The letter from Karen Shepard arrives at the end of the week by second-day mail. They pass it through the slot in my cell, and I’m impressed by the size of the envelope and the extra expense, even though it’s already torn open along the pull-tab. In it are several pages of death certificates—my father’s and mother’s, Ricky’s parents’, and something I had forgotten about—one for his sister, who had died the year before the family moved to San Jose. CAUSE OF DEATH, I read, and work to unscramble the tight handwriting on the line beneath: postductal coarctation of the aorta due to Turner Syndrome. When I rifle through my memories of his family, I remember Ricky mentioning she’d had a heart problem. I don’t remember anything about a syndrome.
I breathe a slow, unhappy sigh. I’m going to need to tell Annemarie about this.
Among the paperwork is a neatly formatted message from Ms. Shepard, promising more information as she is able to procure it, and reminding me in polite terms about our agreement that I will fork over my knowledge of Ricky in return for her trouble. Stapled to this sheet is a list of interview questions. There are only five, but they are pointed, and each will take a good amount of time. Well, I have that.
I sit on my metal stool, lay out a sheet of lined paper and my best homemade mechanical pencil, and I begin to write.
Dear Ms. Shepard,
Thank you very much for the death certificates. They are quite helpful. I look forward to any additional information you can provide, and hope we can be equitable in offering each other help with our various projects.
First, I would like to offer a bit of background on myself. I was born in San Jose and lived on Magellan Avenue until I was ten years old. My father, who was older than my mother by twelve years, had the foresight to take out a good life insurance policy at the time of my birth, and so my mother was able to stay in our modest house after his death and preserve some stability in my life. That was a blessing. Her job at the travel agency provided for my basic needs, and she lived frugally so that she could afford to support my interest in the arts. I took classes in ballet as well as watercolor painting and botanical drawing—really, whatever she could find on offer. My interest in the visual arts was bottomless, and she was proud of my early talent. The only thing I ever remember being denied was a kitten, because she said pets were too costly to support. All of that changed when she remarried and we moved to my stepfather’s house in Almaden Valley, when suddenly my fortunes improved economically and plummeted in every other way, but where your questions are concerned that is neither here nor there.
You asked whether my romantic relationship with Ricky changed after I returned to California from my art college in 1981. I can tell this question is based upon testimony given by Forrest Hayes and my stepbrother Clinton Brand during the trial, and I would caution you not to presume that information is accurate. Remember that Forrest was testifying against me in exchange for a plea bargain that allowed him a suspended sentence. In addition to that, Forrest was a minor acquaintance of mine and Ricky’s, not a friend, no matter what he told the chief prosecutor. As for Clinton, he knew far less about my personal life than he seems to believe he did. His inventions and fantasies were usually in my favor, but that doesn’t mean they were truthful.
Ricky and I met through CCD classes at Our Lady of Mercy, a Catholic church in San Jose, and were classmates during high school, although he was in a different academic track than I, so our interaction was casual. I did not date him at that time; in fact, I did not date anyone. It was only after I returned from art school in Wisconsin that he and I had any romantic involvement. I encountered him while he was working at Spectrum Supply, a small art supply shop on Meridian Avenue, and I came in to buy pastels. It was one of those situations where one has been away for a long time, returns and feels bewildered at how many people have left, and is glad to see a familiar face. As you know, his employment at that store ended acrimoniously when the owner accused him of stealing from the register, which, in fairness, he was probably doing. Ricky had a bit of a Robin Hood complex and he justified it with the idea that, as an artist, he didn’t need to abide by the same rules as everyone else.
My stepbrother’s testimony was inaccurate not only about the span of my romantic involvement with Ricky, but also in his claims that Ricky was abusive to me. Ricky did not—contrary to what Clinton said—physically harass and threaten me. My lawyers let those statements go uncontested during the trial, because the idea that I was some sort of a battered girlfriend was theoretically to my advantage. But if you are writing a biography of Ricky—and since there’s no hope of my sentence being changed at this late date—I would like to clear his name on this point. Ricky was boisterous and sometimes scrappy, but to women he was always gentle. I think Clinton had a different impression of him because of an event that occurred not very long after Ricky and I began dating, when Ricky punched him in the face three times, broke his nose and loosened two of his front teeth. That doesn’t, however, mean Ricky had a history of violent behavior. It means Ricky had a history of seeking vigilante justice.
Please don’t infer, though, that I believe his murder of Jeff Owen or his robbery of the Circle K on West Julian Street were somehow justified. Those were a different matter from what happened between him and Clinton, but it did affect Clinton’s perception of him.
Well, our cellblock is being called to dinner, but I wanted to be sure I wrote a reply to you expediently and expressed my gratitude for the papers you sent. I will be in further contact shortly.
Chapter Five
I’m working on a Braille transcription of a science textbook when word arrives that D-Block is locked down for a contraband search. This doesn’t worry me, because it happens fairly often and Janny and I don’t keep forbidden things in our cell. Periodically it turns out that some of my possessions have been declared contraband in the time after I acquired them, but it’s just another of the things over which I have no control.
When I’m returned to my cell I’m irritated by the disarray, and clearly I’m not the only one. My neighbor—the one with the secret cellphone—is muttering an endless string of curses, and Janny is tentatively feeling around on her shelves with that lost, baleful look on her face.
“I’ve got it, Janny,” I tell her. “Just sit down and relax. I’ll put everything back where it belongs.”
“They moved the bag with my Rolaids.”
“Yeah.” I pluck her quilted cosmetic bag from the top bunk, where it’s been tossed along with the spilled Jenga game and her Braille practice folder. “Here you go.”
“Oh, my heartburn.”
She sits on her bed and pops a tablet as I read over the handwritten inventory the C.O.s have thoughtfully left on my desk. The dozen sticks of graphite I’ve coaxed out of golf pencils have been seized as “weapon-making materials,” and my twelve music cassettes are gone now, too, under the general heading of “Disallowed.”
That is unexpected. I scramble to the shoebox and, finding it empty, rush back and wrap my hands around the bars of my cell. “Officer Kerns!” I shout.
She stalks over slowly. I hold up the inventory sheet and, with more distress in my voice than I mean to convey, ask her, “What was the problem with my tapes?”
“Not allowed anymore, unless they’re for a legal purpose with signed permission from your lawyer.”
“But I’ve had them since I came in. They’re more than twenty-five years old.”