18
“I can’t believe you’re watching this shit,” Bridget petulantly informed Franky.
“Shhh,” she replied, pulling Bridget to sit with her on the couch. “This is important. This may give us a hint about what the Freak is planning.”
Bridget rolled her eyes, snuggling in beside Franky. “She’s hardly going to reveal her evil master plan on national television.”
It was Franky’s turn to respond with an eyeroll. “Of course not, Gidge. But you know the Freak. She has pride. Bea only knew what happened to Allie because the Freak told her.” Franky's shoulders sagged. “I just feel like if I watch closely enough, I’ll be able to see… something.”
“Something?” Bridget repeated. “Something like what?”
“I don’t know,” Franky shook her head, shrugging earnestly. “Just something. Some little sign. Something. I just…” She trailed off. “I just want to figure it out. For Bea.”
Bridget nodded slowly.
Franky sighed. “I know that doesn’t make any sense. Bea’s dead, and… but I know it was the Freak who did it, Gidge. I know. And now I need all the ammunition against her that I can get.”
Bridget regarded her levelly. “You know I believe your fixation on blaming Ferguson is your way of avoiding dealing with Bea’s death.”
“But you’re not my therapist,” Franky replied warningly.
“That’s right,” Bridget stated briskly, gently squeezing Franky’s hand. “I’m not your therapist, and you have the right to mourn in any way you choose. And Joan Ferguson is dangerous,” she added.
“That’s right,” Franky agreed. She put her arm around Bridget. “So shut up now, my hot girl,” she said, grinning. “I want to listen.”
“… all well and fine,” Hayley was saying, “but I want to know how you felt while you were on remand, Joan. You may believe in the system, but you were held in the very prison you ran. Surely that was dangerous for you?”
Joan inclined her head forward in a slight nod. “I will admit that it was… daunting… at first. But I placed my faith in the officers that I had carefully trained. I knew that they would protect me.”
“Oh God,” Franky exclaimed. “I hope Smiles is watching this.”
Bridget gave her a mock stern look before succumbing into giggles with her.
“Where exactly were you housed? Were you forced into staying within the general population of the prison?”
“On the contrary,” Joan replied. “At first, Governor Bennett placed me in a protection unit. She shared your concerns regarding my safety. I requested the move into the general population.”
“You requested it?” Hayley repeated, a close-up shot emphasizing her surprise.
Joan nodded. “I thought it would be an opportunity to learn more about the lives of the women who were under my protection,” she explained smoothly. “As Governor, I have intimate awareness of the workings of Wentworth, but from an administrative point of view. I decided to take the opportunity to interact with the inmates, to understand their needs.”
Hayley leaned forward. “And what did you learn?”
Joan smiled. “I learned to be proud of the initiatives that I had created during my time as governor,” she stated. “They were clearly working to serve the women. I also realized, however, that there are some aspects that can be improved.”
“Such as?” Hayley prodded.
Joan appeared to pause for a moment, considering the question. “An obvious area of improvement is in psychological support. It is very difficult for most women to adjust to the prison environment, but it can be equally difficult to prepare to leave. I found the current psychological support to be… lacking.”
The camera angle changed, so that Joan seemed to look directly at her audience. “In particular, my experience of the forensic psychology within Wentworth was one of diagnosis, rather than understanding. It was almost like…” Joan stopped, appearing to choose her word carefully. “Scoring.”
Bridget’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing, her entire body tense. Franky pulled her closer. “She’s just trying to get under your skin,” she quietly informed her. “You’re a threat to her, Gidge—remember that. You’re the one who diagnosed her as a psychopath.”
“And I stand by that diagnosis,” Bridget replied bitterly, “as well as several others. She should never have been released from psychological evaluation in the first place.”
Franky squeezed her tightly.
The camera returned to Hayley Jovanka. “I’d like to return to your personal experience of being an inmate. You lived among the women; were you bullied by them? Ignored? Did you make friends?”
Joan appeared to look away, into the distance. “It was difficult at first,” she started. She turned back to look at Hayley. “You have to remember that when you are Governor, you are in charge of the women’s correction and protection. You can be sympathetic, but you must always make it clear that you are not there to be anyone’s friend.” She paused. “In many ways, a popular governor is a dangerous governor.”
Hayley raised her eyebrows. “Vera Bennett is a popular govern amongst the inmates.”
“So she is,” Joan replied blandly.
Hayley appeared intrigued. “We’ll return to that in a moment. You found it difficult to make friends?”
“I had to demonstrate to the women that I was no threat. I no longer held any power; I was the same as everyone else in that prison—at least until my exoneration.”
“And did it work?” Hayley asked. “Did they trust you? Or did they abuse you?”
“There!” Franky yelled, pointing at the television. “Did you see that? Did you see her eye twitch when Jovanka asked about abuse?”
Bridget sighed. “She’ll never reveal the ganging,” she stated conclusively. “That’s not a route that will help you.”
“Maybe not in public, but…” Franky thought furiously. “Gidge, did we ever figure out who did it? Who ganged her?”
Bridget shrugged. “No. And I doubt we ever will. In fact, I suspect she did it to herself.”
Franky shook her head decisively. “No. There’s no way she did that to herself.”
“This is Joan Ferguson, Franky. I think you’re underestimating the extent to which she’ll go to manipulate others.”
“No, Gidge,” Franky gently retorted. “You’re missing the point. She needed to be in General, and she needed to be accepted. But she didn’t need to be ganged for that. A simple bashing by someone like Red would have worked just as well—maybe even better, because the women would have seen the bruises.” Franky stared at the screen. “Top Dog, all of that stuff… it’s a show, Gidge—it’s all about the display of power. But an actual ganging…”
“What?” Bridget nudged her, concerned at her sudden silence.
Franky looked directly at her. “Jacs Holt threatened me with it, once.” She crossed her arms protectively around her torso. “Even in prison, only the absolute sickos actually do that.” She sniffed.
“Sickos like Joan Ferguson?”
Franky was silent.
Bridget pulled her close, holding her tightly. They stared at the screen together.
Franky suddenly bolted forward.
“Or sickos like Juice!” she shouted.
***
“Did it work? Did they trust you? Or did they abuse you?”
“There were… moments… that were decidedly uncomfortable,” Joan replied. “But the majority of the prisoners I had known previously left me to my own devices. I was housed with a group that was similarly on remand. I was able to... bond… with them.”
“And what about Bea Smith?” Hayley continued. “I’ve heard that she has become a kind of leader for the women.”
“Hey?” Boomer asked. “How come they’re talking like Bea’s not… like Bea’s here with us?”
The women stared at each other.
“Do you think nobody knows what’s happened to her?” Doreen asked finally. “No one on the outside?”
There it was again, Maxine thought. The searing pain of yet another stab. “Bea didn’t have any family left on the outside,” she whispered.
The enormity of her statement hung heavy in the room.
There was no one left on the outside to mourn Bea.
None of them could face that yet. Almost as one, they turned back to the television, willing the interview to drown out the painful truth.
But the thought wouldn’t leave Maxine alone. She could feel it sinking into her organs, slicing further and further into her.
There was no one outside to mourn. Bea's life had narrowed to the circumference of these prison walls.
A final realization stabbed deep into Maxine's core.
There would be no funeral for Bea Smith.