Chapter 56

The One Where He Writes A Letter

NATE

I can’t even begin to tell you what was running through my head the moment Judge Lafayette slammed his gavel down and dismissed me from the court.

Seven years.

Eighty-four fucking months.

Let’s back up for a moment.

The prison was locked down for nearly two weeks, which meant I had limited time with my lawyer, Ben. He did his best with what he had access to, but it made my trial that much more difficult for him.

Part of me believes that the whole lockdown was just another ploy to hinder my sentencing, but I really don’t know what to think anymore. It’s possible that I’m just driving myself insane believing that one person can have this much power and control.

Granted, QuickDraw has lots of connections but if he did have a hand in pushing for a lockdown, that just makes him even more calculating than I ever took him to be.

It’s also completely possible that it’s just shit timing. Some asshole in here decided to lug a gun in only God knows what cavity on their body and it just so happened to fuck me over at the perfect fucking moment.

The lockdown also meant I haven’t seen Arielle since her and Chase came to visit me that first and final time. She sent a few messages through Ben during lockdown, however I honestly haven’t answered back.

I have been so overwhelmed with everything going on in here that I feel suffocated, hopeless and more depressed than I ever have been in my life. I can feel distance between those around me—Arielle, especially—but I’m in such a brain fog right now that I can’t do anything about it.

At least, I can’t do anything but make it even worse.

It’s as if I’m a sudden masochist, deriving some sort of sick pleasure from making my life impossibly more miserable than it already is.

My time in lockdown has been absolutely draining. We can’t leave the cell, except for things earmarked as necessary and so, I’ve only really been out to meet with Ben a couple times and for some work.

As if my depression wasn’t already debilitating enough when I was dragged into this prison, humiliated with a cavity search, degraded with being forced to remove my piercings and labelled like a piece of mail, it’s only gotten exponentially worse. I’m going through smokes at a rate that I’m unable to keep up with—in other words, the prison isn’t able to keep up with.

Which has resulted in me gaining the new habit of chewing my nails, as a way of seeking out any ounce of nicotine I can find after noticing the scent on the tips of my fingers. It’s fucking disgusting, I know, but it’s an addiction that I’m battling at the moment.

My trial was nothing like I expected it to be. Well, I mean, I did expect to get royally fucked—another advantage of that wonderful depression being my bleak outlook on my life—but not as badly as I did.

The trial slandered me and my character. I was painted as the uncontrollable, lawbreaking, womanizing brown boy. The prosecutor even managed to find some of the women I’d slept with over the years. One night stands that he was able to twist and make them speak as if I’d taken advantage of them.

Reality of those situations was that each woman was consenting—they were all sober, adults, agreed to sleep with me and knew it was a one time thing. I was very bluntly honest with all of them, perhaps too blunt, even.

Ben and I believe it’s possible the prosecuting side paid them off in one way or another. It’s just impossible to tell if the women all keep quiet and there’s no paper trail to be seen.

My few minor arrests were brought up. The night or two I spent in jail for being caught speeding way over the limit, the reckless driving, the few times I’d been caught in my Skyline, which is illegal in Miami.

All of that was thrown in my face to make it appear as if I go out of my way to endanger the lives of others frequently. In the prosecutions eyes, drug trafficking was one step up from speeding and driving recklessly.

Go fucking figure.

Again, the reality of those situations are that yeah, I was fucking speeding but never have I driven recklessly. I am always completely in control of whatever vehicle I’m driving, otherwise I’d never step foot inside it.

I didn’t gain my reputation by driving recklessly. I got it by precision, skill, and ultimately, control behind the wheel.

They also tossed out accusations of hard drug use—”a step up from marijuana use!” the prosecutor shouted in court—all of it utter bullshit.

Ben was very professional the entire time, denying everything that they claimed they knew about me. I give him so much gratitude because he honestly tried with everything he could, but it just wasn’t ever going to happen.

I’m fairly positive that Judge Lafayette was racially motivated in his sentencing and that’s why Ben is choosing to appeal pro bono.

He is a super fucking nice guy and I can’t thank him enough for doing it for free and as a favour to me, but I still think that it’s all a waste of time. There are too many things stacked against me to win.

I don’t fucking know what I’m going to do with myself in here for seven years. My mental state has already withered so fast that I’m not sure how I’ll manage years of this.

The process of sinking further into depression hasn’t happened overnight. Like pulling on the loose threads of a jumper and one day discovering there’s nothing left of it—it’s been slow but torturous by the end.

To make matters even worse, the only friend I had in here isn’t here anymore. The day after lockdown ended, Derek, my cell mate, went to work and another inmate stabbed him to death with the sharpened end of a toothbrush.

I can’t say why, because I don’t have a clue, but it’s all that more terrible when I reminisce on the moments we shared when he’d rave about being a father and how excited he was to get to see his daughter again. He wanted so badly to hug her again and already had plans to buy her something big with the money he’d saved over the years. It wasn’t a lot, but it was all he had.

When I’d heard he died, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I’ve already been down so it felt like someone was just continually kicking me down even further.

Then I was assigned a new cell mate, barely two hours later. He is not a nice guy and he often shouts racial slurs at me throughout the day so it’s been hard to keep my hands to myself. I want to fucking deck the guy but I’m acutely aware that I have to be on my best behaviour if I ever want to get out of here.

Wishful thinking, to be honest.