All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook (25 page)

“I
'm Thomas VanLeer.” He smiles broadly all around the room. “I am Butler County's district attorney. As your DA, my relationship with the prison is to review every parole candidate's case before he or she is released. My concern is the public—my community. Today, I'm concerned about a child, one who I feel has been incarcerated right alongside his convicted mother.”

“Humph!” I hear Warden Daugherty say it right behind me. She never says things like humph.

VanLeer ignores her. “I'll come back to that,” he says. He paces with his papers and makes quick little turns to look around the room. “I'm in favor of prison reform through our courts,” he says. “Particularly, I'd like to see reduced time for nonviolent offenders. I believe in second chances. Not every
DA will tell you that.” He wags a finger in the air. “I first approached Jessica Cook's case from a standpoint of hoping to recommend that her long sentence be commuted. I arrived to Butler County too late to see it trimmed by much, and yes, the wheels of justice can turn slowly. Still, I was on it.”

I wish he'd look at me right now, but it doesn't happen.

“But then . . .” He leans forward then sweeps back up again. “I made the chance discovery that Ms. Cook has been allowed to raise her son—from his infancy—right here at Blue River.” He twists up his face.

Mom sits very still. Big Ed pats her hand.

“Sure, prison nurseries are legal in Nebraska, for babies up to two years old. I'm in favor,” he says. He shows a nod to the whole room. “But Blue River doesn't have a nursery program.
And
this child was kept here well beyond his babyhood. It's unheard of! Who gets to do that?” He says it loudly. He sweeps his hand toward Mom and supplies the answer. “Jessica Cook did.”

Big Ed lets out a low growl. I'm sweating under my necktie, worrying that VanLeer knows just how to say things.

“Think!” says VanLeer. “No other inmate serving beside her has had that same right. She was granted an
extraordinary privilege
.” He pushes out the words. “So the question has to be asked, has she truly served out her sentence—as ordered by the State of Nebraska?”

“You're the only one asking,” Warden Daugherty says quietly.

VanLeer shoots a look at her. “And what about the greater question? What about a child being raised inside a prison? Who would choose that for a child? Has another crime been committed? At the very least, there has been a mockery of the corrections system.”

“If that's so, it's all on me!” The warden speaks louder now.

“Please curb your outbursts,” the chairwoman says. She looks directly at the warden.

VanLeer shakes his head. “We are a community. Are we going to pretend that it was all right with us that a young person be confined to a corrections facility—a place made up of cell blocks, kitchenettes, and long dreary hallways?”

But it wasn't like that!
I'm dying to say it. Won't somebody say it?

“He went to school, thank goodness. But that's only six hours a day. Blue River doesn't have a playroom,” he tells them. “What were his activities? Where was his fun?” VanLeer looks at the papers in his hand. “Did he stock shelves in the commissary? Play prep cook for the masses? Imagine a two-year-old hanging around the prison laundry room—”

“Oh, Perry—he loved that!” Big Ed interrupts with a chuckle. “He'd sit up on the old DynaWash and ride the spin cycle like he was on a pony. Jiggety-jig!” He bobbles his head.

I almost snort. Someone at the back of the room does snort—right out loud. Other people snicker. The warden
smiles and nods like she's having a good memory. Mom hides behind her hand.

The chairwoman of the parole board taps her pen. “May we please hold off on the storytelling? All of you.” She eyes Big Ed and the warden. She puts her finger on her lips.

VanLeer clears his throat for attention. “My greatest concern is the company he kept. This boy lived with criminals every day.” I hold my breath and wonder if he dares to tell them that I took his award—that I'm a thief. “He grew up in a prison! Does that sound right to you? It sounds like a crime to me. And for eleven long years, the parole candidate”—he tips his head toward Mom—“was complicit.”

“
Complicit?
” The warden's voice sizzles. “If you think caring for him and raising him makes her complicit, then all right. She is! Perry is goodness and light. You should know.” She takes aim at VanLeer. “He's been under your roof for over eight weeks while you dragged your heels on his mother's case!”

