If He Hollers, Let Him Go

by Beth Harden

  “Thirty seconds is all it took for that linebacker to go from zero to sixty and kill his old lady. Just like that,” Euclid says, snapping his fingers. His bewilderment is clearly evident. Something has touched a nerve.

  I would never dare tell them that the trauma of my attempted murder has made me kin. I am more comfortable among the damaged. I can visualize Euclid as the little boy stripped of his dignity and drawers, hands duct-taped as he was forced to eat cat food. And Ortega too, made to sit in a warm bath for an hour before his pink, turgid skin is flailed with extension cords. I don’t feel pity, not a bit. It is pure disgust, a retching wave of repulsion against adults who will reach for iron, steel or flame as a means to their end, which is nothing more than a puny helping of quivering fear in return. My heart has empathy for those little sniveling boys throttled into becoming these grown-up mimics. I am neck-deep in this struggle for understanding along with them. Each of us is floundering for solid rock to get a toe-hold on; all of us are grabbing for a fistful of stabilizing root so that we can lift one another to safety.

  If I ever sit with a therapist for longer than a med change visit, I will ask him or her why it is that I have chosen to sit among murderers, thieves and fraudulent men. Jesus did that too and he was safe among them until his blessed luck ran out and they took a whole Old Testament’s worth of wrath out on him. But his Father had willed it to be so. Perhaps my lot was cast in the same mold.

  #

  The young woman on the other end of the line is distraught. Calls like these are never easy. Weddings, deaths and holidays all drag up the freshness of the loss though their missing person is alive and listed on a locator card in the prison’s master file. Regardless of where he is, the loved one who is absent from the table, the cemetery or the hospital has just walked out on them all over again. The calls come in and the cries go up: Please, miss, we need him home… I’m sick with cancer. My son is all I got; as if I hold the instant get-out-of-jail card in my desk drawer and can walk the inmate out the front gate in time for the family cookout. This girl is sobbing and begging me to please do something. I switch the phone to my better ear and ask for her name again.

  “Crystal,” she says, choking out the words.

  “And which inmate are you calling about?” I ask. It’s a courtesy to even entertain the call. We counselors never know who is on the other end of the line. With no proof of identity, we are hobbled when it comes to providing any information beyond what the public information website reveals. This young woman persists in her hysteria and I can’t disconnect.

  “Owens. He’s the father of my daughter,” she sobs. The mention of the child throws her into an inconsolable state that lasts for several more minutes.

  “What are you calling about?” I ask.

  “Our baby just died,” she gasps. “She was one month old on Sunday. I went in to wake her this morning. She wasn’t breathing.” Her cries turn into howls of agony.

  “Oh, I’m very sorry to hear this. Does the father know yet?” I ask.

  “No, I need to tell him. Oh please, he can’t do this alone,” she cries. A siren erupts in the background.

  “What was the cause of death?” I ask.

  “The autopsy didn’t show anything.” Sounds like SIDS. Poor thing.

  “It’s my first child. And I need him to be with me. I can’t go through this by myself.” I hear the shrill wailing of other females in the background.

  “Who’s with you now, honey?” I ask.

  “My sister, my aunt and my mother-in-law, but this is her first grand-baby so she’s no good for helping anyone.”

  “I understand,” I tell her, whether or not I can fully comprehend the magnitude of a mother’s sorrow. I take down the name and address of the funeral home and ask her to call back when the arrangements have been made. This is the difficult part of the job, trying to tailor real-world events to fit an environment that has little room for compassion. The best I can hope for is to get him escorted by two officers for a fifteen minute private viewing before the public convenes for the service.

  “Let me call him in so I can break the news,” I say and gently hang up. I ring the officer’s station and he gives a bellowing shout for the inmate who claims Bed 14-C. Within minutes, Owens rounds the doorway and I wave him to sit down. He’s new to the unit. I’ve spotted him in the chow line but have not yet engaged him in any conversation. The boy looks pretty young to me.

