All eyes turned to me. I nodded.
She mimicked me with half a nod, speaking with increased volume. “Does that mean yes?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You wearing a sexual offender anklet?”
I lifted my pant leg around the side of the desk so she could see it. Using a handheld scanner tethered to her computer that looked like something at a grocery store checkout counter, she scanned it. My prison mug shot taken a day before my release appeared immediately on the screen in front of her. She spoke without looking. “Full name?”
“Matthew Tate Rising.”
She took off her reading glasses and stared at me, sort of chewing on one side of her cheek. “Son, I’m not here for your jollies. Now you either speak up—” She pointed over her shoulder at several uniformed officers milling around the coffee pot. “Or you can have this conversation with them.”
I said it again, this time loud enough to be heard.
“Confirm your date of birth.”
“11-3-1981.”
“Driver’s license or identification card?”
“I don’t have either.”
“Social security card?”
That had been in the documents they returned to me when they released me from prison. I handed it to her.
“Employer information?”
“I’m not employed.”
She spoke without looking. “Unemployed?”
I thought that’s what I just said but figured it better not to bring that up. I dropped the ma’am. “Yes.”
“Do you have any identifying tattoos?”
“No.”
Her fingers moved with the speed of hummingbird wings. “Scars?”
I had two. One about four inches long next to my belly button and the other over six inches long just above my right hip. “Yes.”
“Are they in private areas?”
“No, I can show them to you.”
She held up a camera tethered to her computer so I lifted my shirt and she took several photos of each.
“How did you get them?”
I paused and waited. I knew I was losing this verbal joust but I had everyone else’s attention in the room, I might as well have hers. She did not look at me but tapped the keyboard impatiently. Finally, a quick glance at me and then back at the screen in front of her. “A man stabbed me in prison.”
She never hesitated. “Do you possess a passport?”
“I did, but I haven’t seen it in about thirteen years.” I shrugged. “I imagine it’s expired by now.”
She looked at me over her glasses. “You get cute with me and you can sleep it off next door.” She pointed her pen at me. “You understand?”
“I wasn’t intending to be—”
“What’s your phone number?”
I turned to Wood and he recited the number for her.
She spoke without looking up. “Wood, he staying at your daddy’s cabin?”
“Yes, Betty.”
“How tall are you—” She leaned forward, pretending to read my name on the screen. “Matthew?”
She knew my name. “Six four and a half.”
She eyed her screen. “Says here you’re six five.”
“Okay.”
“I told you not to get smart with me.”
I didn’t respond. One of the officers walked in carrying his coffee, stood over her shoulder, and stared at me.
She continued, “Confirm your social security number.”
I had just handed her my card and we’d just been through this, but I let it go and confirmed it for her without sarcasm.
“Will you be staying anywhere other than Wood’s cabin?”
“No.”
“If you intend to stay anywhere other than that cabin for more than seven days you must notify this office or any other law enforcement office in the area where you will be staying. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Do you own a vehicle or will you be using one?”
“I do not own one and, as of this moment, don’t have any plans to.”
Wood spoke up behind me. “Betty, I’ve got an old dirt bike that I’m gonna let him use. I’ll bring you the registration later.”
She clicked a few keys, glanced disbelievingly at Wood, then up at me. Finally, she looked back at her screen and scanned the information in front of her. She spoke to Wood without looking at him. “2005?”
“Yes.”
“Is it orange?”
“Yep.”
“125cc?”
“Yes.”
“You got insurance?”
Wood handed her his insurance card. She received it and spoke to me without looking. “I don’t suppose you have insurance.”
“Not yet.”
