A Knock at Midnight(83)
“Here it is,” he said. “?‘Where does my greatest joy intersect with the world’s greatest need? Let me go there.’ It sounds to me, young lady, like you know the answer to that already.”
* * *
—
A FEW WEEKS later, I flew to Indiana to see Corey at Terre Haute USP. It was the first time we were meeting in person.
The day was so colorless the sky and buildings melted into each other. Razor wire unspooled in place of the pink and purple flowers I’d grown used to during my visits to Sharanda. I missed them now. Even those small splashes of color would have done something to mitigate the bleak, muted despair cloaking the formidable gray buildings of Terre Haute. There were no men in the yard, or on the barren concrete that stretched around the old gray buildings, crisscrossed with chain-link fences and more barbed wire.
The farther into the depths of a men’s maximum-security prison you go, the louder the clanging, echoing noise. The closer the air. The tighter the constriction in your chest. I tried to breathe through my mouth. Prison corridors smell like sweat and metal, iron and chains. Like the sharp edge of fear and the blunt edge of misery. But I’m glad I followed the guard through the concrete labyrinth to the attorney-client meeting room that day. Because soon after I sat down, in stepped the indomitable Corey Jacobs—larger than life, full of energy and purpose.
Corey’s confident swagger made his soul appear to tilt on its axis, so much so that his walk seemed to defy gravity. But Corey’s spine was straight, just like his words. He had a piercing gaze and a disarming smile. He opened his arms and enveloped me in a big hug.
“Man, it’s good to see you, Britt! Here you are right in front of me! God is the greatest.”
We spoke about his petition only briefly. By this point Corey felt fully like family. His refusal to be defeated inspires me to this day. Faced with a slow death sentence that few would be able to endure, Corey stayed true to himself. He had so much charisma, but the strongest feeling in his presence was a sense of profound calm. It makes a certain pragmatic sense: To survive in the nightmare of prison this long, his optimism and groundedness had to be persistent enough to drown out the nihilism surrounding him.
It was certainly loud that day in our meeting. The door to the meeting room was open throughout our visit, and I was jarred by the constant clanging of the keys, the sudden, hollow bangs of steel locks unlatched and metal doors banging open and closed. After a hectic workweek, every grating noise made my jaw clench, the knots in my neck and shoulders tighten. But Corey was unbothered, leaning forward and talking over and through it. It was so good to see him in person. His wire-rimmed glasses gave his timeless baby face a professorial air. Some of the youthful slimness from those early-’93 photos had given way to a larger, more muscular build—but his expressive brows and quick smile remained the same. When I flinched at a particularly loud bang, Corey smiled at me.
“You been meditating, Britt?” he asked. “How’s that going? Getting your mind right?”
“I read all the articles you sent,” I said, “but I’ve been so busy with work I just haven’t had time.”
“You start short, and then build up,” he said. “It’s a practice. I do about sixteen minutes a day—you could start with half that. We should set a time, meditate together every day. It really focuses your mind, keeps you sharp. Let’s do it right now. Come on.”
“Right here? Now?”
I couldn’t think of anywhere less relaxing than this boxlike room in maximum security. Just as I thought it, I caught myself. This was probably the most peaceful room in the prison.
“Just breathe,” Corey said. “Close your eyes. Feel your body in the chair. Picture the ocean in front of you—I know you love the ocean. Just watch the waves and breathe.”
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. And with Corey guiding me, I did my very first formal meditation right there at Terre Haute USP. He was right. As I breathed across the table from Corey and focused on the rolling surf in my mind’s eye, I did feel the horrors of the facility fade into the background. And it wasn’t only the prison that faded. Tension I’d held in my body all week seemed to melt and lift. It wasn’t easy to let my thoughts go, but once I did, a feeling of well-being hummed.
“Thank you,” I told him. “That felt good.”
“You should do it every day!” Corey said. “Somewhere under the trees, in nature. I just read this crazy article about the way being in nature affects your well-being. It actually rewires our brain in some way. My own practice is pretty advanced at this point, but reading that, I thought, damn, I meditate every morning but I can’t try the nature part until Obama comes through for us. There are no trees here. Matter of fact, I haven’t seen a single tree in years. Can you believe that?”
Corey kept talking, but I didn’t hear much of what he said after that. Just being able to see trees out her cell window had lifted Sharanda’s spirits when they were lowest, had given her the strength and the glimpse of hope she needed. But Corey hadn’t seen a tree in years. A tree. The high gates around the prison prevented men from seeing any even when in the yard. Imagine never laying eyes on something so simple as a tree. No elm, nor oak. No cypress. No blooming magnolia. No palm tree or cedar tree or lemon tree or pine. In their place, razor wire and concrete, bare dirt and tarmac. Steel.