Kristy was actually next in line for Gus’s job. When her former boss, Jack Woefel, announced his retirement, everyone was convinced that Kristy would get the promotion. She’d been working in the press office for over seven years, had a good rapport with the inmates, and could handle all the varied, often difficult personalities one encountered when working with reporters. After word about Jack’s retirement spread, Kristy walked down the halls, accepting congratulations from coworkers. The celebration was short-lived and ultimately quite embarrassing. Kristy still remembered the sting of rejection when she’d heard from the Powers That Be about Gus taking over. But it wasn’t surprising. Texas good ole boys wanted good ole boys in positions of power, “not some damn woman telling them what to do.”
She would have been less annoyed if Gus weren’t so damn incompetent. There had to be two public information officers present at an execution because the press was split between two witness rooms, victims in one, and inmates’ families in another. Cold, detached, and aloof, Gus never spoke to the warden, the chaplains, victim services staff, or family members. God forbid he’d go near an inmate before an execution. It was so beneath him. The only part Gus loved was the aftermath of the executions, as he was desperate to get in front of the cameras and soak up the attention.
Gus wasn’t a fan of Kristy’s. She could tell he found her uppity, didn’t like that she was smarter than him, and resented the easygoing manner in which she interacted with reporters. He relished putting her in her place, calling out any and every minor mistake, real or perceived. That’s why Kristy had to play nice. But today she was short on self-restraint.
“Gus, do you mind showing just a little less blood thirst?”
Gus narrowed his brown eyes in disapproval at Kristy, somehow misinterpreting her angry furrowed brow for empathy.
“Don’t tell me you have a soft spot for Watkins. You do know why he’s here, don’t you? The man killed three women, raped ’em before and after they were dead,” he said.
“I know what Watkins did. I was working here when he was sentenced. I just think it’s our responsibility to show some restraint,” Kristy said.
As death row inmates went, Watkins was one of the more despicable, discussing his multiple murders as casually as one discussed one’s brunch plans. Gus shook his head dismissively. He may as well have patted Kristy on the head.
“That guy gave up his right for restraint when he murdered those women.”
Kristy knew Gus was trying to pick a fight and she refused to indulge him.
“I wanted to explain about what happened this afternoon. About Clifton.”
“Yeah, Gina called and gave me an earful. It was fucking stupid on your part.”
Kristy nodded, used to Gus’s lack of restraint. She braced herself.
“Kristy, why the hell haven’t you answered your phone?”
Startled, Kristy looked up to see her assistant, Carmen, hurrying over. Shit. Phones weren’t allowed in the prison, and having forgotten it at the security check-in too many times to count, she always left it in the glove box. She was so shaken by what had happened with Clifton, she had forgotten to grab it.
Carmen generally possessed an innate sense of calm and order that Kristy envied. Her hair always fell in dark, glossy waves just below her shoulders; her teeth were so white she belonged in a Colgate commercial. But she wasn’t calm today. Her eyes were wide, an uneasy expression on her face. Kristy knew that something must be very, very wrong.
“Is this about Polunsky? It’s all sorted out,” Kristy said.
Gus snorted. “We’ll see about that.”
Carmen didn’t bother masking her intense dislike for Gus. She glared at him and turned her attention back to Kristy.
“It’s Ryan. There’s been an incident at the high school. You need to get over there. Right away.”
CHAPTER THREE
Kristy told herself that Ryan was safe, but these days there was no such thing as a safe place. Schools, hospitals, churches, they were all potential targets. Kids brought guns, set up bombs, enacted their own revenge agendas. Or worse … what if Ryan had done something? A teenage boy’s brain wasn’t fully formed. They lacked impulse control. She’d seen hundreds of male inmates, boys who committed terrible crimes as teenagers and were now serving out life sentences. Her mind was spinning from zero to one hundred about all of the terrible possibilities. Carmen reached out to Kristy, taking her hand, trying to reassure her.
“The principal called and said the police were dispatched but she would make sure nothing official happened until you got there.”
