Throughout most of the state’s prison system, inmates could only have visitors on Saturdays and Sundays and five holidays: New Year’s Day, July Fourth, Labor Day, Thanksgiving Day, and Christmas Day. Here in Tehachapi, the visiting hours on those days were from 7:45 A.M. to 2:45 P.M., and Caleb could usually stay most of that time. Once in a while, if a lot of visitors showed up on one day, the first visitors in had to leave a little earlier so that the next group could come in. Father’s Day, Easter Sunday, and similar holidays were usually the only times Caleb’s visits had to be shorter for that reason.
He had carefully dressed in conservative clothing, in accordance with inmate visitors’ regulations. Clothing that resembled inmate clothing-blue denim or chambray shirts, blue denim pants-was forbidden, as were clothes that resembled law enforcement or military clothing, including rain gear. It had been raining when he woke up before dawn today, but by now Caleb was an old hand at dressing for prison visits and didn’t make the mistake of carrying a poncho.
He knew the list of allowable items by heart:
His driver’s license, which could not be carried in a wallet, but was necessary for identification for each visit.
One handkerchief-no bandanas.
A package of tissues, unopened.
A clear change purse, holding no more than thirty dollars, which must be in coins or one-dollar bills only. None of it could be left with the prisoner.
A comb or brush.
Two keys on a key ring with no attachments.
Up to six photographs, to be carried in a clear plastic bag.
No chewing gum, cigarettes, food, cameras, pagers, cell phones.
He never wore a belt or shoes that might have metal in them.
He had parked his car and walked to the first processing area. He was in line early, and completed the necessary paperwork, which was checked against computer records to ensure that Mason had agreed to the visit and was available that day. He got the ultraviolet-ink hand stamp and went through security screening-taking off his shoes, walking through the metal detector, putting his shoes back on. He rode the van that took him to the visitors’ area for the facility where Mason was held, checked in through a second security screening and went downstairs, checked in again at the booth on this level, then staked out a table and waited the twenty additional minutes it took for Mason to make it through his part of the process.
He tried to shake off the effects of the nightmare he had every Saturday night-that he drove to the prison and waited there, only to have a guard come to the table and say that Mason was dead. On other nights, the dream would be of a phone call to his home-he would drive and drive and never reach the prison to reclaim Mason’s body. Only his fear-filled dreams about Jenny were worse.
As Mason came into the room, Caleb felt the sense of relief he always had at first sight of his brother. Dread that he had been hurt or was ill or worse was dispelled, and he could see relief on Mason’s face as well. They gave each other the quick embrace allowed as a greeting.
“You’re looking tired,” Mason said, studying him.
“Just finished a presentation for a class last week.” He studied Mason in return. His brother had changed dramatically over the past five years. He was leaner, more muscular. What had once seemed like toughness to Caleb had been hardened, brought to an edge.
For a time, early on, Mason had been depressed. He had come out of that, but the emptiness Caleb had noted in him then had been replaced by constant wariness. On any visit, Mason knew where every other person was in the room, and tracked any changes-when people left, new ones entered, others moved.
In contrast, he told Caleb that he should never make eye contact with, or even look toward, other prisoners during visits, an edict Caleb followed when he learned that Mason could receive a beating if someone else thought Caleb had dissed them with a look.
Caleb was allowed to get up from the table and use the vending machines, but Mason had to stay at the table at all times.
“How was your week?” Caleb asked.
A shrug. “Same as last week.” Later, Caleb would coax a little more out of him, although he knew Mason would never discuss much that happened here. He might say more in a letter. Injuries-cuts, bruises, or worse-were never explained.
They had passed through times of awkwardness, the hard adjustments Mason had to make, while Caleb tried to understand what no one on the outside could, even through a period when Mason had refused the visits. Caleb kept asking to see him anyway, but it was when he wrote a letter to say that with Dad gone, he needed a man to talk to about his problems, that Mason quickly relented. Mason now viewed him as an adult, but even prison could not keep Mason from being protective of his younger brother.
“Seen Mom?” Mason asked. He always asked, even though the answer had been the same for the last three years, from the moment she had become engaged to her second husband.
“No.”
“She was up here yesterday. With Uncle Nelson.” He paused. “She’s looking a little tired of him, you ask me.”
“That didn’t take long.”
“She asks about you.”
Caleb didn’t reply.
“You enjoy hurting her?”
“No. She made her choices.”
“This is some mistaken kind of loyalty to me, I suppose. Or is it to Dad?”
“I don’t think loyalty to either of you is a mistake,” Caleb answered in a low voice, looking down at his hands on the table, forcing himself not to curl his fingers into fists.
“Who’s she supposed to turn to if she needs help? Me?”
Caleb looked up. “Is she in trouble?”
Mason lifted a shoulder. “Hard to say. But I think she’s having regrets.”
Caleb brooded on this for a moment, then decided he didn’t want to pursue it. “Anything more from the attorney?”
Mason smiled a little. “God bless Grandmother Delacroix,” he said, glancing heavenward.
Caleb agreed with him. One of the things Grandmother had done for Mason before she died last year was to hire a new attorney, one who had been actively involved in seeking an appeal. Caleb now administered the trust that paid the attorney’s fees, and made sure Mason’s inmate trust account allowed him to purchase small items from the prison canteen and art tools and supplies. His grandmother had also ensured that Mason would have the funds he needed to get a fresh start in life, if they were able to win his release. When, not if, Caleb told himself.
“The lawyer’s cautiously optimistic,” Mason said. “He’s coming up here next week. I’ll let you know what he says.” He nodded toward the photos. “What did you bring?”
“You wanted to see the new apartment?”
The next hours passed with Caleb telling tales of moving, describing the new place and his adventures in graduate school. Mason talked about a painting he was working on and some of his fellow inmates-people Caleb had come to know through Mason’s stories about them. They played a game of gin. Mason won.
“You’re being careful?” Mason asked, but not about his card play. He always asked this question at some point in a visit, especially if Caleb was pursuing some lead that might help them figure out who set Mason up. None of the leads ever panned out.
“Yes, but I’m not in any danger. I can’t understand that, either.”
“What do you mean?”
“They killed Dad. They took Jenny. They sent you to prison. Why did I escape any punishment or harm?”
Mason raised a brow. “I don’t think you did.”
Caleb fell silent. “No, I guess I didn’t, but still…”
“You didn’t. I know you think you’re failing me, failing Jenny. But you aren’t, you’re fighting for us. And lately-you must feel as if you’re fighting alone. And there’s nothing I can do about that, much as I wish I could.”