Game Plan

Kyle stared out of the window of the prison bus, trying not to look at his own reflection.

The interior of the bus was brightly lit, so as dark as it was outside at this early hour, it was hard to see much other than the headlights of passing cars and the shrinking lights of the city. The sun was out there somewhere, but with all the clouds, you wouldn't know it.

Kyle hadn't slept. After that first awful night when he had been arrested and after Andrea had agreed to take his case, he'd pretty much caught up on his sleep. In the cell at the precinct, there really wasn't much else to do, other than sleep and look forward to the next visit from Andrea.

Last night though, he had stayed awake. It didn't matter if he stared at the ceiling or closed his eyes, nothing could stop him from seeing the look on her face in that moment.

She had been afraid of him.

The fact that Andrea could believe he was a murderer? Disappointing.

The fact that she wouldn't stop yelling long enough for him to defend himself? Frustrating.

But the fact that she thought, even for a moment, that he could hurt her?

…Devastating.

He had to admit, he could have handled it better. 2/10. Room for improvement. The next time he got accused of murder because of a vast conspiracy, he'd try a different approach.

Should have just let her get it out of her system. Said nothing. Let her yell herself hoarse at him, and then explained himself. But he'd been caught by surprise.

She probably had been, too. That kind of anger—her anger—that felt fresh. Raw. Unprocessed.

Grabbing her. That had been the big mistake. Made him wince everytime he thought about it.

It had made sense at—No. No, it hadn't. It hadn't made sense at the time. He hadn't been thinking about what made sense. It was instinct. A desperate desire to defend himself. To make her listen so he COULD defend himself.

The way her eyes went wide. And then hard as she hit the alarm. That was the image burned into his brain.

Yeah, he had screwed that up royally. Game over. Thanks for playing. Better luck next lawyer.

The clouds thinned enough to gradually reveal endless miles of fields. The county jail wasn't the kind of establishment people liked to have in their backyards. So they stuck it way out in the middle of nowhere, where there were no backyards to bother.

Kyle could probably say 'so long' to any more visits. There was no way Andrea was going to come all this way. Certainly not now.

Maybe he could find a way to explain? Would the jail let him call his lawyer? Would she answer? Probably not if she knew it was him.

Maybe he could find a way to surprise her… 'Guess who?! CLICK!' Short conversation that would be…

Maybe a letter? 'Dear Andrea, it's me, Kyle! Please don't tear this letter up…' Would she even read that far?

How do you convince someone to listen to you when they won't listen to you long enough to let you convince them?

Nope, had to face it. He was screwed, and he only had himself to blame.

Despite himself, he caught his own eye in his reflection. Yeah, that was about right. That was certainly the look of a guy who had just shot himself in the foot. Scared off the one person who was trying to help. The one person who had believed in him. Lost the one lifeline he had.

He looked away.

Not a great time to be without a lawyer. Maybe he should contact McCabe again. Reconsider that plea deal. That way he might only spend half of the rest of his life in jail, rather than all his life.

The thing was, it wasn't just about having a lawyer. It was having one that would actually go the distance. Andrea could have been that. Before he grabbed her. Ruined everything. Not just his case…

That was the real kicker. He hadn't just lost a lawyer. Things were starting to… At least he felt like they were. Maybe. She had acted like she might…

He'd give her up as his lawyer if it meant he got to keep her as his…

…As his what? What did they really have? Some meaningful looks. Some stolen touches. Amazing chemistry. It could have been the start of something…

Best forget about all that. If she wasn't about to visit him as his lawyer, she certainly wouldn't as his… friend.

He wanted to bury his face in his hands, but his handcuffs were chained to his ankle cuffs. Not enough slack.

Alright, okay, enough of that… so things couldn't get any worse. That meant things could only get better from here. What were his next steps?

Going to jail. Not really much choice in the next step.

Okay, but he could make plans, get ready. What was the county jail going to be like?

Embarrassingly, he didn't actually know. He'd never had the occasion to go there.

Okay, so much for firsthand experience. What did he know from movies?

Getting stripped down and given new prison clothes? He looked ruefully down at the orange jumpsuit he was wearing. They'd taken care of that at the precinct. Probably never get to see that suit again. What else?

Getting his head shaved? Scary thought. Bald would not be a good look for him. Did they even do that anymore?

