I tap the pen against my desk, staring at the clock by the door. I watch the second hand moving around the circle, which then turns into me watching the minute hand. It's 12:23 p.m. and Roman still hasn't turned up to work.

I'm kind of glad he hasn't showed, but at the same time, I need to immerse myself in work to distract myself from what happened last night and the upcoming visit with Nixon. The second hand hits twelve again, causing the minute hand to tick closer to the number five.

The phone on my desk starts to ring shrilly. I almost dive at it, lifting it up from the cradle.

"Boston Correctional Institution, Warden Roman Stevens' office. How can I help you?" I ask.

"My name is Penny Hadley; I am with the public defender office. I would like to talk to Warden Stevens about an inmate who has been asking for an appeal on their case," she explains.

"I'm sorry, but he's not here right now, and I don't know when he'll be back," I tell her, knowing it will be the next question she asks. She sighs, like she's frustrated with me. All I have done is told her the truth.

"Look, I'm a very busy woman, with hundreds of cases coming in every day. I can't stop everything because you can't do your simple job and let me talk to the warden, so I will hold while you try to track him down before patching me through," she tells me, her attitude wanting me to do the opposite of what she asks.

"Whatever you need to talk to him about can obviously wait, the warden is a busy man and he won't drop everything for a woman thinking she comes above everything else. I am his wife and I don't know where he is. However, I will do my job, and try to get a hold of him so you can move on with your oh-so-important day."

I abruptly press the button on the cradle to hold her call. I sigh, rolling my eyes, as I type in Roman's cell number, the phone still up by my ear. Hopefully, he'll answer when he realizes it's to do with work. I tap my fingers on the desk, looking up at the clock as I wait for the call to connect. I have twenty minutes until my visit with Nixon.

"Come on," I repeat under my breath as I wait for Roman to pick up. The ringing stops, so I start talking.

"Roman, sorry to disturb you but I ha—"

Roman's voicemail message cuts me off. I groan, pressing the cradle to hang up. I hit the redial button, crossing my fingers hoping that he'll pick up. I have a feeling that Penny won't leave until she gets what she wants. Seven rings later, it stops again. I wait for the voicemail message to start, but instead, Roman answers.

"What?" he asks gruffly. Surprised that he actually picked up, and slightly worried about not speaking to him since last night, I stumble over my words.

"Oh, um, I have someone on the line asking to speak to you; she's from the public defender's office," I explain.

"Put her through," he tells me shortly, with no explanation of where he is or what he's been doing.

I turn back over to Penny's line, telling her I have been able to contact Roman before redirecting her call to his phone. I place the receiver back in the cradle before deciding I should make my way to the visitation center.

*^*^*

I put my hands back down by my side, thankful that they didn't notice my deep blue wrist. I turn into the visitation area, and smile at the guard behind the glass window. He narrows his eyes.

"I thought you already knew. Roman cancelled all your visits."

"What?!" I exclaim, rubbing my wrist.

"It was after what happened yesterday. I thought you would be pleased."

"No! I wanted to continue with them. Please, let me. He can't control who I visit," I plead.

He closes his eyes as if he's battling with himself.

"I could get fired for going against him..."

"I'll make sure he won't," I promise.

He sighs, pushing the form towards me.

"Thanks."

I pick the pen up, and sign my name along with Nixon's. He turns it around, calls over his shoulder looking down at the form, before motioning me onwards. A guard walks out of the small office, and leads me to where the phones are held.

"Wait here. He'll be along soon," he tells me, pointing to the third seat down.

I slide into the seat, and stare at the glass before me. I still haven't decided what verdict I am going to give Nixon. Do I go with my gut saying he's innocent? Or do I go with the evidence presented to me and the justice system telling me he's guilty? Why is this so important to me? I've only spoken to the guy twice.

Maybe it's the fact that he has noticed the things that no one else has, or that he's everything that Roman hates and I get a small amount of joy knowing that I'm going against him in that way. But I know one thing for certain: I don't want someone to be incarcerated for something that they didn't do.

Why would he even ask my opinion if he knew he was guilty? My head starts to hurt from all the questions flying around it. So, I try to clear my mind and come back to the present. At the end of the day, it doesn't matter why I'm attracted to him, or why he's asking my opinion on his guilt. It's not like there is anything that can be done on either of those things.

I pull the sleeve on my shirt down lower, resting it on my lap. I've tried to use it as little as possible today, but as it's my right hand, and I'm right-handed, it's been hard. I clear my throat, bouncing my leg up and down.

Nervous? Why would I be nervous? I start to bite the inside of my lip, as I hear the door open. My leg stills when I see the intimidating figure walk through the door. His dark eyes immediately zero in on mine, a small smirk gracing his lips. I give him a small, hesitant smile back, pulling my right hand closer to my body, not wanting him to notice the bruising.

He made the correct assumption about the bottle; I don't want him to know even more. The guard pauses behind the chair, reaching for his clutched hands in front of him. Nixon's gaze doesn't waver from mine. As the guard takes the handcuffs from Nixon , he speaks up.

"Hey, Hawk, those are some nasty grazes. Where'd you get them?" he inquires lingering beside Nixon. I look down to what the guard is referring to, and see that he has a graze and bruise on his knuckles. Still not taking his gaze off me, Nixon answers.

"I punched the wall. Thought I got into a fight did you, boss?"

I look to the guard who raises his eyebrows in disbelief, and then turns and walks off. Nixon flops down into the seat opposite me, taking the phone off the hook. I press my lips together as I reach across my body for the receiver with my left hand.

"Have you seen Clayton about those grazes? You don't want them to get infected."

Now sitting down, Nixon does a survey of me. "That's sweet, but I'm tough. Let me see your hand."

I swallow as I show him my left hand.

"The other hand, Affie," he tells me with slight anger.

"Why?"

"Because last time you picked the receiver up with your right hand, meaning you're right-handed, and today you picked it up with your left. Now, your hand."

I inhale deeply, before picking my right hand up and I show my bruised wrist to Nixon.

"I guess I don't need to ask who did that," he says as he leans closer to the glass to get a better look at it. "Maybe you should take your own advice, and go and see the doc."

"I'm fine," I tell him, putting my wrist back down on my lap.

"You should still have it looked at."

"Well, if I go and have my wrist examined, you promise to go and have your hand looked at?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. A twinkle comes into his eyes, changing them from dark and intimidating to warm and amused.

"Alright. Have you decided if I'm rightly convicted?" he asks, changing the subject. His eyes change back to their usual state.

"Um... Yes."

"And?"

"And I think you are..." I start. I close my eyes, and think over everything in my mind.

I am just about to continue when an alarm starts to blare. Guards rush into the room, pulling the inmates out of their chairs, while others tell the visitors that they have to leave. Over all the commotion, I manage to shout my answer to Nixon.

Glossary:

Boss: This is a term used by the inmates when talking to a correctional officer. However, it is not the term of respect you expect it to be. It was originally used in the early years of penitentiaries as an insult, with boss spelled backwards as an abbreviation (S.S.O.B)! What do you think this was an abbreviation for? Most inmates incarcerated now do not know the original meaning behind the word.

Here you go! I hope you liked it!

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