Birth Row

Part Seven

     Clara felt a wave of fear. Where were the prison guards, or the police? This was beyond anything she expected. The media reports showed only a few die-hard Watkins groupies still in front of the prison. In fact, the regional media station had reported that they were wrapping up the reports for lack of interest. Now that Watkins had been rebirthed without incident, it was no longer deemed newsworthy.

Certainly, they had to know the reports were wrong. Someone had to be keeping an eye on the situation. This mass of rabble couldn’t be left unsupervised on government property. Who was in charge?

She convinced herself it was safe, that all she needed was her nerve to control the situation.

     “Henry, pull up as close to the front door as you can and wait here until I send for you.” Clara instructed, full well expecting she would be arrested for Watkins’ murder.

     Several hundred of the crowd followed the car as Henry slowly rolled it up to the front walk. She watched as they purposely followed. Fear tugged at her, beckoning not to leave the car. Clara tried to wet her lips, but her trembling body had sucked all the moisture inward. Her dry tongue served only to smear her lipstick.

Regardless, she would go, it was in her breeding, she had no choice.

Before opening the door, Clara felt compelled to lean back into the comfort of wealth she had been born into. She wanted to enjoy it one last time before imprisonment. The leather seat she had taken for granted thousands of times before, today, felt as comfortable as a womb. She didn’t want to leave, but every fiber in her body told her to go. Something she couldn’t control drove her to open that door--and go kill Watkins.

By now, the crowd that followed her car had assembled shoulder to shoulder on either side of the walkway leading to the front door. They formed a human corridor from the entrance to the limo.

Clara closed the door and gasped as she fully realized the enormity of the crowd surrounding her. There had to be over a hundred people lined up on either side of the cement walkway. Every unwashed one of them stood facing each other, with heads turned, silently watching her. She imagined them as an honor guard from an insane asylum. Most asylums are noisy, but in this case, the only sound was the smooth humming of the Bentley’s engine.

The lack of noise from a crowd this size was unusual. So Clara turned to look back over the Bentley, toward the tent city.

Thousands of eyes stared silently back at her. Not a word, not a movement in the crowd, not from one of them. As if they were hypnotized, and she was the center of their attention.

Unusual, had just transformed into bizarre. What the hell was going on?

Why were they doing this? Did they know what she was up to? Clara felt they were expecting something to happen, but what?

A normal person would have gotten back in the car and left. But, Clara had long ago passed normal, as if it were a road sign flying past her car window without time to read the words. She was driven, she carried the family torch, and no one, not even an army of psychos were going to stop her.

Bring it on.

Elbows weren’t necessary this time to reach the front door. The honor guard of commoners stood firm as she walked through their ranks. Heads turned to face her as she passed. Every one of them smiled.

They made her skin crawl, yet she didn’t feel threatened.

She couldn’t get in the door fast enough.

Upon entering, the guard whisked her away to the Warden’s office without stopping. Clara wanted to ask what was going on, but he walked her through security so fast she didn’t have time to react.