  “Mr. Owens, I just spoke with your fiancée who called to let you know that your baby daughter passed in her sleep this morning. I’m very sorry to have to tell you this,” I announce as gently as I can. Getting bad news when one is already penned up can be particularly risky. A helpless man is a desperate one. Owens drops his head in his hands and nods up and down. He doesn’t speak. When he finally looks back up, it is with a longing that defies interpretation.

  “I’ve never held my baby daughter. I only saw her in pictures. That’s all,” he says.

  “What’s her name?” I ask him.

  “Kali. I never got to name her neither. But it’s a beautiful name,” he says.

  “How old are you, Owens?” I ask him.

  “Twenty-one,” he replies proudly. He likely had no idea what the demands of fatherhood were going to be, but he had in theory already stepped up to embrace it. Unlike many other procreators whose names were omitted from the birth certificate so the moms could collect welfare assistance, this guy was blissfully prepared to claim the signature line on that document.

  “I’m going to try and get you approved to go see your infant before burial. We’re still waiting on the details of the service. You understand that you can’t be there when anyone else is, including family members.”

  “I know that,” he says meekly.

  “Your girlfriend wants to come see you. I noticed she’s not on your visiting list though. Why not?”

  “She was in trouble with the law once, but that was awhile ago,” he answers.

  “I see. Well, I’ll check it out. You want to speak to Mental Health?” I ask. Standard fare for unexpected news in jail. He shakes his head. “How about Religious Services?” A priest or chaplain might offer some eternal solace. Again, he declines. I dial up Crystal’s phone number and give him the requisite thirty seconds during which he mumbles, “Babe, babe, babe” over her moans as if they were dubbing a soundtrack for a heartbreaking love story. When he is forced to hang up, he settles his shoulders and clears his throat. Tears begin to well up in his eyes so I allow him extra time in the office with me until he has purged himself of his initial shock.

  “I’ll see what I can do on my end. I’m very sorry, Mr. Owens.”

  “Thank you, Counselor,” he says and walks back out into General Population. I must remember to document the encounter in the officer’s log book so that our respective asses are covered in case this young man gets suicidal or aggressive later.

  #

  Two days’ worth of scrambling has paid off. I have the approved paperwork in hand. Miss Crystal is on probation for drug charges, which under normal circumstances excludes her from visiting anyone in prison; but the powers-that-be have made a special exception and will allow the young couple ten minutes of no-contact time here in the visiting room. In addition, a very sympathetic probation officer not only granted permission for her client to come inside the facility but sent a social worker up to our front door with birth documents. Without those, we cannot prove Mr. Owens’s identity as the biological father and risk sending him to the wake of another man’s baby. After it is signed and notarized, Owens holds the yellow duplicate in his hands and reads the name out loud, Kali Tanaya Owens. The social worker informs him that he has sixty days in which to rescind his claim to being the father and request a DNA test.

  “That won’t happen, ma’am,” he says, clutching the proof that will send his legitimate daughter to Paradise with bragging rights — his last name. The Warden followed suit on the heels of this good deed and signed off on t
he funeral trip despite his reservations about this kid’s possible ties to former gang activity. It is a step of good faith made by an institution that rarely budges.

  “You doing better?” I ask Mr. Owens when he is summoned to my office again.

  “Yeah, a little. When the guys in the unit found out, they had a moment of silence for Kali and they made a card for me. The officer let us stand in a circle and the Indians prayed for her. They gave me the feather to put in the coffin so I mailed it home,” he says.

  “They’re going to allow you to see your daughter, Mr. Owens,” I say. He displays a genuine smile, the first of its kind in the short time I’ve known him and it doesn’t quit. Even when he clenches the corners of his mouth, his lips quiver and pull back from his teeth in a reflex of unspeakable joy.

  “Thank you. Thank everyone who helped me,” he says with reverence.

  “There are good people on both sides of this fence. I would like to think that at the end of the day, and no matter what roles we assume, we all are human beings with heart when it counts,” I say. “I’m happy it worked out for you.”