“Quiet please!” The chairwoman's face is pinking up.

VanLeer is stopped cold. He's looking at me. I look back. A slow, sick second churns by. He seems to fight for his next swallow, and it finally goes down hard behind his Adam's apple. He looks like he did when I told him where to find his award, when I told him his word was no good. He closes his eyes tightly then opens them again. “This was all highly unusual. I admit that I barely knew how to approach it.” He
stammers, and his papers rattle in his hand. “It comes down to this: If I can't truly feel that a sentence has been served properly, I have no choice but to pressure this parole board
not
to grant release.” He drops his hands. The papers snap against his side. “Such is the case of Jessica Cook.”

He doesn't return to his chair. He backs up to a wall that is closer to him. He leans there. He's gone yellow or green or some other bad color. It's not a great day for Thomas VanLeer.

T
he parole board chairwoman calls my name. “Perry T. Cook,” she says, “it's your turn to speak.”

My head feels light and weird. My legs feel like rubber. Everyone is watching me. I'm going to do this. I came here to get my mom out. I rise.

“I'm Perry Cook,” I tell the parole board. “I was born at Blue River. This has always been my home.” I tell them about writing the Blue River Stories for my Coming to Butler County project. “Some of the residents here feel like family to me.

“For the project, I asked a lot of questions. I heard a lot of different reasons why people commit crimes . . . or confess to crimes. Sometimes I wonder if they should have been incarcerated at all. Anyone can make a mistake.” I take a rough swallow. I need to get the next part right.

“I know my mom's story now. It's about a young driver,
a hailstorm, an infamously dangerous intersection, and a big mistake. Also, a confession . . . and a death.” I say the last words quietly. “That's a list of true things. And after all those things happened, my mom was alone and scared and had nobody to fight for her.”

I look at each one of the parole board members. Then I say, “But now she has me.” The whole room sighs. I think they might be on our side. “The trouble is, I'm also the thing that's holding up her release now. So I want you to see that I am okay. If you can let me have a few minutes and a corner of the table, I'll show you.”

I am surprised how quickly they clear space for me. Zoey knows our plan. She hands me the laptop and hurries back for the little projector. We get everything opened up. Then we panic.

Both machines are silent. We retry the connection. “Is it the battery?” I whisper.

“I-I don't know,” says Zoey. Her lip quivers.

Around us, the adults are starting to stir because we need help. Mr. Olsen starts to stand up at the back of the room. But then we hear another voice.

“Excuse me! Coming through. Excuse me.” Here comes Brian Morris! I didn't even know he was here. He moves right to the front to help us. He draws a cord out of the projector. He presses a power button, fiddles with the cables. He flicks a switch, and we're in business—with a bright beam of light shining right on squinting Thomas VanLeer. Everyone
waits while Brian goes up and guides pale-green VanLeer several steps to the right of where he's been standing. “We need a little more wall,” Brian explains. “Is that okay with you? Yeah?” He scoots him just a hitch farther. Then he comes back and adjusts the projector so the video will display larger. We focus and hit Play.

“Good morning,” my voice on the video says. Up comes the enhanced photo of my old room. “This is Perry at sunrise. Here's my sunny room off the Upper East Lounge,” Video Perry says, “and it was built for me by our best friend on the inside. His name is Edwin Sommers. I call him Big Ed . . .”

We watch me grow up. There's a picture of my first birthday, sock puppets in the laundry room, then six people in blue chambray shirts crowd into the tiny salon to watch Miss Gina cut my hair. I have a new backpack for the first day of school. I lead Mr. Halsey and Mr. Rojas around the crusty Blue River track. I realize something for the first time: I don't look at the camera much. I look at the people around me.

When the video ends I have more to say. “You might think the setting looks wrong. Like maybe Blue River looks like a dull or unwelcoming place for a kid to grow up in. But for me, it always felt like a home.” Then I get stuck. Everything depends on today. What if the video isn't enough? What if they don't release Mom? I look at her.

