Rebecca Coleman - Inside These Walls

After twenty minutes—the maximum allowed for the waterproof sleeve, and a decadent length of time by my accounting—I step out, towel off, and slip into a fresh gown. A nurse is waiting for me when I open the door, and behind her, Mona. She has a sheaf of papers beneath her arm, and a voice recorder tucked into her palm.

“You survived,” the nurse congratulates me. “In a little while the physical therapist will be here to take you on a walk around the floor. If you don’t show signs of internal bleeding, you’re going home in a few hours. Or—” She shoots a nervous glance at the guard. “Well, you’re going back .”

The nurse helps me to the bed and then steps out of the room, leaving me alone with my lawyer. Just before she closes the door I see the C.O. standing outside it, on guard against my possible escape. His presence doesn’t seem quite as much like artifice now. After twenty-four hours of better food, quiet, television, hot private showers and panoramic sky views, I know that if I were in better shape, it’s not out of the question that I’d try to slip out.

“Good Lord, Clara,” Mona says, taking in the sight of me on crutches in my hospital gown. “Who did you piss off to get in here?”

“The white women. How’s that for irony? I live in fear that the Latina women will come after me if they take Janny away, but instead it’s the white ones who put me in the hospital.” I ease myself onto the bed and rest my crutches against its side.

“No honor among thieves, after all.”

I make a wry face. “Speaking of which.”

“Yes.” She turns on the voice recorder. “What did Penelope tell you?”

I pull in a deep breath, then tell her everything—about the mother and her landscaper, the reason why, the trust fund and the apartment. “I hope that won’t make things worse for Penelope,” I say haltingly. “Maybe she could be offered a deal, too. She’s just trying to protect her mother. It’s not so different from what I did—covering up one person’s crime so my mother could live peacefully.”

Mona purses her mouth a bit and pauses from scribbling down her notes. “But your mother wasn’t the one to allegedly commit the crime.”

“No, but one’s mother is still one’s mother. It’s the nature of being a daughter—to try to protect her from suffering.”

“Well, I don’t have any control over what charges they bring against her. I’m your advocate, not Penelope’s. What I’ll do is get in touch with the Attorney General’s office and let them know you’re willing to offer substantial assistance in exchange for a sentence reduction. They’ll follow through on the tips, and if they find evidence and make an arrest, you’ll probably get a deal.”

“But that isn’t for sure?”

“Nothing is for sure, and it’s too bad she didn’t give you much concrete information—the location of the gun, for example. But I’ll talk to people. I’ll make the case that a significant sentence reduction is appropriate.”

Given my past experiences with judges, that isn’t very reassuring. “All right. How long will it take?”

“A couple of months, if all goes well. In the meantime, they’ve already decided to put you in Medical Segregation because of your injuries. Were it not for that, I’d encourage you to go back in and see if she reveals more, but you won’t have that chance now.”

I nod and, through my nose, breathe out a slow breath. That’s the end of my job at the Braille workshop, creating the drawings Shirley depends on me to do. No more Sunday mornings at Mass, crocheting classes and library visits, meals in the chow hall, time in the sun. No more afternoons spent with Clementine on my lap, if she’s even survived this ordeal. But it could be worse. It could be the Hole.

“Could they put me with Janny, at least?” I ask.

“I don’t think so, Clara, but I’ll see what I can do.”

The sign above the prison wing reads Medical Segregation Unit, and the mere sight of those words is enough to make my stomach clench. It hasn’t changed at all in the twenty-some years since I’ve been here. The walls are the same shade of maize, the smell still that of roach powder and urine, and the high ceiling and open staircases offer the same acoustic qualities that cause the shouts and screams of the mentally ill to echo from one wall to its opposite one. It’s just past the clinic, and though the nurse is kind to me—guiding my ungainly steps with the crutches, offering soothing encouragement—I still feel nauseated as I make my way down the hall. This will be my home for the next two months or more, and if Penelope lied to me or the investigation hits a dead end, my next housing options are even worse.

I’m led to a cell at the far end, which will probably be quieter. All my things are already here, thrown haphazardly into cardboard boxes. There is a single bed against the wall, no bunk.

“You can’t bunk me with Janny Hernandez?” I ask, my disappointment compounding. “My lawyer was supposed to ask about it.”

“She did, but we don’t have any bunked cells available. We’ll try to make arrangements for you to visit her. She asks about you often.”

“She does?”

The nurse nods just before the C.O. shuts the door with a sonorous clang. The cell doors are different here—solid, with a small window and a slot for food, rather than the bars of D-Block where I lived before. That means my built-in ballet barre is gone now, but that hardly matters. My ankle was fractured and one of the bones in my calf broken in the attack, so I’m not sure if I’ll ever go on pointe again. I try not to think about that very much.

I write to Forrest on the day I arrive, but three weeks pass before he receives my letter telling him about the fight and my new location. I receive a hasty reply from him the day before he visits, and when I’m brought down to the windowed visiting booths, moving slowly on my crutches, his expression looks as abject and broken as the words of his letter made him sound.

He picks up the phone at the same moment I do. “What are we doing here?” he asks, gesturing to indicate the smelly, green-painted room. “What happened to Scrabble and that beautiful waterfall?”

I try to work up a smile. “No in-person visits for inmates in Med Seg. Some of us are contagious, so they act as though everybody is. Sorry. I appreciate that you came.”

“Well, how long are you going to be there?”

“It’s going to be a while.” I meet his eyes through the smudged glass and implore him to listen closely, though our words crackle with static across the weak phone connection. “Forrest,” I say. “They might reduce my sentence. There’s a chance.”

His forehead creases hard with a sudden frown. “I thought you got life without parole.”

“Yes. I can’t tell you the details, and it isn’t for sure, but my lawyer is trying to get them to reduce it to time served. It would be…something similar to your deal.”

He holds me with a long look. For a few moments he says nothing. “Wouldn’t that mean you’ll get out?”

“It would.” At his puzzled expression I give a short, embarrassed laugh. “I don’t know where I’d go. It’s like Mars out there now.”

“Oh, I’d help you. You know I would.”

“I can’t even think about it too much. I’d lose my mind if I get my hopes up. I keep thinking, would they give me the rest of my canteen money? Everything seems so expensive now. When I see car commercials on TV, the cars cost as much as my parents’ house did.”

“Don’t worry about that. Clara . Could that really happen? Because I’d be there for you every step of the way. I have plenty of room at my place. I mean, I owe you.” His laugh is rueful. “I owe you.”