four
WORLDS APART
OCTOBER 2007
The feeling of confinement in Don’s cell has so seared me that it is a relief to hear from Bryan Smith, now fresh out of prison on parole. He calls out of the blue to say that his parents are throwing him a little party to celebrate, and he invites me. As a journalist, I can’t wait to see how he’s adjusting to freedom, and what life on the outside is like for someone just released from prison after serving more than two decades in prison for murder. On the flip side, I’m nervous: parties full of strangers are awkward enough when you’re not playing “guess which guest is a paroled murderer.” I say yes.
My first surprise is the location of the party: a ballroom at a local Marriott. I half expected the party to be in a fourth-floor hotel room, a couple dozen people standing around a king-size bed, the door to the minibar open. I can’t imagine a cotillion’s worth of guests have been waiting for Bryan’s release these past two decades. But I’m swiftly learning that my imagination falls short of prison reality.
Peeking through an open door at the end of the hall, I see balloons, streamers hanging down from the ceiling, and tables decorated with colorful plates and napkins. It looks more like a blue-and-white-themed wedding or graduation party than the celebration of a prisoner’s release. Just as I’m about to turn and leave, I catch sight of Claire-Elizabeth waving from one of the round tables on the far side of the room.
Midway across the crowded floor I run into Bryan. “Nancy, I’m so glad you could make it!” he cries, opening his arms wide for a quick hug.
“Bryan, who are all these people?” I ask.
“Oh, they’re family and friends. Some old school pals and some people I met inside. Do you want to meet my parents?”
Grasping my arm, he works the room, accepting hearty congratulations and kisses on the cheek.
“Mom, Dad, this is Nancy. She’s the reporter I met inside.”
Looking into Sue and Jack Smith’s eyes, I search for signs of twenty-four years of devastation. More than two decades ago, their son was convicted of murder and sent to prison. As they hold out their hands to welcome me, I see parental caution in their eyes. Now that it’s over, do they really want to be publicly exposed? Up until this moment, Bryan’s party and his release from prison have been private affairs shared with good friends and close family. Everyone in the room knows who he is and what he did and they are all happy he is out. They don’t want a reporter to upset their still-fragile relief.
Even so, they seem genuinely glad I have come. “How nice to meet you, Nancy. Be sure and get some cake,” says his mother. The rest of the room is just as friendly. Women sit at tables, leaning in to chat with one another; men hold drinks of some kind and stand talking like men do about sports and such. No one appears outwardly concerned about sharing the room with men convicted of murder.
Turning back to look out on the festivities, balloons, and music, Bryan says, “Hey. Didn’t you want to meet some of the guys I did time with, inside San Quentin?”
He steers me toward a group of five men standing together, a little apart from everyone else. One at a time, Bryan introduces me. There’s Eddie, Richie, “T,” Rico, Pat, German, and Kevin. They look anxious, skeptical, just like the men in the room inside the prison chapel office looked before I cut the tension with Claire-Elizabeth’s name. At the same time, they look like everyone else at the party: middle to working class, ordinary people. If Bryan hadn’t pointed them out, I never would have been able to identify them as parolees.
Looking at the nervousness on their faces, I wonder whether any of these men will ever talk to me on the record. Aside from their parole agents, whom they meet with regularly, no one on the outside has to know they’ve served more than half their adult lives in prison for murder. Their criminal pasts are hidden from neighbors, coworkers, fellow churchgoers, and strangers they meet on the street.
Responding to his friends’ obvious discomfort, Bryan vouches for me. “She’s okay,” he assures them. “I met her inside San Quentin. She’s a reporter, but she’s okay.”
Each of the men scans my face and eyes and calculates the risk. Eddie, a Latino with dark eyes and enormous shoulders, is the first to reach out his hand, tattoos etched across the length of his forearm, a thin smile breaking over his face. “If Bryan says you’re okay, you’re okay.”
Richie, a quiet Latino who looks white, is next.
So it will be. From Richie and Eddie, I will attempt to learn more about the ins and outs of life on parole—but first I’ll have to convince them to open up their lives to a journalist.