“She’s not taking your calls or email.”
“No shit. You guys took my phone.” I scratched at imagined flea bites. “Will she see me?”
“Sorry, no direct communication of any kind. ”
“What? How can I explain or defend myself?”
“Defend? ‘Guilty as a scorpion’, she called you.”
I considered the imagery and realized she had a point. “Will you take her a written message?”
Parsons looked at me through the bars. “Certainly.”
“You got a pen and paper?”
“Hold on.” I got up from the stiff bed and wrapped both fists around the steel bars. The piss-bucket in the corner remained empty, but at this rate, not for long. “You’ll take a message, but you won’t give me a pen and paper?”
“You should have paid more attention to the rules when you wandered onto this compound.” Parsons waggled a stubby finger. “Particularly the final one.”
“Rules? What rules?” I felt childish at this response. But by this point the irrationality of my situation had reduced me to grade-school logic.
“The twenty-two rules posted on handbills every fifty yards around the property.”
I thought back to my illegal traipsing, fence hopping and camera avoidance. Ah, yes. “I didn’t have time to read them.” I judged Parsons to be just out of reach. He stepped back having caught the calculation in my eyes. “So, what’s rule twenty-two?”
He turned and walked from the single cell jail, and was gone before my brain turned over his answer for the umpteenth time. Exactly? Exactly? Fuck-me-Alex. And who the hell builds a dungeon in their basement?