The Injustice of Justice. Donald Grady II

guard was perched behind a counter in the reception area. He asked who I wanted to see and I handed him the visitation form I’d just completed. He looked it over, then asked to see my driver’s license. I extended my hand; he took the license, glanced at it, and then shoved it back across the counter. Once my status had been verified, I had to go through a metal detector. And every time I walked into the darn thing, an alarm went off. They had this rule that if you didn’t get through the detector in three tries, your visit would be denied. For some reason, the metal clasp on my pants always set it off. I’d have to roll the waistband over the clasp a couple of times, shield it with my hands, and then walk through very very slowly. The first time I tried to get through, a guard had to show me how to do it. Nobody else seemed to have this problem, but I set that alarm off every time. Once I got past the metal detector, there was a sign advising that all visitors were subject to search beyond this point. There was a yellow line painted on the floor beneath the sign. Now, I’d never seen anyone who’d crossed the line taken to be searched, so I mused the sign was for show, but then again, probably not. Another guard buzzed the lock on the heavy metal door leading to the visitation room. I had to strain to open the door and it closed with an abrupt metallic thud as the lock slammed back into place.

      The visitation room was a large open area filled with stainless steel tables and matching stools. Everything was bolted to the floor. Several guards were stationed around the room, and every once in a while one of them would tell an inmate to stop doing something or another. Physical contact was allowed, and some of the prisoners were holding their children or holding hands with a spouse or loved one. The room was abuzz with activity, yet somehow, everyone seemed less alive in here. It was as if the walls drained the life out of everything and everyone in the room. A repugnant odor filled the air—I’m not sure if it was disinfectant, sweat, stale air, or all of the above. I hated that smell. It got into my clothes and stayed in my nostrils for hours.

      Donnie entered the room, escorted by a guard who nodded to others stationed at an elevated platform that overlooked the area. Donnie walked past me to report in at the guard station before returning to the table. He looked drawn and tired. He’d lost weight and his clothes didn’t fit well. He was dressed in prison-issue khaki and he wore a pair of burlap boat shoes. When he got to the table, we embraced for what seemed like forever. I could feel Donnie breathing as if he were trying to stifle the urge to cry, and I no longer felt the hope or inspiration of before; all I could feel was his despair.

      “How’re you doing?” I asked, more as a formality, I think, than a serious question. He looked terrible and I could see he wasn’t doing well.

      “I’m okay,” he whispered.

      “Donnie, you don’t look well. Talk to me; tell me what’s going on.” He must’ve needed to talk because he opened right up. His voice was barely audible over the noise in the room and it was choked as if he was fighting the urge to cry.

      “My wife keeps pushing for me to let her visit. Alan, I don’t want her to see me like this and I don’t want the kids to see me either. I miss them so much, but how can I let them see me in this place?” Donnie gestured with his hands, arms extended as he scanned the room.

      “Have they been here at all?” I asked.

      “The last time she came was a couple of weeks ago, but I wouldn’t see her. She’s been here several times and brought the kids with her, but I just couldn’t bring myself to come out. I can’t bear the thought of them seeing me like this.”

      “You’re not serious!” I exclaimed.

      “It’s not right,” Donnie interjected.

      “What’s not right is you closing your family out of your life. That’s got to be the most self-centered thing I’ve ever heard.”

      “Self-centered? I’m doing it for them, to keep them from having to go through this shit like me.”

      “Oh, come on,” I quipped, “you’re doing it for yourself. It’s not them; it’s you and how you feel about being in here. You can’t cut the people who love you out of your life because things aren’t turning out the way you’d like. If the tables were turned, would you stay away? Well, would you?”

      “Probably not, but that’s different,” he said.

      “Oh, really? How so?”

      “You know.”

      “No, I’m sorry, I don’t. You’ll have to explain it to me.”

      “Alan, stop it. You know how hard this is. How could I put them through this?”

      “Whether you like it or not, they are going through this. But because you’re being a fool, they’re going through it without the one person who could help them the most… you. You need to rethink your position on this issue, my friend. You’re wrong—way wrong—and you’re hurting the very people you claim to care about most.”

      “If you were in here, would you let Linda and Laura visit you?” Donnie asked.

      “Absolutely,” I said. “I love them way too much to keep them outta here. We’d get through it, and we’d get through it together. For better or worse, remember? So things are pretty bad right now. How does cutting your family out of your life make it better? Things will only get better if you work together and keep each other strong. You’re making a huge mistake. Don’t be stupid. You’re going to get out. Why should your family suffer more than they have to while waiting for your return? Because of some misguided sense of—what? Pride—what? I don’t get it.”

      “I’m sorry, Alan. I thought it would be best, but maybe you’re right. Would you stop and tell her it’ll be okay if she visits?”

      “No, I won’t. You tell her. You told her not to come, didn’t you? It’s your responsibility to tell her you were wrong and to set things right. I’ll bring her to see you and help in any other way I can, but I’m not doing that.”

      “You’re right, you’re right. I’ll fix it. Thanks, thanks for being frank with me, yeah, thanks for that.”

      “Now tell me how you’re really doing,” I said.

      “Not good at all,” he admitted. “I’ve been having nightmares about the accident. I wake up in the middle of the night and I see their faces. How can that be, Alan? I was unconscious and never saw anything, but I see their faces just as plain as day and I hear someone crying. I think it’s him, you know—Elliot. He’s always pretty far off, way off, but I can hear him moaning and it tears at my soul. Then it starts to rain. It’s a slow, steady rain and I’m listening to him sobbing and I see their faces as I walk through this meadow of tangled grasses and these weird flowers. They’re kind of yellow like dandelions, but brighter and prettier. They have long smooth stems that seem too delicate to hold the flowers up, but somehow they do. The wind is blowing just a little and the entire field sways this way and that, back and forth. All the while I’m struggling through the field, it continues to rain. It seems like I walk for days, yet it never stops raining. Sometimes it rains harder and sometimes it’s just a drizzle, but it won’t stop.

      “The meadow is really pretty. Those little flowers are all over it and they’re beautiful. In the dream, I have this overwhelming awareness that they’re flowers, but they’re not. For some reason, that seems really important. I don’t know why, but it does. Then I stoop to touch one of the flowers and it disappears. The whole damned field disappears and I’m standing in the middle of nothing…a great, dark, open nothingness. When I wake up, I’m covered with sweat. I usually can’t go back to sleep after that. God, Alan, what have I done?”

      Donnie put his head in his hands and began to weep. We just sat there for a while, with the noise of the visitation room filling our ears. I thought of Linda and Laura and my heart bled for Donnie, but I didn’t know what to say. I put my hand on his shoulder and we sat for a while in solitude, my presence being his only consolation.

      After a time, Donnie sat up. Wiping the water from his eyes and forcing his composure under control, he said, “Sorry about that. I’ve got to figure