Authors: Jodi Picoult
“No.”
“You get used to it.”
I looked around at the cinder-block walls, the rusting catwalks. “I doubt that.”
We stepped through a fire door marked
I-TIER
. “This is where we keep the most hard-core inmates,” Coyne said. “I can’t promise they’ll be on their best behavior.”
In the center of the room was a control tower. A young officer sat there, watching a television monitor that seemed to have a bird’s-eye view of the inside of the pod. It was quiet, or maybe the door that led inside was soundproof.
I walked up to the door and peered inside. There was an empty shower stall closest to me, then eight cells. I could not see the faces of the men and wasn’t sure which one was Bourne. “This is Father Michael,” the warden said. “He’s come to speak with Inmate Bourne.” He reached into a bin and handed me a flak jacket and protective goggles, as if I were going to war instead of death row.
“You can’t go in unless you’ve got the right equipment,” the warden said.
“Go
in
?”
“Well, where’d you think you were going to meet Inmate Bourne, Father? Starbucks?”
I had thought there would be some kind of … room, I guess. Or the chapel. “I’ll be alone with him? In a cell?”
“Hell, no,” Warden Coyne said. “You stand out on the catwalk and talk through the door.”
Taking a deep breath, I slipped the jacket on over my clothes and fitted the goggles to my face. Then I winged a quick prayer and nodded.
“Open up,” Warden Coyne said to the young officer.
“Yes, sir,” the kid said, clearly flustered to be under Coyne’s
regard. He glanced down at the control panel before him, a myriad display of buttons and lights, and pushed one near his left hand, only to realize at the last minute it was the wrong choice. The doors of all eight cells opened at once.
“Ohmygod,” the boy said, his eyes wide as saucers, as the warden shoved me out of the way and began punching a series of levers and buttons on the control panel.
“Get him out of here,” the warden yelled, jerking his head in my direction. Over the loudspeaker came his radio call:
Multiple inmates released on I-tier; need officer assistance immediately.
I stood, riveted, as the inmates spilled out of their respective cells like poison. And then … well … all hell broke loose.
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When the doors released in unison, like all the strings tuning up in an orchestra and magically hitting the right note the first time the bow was raised, I didn’t run out of the cell like the others. I stopped for a beat, paralyzed by freedom.
I quickly tucked my painting beneath the mattress of the bunk and stashed my ink in a roll of dirty laundry. I could hear Warden Coyne’s voice on the loudspeakers, calling over the radio for the SWAT team. This had happened only once before when I was in prison; a new officer screwed up and two cells were opened simultaneously. The inmate who’d been accidentally freed rushed into the other’s cell and cracked his skull open against the sink, a gang hit that had been waiting for years to come to pass.
Crash was the first one out of his cell. He ran past mine with his fist curled around a shank, making a beeline for Joey Kunz—a child molester was fair game for anyone. Pogie and Texas followed him like the dogs they were. “Grab him, boys,” Crash hollered. “Let’s just cut it right off.”
Joey’s voice escalated as he was cornered. “For God’s sake, someone help!”
There was the sound of a fist hitting flesh, of Calloway swearing. By now, he was in Joey’s cell, too.
“Lucius?” I heard, a slow ribbon of a voice, as if it had come from underwater, and I remembered that Joey wasn’t the only one
on the tier who’d hurt a child. If Joey was Crash’s first victim, Shay could very well be the second.
There were people outside the prison praying to Shay; there were religious pundits on TV who promised hell and damnation to those who worshipped a false messiah. I didn’t know what Shay was or wasn’t, but I credited him for my health one hundred percent. And there was something about him that just didn’t fit in here, that made you stop and look twice, as if you’d come across an orchid growing in a ghetto.
“Stay where you are,” I called out. “Shay, you hear me?”
But he didn’t answer. I stood at the threshold of my cell, trembling. I stared at that invisible line between here and now, no and yes, if and when. With one deep breath, I stepped outside.
Shay was not in his cell; he was moving slowly toward Joey’s. Through the door of I-tier, I could see the officers suiting up in flak jackets and shields and masks. There was someone else, too—a priest I’d never seen before.
