Diary of an Ugly Duckling by Langhorne, Karyn (general ebook reader .txt) 📕

Marks,” Darlene said, in “duh” tones.

“He’s like a minute ahead of you.” She checked a

thick-banded, masculine-looking watch on her freck-

led forearm. “Make that two minutes, now.” She

looked up and winked at Audra. “If you hurry, you

might be able to catch him,” she finished, and Audra

was pretty sure she didn’t just mean in the hallway.

“Sit down, Marks. Sit down,” Deputy Warden Wood-

burn said as Audra appeared in the open doorway

of his office.

Art Bradshaw had already settled his massive col-

lection of muscles into one of the Warden’s two side

chairs, but he jumped to his feet as soon as Wood-

burn’s words indicated her presence. He didn’t

speak—or even turn in her direction—just stood at

attention as gallant as any movie prince for the few

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33

seconds it took for Audra to navigate the room and

ease herself nervously into the proffered chair be-

side him. Audra took a quick second to admire his

profile, the breadth of his football-player-wide

shoulders and the smooth skin of his shaved skull,

wishing in spite of herself that he’d turn so she

could see his eyes. Her heart was doing a vaudeville

soft shoe in her chest: If the man had spoken to

her, she might have had another kind of accident—

and she didn’t have any more uniform pants to

change into right now.

She squared her shoulders, imagining herself en-

cased in one of those big-shouldered suits of the

1940s, concentrated her attention on the deputy war-

den and sat, making a futile attempt to cross her

legs, diva-style, before giving up and folding them

against each other, ankle to ankle. “Sir,” she said,

crisply. “You wanted to see me?”

Deputy Warden Stephen Woodburn looked like

he’d been at work for hours. His desk was cluttered

with papers, and a huge mug, running over with

coffee, sat fresh and steaming on a manila folder,

making a dark stain. On a credenza behind him

were pictures of a brown-haired woman and three

towheaded kids dressed in their Sunday best, an-

gled for maximum visitor admiration.

“Don’t look so nervous, Marks,” Woodburn said,

grabbing the stained folder beneath his coffee cup.

Audra read her name on a white label across its

tab. “I don’t think you have any real reason to be.

But . . .” he paused to skim through the folder’s con-

tents, giving Audra a moment to skim her eyes over

his short, graying hair, very precisely trimmed in a

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conservative cut, and the rimless glasses perched on

a straight nose. The man’s eyes left the folder and

found hers again. “We do have a slight problem that

impacts you, and to a lesser degree, Officer Brad-

shaw. That’s why I’ve asked you both to drop by be-

fore assuming your duties this morning.”

He paused the pause Audra knew came before

any climactic bombshell in every movie worth its

salt. Audra had just counted one, two, three in her

mind when Warden Woodburn said:

“So yesterday, there was an incident in the day

room. Or rather, a couple of incidents,” he corrected,

pale lips curving into something like a smile. “One

involving a couple of inmates in a scuffle . . . and

the other involving . . .” he coughed a little, as

though suddenly uncomfortable. “Shall we call

it . . . uh . . . a wardrobe malfunction?”

Wardrobe malfunction. Am I ever going to live this

down? Audra wondered as, once again, a prickly

embarrassment warmed her cheeks and neck. She

could almost hear her mother in her mind ( What

must he think of you? ) as Woodburn averted his face

from hers as if to spare her shame. She cut her eyes

toward Bradshaw, but got nothing but a stoic profile,

so there was nothing to do for it but sit up a little

straighter and make the most of it, the only way she

knew how. She settled her fist on her hip and leaned

forward.

“Both were contained according to procedure,

sir,” she wisecracked, wiggling a bit and keeping

the Mae West purr in her voice.

Woodburn chuckled a little and Audra whipped

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35

her head toward Art Bradshaw to gauge his reaction.

Nothing but his profile. Still.

“You’re funny, Marks,” the deputy warden told

the folder. “Humor’s a helpful quality in our profes-

sion, within limits, of course. But unfortunately . . .”

his eyes snapped to her face again. “One of the in-

mates involved . . . a Mr. Haines . . . has filed a brutal-

ity complaint. Apparently he was injured yesterday.

Broken ribs, it appears . . .”

Both humor and Hollywood died the moment the

word brutality hit the air.

“A brutality complaint? Against me?”

“A brutality complaint. Against you,” Woodburn

repeated. “Haines alleges you violated his civil

rights and caused him personal injury when you

lifted him bodily off the floor then threw him

against a table—”

“Threw him against a table!” Audra shook her

head, astonished. “I was breaking up a fight—a fight

he probably started!” She peered toward Wood-

burn’s folder. “Does it say that in there? Because

there were about two dozen witnesses.” She nodded

in Bradshaw’s direction. “Officer Bradshaw can tell

you—”

Woodburn lifted his hand, stopping the rest of the

explanation tumbling form Audra’s lips. “He al-

ready has, Officer Marks. In fact, he says your con-

duct was exemplary, both in dealing with the

inmates involved in the altercation, and in handling

the . . . uh . . . wardrobe malfunction. But I’m not the

one who has to be convinced,” he continued briskly.

“I’m sure Mr. Haines’s charges will be dismissed in

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short order. But Haines is within his rights to file it,

and, as you know, it will have to be investigated by

the Internal Review Board—”

Charges? Internal Review? Me? Audra swallowed

back an A to Z catalog of emotions: from anger to the

zealous desire to wring Princeton Haine’s sneaky,

scrawny neck. Only that would be police brutality, now,

wouldn’t it? wisecracked a voice