She returned the card to Wood, tapped her front teeth with a pencil, and then opened an ink pad and positioned it next to a thick piece of paper possessing ten labeled boxes. She stood, took my hand in hers, rolled my left thumb in the ink, and then rolled it onto the first box on the paper. She repeated this nine more times. Wood watched in silence as Betty did her job. Finished with the fingerprints, she handed me a bottle of Windex and a paper towel and then returned to her desk. Next, she pulled on two rubber gloves. Wood chuckled. She said, “Stand here, open wide. I am required to swab your mouth.” I did and she paused, speaking loud enough for everyone in the room to hear her. “Open wider.” I did as instructed and she circled the inside of my mouth with the cotton swab. When finished, she deposited the swab in a Ziploc bag. She picked up a pair of scissors. “I need to trim a section of your hair. Lean over this bag.” I obeyed and she cut my hair, letting it fall into the open bag. Sealing the bag, she returned to her keyboard, pulled off her glasses, and folded her hands in front of her. “You need to listen carefully, as I’m only going to say this once.”
I leaned in closer so she knew she had my full and undivided attention. As if on cue, the officer behind her inched forward, set down his now empty cup and ran his fingers along the inside of his duty belt. She spoke through tight lips. “You may not live or work within two thousand feet of a school, day care, movie theater, or any place where children under the age of eighteen may frequent. Violate any of these conditions and the DA will send you back to prison. In most cases, the sentence is twice that of time previously served. Knowing the location of Wood’s cabin, I doubt it qualifies, but you can rest assured that we will measure it this afternoon. If it does not, we will notify you and you will immediately seek another place to live.”
I swallowed.
“Do you understand these conditions as I’ve laid them out for you?”
“I do.”
She handed me a small USB scanner. “You will use this to check in daily. Scan it and then confirm registration. It’s your job to make sure your scanner is working and that we receive confirmation, not ours. We’re not your parents, not your babysitter. You understand?”
I was ready to be finished with this. “I understand.”
“Sign here.”
I signed on the electronic keypad.
Without looking up, she said, “You are free to go.”
I turned, took a step, and the anger in me that had bubbled up since I walked in here foamed over my edges. I leaned back over the counter and spoke softly. “I don’t feel free.”
She set down her pencil, folded her hands, and let out a breath through her nose. Disdain covered her face. “Mr. Rising, you should have thought about that thirteen years ago. And if you violate the conditions of your freedom, the State will gladly return you to your previous home, where sick and twisted deviants like you belong.” The officer behind her smiled and rocked on his toes and heels.
Having been put in my place, and realizing I should have kept my mouth shut, I turned to leave and found Wood waiting at the door in the hallway that led outside. I couldn’t see the steps, but judging from the look on his face and the noise, something wasn’t right. “You might ought to consider an alternate e
xit.”
I could see multiple media trucks parked outside. Obviously, someone inside the Sheriff’s Office had ratted me out. Given my experience with the media, I knew that if I didn’t feed the sharks now, they’d circle until I did. “Probably best just to get it over with.”
He stepped aside and pulled off the Costas that were pushed up on top of his head. “You might want these.”
I slid them on and stepped outside to flashes, microphones, and voice recorders. Their voices were loud and intrusive, as were the questions.
Matthew, what’s it feel like to be a sex offender?
Have you found a place to live?
What will you do?
Will you be attending a combine?
Have any teams contacted you?
Will the anklet affect your play?
Have you had or do you intend to have any contact with the victim, Angelina Custodia?
I was holding it together pretty well until the last one. The word “victim” shot up my spine like a steel rod. I stared at the reporter. “No.”
How about the other two girls?
I imagined my fist breaking the jaw of the bottle-blond reporter, then I eyed the pool of reporters. “I’d like to make a statement.”
They pushed in tighter, pressing me against the door and extending the microphones to within inches of my face.
I decided to skip any preliminaries. “No, no teams have contacted me, and I have no plans of attending a combine or attempting to play any type of organized football.” I paused. One of the reporters tried to speak, but I cut him off. “The specific conditions of my parole would prevent me from doing so.”
Dissatisfied with the newsworthiness of my responses, the feeding frenzy continued.
Where will you live?
What will you do for work?
Will you stay in this area?
