At ten o’clock the next morning he pulled up to the gates of the prison and was greeted by a guard with a square, hard face and a pair of suspicious gray eyes who demanded to know his purpose.
“I’m here to visit a prisoner, and I have an interview with Warden Armstrong at eleven o’clock.”
The guard consulted a clipboard and reluctantly nodded. “Go on in. Visitors park over there.”
“Thank you.”
Pulling the Hudson over to a line of cars and trucks, Tom shut the engine off and sat there for a moment. As was his habit before he began any sort of work or started any project, he bowed his head and prayed quickly. “Lord, give me favor with Warden Armstrong and open up the doors to this place in the name of Jesus.”
Grabbing a large paper sack stuffed full of items he thought Stuart might appreciate, he jammed a notebook into his pocket and moved across the yard. He passed a group of inmates carrying shovels and noticed the old, lost faces. Their hardened features seemed to be closed doors that had shut out the world. He heard not one sound as the men trooped along, flanked on either side by guards carrying shotguns. A shiver ran through Tom Winslow, and he gave a quick prayer of thanks that he was not locked up here. Like most men, he had a fear of losing his freedom. As a lawyer, he had visited several prisons, and it always brought a mixture of fear and compassion for those who had brought themselves to such a place.
“I’m here to see Stuart Winslow,” he said as he approached a guard standing just outside a door. The guard was a tall man with high cheekbones and a broad slash of a mouth.
“Do you know his number?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Go on inside.” He stepped back, opened the door, and nodded. “That guard over there will take care of you.”
“Thank you.”
Stepping inside, Tom saw a long hallway that extended the length of the building. He went at once to an open door where a guard in a dark blue uniform sat at a desk. A wood stove glowed with a cherry red flame that sent off heat waves throughout the room. The guard looked up and nodded.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“I have an appointment to see one of the inmates.”
“What’s his name?”
“Stuart Winslow.”
The guard pulled out a notebook, opened it up, and said, “You’re all cleared.”
“I also have an appointment to see Warden Armstrong at eleven.”
“You’ll have to go to the administration building for that. Go out the front door and turn to your left. Just ask anyone.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll have someone take you down to the visitors’ room.” He called out, “Jenkins, take this gentleman down to see a prisoner.”
Tom followed the guard, a short, stocky man wearing his cap pushed back on his head in a jaunty air. He was shown to a large room with tables scattered around, and the air was filled with the murmur of conversations.
“Have a seat over there. I’ll get Winslow for you,” the guard said.
As soon as the man left, Tom moved over to one of the vacant tables. A large stove took the chill off the air, and what appeared to be a husband and wife stood close to it, the man holding his hands out to catch the heat. All of the inmates wore a dull, striped uniform, roughly cut and ill fitting. Their hair was cut short, giving them a rather sinister appearance.
As Tom looked around the room, he felt a great pity for these men whose lives had now, more or less, ended. Many of the visitors were wives, he supposed—some young, some older—and most of them looked like poor, hardworking women. The majority of them wore cheap clothing, and their hands were red from the cold and hard work.
“You got family in here?”
Winslow turned quickly to see a woman seated at the next table. She was in her sixties, he supposed, a small woman wearing an imitation fox fur that had lost a great deal of its substance. Her hands, which she kept folded on the table, were rough and worn, and the backs were dotted with liver spots. She had a pleasant, sweet face but looked very tired.
“Yes. A distant relative,” Tom said.
“Your first time here?”
“First time.”
“My name’s Violet Bijorski.”
“I’m glad to know you, Mrs. Bijorski. I’m Tom Winslow.” He hesitated, then said, “You’re visiting a relative?”
“My son.” She clasped her hands together and looked down at them, then looked up and smiled. Despite the obvious fatigue on her face, there was a look of peace about her. “He’s been here a long time.”
“How long, Mrs. Bijorski?”
“It’ll be sixteen years next week. We lived in Alabama, but when he was put in here, I left my home and took a room in a little town not far away. It gets kind of lonesome, and I still miss my old friends.”
