer. “Just water—can’t let my prisoners dehydrate.”

He tilted the cup again, relentless. Jaime clamped her lips, but he pinched her nose, forcing her head back. The liquid—bitter, unnatural, laced with a sickly sweetness—spilled over her chin, burning down her throat as she gagged. The dryness fix, Torres thought, a twisted gleam in his eye.

“Don’t fight it,” he hissed, threat lacing his calm. “Swallow, or your husband’s face becomes unrecognizable.”

Choking, Jaime yielded, the vile flood searing her insides. She glared up, hatred blazing, chest heaving as she steadied herself against the violation.

“Come with me, señora,” he commanded, sneering.

His grip bit into her arm, cuffs gouging deeper as he dragged her away, footsteps booming like war drums. Steve’s voice sliced through. “Wait! Where are you taking her?”

Jaime thrashed, pleading, “No, where am I going? Let go!” But Torres shoved her onward.

“Steve, stop him!” she cried.

“Leave her alone! Where are you taking my wife?” Steve roared, fear and fury clashing.

Torres turned, smug. “You can’t share a cell here. She’s going to the female section.” He barked in Spanish, and the guard punched Steve’s stomach, doubling him over.

“No, don’t hurt him!” Jaime shouted, heart fracturing as Steve crumpled. Seeing him helpless tore at her, remorse surging anew for ever doubting him.

“You see the price of defiance,” Torres said, gripping her arm tighter. “Want him safe and that phone call? Cooperate. Right this way, señora.” Steve’s gasps faded as they moved, Jaime praying for an end to this nightmare.

“We can’t have you two fucking all day,” Torres sneered. “You’re separate now.”

“You’re a despicable pig,” Jaime spat, venom dripping. “And my phone call?”

“Later,” he dismissed. “Your safety—and his—depends on your obedience. You’re a fighter, but comply, or he suffers more.”

The corridor stretched bleak, abandoned cells mocking their march. Heavy steel doors loomed, and Jaime’s eyes widened at a solitary cell’s occupant—a tall, muscular Black man, his dark skin gleaming in the dim light. Her pulse raced. “No, you’re not putting me in there with him,” she protested. “Not with a man! What about those empty cells?”

Torres chuckled, grip tightening. “What’s wrong with a strapping Black man? Closer to your age than your husband—more in common.” His taunt stung, laced with malice.

Her cheeks flushed, fear mingling with embarrassment. His physique was undeniable, but it fueled her dread.

“Look at those muscles,” Torres goaded, smirking. “Don’t you like negros?”

He shoved her toward the bars. “Hey, stud,” he called to Reggie. “Brought you company.” Jaime stumbled in, a lamb to slaughter.

“Let me introduce you,” Torres said, wicked glee shining. “Jaime Jordan, Reggie Johnson.”

Her stomach plummeted as she faced Reggie, instincts screaming retreat. “Back up to the bars,” Torres ordered, “and I’ll uncuff you. You’ll need your hands for your new friend.”

“Please, don’t leave me here,” Jaime begged, but the door clanged shut, locking her in. She rubbed her bruised wrists, grasping the bars in panic. “What are you doing? You can’t leave me with a strange Black man! Use an empty cell! Let me out!”