Page 4

THREE

The visitor parking lot is surrounded by chain link and razor wire. Two guard towers rise above the front and back sides of the prison, catacorner to each other. It reminds me of a castle in a picture book I once read to Hayden.

Purdy Women’s Prison is the largest women’s prison in Washington State. If it weren’t for the concertina wire surrounding the thirty-two-acre grounds, it would look like a sports complex with the spacious well-kept grounds, outdoor tennis courts, batting cages, and two Olympic size swimming pools.

Inside, a guard takes my weapon and I empty my pockets, including a roll of Tums. A female guard has me step through the metal detector. For good measure I’m subjected to a pat down. She touches places where only my boyfriend, Dan, has permission. I’m led through two more sets of iron-barred doors to an interview room.

The room next to mine has a glass front, a dozen desks and chairs, a chalkboard and projection screen. “What’s that room for?” I ask my frisky friend.

“It’s a classroom.”

“Seriously?” Do they teach them how to avoid being arrested?

“Profs from Washington State University and some trade colleges teach classes, preparing our clients for a job on the outside.”

“Rehabilitation?” I say this, and want to gag.

“Yeah. There are two other classrooms here and a library, a video room where they watch the latest movies, a computer room and a sauna.”

Now I really do want to throw up. “You’ve got to be shitting me?”

“We don’t have a sauna.” She says this like she’s really gotten one over on me so I play along, grin and punch her on the arm. I want to punch her in the face.

“Who pays for all of this?”

“You, me, everyone.”

Except the prisoners. Prison is the ultimate Student Debt Relief Program. If you want a free college degree, go to prison.

The interview room isn’t like the ones you see on television or on the big screen. It’s worse. The concrete block walls are unpainted and stained from years of neglect, and although prisons across the U.S. went smoke free in the 90s, the smell of cigarette smoke lives on. No windows. No coffee bar. I sit in one of two chairs at a table that’s bolted to the floor. My only contact with the guard will be to scream. I’m not afraid.

The door opens and a female guard who is built like Arnold Schwarzenegger with a blond wig comes in leading my mother. Courtney Cassidy, someone who betrayed and murdered my stepfather, the only man I’ve ever thought of as a father. She betrayed me and my little brother, Hayden, and lied to me my entire life. I’m not proud to call her my mother. She is in orange coveralls and black mules on her manicured feet, her hair is shiny blond, stylishly cut just above her ears, and she’s wearing bright red lipstick. She’s tan. Even more so than I am. She no longer looks played out, scared, lost, like the last time I saw her. Instead she’s alert, self-assured, and I notice the bags are gone beneath her bright, almost-cobalt blue eyes. She’s in better physical shape than I ever remember her being. Prison life agrees with her.

She sits across from me, her smile reaching her eyes; she’s at ease. A feeling of hate and love and anger sweeps through my heart and mind. She doesn’t deserve to smile, or feel safe.

I offer my hand to my mom and say, “Detective Megan Carpenter.”

She doesn’t take it. “I wasn’t expecting a visit today.”

My face betrays my disgust at the remark. Maybe I interrupted her makeover. She says, “Freyda, please close the door. We’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be right outside, Mrs. Cassidy.”

“Thank you, Freyda,” Mom says. The guard gives me a sharp look and shuts the door.

Mom turns those beacon eyes on me and the smile disappears. The bitch is back.

“You’re a detective now, Rylee. I’m glad you’ve done so well.”