“You come pretty often to see your son?”
“I’ve only missed one visitin’ day in all that time.”
The enormity of what the woman said struck Tom Winslow forcibly. To give up home and friends and everything else to move to a strange place just so she could faithfully visit this son of hers was a stunning example of love and commitment. He was about to speak when the door opened and an inmate entered. He was a small man with a sharp face, but Winslow saw the resemblance.
“Hello, son.”
“Hello, Ma.”
“This is Mr. Winslow. He’s come to visit a relative. This is my son, Davey.”
“I’m glad to know you,” Tom said. He reached out and shook hands. The man had a weak, flabby handshake, and his eyes were dull and vacant.
He nodded at Winslow, then said to his mother, “Did you bring the stuff I asked you to?”
“Yes. I’ve got them here. They’ll give them to you.”
There was no word of thanks from the man, and Winslow sat listening as the woman chatted. Davey had almost nothing to say. He did not show any gratitude, and a slight flicker of anger touched Tom. Then he thought, Who am I to judge? If I were in this place for twenty years, I don’t think I’d have much of anything left.
He sat there for ten minutes, and then the door opened. As soon as the man entered, Tom recognized Stuart Winslow. He had the Winslow look about him. He was strongly built and heavy in the shoulders, but he was thinned down so that the cheap uniform hung loosely on him. He was closely shaved, and his eyes swept the room looking for his visitor. Tom stood up and saw the eyes, so dark blue they were almost black, come to him. He moved across the room and put his hand out. “I’m Tom Winslow. I’m glad to meet you, Stuart.”
“Good to see you,” Stuart said quietly. He looked around and said, “We can get coffee if you’d like.”
“That would be good.”
The two moved over to the stove, where a huge coffeepot was kept warm on top. A guard stood with his back to the door and gave Stuart a couple of chipped cups. They filled them and then moved back across the room. When they sat down at a table, Tom Winslow sipped his coffee and said nothing. Stuart was studying his visitor carefully, and somehow the gaze made Tom a little uncomfortable. In a lawyerlike fashion, Tom summed up his relative with a quick analysis. He’d expected something different, a weaker man or, perhaps, a little streak of viciousness. He saw none of this, however. He knew that Stuart was now thirty-six years old, and except for a few lines around the corners of his eyes, his face was smooth. He did not have a prison pallor, which surprised Tom somewhat, but he expected that Stuart did some kind of outside work. What really surprised him was the steadiness of Winslow’s gaze and the peace that he saw on the man’s face. There was little of the lost despair that he’d seen on the faces of other inmates, and he could discern no anger whatsoever. If he had met Winslow outside, he would have said without hesitation that he was a well-founded individual. Stuart’s steady eyes rested on him, and there was a patience and a calmness in him that came as somewhat of a surprise.
Maybe prison does that, Tom thought to himself. But aloud he said, “I don’t thin
k we’ve ever met, but I met your father and mother once when they came on a visit to my home.”
“You’re Zach Winslow’s son,” Stuart said. “My parents used to talk about your folks a lot. They think there’s nobody like them.”
“Well, it’s mutual,” Tom said. He hesitated, but time was short, and he had a great deal to say. “Stuart, my father got a letter from your mother. She didn’t ask for help, but my father has asked me to come to see what I can do.”
“Are you a lawyer?”
“Yes. A defense attorney.”
Stuart smiled, and his white teeth showed against his olive complexion. “I could have used you a few years ago,” he said. There was no bitterness in the remark, and he simply sat there for a while, his big hands holding the cup. He had long, strong fingers, and his hands looked powerful. “Why exactly are you here, Mr. Winslow?”
“Call me Tom. I’m going to look into your case. I don’t know much about it, but sometimes things can be done in the law.”
“You’re going to try to get me a new trial?”
“That would be one option, but I’ll have to know everything. We don’t have a great deal of time. I have an appointment with the warden at eleven o’clock, so I’m going to ask you a lot of questions. I ask you one thing, Stuart. Just tell me the truth. No matter how bad you think the thing is that you did, just tell me the truth. Never lie to your lawyer.”
