Dear Daddy

by Lena Little

  Dear Daddy

  Yes, Daddy: Book 11

  Lena Little

  © 2020 by Lena Little

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Mailing List

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Also by Lena Little

  Preview

  Nobody really seems to get me and I remind myself that all I need to do is get through this last semester and I’ll be a high school graduate, and combined with my eighteen years of age that means I’m free to do what I want.

  Unfortunately, my parents want me to go to college, or at least that’s what they say. But what they really mean is they want me gone. Pronto.

  I love to write, draw, and more than anything, get mail. That being the case maybe this assignment for my psychology class will be a blessing in disguise.

  But I made a mistake and it resulted in an inmate receiving my letter. A convicted felon.

  He seems…not like I’d expect an inmate to seem. Something about him seems more genuine, caring, and tolerant than anyone in my life.

  He understands me and doesn’t want to change me, and calls me his little one.

  I need to do this for my school project in order to graduate, right? That’s what I’m telling myself at least, but I know that this is so much more.

  Dear Daddy, come for your princess and make her your queen.

  Mailing List

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  1

  Josi

  “And your final paper must include one living breathing reference that you personally interviewed.” I continue drawing unicorns in the upper right hand corner of my notepad until I hear my teacher, Mr. Byrd, clear his voice above me. “Do you understand, Ms. Lawson?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, quickly slapping the binder shut so he can’t see what I was doing, although we both know it’s too late. Mr. Byrd just hovers over me, his eyes narrowing as they rake over the turquoise colored crayon I have in my hand and the salmon colored one next to it. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he continues, walking through the aisles of the classroom with his hands behind his back, the back of one hand resting in the palm of his other. “I’d like to remind you that next year many of you will be off to college, so it’s time to start acting like adults sooner rather than later. In other words…grow up,” he finishes off his little lecture pointedly. But I know he’s not directing it to everyone in our class, just me. It seems his face constantly pinches whenever he looks in my direction, which is exactly what happens to my stepfather’s expression when he graces me with anything even remotely resembling the fact that he’s acknowledging my existence. And unfortunately, I can’t even remember the last time my mom smiled my way. She likes to constantly remind me I look more like my dad, who she despises to this day despite the fact he ran out on us eighteen years ago, exactly when he found out my mom was pregnant with me.

  A few of my classmates point and snicker at my knee-high striped socks and ruffled skirt dress. I don’t care, or at least that’s what I tell myself. Nobody really seems to get me and I remind myself that all I need to do is get through this last semester and I’ll be a high school graduate, and combined with my eighteen years of age that means I’m free to do what I want. Unfortunately, my parents want me to go to college, or at least that’s what they say. Considering they haven’t shown a single bit of interest in where I go or what I study, only suggesting that schools out East are the best choice, it seems they’re more interested in me getting as far away from where we live here in California than actually getting an education. The fact is punctuated by the constant reminders that I shouldn’t look at the ‘expensive colleges’ and I need to apply for all the scholarships I can. In other words, don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya. They want me gone. Pronto.

  The bell rings and I stuff my things into my oversized backpack that’s shaped like Kermit the Frog, opening his mouth and sliding my binder and textbook inside before carefully putting my crayons back inside their case. So what if everyone else takes notes with their electronic gadgets or at worst, pens and pencils. Not me. I’m beyond low tech. I’m no tech, preferring the touch of something in my hand, reminding myself that writing and penmanship are a lost art. I love to write, draw, and more than anything, get mail. That being the case maybe this assignment for my psychology class will be a blessing in disguise.

  No way am I going to do a sit-down interview with someone. The idea of a face-to-face interaction with someone in the penal system frightens me as much as driving a car does, and that’s one of my biggest fears in the world and exactly why I skipped driver’s ed and don’t have my driver’s license.

  But what could be fun is writing a letter to a lawyer or someone like that.

  I step out of the school building, popping a big bubble thanks to my Bubbalicious gum, the grape flavor is so good it should be illegal. Then it hits me. What if I write someone who deals with people who do illegal acts and gets to see their psychological transformation over the course of a few years or more? Not a lawyer, because that doesn’t seem as interesting.

  But what about someone that works in…a jail. A corrections officer could be interesting, as maybe he or she would be willing to give an insight into not only their psychological process in dealing with people convicted of violent crimes but also a first hand account of the offenders. Knowing Mr. Byrd he’ll actually check references, not that I ever plan on cheating. Cheating is bad and I’m a good girl, a good student.

  As soon as I get home I Google some information about San Quentin State Prison, which lies north of San Francisco. I read a few pieces about inmates rioting and see some statements from a corrections officer by the name of Jackson James. Well, if he likes giving statements to news outlets then maybe he’ll be okay with answering a letter from the daughter of two tax paying citizens.

