They called his name. Segovia, Andrés. They looked at his wrists, studied his number and the miniature photo on his bracelet, looked at him, nodded. They opened the door, then motioned for him to follow. The correctional officer offered a token of recognition—“So someone sprung you.” Andrés accepted the token by nodding.
As they waited for the elevator, he stood behind the stripe on the floor. He stared at the number six on the elevator doors. No shackles today. No handcuffs. He was leaving. No need for that kind of insurance. When the elevator door opened, a new arrival stepped out, shackled and cuffed and a look on his face that said, If I could break out, I’d fucking kill you. Andrés did not look away from the man’s sneer.
On the second floor, he stood in a short line at the same place where he’d picked up his blanket and orange jumper. The friendly black man who looked like he could break any man in half smiled and handed him a basket with his clothes and personal belongings. “Good luck,” he said. Andrés nodded back. Sure. Luck. Yeah.
They led him down the hall. There was a counter with a clerk who was busy looking over some paperwork. “You can change in there,” he said, pointing at the stalls. The doors were cut at the top and the bottom. The only things the doors hid were the midsection of his body. Jails weren’t meant for delicate men who needed privacy. He took the basket filled with his clothes and personal stuff into one of the stalls. He stepped out of his orange jumper and put on his own clothes quickly. It was good. To wear his own shirt. His own pair of pants. His own socks. His own pair of shoes. He took in his own smell as he put on his shirt.
At the counter, they cut his bracelet off, signed him out.
A man his own age led him to the front doors. They did not speak.
Dave was there. Waiting. He smiled, then handed him a pair of sunglasses. “You’ll need these,” he said. “You look a little thin.”
“I haven’t been hungry.”
He pushed the door open, the blinding sun slapping his face. Even with the pair of sunglasses Dave had given him, he could hardly see. He stood for a moment and looked around, letting his eyes adjust.
“I’ll take you to breakfast,” Dave said. He pointed as they walked down the sidewalk. “I’m parked on Campbell.”
“And then what?”
“I’ll take you back home.”
“How am I going to pay the fucking rent? I’m sure Garcia’s fired me by now.”
“I’ve paid your rent.”
“I don’t like that.”
“I want to help.”
“I don’t like being charity case number seventy-nine.”
“Seventy-nine? My list doesn’t go up that high.” He shook his head. “Did the thought ever occur to you that I might care about you? People are allowed to care about each other.”
“You don’t know me well enough to care about me.”
“Let me clue you in on something, Andrés. Just because you hate yourself doesn’t mean that I have to hate you.”
“Fuck you, Dave.”
“Go to school. Registration starts in two weeks. By the time May rolls around, you’ll have two semesters under your belt. Trial should start just about that time.” Dave pointed at his car. “I’m parked over there.” He smiled. “Look, I’m happy to pay your rent until we come to trial. You don’t even have to fucking thank me.”
“Good. I’m not the grateful type.” As he stood in front of Dave’s car, he took off his sunglasses. He closed his eyes and let the sun hit him in the face. He took a deep breath as he stood in the morning heat, his face looking upward, his face shining in the rays of the sun. He felt the tears rolling down his face.
Dave was good enough to say nothing.