'Greybars' by J. Rob Turner

GRAYBARS, gray walls, gray floor. Forty layers of gray paint. Sweat drips, a curse echoes. The prisoner grunted, “Got any smokes?” 

The young appointed lawyer said, “So – tell me now–now! Listen to me! You will, or won’t, plead to negligent homicide, with a 20 cap.”

Bobby Cofield, 26, said, “Nope. Takin’ my chances.”

“You could be out in twelve – maybe. Opening arguments tomorrow. They’re asking the DEATH penalty, OK? God, Bobby.”

“Nah. And nobody ever really gets the needle, anyway. Besides, Charlene and I are gettin’ remarried.”

“What?”

“Wife can’t testify against me, or me against her– law, right?”

“Mm. Look, they can’t make spouses testify against each other. But she can if she wants.”

Bobby said, “She won’t. And she’s got a surprise for the grieving widow.”

“OK, Bobby, you have promises with Charlene, but she’s facing 30 years, and if they offer her a last-minute deal, we won’t know. Ballistics check: your rifle that fired that bullet.”

Bobby snarled, “That’s your job, they don’t know who pulled the trigger, that’s reasonable doubt.”

“Hand of one is the hand of all, remember?”

“I know what we’re doing – you’re a notary: remarry us.”

“Bobby, you gotta think this through better.”

So, Bobby and Charlene remarried that night, the young lawyer pronounced them man and wife “for better or worse” under South Carolina Law as a Notary Public can, and they kissed slow and long between the bars, before the matron pulled her back.

Before the lunch break, the bailiff asked Charlene, “Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you god?”

She touched the Bible on the rail, looked at the jury, and at the judge, and said, loudly, honesty, “I do.” And whispered to the left, “see ya.”