Innocent (10 page)

“Nothing can be brought in. Nothing can be given to the prisoner,” he said.

“I wouldn’t give him anything, it’s just that…” I thought about leaving my new purse, with all that money in it, unattended.

“Don’t worry,” he said, reading my concern. “Everything is locked up. The only people you have to worry about are on the other side of the bars.”

I placed my new purse in the basket. I couldn’t believe how attached I felt to it already. On top I placed the bag containing my old clothing, shoes and purse. It was like a layer of protection for the things that mattered.

“Is this your first time here?” one of them asked.

“Yes.”

“I thought so. I would have remembered you. I’ll bring you the rest of the way. All the other visitors have already passed by.”

He circled around the counter and held open a door for me and then came in after me. For the first time I noticed that he had a long, large black club attached to his belt. It looked threatening.

“You aren’t carrying any weapons, drugs or contraband, are you?” he asked.

“Of course not!” I exclaimed. Although I didn’t even know what contraband was, I knew I wasn’t carrying anything.

“Standard question that has to be asked,” he said. “Strange though. Would anybody carrying something illegal answer truthfully when we ask?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let me explain the procedure. You’re going to be seated on one side of a table and the prisoner on the other. Between you is a wooden divider about a foot high. You are forbidden to reach over it or make any contact with the prisoner.”

That was actually reassuring.

“If there is any trouble, you simply have to call out and a guard will intervene.”

“What sort of trouble?” I no longer felt reassured.

“I’ve seen all sorts of circuses erupt in there. We’ve had to separate prisoners from adjoining tables and had brawls between the prisoners and their wives or girlfriends.”

“The prisoners attacked them?”

“Often it’s the other way around. We don’t cater to the best or most refined clientele around here—no offense.”

Was he talking about me? I was the clientele, here to visit a prisoner?

“The other visitors have already been brought down. Visiting time has already begun, so you know you won’t have as much time as you normally would.”

“That’s all right.”

It was better than all right. I didn’t know what I was going to say to him to begin with, so short would be better. I just wanted to lay eyes on him, the man who had done this terrible thing. I wanted to see him, maybe tell him what I thought of him, what he’d cost me.

“Who are you here to visit?” he asked.

“Gordon Sullivan.”

“Gordie?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “He doesn’t get many visitors, not since his mother died.”

That was my grandmother—the mother of the man who killed my mother.

“How do you know Gordie?”

I was going to say “relative,” but I didn’t. “I’m his daughter.”

“You’re the little girl who was left behind?”

“Did he talk to you about me?”

“Not a word,” he said.

“But how did you know?”

“There wasn’t anybody in Kingston who didn’t follow the trial in the papers. The court gallery was crowded every day. A murder like that is pretty big news.”

A murder. My mother. And my father did it. The man I was going to visit right now. If I had had the strength, I would have told the guard I had changed my mind and demand to be taken back out to the street, but I didn’t.

“Does Gordie know you’re coming today?”

“No, he doesn’t.” Up until a few minutes ago, I didn’t know myself.

“Then this is going to be a big surprise. Hopefully, a good one for both of you.”

He led me into a big room. There were dozens of people seated at tables. On the far side of the tables were the prisoners, all dressed in bright orange coveralls. On the side closest to us were the visitors. Mostly they were women, and there were children sitting beside their mothers or grandmothers.

He led me to a table, one of only three that were unoccupied. “Take a seat. He’s being brought down from the cell block right now.”

“Thank you.”

“Gordie, your father…he’s not a bad guy.”

“He killed my mother,” I said, surprised by the words.

“Yeah, I know. I meant for here,” he said, sweeping his arm around the room. “He doesn’t cause nobody any grief, keeps to himself, follows the rules.”

It was nice to know he was a well-behaved murderer.

“Have a good visit,” he said and left.

I looked around the room without being too obvious. I noticed almost immediately that guards ringed the room. They all were in uniform, hats on their heads, with clubs at their sides. Some were holding on to their clubs; one guard was spinning his around like it was a baton and he the drum major.

There were two guards in the corner who had more than clubs. They had guns. One had a revolver in a holster on his belt, like a police officer, and the second held a rifle. He had his back to the wall and was scanning the room slowly.

The room was filled with voices. I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation to my right. A woman with two children was telling the prisoner how the kids were doing in school. It was as if they were sitting around the kitchen table, having lunch together, having a regular conversation. He seemed really interested in how they were doing, and the whole thing, them talking to him, seemed oddly familiar to me.