Kristy exhaled deeply. She’d thought her sense of foreboding had to do with Clifton, but this was so much worse. Maybe it was because of her daily proximity to the worst of humanity, but she’d always been terrified that something might happen to Ryan, that she might not be able to protect him.
She glanced at Gus, who looked panicked; probably worried that if Kristy left, he might have to do actual work.
“I have to go,” Kristy said, almost to herself.
“We’ve got an execution today,” Gus said, as if Kristy were personally injecting the drugs. “And people are already calling asking about the baby killer. What am I supposed to do?”
“Didn’t you hear what Carmen just said? Ryan needs me.”
Gus was silent, gaping back at her as if she were speaking a foreign language.
“I’ll handle it,” Carmen said. “I can take care of all of it.”
“Carmen’s ready. She can oversee tonight’s execution if I’m not back,” Kristy replied, annoyed that this was even a discussion. Gus grunted.
“If she screws up, it’s on you,” he said and stormed off.
Gus was not a fan of Carmen’s. When he first arrived, he’d made a not-so-subtle pass at her and she’d promptly set him straight. I’ve got a serious girlfriend, and if you so much as even glance in my direction, I’ll sue your ass and the entire TDCJ for sexual harassment. From that day forward, he declared Carmen persona non grata. Kristy, on the other hand, adored the young woman. She was ambitious and working in the press office to save money for law school.
“I’ve got it handled here,” Carmen said. “Go take care of your boy.”
Kristy squeezed Carmen’s hand in gratitude.
“Thanks.”
She bolted out of the office. Her chest constricted and her hands trembled so badly she almost couldn’t get the key in the ignition. Ryan had to be okay. He had to. Kristy grabbed her cell phone from the glove box, started up the truck, and headed to Conroe. She had half a dozen missed calls and texts. She put on her Bluetooth and quickly dialed. Pops answered on the first ring.
“Pops, what the hell is going on?”
“Hell if I know. Those goddamn fools wouldn’t tell me anything. Said they had to speak to Ryan’s legal guardian, like those sons of bitches don’t know who I am. I mean, how many times did they see me up at that school, picking you up from cheerleading practice? I swear to God, Kristy Ann, all these rules and regulations in this world and there’s nothing but anarchy. If I still had a goddamn car, I’d have driven down there and taken care of all this myself.”
Pops couldn’t even walk outside to the mailbox these days, shuffling around his tiny wing of the house at a pace that made a tortoise look superhuman. The idea that he’d even be able to walk down the long gravel driveway and climb into his truck was ridiculous. But she didn’t have time or the emotional energy to let this devolve into another fight about a matter that had been settled months ago.
“I’m sure Ryan is fine,” Kristy said, trying to convince herself as well as Pops.
“You’ve got to discipline that boy, Kristy. Coddling won’t do him any good.”
“Pops, I’m pulling into the school,” Kristy lied, refusing to endure Pops’s lecture on her parenting skills.
“Fine. Don’t listen to me. All I’m trying to do is pass along a little knowledge before I die,” he said, wheezing heavily.
“I appreciate your help, Pops, but I don’t think …”
Kristy heard Pops hang up. She didn’t have time to worry about his hurt feelings. She tossed her Bluetooth onto the passenger’s seat and focused on the road ahead, speeding down the interstate, switching in and out of lanes to avoid other cars, never letting her speed drop below seventy-five. In record time, she pulled into the sprawling parking lot of Conroe High School.
On the football field the blazing southern sun glistened off the marching band’s instruments as the Tigers’ fight song played over and over again. On the sidelines, shiny-haired cheerleaders were tossed up into the air, soaring so high they almost disappeared into the sky. I used to be one of them, Kristy thought. A lifetime ago.
Her stomach lurched when she spotted two Montgomery County sheriff’s cars parked in front of the administrative building. She practically hurled the truck into a space and sprinted inside.
