Read Online Inside These Walls by Rebecca Coleman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rebecca Coleman
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account in the two weeks leading up to the shooting. Now her father lies on a respirator in a hospital in Sacramento, lingering in a vegetative state that may or may not be permanent, attended to by a fiancée not much older than his daughter. Penelope has hired a team of excellent lawyers, but even they couldn’t get her released on the obstruction of justice charge.
I gaze down at the largest picture of her—a coy-looking portrait featuring powdered skin and red lipstick, appearing to have been taken with the camera at arm’s length and turned around. Photo: Facebook, the credit reads. My theory—and I’m eager to follow the case and discover whether it’s true—is a sordid one indeed, but I’d put money on it if I had any. Father’s documented attraction to much younger women: check. Irrational dislike for her boyfriend: check. Habit of making a public show of his morals: check. It’s always the ones like him, after all, who eventually get caught with some young male intern or sending photographs of themselves dressed in women’s underwear over the internet. It’s always the ones neediest for respect and accolades who harbor the darkest secrets. In short, I believe Penelope is an incest victim, and if I’m right it’s no wonder she hired a hit man to put him out of his misery. I could hardly blame her.
I slide the magazine back onto the rack as Janny emerges from the stacks. Clutched in her hands are several romance novels, which she likes me to read to her in the evening. She hands me the pile. “I have a good feeling about these. What do they look like?”
I examine the covers. “Um, this one has a blonde woman and a dark-haired man kissing in front of a horse that’s rearing up. The next one has a bare-chested guy in a kilt. I guess it’s set in Scotland. And the last one is two people standing in front of a fireplace, cuddling. It’s called Snowbound Magic. ”
“Ooh, I want that one. Anything with snow in it, that sounds fun.”
Her face is animated, eager. I take her elbow, and together we walk slowly to the front desk, where the librarian writes down our titles under each of our names. “I got one about snow,” Janny says to Ms. Chandler, our prison librarian. “Love in the snow. Gonna make me feel nice and cool when they turn off the A/C in the cellblock.”
Ms. Chandler smiles. “Have you ever been skiing?” she asks. Janny says “No” at the same moment I say, “Six winters in a row.”
“You never told me that,” Janny says, scolding, and something in her expression looks wounded. It’s such a small fact, but when you’re living with someone, especially someone who is a criminal, you want to know her well enough that nothing is a surprise. She’ll feel so betrayed if she finds out about Annemarie, I think, and I wish that idea wouldn’t twist in my gut quite so hard.
* * *
During Saturday visiting hours I’m collected from my cell quite unexpectedly and shackled for the walk downstairs. I expect to turn toward the booths, but Officer Kerns nudges me forward toward the contact visiting room—the larger one filled with tables, like a cafeteria.
“Wait, where am I going?” I ask her. “I went to the booths last time.”
“That’s because they hadn’t cleared you for contact visits again after your fight. You’re good now.” She walks me through the metal gate and unlocks my wrists. “There ya go. Have a nice visit.”
And I’m here. The room contains about twenty other inmates scattered around at different tables with their family and friends, or taking pictures in a corner painted with a mural of a waterfall. I cast a baleful gaze across the wide space, and then a woman stands and raises her hand in a small wave. It’s Annemarie.
I don’t move. I can’t. Am I supposed to shake her hand? Hug her? She doesn’t look very certain, either. She waves me over, and I slide in on the other side of the table, sitting at the attached bench. Stacked in front of her
I gaze down at the largest picture of her—a coy-looking portrait featuring powdered skin and red lipstick, appearing to have been taken with the camera at arm’s length and turned around. Photo: Facebook, the credit reads. My theory—and I’m eager to follow the case and discover whether it’s true—is a sordid one indeed, but I’d put money on it if I had any. Father’s documented attraction to much younger women: check. Irrational dislike for her boyfriend: check. Habit of making a public show of his morals: check. It’s always the ones like him, after all, who eventually get caught with some young male intern or sending photographs of themselves dressed in women’s underwear over the internet. It’s always the ones neediest for respect and accolades who harbor the darkest secrets. In short, I believe Penelope is an incest victim, and if I’m right it’s no wonder she hired a hit man to put him out of his misery. I could hardly blame her.
I slide the magazine back onto the rack as Janny emerges from the stacks. Clutched in her hands are several romance novels, which she likes me to read to her in the evening. She hands me the pile. “I have a good feeling about these. What do they look like?”
I examine the covers. “Um, this one has a blonde woman and a dark-haired man kissing in front of a horse that’s rearing up. The next one has a bare-chested guy in a kilt. I guess it’s set in Scotland. And the last one is two people standing in front of a fireplace, cuddling. It’s called Snowbound Magic. ”
“Ooh, I want that one. Anything with snow in it, that sounds fun.”
Her face is animated, eager. I take her elbow, and together we walk slowly to the front desk, where the librarian writes down our titles under each of our names. “I got one about snow,” Janny says to Ms. Chandler, our prison librarian. “Love in the snow. Gonna make me feel nice and cool when they turn off the A/C in the cellblock.”
Ms. Chandler smiles. “Have you ever been skiing?” she asks. Janny says “No” at the same moment I say, “Six winters in a row.”
“You never told me that,” Janny says, scolding, and something in her expression looks wounded. It’s such a small fact, but when you’re living with someone, especially someone who is a criminal, you want to know her well enough that nothing is a surprise. She’ll feel so betrayed if she finds out about Annemarie, I think, and I wish that idea wouldn’t twist in my gut quite so hard.
* * *
During Saturday visiting hours I’m collected from my cell quite unexpectedly and shackled for the walk downstairs. I expect to turn toward the booths, but Officer Kerns nudges me forward toward the contact visiting room—the larger one filled with tables, like a cafeteria.
“Wait, where am I going?” I ask her. “I went to the booths last time.”
“That’s because they hadn’t cleared you for contact visits again after your fight. You’re good now.” She walks me through the metal gate and unlocks my wrists. “There ya go. Have a nice visit.”
And I’m here. The room contains about twenty other inmates scattered around at different tables with their family and friends, or taking pictures in a corner painted with a mural of a waterfall. I cast a baleful gaze across the wide space, and then a woman stands and raises her hand in a small wave. It’s Annemarie.
I don’t move. I can’t. Am I supposed to shake her hand? Hug her? She doesn’t look very certain, either. She waves me over, and I slide in on the other side of the table, sitting at the attached bench. Stacked in front of her
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