Inside These Walls (23 page)

“I felt relief. And then, a second later, it felt like the most dreadful thing imaginable.”

“Immediate regret, you mean?”

“Not exactly regret.
Dread
. I knew I’d done something awful and couldn’t ever take it back, and I hadn’t really meant to do it. There was all this anger coursing through me, but all the way up until the last second I thought I was in control. I thought he
had
to apologize, because the alternative should obviously be terrifying to him. I let my emotions carry me along because I thought I knew how it would end. But I didn’t.”

She nods and writes something on her yellow pad. Her pen scratches against the paper. After a moment she says, “Were you aware of what he had done to your stepbrother previously? You haven’t mentioned it.”

I answer with a perplexed look. “What he had done? What do you mean?”

She sets down her pen and regards me with a plain journalistic gaze. “In 2006, the Diocese of San Jose settled with seventeen individuals who claimed abuse by four priests who had served at various churches in the area. Father George was one of the priests named in the suit. The records are not public, but I made a special request to review them. Clinton Brand was one of the claimants.”

I feel myself sag against the back of the chair. The revelation stuns me, but the first feeling that courses through me is anger. “That...that filthy liar. He wasn’t a
victim
. He was a rapist.”

“Do you know for a fact that he wasn’t a victim? The claims were that the abuse of the male victims had taken place when they were all between twelve and fifteen years of age. It’s unfortunately not rare for abusers to have a history of abuse, themselves. I’d wondered if you knew that to be a factor with Clinton, and also, if you believe Ricky was a victim.”

I shake my head balefully. “No, definitely not. He would have told me if that were the case, I’m sure of it. I doubt—” I exhale a sudden hard sigh, because all of this information is too much for me. I can barely gather my thoughts to process it. “I doubt he would have been an appealing victim to anyone. He was too much of a loose cannon, always, the way he had no filter for what he said. But Clinton—did the documents say what his accusation was against Father George?”

“Not specifically. They didn’t even connect the two of them directly. Four priests are listed, and the names of the seventeen victims are expunged, but other documents show who received a payout from the settlement. And Clinton was one of those.”

Seconds tick by in silence. I twist my hands together, resting them on the table, and at last I speak. “Well, maybe he just got in on the lawsuit to make some easy money. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Maybe. But perhaps it would explain why Father George seemed so indifferent to your abuse. If Clinton was one of his victims, then his exposing Clinton—even by alerting your mother—may well have opened up the likelihood that Clinton would accuse
him
. Of course, that’s just a theory. I thought you might be able to shed some light on it, but it seems you’re as surprised as I was.”

I nod. I open my mouth to speak again. I’m about to think out loud about some of Clinton’s more confounding behaviors—but then I stop myself. “Can we continue this interview later?” I ask, instead. “I’m a little...overwhelmed.”

“Yes, of course. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you, Ms. Mattingly.”

I shake her hand, but my mind is already elsewhere. It’s in a fog, and I feel as though a door to my past has finally been blown wide open, or else quietly, politely, closed.

* * *

Back in the cell, I’m very quiet. Penelope is already back from her laundry job, playing Solitaire on the bed with her radio on low. I can feel her gaze following me as I take out the picture Emory Pugh sent me of myself and Ricky at the pizza place, and then sit at the desk, staring at it as if it might offer up some answers. Ricky looks so relaxed, so easy in his smile.
Seventeen victims
, I think, and marvel at the number. I’m sure Ricky wasn’t one of them, but I know he had fooled around sexually with some of the other boys from church when he was quite young—eleven or twelve years old. That type of behavior seemed fairly common among the boys in the parish. Now I wonder if there had been a more sinister reason for that part of their secret culture—if it had felt normal to them for darker reasons than mere adolescent hormones.

“You okay?” Penelope asks in a tentative voice.

“Yes, I’m all right. I just learned something... surprising.” I set down the photo and turn halfway around on the stool. “Apparently the priest I killed was later named in a sexual abuse lawsuit.”

Her laugh is abrupt and humorless. “Wow. Sounds like you picked the right guy.”

“Good heavens, no. It isn’t as if I did it for any noble reason. But it looks like my stepbrother may have been one of his victims. I never had even an inkling of that. Except—” I go quiet for a moment, remembering. “My stepbrother victimized me, too. One time, I remember, I got up and said to him—as kind of a threat—that I was going to have to confess about it. And he said—I remember he was lying in my bed, shirt off and pants open, just as relaxed as you please—he said very offhandedly, ‘Tell the old perv anything you want. He’ll just get off on it.’ At the time I thought it was empty bravado—a way to discourage me from saying anything. But maybe there was more there that I didn’t understand.”

Maybe that’s why Clinton was always so angry,
I think.
Maybe that’s why he seemed so certain there would be no consequences
.

“That’s sick,” Penelope says, her voice muddled with sympathy. “But usually there’s more to the story than meets the eye. Maybe you have the whole picture now.”

“Maybe so. I don’t know why it never occurred to me before that there might have been a connection between those two things. Once it fits together, it makes so much sense.”

