Tears descended as she managed to say, “I do. I was so happy to hear from her. If only I’d known…”
John moved to pull Emily into his arms. “I know… I’m so sorry we didn’t know… Courtney was right. Claire never told anyone.”
Emily nodded. “I hate that he got off so easy.”
“I was incarcerated. Trust me: he isn’t getting off easy.”
“Unless someone beats him into unconsciousness, I think it’s too easy.”
John shrugged. “Well, if he pisses off the wrong people—”
Emily grinned. “You’re just trying to make me feel better!”
After dinner, John settled at his desk in the study and looked at Tim’s business card, the one he’d been given earlier today. It was lying innocently on the desk… pleading for attention. Truly, John was curious as to what Tim wanted to say. Though the card had only his business numbers, in pen, Tim had added his personal cell number. John punched the number into his phone.
Contemplating the conversation he’d just had, John made his way through the house and found Emily lying on their bed, hands over her enlarged midsection, with her eyes closed. She looked so peaceful that John hated to disturb her. As he was about to walk away, her eyes fluttered open. “I thought you were sleeping,” he said softly.
“No, I was just enjoying our little man’s tap dance.”
John’s smile broadened as he made his way to the bed and placed his hand next to Emily’s. “I felt him! Man, he’s really moving.”
Emily nodded. “He is.”
“Is Nichol asleep?”
“I think so. I just put her down a few minutes ago. She was pretty tired.” Emily glanced toward the baby monitor on the bedside stand. “I haven’t heard a peep out of her.”
“Are you ready for two babies?”
Emily shrugged with a tired grin. “I’m ready for Michael to make his appearance, and after the last three months, I couldn’t imagine not having Nichol. So I think the answer is yes.”
“I love her too, but you know, she does have parents.”
Emily brushed a tear from her eye. “These stupid hormones have me all emotional.”
“You don’t think maybe it was the day. I mean it’s been pretty stressful. I think you need to get some sleep.”
“With everything going on with Anthony’s hearing, I forgot to tell you about my visit with Claire yesterday.”
John scooted up to the headboard and pulled his wife closer.
With her head on his shoulder and both of their hands on her midsection, Emily continued, “I like her doctor: she’s not only compassionate but incredibly intelligent. They’re trying some different things.”
“Like what?”
“Well, they asked me a lot of questions: like what does she like to do in her spare time? It occurred to me that I didn’t know. I could tell them things she used to like to do, but I discovered the sad truth: I don’t know my sister anymore.” More tears blurred the room. “When we decided to move to California, before we knew about Nichol, I had such high hopes. I thought Claire and Harry seemed happy. I imagined all of us being a family one day.” She took a ragged breath. “It’s all his fault. Everything is his fault. Now, we’re not together as a family—even us. I miss having you around. But I can’t leave her…”
John held her shuddering shoulders as Emily’s tears dampened his shirt.
Smoothing his wife’s hair, John said, “Tim Bronson gave me his card today, just before he left the courtroom. He asked me to call him.”
“Why?”
“I was curious, too.”
Emily looked up. “You were? Does that mean you called him?”
“I did. I just got off the phone. That’s why I came to find you. I wanted to talk to you about his offer.”
“His offer? Does he want to bribe you to stop saying things about Anthony? I’ve been watching Rawlings Industries stock numbers. The company’s taken a hit.”
“Is that really what we want?”
Emily shook her head. “I don’t know. I want him to suffer.”
“You do realize that it’s not just him: there are the thousands and thousands of employees, and more importantly, there’s Claire and Nichol.”
“What are you saying?”
John continued, “Tim offered me a job.”
Emily’s eyes opened wide as she studied her husband. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You said you’d never work for Anthony. You said you wouldn’t even work for one of his subsidiaries, no matter how far down the food chain.”
