This Is My America(8)
“There you go, man.” I’m not sure who says it.
A whistle blows out long and low.
“Not a chance,” Tasha says out the window.
His boys huddle, laughing, saying “oooh.” Their voices eventually fade as she pulls into the lot farther away from releases.
I give a grateful smile to Tasha for driving me the two hours to visit Daddy. Knowing she’ll be out here waiting for me when I’m done.
I enter the first small building and join a short line, dump my things in a yellow bin. The security woman smooths her hands down my arms, up my waist, across my bra line, then down my legs.
Then I go to the next building and wait until I’m called over the loudspeaker. I sit by a small round-table bench as the prisoners line up behind the glass. I’m grateful they changed the rule to visit death-row inmates, and I don’t have to come all this way to pick up a phone to talk to Daddy through a glass window.
There’s a buzz, then a clank as the locks release and the door is propped open by an officer. Rushing in to see their visitors, a few guys bump into one another.
My heart stops, hoping this doesn’t turn into some altercation that’ll shut down visiting hour while they go into lockdown. Or worse, I witness Daddy getting into it with someone. I shut my eyes for a moment, thinking about the first time I saw him with injuries. I blink the memory away.
It takes so much out of me and the family getting ready for a visit, hiding our own troubles. Always finding a way to ball it up during our visits so we don’t put that stress on Daddy.
The men size one another up until one’s distracted by his son yelling, “Daddy! I see Daddy!” He turns to mush, then gives the guy a dap.
A grin takes over my face when I finally spot Daddy in line. He’s tall, with broad shoulders that are covered by his white jumper. His beard is grown in a bit, and he’s kept his Afro about two inches. He used to keep his hair lined up before prison. Considering everything, he still looks the same to me, which gives me comfort.
Daddy scans from corner to corner until he finds me at the table. I warm over at his matching grin. I tap my fingers nervously until Daddy takes a seat in front of me.
“You came,” Daddy says.
“What do you mean?”
“I thought your mama might’ve locked you up after that stunt you pulled. What were you thinking?”
I put my head down.
Daddy flicks at my hair, then shoots out a bellowing laugh.
“You should’ve seen your mama’s face on television. Eyes all bugged out. It’s probably the one time in my life I was glad to be locked up, so I wouldn’t be on that car ride home or have to stay up listening to your mama talk my ear off all night about you, girl.”
I laugh with relief. “I’m sorry. I know you said not to.”
“You wrong. This was Jamal’s day today. My baggage don’t need to follow him to college.”
“I know, but we gotta catch Innocence X’s attention.”
“You’re a fighter. I love that about you.” Daddy brushes my hair back. “But you need to start preparing yourself—”
“Never.” I glance away.
A bald-headed, muscular white guard watches us; the way he’s looking at us bothers me. Daddy follows my gaze.
“Don’t pay them no mind.”
Daddy rubs his hands together, callused from the three-hour daily work outside. He gets one hour in the library, another break from his concrete sixty-square-foot cell. In his cell, he reads five hours a day. That’s where Daddy picked up studying the law, after being filled with disappointment with each appeal. This is what we share between us on visits. Our ability to swap facts back and forth and all my letters to Innocence X. Mama tells him everything going on with us kids. Jamal fills the visit with things Daddy likes. Like his working hard, his track practice, Mama, and all the notes Jamal’s left for Corinne that week. Daddy loves that the most.
When I talk to Daddy about his case and get too hopeful, he makes me promise not to be upset if an appeal doesn’t happen. Because getting one grows more unlikely with each day. But Daddy’s also not the type to give up. He could’ve accepted a plea deal, but he said he wouldn’t admit to something he didn’t do. God would be watching over him and set him free. He believed there’d already been tragedy enough with the Davidson couple being murdered, and him and his best friend, Jackson Ridges, being blamed. Mr. Ridges was killed by the police as they tried to take him from his home. Daddy thought God wouldn’t let more pain come from that tragedy. So he pled innocent, and life without parole was off the table. It would be a death sentence if found guilty.
I used to believe that what Daddy said about no more pain was true. Like the Messiah himself would walk right through the courtroom and carry my daddy out. Now I know it’s up to us.
“I didn’t mean to ruin Jamal’s moment.” I watch him with hopeful eyes.
“I see no one else came to make this visit.” Daddy squeezes my hand. “I need you to stay close, not pull apart.”
“I just wish Jamal’d understand what I was trying to do. I couldn’t not talk about you.”
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to control yourself if you had the chance. I had a bet out here when we watched it, but I didn’t expect you to lie. You don’t know what that does in here.”