She leans toward me, across the spread of cards lining her blanket. “Can I tell you something?” she asks, barely above a whisper. Before I have the chance to answer, she says, “It was my mom.”

I feel my forehead crease. “What?”

“Who sent the guy to hit my dad. I didn’t know it at first, either. She was upset that he got engaged to Sherry, because if he married her it would mess up my inheritance and my brother’s. So she got her yard maintenance guy to drive all the way from Massachusetts and all the way back.” At my expression of large-eyed shock, she nods sagely. “Not that
we
got any say in this, mind you. And then
I
get arrested for it. Nice going, Mom.”

I huff a little sigh of astonishment. “How can she let you just sit here in prison for that?”

“Because she thinks the obstruction charges won’t stick, and I’ll be out soon. She’s paying for my lawyers. I mean, the alternative would be to rat
herself
out, and I can handle this better than she can. But I don’t know why the hell it’s taking so long. She’s going to owe me big time once I get free.” Her mouth twists to the side, and she scoops up all her Solitaire cards in a single sweep of her hand. “You see now why it makes me so mad that my brother wants to pull the plug? Yeah, my dad’s kind of a bastard, but I’d never wish
death
on him.”

“What about—I heard on the news that you took a lot of money out of your trust fund the month before it happened.”

“Yeah. Kevin and I were talking about getting a place together. They’re opening up a new apartment building in Merced Heights, near the water. I figured we needed a little nest egg so we could feel secure, plus security deposit and some money for furniture and stuff. I knew if my dad found out he might freeze my account, because he doesn’t like Kevin, so I was pulling it out on the sly and putting it in a regular checking account I opened up. Little did I know my mom was going to hire a freaking
hit man
. I mean, Jesus.” She shakes her head and begins to shuffle the cards. “You want to play Gin Rummy or something? My dad used to play it with me when I was a kid.”

“Sure,” I say, although I know several of the other inmates are watching these displays of camaraderie between us, and they don’t like them. “Deal me in.”

She slides onto the floor and begins dealing cards for both of us, her legs splayed wide with a cheerleader’s gymnastic ease. “I’m really sorry that happened to you,” she says. “Maybe you can forgive yourself a little easier since you know the guy you killed was bad.”

No,
I think,
but maybe, just maybe, I can find a way to forgive Clinton
. There’s no excuse for what he did, but if I wish for the justice system, the Catholic Church and the Choi family to take pity on me in my weakness and confusion and unreconciled anger, I must be prepared to ask the same thing of myself. Whether or not Clinton wants my forgiveness doesn’t matter—it’s a way out of the mire of the past, for me. It’s a thought so absorbing that it takes an hour or more before I realize Penelope has given me the other key to my freedom.

“Singer, Clark and Joseph,” Mona’s receptionist says. Her voice is muffled by the ancient wall phone into which I’m speaking. I wait out the automated recording from the prison, then say, “This is Clara Mattingly. Is Mona in?”

“No, she’s at a conference this week.”

I sigh heavily and press my forehead against the cool cinderblock wall. “This
week?
Is there any way I can reach her?”

“If it’s an emergency, I can pass along a message.”

“Yes, please. She’s waiting on some information from me, and—please let her know I have it. Tell her, regarding what we talked about last time, I have a very important update for her.”

“All right, Ms. Mattingly. I’ll be sure she gets that.”

I say a somber goodbye and hang the phone on its cradle. I had to wait a long time for the phones, and now yard time has begun. As I step out beyond the patio, the afternoon heat is overwhelming. The sun feels as though it is ten feet away, and as I walk around the perimeter of the fence I can feel the round beam of it pounding against the back of my head. Over in the cemetery the few old marble headstones glitter beneath the light, chips of mica shining like shards of glass. I’m thirsty, and my thin jumpsuit blouse sticks to the whole length of my back. Even the chatter of the other inmates sounds sharp, the harsh clipped syllables of their speech rising up into aggressive laughter, then falling only to surge again.

As I round the corner I hear Clementine meowing from beneath a picnic table. I give her a little wave, and she starts toward me, then stops abruptly. She starts once again, then crouches down. It’s strange. I change course to walk over to her and reach down to see what’s wrong. Her foot is caught in a short length of yarn tied to the base of the table. Only once I lean down to free her do I realize it’s a snare.

And it’s too late. I hear them surrounding me, the sudden quiet created by the wall their bodies form, and then the strike. A fist against the back of my skull, smashing my forehead into the bench. The pain is shocking but bearable, but then there’s a boot planted hard in my side, and I crash into the metal bar that connects table to bench. By instinct I grit my teeth and make no sound beyond that of the air being knocked out of me. I try to curl into a ball beneath the table, but one of them—there’s noise now, shouting, and plenty of it—holds me in place with a jerk to my ankle just as I pull away. Fire sears up my calf to my knee, and now I scream. A foot rams into my gut, another against my shoulder. Their catcalls and cheers for one another swarm around my ears like bees. I curl, I try, I bring my crossed arms up over my head and face, and then it stops all at once. The C.O.’s are shouting, the wall disappears, the fireball sun bears down on me once again. There are hands on me, so many, that as my consciousness dims and fades I imagine they’re butterflies landing on my body, so gentle, so light.