I reached for Shay’s arm to stop him. That’s all, just that small heat, and it nearly brought me to my knees. Here in prison we did not touch; we were not touched. I could have held on to Shay, at the innocent crook of his elbow, forever.
But Shay turned, and I remembered the first unwritten rule of being in prison: you did not invade someone’s space. I let go. “It’s okay,” Shay said softly, and he took another step toward Joey’s cell.
Joey was spread-eagled on the floor, sobbing, his pants pulled down. His head was twisted away, and blood streamed from his nose. Pogie had one of his arms, Texas the other; Calloway sat on his fighting feet. From this angle, they were obscured from the view of the officers who were mobilizing to subdue everyone. “You heard of Save the Children?” Crash said, brandishing his homemade blade. “I’m here to make a donation.”
Just then, Shay sneezed.
“God bless,” Crash said automatically.
Shay wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Thanks.”
The interruption made Crash lose some of his momentum. He glanced out at the army on the other side of the door, screaming commands we couldn’t hear. He rocked back on his heels and surveyed Joey, shivering against the cement floor.
“Let him go,” Crash said.
“Let him … ?” Calloway echoed.
“You heard me. All of you. Go back.”
Pogie and Texas listened; they always did what Crash said. Calloway was slower to leave. “We ain’t done here,” he said to Joey, but then he left.
“What the fuck are you waiting for?” Crash said to me, and I hurried back to my own cell, forgetting entirely anyone else’s welfare except my own.
I do not know what it was that led to Crash’s change of plan—if it was knowing that the officers would storm the tier and punish him; if it was Shay’s well-timed sneeze; if it was a prayer—
God bless
—on the lips of a sinner like Crash. But by the time the SWAT team entered seconds later, all seven of us were sitting in our cells even though the doors were still wide open, as if we were angels, as if we had nothing to hide.
There’s a flower I can see from the exercise yard. Well, I can’t really see it—I have to sort of hook my fingers on the ledge of the only window and spider-walk up the cement wall, but I can glimpse it then before I fall back down. It’s a dandelion, which you might think is a weed, but it can be put into salads or soups. The root can be ground up and used as a coffee substitute. The juices can get rid of warts or be used as an insect repellent. I learned all
this from a
Mother Earth News
magazine piece that I keep wrapped around my treasures—my shank, my Q-tips, the tiny Visine bottles where I keep the ink I manufacture. I read the art icle every time I take my supplies out for inventory, which is daily. I keep my cache behind a loosened cinder block beneath my cot, refilling the mortar with Metamucil and toothpaste, mixed, so that the officers don’t get suspicious when they toss the cell.
I never gave it much thought before I came in here, but I wish I knew more about horticulture. I wish I’d taken the time to learn what makes things grow. Hell, if I had, maybe I could have started a watermelon plant from a seedling. Maybe I’d have vines hanging all over the place by now.
Adam had the green thumb in our household. I used to find him outside at the crack of dawn, rooting around in the dirt between our daylilies and sedums.
The weeds shall inherit the earth,
he had said.
Meek
, I’d corrected.
The meek shall inherit it.
No way
, Adam had said, and laughed.
The weeds will blow right by them
.
He used to say that if you picked a dandelion, two would grow back in its place. I guess they are the botanical equivalent of the men in this prison. Take one of us off the street, and more will sprout up in his wake.
With Crash back in solitary, and Joey in the infirmary, I-tier was oddly quiet. In the wake of Joey’s beating, our privileges had been suspended, so all showers and exercise yard visits were canceled for the day. Shay was pacing. Earlier, he’d been complaining that his teeth were vibrating with the air-conditioning unit; sometimes sounds got to be too much for him—usually when he was agitated. “Lucius,” he said. “Did you see that priest today?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think he came for me?”
I didn’t want to give him false hope. “I don’t know, Shay. Maybe someone was dying on another tier and needed last rites.”
“The dead aren’t alive, and the living don’t die.”
I laughed. “Thanks for that, Yoda.”
“Who’s Yoda?”