Shrugging, he continued, “I didn’t say yes, but I didn’t say no. The thing is that he approached it from the standpoint of helping Claire and Nichol. Rawlings Industries is Nichol’s legacy. There’s no doubt that I hate Anthony Rawlings, but you have to admit that when it comes to financial support of Claire, her medical bills, treatment, anything, he’s offered unlimited funds. The same can be said about Nichol’s care. I know the money for her is in a trust, but helping to rebuild Rawlings Industries would assure their financial future. Hell, I can’t even get Claire to make eye contact with me. This is something I could do, and as a bonus, I’d live in Iowa with you, Michael, and Nichol. This traveling back and forth to Palo Alto is getting old.”
“What about SiJo?”
“I feel bad about leaving Amber, but I suspect she’d understand. I started a new position at SiJo and got it up and running. She could definitely get someone else with more experience in gaming. Really, since everything went down here, my heart hasn’t been in it.”
Emily laid her head back and grinned. “Oh, did you feel that kick?”
John chuckled. “I’m thinking soccer or football player.”
“I’m thinking no,” she giggled. “What about Nichol?”
“What about Nichol? Are you kidding? She’s got the world on a string.”
“You know what I want for both of the children?” Emily asked.
“What?”
“I want them to be happy and normal. None of this vendetta crap. None of the hatred that’s consumed too many lives. I just want them to be kids.”
John sighed. “Maybe working for Rawlings is the first step.”
“It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.”
“I really haven’t. I’m going to meet with Tim and discuss it further.”
“When?”
“We’re going to meet for lunch tomorrow. I fly back to Palo Alto on Sunday,” John added wearily.
“I’m taking Nichol to Everwood tomorrow,” Emily said. “Doctor Brown believes that if we have Claire in a more home-like environment with Nichol, it could help to trigger some memories.”
John nodded. “That makes sense.”
“Yes, they’re trying other things. Mostly, I like how they’re getting her up, out of bed, and out of a chair. I hated that other place. They just put her in a wheelchair and moved her around. She’s capable of walking. I remembered her stories about hiking and gardening here at his estate.”
“It’s hers, too.” He reminded her.
“I told them she liked the outside,” Emily continued. “So they’ve added that to her schedule.”
John yawned. “I’ll get over there before I head back to California. I already like the way they take care of her better at Everwood.”
Emily cuddled against his side. “I think you should be open-minded about the job offer. Make sure it’s sincere and not just a ploy to keep us from telling the world the truth.”
“The court’s limited us on what we can say about the legal proceedings, but I get what you’re saying.”
“I think it could be good too. I liked all of those people when we first met them.”
“At Claire’s first wedding,” John said.
“I know I shouldn’t blame them for not knowing what was happening any more than I can blame us.”
John hugged Emily again as she closed her eyes and her breathing became steady. They weren’t dressed for bed, but he coul
dn’t bring himself to nudge her awake. He wanted this. He wanted to be able to cuddle and talk—not on the phone and from across the country. Could he look past the name on the letterhead? Could he work for Rawlings Industries—at corporate? Obviously, the company was successful and substantial, but was it legitimate? All the things Anthony has done personally: what if John got into the legalities of Rawlings Industries and found skeletons? Then again, what if he didn’t?
What if he could come home every night to Emily and the kids? What if he could help assure Claire and Nichol’s financial future? So many questions swirled as his eyes closed.
It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent that survives. It is the one that is most adaptable to change.
—Charles Darwin
Nothing could have prepared Tony for incarceration in the federal prison camp in Yankton, South Dakota. Perhaps, to the experienced prisoner, or even from the outside, it was lovely, better than most. After all, it had only been a federal prison since 1988. From the outside, it still looked like the small, private, liberal arts college that it had once been. Most buildings were on the historical register and bore the names of alumni and benefactors. The grounds were beautiful with flowers, trees, and well-manicured grass. There wasn’t even a fence around the perimeter. Nevertheless, it was a prison.
