Helen R. - No Sanctuary

The plant-bare yard was speckled with a number of women cloistered in a corner like chickens without feed and unionizing in protest. Several called to her, whistled and blew taunting kisses. Bay had a certain reputation among the inmates, not for any unpredictability or violent tendencies, but for her refusal to make group alliances. It wasn’t a focused intent, she simply wasn’t and never had been tribal, didn’t join clubs and other variations of so-called support groups as a means of feeling secure. An only child raised in what any first-year psych student would recognize as an unorthodox manner, her social skills weren’t only untapped, they remained buried rootstock, or worse, like invisible seeds on Mars.

Unfortunately for her, Bay resembled the very people who came from various ministries to attend to the needs of her soul. Slim to the point of gaunt, having saved her sanity by plunging herself in relentless work, she was as pale as a chronic anemic. What color she did have was welding burns. Add her artist’s feverish, unblinking stare and she could pass for a seer, or someone in need of a white jacket with sleeves that tied, which explained why all but the most fearless inmates avoided her, as one would any unknown commodity. It was those predators, the ones who traveled in the strongest packs that refused to be permanently thwarted. Bay carried a few scars from them—the chronic ache of cracked ribs, a broken finger and damaged spleen.

It was her skill with metal that had kept her alive, that and the fact that the new warden, after a visit to the infirmary, had done her homework. Upon reading Bay’s file, the woman assigned her to the prison mechanic shop. Ever since, Bay worked at repaying her by methodically cutting down on the list of repairs and improvements needed at the facility, those frequently put off due to budget constraints. The move hadn’t stopped the diehards from their taunts, though. As she crossed the yard they stuttered, “B-b-b,” or called, “Hey, Baby Butt Butler!” or “Yo! Bitch Bonnie Bay.” But, as always, unless someone addressed her as “Bay” or “Butler,” she tuned them out.

After the debilitating heat it was a relief to enter the visitors building, although the air-conditioning sounded as though it was ready to go at any second. Either that or souls from previous inmates were haunting the ventilation system. Still, it was a good twenty degrees cooler than outside, almost thirty better than at the shop. But what caused Bay to shiver was the reminder that she hadn’t been in here since her first month at Gatesville and that she’d forgotten procedure. Hesitating once too often after a directive earned her Draper’s scorn.

“Hell, Butler, has inhaling those gas fumes numbed your brain?” the guard snapped as they stood outside the last set of gates. “I said pass through.”

Bay intended to…but she’d spotted whom she was being handed off to, a great hulk of flesh with a face that made Draper a beauty queen. Would he insist on a body search, too, before she was allowed to see if any of this was worth it?

Bay clenched her teeth and stepped into the cell-like corridor. Then she stood staring through the bars at the door of mystery while the WWF reject attempted to get his jollies, only to discover he was wasting his time, since she was flat going and coming.

Muttering in disappointment or disgust, he directed her to the visitation room. “Cubicle six,” he recited in a voice that Disney Studios might contract to play a drowning grouper. “Stay seated, use the phones, no passing anything over the partition. No body contact whatsoever. Any infraction and the meeting’s over. You give me any lip and the meeting’s over. You try something stupid and you go into Solitary. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Bay’s automatic reply hid her consternation. Sixth cubicle. Six-six-six.

Her trepidation didn’t ease once she arrived at the designated spot. Not only was the man waiting for her a total stranger, he had all of the markings of a lawyer, the successful kind. She took in the educated, pampered face, the manicured hands, the salon-styled, flaxen hair and the suit she figured cost more than her court-appointed attorney had made handling her entire case, and considered doing an about-face. What stopped her were his eyes. He resented being here as much as she did the prospect of having to speak to him.

As curiosity won out over pride, she sat down and matched him stare for stare. What helped was that he was as fine-boned as he was fair—her male counterpart. He picked up his phone, then waited for her to reach for hers. That’s when she noticed the condition of her hands—black from grease and dirt. Certain that he’d noticed, she took her time to wipe them on her thighs, further staining the already soiled orange jumpsuit.

“I’m Lyle Gessler,” he snapped as soon as she brought the receiver against her left ear. “Mrs. Ridge-way sent me.”

All reluctance and embarrassment evaporated like summer drizzle on sun-baked Texas earth. If the name Ridgeway had clout in this state, it had double that with her. One thing she believed—the widow of oil tycoon Herman Ridgeway and daughter and sole heiress of the late grocery-distributor magnate Duncan Holt was the only reason she didn’t call Death Row home. For Madeleine Ridgeway, she would listen.

“As you know, Mrs. Ridgeway has continued to protest your situation.”

Continued? “She was supportive before and during the trial. But since…I couldn’t say.”

Mrs. Ridgeway had sent a note right after her arrest saying she would be following the trial and offer herself as a character witness for the defense, but Bay had refused for fear of public opinion turning on the good woman. Later she’d learned from her lawyer, court-appointed Mary Dish, that Mrs. Ridgeway had spoken to some influential political friends who had somehow convinced the D.A. that while a conviction was likely, a Murder One charge would be risky. For that, if nothing else, Bay would always be grateful.

“Then allow me to enlighten you. After saving you from a date with the Lethal Injection Boys, she expanded her own investigation—and at no small expense. It’s a result of that, the evidence we’ve unearthed, that I’m here. Your conviction has been vacated.”

Bay struggled to figure out what the hell that meant without looking like a fresh-hatched chick. She was sensitive about her lack of formal education. Schooling she had, having gone through the whole welding school apprenticeship and being mentored by some of the best journeymen in the business. But the rest of it, the college-range curriculum had been denied her. She’d used some of her time here trying to catch up, improving her reading skills and sense of history and politics, anything to fill the endless days; however, the sense of stigma remained.

“I don’t understand,” she admitted at last.

“We convinced the D.A. to agree with your defense attorney and request that your trial be set aside.”

He might as well have announced her the winner of a jackpot lottery. “How?” she whispered, surprised she could speak at all. She’d had a full trial, the whole gamut of legalities and jury and media humiliation.

“What does it matter? The point is you’re getting out.”

As much as she wanted to believe him, Bay stared at the stranger with the feminine nose and pinched lips reading him like a Times Square billboard. Not only didn’t he believe what he was spouting at her, not only didn’t he care if she did or not, he thought coming here undeserving of his time.

“Excuse me.” She gripped the phone tighter, aware that manners counted in such moments and that she had to hang on to what was left of hers. “I don’t mean any insult, and I am…I’m in shock. What I’m trying to say is that no one listened during the trial. What’s changed?”