  Sitting down at my desk, I carefully move my Simba the lion stuffie from my desk and set him on my bed, where he likes to sleep and watch over me while I’m doing my homework. He ‘guards’ my bed, reminding me I can’t come in and snuggle up with him until I’m done. At least that’s what I tell myself to motivate myself to finish.

  I slide out the drawer underneath my desk and remove my stationary with the multi-colored hearts around the edges. It’s not professional by a long shot, but I hope that will actually work to my advantage. I need this letter to be seen and to get opened. That being the case I pull out the brightest pink envelope to go with it.

  Thinking about what I want to say I realize a quick sugar rush could help me power through the right words. I pull a chocolate cupcake from the mini-fridge in my room and generously apply some sprinkles to the top before scarfing it down.

  I slide into my Wonder Woman pajamas and wait for the sugar to reach my brain. Not five minutes later and the words are flowing.

  Dear Mr. Jackson,

  Thank you for taking the time to open and read my letter. I promise to keep it short as I know your time is very valuable.

  My name is Josephine Lawson, but everyone just calls me J
osi. I’m an eighteen-year old senior in high school not far from where you work and as part of my final semester psychology class, I have to personally interview someone who is interesting from a psychological point of view and report back to my class on it. I was thinking that would be you! (I hope you take my thoughts the right way.) My guess is that you must experience a lot of psychological ups and downs in your job, and surely your inmates do too.

  If you don’t mind and have a few minutes, would you mind sharing some interesting experiences that fit with my school paper? I’m enclosing a self-addressed stamped returned envelope so you can just drop it in the mail without having to buy stamps or anything that takes too much time out of your day or makes you stand in line at the post office.

  Oh, and in the spirit of fairness, I should share a little bit about myself, from a psychological standpoint…

  Some people seem to think I need to ‘grow up’, but personally I love keeping the free-spirit and enthusiasm of a child. I just love how they view the world with open eyes and open arms. It amazes me how the smallest things are so big in their eyes, and that’s how I often feel myself. I’m not really sure why I see the world this way but I do. My stepdad and mom have suggested I see a psychiatrist, but so far I’ve been able to avoid it. I agreed to sign up for psychology as an elective course, and that appeased them for now.

  If anything, this class has taught me that the world is full of different people and anyone who thinks they might be a bit ‘off’ is probably just fine. No one is really ‘normal’, and I know that the word normal and Josi certainly don’t fit in the same sentence. Hehehehe.

  Okay, I’m rambling now. Sorry, it’s just that I don’t have too many friends, or really any at all, and I love to read on my Kindle, solve puzzles, and write so I can get carried away in a situation like this.

  Well, I better go. I’ve already got my pj’s on and am ready for bed. I want to watch a bit of The Lion King on my phone before I fall asleep.

  Thanks again for reading all this and I hope to hear from you and learn a bit more about you, the challenges you face and the opportunities they present, and also the kind of people you’re in charge of, both those on your team and the inmates.

  I love crime shows and your job sounds very interesting!

  Toodles,

  Josi

  2

  James

  A fellow inmate I don’t recognize nonchalantly flips a letter through the bars of my cell, the pink object spinning like a flying saucer before hitting the cold, hard, concrete floor and sliding toward my bunk before stopping at my feet.

  His eyes never meet mine, staying head high as he reads the names affixed in tape outside each cell as he continues passing out the day’s mail.

  I look down at the envelope, which has landed face up. My eyes narrow in disbelief for two reasons. One, I haven’t been allowed to receive mail in the entirety of my almost twenty-four years of being locked up. Two, it looks like it’s from…a woman.

  “Hand it on up,” my cellmate above me says from the top bunk, knowing there’s no way in hell I’d ever receive mail.

  “This one’s a return to sender, not for you.”

  “Good. Last thing I need is some girly envelope being found amongst my stuff. I’ll pay for it in the showers.”

  “I’ll return it in the morning. Might help with my parole hearing coming up,” I lie, knowing there’s no way in hell I’m getting out of this joint anytime soon.

  I grab the card and bring it to rest half under my pillow and half out, counting down the thirty minutes until light’s out.

  My hand starts shaking and my nostrils flare as I breathe in deep. The letter feels like it’s been dipped in perfume, or something sweet. It’s a smell I can’t ever remember inside these walls. The only smell other than mold or the pine-scented stuff they use to mop the floors is the smell of cigarettes, in the rare instances, they’re smuggled in. Never the smell of something girly like this.

  My dick hardens for the first time in months, years even. I look at the envelope more carefully.

