out of hearts, flowers and promises of futures where there are no bars and anything is possible.
So why does a woman hang in there?
Because she loves him. It’s no different to the blind, illogical love that binds people in any relationship. Boring and common though it may be, the majority of crimwives are just like your friend who’s dating a married man, a bad boy or her boss. What is she thinking? The answer to this hair-pulling-out question, for your friend and the crimwife, is usually that she loves him. It may make no sense to anyone, even her. But that’s why love is so grand.
When the broken-hearted or confused went to Mark for advice, he didn’t muck around.
“There’s only two things women are good for in jail: dropping money into your account, and bringing in drugs. If they’re not doing either of those two things, forget ’em.”
When the others laughed, Mark didn’t. He wasn’t joking.
“Mate, you can get any sheila to visit you, or write to you. That’s what churchies are for. You can ring up anyone on the outside for a chat. You’ve got friends.
“But females,” he would say as he pulled back one index finger with the other, “are for cash,” then, pulling back his middle finger, “and drugs. Simple as that.”
Kari knew none of this when she started visiting Mark. She only heard about his views when she ran into his brother years later. Kari had gone to school with Mark, and while they had been friends, they hadn’t kept in touch or seen each other for over ten years. They met up again at a barbecue, a few weeks before he went to jail for a six-month stint. Kari had been single for a while and found herself flirting with Mark.
Kari didn’t know he’d gone to jail until she got a letter from him two months after the barbecue. He said he was taking a chance on her reaction, and if she wanted him to disappear he would. What he really wanted was to see her smile again, but he would understand if she didn’t respond.
Kari had a friend whose brother had been to jail a lot, but they’d been younger then, and she had never been inside a prison. She called the number from his letter and made a booking to see him.
The first visit was thrilling. Mark came out full of smiles, overjoyed to see her. He told her that her smile was worth waiting for. He was the same Mark she’d laughed with at the barbecue. They talked about everything and nothing. Mark told Kari about his charges and his chances.
He’d been in a pub brawl and everyone there was charged. One of those fighting on the other side had ended up in intensive care, and Mark had wrestled with the police. He hadn’t even been drinking. He was just looking after his mates. He would be on remand until everybody involved was charged in the way the prosecutors wanted. It would be another four months at least. Kari didn’t question him about the crime. She wanted to know every detail, what he’d done, whether he’d been in the thick of it or on the side of it, whether it was brutal, and whether it was fair. But she didn’t ask.
He told his story in less than five minutes, she says, shaking her head. When it was over, he looked around from side to side, smiled, and said, “Thanks for coming in to see me. It was an alright night up until then. I was winning in pool. Had no intention of ending up here. None whatsoever.”
“I bet you didn’t. Life is full of surprises for me too,” she answered, and left it at that. When someone is locked in behind walls, gates and razor wire, Kari says that questioning them about how they got there is awkward.
Instead, Kari asked him about jail and what his days and nights were like: the food, the people, the boredom. Mark joked about a lot of it. He had a very laid-back attitude for someone in serious trouble. Kari was amazed he could be so relaxed while living what to her was a nightmare. Then his name was called. The visit was over. As they stood up, he said, “Book another visit,
So why does a woman hang in there?
Because she loves him. It’s no different to the blind, illogical love that binds people in any relationship. Boring and common though it may be, the majority of crimwives are just like your friend who’s dating a married man, a bad boy or her boss. What is she thinking? The answer to this hair-pulling-out question, for your friend and the crimwife, is usually that she loves him. It may make no sense to anyone, even her. But that’s why love is so grand.
When the broken-hearted or confused went to Mark for advice, he didn’t muck around.
“There’s only two things women are good for in jail: dropping money into your account, and bringing in drugs. If they’re not doing either of those two things, forget ’em.”
When the others laughed, Mark didn’t. He wasn’t joking.
“Mate, you can get any sheila to visit you, or write to you. That’s what churchies are for. You can ring up anyone on the outside for a chat. You’ve got friends.
“But females,” he would say as he pulled back one index finger with the other, “are for cash,” then, pulling back his middle finger, “and drugs. Simple as that.”
Kari knew none of this when she started visiting Mark. She only heard about his views when she ran into his brother years later. Kari had gone to school with Mark, and while they had been friends, they hadn’t kept in touch or seen each other for over ten years. They met up again at a barbecue, a few weeks before he went to jail for a six-month stint. Kari had been single for a while and found herself flirting with Mark.
Kari didn’t know he’d gone to jail until she got a letter from him two months after the barbecue. He said he was taking a chance on her reaction, and if she wanted him to disappear he would. What he really wanted was to see her smile again, but he would understand if she didn’t respond.
Kari had a friend whose brother had been to jail a lot, but they’d been younger then, and she had never been inside a prison. She called the number from his letter and made a booking to see him.
The first visit was thrilling. Mark came out full of smiles, overjoyed to see her. He told her that her smile was worth waiting for. He was the same Mark she’d laughed with at the barbecue. They talked about everything and nothing. Mark told Kari about his charges and his chances.
He’d been in a pub brawl and everyone there was charged. One of those fighting on the other side had ended up in intensive care, and Mark had wrestled with the police. He hadn’t even been drinking. He was just looking after his mates. He would be on remand until everybody involved was charged in the way the prosecutors wanted. It would be another four months at least. Kari didn’t question him about the crime. She wanted to know every detail, what he’d done, whether he’d been in the thick of it or on the side of it, whether it was brutal, and whether it was fair. But she didn’t ask.
He told his story in less than five minutes, she says, shaking her head. When it was over, he looked around from side to side, smiled, and said, “Thanks for coming in to see me. It was an alright night up until then. I was winning in pool. Had no intention of ending up here. None whatsoever.”
“I bet you didn’t. Life is full of surprises for me too,” she answered, and left it at that. When someone is locked in behind walls, gates and razor wire, Kari says that questioning them about how they got there is awkward.
Instead, Kari asked him about jail and what his days and nights were like: the food, the people, the boredom. Mark joked about a lot of it. He had a very laid-back attitude for someone in serious trouble. Kari was amazed he could be so relaxed while living what to her was a nightmare. Then his name was called. The visit was over. As they stood up, he said, “Book another visit,
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