LITMIR.BIZ

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That was a long time ago, almost thirty years. So much had changed since then. She had been such an optimistic child; the world was a place of hope and adventure; that is what her mom had taught her. What would she say to that child now, her six-year-old self, clutching a raggedy cast-off doll? Would she warn her that life wasn’t going to turn out the way she hoped?

      She glanced around at the families around her. There were families of every color, children of every age, waiting for visiting hours to begin. It wasn’t even 7 am and they had already been up for hours. The children should be in bed or watching cartoons and eating cereal. But at least they weren’t waiting outside in the rain.

      They didn’t have a visitor’s center when she was little. Her family stood at the gates, in all weather, waiting eagerly for a guard to let them in and begin the process of clearing visitors. People lucky enough to have cars would come the night before to line up, starting before midnight. Entire families would drive up from as far as San Diego, sleeping in the car, pissing in bottles, just to see their beloved inmate.

      So civilized now…with the toys and games for children and the comfortable seats, and the pamphlets for helping explain prison to children. Here was a novel thought: maybe dads shouldn’t commit crimes and then children would not have to sleep in the car and give up Saturdays to come visit them in prison.

      Beth folded the pamphlet and stuck it in her pocket. She tapped her fingers against the red vinyl upholstery of the chair. One thing hadn’t changed: the waiting. Half of a prison visit was always wasted on waiting and processing.

      She could have come here officially, as a DEA agent. She visited prisons on a regular basis with her job and she never had to wait. She was straight in, day or night, only stopping for the cursory pat down and chat with guards. She was on a first name basis with guards in prisons throughout Texas and the South West. She even occasionally made it to California, here to Folsom Prison.

      Folsom was one of the nicest prisons, at least from a visitor’s perspective. God only knew what it was like for inmates, probably forced sodomy and prison shanks, like everywhere else. But for visitors it was pretty. The prison was set in wooded grounds, acre after acre of rolling hills, with all sorts of wildlife: deer and wild turkeys and rabbits, even peacocks. As a kid she loved it. It was like visiting a farm. Back then her apartment overlooked I80 and the only wildlife she saw was of the road kill variety. Her weekend visits to Folsom Prison were a small slice of heaven.

      And then there was the Great Wall of China. That is what she had thought it was, the massive yellow stone wall that surrounded the prison. Her six-year-old mind did not question why the Great Wall of China was in Northern California, at a State Prison, it just was, and she loved it. Other kids in her class would brag about their vacations to the beach or Monterey Bay Aquarium, but Beth didn’t care, because she had seen the Great Wall.

      Silly kid…

      She ran a hand over her hair, smoothing down her ponytail. She hoped no one recognized her today. She wasn’t here in a professional capacity.

      There was a spot on the CDCR Form 106 to state the relationship to the inmate. She left it blank, but still she had been granted visitation. There was more than a small part of her that had hoped her request would be turned down. She could tell herself she had tried and then move on. She would shut the door on this chapter in her life and never look back.

      “Numbers 1–20.”

      Dozens of people hopped to their feet. It was time, at last. Beth smiled at the toddler next to her. She looked about three. Her tight black curls were styled into several small braids with pink and purple beads at the end. She had bright brown eyes. She reminded her of Alejandra. Beth’s smile widened as she thought of her own daughter.

      The little girl dropped her pacifier. It landed in the trash on top of a soggy half-eaten sandwich. The little girl reached for it but Beth picked it up before she could put it back in her mouth. “Baby Girl, that’s dirty. You don’t want that in your mouth. It will make you sick.” She couldn’t tell which was dirtier, the pacifier or the heap of trash it had landed on. In seconds a bleached blonde woman crossed the room to them, her hand outstretched, her other hand on her hip, and a don’t-fuck-with-me-look on her face. Her hands and arms were covered in tattoos. Beth immediately recognized the tattoos, Beth recognized all gang tats; that was part of her job. She gave training seminars on it at the DEA. This woman was a Criplette, a female Crip. They were a particularly ruthless bunch; they had a fondness for beating their enemies to death with baseball bats. Beth sighed. Poor kid. She stared into the little girl’s eyes for a long moment. Make better choices. Silently she prayed the beautiful little girl in front of her would have a chance and not be another life lost to gang culture.

      The woman was staring at Beth hard, trying to intimidate her. Why? It was just what they did, there was no switch to turn it off or dial it down. A gang member was a gang member 24/7.

      Beth’s back straightened. No one intimidated her any more. This woman could posture and stare her down all she wanted.

      “Bitch, give it.”

      Beth turned around as if she was looking around. “Are you speaking to me?” Her voice was intentionally quiet so the woman would have to strain to hear her. “I know you can’t be speaking to me because people don’t speak to me like that. Your baby needs a new pacifier. This one is cracked and dirty.” Even if she washed it, it still would not be suitable. The cracks harboured bacteria. Beth rose to her feet to join the long line forming, waiting to be processed and allowed in. She held tight to the pacifier. Beth had no intention of letting the child put the filthy thing back in her mouth, it was covered in what Beth could only guess was a combination of dirt and mould. The concept of hygiene had been lost on this family. It was none of Beth’s business but she had a hard time minding her own business where children were involved. They couldn’t speak up for themselves. The little girl couldn’t say, “Don’t drag me prison to visit your baby daddy, and give me something clean to stick in my mouth.” But Beth could. And she would.

      “Bitch, give that back,” the woman seethed.

      Beth continued to stare straight ahead. She didn’t have time to deal with this woman. Beth had made her point. The woman would ignore her but saying something was just enough to salve Beth’s conscience; that was the best she could do today.

      She felt a sharp tug on her ponytail. Her neck snapped back from the force. In an instant Beth spun around. Her eyes narrowed into tight slits. “You don’t want to pick a fight with me. You will lose.”

      “Fuck you.”

      Beth smiled. “Is that all you can say?” She shook her head; another failure of the United States educational system. “There are a million more interesting ways to say that, invest in a thesaurus, learn a few. And don’t touch me again. Ever,” Beth warned. Her smile never faltered but her tone had just enough edge to let the woman know she was serious.

      “Watch your back, bitch.” The woman jumped forward, landing inches from Beth’s face. Her eyes were wide, her hands clenched in tight fists, ready to deliver a blow. “This isn’t over.”

      Beth didn’t react. She was trying to intimidate her but it was a pretty pathetic show. Beth could have laughed if she wasn’t so annoyed. Beth stared down gang members for a living, she had been held at knife point by a member of Loz Zetas, the head of Los Treintas had hired a hit on her. This Central Valley wannabe was no more of a threat than the cockroach scurrying across the polished concrete floor.

      Beth turned around. This woman didn’t deserve another second of her time. She just wanted to get this done and go home, back to Texas, back to her own little girl, and her own tattooed former gang member. The irony was not lost on her. Torres has done things that would have landed him here, or someplace worse, had he not been paid for his services by the Department of Justice. His crimes were OK, admirable even, because he was playing for the right team. That is what she told herself anyway.

      Beth watched as one by one the visitors were ushered through the metal detectors, their bodies searched, their documents inspected. She could still leave. He didn’t know she was coming. She could

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