  San Quentin State Prison

  East Block

  co Jackson James

  San Quentin, CA 94964

  Then it hits me.

  Whoever wrote this out meant to put ‘CO’ as in Corrections Officer, but instead it almost looks more like c/o, as in ‘in care of.’ Not only that we go by our last names in here, so whoever this new inmate is who’s in charge of delivering the mail they must have mistaken Jackson James as me, James Jackson, and not Corrections Officer James, who I now realize must have the first name of Jackson. The CO’s in here never have their first names on their uniforms, preventing any inmates or visitors from tracking them down and bringing harm to them or their families, or trying to bribe them by figuring out what they like on social media, whatever that is. I wouldn’t know. I’ve only heard of it seeing that it became a thing after I got locked up.

  Carefully sliding the letter further underneath my pillow, I roll over onto my back, waiting for the lights to go off. I should go to sleep and return this letter in the morning. I’m not allowed to receive mail and opening someone else’s mail is a serious crime, possibly even a low-level felony. I may be locked up for what someone perceived me to have done, but unlike most of the other guys in here I don’t just say I didn’t do the crime. I actually didn’t, and I won’t compromise my principles despite society throwing me in a box, surrounded by other testosterone-rich savage men in similar boxes all around mine playing a game of life or death on a daily basis. And it’s been this way for damn near a quarter of a century.

  Before I know what’s happening the lights go out one by one in rapid succession and the entirety of the cell block goes still. And I still can’t stop thinking about the letter.

  The smell. The color. The words that are inside and what they say.

  Like all people, I make decisions emotionally and justify them rationally after the fact, ‘validating’ what I want to do, and am going to do, before I actually do it.

  But how do you validate opening a CO’s mail? Surely he’ll find out, right?

  If there’s one thing you learn in prison it’s the art of disguise…how to make it like you were never there. I slide the letter out from underneath my pillow and begin breathing heavily on the edges where it’s glued down. Seconds turn to minutes and minutes to hours, but eventually the last of the glue gives and I carefully open the letter, knowing that I’ll need to reseal it after I find out what’s inside.

  I roll over onto my stomach, my dick hammering into the thin mattress that hasn’t been replaced in the entirety of my time being locked up. With the precision and sure handedness of a surgeon holding a pair of tweezers, I carefully slide the letter from the envelope and unfold it.

  The first thing I notice is the paper it’s written on. It’s not normal paper, but something someone paid extra for. Not only that it doesn’t look like something an adult would pick out. Does CO Jackson have a daughter? I can easily see a young girl picking this out and writing to him, but why would she mail him something here and not just give it to him at home.

  Maybe her mother has custody and is trying to limit contact? Or maybe I need to quit making up crazy stories in my head and read the damn thing.

  My hands shake as my eyes trace from left to right, reading for the first time in years. Not only am I banned from receiving mail, but I’m one of the few inmates banned from the library and any forms of media other than movies and TV. It’s like I’ve almost forgotten to read until I start following the crayon across the page.

  At first, I feel like a sick fuck, until I get to the point that she’s eighteen. And quickly I validate that this was intended for the CO, and not for me. But, she has questions about psychology, including the psychology of the inmates. Well, who can answer that better than me? I’ve been in here as long as anyone, but before I even think of answering her questions, I need to answer one for myself…tomorrow.

  I finish the
letter and slide it back into the envelope, licking it again and sealing it.

  And then a whole other set of questions begin. Who is this angel who’s writing to a prison for Pete’s sake? She clearly doesn’t know the CO and it’s obvious she’s just doing this to get a bit of information…the kind I can provide her.

  But what I can’t understand is how fate brought this letter to me, and how this girl with the perfect penmanship, strange stationary and a way with words has captivated me so damn much.

  I try and tell myself it’s just because I haven’t seen a woman in years, let alone interacted with one if you can even call this that.

  But it’s something more. She’s…awakened something inside me. Even though I’ve never seen her, never heard the sweet sound of her voice, there’s just something about the way her words jump off the page that tell me she’s looking for something, or maybe even someone. It’s as if she’s looking and doesn’t even know it.

  And how do I know this? Because I have to read people in here each and every day just to stay alive? No, although it doesn’t hurt.

  It’s because for the first time in my life I feel like I understand myself, which is ironic considering I thought I already knew everything there is to know and here this girl not even old enough to drink a glass of wine, with her questions about psychology, has me questioning everything about me that I thought was fact.

  Right now there is only one fact. No way in the world am I sleeping tonight. And tomorrow, for the first time since being locked up, I’m going to have to trade something to the inmate who watches the shower for you when you need five minutes of private time. The one guy who can bribe the guards to turn the other direction when a man needs time alone to handle things in the bathroom.