He was talking crazy, the way Crash had a year ago when he’d started to peel the lead paint from the cinder blocks and eat it, hoping it would serve as a hallucinogen. “Well, if there
is
a heaven, I bet it’s full of dandelions.” (Actually, I think heaven’s full of guys who look like Wentworth Miller from
Prison Break
, but for right now, I was only talking landscaping.)
“Heaven’s not a
place
.”
“I didn’t say it had map coordinates …”
“If it was in the sky, then birds would get there before you. If it was under the sea, fish would be first.”
“Then where is it?” I asked.
“It’s inside you,” Shay said, “and outside, too.”
If he wasn’t eating the lead paint, then he’d been making hooch I didn’t know about. “If this is heaven, I’ll take a rain check.”
“You can’t wait for it, because it’s already here.”
“Well, you’re the only one of us who got rose-colored glasses when he was booked, I guess.”
Shay was silent for a while. “Lucius,” he asked finally. “Why did Crash go after Joey instead of me?”
I didn’t know. Crash was a convicted murderer; I had no doubt he could and would kill again if given the opportunity. Technically, both Joey and Shay had sinned equally in Crash’s code of justice; they had harmed children. Maybe Crash figured Joey would be easier to kill. Maybe Shay had gained a modicum of respect through his miracles. Maybe he’d just gotten lucky.
Maybe even Crash thought there was something special about Shay.
“He’s not any different than Joey …” Shay said.
“Teensy suggestion? Don’t let Crash hear you say that.”
“… and we’re not any different than Crash,” he finished. “You don’t know what would make you do what Crash did, just like you didn’t know what would make you kill Adam, until it happened.”
I drew in my breath. No one in prison talked about another person’s crime, even if you secretly believed they were guilty. But I
had
killed Adam. It was my hand holding the gun; it was his blood on my clothes. It wasn’t what had been done that was at issue for me in court; it was why.
“It’s okay to not know something,” Shay said. “That’s what makes us human.”
No matter what Mr. Philosopher Next Door thought, there were things I knew for sure: That I had been loved, once, and had loved back. That a person could find hope in the way a weed grew. That the sum of a man’s life was not where he wound up but in the details that brought him there.
That we made mistakes.
I closed my eyes, sick of the riddles, and to my surprise all I could see were dandelions—as if they had been painted on the fields of my imagination, a hundred thousand suns. And I remembered something else that makes us human: faith, the only weapon in our arsenal to battle doubt.
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They say God won’t give you any more than you can handle, but that begs a more important question: why would God let you suffer in the first place?
“No comment,” I said into the phone, and I slammed down the receiver loud enough that Claire—on the couch with her iPod on—sat up and took notice. I reached beneath the table and yanked out the cord completely so that I would not have to hear the phone ring.
They had been calling all morning; they had set up camp outside my home.
How does it feel to know that there are protesters outside the prison, hoping to free the man who murdered your child and your husband?
Do you think Shay Bourne’s request to be an organ donor is a way to make up for what he’s done?
What I thought was that nothing Shay Bourne could do or say would ever make up for the lives of Elizabeth and Kurt. I knew firsthand how well he could lie and what might come of it—this was nothing more than some publicity stunt to make everyone feel badly for him, because after a decade, who even remembered feeling badly for that police officer, that little girl?
I
did.
There are people who say that the death penalty isn’t just because it takes so long to execute a man. That it’s inhumane to have to wait eleven years or more for punishment. That at least for Elizabeth and Kurt, death came quickly.
Let me tell you what’s wrong with that line of reasoning: it assumes that Elizabeth and Kurt were the only victims. It leaves out me; it leaves out Claire. And I can promise you that every day for the last eleven years I’ve thought of what I lost at the hands of Shay Bourne. I’ve been anticipating his death just as long as he has.
I heard voices coming from the living room and realized that Claire had turned on the television. A grainy photograph of Shay Bourne filled the screen. It was the same photo that had been used in the newspapers, although Claire would not have seen those, since I’d thrown them out immediately. Bourne’s hair was cut short now, and there were parenthetical lines around his mouth and fanning from the corners of his eyes, but he otherwise did not look any different.