A Knock at Midnight(76)

“Ms. Barnett,” the woman said after she’d finished the formal part of her call, “this makes two for you, doesn’t it?”

It took me a moment to register her name: Kira Horstmeyer. She was the same attorney who’d called me when Donel got clemency. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, it is. We’ve been waiting for this one. We’ve been waiting a long time.”

    I almost lost it then. We had knocked on so many doors, in so many ways. We had knocked and knocked and knocked. And on December 18, 2015, President Barack Obama, the very first Black president of these United States, answered. Everything we had hoped for, planned for, believed in since the day we met had just taken place in real life. Through an incredible act of mercy, the president had finally brought justice. My mother and I sat in silence after the call, just breathing, soaking it all in.

“Sharanda doesn’t even know,” I said to my mom, her tear-streaked face a reflection of my own. “She’s free. She’s really free. Free!”



* * *



—

SHARANDA TOLD ME later that she’d been sitting on her metal cot in Carswell Medical Center. Outside the small window above her cell, she could see the bare gray branches of the tree she’d grown to love. Women kept coming to check on her. “You feeling all right?” they’d say. “Why haven’t you gone out to the yard?” She’d been sitting there all morning, which was unusual for Sharanda.

“I’m fine,” she’d answer. “Just feel like sitting in here today.”

The last week, everyone had been a little worried. She’d started giving away her things, her cooking supplies, her carefully hoarded items from the commissary.

“She’s been in here too long,” she’d heard someone say. “She’s touched.”

But that wasn’t it. All week, Sharanda told me, she’d had a feeling. That day it was especially strong. In the morning she’d woken from a dream, an image lingering in her mind of a gold seal. Still, when her counselor called for her about a phone call, she didn’t know it was me calling.

The moment it took for Sharanda to pick up seemed an eternity. I almost felt nervous. I think there was still a part of me that thought I might wake up from this, that I might open my eyes to find the day had not yet started, the call that had changed all of our lives never received. But when I heard Sharanda’s voice on the line—cautious, guarded, ready for the bad news that unexpected calls often brought—all I felt was tremendous joy.

    “Hello?”

“You’re comin’ home!” I almost sang the words. I wasn’t going to spin this out one millisecond longer. “I got the call today!”

I heard a sharp intake of breath. I’d been on two of these calls by now, with Donel and Mike, and was used to the moments of almost nonresponse as the news sank into my clients’ consciousness. For the psyche to survive prison, a protective shell forms. Even good news has to penetrate the fortress of emotional defenses. Even liberation news.

There was silence, almost as if Sharanda had dropped the phone. “She’s here,” her counselor shouted from the background. “She’s just crying.”

Sharanda came back to the phone, still sobbing. “Thank you, Jesus, thank you, thank you, Brittany. It’s just been so long. So long.”

“I’m so happy,” I said, between sobs myself. “I’m so happy for you!” I took a deep breath. I wanted her to know everything, to never not be in full control of the details of her life ever again. And I wanted to bury my face in my mama’s shoulder and just let it all go. All of it. All of the fears and frustrations, all of my helplessness in the face of Sharanda’s daily ordeal on the inside. For years I had stood so proximate to Sharanda’s suffering that I could feel it even in my stillest moments. There were times when her words kept me fighting. And times when mine kept her encouraged. Those moments created a cadence between us. Now, I felt so close to her joy and freedom that I treasured it as my own.

“Your release date is April the sixteenth.” At that, any semblance of Sharanda’s guarded tone lifted entirely. Her voice broke with feeling.

“I’ll make it for the baby! I’m going to be home for my grandbaby!”

“Yeah, you will!”

    We talked over each other, each saying the same thing. I could hear the counselor sniffling in the background, too.

“Where your mama at?” Sharanda asked.

“Right here,” I said, and my mama said, “Hallelujah.”

“I knew it!” Sharanda let out a beautiful laugh. “Thank you, Brittany.”

“Sharanda, I love you so much.”

“I love you so much. You worked so hard for this. I’ll be home for the baby.” She kept repeating it. “I’ll be home for the baby!”

When we ended the call, I sat in the car with my mom. We didn’t have to say anything. We were both thinking of Sharanda standing in that office, the realization of what had just transpired slowly sinking in. Her life was saved with a stroke of Obama’s pen. Her sixteen-year nightmare was finally over. And yes, Sharanda Jones would be home for the birth of her granddaughter.

When Sharanda walked back to the unit, the women of Carswell stood still along the hallway and clapped as she passed. It had been a long, long time, but Sharanda Jones was coming home.