Other voices not as pleasant or friendly also rose up. It sounded like there was a serious argument going on a few tables away. I looked over and the prisoner, who happened to be looking in my direction, gave me a threatening scowl. I quickly looked away, casting my eyes on the table in front of me.

“Oh my god. Lizzy…it’s you, isn’t it?”

I looked up. On the other side of the table stood a large man in orange prison clothing.

“It’s me,” I said, my voice just a whisper.

He burst into tears. I didn’t know what I’d expected, but this wasn’t it.

He slumped down, taking the seat on the opposite side of the table. “They told me somebody was here to visit me, but they didn’t tell me it was my daughter. Oh my god, my good god.”

Mrs. Hazelton would have lectured him for taking the Lord’s name in vain, and for an instant I almost did the same.

“It’s like looking at your mother.” He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s unbelievable how much you look like her.”

“People tell me that.”

“It’s like I’m looking at her. The same but different.” He smiled—a sad little smile. “Do you know how long I’ve prayed for this moment? You’ve been in my prayers each night.”

Prayers? Did murderers think God listened to them?

“I prayed that you’d be well cared for, that the people who adopted you would be good people.”

“I was never adopted.”

“But they promised me you would be. They said that if my mother didn’t pursue custody, they had a really good family for you—a better family.”

I shook my head. “I grew up in an orphanage in Hope.”

“They promised. I don’t know why I thought they’d keep that promise. It was just that my mother, you know, she did her best, but she had problems with the bottle. She lived inside of it. I wanted better for you than what I’d had. If I’d only known! Even my mother would have been better than an orphanage.”

“They treated me well!” I exclaimed. “Mrs. Hazelton and the staff were good people, and they always—”

“I’m sorry,” he said, cutting me off. “I didn’t mean to say anything against people I don’t know. It looks like they did a good job.”

I was suddenly grateful that I was wearing my new dress. It felt wrong, but I wanted to impress him.

“I feel so bad,” he said. “I always thought you’d grow up in a family, with people who would care for you like you were their own.”

That had been my fantasy too.

“You gotta understand, all we have here is time, and I’ve spent a lot of it thinking about you, about you being cared for right. If I’d known they were just going to dump you in some orphanage, we would have fought for you. My mother would have applied for custody.”

“I wasn’t dumped,” I said. “Mrs. Hazelton was like a mother, and the girls were like my sisters.”

“That makes me feel better.” He paused. “It’s bad enough what those people did to me, taking away the woman and daughter that I loved, but it helped to think that at least your life was saved.”

“Those people?” I asked.

“The police, the judge, the jury. All of those people.”

I felt a rush of rage surge through me. “Maybe those people wouldn’t have done that to you if you hadn’t murdered my mother!” I snapped back loudly.

I felt people turn and stare. His face showed no reaction. Not anger, not guilt, not remorse. Nothing.

“I was convicted of killing your mother. That doesn’t mean I did it.”

“Are you saying you’re innocent?” I demanded. The force of my words shocked me.

“I was going to ask you what you know about what happened, but obviously you know some things.”

“I know everything. I read the newspaper reports. I know that you murdered my mother!”

He didn’t answer right away. His face was like a mask, not revealing anything. Finally he spoke.

“I did a lot of things, things I regret, but the one thing I didn’t do was kill Vicki. I loved your mother with all my heart. As much as I loved—
still
love—you.”

His words took my breath away.

“How long have you known?” he asked.

“A few weeks. They told me when I left the orphanage. They gave me information about my past even though they weren’t supposed to. I came back to live in Kingston.”

“And you decided to visit me, thinking that I’d murdered your mother.”

“You were convicted,” I snapped.

He waved his hand around the room. “They say that everybody in jail tells you they’re innocent. Most aren’t. Some of us are. Being convicted of something doesn’t mean you did it.”

“Then what does it mean?” I demanded.

“Maybe it means that you had a bad lawyer or didn’t have the right connections or were dirt poor. There are no rich people in prison.” He paused. “Or maybe it means you were framed.”

“And you’re telling me you were framed?”

“It doesn’t matter what I say. It’s just a fact. A fact that makes it even worse. I’m here, convicted of a crime I didn’t commit. The man who really did murder your mother is still out there, free, and I’m here, locked up like a dog. No, not like a dog. Nobody would treat a dog the way they treat us. We’re not just less than human—we’re less than animals.”

We stared at each other, as if neither of us could come up with the words that needed to be said next.

“But none of that matters. Today, you’re here. Seeing that you’re alive and doing okay, well, that just makes the last thirteen years seem better. It doesn’t matter what happened to me because you’re here now.”

“How long before you’re free?”