I had decided that my interview was over until one question rose above all the rest. The voice was familiar, as was the face. Audrey stood behind the reporters, her voice booming. Given the severity of her question, the other reporters paid her no notice but rather waited for my response. She screamed above the fray: Mr. Rising, what was it that made you betray your wife? What did she not offer you that two underage girls did?
It was the question. The question killing Audrey’s soul. I saw that. The gaunt look, thin cheeks, and hunched shoulders all betrayed the depth of it.
The question quieted the crowd; the reporters were almost licking their lips waiting for my response. We’d just traveled from the ho-hum pressing of a has-been to sensational in one question. Audrey didn’t wait for the answer but backed out of the crowd and began walking around the courthouse. Between the scarf and the sunglasses, I doubted if even Wood recognized her.
The crowd stood between me and her, but if I didn’t move now, I’d lose my chance. I elbowed my way through, sprinting out of the crowd and following her. She was stepping into a van with ST. BERNARD’S printed on the side when I stopped her from closing the door. Several cameras appeared around us.
The reporters quickly reassembled en masse around the front and sides of the van. Between the courthouse steps and here, the number of microphones had doubled. She pulled on the door, but I stopped her. I said, “My plan is to find my wife.”
Realizing that the life of anonymity she lived behind the walls of St. Bernard’s could well change in the next few moments, she bit her lip and gathered her composure. She tugged on the door I wouldn’t let her shut and spoke through gritted teeth. “And when you’ve done that?”
“I’ll tell her that I love her. Always have. She’s all that matters. All that’s ever mattered.”
Another tug. “There were witnesses. Video. Little girls were… hurt.”
“Aud—” I dropped my head. Still fighting a battle I lost twelve years ago. “I told the truth.”
Her face grew tighter. She stepped out, staring up at me. The reporters were in a frenzy to catch every expression. Every intonation. A scuffle broke out between two cameramen vying for position. Her bottom lip trembled. Then she reached out and pounded on my chest with her fist in the same way someone small might bang on a giant door. Seeing her in the daylight exposed the frailty. The anger. The torment of the years. And the sight of it pained me. “The jury was unanimous!”
“That doesn’t make them right.”
She stamped her foot and was nearly screaming at the top of her lungs. “After all this—” She waved her hand across the circus around us. “Are you still going to stand here and lie to me?”
For twelve years I’d envisioned this conversation, but this wasn’t how. My voice rose. “I’ve never lied to you.”
I saw it coming but didn’t move. She reached behind her, twelve years back, through all the cold, sleepless nights, and struck me in the face with a closed fist. The acrid taste of blood filled my mouth, but I felt the sting in my chest.
“You’re nothing.” Not satisfied with her first punch, she reached back into the same bank of years and slapped me with an open palm. Doing so sprayed blood and saliva over the first row of reporters. She then spit in my face. “Always were.” She gathered her composure and spoke with mock enthusiasm. “Your fans are awaiting your long-anticipated and much-discussed return.” She pulled harder on the door, this time whispering, “Let go.”
“Aud—if I never played again, let it go forever, how long would it take for you to believe me?”
“Never.”
I wedged myself between the door and the van. “Think about it. If I did. Gave it up. Never took another snap.” I waved my hand behind me. “Even though all these people are screaming for my return and you, you of all people, know in your heart of hearts that I could. That I can. That I’m still good enough. Wouldn’t it cause you to think that something isn’t right here? That maybe I never lied to you? That maybe someone that’s not me is lying?”
We hadn’t said this much to each other since shortly after my arrest. Given the evidence, the story Angelina had spun, doubt had crept in and Audrey had distanced herself from me. Everyone had. The words she spoke here were words she wished she’d said in the courtroom, to cut herself from me. And knowing that I was facing a minimum of twelve years, I don’t blame her. Twelve years is a long time when you’re staring it in the face. If it would have helped ease her pain, cut the cord between her heart and mine, then I wish she’d said it then. Maybe the last decade wouldn’t have hurt her so much. Problem was, she hadn’t. And as much as she hated me now, and no matter how she’d tried to forget me, and even though she’d quit wearing a wedding ring, and even though she’d only come to see me once in prison, and even though my anklet would follow me the rest of my life, and even though I couldn’t make her believe me, she couldn’t deny that her heart was still tethered to mine.
