Chapter 3 – THE VISITATION ROOM Three weeks later.

My health had begun to stabilize. The dialysis treatments were working effectively, my blood pressure had normalized, and the wound on my head had healed into a thin, faint silver scar hidden beneath my dark hair.

I was no longer confined to the hospital bed. Wearing a simple black sweater, jeans, and a warm coat, I sat on one side of a thick glass partition inside the visitor section of the Cook County Women’s Correctional Facility.

On the other side of the glass sat my mother, Evelyn Whitaker.

She was wearing a faded yellow inmate jumpsuit. Her hair, usually perfectly styled, was limp and grey at the roots. Her skin was sallow, devoid of the expensive creams and cosmetics she had spent thousands of my dollars purchasing. Her manicured nails were gone, replaced by chipped, unwashed edges.

She picked up the plastic telephone receiver with shaking hands.

I picked up mine, holding it calmly against my ear.

“Maya,” Evelyn begged, her voice coming through the static-filled speaker, high and frantic. “Maya, baby, thank God you came. You have to help us. You have to tell the prosecutor it was all an accident!”

My health had begun to stabilize. The dialysis treatments were working effectively, my blood pressure had normalized, and the wound on my head had healed into a thin, faint silver scar hidden beneath my dark hair.

I was no longer confined to the hospital bed. Wearing a simple black sweater, jeans, and a warm coat, I sat on one side of a thick glass partition inside the visitor section of the Cook County Women’s Correctional Facility.

On the other side of the glass sat my mother, Evelyn Whitaker.

She was wearing a faded yellow inmate jumpsuit. Her hair, usually perfectly styled, was limp and grey at the roots. Her skin was sallow, devoid of the expensive creams and cosmetics she had spent thousands of my dollars purchasing. Her manicured nails were gone, replaced by chipped, unwashed edges.

She picked up the plastic telephone receiver with shaking hands.

I picked up mine, holding it calmly against my ear.

“Maya,” Evelyn begged, her voice coming through the static-filled speaker, high and frantic. “Maya, baby, thank God you came. You have to help us. You have to tell the prosecutor it was all an accident!”

My health had begun to stabilize. The dialysis treatments were working effectively, my blood pressure had normalized, and the wound on my head had healed into a thin, faint silver scar hidden beneath my dark hair.

I was no longer confined to the hospital bed. Wearing a simple black sweater, jeans, and a warm coat, I sat on one side of a thick glass partition inside the visitor section of the Cook County Women’s Correctional Facility.

On the other side of the glass sat my mother, Evelyn Whitaker.

She was wearing a faded yellow inmate jumpsuit. Her hair, usually perfectly styled, was limp and grey at the roots. Her skin was sallow, devoid of the expensive creams and cosmetics she had spent thousands of my dollars purchasing. Her manicured nails were gone, replaced by chipped, unwashed edges.

She picked up the plastic telephone receiver with shaking hands.

I picked up mine, holding it calmly against my ear.

“Maya,” Evelyn begged, her voice coming through the static-filled speaker, high and frantic. “Maya, baby, thank God you came. You have to help us. You have to tell the prosecutor it was all an accident!”