— She’s got guts, the woman said.
— What’s your name, sweetheart? she asked.
— Marissa, she replied, sitting on a bench.
— You might fit in here, she said warmly.
A redhead with exaggerated lip fillers cackled loudly. Her sharp voice cut through the cell’s hum. She leaned forward, teasing Marissa playfully. The group’s energy was chaotic but curious.
— Like that soap opera Marissa? she asked.
— You her or what? she teased.
— Maybe I am, Marissa said, grinning.
— Let’s see if you’re as tough, the redhead said.
The older woman, Mama Jean, leaned closer. Her presence demanded respect, her gold teeth flashing. Marissa felt the weight of her words. This was a test, and she knew it.
— Wanna be friends, Marissa? Mama Jean asked.
— Stick with us, you’re safe, she said.
— Who are you, exactly? Marissa asked cautiously.
— Queen of this tank, she said proudly.
— I’m Mama Jean, family to these ladies, she said.
— We look out for each other, Mary Susan, she added.
— It’s Marissa, please, Marissa corrected.
— Noted, Mama Jean said, smiling slyly.
Marissa’s instincts screamed to tread lightly. Short answers were safest: yes, no, maybe. Anything more could land her in trouble. She kept her guard up, watching every word.
She decided to share only what the deputies already knew. The women listened, their eyes sharp and probing. Marissa stayed cool, her voice steady. She wasn’t here to make enemies.
— I don’t mess with serious illnesses, Marissa said.
— That’s for doctors, not me, she explained.
— Ellen begged me to help, she said.
— I told her I couldn’t fix her kidneys, she added.
The redhead, Foxy, squinted, her gaze piercing. She leaned forward, testing Marissa’s story. The cell felt like a pressure cooker. Marissa held her ground, unflinching.
— You gave her something, didn’t you? Foxy asked.
— Just herbal tea and a prayer, Marissa said.
— Nothing to knock her out, she insisted.
— That’s my truth, she said firmly.
Tank nodded, her gruff voice cutting in. She leaned back, arms crossed, her tough exterior softening slightly. The mood in the cell shifted. Marissa sensed a small victory.
— Putting on a show, huh? Tank said.
— Deputies won’t buy that story, she warned.
— Yeah, I know, Marissa sighed.
— But it is what it is, she added.
Mama Jean clapped, her gold teeth flashing. She wanted to lighten the heavy vibe. Her idea was bold, even for the tank. The women perked up, ready for fun.
— Ladies, let’s toast to sisterhood! Mama Jean said.
— Brew some coffee, let’s bond! she cheered.
— Coffee? Marissa asked, eyeing the chipped mug.
— It’s tradition, Mama Jean grinned.
The women passed around a mug of stale, tar-like coffee. Marissa cringed at their yellowed teeth but took a sip. To her surprise, it wasn’t awful—survival mode, maybe. The bitter taste grounded her in the moment.
The cell erupted in song, kicking off with Dolly Parton’s “Jolene.” Country ballads and old rock hits followed, loud and wild. Marissa joined in, belting out lyrics she hadn’t sung in years. The tank felt like a rowdy karaoke bar.
Marissa laughed, amazed at herself. Yesterday, she was brewing herbal teas in her apartment. Now, she was singing with hardened women in jail. Life had a funny way of surprising her.
Across the station, Officer Erica Bradley sipped coffee in the break room. Her shift was dragging, with rounds still to come. She wondered how the “healer” was faring in the tank. Her donut sat half-eaten, her mind elsewhere.
Erica finished her snack and headed out. The faint sound of singing echoed down the hall. She raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the noise. Officer Tom, a lanky guard, stood nearby.
— What’s that racket? Erica asked Tom.
— The tank’s throwing a party, Tom grinned.
— Probably grilling the new girl, he said.
— Sounds like fun, Erica said, half-joking.
Erica reached the cell, peering through the bars. The women were in high spirits, Marissa right in the mix. She seemed oddly comfortable, singing with the group. Erica couldn’t help but smile.
— Everything good in here? Erica called out.
— All good, Officer E! Tank replied, thumbs-up.
— Keep it down, ladies, Erica said, chuckling.
— No promises, Foxy shouted back.
Suddenly, Erica winced, grabbing her lower back. Pain shot through her, forcing her to a nearby chair. Her face paled, and the women went quiet. Concern rippled through the cell.
— Officer Bradley, you okay? Mama Jean asked.
— My back’s killing me, Erica groaned.
— I can’t move, she said, her voice strained.
— Someone get help, Tank urged.
Marissa felt a wave of empathy for Erica. She stepped forward, ignoring the curious stares. Her voice was calm, her presence steady. She knew what she had to do.
— Let me help, Marissa said firmly.
— Move aside, ladies, she directed.
— Stay back, you fraud! Erica snapped, wincing.
— Trust me, Marissa said softly.
Marissa locked eyes with Erica, her tone soothing. She held the officer’s gaze, projecting calm. The cell was silent, all eyes on them. Erica’s resistance softened slightly.