The Inmate (64)

And then he saved it for an entire decade. Waiting for the right moment to use it against me.

Fortunately, I didn’t get into a lot of trouble after I recanted the testimony. It was an honest mistake on my part—it was, after all, an extremely traumatic night. And this paved the way for Shane to get a new lawyer and have the verdict of his trial overturned.

Today, after eleven years, Shane Nelson is being released from prison.

And I am picking him up.

The doors to the prison open, and Shane comes out, wearing an old black coat, a pair of blue jeans, and sneakers that likely used to be white but are now a shade of gray. He’s got a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, which holds all his belongings in the entire world. I wave to him so he sees me, and he waves back.

When he gets closer, the dark circles under his eyes are more visible, but at least he doesn’t have any bruises on his face. I had been worried that something could happen in the last few days that might keep him from coming home, but nothing else has gone wrong.

“Brooke. Hi.”

“Hi,” I say.

When I visited him at the prison the last couple of months, we had to talk to each other through a wall of glass, using telephones mounted on the wall. We couldn’t touch each other. Now there’s nothing separating us, but we just stand there, smiling nervously. I don’t know which one of us looks more anxious.

“Thanks for picking me up,” he says.

“No problem.” It’s not like he has anyone else to do it for him—besides me, he’s alone in the world. “How does it feel to be out?”

It’s such a stupid question, and I feel silly for having asked it. But for the first time in a long time, the smile on his face looks genuine. “It feels amazing.”

It won’t be an easy transition back to regular life. Shane at least got his GED, but he had planned to go to college, and of course, that never happened. He has no money, and although he’ll likely be completely cleared of all charges, it’s hard to erase the fact that he spent the last decade of his life in prison. He can’t just carry on like the last ten years never happened.

It’s my fault, and I’m going to do whatever I can to help him.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a flip phone. I hold it out to Shane. “Here’s a phone for you to use if you need it. It’s got a bunch of prepaid minutes.”

He takes it from me, turning it over in his hand. “Wow. At the prison, this would be major contraband. Thank you so much.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“I know, but I appreciate it.”

I nod, my face suddenly hot. “Well,” I say, “let’s get on the road.”

Shane throws his bag into the trunk of my car, and then he climbs into the passenger seat beside me. “I’ve got to get my driver’s license back.”

“I don’t mind being your chauffeur in the meantime,” I tell him.

“Thanks, Brooke.”

“Want to grab some fast food on the way back?”

His mouth practically starts watering. “Jesus, you read my mind.”

It turns out that taking a guy who’s been in prison for the last ten years to a fast-food restaurant is even better than taking a kid to a candy store. Shane stares at the menu for like ten minutes, his eyes huge, and he ends up ordering more food than I’ve ever seen him eat in one sitting. After he orders, he digs out this envelope full of cash from his pocket, but I make him put it back. He has practically no money—the least I can do is treat him to this meal.

When he finally takes a bite of that greasy fast-food burger, he looks like he’s going to die from happiness. “Holy shit, this is a fantastic burger.”

I look at my own burger, with its rubbery patty and limp lettuce. “I guess.”

He stuffs like eight french fries into his mouth all at once and then takes a long sip from his vanilla milkshake. “I’m sorry. You don’t know what I’ve been eating for the last ten years.”

“Was it that bad?”

He cringes. “I don’t want to talk about it. But yes.”

For a moment, I imagine Tim sitting at one of the long tables in the prison dining hall, staring down at a tray of mystery meat and waterlogged vegetables. It’s what he deserves. It’s better than he deserves.

“So,” Shane says, “when does Josh get home?”

As much as he is enjoying this fast food meal, it’s become clear from the conversations I’ve had with Shane in the last several weeks that what he is really looking forward to is meeting his son. He was adamant that I couldn’t bring Josh to see him at the penitentiary. I don’t want him to see me like this.

“The bus usually arrives at our house at a quarter after three,” I say.

He nods. “So…”

We’re not entirely sure how the best way to handle this situation is. It’s not the kind of thing you can easily look up online. How do you introduce your son to his father who has been in jail for murder for ten years? It’s tricky. All I have told Josh so far is that an old friend of mine would be staying with us for a bit.

“I’m just going to say you’re my friend,” I tell him. “We’re agreed on that, right?”

Shane nods. “I just want to meet him. We can tell him the truth when the time is right.”