  #

  On Friday morning, I stop at the window near the Admitting/Processing Unit and watch as Mr. Owens is brought out the side door. He’s dressed in a flagrant red jumpsuit, handcuffed and shackled in leg irons with his hair neatly edged by the barber’s razor. The C.O.’s give him an elbow-up into the white court van. Within the hour, he will be leaning over the miniature casket where his infant is displayed in her pink dress and tiny lace socks. Because there are imperfect people with decent hearts, this father will say goodbye to his perfect little baby with his hands tied but his grief set free.

  As I walk back towards the housing units, I hear the thrum of a bass and a chanting melody. I follow the mounting vibrations that emanate from the rear of the school wing. Outside the corridor there is a small courtyard hedged in by smooth block walls on all four sides. The space is inviting, a tease in the midst of functional concrete; but it’s rarely ever used. During the summer, top-heavy sunflowers thrust up between the granite stones and then topple over with the weight and lay their petals down. Today, several rows of plastic chairs have been arranged facing towards a music stand. To the side of the instrument ensemble is a blue tarp rigged up on a metal stand and filled with water. A baptism is underway. Several men are dedicating their lives to their newfound God. Killers and con artists dip their heads into the makeshift pool like they are bobbing for fruit with Adam’s evil apple stuck in their throats, hoping when they rise up from the brink, they will gulp down new refreshment.

  The inmate praise band is in full tilt with front man Cordona on the rhythm guitar. Nineteen years ago this man killed another in a jealous rage by slamming the skull of his competitor repeatedly against the curb and then fleeing. Now he’s banging out some mean chords. Bowman is to the right on electric bass. He’s got the tempo down body and soul, his knees bent in a perpetual sway. Six other black men make up the vocals. They swivel back and forth on loose feet with their hands lifted. The audience of two dozen or so inmates is standing, clapping enthusiastically, their voices joining in on the chorus. I’m trading my sorrows, I’m trading my shame, I’m laying them down for the joy of the Lord. Yes Lord, yes Lord, yes, yes Lord. Amen! I find myself caught up in the spirit of the moment though we are separated by a thick barrier of bullet-proof glass. Cordona looks up and an ethereal radiance has overtaken his face. It’s then I notice Willis in the half-shadows with his head bowed and his strong hands folded. His lips are moving in a devotional meditation of sorts. He’s praying. Say your prayers. Suddenly I recall the question I posed to my Mr. X before he struck the first crippling blow. I asked if he was Christian because he would need to repent for the sins he was about to commit. And what did he say to me in return? Think, think…. I know! ‘No, bitch, why?’ was his answer. Never say never. If this is him, then here he is in a genuflection of faith, but is it real or rehearsed? That’s for God to sort out. I sure wouldn’t want His job. The chorus repeats and lifts in volume. I’m pressed but not crushed, I’m persecuted but not abandoned, struck down but not destroyed, they sing, but that is my song too. Willis looks up and catches me standing in the window. His eyes acknowledge my presence but he looks beyond and through me as if I don’t matter and never did. I duck my head and turn away.

  What a strange world unites us —death and life intermingled, joy and grief harmonized in a house of unlikely worship. On this glorious morning, Baby Owens will be christened for her entrance to heaven and these convicts sprinkled with divine forgiveness and spared from their momentary hell. For all who are fortunate enough to be held captive in the blazing sunlight of this tiny walled tomb, the only way out is up.

  #

  “So you seem at peace this week. Have you reached some resolution? Things more settled in your mind?” I ask.

  Willis takes the chair he’s been offered and stretches out his legs. The noise of bodies milling around by the shower area is distracting, so I stand up and step over to shut the door. I wave to the officer through the small window indicating the closed door is at my discretion and all is well. The guards don’t like to have anything barring their view, particularly in the instance of a female staff member in a closed room with a male offender. I sit back down and continue eating from the plastic take-out container on my desk

  “I don’t want to interrupt your meal, Mizz. I can come back another time.”

