PART 5 — The Confrontation through Glass
The county jail's visitation room was an ugly, sterile space divided by a thick pane of scratched plexiglass. I sat on the metal stool, holding the heavy plastic phone receiver to my ear. On the other side of the glass sat Marlene Whitlock.
She was wearing an orange jumpsuit that made her pale skin look yellow and sickly. Her perfectly coiffed hair was gone, replaced by a flat, greasy mess, and her manicured nails were chipped down to the quick. But her eyes still held that same cold, arrogant light that had defined her entire life.
She picked up her receiver, slamming it against her ear.
"You think you’ve won, don't you, Hannah?" Marlene hissed, her voice crackling through the cheap electronic speaker. "You think because you found a few private letters you can destroy my relationship with my son? Caleb will never forgive you for putting his mother in this place. Blood is thicker than water, you little bitch."
"Caleb isn't coming to see you, Marlene," I said, my voice completely flat, completely steady. "He signed the full disclosure agreement with the district attorney this morning. He turned over all your personal bank mail that had been sent to our house. He is testifying for the prosecution."
Marlene flinched, a microscopic crack appearing in her porcelain facade. "He wouldn't. He loves me. I raised him! I sacrificed everything for those boys!"
"You used him," I corrected coldly. "You used his guilt, his need for your approval, to worm your way into our home so you could steal our daughter's future to pay off your gambling debts. You drugged a three-month-old baby, Marlene. You tied her down like a piece of luggage because her breathing interfered with your rest."
"She was fine!" Marlene shouted, her fist cracking against the plexiglass, making the guard in the corner shift his weight. "Babies are resilient! I did what had to be done to keep the house quiet! You don't know anything about being a mother! You abandoned her the second your maternity leave ended! You're the one who left her with a bankrupt old woman because you were too selfish to stay home!"
I looked at her through the glass, and for the first time in three weeks, I didn't feel anger. I didn't feel fear. I felt nothing but a vast, clean, absolute contempt.
"The district attorney updated the charges this morning, Marlene," I said, leaning closer to the glass until my breath fogged the surface. "They aren't just charging you with child abuse anymore. They found the receipts from the pharmacy where you used a forged medical license from your old nursing job to buy the industrial-strength diphenhydramine. They are charging you with premeditated attempted first-degree murder."
Marlene’s face went entirely white. The phone receiver began to tremble in her hand. "No... no, that’s an exaggeration. It was an accident! A grandmother's mistake!"
"The doctor who treated Iris—Dr. Vance—is the chief medical witness for the state," I continued, my voice dropping into a whisper that seemed to carry the weight of a heavy iron door shutting. "Do you know what he said when he reviewed the toxicology logs and the pattern of the knots on your scarf? He looked at the police report, looked at your statement where you claimed you 'fixed' her, and he said one word that is going to keep you in a concrete cell until they carry you out in a pine box."
Marlene swallowed hard, her eyes wide with a frantic, animalistic terror. "What... what did he say?"
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"'Executioner,'" I whispered. "He said you didn't act like a grandmother. You acted like an executioner. And the state of Illinois doesn't give parole to executioners of infants."
I hung up the receiver, setting it neatly on its metal hook. I stood up and walked away from the glass without looking back. Behind me, Marlene was screaming, her fists hammering against the plexiglass until two guards grabbed her by the arms and dragged her through the heavy steel door into the dark corridors of the prison.
