Stolen Love (Beauty in the Stolen 3)
“We have to warn Leon.”
“I’ll handle Leon. I assume you don’t have a weapon.”
“No.”
“Make sure your phone is charged in case my man needs to get hold of you. His name is Russell Roux. He’s out of the country at the moment. The earliest he’ll be able to get there is tomorrow.”
I ball my hand into a fist. “I’m not leaving Ian.”
Damian sighs. “I’m afraid you no longer have a choice.”
Chapter 17
Ian
When capital punishment was still practiced, death row was situated in the middle of the Pretoria Central Prison, tucked away in the lee of the hill. The death sentence is no longer given, and the prison has been renamed Kgosi Mampuru II Correctional Services, but the previous death row section, nicknamed The Pot, stills holds the most dangerous criminals.
I’m in a cell in that C-Max—short for maximum security—section where notorious prisoners await trial, sitting on a bare mattress on a cot. Being locked up in a room that’s barely four square meters big is worse than a death sentence. Sixty years of living like this, if I’m unlucky enough to grow that old, will be hell, but I’ve never been a bad loser. I took the risks knowing the consequences. The reason I’m doing this is what makes the deal sweet. Imagining Cas free and happy, planting vegetables and taming cows somewhere, is enough to put a grin on my face.
From the position of the sun, I’ve been in the cell for a good couple of hours before a guard opens the door. Two wait outside.
“Get up,” he says.
The leg irons rattle as I climb to my feet.
He takes my arm and shoves me to the door. “Let’s go.”
Walking is awkward. With the short length of the chain, I have to take baby steps. They escort me to a bathroom at the end of the hallway where I get to shower while they stand guard. After dressing in an orange jumpsuit, the shackles are secured around my ankles again, and I’m taken to a cell with a cot, basin, and toilet.
Dinner is delivered through a flap in the door, some kind of stew on rice. I get through the early evening hours by doing pushups and pullups, using the bars on the window. Sleeping is futile. A multitude of things are going through my head. Where is Cas? What are her plans? Has she slipped over the border yet?
When morning comes, a breakfast of porridge is delivered. I pace and do squats, already going out of my mind. After lunch, I’m escorted to a room with a desk where a man in a pinstripe suit waits. He’s short and stocky with a crop of blond curls and bushy eyebrows.
He stands when I enter but, seeing that my hands are cuffed, wisely doesn’t offer a hand as he introduces himself. “David Peters.”
Damian’s hotshot lawyer. Of course, when I told Hackman I had a good lawyer, I was only bluffing. I’ve never met a lawyer in my life. If not for my little brother, I would’ve had to make do with whoever the State appointed to my defense. Not that there’s much to defend. Peters is simply here to ensure Hackman sticks to his end of the bargain.
I shuffle to the desk and take the chair. “Nice of you to come.”
He spares me a glance from over the rims of his Gucci glasses. “There’s nothing remotely nice about my actions. I’m only here for the money.”
A man who cuts through the bullshit. I already like him.
He tidies a stack of papers and lines two felt tip pens up next to it. “We’ll plead guilty to all charges and request a lesser sentence for the murder of Detective Wolfe due to the mitigating factors, including the exceptional circumstances of the detective’s involvement. We’ll use Wolfe’s corruption to play on the public’s sympathy and let the media have a field day with those facts. The more pressure we can put on the judge through the masses, the better your chances of getting a lighter sentence.”
“You reckon sympathy is a good way to go?” I ask with a chuckle.
He pulls up his nose as if my smell is vile. “You seem to have quite a following. Our polls show the public is very sympathetic to your case. Being framed for murder, by a member of the SIU no less, certainly counts in your favor.”
I ride on my chair as I consider the information. “What difference will a reduced sentence make? I’m getting a double, if not triple, life sentence. I’d be up for parole in twenty-five years, and, with my history, I’d be lucky if it’s granted. No offence, but you’re wasting your time. All I care about is making sure Hackman sticks to his statement about Ms. Dreyer.”
He flips through the pages, reading as he says in a disinterested voice, “It’s not only about reducing the quantity of time you’ll serve, but also about determining in which prison you’ll end up. With three life sentences, you’re going to C-Max. You’ve already had a glimpse of the conditions inside. With a reduced sentence, you’ll be sent to the Johannesburg prison. In Johannesburg, you’ll get a private cell and access to a laptop and books.” Looking up, he says with meaning, “Your brother served in Johannesburg.”