  “No, no. I set aside this time. Not to worry. Have you been to chow yet?”

  “No ma’am. I don’t mind missing it,” Willis says.

  “I saved you the trouble. I asked the kitchen to send me two feedback trays.” I produce two blue Solo cups from my bottom desk drawer and a half-gallon jug of cold Arnold Palmer mix from my thermal bag. I pour one for each of us.

  “I wouldn’t want to drink that blue jungle juice either. Sorry, no ice cubes.” I slide him the other clamshell container with a plastic fork and napkin. “So, you talked to the chaplain?”

  “Yes. Not in specifics, but in the area of forgiveness.”

  “And did he offer you good counsel?”

  “He gave me a verse that spoke to my heart,” answers Willis.

  “Which one?”

  “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins …”

  “…and cleanse us from all unrighteousness,” I say. Willis is momentarily taken aback. “I went to Sunday School growing up. We had to memorize a lot of Scripture to be graduated into Junior Church,” I add, smiling.

  “So you know about this stuff, Mizz Abrams, So then, what is your view of forgiveness? Do you believe that God can overlook even the worst of our wrongs?”

  “I think our failings are equally disappointing but also equally human. According to the Bible you believe in, not only does God choose not to see them, He removes them as far as the east is from the west. Which if you think about it means totally out of sight.”

  “Do you personally believe that?” he asks again.

  “A lack of forgiveness festers and becomes resentment. It’s like you taking a swig of poison and waiting for the other person to die. If we refuse to purge it, the other person holds power over us. So to answer your question, I don’t think we can forgive and forget; or should. Because the memory of the wrong keeps us on track. It's like a signpost to remind us of where not to go. What turn not to take.”

  “Mizz Abrams, you have a gift. Men like me, we need to hear these things. People just don’t care. You don’t treat us based on what we’ve done. You see us as the people we are or could be.”

  “I see a lot of very gifted, bright, talented people with tons of potential that needs to be tapped into. You’re a good example of that, Mr. Willis.” He smiles, a quick flash of brilliant teeth.

  “Here, let me illustrate the concept with a story I use in my anger management class. Alright, so there was a boy who was angry all the time. His father told him to drive a nail into the fence each ti
me he lost his temper. Within a few weeks, the fence was riddled with nails. Then the father told his son, each time you control your anger, I want you to pull a nail out. And so little by little, the boy learned to hold his temper and each time he did, he removed a spike. One day the son came back to the father and said, come see. Every single nail had been pulled from the fencepost. You’ve done well, said the father. But tell me what do you see? The boy took a good look at the fence post and said, Lots and lots of deep holes. It’s the same with the wrongs that we’ve done. You can ask forgiveness but the wounds are never gone. The holes are there as testimony to the past.”

  The intercom announces time for recall, which means twenty minutes until count time. Willis dutifully stands up and instinctively reaches to collect his garbage. I put a hand on the container.

  “Leave the evidence here. We don’t need the others thinking this is the new fast food joint in town,” I say, winking at him.

  “True enough. They’ll be whining like little bitches.”

  “Have a good afternoon,” I say, opening the door and closing it quickly behind him. I yank a pair of blue Latex gloves from the box in the back of my desk drawer. In there are the mandatory supplies for contact with any potentially contaminated inmate, especially in the case of fresh blood. The collapsible CPR face mask is tucked beside it, a device provided to all staff for saving the lives of people the public could care less about. It’s our choice if we want to waste our precious breath in exchange for an HIV or MRSA exposure. I put on the sterile gloves, carefully grasp his drinking cup by the base and drop it in the clear freezer pouch. Touching only the tip end of the used fork, I place the plastic utensil in a separate sandwich baggie, seal the strip and drop it into the larger bag. Just as I am about to double-bag both specimens again, the door to my office swings briskly door open and lieutenant steps in. In his hand is a roll of rope, a radio and a notebook.