the end. By the way, my name’s Jesse Harbinger. What’s yours?”
He extended his hand. I took it and, giving it a firm but gentle pump, I said, “I’m Alan Pearson. It’s good to meet you, Jesse.”
“You too, Alan.”
“Jesse?” a call came from halfway across the room. He looked over his shoulder and nodded, smiling.
“Duty calls,” he said, “my wife… gotta go. Hope to see you around, Alan.” With that he disappeared into the crowd.
I started moving toward the line of people waiting to get a word with the chief.
I was thinking of how he talked about integrating the police and involving citizens in law-and-order issues. My mind was racing at light speed.
I was brought back to reality as the line inched forward again. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that talking to this guy for a couple of minutes wouldn’t cut it. So I let some people go before me. I wanted to get as much face time as I could.
The line kept getting longer and longer. So I started quietly moving with the flow again, wrapped up in my own thoughts. When I finally got to the chief, I couldn’t believe how tall he was. Displaying a full set of very white teeth, he reached out and shook my hand. I can’t for the life of me figure out why the first thing that came out of my mouth was, “How tall are you?” What a dope! How tall are you?!
His smile broadened and he said, “You waited in line so that you could ask me how tall I am? I’m six-five.”
“Uh… no, I just, I just mean, well, you know. No! How could you know; I don’t even know what I mean.” We both laughed and his entire face lit up. I could see the laughter in his eyes. All I could think to say was, “I really enjoyed your speech.”
“Well, thank you very much, ah… I don’t believe I caught your name, Mr.…”
“Pearson,” I said, “Alan Pearson.”
“Mr. Pearson.”
“Please, call me Alan.”
“Okay, Alan it is.”
“Chief Dylan,” I said, “I realize now is not a good time, but would it be possible for us to get together sometime so I can ask you a few questions?”
Without hesitation, he said, “Certainly.” He reached into an inside coat pocket and pulled out an iPhone. He played with it for a few moments then said, “When were you thinking would be good?”
“Whatever’s good for you,” I responded.
“Will next Thursday morning at eleven work for you?”
“That would be great,” I answered.
“If something should come up and either of us can’t make it for some reason, we’ll just give a call, okay? Do you have a card?” he asked.
“Yes, I do,” I said, trying to find my card case. At that same instant, he was handing me one of his.
He pointed to the second telephone number and said, “This is the best number to reach me.” He looked me in the face and said, “Thursday, then?”
“Yes, Thursday,” I replied. We shook hands again, he smiled, and when I left him he was greeting one of my Chamber brothers. The guy was wearing about a dozen brightly colored buttons and pins all over his lapels. I couldn’t help smiling. Next Thursday it is.
Chapter 3
The Visitation
“I would rather die than accept being treated as less than human.”
—Unknown Prison Inmate
That weekend, I went to see Donnie. I’m not sure what I was feeling that day. It could have been hope, inspiration, or a new sense of understanding. Whatever it was, it felt good. I had no idea what I was going to say when I got there but, for the first time since Donnie had gone to prison, I felt like everything would be okay. I wanted it to be, anyway.
I hated going into that place. I’d only gone a couple of other times, but on each occasion I’d gotten this knot in my stomach. Walking across the parking lot to the entrance always seemed to increase my anxiety, and I found it difficult to breathe. I had to keep telling myself to inhale and exhale, but not this time. This time was different.
When I got inside, a guard was perched behind a counter in the reception area. He asked who I wanted to see and I handed him the visitation form I’d just completed. He looked it over, then asked to see my driver’s license. I extended my hand; he took the license, glanced at it, and then shoved it back across the counter. Once my status had been verified, I had to go through a metal detector. And every time I walked into the darn thing, an alarm went off. They had this rule that if you didn’t get through the detector in three tries, your visit would be denied. For some reason, the metal clasp on my pants always set it off. I’d have to roll the waistband over the clasp a couple of times, shield it with my hands, and then walk through very very slowly. The first time I tried to get through, a guard had to show me how to do it. Nobody else seemed to have this problem, but I set that alarm off every time. Once I got past the metal detector, there was a sign advising that all visitors were subject to search beyond this point. There was a yellow line painted on the floor beneath the sign. Now, I’d never seen anyone who’d crossed the line taken to be searched, so I mused the sign was for show, but then again, probably not. Another guard buzzed the lock on the heavy metal door leading to the visitation room. I had to strain to open the door and it closed with an abrupt metallic thud as the lock slammed back into place.
The visitation room was a large open area filled with stainless steel tables and matching stools. Everything was bolted to the floor. Several guards were stationed around the room, and every once in a while one of them would tell an inmate to stop doing something or another. Physical contact was allowed, and some of the prisoners were holding their children or holding hands with a spouse or loved one. The room was abuzz with activity, yet somehow, everyone seemed less alive in here. It was as if the walls drained the life out of everything and everyone in the room. A repugnant odor filled the air—I’m not sure if it was disinfectant, sweat, stale air, or all of the above. I hated that smell. It got into my clothes and stayed in my nostrils for hours.
Donnie entered the room, escorted by a guard who nodded to others stationed at an elevated platform that overlooked the area. Donnie walked past me to report in at the guard station before returning to the table. He looked drawn and tired. He’d lost weight and his clothes didn’t fit well. He was dressed in prison-issue khaki and he wore a pair of burlap boat shoes. When he got to the table, we embraced for what seemed like forever. I could feel Donnie breathing as if he were trying to stifle the urge to cry, and I no longer felt the hope or inspiration of before; all I could feel was his despair.
“How’re you doing?” I asked, more as a formality, I think, than a serious question. He looked terrible and I could see he wasn’t doing well.
“I’m okay,” he whispered.
“Donnie, you don’t look well. Talk to me; tell me what’s going on.” He must’ve needed to talk because he opened right up. His voice was barely audible over the noise in the room and it was choked as if he was fighting the urge to
