All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook

by Leslie Connor

  “Brian, there’s one more thing,” I say. “It has to be finished today.”

  “Like, today, today? The whole thing?”

  “Right. She has a public hearing tomorrow.”

  “Oooo-kay . . . ,” says Brian. “Then we better do this thing.”

  We put three chairs in front of one computer. Seconds later, my camera is connected. Zoey and I bring up a photo of my room off the Upper East Lounge. At least we know how to do that much. “I want to start here,” I say.

  Brian is all business. “Okay . . . fuzzy photo . . . here. Let’s enhance.” He shows me where to click. I do it. The picture gets much sharper. “Do you have a script?”

  “He does,” says Zoey. She turns to Brian and says, “It’s going to be great.”

  Brian plugs in a mic, draws out the skinny cord, and hands it over. “Click to record when you’re ready. Count one-one-thousand, before you speak.”

  I do like he says. I put my lips close to the tiny mic and say, “Good morning. This is Perry at sunrise.”

  chapter seventy-three

  PAROLE HEARING

  The large meeting room is filling up. The parole board is two men and two women. They aren’t part of Blue River. They’re community people who serve on the board. They take their places at a long table up front. The parole candidate—Mom—will sit across from them. Members of the public will sit in rows of chairs behind Mom. That’s where I am. I’m here with Zoey and her mom and Mr. VanLeer. I have put my name on a list; I am a member of the public, and I wish to speak.

  Everyone is watching as the foremen add chairs. I thought it would be just a handful of people. The top of my head is cold and airy. I feel myself tilting in space, which is the way I felt the day Thomas VanLeer came to take me away from Blue River. I threw up that day. I tell myself that can’t happen here.

  I’m trying not to pull at my crisp collar. Zoey’s mom bought me a button-down shirt and a tie for today. This morning in the hallway of the VanLeer house, she straightened my tie, then VanLeer’s. There wasn’t much talking.

  I’m watching for Mom to come in the side door. The library laptop is under my chair. Zoey Samuels is beside me with the little projector. We’re both crossing fingers that we will remember how everything works. Zoey’s mom is right beside her, and Mr. VanLeer is next to me. He’s pinching a set of papers in his hands. Every once in a while he cranes his neck to see the arrivals. Then he straightens his arms forward. I hear his elbows crack each time.

  Mom finally comes in. She is dressed up for this day. No blue chambray. Her hair is in a Miss Gina twist, and her lips are extra pink. Big Ed is at her side. She stops to hug me. She greets Zoey and her mom. She skips Mr. VanLeer at the end of our row. I don’t blame her. Who knows what he’s going to say, VanLeer with his fist full of papers.

  He leans across me and tells everyone within earshot, “I know these hearings are open to the public, but I didn’t expect a circus.” He smiles as if we are all in this together.

  Big Ed says, “Circus, huh? Step right up to get your peanuts.”

  Mom whispers to me, “How are you doing? Are you all right?”

  “I am. Are you?”

  “I’m trying to be.” She smiles. Her hands are in a nervous knot. She breaks them apart to give me one more hug. Then she goes to her chair, and I can only see her back. I hear Big Ed whispering, reminding her to breathe.

  Fo-Joe makes an announcement. “Slight delay. We have an unexpected bottleneck today, folks.”

  I look up and see it on the security feed. He’s right. It’s busy. I squint. Someone looks familiar—someone fancy. But who do we know that’s fancy?

  “We’ll get started as soon as we get everyone in,” Fo-Joe says.

  “Perry,” Zoey whispers, and she points toward the door. I look back and see Mrs. Buckmueller and Mr. Olsen coming in together with two other librarians. It makes me wonder who is left to man the circulation desk. Behind them, I see Miss Maya with two teacher friends and Miss Jenrik from the cafeteria. Then Warden Daugherty!

  “She’s here!” I nudge Zoey. “The warden is here.” I want to go greet her, but Fo-Joe is pressing everyone—even the warden—to please find a chair.

  “And look!” Zoey says. Her eyes are wide. “It’s Desiree Riggs from the TV!”

  That’s who is fancy! “Oh my gosh!”

  Mr. VanLeer has seen her too. He drops his head and mutters, “Oh . . . that woman.”