As she hurried down the hallway, the smell of chalk and athletic sneakers overpowered her. God, she hated this place. It reminded her of all her failures and missed opportunities. Kristy arrived at the administrative office, searching for Ryan. Instead she came face-to-face with Alice Valdez, the school secretary. She perched at the front desk, her ombré hair teased to cartoonish heights, her too-dark makeup creating a clownish appearance. She eyed Kristy with the mixture of pity and disdain that appeared permanently etched on her smug face. Alice was two years younger than Kristy and had been a legendary high school gossip, spreading all sorts of rumors about who had knocked up Kristy Tucker. Four kids later, Alice had only gotten worse. The minute Kristy left, Alice would be detailing Kristy’s failures as a mother across the PTA phone chain.
“I’d like to speak to Principal Barnhardt,” Kristy said to Alice.
“She’s in the gym with Ryan. The police are there too,” she said, her tone dripping with judgment as she gawked at Kristy. Some days she thought it might actually be easier handling convicted killers than people like Alice. At least with the inmates she understood exactly what she was dealing with.
Kristy rushed toward the gym, which was located on the other side of the school, and bumped right into Principal Liza Barnhardt. Her silver hair was short and expertly coiffed. Her turquoise blouse and matching Southwestern-inspired jewelry were the perfect complement. Liza was gazing down at Kristy’s pants. Kristy looked and saw the bloodstains. Shit. That’s why Alice had been staring.
“There was an incident at Polunsky. With an inmate,” Kristy said. Liza nodded, concern etched across her face.
“I’m fine. But Ryan? How is he?” Kristy asked.
“He’s okay. I’m just trying to talk some sense into everyone. Follow me.”
In high school, Kristy spent two years as Liza’s pupil, coasting by in Honors English with minimal effort. Liza endlessly praised Kristy’s writing, even pulling her aside one day after school.
“Kristy Tucker,” she’d drawled, “you’re a smart girl, smarter than most of your peers. But you’re letting yourself get distracted. Don’t waste all of this potential.”
Still reeling from her mother’s death and more focused on maintaining her popularity than studying, Kristy had politely told Liza to mind her own business. Of course she regretted not listening to her teacher, but that’s what being young is all about—thinking you know everything before you actually do. Kristy could still remember telling Liza the news.
“I’m pregnant,” she whispered, clutching the sonogram in her hand as if Liza needed factual proof in order to accept what Kristy was saying. She didn’t tell Liza about Ben, the sweet-faced musician she’d met at a frat party, the guy who got her so drunk she couldn’t even remember his name the next morning. She didn’t say anything, even when she experienced slut shaming (they didn’t call it that back then) so extreme, in Kristy’s mind, there was no other choice but to drop out of school. Pops and Liza tried to convince her she was making a mistake, but Kristy wasn’t brave enough to endure the girls snickering at the lunch table or the boys asking if they could bang a pregnant chick. Now here she was, standing across from her former teacher, now principal, reliving her teenage failure all over again. They hurried down the empty halls, moving at a fast clip.
“What’s going on, Liza?” Kristy asked.
“Did you know Ryan has been taking martial arts courses?”
Kristy stared at her incredulously.
“You’re kidding.” She shook her head in disbelief. Ryan was the ultimate bookworm. He hated PE and often asked Kristy to write a note so he could skip it.
“So you didn’t know?”
“Ryan isn’t exactly the martial arts type,” Kristy said.
“He broke Scotty Welch’s nose in gym class today.”
“Not possible. Ryan … he’s … he always calls himself a pacifist. He won’t even kill a cockroach.”
“Well, apparently he’s had a change of heart. Ryan told me he’s been taking martial arts classes at the YMCA.”
Kristy’s cheeks flushed with humiliation. How was it possible she didn’t know what her own kid was up to? Yes, Kristy’s job was relentless. Anytime an inmate managed to access social media accounts, or a prisoner filed a lawsuit asserting human rights violations, or a new appeal or stay of execution on a death row case was granted, it fell to Kristy to handle the fallout. She had to reassure the public that they were safe while she babysat the press corps. Despite all those demands, Kristy had done everything she could to make Ryan understand that he came first. Her efforts were there in the car rides to school, the notes she wrote on the napkins in his lunch box, or the times she would make the thirty-minute drive home, just so she could cook Ryan dinner and read him a bedtime story, and return to work once he was asleep.
