“Where are you going?” Dan asked as Elizabeth strode toward the reception area with her leather messenger bag perched on her shoulder.
“Road trip. I’m heading upstate to the penitentiary.”
“I suppose it was only a matter of time before you ended up there.”
She smiled, more for Dan’s attempt at humor than the joke itself.
“So what’s at the penitentiary?” he asked.
“I’m going to visit Raymond Miller.”
“Who?”
“It’s one of the cases you gave me as part of our PR for the mayor.”
“A few days ago, you were protesting this. Now you’re going on a two-hour drive? What gives?”
“Something doesn’t quite fit, and I just need to check it out for my own peace of mind. Humor me.”
He released a sigh like a man carrying a burden and couldn’t be bothered with another. “Just don’t forget that the motion is due in the Sheryl Davies case. The hearing is in less than two weeks.”
“No worries. I have it covered.”
“I hope so,” Dan muttered as he walked away.
As Elizabeth settled into the Roadster and melted into the black and tan leather trim seats, she pushed the ignition and brought the beast to life. She navigated the congestion of the city with ease, earning a few fingers of disapproval as she maneuvered between cars. As the city faded into a two-lane highway, she keyed up a 70s mix from her MP3 player and sang at full volume.
An hour and a half and a close call with a speeding ticket later, she parked in the “employees only” lot of the penitentiary, snuggling her car in between two police cars for safekeeping. Elizabeth entered the small lobby area and signed in, passing over her identification and bar card, for which she was awarded a plastic visitor’s badge that she clipped to the lapel of her red suit jacket. After being successfully scanned and prodded by security, she was escorted through a corridor to a heavy metal door. As the door ground open, she looked back to the world she would be leaving.
She followed her escort, who was armed with clubs and other nearly lethal devices on his belt, and rounded several corners before being led to the belly of the building. The echo of her clicking heels on the concrete ground filled the small space. She stared straight ahead to avoid watching the gray concrete brick walls pass, as they only reminded her that there were no windows or doors to the outside. The fluorescent lighting did nothing to dispel the sense of bleakness and desperation that blanketed the inside of the institution. The officer stopped at a steel door with a small viewing window made of thick glass and pulled a large key from a ring attached to his belt. She heard the click of the lock before the door was pulled open.
“Have a seat. The inmate will be here shortly.” Those were the first words the officer spoke to her since they started their journey, and with that, the officer turned and closed the door. She sat in a green plastic chair behind a small round table that rocked when she rested her elbows on it and looked around, taking in the decor of the room, or lack thereof. The windowless room wasn’t any larger than a prison cell and displayed the same concrete brick walls. A sign painted in red on the wall next to the door reminded the inmates that no contact was allowed; there was also a black button that was strategically placed by the door to alert the officer when she was ready to make her exit.
She sat back in the chair and took several shallow breaths to squash a bit of panic that was rising within her. She had never considered herself to be claustrophobic, but a mixture of the closed space combined with the despair that oozed from the pores of the structure unsettled her deeply.
As the officer promised, she heard the click of the lock, and the door was pulled open. The officer stood behind a man dressed in a matching orange pullover shirt and drawstring pants. Black lettering announcing the institution’s name was printed on the pocket of the shirt, as if the owner would forget where he should return the clothes should he get the chance.
“Turn to me,” the officer said. Raymond Miller complied, and the officer unshackled his wrists. He nudged Raymond toward a matching green chair across from Elizabeth. “Sit down.” The officer kept his hand on Raymond’s shoulder until he was fully seated. As the officer exited, he pointed to the black button. “Ring the bell if you need me,” he said, and once again, she heard the click of the lock as she was being sealed in.
Raymond sat with his head bowed, rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had been removed, and Elizabeth briefly studied him. He had scruffy brown hair that stuck out in multiple directions. The back of his hair was long enough to touch the collar of his shirt, and his face, covered in stubble, was round with a small nose and red cheeks.
She broke the silence. “I’m Elizabeth Campbell. I’m an attorney. I was hoping I could talk to you about a few things. Is that okay?” She slowly slid a business card across the table.
Raymond followed her hand as it moved closer to him, and when she pulled her hand back, he picked up the card and stared at it with interest. It was then that she noticed the bruising on the left side of his face near his temple and under his eye. “What happened to your face, Raymond?” He shrugged and looked around the room. “Did someone hurt you?”
He settled his eyes on her. “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a big fall.”
“Did you fall down? Did someone push you?” she persisted, feeling a sense of protectiveness that she didn’t understand. The man was a convicted killer.
He resumed staring at the wall behind her, and she recognized that he was ending the conversation on his bruises. “All right, Raymond, as I said, I’m an attorney, and I work with the Southern Indigent Legal Center. I’ve been asked to review your case. Is it okay if we talk about it a bit?”
She removed the photographs from the file and placed the picture of the rosary beads in front of him. “Raymond, do you recognize this?” He gave a nod. “Where did you get it?” He remained silent. “Raymond, where did you get it?” she repeated.
She then placed the photos taken of Raymond’s shed in front of him. He focused on the picture of the Bible and placed his hand on top of it, as though he were ready to swear an oath. “Raymond, where did you get these things?” she asked, gesturing to the rosary beads and Bible. He stared at her. “Raymond, answer me. Where did you get these things? Did you find them somewhere, in the trash maybe?”
He shook his head. “They were a gift from God,” he said without taking his eyes off the Bible.
“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”
He looked her in the eyes. “God led them to me. It’s what God wanted. Pappy is happy.”
“What does God want, Raymond? Tell me.”
“He said he was a sinner.”
“Who is a sinner?”
“Him.” Raymond pointed to the rest of photographs that Elizabeth held back that depicted the body of Father Francis Portillo.
“Did you kill him, Raymond?”
“He said he was supposed to die. He said I could have an eternal life in His kingdom.” His eyes glassed over, as though he were reliving the conversation in his head.
“Raymond, why this carving on his body?” She removed the sketch of the circle with the three triangles inside and placed it halfway between them.
Raymond reached for the sketch and began turning the paper in circles. He quickened his pace, and the circle appeared as though it were spinning. Elizabeth stared at it and, feeling dizzy, slapped her hand on the paper to stop its movement. “Enough, Raymond.”
He withdrew and sat back in his chair. His fun had been ruined.
After a long silence, she repeated her question pointing to the circle. “Raymond, what is this?”
Instead of answering, he reached over and grabbed Elizabeth’s pen resting on the table and looked at her to see if she would protest, but she nodded in approval. He flipped over the business card that she had given him and started drawing. Elizabeth waited patiently, and when he finished, he held up his creation for display. She took the card for a better view, but it was nothing more than a rendition of the circle with three triangles. “I see, Raymond, but what is it?”
“I gave you a falling star of your own.” He looked at her, his eyes full of hope, waiting for praise for the gift.
Elizabeth jammed the card into an outside pocket of her leather bag, and Raymond sank back into his chair, bowed his head, and resumed rubbing his wrists. “I want to go home now.” His voice was barely more than a whisper.
“Home? Where’s that?”
“Where I sleep.”
“Raymond, can we talk about your drawings on your wall? The ones that you drew with the crayons. Do you remember those?” She pointed to the pictures from the shed.
He refused to look up and acknowledge her.
“Raymond, can you answer me?” The silence continued. “Raymond, will you talk to me?”
After several unresponsive requests, Elizabeth realized that he had shut down, so she gathered her documents and shoved them into the file. “Thank you for seeing me today, Raymond.” And with that, she rose and pushed the black button.