The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(63)
I come to the turnoff into the prison grounds, pull in, and approach a checkpoint gate. A corrections officer asks me what my business is. He asks to see my ID and tells me to step out of the car. Crane had warned me that the guard might want to look in the trunk or under the hood, but all he does is glance at the inside of the car.
“It’s a rental,” I tell him.
He nods and asks me for the name and number of the prisoner. I sign his form, get back in the car, and drive to the visitor parking lot. On Crane’s advice, I’ve brought along a baggie full of quarters. I leave my cell phone in the car, along with my purse, and carry only the car keys, change, and my ID into the facility.
The butterflies in my stomach are going berserk. I am scared. The foreboding appearance of the buildings that make up Polunsky would send shivers down anyone’s spine. I have no doubt that I am about to glimpse into hell. The place emanates a powerfully cold, oppressive vibe. It’s a world of pain, fear, and despair. I can almost hear the voices warning me: Stay away. Do not enter. Abandon all hope.
Inside the entrance, I walk through an x-ray metal detector, like the one at the airport. I have to place my belongings in a tray on the belt and also receive a pat down by a female corrections officer. She asks if I have a cell phone, dollar bills, or weapons, and I’m glad I anticipated that.
Mr. Crane is sitting in the reception area when I walk in. He stands and shakes my hand. “Hi, Shelby. How are you this morning?”
“Awful. I didn’t sleep at all last night.”
“I’m sorry. Yeah, the prospect of a visit here can do that to people.”
“I’m okay, though.”
“Good. You ready to do this?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
He accompanies me to the desk, where I hand over my ID. The officer checks that my name is on the approved visitor list and hands me a blue slip with all the details of my visit, as well as a plastic badge to wear around my neck. It’s red, with the word VISITOR and initials DR—for death row—on it. Crane leads me to a waiting area where visitors can find vending machines, restrooms, and benches. Attached to the wall are what appear to be post office boxes—Crane explains that these are safes where law enforcement officers can store and lock up their weapons. The most bizarre thing in the room is a sign by the door to the rest of the prison that reads “NO HOSTAGES BEYOND THIS POINT.” That makes no sense to me, but I don’t ask what it means.
I opt to visit the ladies room before proceeding. My hands shake as I wash them. I feel like crying. This is going to be very difficult.
Back outside, I see that an escort has arrived to take us deeper into the unit. We have to go through several doors—buzzed open by officers—and then we are outside in a yard. A sidewalk is enclosed and bordered by a cyclone wire fence on either side, topped with barbed wire. The path leads to one of the main buildings, maybe fifty yards long. As we walk along this open air corridor, Crane points to the “pod” at our left. “That’s death row,” he says. Featureless and gray, all the buildings look the same to me. Big, awful block boxes.
I lose count of how many barred doors we’re buzzed through. Passes are checked and double-checked, and finally we are in the visitation room for death row. It’s a dreary, plain place. Along one wall are cubicles that are essentially phone booths. Each cubicle has a chair in front of it, a counter, and bullet-proof plexiglass separating the visitor from the inmate. And a phone.
Crane suggests buying a Snickers out of a vending machine for Eddie, so I do. “Wouldn’t he want something more substantial?” I ask.
“It’s always a waste of money. He never eats it.”
The guard takes the candy bar out of the slot and informs us that the prisoner is being brought from his cell to the visitation cubicle on his side. He tells me to wait at the numbered cubicle that was assigned to me.
“I’ll give you some privacy and sit over here,” Crane says and takes a seat at a table on the other side of the room. I sit in front of the glass window and wait. By now, the butterflies are drilling holes in the sides of my stomach; they want to make sure all the acid and bile spreads through my body so that I am thoroughly queasy. My nerves scream with anxiety. I suddenly want to bolt from the room and never look back. But I don’t.
After a few eternal minutes, I notice movement on the other side. And there is Eddie, sitting in front of me.
26
He is almost unrecognizable.
Eddie’s scalp is still shaved bald, and there’s an inverted cross tattooed on his forehead. The goatee has become a full beard that hasn’t been trimmed in some time. He is extremely gaunt; he probably weighs thirty or forty pounds less than he did when I last saw him. Worst of all, his eyes reveal a wild contempt that reminds me of a fierce animal in a zoo. The way a tiger or a lion looks at you from behind the bars in its cage.
This is not the boy across the street I knew and loved. The powerful charisma he once possessed is long gone.
“Hello, Eddie.” He stares at me as if he doesn’t know who I am. “It’s me. Shelby.” His eyes continue to bore holes through me. His silence is unnerving. “I … I came a long way to see you. Aren’t you going to say hello?”
He starts to laugh. It begins quietly, but it grows until he is practically belly-laughing on the other side of the glass. I don’t know what to do.