When she entered the custody area, there were all kinds of catcalls from the women behind bars, echoing around the enclosure. Leah ignored them as she followed the corrections officer down a long hallway, carrying her state-issued bedding and a package of toiletries.
Inmates entering the Oregon Department of Corrections system underwent a monthlong assessment period. Medical, dental, mental health, and educational needs were among the areas assessed for each inmate. For male inmates the time was also used to determine where to send them, as they would not remain at Coffee Creek. For the female inmates the assessment period would determine which facility at Coffee Creek the woman would be housed in, minimum or medium security, and any programs that would be helpful: drug treatment, parenting, education, etc. During the assessment period the women were housed in a dormitory situation—except for Leah. She followed the intake officer as they left the populated section of the prison for the segregation unit.
“We’ve never had a female cop killer in custody,” the intake lieutenant explained. “We have determined that none of your arrestees are currently incarcerated here, and we don’t anticipate problems, but it’s best to play it safe.”
Leah was placed in a segregation cell. At first, she believed that was what she wanted, that it would be best for her to not have to worry about physical assaults. Plus, she wouldn’t have to talk, explain herself, or socialize, and that sounded like the best situation. But after only a couple of days, the walls of her seven-by-fourteen cell began closing in. Her thoughts tortured her, like the dripping of an interior water faucet, never stopping and echoing louder with each drop.
You murdered your husband. . . . You murdered your husband. . . . Brad is dead. . . . Brad is dead.
Even the sounds around her—doors clanging, inmates yelling, conversations going on, guards making their rounds—did nothing to mute her thoughts.
She was allowed out to shower and to exercise in a small area where all she could do was walk back and forth. And to attend her assessment meetings.
“You’re in a position to help women here,” her intake counselor told her. “You’re educated. You could teach, maybe even mentor women with less education, fewer life skills. Would that interest you?”
Leah thought for a moment. “Would that get me out of segregation?”
“For periods of time. But I have no control over your housing situation.”
“I’d have to think about it.”
Later, she wondered why she didn’t jump at the chance to do something outside her small cell.
What could I possibly teach anyone other than how to mess up their life?
By the end of the second week, Leah was certain she would lose her mind. Her appetite disappeared and she felt like sleeping all the time. Feeling desperate, she dropped a kyte—prison terminology for a request—for the institution psychologist.
“Are you suicidal?” the psychologist asked.
Leah studied the woman, who barely looked up from her notebook. She didn’t answer because she wasn’t sure how to answer.
“Are you suicidal?” the woman repeated.
The drab gray office mirrored how Leah saw herself, how she felt, and how she saw the future: drab, gray, hard, and unyielding.
She could hear the woman’s clock ticking and felt as if she were on Jeopardy! with seconds to come up with the right answer. She knew what suicide watch meant in prison. She would lose everything: her clothes, bedsheets, and the only bit of privacy she had, which was lights-out. Suicide watch meant the lights on 24-7 and guards monitoring everything she did. That would push her around the bend.
“I don’t want to live—is that the same thing?”
The woman finally looked up from her notebook. “Have you tried to hurt yourself?”
Leah shook her head. “No, because if I did, it would hurt my father. I don’t want to hurt him any more than I already have. But I still can’t see around the corner. I can’t see how I will last in this place.”
“Don’t try to see around the corner. Take one day at a time, one step at a time.”
Leah studied her shoes as the clock ticked. “Do I have to stay in segregation?”
“You’re there for your own protection.”
“It’s punishment, hell. I’d rather take my chances in the general population.”
The woman wrote in her notebook. After a moment she said, “I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not making any promises. You have to do something for me.”
“What?”
“Start eating and acting like you do want to live, whether you feel like it or not.”
Leah gave a weak nod, wondering how to accomplish that. Life as she knew it was over. Would she be better off in general population? She didn’t know. All she knew was that segregation was not where she wanted to be.
Another week passed before her transfer was approved. By then Leah was hanging on by her fingernails. When the guard came to escort her to the medium security side of the prison, she was ready with all her belongings stuffed in a prison-issued duffel bag. As she left segregation, there were catcalls and obscenities tossed her way from the women incarcerated there for disciplinary issues. They told her she wouldn’t last a day where she was going. Maybe yes, maybe no, Leah thought. But I absolutely would not last another day here.
As she followed the guard down a long hallway, carrying her bag, more insults and predictions were tossed her way when they reached the medium security custody area. None of it scared Leah because at this point fear couldn’t penetrate the numbness. It only made her want to hurry; the noise gave her a headache.
Once they reached the cell that was to be her new home, Leah stood and waited for the door to open. On the other side was a tall, heavyset woman with short hair shaved close to her head, an unreadable expression on her face.
As Leah stepped inside and the door clanged shut behind her, she wondered if she’d just jumped from the frying pan into the fire.
CHAPTER 13
Leah stood, staring at the woman, considering what her next move should be.
Her new cellmate made the first move and stepped forward. “Name’s Nora. I know who you are. Leah Radcliff.” She pointed to the left bunk. “That’s your bunk. And everything on that side of the cell. Everything on the other side is mine. I like things clean, so make sure you keep things clean, stay outta my stuff, and we’ll get along.”