  Some of the rezzes have permission to attend, and some who probably don’t have permission have lined up in the hall to watch and listen through the glass. Miss Sashonna dips, wiggles, and melts when Desiree walks by. She looks in at us and gestures wildly. She points at Desiree. Then she covers up her finger and melts some more.

  Then all is quiet. The chairwoman of the parole board speaks. She tells why we are here. She asks Mom some questions about her time at Blue River. But they already know what’s up. They’ve seen a report and of course they know about Thomas VanLeer’s great discovery—me.

  “All right then,” the chairwoman says. “Let us begin.”

  Thomas VanLeer is the first on the list. He rises off his chair and clears his throat to speak.

  chapter seventy-four

  THOMAS VANLEER SPEAKS

  “I’m Thomas VanLeer.” He smiles broadly all around the room. “I am Butler County’s district attorney. As your DA, my relationship with the prison is to review every parole candidate’s case before he or she is released. My concern is the public—my community. Today, I’m concerned about a child, one who I feel has been incarcerated right alongside his convicted mother.”

  “Humph!” I hear Warden Daugherty say it right behind me. She never says things like humph.

  VanLeer ignores her. “I’ll come back to that,” he says. He paces with his papers and makes quick little turns to look around the room. “I’m in favor of prison reform through our courts,” he says. “Particularly, I’d like to see reduced time for nonviolent offenders. I believe in second chances. Not every DA will tell you that.” He wags a finger in the air. “I first approached Jessica Cook’s case from a standpoint of hoping to recommend that her long sentence be commuted. I arrived to Butler County too late to see it trimmed by much, and yes, the wheels of justice can turn slowly. Still, I was on it.”

  I wish he’d look at me right now, but it doesn’t happen.

  “But then . . .” He leans forward then sweeps back up again. “I made the chance discovery that Ms. Cook has been allowed to raise her son—from his infancy—right here at Blue River.” He twists up his face.

  Mom sits very still. Big Ed pats her hand.

  “Sure, prison nurseries are legal in Nebraska, for babies up to two years old. I’m in favor,” he says. He shows a nod to the whole room. “But Blue River doesn’t have a nursery program. And this child was kept here well beyond his babyhood. It’s unheard of! Who gets to do that?” He says it loudly. He sweeps his hand toward Mom and supplies the answer. “Jessica Cook did.”

  Big Ed lets out a low growl. I’m sweating under my necktie, worrying that VanLeer knows just how to say things.

  “Think!” says VanLeer. “No other inmate serving beside her has had that same right. She was granted an extraordinary privilege.” He pushes out the words. “So the question has to be asked, has she truly served out her sentence—as ordered by the State of Nebraska?”

  “You’re the only one asking,” Warden Daugherty says quietly.

  VanLeer shoots a look at her. “And what about the greater question? What about a child being raised inside a prison? Who would choose that for a child? Has another crime been committed? At the very least, there has been a mockery of the corrections system.”

  “If that’s so, it’s all on me!” The warden speaks louder now.

  “Please curb your outbursts,” the chairwoman says. She looks directly at the warden.

  VanLeer shakes his head. “We are a community. Are we going to pretend that it was all right wit
h us that a young person be confined to a corrections facility—a place made up of cell blocks, kitchenettes, and long dreary hallways?”

  But it wasn’t like that! I’m dying to say it. Won’t somebody say it?

  “He went to school, thank goodness. But that’s only six hours a day. Blue River doesn’t have a playroom,” he tells them. “What were his activities? Where was his fun?” VanLeer looks at the papers in his hand. “Did he stock shelves in the commissary? Play prep cook for the masses? Imagine a two-year-old hanging around the prison laundry room—”

  “Oh, Perry—he loved that!” Big Ed interrupts with a chuckle. “He’d sit up on the old DynaWash and ride the spin cycle like he was on a pony. Jiggety-jig!” He bobbles his head.

  I almost snort. Someone at the back of the room does snort—right out loud. Other people snicker. The warden smiles and nods like she’s having a good memory. Mom hides behind her hand.

  The chairwoman of the parole board taps her pen. “May we please hold off on the storytelling? All of you.” She eyes Big Ed and the warden. She puts her finger on her lips.

