Prisoner of Love

by Lorraine Bartlett

  Rhonda Roberts went looking for love in all the wrong places, and found it through an ad in the personals section of her local newspaper. Family and friends think she’s crazy when she becomes engaged to a convicted felon, and the lengths she’ll go to see him set free.

  We are all vulnerable in love, and Lorraine Bartlett’s “What I Did For Love” touches on all the emotions we face when we open ourselves to others: heartbreak, need, loss, and hope. Read it, and you’ll find yourself saying, “Yes—yes, I understand.”

  —Julie Hyzy, Barry-and Anthony-award winning author of the White House Chef Mysteries

  Prisoner of Love

  by Lorraine Bartlett

  Copyright © 2010 by Lorraine Bartlett All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and you did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Prisoner of Love

  by Lorraine Bartlett

  Whatever were you thinking, Rhonda?” My older sister, Marla, gazed at me with the same stern disapproval I’d too often seen in my own mother’s eyes. That look was her legacy and Marla had inherited it.

  I didn’t have to justify my actions to anyone. All I needed from her was an answer, yes or no. “You’re either going to be there for me, or you’re not.”

  Marla frowned and heaved a deep sigh.

  “This isn’t the way I pictured you getting married. In a prison chapel,” she said bitterly.

  It wasn’t the way I’d visualized my wedding day, either. All my girlhood dreams contained a whitewashed church, stained glass, scented candles, a circlet of flowers in my hair and a white-beaded gown with a twenty-foot train.

  Those dreams were now tarnished. I was no longer in my twenties. The man of my dreams hadn’t ridden up on a white horse, promising me a life of love, happiness, and security.

  Loneliness had driven me to the personals section of our local newspaper. At thirty-five, my biological clock had been ticking loudly. Never one to make the bar scene, and working in an office full of women, made it hard for me to meet men. I’d taken classes, gone on singles trips, but every man I met only seemed interested in a quick roll in the hay. I wanted a lifetime commitment, a home and a family.

  The ad I answered gave no real clue of the man who’d written it:

  White, single male, non-smoker, loves poetry, quiet walks, sunshine and fresh air. Seeks loving companion. Grow old with me.

  I was too embarrassed to tell Marla or anyone else how low desperation had taken me.

  The first letter arrived only days after I’d sent my own.

  Dear Rhonda,

  Thanks for your warm and funny note. Let me tell you a little about myself. I’m a computer programmer, age 32, who loves swimming and hiking. Like you, I read tons of books and love to discuss them at length. I’ve written some poetry—which has become kind of a new hobby for me.

  Please write back and tell me more about yourself. I think we could become friends. I hope we can become more.

  Your new friend,

  Dave Sanders

  A real letter, with neat handwriting, was so much more romantic than an e-mail and I was glad I’d chosen the old-fashioned route to communicate. I bought new stationery, a pen with pretty purple ink, and answered his letter. That was the beginning of our relationship.

  “Something’s fishy,” Marla said to me after Dave and I had been corresponding for almost two months. “Why hasn’t he asked to meet you?”

  “Dave’s had several bad relationships in the past. He wants to take things slow.”

  “He’s married,” Marla said with conviction.

  “No, he’s not. I already asked him.”

  “Why do you write letters? Hasn’t he got a computer? You could e-mail each other. Why hasn’t he called you?”

  “Dave’s old fashioned. He says people used to take their time to get to know one another. He doesn’t want to make the same kinds of mistakes he’s made in the past.”

  Marla’s expression hardened. “What kinds of mistakes?”

  I shrugged. Dave hadn’t given me any specifics.

  Marla glanced at Dave’s return address on one of the envelopes.

  “How come he only has a P.O. Box?”

  “He lives in a small, rural town. They don’t have house-to-house delivery.”

  She shook her head. “Be careful, Rhonda. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “I’m not going to get hurt,” I assured her.

  Dave and I wrote often. How I lived for the postman’s delivery; Dave’s letters were the high point of my day. Sundays were torture without my daily Dave fix.

  Then came the day Dave asked for my picture. I’d already looked through the envelopes of snapshots I’d taken during the past few years, but other people had usually been the subjects as I’d been behind the camera.

  What I needed was a glamour shot. Surely that would entice Dave to finally ask to meet me.

  The pictures came out gorgeous. With soft lighting and a professional make-up job, I looked like a million bucks.

  I sent Dave a five-by-seven inch print in a pretty silver frame.

  Thanks for the picture, Dave wrote. You’re everything I’ve dreamed about. I hope you won’t be disappointed in mine.

  Inside the envelope was a portion of a snapshot. Obviously Dave had not been the subject of the photo, and he’d cut it down. Warm brown eyes under a fringe of dark wavy hair looked at me. A sweet, shy smiled graced his thin lips.

  He was just what I’d pictured.

  “I think I’m falling in love with you,” I wrote that night. “But my family is giving me a hard time. They think you’re misleading me. The P.O. Box—the fact that you don’t want to meet me in person….”

