Free Riding Dirty on I-95 by Nikki Turner Page B

stench seeping through the cracks of the concrete or the woman that was balled up in a knot over in the corner shaking. It could have been the old lady wearing the twisted wig who kept running to the toilet to hurl. Mercy could tell she was a dope fiend and prostitute. As she observed all of the women around her, tears started spilling out of Mercy's eyes.
    “Don't cry,” a girl said to her, placing her hand on Mercy's shoulder. “It's not that bad.” The girl paused, waiting to see if she was going to get a response from Mercy. Mercy wiped her tears, but said nothing. “What you in here for?”
    Mercy looked up at the girl, and easy on the eyes she was not. Her hair was a mess. She had been forced by the prison guards to remove the tracks of weave from her hair. It was evident that they'd been painfully ripped out. There were traces of brown hairglue clinging to her hair and scalp. Her skin was a little rough, but it wasn't nothin' that a little makeup couldn't cover up. Mercy looked at the girl's hand that was resting on her shoulder and noticed that two of the five nails on her hand were on point, like the Koreans had just finished airbrushing them. The other three were chipped up or broken down to the skin. And those nails were acrylics, so Mercy knew that shit had to hurt. She frowned when she thought of the broken nails and the pain they inflicted. For some reason, even though they were both in the same predicament, locked up, Mercy pitied her.
    “Assault,” Mercy answered, making a long story short.
    “I don't know why they got you in here. From looking at your face, it looks like the other person should be in here. Did
y
o' nigga beat you up or something?” she asked, observing Mercy's eye.
    “No,” she said with a whimper. Her head was still pounding.
    “Girl, don't worry. You'll be okay.”
    “Shit, I don't know where these motherfuckers at?” another girl interrupted. When Mercy first saw this girl, she could have sworn she was on the wrong side. She could have easily been placed on the men's side of the lockup. The girl had on some brand-new Timbs, and a sweat suit sagging off her butt. She was a little chunky and even walked around the holding tank with a slight pimp, cupping her private area like she had a nut sack. Her hair was braided in zigzags like Allen Iverson. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out: She was as gay as a bird.
    The gay girl continued, “These mafuckers better bring they ass. Ain't nobody trying to sit down in this motherfucka all day and then have to be moved to the jail. This is some bullshit.”
    “What you in for?” the girl who had been talking to Mercy asked the gay broad.
    “Petty larceny,” she replied.
    “How much
y
o' bail?” the girl asked.
    “Five hundred.”
    “Damn, all you need is fifty dollars, and you can't get out? Shit, I wish my bail was only five hundred. I keeps that type of change in my pocket.”
    “Oh, my peoples is coming. You better believe that. You can lay flat and bet that my peoples will be here.” She looked the nice girl over, not believing the girl was getting slick out the mouth with her.
    “What you in for, Big Money Grip?” the gay chick asked the nice girl.
    “Murder, and I ain't got no bond,” she snapped.
    “Damn,” Mercy said, looking up at the girl. At that moment she didn't feel so bad after all. Mercy knew enough about the law to know that half of the stuff they were charging her with would eventually be dropped. But even then, the little crappy charges that would still be hanging over her head weren't for murder, that was for sure. She knew that she had a bond, and even if nobody came and got her she was going home one day, but ol' girl was a completely different story. She had a murder rap. She was going to be sitting for a minute, if not for the rest of her life, if found guilty. And in Mercy's eyes that was far worse than her own predicament.
    Mercy could feel a little tension between the two chicks.