  VanLeer clears his throat for attention. “My greatest concern is the company he kept. This boy lived with criminals every day.” I hold my breath and wonder if he dares to tell them that I took his award—that I’m a thief. “He grew up in a prison! Does that sound right to you? It sounds like a crime to me. And for eleven long years, the parole candidate”—he tips his head toward Mom—“was complicit.”

  “Complicit?” The warden’s voice sizzles. “If you think caring for him and raising him makes her complicit, then all right. She is! Perry is goodness and light. You should know.” She takes aim at VanLeer. “He’s been under your roof for over eight weeks while you dragged your heels on his mother’s case!”

  “Quiet please!” The chairwoman’s face is pinking up.

  VanLeer is stopped cold. He’s looking at me. I look back. A slow, sick second churns by. He seems to fight for his next swallow, and it finally goes down hard behind his Adam’s apple. He looks like he did when I told him where to find his award, when I told him his word was no good. He closes his eyes tightly then opens them again. “This was all highly unusual. I admit that I barely knew how to approach it.” He stammers, and his papers rattle in his hand. “It comes down to this: If I can’t truly feel that a sentence has been served properly, I have no choice but to pressure this parole board not to grant release.” He drops his hands. The papers snap against his side. “Such is the case of Jessica Cook.”

  He doesn’t return to his chair. He backs up to a wall that is closer to him. He leans there. He’s gone yellow or green or some other bad color. It’s not a great day for Thomas VanLeer.

  chapter seventy-five

  PERRY COOK SPEAKS

  The parole board chairwoman calls my name. “Perry T. Cook,” she says, “it’s your turn to speak.”

  My head feels light and weird. My legs feel like rubber. Everyone is watching me. I’m going to do this. I came here to get my mom out. I rise.

  “I’m Perry Cook,” I tell the parole board. “I was born at Blue River. This has always been my home.” I tell them about writing the Blue River Stories for my Coming to Butler County project. “Some of the residents here feel like family to me.

  “For the project, I asked a lot of questions. I heard a lot of different reasons why people commit crimes . . . or confess to crimes. Sometimes I wonder if they should have been incarcerated at all. Anyone can make a mistake.” I take a rough swallow. I need to get the next part right.

  “I know my mom’s story now. It’s about a young driver, a hailstorm, an infamously dangerous intersection, and a big mistake. Also, a confession . . . and a death.” I say the last words quietly. “That’s a list of true things. And after all those things happened, my mom was alone and scared and had nobody to fight for her.”

  I look at each one of the parole board members. Then I say, “But now she has me.” The whole room sighs. I think they might be on our side. “The trouble is, I’m also the thing that’s holding up her release now. So I want you to see that I am okay. If you can let me have a few minutes and a corner of the table, I’ll show you.”

  I am surprised how quickly they clear space for me. Zoey knows our plan. She hands me the laptop and hurries back for the little projector. We get everything opened up. Then we panic.

  Both machines are silent. We retry the connection. “Is it the battery?” I whisper.

  “I-I don’t know,” says Zoey. Her lip quivers.

  Around us, the adults are starting to stir because we need help. Mr. Olsen starts to stand up at the back of the room. But then we hear another voice.

  “Excuse me! Coming through. Excuse me.” Here comes Brian Morris! I didn’t even know he was here. He moves right to the front to help us. He draws a cord out of the projector. He presses a power button, fiddles with the cables. He flicks a switch, and we’re in business—with a bright beam of light shining right on squinting Thomas VanLeer. Everyone waits while Brian goes up and guides pale-green VanLeer several steps to the right of where he’s been standing. “We need a little more wall,” Brian explains. “Is that okay with you? Yeah?” He scoots him just a hitch farther. Then he comes back and adjusts the projector so the video will display larger. We focus and hit Play.

  “Good morning,” my voice on the video says. Up comes the enhanced photo of my old room. “This is Perry at sunrise. Here’s my sunny room off the Upper East Lounge,” Video Perry says, “and it was built for me by our best friend on the inside. His name is Edwin Sommers. I call him Big Ed . . .”

