My body follows the usual routine as if disconnected from my brain. I cross the yard and go through the gate to the administration building. I don’t even realize that I’ve passed the green outer door and both steel security doors before I’m sitting in the visiting area designated for contact visits and waiting for Daddy to come in.
It’s quiet in the barely-bigger-than-a-broom-closet room and my mind goes over the few details Daddy had told me about the current appeal. His legal team had uncovered evidence that at least one jury member from his original trial might have been tampered with. This may be our first chance to be granted a retrial in the nearly twelve years my father has been in prison. This appeal actually seems promising, and for the first time in years, I struggle to keep my hope in check.
It’s what we’ve been waiting for all this time—a new chance to prove that Daddy didn’t do it.
I keep running the envelope containing Mama’s letter through my fingers. I pass it from one hand to the other. I wince as the edge slices a small paper cut into my palm, but the pain helps me keep my focus here in this visitation room. My mind should not be behind bars. It should not be distracted by thoughts of what could be happening right now in a jail cell or by what may happen on Thursday in a judge’s courtroom.
Today is just one more visit with my father … and that alone makes it special.
“Hi, Ri,” Daddy says when the officer brings him in. I study my father as I do every week. When I decide he doesn’t look any worse this visit than the last, I release a shaky breath. Everyone in Polunsky is in solitary confinement, which is enough to drive a person mad if they weren’t already when they came in. That much time alone isn’t good for anyone’s well-being. He’s lost a lot of weight over the years, developing a leaner and harder look. And sometimes he still manages to get bruises he refuses to explain. I’ve seen enough to suspect they came from a chance altercation with another inmate while being moved around the prison … or from the guards.
Once his cuffs are released, he hugs me tight and I hug him back—the same way I do every visit. I guess when you’re only allowed two hugs from your father per week, you’re never too grown up for it.
The officer clears his throat, and Daddy pulls away from me. We walk over to sit down at the table. Once we’re seated, the guard closes the door and stands outside. This is what we’re allowed. This is what our face-to-face relationship is defined by: a hug at the beginning and the end of each visit. When I leave, the guard will give me the letters Daddy has written to me this week to take home. While I’m here, we must sit on opposite sides of the table. We can hold hands if we want, but we rarely do anymore. Not since I was little. When Mama used to come more frequently, she and Daddy used to hold hands sometimes. It symbolizes their marriage—their romance—to me now. I couldn’t take that away from them.
Mama has had to miss visits and hearings too often in the last year and I know they miss seeing each other, but Mama’s new job is demanding. She’s been the executive assistant to a vice president at an investment firm since last summer. Her boss pays her well and gives her job security as long as she works whenever and wherever it’s convenient for him.
After being fired in the past for reasons like your presence is creating an uncomfortable work environment for others or not disclosing pertinent background information, Mama really cares about her job security.
“How is your mother?” Daddy asks first thing, and I smile. Polunsky has aged him, but the sparkle in Daddy’s eyes when he sees me never changes.
“She’s fine. She said to tell you that she’s excited to see you on Thursday.”
His smile falters. “Are you both coming to the hearing?”
“Yes.” I prepare myself for the argument I know is coming.
“I wish you wouldn’t, but you already know that.” Daddy sits back in his chair and pushes his hand through his thick salt-and-pepper hair. “Ben can let you know how it goes after—”
“We want to be there. Having your family there to support you is important during your appeals—both to you and to the judge. Mr. Masters even told us that.” I shake my head, refusing to budge on this one. Benjamin Masters is Daddy’s lawyer, and a longtime family friend. When I was little, I used to think he was my uncle. It wasn’t until I was ten that I finally understood that we weren’t actually related. He and Daddy were partners in their law firm before Daddy ended up here.
“That’s lawyer logic. I know that and so do you.” He frowns so deep it seems to create new lines on his face. “I’m not thinking like a lawyer right now. I’m thinking like a father, and I’m just trying to protect my family. I hate seeing the media circle you and your mother like a pack of coyotes around fresh meat. You did nothing to bring this on yourself.”