“No point in that. What do you want to know?”
For the next hour Tom fired questions at Stuart. He listened carefully and wrote a great deal in the notebook that he had brought in with him. As he listened, he became more and more convinced that whatever this man had been seven years earlier, he was not a dangerous man now. There was a calm simplicity about Stuart Winslow that impressed him greatly. Finally he shut his notebook and said, “I’ve got to go now to see the warden.” He grinned briefly and said, “I’ll see what kind of a character reference he gives you.”
“He’s a good man. He’s been a big help to me.”
“I’ll be going to Lewisville tomorrow. Do you have any message for your folks?”
Stuart Winslow hesitated, then said in a choked voice, “Tell them that I love them . . . and that, I’d like to hear from them. I don’t blame them for ignoring me, but I need their forgiveness.”
Tom Winslow could not understand why Stuart would say that his parents were ignoring him. Surely they had done all they could to keep in touch with him. Since Stuart was visibly shaken, he decided not to press the issue with him, but would ask the warden about this. He went on, “And I’ll be seeing your wife and your family. What can I pass along?”
Stuart remained silent for several moments, turning his mug around in his hands and staring down into the remains of the coffee as if it held some great interest. When he finally looked up, Tom could see the pain in his eyes.
“Tell them I love them,” he said, “and that I’m sorry.”
Tom was very moved by the man’s contrition over how much he had hurt his family. He saw at once that these were not just words, but that the man was truly sorry. “I’ll tell them that.” He got up and said, “I didn’t know what to bring, but I left a whole sackful of stuff—candy, gum, shaving cream. I just filled it up at the store. If you can’t use it, give it to somebody else.”
“That was thoughtful of you, Tom.”
The two men stood there, and those who turned to them saw, somehow, a similarity. One man was wearing expensive clothes and had an obvious air of authority and determination. The other was a criminal dressed in the shoddy uniform provided by the state. Yet there was something about the two that marked them as relatives.
“Your mother hasn’t given up, Stuart. I’m a pretty stubborn fellow myself. You know, there was a time when some of our people were in jail in Salem. Looked pretty grim for them.”
“Yes. I’ve read about them. Great people.”
“Well, we Winslows have to stick together.” An impulse came to Tom then. He stepped forward and put his arm around Stuart’s shoulder. They were about the same height, and he squeezed him, saying, “God’s able to furnish a table in the wilderness and feed a million children with bread from heaven. I think He’s able to get you out of this place, so don’t give up.”
A light flared suddenly in Stuart Winslow’s eyes, and a glimmer of hope changed his expression. “I’m glad you believe that, Tom.”
“I’ll be seeing you again. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye—and thanks for coming.”
Leaving the visitors’ room, Tom stepped outside, sought directions, and left the building. He found the administration building without any problem and told the attending guard that he had an appointment with the warden.
“Down that hall. His name’s on the door on the right.”
“Thank you.”
Moving down the hall, Tom found the door marked Warden Armstrong and stepped inside. He found himself in an outer office, and an inmate was sitting there filing papers.
“Can I help you, sir?” he said. He was a small man with sharp features and coal black hair.
“I have an appointment to see Warden Armstrong at eleven o’clock.”
The inmate glanced down at the paper on his desk. “Mr. Winslow?”
“Yes. Tom Winslow.”
“He’s expecting you. He said for you to come right in.”
“Thanks.” Tom knocked on the door, heard a voice, then opened it. He found a stockily built man with iron gray hair cut short sitting at his desk. “Warden Armstrong, I’m Tom Winslow.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Winslow. Take that chair there.” Armstrong waited until Tom was seated and then said, “You’ve come to see Stuart. I’ve got his record here. Is he a relative of yours?”
“A cousin, Warden. My father and mother are very close to his parents.”
“I see.”