“In three years I’ll have served two-thirds of my time. Technically, I’ll be eligible for parole.”

A chill went up my spine. That wasn’t that long. As long as he was inside, I was safe.

“But that’s not going to happen. They’re not going to let me out of here.”

“They?” I asked.

“It’s not just what the judge recommended at the sentencing. The same people who put me in here are going to make sure I don’t go anywhere until my full time is served. I’ll be here for another twelve years—the full twenty-five.” He shook his head. “They took away the woman I loved, and they’ll have taken away twenty-five years of my life, but that doesn’t matter. You returned. My little angel has returned.”

“That’s what my mother called me.”

He laughed. “That’s what I called you, and then she started calling you that. I always said she was an angel sent down from heaven and you, well, you were my little angel.”

I put my hands to my mouth to stop myself from speaking. I didn’t remember my mother ever saying those words to me, but I
did
remember a male voice calling me his little angel. Was it his voice?

“Time!” a man called out. “Visiting time is over!”

“It can’t be time,” my father said. “There’s so much I need to ask you about your life, about what happened, about
you
. You have to promise me you’ll come back next week for visiting day. You have to promise!”

I didn’t have to think. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

“Lizzy, thank you, and I love you, my little angel.”

I LEFT THE
prison in a fog. I stood there on the street, looking back at the gate. Had I really been inside? Had I really spoken to my father? It was like a dream.

I had to focus and remember where I was and where I was going. The bank. I was going to the bank. I turned to my right and started walking, with the wall of the prison as my guide. Behind that wall I could now picture the man who was my father—Gordon Sullivan. He was no longer just a name on a page, but a real person. But what did that mean? Would I really go back and see him again? Would I, the once-lost daughter, visit him faithfully from now until he was released? Or was even this single visit disloyal to the memory of my mother? He’d called me his little angel, he’d told me he loved me, he’d told me he was innocent. Could that be possible? If he
was
innocent, then not only my mother’s life but also mine and his had been taken away. It meant that the real killer had never been brought to justice, and he was still out there somewhere.

A chill went through my body and I looked all around, as if the real killer was watching me, following me, and was ready to strike again, to kill the daughter of the woman he’d killed. There were people on the other side of the street—a mother and her two children. She wasn’t the killer, but there were other people up ahead and—

My heel caught and I tumbled forward, crying out as my knees slammed into the pavement and my purse and bag flew out of my hands. More embarrassed than hurt, I scrambled to my feet and grabbed my things, and then I realized that my left knee hurt. I looked down. It was bleeding. Worse, there was a rip in my new dress! I slumped down and sat on the curb. I hiked up my dress slightly so it wouldn’t get stained with blood. My mind was spinning, trying to figure out what I could do next, and only one answer came: I burst into tears.

Cars whizzed by in front of me, and I knew there were people walking by. I needed to regain my composure, but I couldn’t. There was nothing I could do to stop the tears, and nobody who could help me. It wasn’t like I had a mother to hold me and make me feel better. Not even a Mrs. Hazelton to take care of the wound. Not a single friend to seek comfort from. Only a prisoner father who was locked away behind those walls. I was alone, sitting on the curb in a strange town, with a bleeding knee and a torn new dress. Of all of these things, the torn dress bothered me the most.

Big, deep sobs started in my chest and heaved up and out. I couldn’t contain them, and I buried my face in my hands.

“Are you all right?” a woman’s voice asked.

I looked up at the woman.

“I’m fine,” I sobbed and then buried my face in my hands again. I heard her walk away. What did it matter? There was nothing she could do to change anything.

Then I heard a car slow down and come to a stop. It parked so close to me that I could feel the heat from the engine. I didn’t know who it was or what he wanted, but I had to get up and away.

“I told you I’d see you around.”

I looked up. Officer Gibson—David—was standing over me.

“Strange. I’ve only talked to you three times, and two of those times you’ve been crying,” he said. “Is it me?”

I tried to say something but instead just sobbed louder. He bent down so that he was at my level. “Your knee is cut.”

I nodded my head, but no words came out.

“Let’s start by fixing that up,” he said.

He took me by the hand and helped me to my feet. Then he slipped an arm around my waist to steady me. I did feel unsure on my feet. He brought me around to the side of the car, opened the back door and sat me down on the seat, my legs still outside the car. He reached through the open window of the front seat and pulled out a first-aid kit.

He kneeled down in front of me. “It doesn’t look too bad. It’s not going to need stitches or anything. I’m just going to clean it off first.” He took a ball of cotton and poured some liquid onto it. “This might hurt a bit.”

