Free Dear Summer by K. Elliott Page A

but he tried his best to remain calm.
“So, what you want from me?”
“Just wanting to know if you wanted to help yourself.”
“You want me to tell?”
Pratt shrugged his shoulders and said, “That’s totally up to you. You’re facing thirty with the gun and the dope, so if you want to get out before you rot in prison…”
“I ain’t got nothing to say.”
Pratt dropped his pen on his pad. There was a long silence in the cold room. He stared at the young man across from him. His eyes were sincere; he would never tell. He was the kind that made Pratt’s job harder. He had seen many kinds of criminals over the years and he had become pretty good at sizing them up. He knew there was no use in pressing the issue.
Jerome cracked his knuckles again and then looked away from Pratt and stared at the bright yellow wall as if he were contemplating. Pratt figured the walls were closing in on him.
“What ya thinking about?”
Jerome turned and faced Pratt. He started to speak but hesitated. Finally he said, “My little boy.”
Pratt picked up his pen and scribbled a squiggly line to see if the pen wrote. It did. Maybe he’d been wrong about Jerome. Maybe he would cooperate after all. “You have a family, huh?”
Jerome looked irritated. “Of course I have a family.”
“They deserve you to be there for them.”
“I know.”
“How old is your son?”
“He’s two.”
“I have a newborn.” Pratt smiled proudly.
“Congrats.”
“Thank you.” It was an odd moment; two men talking about their kids. At that moment, both men were proud parents—not cop and bad guy.
“You love your son a lot. Don’t you?”
Jerome hesitated before answering. Again he stared at the walls. The room seemed colder and the chill bumps gathered on his arms. This was the kind of room that could break a man down. “What kind of question is that?”
“Just asking.”
“Of course I love my son.”
“Well do it for him.”
“I want my son to be proud.”
Pratt smiled then pulled out a picture of his son. A little boy in a sailor suit with blue blocks that spelled baby. He handed Jerome the picture.
Jerome smiled. “What’s his name?”
“Charles.”
“Charles? That name is for an older person.”
“I know. My wife’s father’s name was Charles, so we went with it.”
Jerome passed the picture back to Pratt.
Pratt dropped the pen on the pad again. “Are you going to help yourself?”
“No.”
“What about your son?”
“I want him to be proud.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I want him to know that his pops stood for something.”
“You’re a dope dealer.”
“I made a mistake…okay?”
Pratt stood up, grabbed the pen, put the top back on it then placed it behind his ear. He picked up the pad. “You have a good day, Jerome.” He turned to walk out of the room.
“Agent Pratt…” Jerome called out.
Mark turned and faced Jerome. They stared at each other for a while until Jerome broke the silence. “Did Tommy Dupree tell on me?”
Mark squinted his eyes. He’d heard the name before but he couldn’t remember where he knew the name from.
Mark shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know who the informant on this case was, and if I did, I couldn’t tell you.”
Jerome stood. Then a black female correctional officer walked in to escort Jerome back to his cell. “Pratt, you know I’ma find out who did this to me.”
Mark didn’t say anything. He just looked and wondered why the name Tommy Dupree seemed familiar to him. And when Jerome was gone, he remembered. Tommy Dupree was an ecstasy dealer whom he’d investigated six years ago; he was sentenced to prison. Was he out? Mark wondered. The yellow walls closed in on him.
*****
    Tommy’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. He continued to stroke, trying not to break the bed. He held the bed rail. Angie looked up at him with anticipation. She moved her body with Tommy’s. It had become hard because Tommy had no rhythm. She kissed his neck. “Baby, right there…that’s