Note: Links to previous chapters can be found at the end of the article.
“My ladies will probably try and slip you some letters, ask you to mail them on the outside. Do not do that. It is contraband, you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“One or two might try and hug you goodbye, in that hug, there might be an inappropriate touch. Resist the temptation.”
“Yes, M’am.”
It’s my last day as visitor slash researcher in the prison. I’m being debriefed by the Supervisor, a tough, no-nonsense lady who still manages to retain her femininity–and sense of humor.
“You got what you wanted?”
“Yes, thank you. Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Ask, but I may not answer.”
“Your opinion of the Pet Program.”
She sighs wearily: “It’s fine.”
“I sense a ‘but’ coming.”
“Mr. Hollywood, I’m dealing in numbers here, big numbers. I got thousands of mis-creants within these walls. In the program, five, maybe six women. What does that solve?”
“Five, six women.”
She waves her hand as if swatting away a fly. She has no time for singular redemptions, she is dealing with multitudes.
“Was it always like this?”
“Meaning?”
“So many female prisoners?”
“Oh, no. When I first started in the system, this prison was a backwater, a few hundred shop-lifters, petty felons, check forgers, disorderly conduct drunkards, your basic sad prostitute junkies.”
“And now?”
“Hard-core killers. More like men.”
“And that’s because?”
“Drugs, gangs. Almost all my ladies are mixed up somehow in the drug trade. Oh, sure, they don’t have fathers, there’s that too, and they all pick loser troll boyfriends who just beat hell outta them. But it’s the drug world that puts ’em over the line.”
Irene Dunne and Helyn Elry-Rock in Ann Vickers, 1933
“Would you legalize drugs?”
“I will not answer that question.”
“Fair enough. How about this: would you decriminalize certain classes of drugs?”
The Supervisor chuckles: “You trying to lose me my po-sition? Move on Mr. Hollywood.”
“You have any hope for rehabilitating these women?”
She bursts into laughter: “Get outta my office.”
As I leave, I suppress an overwhelming urge to salute.
C.O. Cindy is waiting for me outside the Supervisor’s office. My baby sitter, as I’ve come to think of her, walks me across the massive yard, towards the shed where the animals are trained as companion dogs for people with severe physical disabilities.
“You’re awfully quiet, Cindy.”
She shrugs.
Her helmet of red hair kicks light in the bright morning sun.
Cindy spots an inmate sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette, eyes closed, head tipped back.
“Wait here,” she says to me.
Cindy approaches the inmate.
“You’re supposed to be haulin’ garbage.”
“I’m takin’ a break.”
“Get back to work, skank.”
The inmate crushes the cigarette between her fingers, stores the butt in her pocket, coolly glares at Cindy.
This is the first time I’ve seen Cindy be anything less than respectful towards an inmate.
We continue our walk back to the dog-training shed.
“What was that about?”
“I’m doing my f*****g job, Robert, y’got a problem with that?”
Silence all the way to the shed.
Dog training is not going well today. The atmosphere is strained. The inmates, normally giggly, relaxed and chatty, are impatient as the dogs make mistakes and drop on their bellies, not sure what their beloved masters want from them.
I step outside.
I know exactly what’s going on.
“I’m sorry,” says Cindy.
I turn around. “It’s okay. I understand. I’ve been here a while now.”
“We got used to you.”
“Now I’m leaving.”
“You are.”
“I have to write the movie.”
“Do you know what you’re going to write?”
“I’ll find out as I write it.”
“Like I know what that means.”
“Cindy, I want to thank you for all your help. You’ve been, well, unbelievable.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“No, really. I couldn’t have done this without all your help.”
“You really wanna thank me?”
“I do.”
“Tell me one true thing about yourself.”
I look at her long and hard and offer her my core.
“I have been in love with my wife since I was nine-years old.”
Cindy squints and searches my face:
“No f*****g way.”
I nod, assuring her that it’s the truth.
“Is that like normal?”
“Um, probably not.”
Cindy grins: “What’s your wife’s name, what’s she do, what’s Mrs. Robert look like, do you guys have kids?”
“One question, Cindy. I answered it, right?”
“Jesus f*****g Christ, you are a piece of work. And by the way, stop making that face every time I say f**k. What, the little lady never lets loose?”
In fact, Karen’s a lady and she never curses–beyond an occasional, blistering, Oy-vey.
Inside, I bid goodbye to the lovely Eden. I wish her good luck. She does not try and slip me any contraband, does not try to hug me. Not one of the inmates touches me inappropriately.
They are all perfect ladies.
Every single murderer.
Cindy accompanies me to the front gate.
“I been thinking,” she says.
“About what?”
“Doing something else.”
“I’m happy. You should. You don’t belong here.”
She holds my gaze.
“‘Cause I’m like this fine sword, right?”
“Right.”
She shakes my hand, gives me that shy smile.
“Robert?”
“What?”
Cindy starts to say something, then just shakes her head and mumbles:
“Nothing, nothing.”
I climb into my rental car and drive away. The last I see of C.O. Cindy is her image in the rear-view mirror. She waves to me, hitches up her thick leather utility belt and heads back inside prison.
Back home.
FADE TO BLACK
For this is
THE END
To read Part I, please click here.
To read Part II, please click here.
To read Part III, please click here.
To read Part IV, please click here.
To read Part V, please click here.
To read part VI, please click here.
To order a copy of Within These Walls, nominated for the Humanitas Award, starring Ellen Burstyn and Laura Dern, please click here.
Copyright Robert J. Avrech
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