it would be. I knew how much I wanted her. But the old debt was large and it had to be paid, and trust can wither in morning light. I told her good night and drove back to Dalton and had a nightcap and went to bed.
State Prison is on the eastern boundary of the small industrial city of Mercer. It is in an area of freight yards, sidings, truck terminals, small chemical plants. The air has a smoky, acrid stench. The prison is big and the high concrete walls enclose a big area. It is a maximum security prison and the guard posts atop the walls are closely spaced. Directly across from the main gate is a cinder parking lot. The day was gray, but even the brightest of sunlight would have done little to change the look of gloom.
Vicky had been very silent on the ninety-mile drive. We arrived on time. I parked and walked across the road to the main gate. From the parking lot I had seen guards on catwalks leaning on the railing, looking into the compound. As we reached the gate I heard the deep roar of an excited crowd. For a few moments I could not identify the familiar sound. Then came a cadence that identified it to me. Hold that line! Hold that line! It was familiar, yet not familiar, because here was no intermingling of female voices. This was deeper, hoarser, angrier—more of an animal sound.
I talked through a small square cut into metal to the gate guards. They checked identity by phone to the office of the Guard Captain and then let us both inside the outer gate. We had to walk in turn through a narrow gate which I suspected was some sort of metal-detection device. We waited there until a guard came to get us. When he arrived they opened the inner gate with a pneumatic hiss. It was controlled from above, perhaps from the guard tower over the main gate.
The man who got us was elderly, slow-moving. His uniform was tight across the shoulders and shiny with age. Inside the compound the yelling was louder.
“Where is the game?” I asked.
“The field is over behind D Block,” he said. “It ain’t regulation so we got our own ground rules.”
He took us to the Guard Captain’s office. I saw men sitting in the afternoon sun, their backs against cell block walls, other men working at a big oval flower bed, taking out bulbs and putting them in flat wooden boxes. A railroad siding came into the prison through a large closed gate off to our right.
The anteroom of the Captain’s office had the bored, weary smell of any police station in the world. There were two girlie calendars and some dusty framed pictures of groups of officials.
The elderly man said to a young clerk at a corner desk, “All cleared for a Landy visitor?”
“Just took the call. It’s okay.”
The old man turned to me. “You wait here, mister. It’s just one at a time.” She gave me a quick frightened smile and they left. I was left alone on a hard bench, hearing the hesitant clack of the clerk’s typewriter, and the distant roar of crowd excitement.
“You get to see him when she’s through,” the clerk said. “It’s all fixed. But it’s special. Usually only relatives.”
I nodded. He typed some more. Then he stopped and said, “I hear the kid is taking it good so far. Lots of times they take it good right up to maybe an hour, two hours before the deal. Then they go nuts. They moved him yesterday into one of the bird cages.”
“Bird cages?”
“Over there they keep you in a cell, see? If you got the lawyers working for you, maybe you are in the cell a year. Then you run out of appeals. So they leave you there until maybe a week, ten days before you’re due. Then they move you to a bird cage where you got eyes on you night and day. The cages are on the top floor, see? Once since I been here all four were full. Now he’s the only one up there.”
I waited. Twice guards walked through the anteroom and into the inner office, giving me quick incurious glances. I wondered if I could smoke. I saw gray butts flattened against the
State Prison is on the eastern boundary of the small industrial city of Mercer. It is in an area of freight yards, sidings, truck terminals, small chemical plants. The air has a smoky, acrid stench. The prison is big and the high concrete walls enclose a big area. It is a maximum security prison and the guard posts atop the walls are closely spaced. Directly across from the main gate is a cinder parking lot. The day was gray, but even the brightest of sunlight would have done little to change the look of gloom.
Vicky had been very silent on the ninety-mile drive. We arrived on time. I parked and walked across the road to the main gate. From the parking lot I had seen guards on catwalks leaning on the railing, looking into the compound. As we reached the gate I heard the deep roar of an excited crowd. For a few moments I could not identify the familiar sound. Then came a cadence that identified it to me. Hold that line! Hold that line! It was familiar, yet not familiar, because here was no intermingling of female voices. This was deeper, hoarser, angrier—more of an animal sound.
I talked through a small square cut into metal to the gate guards. They checked identity by phone to the office of the Guard Captain and then let us both inside the outer gate. We had to walk in turn through a narrow gate which I suspected was some sort of metal-detection device. We waited there until a guard came to get us. When he arrived they opened the inner gate with a pneumatic hiss. It was controlled from above, perhaps from the guard tower over the main gate.
The man who got us was elderly, slow-moving. His uniform was tight across the shoulders and shiny with age. Inside the compound the yelling was louder.
“Where is the game?” I asked.
“The field is over behind D Block,” he said. “It ain’t regulation so we got our own ground rules.”
He took us to the Guard Captain’s office. I saw men sitting in the afternoon sun, their backs against cell block walls, other men working at a big oval flower bed, taking out bulbs and putting them in flat wooden boxes. A railroad siding came into the prison through a large closed gate off to our right.
The anteroom of the Captain’s office had the bored, weary smell of any police station in the world. There were two girlie calendars and some dusty framed pictures of groups of officials.
The elderly man said to a young clerk at a corner desk, “All cleared for a Landy visitor?”
“Just took the call. It’s okay.”
The old man turned to me. “You wait here, mister. It’s just one at a time.” She gave me a quick frightened smile and they left. I was left alone on a hard bench, hearing the hesitant clack of the clerk’s typewriter, and the distant roar of crowd excitement.
“You get to see him when she’s through,” the clerk said. “It’s all fixed. But it’s special. Usually only relatives.”
I nodded. He typed some more. Then he stopped and said, “I hear the kid is taking it good so far. Lots of times they take it good right up to maybe an hour, two hours before the deal. Then they go nuts. They moved him yesterday into one of the bird cages.”
“Bird cages?”
“Over there they keep you in a cell, see? If you got the lawyers working for you, maybe you are in the cell a year. Then you run out of appeals. So they leave you there until maybe a week, ten days before you’re due. Then they move you to a bird cage where you got eyes on you night and day. The cages are on the top floor, see? Once since I been here all four were full. Now he’s the only one up there.”
I waited. Twice guards walked through the anteroom and into the inner office, giving me quick incurious glances. I wondered if I could smoke. I saw gray butts flattened against the
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