I barked out a laugh, shaking my head in disgust. "You know, you guys sound just like what I imagine her jurors must have sounded like when they were deliberating. Only I have more respect for them. Because at least they waited until her trial to convict her."

Fixing each and every one of them with a stern glare, I turned and left the library at a quick walk, not needing to look back to see the shocked faces I'd left behind.

It's been almost three months since I've last looked at these words I've written. So much has changed, yet so much more remains the same.

Ice is still among the missing. The latest jailhouse poll is betting that she's dead. I'm betting against those odds, as are most of the women who knew her well, or at least as well as anyone could know her.

But I must confess that there are times, mostly deep in the night, when I wonder. Because if she is, by some small miracle, still out there, somewhere, she's made no attempt to contact me whatsoever. And believe me when I tell you that it is possible to get word like that through to me with none being the wiser. It's been done before.

And so sometimes, when the pain in my heart is flaring up like the supernova of some distant sun, I wonder. Because at those times, it's easier to imagine her dead then uncaring. And it's at those times when the tears I hold inside come bursting forth, an unstoppable force.

The anger hit, much sooner that I though it would. When I made it back to my cell that long-ago morning, it hit with a vengeance. I tore my cell up in an orgy of anger. I ranted. I raved. I punched. I kicked. I threw. I screamed.

I was angry at the Amazons for believing that Ice, when it came right down to it, was an unchangeable, and therefore unredeemable, person. I was angry at myself for harboring, deep in my heart, those same beliefs. But mostly, I was angry with Ice; for giving up, for giving in, for taking what seemed to me to be the easy road.

I think I might have hated her a little too, in those dark moments of rage. If I only knew why she had chosen the path she did, perhaps it would have been easier for me to deal with her loss. But I didn't. And it was killing me inside.

One of the images that helps me through those times of rage and desolation is of her last day here with us.

She turned away from the fence, you see.

She didn't have to. When she had Cassandra up against the bars, even the threat of a horrid beating from the warden and guards didn't make her back down.

This time, when the circumstances were equally bad, she turned away. Not because the guards had their guns aimed at her. Ice wasn't afraid to die. In fact, I think she craved it, sometimes. No, she turned away for her own reasons. And I pin all of my remaining hope on the thought that she turned away because she finally had a dream of her own to hold onto.

Even her escape and the death of Cavallo can't tear that image from my mind, nor the hope from my heart. Because, you see, I think that that dream had something to do with me.

The prison has changed as well. The warden, and I say this with no small amount of glee, went down in flames. With Cavallo's death and Morrison's arrest, there was no longer a reason to keep my secret, and so I told Sandra everything that I knew. And, of course, she did what I'd known she would. She went to the police with my information.

The police, in turn, came to me and asked me many pointed questions, all of which I answered truthfully and to the best of my ability. They've added the charge of attempted murder to the rest of Morrison's long list of misdeeds. I hope he gets put away for a long, long time.

The riot which seemed so immanent fizzled out with word of Ice's escape. I don't know why, really. Maybe she took some of this place's spirit, such as it is, with her when she left. It's an uneasy sort of truce, but a truce nonetheless.

Which is good, in a way, because the Amazons are, for all intents and purposes, leaderless. No one wants the job, least of all me, who everyone looked to to pick up the pieces. Though it shames me to admit this, I just can't drag up the strength to do it.

My life has once again been reduced to a simple day-to-day existence. It's all I have the will for anymore.

Yes, I still fight when the cause is right, either by word or deed. But it lacks that sense of . . .I suppose magic is the best word I can use to describe how it felt when Ice was still here. The sense of being part of a team that fought the good fight seems to have vanished with her. We're still the Amazons and we're all still friends, but it's as if our ship has suddenly become untethered and we're drifting at the mercy of the sea.

That's not a good place to be in, especially given what this gang represents. I can only hope that we can all hang in there until someone steps forward to claim the mantle of leadership once again.

As for me, well, if the gods are kind, it may be the last day I sit in this cell that is no longer a home for me. Donita kept her promise, and tomorrow, I'm scheduled to be transferred to the county jail to await the beginning of my trial, which starts the day after.

She's brought some beautiful clothes for me to wear. She says I'm innocent and should look the part, instead of coming to court in the guise of a convicted killer. It's amazing how much the styles have changed in the five years I've been here. I wonder what else has changed?