  I didn’t receive a letter back for four days. I’ve blown it, I thought, each day when I checked that empty mail box.

  On the fifth day I found the familiar white envelope with the handwriting I’d come to love.

  My dearest Rhonda,

  Your family is right to be protective of you. I didn’t want you to judge me before you got to know me. Now that you’ve admitted your feelings for me, I hope you are as pleased to learn I feel the same way about you.

  Unfortunately, I’m not in a position to come see you. I do live in a rural town—in Mastin, at the Correctional Facility.

  “I knew it. He’s a jailbird!” Marla wailed when I told her.

  “Dave was wrongfully convicted,” I said.

  “Oh, Rhonda,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “Don’t tell me you believe him?”

  “Of course I do.”

  Marla shook her head sadly. “What crime?”

  I turned away from her. “That’s not important.”

  “It most certainly is. Tell me.”

  I couldn’t look my sister in the eye. “Rape.”

  “Oh, Rhonda, no! Please don’t say you’ve fallen for a man who could do that to a woman!”

  I
whirled to confront her. “Dave is innocent.”

  “How do you know?”

  I didn’t. And I’d already thought of every argument she might have come up with to discourage me from continuing my relationship with Dave.

  “How long has he been in jail, anyway?” Marla asked.

  “Nine years. He’ll be eligible for parole next fall. He’s been a model prisoner. He’s even earned a college degree in computer science. He’s—”

  Marla held up her hand to stop me. “Don’t say any more. I can tell by the set of your chin that you’ve already made up your mind about this loser.”

  “Dave’s not a loser,” I said hotly.

  “Have it your way,” Marla said. “Just be careful.”

  Marla left my apartment, giving me too much to think about.

  I loved my sister, my only remaining immediate family member. I loved Dave. If we were ever to have a chance at a life together, I had to look into Dave’s eyes to see for myself if he could indeed have committed such a heinous crime.

  The Mastin Correctional Facility was a medium security prison located an hour from my hometown. Razor wire on high fences kept prisoners inside its brick walls. I arrived at the visitor center bright and early one Saturday, in the company of other women, some of who had brought their children.

  Female guards searched me for contraband, and my purse was emptied, but I was soon ushered into the meeting room. I’d thought the prisoners would be behind a plastic barrier, and despite my excitement at meeting the man with whom I’d shared so many of my dreams, I felt nervous to be so close to him.

  I knew Dave the moment I saw him. The drab, prison-issue coveralls couldn’t hide his lean, well-muscled body. My knees went rubbery as he clasped my hands and looked into my eyes.

  “Thank you for coming, Rhonda. I was so afraid that knowing about my past would color your feelings against me.”

  We talked about nonsensical things for most of my first visit; the weather, our favorite foods. Near the end of the hour, I forced myself to ask the dreaded question.

  “Did you rape that woman?”

  Dave’s eyes filled and his lips pursed. “I swear, on my mother’s life, I could never have done what they convicted me for.”

  “Then how—why?”

  “I lived on the same street as the woman who said I raped her. I didn’t know her—had never met her. All I can figure is I must have looked like the man who hurt her. I swear to you, Rhonda, I didn’t do it!”

  “All men behind bars are innocent,” Marla said snidely, when I told her about my visit.

  “I believe Dave,” I said, “with all my heart.”

  Marla scowled. “Why didn’t he appeal his case?”

  “He couldn’t afford it. He—”

  Marla shook her head. “You poor, misguided girl. You always were a sucker for a sob story.”

  Anger surged through me. “That’s a lie!”

  “Then how about the lemon of a car you bought from Tim Maxwell? You wouldn’t even take him to small claims court.”

  “How could I? His mother was dying of cancer.”

  “I saw her in the grocery store yesterday. She looked fine.”

  “You know experimental drugs saved her life.”

  “Yes, but it was her health insurance, not the two grand Tim bilked from you, that paid for it.”

  I wasn’t about to argue with her.

  “I won’t listen to you talk bad about Dave. You don’t know him like I do.”

  “I hope to never know him. Look how he misrepresented himself. Letting you fall in love with him before he told you the truth about his past. Rhonda, dear little sister, Dave’s using you!”

  “What for?”

  “That’s a good question. One you should be asking him!”

  I watched Marla’s car pull away and knew if I was ever to have a lasting relationship with Dave, I’d have to prove to Marla what Dave’s court-appointed attorney had not been able to prove to a jury: that Dave had been wrongly convicted.

  My first step was to unearth the newspaper reports on the crime. The public library’s microfilmed records provided that. Dave had been arrested in January ten years before. I found the account on the Police Blotter. It said simply: David M. Sanders, 22, of 67 Marlborough Street, was arrested for rape.

  His trial, in city court, lasted two days. The unnamed woman (they protected her name, but not Dave’s), testified that a man matching Dave’s description had broken into her apartment and raped her at knife point.