  We watch me grow up. There’s a picture of my first birthday, sock puppets in the laundry room, then six people in blue chambray shirts crowd into the tiny salon to watch Miss Gina cut my hair. I have a new backpack for the first day of school. I lead Mr. Halsey and Mr. Rojas around the crusty Blue River track. I realize something for the first time: I don’t look at the camera much. I look at the people around me.

  When the video ends I have more to say. “You might think the setting looks wrong. Like maybe Blue River looks like a dull or unwelcoming place for a kid to grow up in. But for me, it always felt like a home.” Then I get stuck. Everything depends on today. What if the video isn’t enough? What if they don’t release Mom? I look at her.

  She cups praying hands over her mouth and nose. She blinks watery eyes. Beside her, Big Ed nods, smiles, and encourages me along.

  “Please don’t hand my mom a down letter today. She has served a long time for her confession. That’s the truest thing I know to say. She wants to make us a home on the outside now. Don’t deny her parole just because I grew up at Blue River. I’m okay. I’ve always been okay.”

  chapter seventy-six

  WARDEN DAUGHERTY SPEAKS

  “You’ve heard me speaking out of turn today,” the warden admits. “I apologize for my outbursts, though I meant each thing I said with all my heart. All of District Attorney VanLeer’s concerns are on me!” She points her finger to herself.

  “Blue River is a minimum-security correctional facility, and to me, minimum security has always meant maximum potential. Our residents have made mistakes. But they come here to rise up again, and make good choices.

  “But that does not in any way mean that Jessica Cook got to choose to have her son live here with her. No, that was my choice. I was Perry’s foster care provider, and I was Ms. Cook’s warden. Your decision today cannot be about that arrangement. You can only ask, has Ms. Cook served her sentence? You have documentation that indeed she has. She has worked hard here. She took full advantage of programming. She earned a degree, and she has worked an essential position as a social worker here. In case you missed it, she raised an honorable son—a boy who, by his merry presence, elevated the hearts and souls of our population day after day. Innocence raises us all up.” The warden points her finger skyward. “We are the better for it,” she says.

  “Perry was not locked in. I made sure of that. He had
rules, but most households do. The walls may not have been pretty colors. But you just saw that he’s had the love of many people in his young life.” She points to the meeting room wall where the video played. “Some on the inside, some on the outside. A broad circle has looked out for his well-being. Most of all, he had his mother, Jessica Cook. Perry has always been her highest priority.”

  The warden looks at Thomas VanLeer. “I say, heaven help the community that won’t fearlessly welcome her, and heaven help a world that thinks it needs to be protected from the likes of Jessica Cook. She’s exemplary.”

  chapter seventy-seven

  THE PAROLE BOARD SPEAKS

  I have heard the residents of Blue River say that parole hearings are yes or no moments. Approved or denied on the spot. But today, the parole board leaves the room to talk in private. We all fidget and wonder. While we wait, I watch Mom’s back and shoulders rise and fall with deep, hopeful breaths. Can they possibly know how much their decision will mean to us?

  Come. Back. In. I think it to myself. Then, as if I have wished it up, the two men and two women reenter. The chairwoman speaks.

  “When we sit down to these hearings we seek to feel satisfied that the candidate has completed sentencing. We listen for concerns from the public. What we often find is that we are moved in some way. This is an odd day and an unusual hearing. But that’s fitting because this is an unusual case, and Mr. VanLeer, we will credit you with bringing it to our attention.”

  There is silence while my heart falls and while Mom stares at her hands. Mr. VanLeer absorbs the moment. His chest rises. He gives a satisfied nod.

  “As a board, we read cases in advance of these hearings. We form a strong impression at that time. The purpose of the hearing is to listen for any point that might move us from that impression. I’m talking about a concern as might be stated by the victim of a crime, or a feeling of danger to the public. Moved is an interesting word, especially today. We are moved by so much of what we have heard here.” She looks at me, but she doesn’t gush. She looks respectful, and she holds that gaze on me several long seconds. Then she straightens up tall in her chair and turns to face VanLeer again. “You, Mr. VanLeer, inform us today, but you do not move us—not from our basis. You’ll be remembered for having picked this scab, perhaps.” The chairwoman breathes in. “We are unanimous in our decision . . .”