Hank Hudson

7 Hard Time

7

Hard Time

The deputy left as soon as the door was secure. The only light in the cell poured in from a small window at the top of the outside wall. The cell stood at about the same size as Steve and Julie's bunkhouse, but without the desk or chest of drawers.

Hank paced back and forth, his hands balled tightly into fists. This isn't fair. I didn't take anything. The thoughts played in his mind over and over. The breadnapper flashed across his mind too. He'd told him not to return the food, that these people were all thieves. Hank didn't want to admit it, but deep down he should have just walked away and left the breadnapper with the stolen food.

With how he'd been treated, he worried Dog may have had it worse. What if someone had seen Dog and tried to shoot him? Hank imagined Dog lying there hurt as people just walked by.

The thought of Dog being shot and alone made him stop pacing. Hank slumped against the brick wall. He ran his hands through his blonde hair and closed his eyes. There was no stopping his throat from tightening as all his jumbled emotions crashed in on him. Tears rolled from his eyes in warm streaks.

"It's not over yet, son," said an unknown voice from the other side of the bars.

Hank looked up through blurry eyes. A man on the other side of the bars stood there, towering over six feet. A tall man, but not big. He pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the door. The metal squeaked as the man opened the cell.

"I'm the sheriff, Rodger Anderson. And you're Hank Hudson. The report says you robbed Gerald Bean's grocery store."

"No, sir. I was trying to return—"

Sheriff Anderson raised a hand. "I can see you're not an idiot and only an idiot would rob a place and then walk back by with the stolen goods."

Hank stood, looking past the open door and the sheriff toward freedom. Finally, someone normal. He'd be on his way to Dog in moments.

"Hold on, son. I see that look in your eye. I know you're not guilty, but I don't have the power to let you go. Bean filed the robbery report, so I'm afraid you're stuck until the judge comes. About five days from now."

Hank's eyes dropped.

"It won't seem like that long, and I'll do my best to get in touch with your family."

"Thank you."

The deputy hadn't been kind, but he had passed on Hank's side of the story. Sheriff Anderson took Hank through the jail, showing him around. The jail had a front office, an office for the sheriff, a kitchen, a small room with a set of bunk beds, and a back section with four identical cells.

Fruitland was not the county seat, so it didn't have a judge employed at the jail. Those arrested in Fruitland had to wait for the judge to arrive. He traveled through the area every few weeks in order to hear cases and either free the accused or send them on to the state penitentiary, although, as Sheriff Anderson explained, Hank was his first occupant in several months. The town had few problems with the law due to the small population, so the judge sometimes skipped them.

Unlike the majority of the buildings Hank had seen in Fruitland, the jail was spotless. Sheriff Anderson spent most of the afternoon sweeping and mopping the inside and outside of the building. Hank helped with the inside, but the Sheriff locked him up when it was time to work outside.

Soft purple and orange colors lit the cell as the sun tipped low in the sky. Hank adjusted himself on the top bunk. He thought of Julie and Steve. At least with them, he'd had the illusion of being free. He guessed that if he'd just talked with them they would have let him write his parents. Today, he had seen what bad people could do, and there was no way he could lump Julie and Steve in the same group as the grocer and deputy.