I suppose it's best to keep that question tucked away for now. I'm nervous enough having to go up in front of the public to rehash the events leading to the death of my husband five years ago. I haven't been able to eat anything substantial (even if the cafeteria served something that could be called that) in the past couple of days, and sleep seems more like a distant memory than a living reality.

Donita has already informed me that I'm going up on the stand. What if they don't believe me? It's been five years. My emotions, when I think about the killing, aren't the same as they were then. What if they think I'm lying and that I have no remorse for what I've done?

Donita's coached me well, playing the DA's role and, frankly, scaring the living crap out of me several times with her lines of questioning. But she assures me that I'm ready. That I can take on the world.

I just wish I believed her.

PART 18.

WELL, DONITA KEPT her word. Here I am, in a tiny, cramped cell in the county jail, scribbling on a bright yellow legal pad that she was nice enough to give me. The court was recessed today after opening arguments, as she said it would be.

I wasn't surprised by the prosecution's angle, having heard it, almost verbatim, five years ago. In the DA's eyes, I'm still a jealous, possessive harpy who couldn't stand the fact that my husband wanted a little time with the boys after work.

Donita was simply brilliant. Her opening arguments were clear, concise and to the point without a wasted word or over-dramatization. She was the consummate professional and appeared magnificently prepared. The jury, which this time was a nice mix of women and men (my previous jury had only the two women sitting on it), seemed to me to eat up her words, and a few times, I thought I caught them looking at me with compassion in their eyes. At least, I hope that's what it was.

Nothing to do now but stare at the walls and wait to see if I can sleep tonight.

Fear and time make strange bedfellows.

It's been five long years since I last graced this place, and the fear is still here. Only it seems to have changed direction. Five years ago, I was afraid that I was going to go to jail. Now I'm afraid I'm not going to get out. And, conversely, I'm also afraid that I am going to get out.

Was it just such a short time ago that I asked Ice why she didn't just up and move away after she was released from prison the first time? Could I actually have been that naive, that condescending? Just the possibility of that happening with me causes my stomach to jump rope inside me.

My family has disowned me. All of my friends are prison inmates. The degrees I've earned are about as useless as the paper they're printed on. I have no home, no job and no money.

And yet . . .and yet, I still have that sometimes damning sense of optimism about everything. The same sense that sat here next to me five long years ago when I was battling for what I thought was my life. The same sense that tells me, despite everything, that Ice is still alive out there.

What I've discovered, you see, is that, no matter how much we might not want it to sometimes, life does go on. The world keeps on spinning. And if we're really lucky, we learn something along the way.

I've learned that love, and companionship, and a simple sense of belonging can be found even in the deepest pits of one woman's hell. I've learned that sometimes good things happen when you least expect them. I've learned that freedom isn't something that can be taken away; only given up. And I've learned that no matter what happens to me in this life, I have the strength to overcome, adapt, and even to thrive, despite, or perhaps because of, the adversity thrown in my path.

Would I be the same woman I am now, with the same strength of purpose, if those events five years ago had concluded differently? Perhaps. Perhaps, one day, I would have been able to find this strength on my own; the strength to leave a loveless marriage and a husband who saw me more as chattel than partner. Perhaps.

But without the love and guidance of Pony, Montana, Critter, Sonny, Corinne and, most of all, Ice, I might never have truly realized what I was capable of. I love them all, very much, and will always carry them in my heart, no matter what the outcome of this latest trial.

Enough philosophizing for one evening. Time to lay down and see if my insomnia has become a permanent condition.

I had a dream.

It started out like the one just months before, with the huge courtroom and all my accusers (the embodiment of my guilt, I told myself rationally) dressed, literally, to kill.

But this time, when each person stepped forward, preparing to place the yoke of guilt around my neck like some blackened albatross, I found myself responding differently. I accepted responsibility for those things I might have done wrong, but refused the weight of their anger for things that could not be changed.

Perhaps I could have been a better daughter, a better friend, a better wife. Looking back on my life from this new perspective of maturity and experience, perhaps I would have made different choices back then.

But the words I had spoken with such conviction to Ice on those long ago days finally bore fruit in my own mind. The actions I'd taken, the choices I'd made, came from within the soul of a good woman. I accepted responsibility for them. I owned them. And I long past paid my debts for them.

