The Row by J. R. Johansson
For Bill Chipp—
Thank you for always considering us your own.
We love you.
1
I STEP INTO THE REGISTRATION BUILDING and marvel at how it smells the same every time. The strong aroma of bleach cleanser that somehow never manages to get rid of the lingering undertone of mildew and rot is a hard one to forget.
For over ten years, I’ve spent every Friday afternoon from three to five p.m. at the Polunsky Unit except for the two weeks in December it took to get my “hardship privileges” approved by the warden. It still seems crazy to me that I had to get the approval from Warden Zonnberg—the director of death row himself—just to visit my own daddy without Mama present. It was a whole lot of hassle to go through when you consider that I was only ten months shy of being legal at the time. But like Mama says: Seventeen is still seventeen no matter what color you paint it. So once Mama’s work made it harder for her to attend visits with me, the warden literally declared me a case of hardship in order to approve my visits. I have paperwork and everything. Nothing like putting a label on a girl to make her feel good about herself.
And the stupid teens on reality TV shows think they have daddy issues.
Mama sent me with a letter for Daddy—as she always does. I wonder what it says but don’t look. It’s enough that the guards thoroughly examine every piece of communication our family shares. Me snooping through their messages too would be as welcome as a skunk at a lawn party.
Almost instinctively, I walk toward the desk and begin prepping to pass through the security checkpoint. By the time I step up and sign my name, my shoes and belt are off and my pockets are emptied. As always, I left my purse in the car and only brought my ziplock bag with a paper chess set, my ID, change for the vending machines, my car keys, and Mama’s letter—nothing that will raise any trouble. I may not be an honor student, but I am nothing if not a model death row visitor.
Mama should seriously find a bumper sticker that says that about her daughter.
Nancy, the correctional officer behind the desk, smiles when she looks up and sees me signing in. “You’re prepped already. You’ve got to be the speediest girl at the airport, Riley.”
I incline my head. “I’m sure I will be should I ever decide I want to go anywhere. You’ve prepared me well.”
“You’ve never been on a plane?”
“I’ve never been outside of Texas.”
She seems shocked. “Good Lordy, why not?”
I place one hand across my heart and give her a wide grin. “Because I love it so. I just couldn’t bear to leave.”
“Everybody loves Texas,” Nancy says, nodding with a smile, obviously not catching my sarcasm.
I provide the expected response. “Absolutely.”
Nancy opens Mama’s letter and scans through it. When she’s finished she puts it back with my plastic bag and moves them both through the X-ray machine.
I put the pen down on her book, handing over my driver’s license for her to inspect like she’s done so many times before.
“Still not eighteen yet, huh?” She reaches for the red notebook behind her desk where I know my hardship form is kept. The mound of paperwork I had to fill out to get that form is filed away safely somewhere in the warden’s office. I swear the prison system seems to have taken on the sole responsibility for keeping the paper industry in business.
“Nope. I decided to delay becoming legal for as long as humanly possible.”
“Mm-hmm.” Nancy makes a note in the folder. “Are you guys ready for the hearing?”
“Yep,” I say with false bravado before swallowing against the fear that clamps down on my throat any time I think about Daddy’s final appeal next week.
“What day is it?” She takes me through the metal detector and does my pat-down.
“It’s on Thursday.” I’ve grown used to having conversations with people while they’re frisking me, but that doesn’t make it any less awkward. The trick is to avoid direct eye contact until they’ve finished. I stare straight ahead as she runs her hands over my legs.
“Well, good luck then. See you next week, Riley,” Nancy says, and I wave as I head to the front desk to get my visitor badge and let the receptionist inspect Mama’s letter further.
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.