Her words were mocking in tone. “Play the martyr. I don’t care if they bury you beneath the fifty yard line.” A stiletto finger poked me in the chest. “Your heart lied to mine.”
“Football means nothing without you.” She slammed the door, cranked the engine, and roared off. I spoke to exhaust, taillights, and smirking reporters. “Always has.”
Wood stood next to me. Eyes wide. Mouth open. Watching the van disappear down the street, he shook his head. “She was here all along. Right under our noses.” He turned to me. “I had no idea.”
“She wanted it that way.”
My sensational return to town was covered by the networks. Jim Kneels, who had departed daily reporting years ago to anchor a weekend-only show, came out of semiretirement to host a special. Somebody in the Sheriff’s Office leaked the location of Wood’s cabin, and within an hour, three broadcast boom trucks were parked at the gate. Several inspectors and state officials were brought in to measure the distance between the cabin and school grounds. Several school administrators were interviewed and much was made about “protecting the children.” I don’t blame them. If somebody who was like they thought I was shacked up half a mile from their
children’s school, and he’d actually done what I’d been convicted of doing, I’d have chaired the committee to run him out of town. But this was me they were talking about. And I knew me. Various measuring instruments were used, including satellite and GPS imagery, all of which confirmed that I was, in fact, entirely legal. “But,” Jim Kneels said with raised eyebrows, “just barely.” Jim concluded his report. “Mr. Rising’s insistence that he has no intention of playing professional football begs the question, ‘What then, Mr. Rising, are your plans, and why, of all places, would you choose to live where you are living?’ ” Jim shook his head and folded his hands. “When a man is accustomed to winning, as Mr. Rising is, it is difficult to accept losing. You can take the man out of football, but taking football out of the man? Well, that’s another thing entirely.”
I clicked off the TV, stared out the window through the trees in the direction of the shade barn, and nodded in silent agreement.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The barn door squeaked when I pushed it open. I turned up the flow of gas on the lantern and walked in. When the light from the brilliant white mantle showered the inside of the barn, I stood back in wonder.
A shade barn was designed to hang and dry shade tobacco. On average, barns were fifty feet wide by a hundred and fifty feet long and fifty feet high—nearly the same size as a basketball gymnasium. They were vented on the sides, top and bottom, by hinged doors that ran horizontally along the length, intended to control the heat and humidity. Inside the barn, rafters crossed the entirety of the interior. Five feet apart, each ran the width of the barn, spanning its entire length from front door to back. The rafters started just overhead and climbed every four feet like ladders to the roof. The inside of the barn looked like a laundry rack for tobacco leaves, and a monkey would have had a heyday. For Wood and me, it was better than Disney World. We would climb the ladder to the first rafter and then pick our way like Spider-Man all the way to the far end without ever touching the ground.
Given the decline in shade farming, few barns remain in the South. You can find a few in Connecticut, but most have been disassembled board by board and sold for the value of the heart-pine lumber. Heart-pine is a unique feature of pine trees. Turpentine, a natural product of the tree—which is farmed and refined into kerosene or Pine-Sol or a thousand other things—resides in the fibers of the wood. It’s the sap. When cut, the sap remains, leaving a natural fire starter in the wood with almost the same ignition qualities as gasoline. On cold nights, I have dug up more than one pine stump out of the dirt, peeled away a small section of bark with my knife, lit the raw, exposed end of the root, and watched it burn like a torch for hours. And if you find the true heart of the pine, where the thickest sap resided, it will create a blowtorch sound when lit.
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