He pressed it down and I had to fight the urge to jerk away from the sting. He dabbed it a few times.

“Now we’ll cover it up.” He pulled out a large bandage and then did something that surprised me. He bent in closer and blew on the cut. “I’m drying it so the bandage will stick.” He carefully put the bandage over the scrape and patted the edges to hold it down.

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

“So what exactly happened?”

“I tripped and fell.”

“That could happen to anybody. And where were you off to, all dressed up so fancy? You aren’t late for a date, are you?”

“No!”

“Because I don’t want to be fighting some jealous boyfriend who sees me on bended knee in front of you and thinks I’m proposing marriage to you.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend!” I exclaimed. “I was just on my way to the bank to open an account.”

“A bank account? Am I to assume you have a fortune in that purse?” he said, tapping it with a finger.

“I have enough money to open an account.” To me it was a fortune.

“In that case I have no choice. It’s my duty to provide an armed guard to take you to the bank.”

“I’ll be okay. Honestly.”

“Are you trying to get me in trouble again?” he asked.

“Of course not…how would you get in trouble?”

“To allow you to come to harm would be dereliction of duty. Can you imagine how much trouble I’d be in if I allowed you to go on your own and you were robbed? I might be relieved of duty, stripped of uniform and deported from Kingston.”

I now realized he was joking.

“And judging from your expression, you think I’m joking,” he said. “But believe me, I’m not going to risk getting the chief of police and mayor of Kingston mad at me again. Now, into the front seat, please.”

He offered me his hand and I stood up. He opened the front door and helped me inside, closing the door behind me. Then he circled around and climbed behind the wheel.

“Do you think I should put on the siren?” he asked.

“No, of course—you’re joking again, right?”

“I am, but if you asked, I
would
put the siren on.”

We pulled away from the curb, and he said, “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but you weren’t crying because of your knee, were you?”

“Not the knee.” Not even the dress being torn. “I just met my father.”

“And he said something that made you cry?”

“He didn’t say anything wrong. It’s really hard to explain.”

“I’ve been told I’m a good listener. Is your father being here part of the reason you moved back to Kingston?”

“I didn’t even know he lived here until yesterday.”

“And he lives right around here?”

I didn’t know how much he knew or what I was supposed to say. I was going to find out if he really was a good listener. “My father is an inmate in the Kingston Penitentiary.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that.”

I tried to judge what he was thinking from his voice or his expression, but there was no hint.

“That must be very hard. How long is he in for?”

“He was sentenced to twenty-five years.”

“There aren’t many crimes that draw that long a sentence.” He paused. “In fact, I know of only one.”

He pulled the car into the parking lot of the bank and we came to a stop.

“Do you know anything about me?” I asked.

“I know that you’re a very kind, very pretty young woman who works for the Remington family. I know that you seem to cry a lot, and I know you saved my job by not saying anything about the gun. Is there more I should know?”

“Probably a lot.”

In a quick burst I told him about my father’s conviction for murdering my mother. About living my life in the orphanage and about coming back here only a few weeks ago after finding out those things myself. The entire story rushed out fast, and I was surprised by how open I was being.

“I’d never met my father before today,” I said. “I was too little to remember him.”

“Then I can understand why you’re so upset. None of this has been easy on you, and meeting him there—well, a prison visit must have been hard.”

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do now. He told me he loved me, and he told me that he is innocent, that he didn’t do it.”

“Everybody in jail says they’re innocent.”

“That’s what he said.”

“Just because it’s said doesn’t mean it’s not true. Innocent people can be convicted. How much do you know about the trial, the evidence against him?”

“Not much. Just what the newspaper articles said.”

“If you’d like, I can ask some questions, do a little digging, maybe even look into the case files,” he offered.

“You can do that?”

“This is a real police uniform, you know.”

I laughed, and he laughed with me.

“But I have to be honest: you may not like what I find out. Are you going to be all right with that? Me telling you the truth?”

“The truth shall set you free,” I said.

“But not your father. It may only provide you with proof that he committed the crime he was convicted of.”

“I’d rather know that. I would.”

“Then I’ll look. Why don’t you go into the bank and open your account? I’ll wait here for you.”

“You don’t have to wait.”

“I don’t have to, but I’m going to wait anyway. I can’t expect a girl with such a serious injury to practically limp across town on one good leg.”

I didn’t want to argue. It would be nice to be driven, nice not to walk. Nice to be with him.

“Thank you.”

“I have to warn you, though, that if I get a radio call I might have to leave, and I don’t want you to think I just abandoned you.”

“I’ll be as quick as I can.”