Tony’s legal department had done their research: not only was Yankton relatively close to Iowa City, it was said to be one of the best all-male, minimum-security prisons in the United States. As most of the prisoners there were convicted of nonviolent crimes, it took some negotiation from the Rawlings’ legal team to secure Tony a spot in the highly sought-after facility. A large subsection of inmates were middle-aged men who’d been convicted of white-collar crimes. Anthony Rawlings wasn’t the only successful entrepreneur on the grounds. Brent and Tom had hoped that would help Tony’s transition. It didn’t.
Undergraduate school at NYU was the last time Tony had shared a room with another man apart from his travels through Europe while on the run from the FBI. During that time, he’d stayed in a few hostels with large shared-sleeping areas, but this was different. At Yankton, the inmates didn’t have private or even semi-private rooms. Prisoners slept in dormitories that in some ways reminded him of Blair Academy, only a million times worse. These rooms had beds, lockers, and desks. All the beds were bunked with an unspoken understanding that the eldest bunkmate received the prized lower bunk. Some of the dormitories held sixty men. Thankfully, Tony’s only held twenty, which was still nineteen more than he wanted.
Over the years he’d heard how these minimum-security prisons were just country clubs for the wealthy criminals. Anyone who said that had never been behind the walls. Though he’d researched the prison camp before he arrived, he wasn’t prepared. He remembered that most testimonials stated that the first few days were the most difficult. He hoped that was true. His first day was filled with interviews and screenings, but as Tony received his khaki shirt, khaki pants, cumbersome shoes, underwear, and bedding, the reality was overwhelming. There was no doubt that the next four years of his life would be drastically different from any of the first forty-nine. Not only did he yearn for the life he’d left behind, but his heart also ached for the time Claire had lost behind similar walls.
During the mental-health screening, Tony agreed to anger-management counseling. Before he was transported to Yankton, Brent told him that Judge Jefferies’ recommendation had truly been a gift. Since it wasn’t court-mandated, Tony’s willingness to undergo therapy would look good on his record and help when his case came up for review. Though parole wasn’t offered in federal penitentiaries, there was always hope of early release. After only hours as a number, not a full name, Tony knew he’d do whatever it took to make an early release a reality.
As if sleeping in a room with nineteen other men wasn’t difficult enough, he soon learned about counts. Counts happened every day at 12:01 AM, 3:00 AM, 5:00 AM, 10:00 AM, 4:00 PM, and 10:00 PM. The last two were standing counts. During a standing count each man was required to stand unmoving by his bunk while the correctional officer counted inmates. With wake-up being every day at 5:50 AM, Tony wondered why they couldn’t wait until then to do the count. Heaven knows that lights coming on and a correctional officer walking bunk to bunk three times in the middle of the night was not conducive to a good night’s sleep.
The other men in his unit didn’t care who he was outside any more than he cared who they were. Each man was cordial and respectful, yet not overly communicative. That was until evenings: most of the men thrived on television time. From 4:30 PM until midnight, the television was on. Never being much of a television watcher, the incessant noise—every night—wore on him as much as the stupid counts.
Sleeping wasn’t the only activity that was communal. Showering, too, was done by unit. As the first week progressed, it seemed that each hour was worse than the one before. As his old life slipped further and further away, the therapy seemed like a good idea.
Besides his thrice a week counseling sessions, Tony, like every other inmate, was required to hold a job. Not only was he responsible for cleaning his part of the dormitory, he had an actual job. Every day after breakfast, Anthony Rawlings, Number 01657-3452, reported to the warehouse, where he unpacked supplies from delivery trucks. That bit of manual labor earned him $0.17 an hour. Hadn’t this place heard of minimum wage?
The money he earned, plus money he had sent to him, allowed him to purchase non-issued supplies. That was everything from headphones and an MP3 player to drown out the incessant television, to shampoo and additional clothing. Though Tony could have unlimited money sent to his account, there was a $320.00 per month spending limit. He almost choked when he read that. Hell, he’d spent more than that on a haircut.