But Ryan wasn’t a little boy anymore. Kristy was an idiot for thinking he didn’t still need her supervision. This was her wake-up call. She’d take Ryan on a tour of the prison, get him a visit with some of the biggest, baddest lifers she could find. She’d orchestrate her own personal Scared Straight. There was no way in hell she was letting this spiral out of control. Poor decisions ruined lives. Right now Kristy had to keep the police out of this. If this ended up on Ryan’s record, it could ruin everything.
They were almost at the gym. Liza leaned into Kristy, her voice barely a whisper.
“Just between the two of us, Scotty Welch is an asshole. He comes from a long line of entitled assholes. But Tim Welch is a good ole boy. Maybe if you appeal to those sensibilities, you can get him to drop the charges.”
Kristy rushed into the gym to find two sheriff’s deputies talking with Tim Welch. His son, Scott, sat nearby on the bleachers holding a blood-soaked towel to his nose. Ryan was seated on an adjacent bleacher, as though he and Scotty were boxers who had been sent to their respective corners. Ryan sat with his entire body folded into himself. Wasn’t it seconds ago that her son was a pale, shy five-year-old waiting for Kristy to register him for pre-K? She went into Mom mode, scanning Ryan’s body to make sure he wasn’t hurt. She spotted the ice pack he was clutching, his knuckles bruised and bloody.
She made eye contact with Ryan and he stood up.
“Mom, are you okay? What happened?”
Kristy looked down at her clothes, at Clifton’s caked, dried blood. She wished she had changed but there was nothing to be done about it now. She hugged Ryan.
“It’s nothing, Ry. Just work … What the hell happened here?”
“Scott called me a faggot, Mom. I’m sick and tired of it. I’m not gay. They know I’m not gay and even if I was, would it matter? I don’t care what you do to me. But I’m not going to apologize for defending myself.”
Ryan wasn’t gay. She found out when she made the mistake of borrowing his laptop once and he hadn’t cleared his browser history. No, the trouble wasn’t Ryan’s sexual orientation. The trouble was in this school, in this town, Ryan was too well-read, too curious, too outspoken and different to fit in with the jock and redneck culture that admired same
ness. Ryan liked books about the fall of Rome and Watergate. He liked meditation and art history, and didn’t give a rat’s ass about the Cowboys’ starting lineup.
“I’m going to take care of this. Don’t move! Don’t say a word.”
Ryan slumped back onto the bench. Kristy hurried over to where Liza was standing with Tim Welch and the deputies, all of them waiting to see what Kristy would say.
“Officers, I’m Kristy Tucker, Ryan’s mom. I understand there’s been an altercation with my son and I’m hoping to get a little clarity.”
One of the officers started to speak, but was cut off by Tim’s harsh drawl.
“Well now, Ms. Tucker,” he began. Kristy noticed he emphasized the Ms. “Looks like your boy’s taking out his frustrations on my poor Scotty. Violence like that just can’t be tolerated.” She wanted to laugh. Jocks like Scotty Welch used violence and intimidation on a daily basis. How ridiculous all of this was. Just looking at the two boys’ vast difference in size, it seemed impossible Ryan was the perpetrator. Scotty had at least three inches and twenty-five pounds on Ryan. But bringing that up wouldn’t do Ryan any good.
“Mr. Welch, could we have a moment alone?” Kristy asked. He hesitated. He wanted her to beg. “Please,” she said. He nodded at the deputies, who stepped away. Kristy would put into use all the skills she’d gained in working with macho misogynists who expected special treatment just because they were men in positions of power. If she could handle them, she could handle Tim Welch.
“Tim, hate seeing you under these circumstances,” she began.
Of course he interrupted her. “I sure do too. But your boy was out of line.” Kristy wanted to tell him to fuck off, but she nodded.
“Looks that way. I’m sure you can understand the challenges of being a single mother raising a son. I know Ryan is sorry for what he did.”
The Walls Page 3