Rose huddled in a corner of the cold, damp cell, trying to make herself as invisible as possible. After she had been arrested, she had been taken to the nearest jail, a dark, forbidding building on one of the few flat pieces of ground in the city.
After she had been strip-searched—a humiliating process, especially with it being conducted by two male police officers—she had been given a disreputable looking prison dress and escorted to this damp, dirty cell.
One other person was in the cell with her—a prostitute who had been caught lifting her customers’ wallets. The woman was sprawled across the lower bunk now, snoring loudly. Even on the other side of the cell, Rose could smell the alcohol on her breath. Probably, she thought sourly, that was why the woman had been caught—she was too drunk to steal discreetly.
Rose buried her head in her knees, trying to ignore her cellmate’s snoring. She was just glad that she hadn’t been put in with any male prisoners—God only knew what would have happened to her then. She doubted that her cellmate would harm her—prostitutes didn’t generally commit violent crimes unless they thought someone was horning in on their business. Furthermore, the snoring woman would likely wake up with a horrible hangover, and be more concerned with her aching head than with a cellmate with a murder charge.
Rose curled up more tightly in the corner as a guard walked by. When he had disappeared down the corridor, she leaned her head against the wall in exhaustion, cursing herself for getting into this mess. Shuddering inwardly, she remembered Marietta’s body sprawled against the cabinet, her head lying at an odd angle. Rose shook her head, knowing that the whole thing could have been prevented if only she’d practiced a little self-restraint.
She hadn’t had to get into a fight with Marietta. She could have walked away as soon as Marietta entered the room, ignoring the obnoxious twit. She could have walked away after Marietta had slapped her, or refused to exchange insults with her, or stopped the fight when Mr. Parsons had walked into the room. But she had been angry, and had been pushed too far by months of insults, and she had thought only of how angry she was. She had never considered that the shove she had given Marietta could be fatal.
Rose closed her eyes, trying to block out the sound of her cellmate’s snores. Marietta had been rude, obnoxious, bitchy, and little more than a slut, but she hadn’t deserved to die. Rose shuddered, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the cold, damp cell. She was frightened, wondering what would happen to her, but more than that, she felt guilty. She had killed someone, taken a life, taken the most precious thing a person could possess. Life was more precious than money, or jewels, or any of the things that people of her old crowd had valued. She hadn’t liked Marietta, but she had never wished her dead, and she couldn’t understand how some people could kill others and feel nothing. Killing Marietta had left Rose with a sick, cold feeling inside, one that no warm blanket or shot of liquor could dispel.
Rose remembered a rumor that she had heard on the Carpathia, that an officer had shot someone, and then shot himself. She hadn’t understood then why someone would do such a thing, but now she was beginning to understand. She wouldn’t harm herself, though; she was a survivor, and would keep on fighting for life as long as she had breath in her body.
What will happen to me? Rose wondered. She had refused to say anything to the police, understanding her constitutional right to not incriminate herself. Marietta’s death had been an accident, and Rose wasn’t about to give anyone the impression that it was anything else. She had maintained her silence until they had locked her in the cell, and after that no one had asked her anymore questions.
Rose understood how deeply in trouble she was. If she couldn’t convince the courts that Marietta’s death had been an accident, she could be facing years in prison. She might spend time in prison anyway. Or worse, if she was convicted of murder, she could wind up being executed.
Rose sat up straighter, trying to reassure herself. Women were rarely executed, and the many people who knew her knew that she was not usually a violent person. Mr. Parsons had seen what had happened, and although he had insisted that she be sent to jail, she had sensed a certain amount of sympathy from him. He might speak out in her behalf.
Rose wondered how long it would take for her to go to trial. She had no idea how many other people were awaiting trial themselves, and much as she disliked waiting, she dreaded going to trial. She had little money, and was unlikely to be able to afford a lawyer. Unless someone took pity on her, she would have to defend herself, and she wasn’t sure that she was up to the task.