Getting escorted to his cell while all the other prisoners jeered and threatened? What was it they said? 'Fresh fish'?

Heh, 'fresh fish'. These guys wouldn't know the first thing about real fresh fish.

Okay, so. Plan Number 1: Don't break under the psychological strain of your hopeless situation.

Good plan. Progress. What else?

What was the old movie advice? 'Pick a fight with the biggest guy to show you aren't afraid.'

Kyle took a quick glance around the bus.

Yeah… pretty sure he could take half of these guys. If it came to it. Most of them didn't look like the criminal type. He wondered what they were in for.

Maybe they were looking at him and thinking the same thing. How many of them would guess 'murder'?

Trouble is, there were probably much bigger guys in jail than on the bus. Plus, if they ganged up on him, his beach-ready body and a few months of Muay Thai training wasn't going to cut it. Not against guys who picked fights for a living.

No, picking fights for no reason sounded stupid. Like a good way to get a target on his back.

Of course, if anyone found out he was a prosecutor, he'd have a target anyway.

Should he ask to be put into the protective custody unit? Along with the snitches and sickos? Not ideal. Need to think long term—if anyone knew he'd been in protection, they'd assume the worst. That'd be a one-way-street. Final resort only, because there'd be no coming back.

Would anyone recognize him anyway? …Maybe he should hope for that haircut.

Could that be what this was all about? Someone inside didn't just want him dead, they wanted the chance to do it themselves?

Did he know anyone he had pissed off THAT badly? Who had that kind of reach to engineer something like this?

He couldn't remember half the guys he'd put away, nor if they would be in this prison.

Okay.

Plan 2: Don't pick fights.

Plan 3: Make sure you win if someone picks a fight with you.

Plan 4: Watch out for guys with a grudge who want to murder you.

That should keep him busy. Occupy his mind. They said it was important to have hobbies to focus on while you were locked up. Some people took up reading or making matchstick models. Kyle had fighting off assassins. Surely the years would just fly by.

The bus slowed and pulled off the highway. No one said anything, but there was a general reaction from the occupants of the bus, sitting up and taking an interest. It looked like they had almost arrived.

The prison wasn't what he had expected. No guard towers with snipers. No barking dogs. No imposing stone walls. Just rows upon rows of barbed wire topped fences and cameras everywhere you looked.

The bus pulled into a garage, the doors slamming shut behind them. The prisoners were ordered off the bus, stumbling a little from their ankle cuffs.

Processing turned out to be… boring. Lots of questions from humorless guards. The same questions over and over. Barked instructions, being hustled from room to room, then made to wait. At one point the ankle cuffs were taken off. The handcuffs stayed on.

Finally, Kyle was escorted to a cell. Every cell he passed, everyone was sleeping. He was almost disappointed that there wasn't the jeering and taunts he'd expected. Apparently, new arrivals were common enough that there wasn't much fuss made over the event.

The guard took off Kyle's cuffs and locked the cell door behind him.

Kyle looked around warily. Was this going to be the first time he needed to fight for his life?

Had he made a huge mistake not asking for protective custody?

There were two sets of bunk beds on each side of the room, three of them occupied. There was a window on the back wall with a desk and a couple of chairs below it. Sink and toilet in the corner. A set of lockers with no locks. Not much else to speak of.

One of Kyle's new cell mates rolled over. "Oh shit," he said quietly, "I should have known we'd be getting a fourth soon."

Okay, first impressions. Don't sound weak. But don't try to sound tough. Don't say too much. Keep things simple.

"Hey," he said, "name's Kyle."

"'Sup, Kyle," his cellmate replied. "I'm Trey." Trey nodded to the empty bunk. "I guess that's you. Grab all the shit off the bed and stick it on the desk. We'll figure things out in the morning."

Kyle looked out the window. Even as cloudy as it was, it was obviously already long past dawn.

He stopped himself from saying anything and shrugged. Not like he was in any hurry. The morning could be whenever his new cellmates said it was. No sense making waves.

"Right," he said. He made sure not to hurry as though he was too eager to please, but also was careful to be quiet.

Taking one last look around for potential threats, he hauled himself into his new bunk.

As welcome's went, not the friendliest. But he supposed things could have been a lot, lot worse.

He laid down and stared at the ceiling, and tried not to think about how Andrea had looked the last time he saw her.