  As I read through the account, it occurred to me that the evidence presented was pretty circumstantial. Dave had been home alone at the time of the crime, with no one to verify his alibi. Although he’d never so much as had a parking ticket, the judge had given him a sentence of fifteen years.

  I thought about what I’d read and I realized there’d been no mention of DNA evidence. I knew that ten years ago they used blood tests to clear or convict suspects. Was it possible to have the evidence rechecked using the new technology? If Dave was innocent, and I believed he was, that would be the only way to clear him.

  I wrote Dave immediately, and told him I’d be up to see him on the next visiting day to discuss the matter further.

  In the meantime, I went on the Internet and tried to find out if such testing would be authorized. Did I need a judge’s order? Would I need an attorney? What were the laws in our state for reopening old cases?

  Armed with new knowledge, I headed for the prison to see Dave.

  Instead of being happy with me, Dave’s face bore a frown.

  “Don’t push this, Rhonda. I’m due for parole in a few months. I want out of here so bad—”

  “But, Dave, you’re a convicted felon. If we can’t clear your name, you’ll carry that stigma with you the rest of your life!”

  Dave’s eyes were grave. “Don’t stir up trouble for me, Rhonda.”

  “He’s guilty,” Marla told me the next day. “Otherwise he’d be begging you to help him.”

  I admit, Dave’s refusal to have the evidence DNA tested had shaken my faith in him—if only just a little. Yet I couldn’t believe the man who had written such tender love poetry could ever treat a woman with the violence he’d been convicted of.

  Despite Dave’s objections, I decided to pursue the matter.

  Luck was with me. About the same time, the State decided to review old prosecution evidence in felony crimes. I hired a high-priced lawyer from the biggest firm in town, Benson, Johns and Stanhope.

  Jared Stanhope’s kind blue eyes looked at me over his half-glasses, studying my face. I immediately liked him upon shaking hands. His were smooth, warm and dry, his handshake firm but not crushing. The silver at his temples contrasted nicely with the rest of his thick, dark hair. An aura of confidence surrounded him, and I knew I’d be able to trust him with my life. With Dave’s future….

  “You know, Miss Roberts, that this will be difficult without Mr. Saunders full cooperation.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “First we’ll have to determine if the evidence still exists.”

  “You mean it might have been destroyed?”

  “It’s a real possibility. Also, some prosecutors have resisted allowing old evidence to be tested. It upsets their conviction rate for old crimes to be overturned.”

  “You don’t give me much hope,” I said.

  “I want you to be aware of the difficulties we might encounter. I know several people in the DA’s office. Lucky for us, this isn’t an election year. I’ll see what I can do.”

  I didn’t mention any of that in my letters to Dave. His letters didn’t come quite so often, and there was a chilly standoffishness to them that stung me.

  Couldn’t he see I only wanted what was best for him? Couldn’t he see how clearing his name would make his life better?

  He’s guilty, said an insidious little voice inside my head. That’s why he’s against this. He raped that woman and is playing you for a fool.

&n
bsp; I didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to believe that I could fall for a man who could attack and threaten a woman, forever taking away her sense of security; stealing her dignity.

  Instead, I concentrated on the bright future I’d have with Dave. How we’d marry, have children, and build a new life together.

  Jared Stanhope kept me up to date on the progress he was making on the case, and I struggled to work all the overtime I could get to pay his fees. I began to look forward to his weekly calls, surprised at how personable he was. Not at all what I would have expected from someone in his position.

  It was weeks before we learned the evidence against Dave had not been destroyed and, after some persuasion from Jared, Dave had consented to give a DNA sample to the County Prosecutor’s office.

  I had hoped Dave’s letters would have been more upbeat. Giving the sample had to prove Marla wrong. Dave was actively cooperating. He’d have never let himself be tested if there was any chance he’d be proven guilty.

  We didn’t discuss the case in our letters, or at my monthly visits to the prison.

  Dave seemed different, restless. I wasn’t sure how to cheer him, except with talk of the future.

  I wasn’t always sure he was listening to me. Often he had a far-away look in his eyes. But when he’d smile, I took comfort that everything would be all right.

  “Once Dave’s found innocent, we won’t have to get married in the prison chapel,” I told Marla. “I’ll contact a justice of the peace and we can exchange our vows at a pavilion in the park. It’ll be a simple but lovely wedding. You’ll see.”

  Marla didn’t comment.

  I had to believe in the future—in my future with Dave. That we’d be married as soon as he was released.

  I bought a tea-length gown of ivory satin, selected a florist and a caterer. All I needed now was the groom and the wedding date.

  We waited two long months for the wheels of justice to turn.

  It was a rainy Tuesday evening, and I’d just walked in the door when the phone rang. I ran to catch it before the answering machine would get it.

  “Hello?”

  “Rhonda, it’s Jared.”

  My stomach tightened. He’d never called so late.

  “Good news or bad?” I asked with trepidation.