Finally, after a lifetime of living under my own soul's oppression, I put paid to my guilt and let it go. And when I did that, all of the figures who had come to accuse simply vanished in a clean-scented mist.

It was an incredibly freeing feeling.

The mist coalesced into a shape of shifting colors. The outline became more distinct, finally resolving itself into Ice. Her face and form were covered in a shimmering radiance and her hair was blown back from her brow by a non-existent breeze. She smiled, and it lit up the room.

"Ice!" I screamed in my dream, almost delirious with joy. I ran toward her, only to be stopped by her upraised hands. "What?" I asked. "What is it?"

"I need to ask your forgiveness, Angel," she replied, her voice rivaling the best Beethoven concerto in its utter beauty to me.

"Forgiveness? For what?"

"For leaving you. For not saying goodbye. For not giving an explanation."

I knew that there were a lot of questions I needed answered. But some part of me also knew that this was just a dream and I wasn't about to ruin it with conversation. "Yes," I said, knowing that even without explanation, without words, I had forgiven her, just as I knew, by the love in her eyes, that, in this dreamspace at least, she had forgiven me.

She opened her radiant arms and I flew into them, feeling all the burdens of my heart tumble out of me as she enclosed me within her warm and loving embrace. It might only have been a dream, but the body in my arms was warm and solid, every curve and line remembered, every scent the same as the last time we'd embraced.

I started crying, begging whomever would listen to just grant that I would never wake up.

A hand clasped onto my shoulder from the back, as if trying to pull me away from Ice. I tried to hold on tighter, but as I did, Ice's form became insubstantial again. I felt my arms go right through her. "No! Come back! Don't leave me again!"

"Angel," a voice sounded in my head.

"Please, Ice! Come back!"

"Angel," the voice repeated.

"What!!?" I snarled, turning my head.

Donita, very much in the land of reality, stepped back, her dark eyes blinking in surprise. "Sorry to wake you," she said, softly. "You need to get ready. The jury's just come back. The verdict is in."

"The ver . . . ." I sat straight up on the meager jailhouse cot, raking a hand through my hair and attempting to blink the sleep out of my eyes. "Already? What time is it?"

My lawyer looked down at her gold wristwatch. "A little after eleven."

"The case just went to the jury at ten. This isn't good, is it."

Smiling, she gave my shoulder a little squeeze. "Not all quick decisions favor the prosecution, Angel. Let's just go in there like we own the place." Her smile broadened. "I have a feeling you're gonna like what you hear."

I'm free.

As I sit on a wooden bench outside of the courtroom, waiting for Donita to finish up her discussions with the judge (she is filing a civil suit on my behalf for wrongful imprisonment) I look down at that phrase I've just written as if reading it over and over and over again will cause it to sink in.

It's such a small word, a minor word, and yet what it represents . . . . God, it represents the world!

As I sit here, I'm looking at a young gentleman with what looks to be his girlfriend. They just came out of traffic court, (the nice security guard told me that much-it's amazing how much differently you're treated when you're sitting on this side of the bars. I'd almost forgotten that.) and they're heading for the door.

And it just hit me. I can do that too. I can just get up off this rickety, scarred bench, walk those few feet down that highly polished floor, open the glass door, and step into the sunshine beyond. I could just pick a direction and start walking and not stop until my legs gave out. No bars or fence to hold me in; to keep me back; to keep me from people and people from me.

I'm free.

I can't seem to write or think or say it enough. Free to do what I want, where I want, when I want and with whom I want.

What, where, when and with whom I'm going to do these nebulous things is a question I've neither asked, nor answered myself yet. It's back there, simmering, but I'm gonna leave it there for awhile. I don't want to spend my first few minutes of freedom frozen in terror like a deer in the headlights of an onrushing semi.

Donita, bless her huge heart, has offered to put me up until I can get back on my feet again. I didn't answer her right away. I couldn't. I need to exist in the moment right now. The possibility of a future is suddenly too overwhelming for me to consider.

She smiled in understanding and slipped a business card into the breast pocket of my woolen blazer. She knows I'll call her once I come down off this cloud I find myself on. I know I will too.

After all, where else can I go?