In an effort to avoid the dormitory, Tony signed up for educational services. He’d always appreciated education, but as a man with an MBA, he wasn’t interested in a GED. The subject he chose to study was horticulture. It reminded him of Claire. As he learned to care for the plants on Yankton’s grounds, he’d remember her chatter about the flowers and plants on the estate. Just being outdoors, with his hands in the soil, made him feel closer to her. While learning about or tending to some plant, Tony would think about Claire and hope that she was doing well enough to be doing the same. He knew how much she loved the outdoors and believed that if she were outside, it would give her strength.
The schedule included time to exercise, and, during the allotted time, a quarter-mile track was frequented by the inmates. While many used the track as a time to talk with a little more privacy, Tony’s playlist kept him occupied. Purchasing music was one of his bigger expenses. To occupy his mind, he had the Wall Street Journal, as well as other business publications delivered, and he was allowed a minimum amount of Internet time. The Internet as well as phone calls were monitored, but they were a connection to the outside world. As days turned to weeks and weeks to months, the routine became easier to handle.
Tony recalled Claire’s description of prison, saying that it was very routine. He could add lonely, boring, and other adjectives, but routine was accurate. In the first few months of incarceration, Tony learned that not only could he make rules, he could follow them. He didn’t like it, but each message from Courtney about Nichol, from Roach about Claire, from Patricia about Rawlings Industries, or Brent about his sentence gave him the substance and stamina to continue.
The best and worst days of the week were weekends and holidays. Those were the days when visitors could visit Yankton. Upon his arrival to the prison camp, Tony was required to compile a list of friends and family who could visit. The list was then verified and approved by the prison. Tony knew that there were people on his list who would probably never visit, but he added them anyway. His list included Brent (although as his attorney he had additional license to visit), Courtney, Tim, Patricia, Roach, Claire, Nichol, John, and Emily.
He doubted that John and Emily wou
ld ever bring Nichol to see him, but he wanted the option available to them if they decided to come. Tony wasn’t sure about Claire, but believed that she would get better. When she did, he prayed she’d come to see him. He even fantasized about her visiting, especially on days he had no visitors. When the weather was warm, there was outside seating for visits. Seeing the other inmates with their spouses and children was probably the worse punishment Tony endured.
Utilizing the Rawlings’ jets, people could get to Tony in less than an hour. There was a small municipal airport not far from the prison. Driving would have been over five hours, and flying commercially meant another hour’s drive from Sioux City, the closest international airport.
By law, inmates were allowed four hours a month of visitation. However, it was the belief of the prison that visitors were good for the inmates’ morale. Therefore, contingent upon available space—every visitor and inmate were required to have a chair—visits were granted. They had to be planned ahead and approved. Brent and Courtney visited every three weeks, like clockwork. Roach came at least once a month, and Tim or Patricia alternated their visits. It was without a doubt the highlight to Tony’s week.
Besides visiting, Courtney was the best about sending letters. They were usually just little notes about nothing. When one would arrive it was impossible to keep the smile from Tony’s face.
Occasionally, something would occur that the visits didn’t happen. Those were dark, colorless days.
Autumn came a little earlier in South Dakota than it did in Iowa. By early September the days as well as the nights had begun to chill. In Tony’s horticulture class he learned about hardy, weather-resistant flowers. After Labor Day, they removed the summer’s flowers and planted mums. He’d seen them before but never paid them any attention. Throughout the prison’s campus yellow, orange, and deep red mums added color.
Tony’s counseling had progressed beyond insignificant discussions about Tony’s adaptation to Yankton. His therapist wasn’t a doctor but a counselor named Jim. At first, Tony wasn’t sure what to think about Jim other than he wasn’t very talkative for a therapist. Tony had always imagined that therapy was where the therapist told the patient what his or her problems were and what to do about them. He knew his problems: he was stuck in a prison while his wife was in a mental facility and their daughter was living with his brother- and sister-in-law whom he hated. Of course, it took Tony weeks to divulge even that much. He had a personal rule about sharing private information. Speaking to Jim about Tony’s private life, outside of Yankton, seemed like a violation of his own rule.
Behind His Eyes Convicted: The Missing Years Page 16