She cups praying hands over her mouth and nose. She
blinks watery eyes. Beside her, Big Ed nods, smiles, and encourages me along.

“Please don't hand my mom a down letter today. She has served a long time for her confession. That's the truest thing I know to say. She wants to make us a home on the outside now. Don't deny her parole just because I grew up at Blue River. I'm okay. I've always been okay.”

“Y
ou've heard me speaking out of turn today,” the warden admits. “I apologize for my outbursts, though I meant each thing I said with all my heart. All of District Attorney VanLeer's concerns are
on me
!” She points her finger to herself.

“Blue River is a minimum-security correctional facility, and to me, minimum security has always meant maximum potential. Our residents have made mistakes. But they come here to rise up again, and make good choices.

“But that does not in any way mean that Jessica Cook got to choose to have her son live here with her. No, that was
my
choice. I was Perry's foster care provider, and I was Ms. Cook's warden. Your decision today cannot be about that arrangement. You can only ask, has Ms. Cook served her
sentence? You have documentation that indeed she has. She has worked hard here. She took full advantage of programming. She earned a degree, and she has worked an essential position as a social worker here. In case you missed it, she raised an honorable son—a boy who, by his merry presence, elevated the hearts and souls of our population day after day. Innocence raises us all up.” The warden points her finger skyward. “We are the better for it,” she says.

“Perry was not locked in. I made sure of that. He had rules, but most households do. The walls may not have been pretty colors. But you just saw that he's had the love of many people in his young life.” She points to the meeting room wall where the video played. “Some on the inside, some on the outside. A broad circle has looked out for his well-being. Most of all, he had his mother, Jessica Cook. Perry has always been her highest priority.”

The warden looks at Thomas VanLeer. “I say, heaven help the community that won't fearlessly welcome her, and heaven help a world that thinks it needs to be protected from the likes of Jessica Cook. She's exemplary.”

I
have heard the residents of Blue River say that parole hearings are yes or no moments. Approved or denied on the spot. But today, the parole board leaves the room to talk in private. We all fidget and wonder. While we wait, I watch Mom's back and shoulders rise and fall with deep, hopeful breaths. Can they possibly know how much their decision will mean to us?

Come. Back. In. I think it to myself. Then, as if I have wished it up, the two men and two women reenter. The chairwoman speaks.

“When we sit down to these hearings we seek to feel satisfied that the candidate has completed sentencing. We listen for concerns from the public. What we often find is that we are moved in some way. This is an odd day and an
unusual hearing. But that's fitting because this is an unusual case, and Mr. VanLeer, we will credit you with bringing it to our attention.”

There is silence while my heart falls and while Mom stares at her hands. Mr. VanLeer absorbs the moment. His chest rises. He gives a satisfied nod.

“As a board, we read cases in advance of these hearings. We form a strong impression at that time. The purpose of the hearing is to listen for any point that might move us from that impression. I'm talking about a concern as might be stated by the victim of a crime, or a feeling of danger to the public.
Moved
is an interesting word, especially today. We
are
moved by so much of what we have heard here.” She looks at me, but she doesn't gush. She looks respectful, and she holds that gaze on me several long seconds. Then she straightens up tall in her chair and turns to face VanLeer again. “You, Mr. VanLeer, inform us today, but you do not move us—not from our basis. You'll be remembered for having picked this scab, perhaps.” The chairwoman breathes in. “We are unanimous in our decision . . .”

I close my eyes. I don't think a single soul in the room is breathing now. My knee bounces, and I can't make it stop.

The spokeswoman says, “Ms. Cook, we are sorry . . .”

Now my eyes fly open. My jiggling knee freezes.

“. . . sorry for the many weeks of delay. This board wishes you and your son the very best. Your parole is granted.”

The cheering is loud. Many voices make it. I jump up
and race forward. I leap into Mom's arms. There is no room for a big swing-around, so we spin tightly together. For several full turns the world is just the two of us. Mom's face is buried close to my ear. She says, “You were awesome, Perry! Awesome!”