“Thanks.” Leah tossed the duffel bag on the floor near the bunk and pulled out her bedding, a little befuddled because there was something familiar about Nora. As she went about making the bed haltingly, she kept glancing at her from the corner of her eye, struggling to remember how she could possibly know this woman. Leah had been informed that none of her arrestees were here at Coffee Creek, so it couldn’t be that.
“You got something to ask, ask it.”
“You look familiar.”
“All criminals look alike?”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Leah protested, only to realize Nora was teasing her. Then it hit like a sledgehammer. She knew the woman from basketball. But not as Nora. She was Leonora Lyons, nicknamed Leo the Lion for her aggressive play on the court. At one time Leah had idolized her and tried to emulate her. Two or three years older than Leah, Leonora had skipped college and gone straight to the pros, playing for several years with the Seattle Storm.
Leah remembered why Nora was here. Four years ago, she’d gotten behind the wheel drunk and driven onto the freeway going the wrong way. She hit another car head-on and killed a family of three. Her license had already been suspended for DUI, and Nora got the maximum sentence of fifteen years.
“You remember?”
“I do.” Leah would never forget. She hated drunk drivers. Her mother was killed by a drunk driver. She didn’t know what else to say. What were her options? She couldn’t go back to segregation. Finally she fell back to basketball.
“You were a great ballplayer.”
“So were you. And here we are.
Are we going to have a problem?”
The question hit Leah sideways. After all the stress and the drama, the pain and the guilt, Nora’s question made her laugh, and once she started, she couldn’t stop. She had to sit down on her half-finished bed while Nora gave her the side-eye.
“What’s so funny?”
Leah held her stomach and worked to regain her composure. “We’re both in prison for a very long time—what other problems could there be?”
“Oh, believe me, a lot. You’ve never been on this side of the bars before, honey. You don’t even know the true meaning of the word problem yet.”
Her tone sobered Leah. She realized her new cellmate was 100 percent correct and it was nothing to laugh at.
After Leah finished making her bed and putting her meager belongings away in her space, she sat down on the bunk. Nora was reading a familiar book, the Bible. It made Leah want to scream. Reality hit her like a blow between the eyes. She’d wanted out of segregation and here she was, with a Bible-reading drunk driver killer for a roommate. Her father’s God was not only vindictive, he had a sick sense of humor.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Nora put the Bible down and looked over at Leah. “Shoot.”
“Why did they put me with you? Because we’re basketball players?”
Nora shrugged. “Don’t know. My last cellie was released two days ago, so there was an open bed. That might be all there was to it. But God works in mysterious ways.”
“You’re a Christian?”
“I am.”
“You’re not going to preach to me, are you?”
“I don’t preach to nobody but myself.”
“God hasn’t done much for you, has he?”
“Honey, God has done everything for me. You got a problem with God?”
Leah shrugged. “It’s just not my favorite subject.”
“Fair enough.”
“Does everybody here know about me? Know that . . . ?” Leah couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.
“That you shot your hubby? I don’t know everyone. But I suspect most folks do. Not a lot to do here but talk. And most ladies like to talk, tell tales, true or not.”
“And I was a cop. Am I going to have trouble?”
Nora sat up and faced Leah. “You might. Depends on how you carry yourself. You’re not a cop now, so don’t act like one. But don’t take any guff either.”
A buzzer rang, made Leah jump.
“That’s the dinner bell.”
The cell door opened, and the sounds of women exiting their cells, laughter, talking, footsteps on the pavement filtered in. Women walked by, peering into the cell but continuing down the hallway. Suddenly Leah felt fear.
“Don’t show it.” Nora closed her Bible. “They smell fear like sharks smell blood. You toughen up and put on your game face.” She stood.
Leah swallowed and followed her, pasting on a stiff, blank expression, knowing she had to do as Nora said and wondering what would happen if she was tested.
As they walked down the hallway, along the line they were directed to stay on, she was cognizant of the stares. Once they reached the dining hall, some women fell into step with Nora, greeting her as if they were friends. They ignored Leah. The dining hall filled with chatter, reminding Leah of a flock of parrots. Organized, chaotic fellowship. That’s what she was hearing here.
They’d just gotten their food and were walking toward a table when a woman approached. “Hey, Nora, who’s your little friend?”
Leah turned and saw a thickly built woman with a crew cut and tattoos all over her neck walking toward her.
“Not your concern, Pat. Not your concern.” Nora kept walking.
“Really? She ain’t got a voice?”
“I have a voice.” Leah stopped. A hush spread across the hall, as if Leah had tossed a silent pill into the pond and the ripples rolled across the sea of chatty women, quieting them.
“Oh.” Pat folded her arms. “What do you have to say for yourself, stinking cop?”
Leah knew she had to think fast and talk smart.
“That you’re not my counselor or my lawyer, so I have nothing to say to you. I’m going to eat my dinner.” She moved to walk around Pat, careful to keep her eyes up and on the woman. Pat glared and jerked as if she was going to knock Leah’s tray from her hands. It took all of Leah’s self-control not to flinch. She passed within a hair’s breadth of the woman and followed Nora to a table. It wasn’t until she sat that she realized she’d been holding her breath.
