The slot on Mark’s door opened with a screech and ripped him from his memories. He tensed, his hands braced on the floor at his sides.
“Approach the door and lie with your feet through the slot,” said a disembodied voice from a speaker set somewhere in the ceiling.
Mark didn’t take the time to look for the source. He followed the directions, flinching when the hated shackles snapped around his ankles. He repeated the process with his hands. The voice then told him to stand in the middle of the room with his back to the door.
He took a deep breath, trying to will his muscles to relax, but the stress and fear overcame him and the chains on his shackles rattled with every wave of fear. If only he had a clue what was going to come next.
The door creaked open, and guards entered. The web of chains again circled his waist and attached his hands and feet to a central chain. He dared to look at the guards surrounding him, relieved that none held the other gear. He felt he could face whatever was coming as long as he could see and hear.
The guards took him down a half dozen hallways, through locked doors and into an elevator. He realized it didn’t matter that he could see. He became so turned around and confused, he had no idea where he was. None of the guards spoke and the halls were quiet. If there were other inmates, Mark didn’t see or hear them.
The group arrived at a door that looked no different than the dozen that they had passed en route. The guard in the lead opened the door and held it open, locking it behind them.
Mark’s apprehension escalated when he noticed some odd features in the room. Eye rings jutted up from the floor and the cement sloped down towards a rusty drain. A wood table with six chairs took up the far wall. Five of the chairs looked like they had been pulled from offices. One was straight-backed and wooden. He had no doubt which one was meant for him.
The lead guard pulled that chair into the middle of the room and motioned for Mark to sit. He did as he was told and waited. The guards remained, none speaking. Mark wondered what they would do if he spoke to them. He could ask the one in charge if he wanted to go have a beer with him after work. Go shoot the breeze.
Of course, he wouldn’t do that. Even if he had tried, it wouldn’t have worked because when he attempted to make eye contact with them, one by one, they looked right through him. It was like he was invisible. Only one, a younger guy, made eye contact, and the flash of knowledge and pity, in the guy’s eyes an instant before he looked away, sent Mark’s heart racing. That guard knew what was coming and whatever it was, wouldn’t be pleasant.
Time passed, but how much, Mark had no way of knowing. His hands became numb from the cuffs and the position in which he had to hold them. When a key rattled in the door, a bolt of pure fear pinned his back to the chair. His vision narrowed to the entrance and his heart thumped so hard, it threatened to punch a hole through his chest.
CHAPTER FIVE
Five men entered. Three sat at the table, facing Mark. Two of them had pads of paper and pencils and almost immediately began writing. The third sat back and raised one ankle to rest on his other knee and tilted a bottle of water, taking a long drink.
Mark didn’t like the way the man seemed to be settling in and making himself comfortable. It was as though he expected to be there a long time.
The other two men spoke quietly in the corner for a few minutes. One had dark hair cut short and he moved with a military bearing. The other sported a shaved head, and appeared to be trying to convince the first of something. The dark haired man shook his head, his jaw set.
Mark strained to hear what they said but couldn’t make out the words. After a few minutes of looking through a folder, they appeared to come to some agreement and turned towards Mark. The shaved one ambled up to Mark, halting just in front of him.
“Hello. I’m Bill and this is Jim.” He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the other man. “This group behind me will be observing and taking notes. How it works is like this-we ask you some simple questions, and you answer them. If the answers are satisfactory, then we’ll all have a pleasant session.” He spread his hands and smiled. “We all like when a session is easy, don’t we, Jim?”
Jim grunted and glared at Mark, his arms crossed. “Let’s just get on with it.”
Mark squirmed under the scrutiny. What more could he tell them that he hadn’t already told the FBI? What was this Jim guy so pissed about?
Bill shrugged. “Okay. You go first, Jim. I’ll just go sit over here.”
Jim directed a glare at the guard on Mark’s right. “Why is he sitting in a chair? This isn’t a goddamn social call.”
“Sorry, sir.”
The guard yanked Mark up by the arm and Mark staggered as the chains connecting his ankles and hands pulled his arms down. He didn’t know why he felt guilty, like he had done something wrong. The guards had told him to sit, so he had, but Jim aimed his annoyance at Mark, not the guard.
He stood as straight as he could and tried to meet Jim’s stare without flinching. The shackles tugged on his arms and kept his shoulders hunched. Instinct told him to stand straight and tall, but it was physically impossible. To compensate, he refused to look away from Jim’s glare.
“What are you looking at?” Jim approached Mark, stopping when their faces were less than a foot apart. “You have something you want to say?”
That did it. Mark broke eye contact for an instant.
“I didn’t hear you.” Now Jim’s nose almost touched Mark’s.
Mark flinched, drawing back, but the guard poked him in the spine with something hard.
He struggled not to wince and licked his lips, the desert in his mouth making speech difficult. “Yes. I do have something to say. I want to state that I’m innocent.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the men with the paper scribbling and hoped they noted his declaration.
Jim’s expression didn’t change and he spoke as if Mark hadn’t said anything. “You are to address me as sir, understand?” He never raised his voice, but threat laced every syllable of the sentence.
Mark nodded. “Yes, sir.” His face burned with humiliation. It must be easy being a tough guy when your adversary was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.
“Now, I have some simple questions. I just want the facts.” Jim stepped back and opened the folder. “It says here that your name is Mark Andrew Taylor. You’re thirty-five years old, never married and you live in Chicago. Is that all true?”
Mark nodded.
Jim cocked his head. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Yes, sir. That’s all true,” Mark said. The menace in Jim’s voice sent shivers shooting through him.
Jim asked some more questions, verifying the names of Mark’s parents, where he grew up, the college he had attended. Mark knew all that information had to be in his file and tried to determine the motive for asking it all again. The questions moved on to Mark’s photography and despite the circumstances, Mark felt his enthusiasm for discussing his craft begin to surface.
“What kind of photography do you do?” Jim’s voice sounded almost friendly, as if he and Mark were chatting at a party.
“I do portraits and commercial photography in the studio in my loft.”
Jim didn’t reply, just nodded and waited, so Mark continued, “Commercial jobs are for magazines and advertisements, mostly. Portraits are anything from family and group shots to head-shots for actors and models.”
“Is that all you do?”
Mark shook his head and just in time, remembered to add the sir to his next reply. “No, sir. Those jobs pay the bills, but what I love to do is take candid photos of people and try to capture their…their spirit.” He knew it sounded hokey, but he didn’t know how else to explain it. When he caught someone on film with that unguarded expression that invited the camera in, it was like hitting a home run.