By Joshua Ryan

A month later, on a dead Sunday afternoon, I was lying in the cell when I was told that I had a visitor.  The idea was incomprehensible.  No one had written; no one had come.  Why would they come?  And why would I want them to come?  For what?  To view an exhibit of the once promising author who was now a convict?  To laugh at me in my bald head and my convict suit, and go back and pity me online?  Basically, the only visitors willing to come that far were the ones smuggling some “business” in or out for some convict, and that wasn’t me.

But now I was being taken to the Visiting Room.  It’s a place in that Victorian castle that juts out from the front of the Pen, and it looks like it hasn’t changed since the 1890s.  There’s a high ceiling, marble floors, big windows, and a large collection of cast iron bars.  In the center there’s a long, wide table, and in the center of that is an ironwork grille running up to the ceiling.  Visitors and prisoners sit on separate sides and enter from separate doors.  Visitors sit on chairs with arms; prisoners sit on little wooden stools.  On that Sunday the room was unusually full.  Ten or twelve people on each side.  I mean, ten or twelve visitors on one side, and ten or twelve convicts on the other.  During the time I’d been at Maskawa, I’d never heard a convict being called a person.

I was told to sit on stool number 5, and I did.  The person on the other side was Dean.

“Hey — good to see you.  Lookin good, convict.”

I was stunned.  What could I say to this creature from another world?  Finally I said, “I’m a convict, anyway.”

“Right!  So how’s the book coming?  Time for me to smuggle it out for you?”

“It’s not coming.”

He looked like he always did.  Great body (as much as I could see of it), spectacular brushcut, the kind of civilian clothes that let you know there’s something official about the wearer … He didn’t seem to have aged at all.  If anything, he looked younger.

“I’m sure you’ll get into it.  Talked to your agent the other day.”

“Jerry?!”

“Who else?  I figured it was time to tell him where you are.”

“You did that!”

He shrugged.  “Had to be done eventually.  He said to tell you hi.”

“That’s it?  That’s all?”

“Well, he’s pissed that you’re in here.  Says it’s hard to, what did he say, ‘maintain your reputation when you’re sittin on your can in some kind of resort up north.’  Of course, I’d been explaining, very confidentially, and without filling in the details, that you’d thought up this plan … for this book you’re writing.  I guess he bought what I told him.  He wondered if I could arrange to convey the manuscript to him.  Meaning smuggle it out.”

“Is that why you’re here, Dean?”

“Me?  You know how I love your writing.  Always looking forward to a new book from you.  But I thought I’d just stop in, see how you’re doin.  Might as well ask if there’s any prospects about that book.”

“Stop in?”

“Yeah, Craig and me are spending the week up here.  We’re staying at the Wellington.  You know, down at the beach.  Little vacation.  His real estate business is pretty taxing, you know.”

“I didn’t know.”

“And there’s this security training seminar the DOC has every year.  You know I’m workin for the DOC now.”

“No.  How would I know that?”

“I’m in the special cases outfit.  Takes me a lotta places in the state.  Not a desk job.  Hate those desk jobs.  Too confining!”

“I guess so.”

“Tell you the truth, this seminar, it’s worthless.  If you’ve been in law enforcement, you already know what security is.  But hey, if I take the thing, they pay for the whole trip.  Both of us!  You know we’re married now, Craig and me.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.  So I’m here for a couple weeks, and I decided to just check and see how you are.  You know, there’s been some concern among your friends.  All I could tell them was that I thought you were on an extended trip.  A couple people wondered about it when they heard some of your copyrights were sold.”

“Sold!”

“Yeah.  Some people think that this Farrelson guy…”

“Jarrelson.”

“Jarrelson.  That he’s selling them cheap.  To some friend of his.  Boyfriend, I guess.  Of course, they’re worth less all the time, since there hasn’t been any book out … By the way, any action around here?”  His eyes roved the Victorian cornice.  “Enjoying your cell mate?  Guy named Finn, I think?”

He knew.  Of course he knew.

“Sure.”

“Nobody else?”

I was angry.  And envious.  So I said, “A guy I … work with.  Name’s Ernesto.  He’s a good guy.  He’s a big man on the Outside.”

He shook his head.  “Was a big man.  I guess he’s the one.”

“The one?”

“The one that’s keeping you from your work.  I knew it was someone.  Otherwise, seems that by now you’d have enough material for that book.  You wouldn’t be holding out on me, would you?  I know how important that book is to you, your career as a writer…”

I’d had enough.  “Dean,” I said.  “I know what you did.  I know you had me sent here.  I know you fixed it so I’d be here for life.   I can’t prove it.  I can’t … do anything about it.  But I’m begging you.  Please!  Let me out of this place!”

“Keep your voice down.”

“It is down.  Let me out!”

“Sure will,” he said, pushing back his chair.  “Although it would help if you could show that you had some dependable source of income.  Like a book contract, you know.  But by the way … I knew you wanted to be here.  I knew you wanted to stay.  But don’t bother to thank me.”

“I won’t.”

“Well, guess it was worth a try.  Maybe later.  But look at the time.”

“You can see the clock.  I can’t.”

“Know what?” he grinned.  “You’re right about that.  It’s three o’clock.  The Wellington’s got a high tea at 4:00.  Never been to one of them.  It’s part of the hotel package.  Don’t wanta miss it.  Well . … Nice to see you.  Keep workin on that book, convict!”

He left.  And I went back in my cell with Finn, who thought I might be hungry again.  That was our little joke.  The next day, I was taken off what they call the Downtown Chain and put me on what they call the Quarry Chain.  They truck you out to the old quarry, where you’re given a pair of dirty gloves and a hammer, and you spend the day chained to nine other cons that are “cleaning up” the piles of jagged stones left over from the old days.  The cons turn the stones into gravel and shovel it into a truck.  Then they ride it back, shovel it out, and spread it on the roads around the Pen.

Sometimes I’d see Ernesto in the Chow Hall, and he’d wave to me if there wasn’t an officer nearby.  He was in C block, and we went to the yard at different times.  So that was the end of that.  I didn’t care.  When you’re working the Quarry Chain, you get used to havin nothin in your skull.

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