“Not bad, Radcliff,” Nora said before she lowered her head to say grace over the meal.
Leah bowed her head as well, not to pray, but to try to calm a heart that pounded in her chest as if it wanted to escape. How would she survive twenty-five years of this?
CHAPTER 14
Brad Draper had been dead for nearly a year, and Leah had been in prison for over a month. Clint shook his head as that truth sank in. He’d received the trial transcripts and read them over a few times, frustrated not so much by what they said, but by what they didn’t say. Leah didn’t take the stand, so she did not personally spell out the abuse she’d been subjected to. The attorney did the best he could, but Clint knew that if he’d been on the jury, he’d have wanted to hear from Leah.
A lot of time was spent on the photos from the morning of the incident. The attorney obviously thought that would be enough to prove self-defense. But so many people testified about what a great guy Brad was, the idea that Leah would have to defend herself from him seemed unlikely. It broke Clint’s heart, but one fact hurt Leah more than anything: In the months, weeks, and days before the shooting, she never told anyone Brad was abusive.
He wanted to conduct his own investigation, talk to the people who’d testified, at least those who would talk to him, and he’d had a month to mull over his options. Clint decided the direct approach was called for. Richard Chambers was his best bet. Their shifts overlapped. On his Friday he looked over everyone’s status and found Chambers on his lunch break, eating at a favorite place of cops, a diner near the river owned by a retired officer. Clint didn’t change his status, leaving himself available for any calls that came in, as he made his way to the diner.
The big man regarded Clint warily as he approached.
“How are you doing?” Clint asked as he stepped up to the table.
“I’m fine. What are you doing here? I didn’t hear you ask for code.”
“That’s ’cause I’m not on my lunch break. I came here to talk to you.”
“What do we have to talk about?”
Clint turned a chair around backward and sat facing Chambers. “I’m sorry about your partner.”
Chambers said nothing, just kept chewing.
“I’ll be blunt. I don’t believe you told the truth on the stand. Not you or Ripley for that matter.”
Chambers swallowed, took a sip of his soda, his face betraying nothing. “Yeah? So what do you think the truth is?”
“Leah was a victim of abuse. I saw that for myself.”
“Whatever. A jury saw it differently.” He hiked a shoulder. “You need to suck it up and accept it. You were wrong.”
“What is it you guys are hiding?”
For the first time Clint saw a reaction in Chambers’s face—surprise, maybe. He hoped he’d hit a nerve. He heard the door open and Chambers looked toward the entrance. Clint turned and saw Sergeant Forman striding their way. Forman used to run SAT, but that detail was disbanded after Brad’s death. He now supervised day patrol.
“You’re out of your beat, Tanner.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell him,” Chambers said.
Clint heard something in Chambers’s tone—irritation? No, he decided, it was fear, Chambers was afraid of Forman.
Realizing he would get nothing from the man at this point, Clint stood to leave. “Just on my way out.”
Forman gripped his arm as he went to pass. “Stay in your own lane. I mea
n it.”
“No problem,” Clint said, jerking his arm free and leaving the restaurant. He got into his patrol car and left the area, anger vibrating through him. Something was way off here, and it grated on him. But then, did he really expect Chambers to admit that he’d lied under oath? Cops were guarded under most circumstances, and he admitted to himself that he was on very shaky ground. But at the moment all he could think to do to help Leah was to ask questions.
He had one shot left, and that was in the civilian world. Maybe if he caught the man off guard, he’d get more out of the insurance salesman and planned for that while he worked to calm down.
On his next day off Clint paid a visit to the insurance office of Grant Holloway.
Holloway was a tall blond man with a thick beard. He smiled like a salesman and gripped Clint’s hand in a tight handshake when he entered the office.
“Good morning, how can I help you today, Mr. . . . ?”
“Tanner, Clint Tanner.”
“Mr. Tanner. Looking for insurance?”
“Not really. I guess you could say I’m looking for answers. I’m a friend of Leah Radcliff and—”
“I have nothing to say about that.” Holloway’s posture changed as if someone had flipped a switch. The smile disappeared and he took a step back.
“I only wondered if—”
Holloway cut around him to the office door and opened it. “I think you better go.”
“Do you always pay your rent at two in the morning?” Clint asked as he stepped toward the door.
“I have nothing to say to you.”
Clint slowly exited the office and held the man’s gaze as he did so. Holloway looked away first.
Boy, asking questions about the trial sure seemed to bring out anxiety in people, Clint thought.
Two days later, when Clint reported for duty, there was a summons in his mailbox from internal affairs. Frowning as he read the complaint, Clint reported there as soon as squad meeting ended.
He was directed to Lieutenant Racer’s office. Clint didn’t know Racer well, but the man had been tight with Brad Draper. Clint had heard rumors about the man, that he was a petty micromanager, eager to fire good cops for no reason, because he was never a good cop. Clint hated to rely on rumors for anything.
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