The warden’s eyes were sharp and brightly intelligent. They had seen much grief, yet the hardness that Tom had heard connected with him did not show in his features. Indeed, he had an interest that caught Tom’s attention. “I know you’re a busy man, Warden, so I’ll put it all out on the table for you. I’m a lawyer. A defense attorney, really. My father’s asked me to look into Stuart’s trial.”
“He feels that it wasn’t fair?”
“He doesn’t really know. Stuart’s mother is a very lovely woman, so he says, and she wrote to him and asked him to pray for Stuart. My father’s in bad health, so he couldn’t come himself. I really don’t know anything about the circumstances, but I came to visit Stuart, and I wanted to hear your opinion of him. I’ll be going to Lewisville to rake up the old ashes to see if I can stir something up.”
“I’m glad you came. A lot of men pass through here, Mr. Winslow. Most of them are pretty hard cases. Some of them are just scared and are beaten down. Stuart’s different.”
“Different in what way?”
“Well, it’s hard to say. You know some men just impress you the first time you see them. When he came here he got off to a bad start.”
“How was that?”
“Well, he got crossways with the chief of our guards here—Felix Munger. He’s a hard man, and I learned that he was treating Stuart with unnecessary harshness. Within a week of Stuart’s arrival, I reassigned him to another part of the prison so Munger could no longer bother him.”
Tom listened as the warden described the difficulties that Stuart had encountered when he had first arrived at Tucker Penitentiary. “It would have broken most men,” Armstrong said, “but not Stuart.” The warden picked up a pen, turned it in his hand, then replaced it. “He had a lot of bitterness, Mr. Winslow, when he first came, but four years ago a dramatic change came into him. Up until that time he wouldn’t talk to anybody except his roommate, Pete Jennings. He kept to himself, and I thought he would never pull out of it. I’ve seen that kind of bitterness rule in men before, but as I said, four years ago that all changed.”
Tom leaned forward. “What hap
pened, Warden?”
A smile touched the wide lips of Warden Armstrong, and his eyes brightened. “Pete Jennings is quite a fellow. He’s in for life with no hope for parole. He committed a terrible crime, but he found God while he was here, and for three years he tried to talk to Stuart Winslow about God. Thankfully, he finally got through. Maybe Stuart will tell you more about it sometime. He has quite a testimony. Since then he’s been a changed man. He’s just one of the dozen or so that Jennings has been able to help. These last four years Stuart’s been a model prisoner.”
“Tell me all you can about him, Warden. I’m going to need everything I can get.”
“Well, he just came out of himself, and the thing that has been different, besides his attitude, has been his music.”
“His music? What do you mean?”
“Oh, he’s a wonderful musician! Can play just about anything, and you’ve never heard such a voice. Nobody really knew it until he gave his heart to the Lord. But he started playing in the chapel services. We found an old guitar for him, then a banjo and a fiddle—he plays just about anything. About two years ago he came up with the idea of having a weekly concert, so I let him try it. Every Friday night he plays and sings. He organized some of the interested inmates into a choir. In fact, he’s even teaching quite a few of them to play the guitar and other instruments. I tell you, it’s been quite a thing. We have a pretty tough time in this place, Mr. Winslow, and anytime anyone can unify the prisoners into something like that, I say it’s good.”
Tom listened avidly, taking copious notes, and for a solid hour he pumped Warden Armstrong for every detail about Stuart’s life. The warden was happy to supply any information he could, saying along toward noon, “Look, I don’t know what use I can be. I’m pretty active in the politics of this state. You use my name if that’s handy.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Tom said. “Could I ask you just one more question, Warden?”
“Certainly.”
“Stuart tells me that his family have ignored him these last seven years—not visiting or even sending letters. The letter from Diane Winslow indicated that Stuart himself refused all visitors and returned all his letters unopened. Stuart seems to think they’ve chosen to ignore him because they’re ashamed of him, but from what I know of his parents, I find that hard to believe. Especially of his mother. Is there some reason he would not have been allowed any contact with his family?”
The Glorious Prodigal Page 14