* * *

I don’t notice the ride away from the prison this time. I’m aware of it, but mostly of the sound. The siren is rising and falling in endless waves, and since it’s not on television it won’t turn off after a few seconds. Hands keep touching me—lighting onto my skin, not always comfortably, and then fluttering away. Someone says, “
Should we cuff her?”
and another voice says, “
Are you serious? Look at her
,” and the first one says, “
You know who she is, right?”
Through it all I breathe lightly, but there’s a mask on my face that makes me feel like I’m suffocating.

It feels like hours before they finish tending to me, jostling me, and things fall quiet. When I awaken I’m in a hospital room, cool and spacious, with enormous windows that show the night sky. I gasp at the sight of it—so enormous, so frighteningly dark—and I hear a stirring at my door.

“You awake?”

There are no shackles on my ankles or wrists, so I’m afraid to move. I don’t want anyone to think I’m trying to escape. I’m not in much pain; rather, I’m floating, as if there is a body with pain in it but Clara is hovering just above its reach. A corrections officer appears in my view, a tall black man with a broad chest and narrow waist. His gaze is hard and dour at first, but then softens to a half-smile as I offer a few fingers’ worth of a wave.

“Is my cat okay?” I ask.

He lets out a laugh. “Your cat? You don’t have a cat.”

“The mouser. The one they call Frankfurter.”

“Oh. I don’t know.” He rests his hands on the leather cases that dot his belt. “How you doing?”

“I don’t know. This is strange.”

“Been a long time since you been out.” He says it as a statement, and it’s true enough. I nod. “Listen, you’re under twenty-four hour guard. You try to step one foot out this door, it’s not going to end well. You got it?”

“I got it. I’m not going anywhere.”

He nods toward the foot of the bed. “Yeah, not that you’d get too far, but I’m just warning you.”

I follow his gaze. For the first time I notice my right leg is in a cast that begins just below the knee. “What happened there?” I ask.

“You got to ask the doctor that.”

I struggle to sit up. There’s an IV needle in my hand, surrounded by a mitten of tape and connected to a bag and an assortment of tubes. When I move I feel the sore place near my shoulder, and another on the back of my head. I run my tongue along my teeth. They’re all still there.

“Listen,” I say. “I want to talk to my lawyer. As soon as possible. Can I get permission to make a call to her?”

“I was told to tell you she’ll be in during visiting hours tomorrow.”

I let out a sigh of relief. “All right. Can I get up and…and go to the bathroom?”

“Whatever you like. Just don’t try to come near that door.”

He saunters back over to it and half-turns away from me. I loop my IV tubes around the bars of the bed and hoist myself to stand. Everything hurts, but I can balance all right, so long as I hold onto things. Taking care not to set any weight down on the plaster of my cast, I hop to the window, where a ledge juts out to form a long table-like surface. The window runs nearly the full length of the wall, and the night sky is nothing less than dazzling. A crescent moon hangs high above the dark palm trees, and around it the glittering stars hold their tiny light, each steadfast in its place. It fills my entire field of vision and makes me feel lightheaded. It’s so dark, so enormous, that it feels as though at any moment it will suck me out into its immensity. It had not even occurred to me, prior to this moment, that I have not seen a night sky in twenty-five years. I remember the sky above the beach that night with Ricky, and I remember it was beautiful, but not that it looked like this.

I stand there until a nurse bustles in, chastising me for getting out of bed without crutches. I feel dazed. I’m not sure if it’s the drugs or the loss of blood or pure exhaustion, but I’m fairly sure it’s the sky.
If I ever get out,
I think,
I’m never going to take that for granted again. Not that. Not anything
.

* * *

The following morning, a nurse fits a plastic sleeve around my cast and rattles off a set of instructions for the shower. Noticeably absent are a set of crutches. I assume that was a security decision, to keep me slow and hobbled. I hop to the bathroom and turn on the water, which flies out blazing hot from the showerhead. I grimace, but then realize I have the choice to adjust the temperature.
That
is a luxury I could get used to.

A bathroom in which I am alone. A closed door.
Privacy
. I shrug out of my hospital gown and ease into the little cubicle. The bruises are plentiful and dark purple, ringed in an angry red, and they hurt now that my painkillers have been cut back. At the prison I normally shower in my underwear, as most of us do, to wash it and also to create an extra barrier against vulnerability and exposure. But here I stand beneath the water completely naked and vulnerable to nothing except the slippery floor. I hold up my face to the hot and needling water and, hesitantly at first, close my eyes. The feeling is one of overwhelming bliss. I wish I could stand here all day, but my supporting leg is getting tired.

After twenty minutes—the maximum allowed for the waterproof sleeve, and a decadent length of time by my accounting—I step out, towel off, and slip into a fresh gown. A nurse is waiting for me when I open the door, and behind her, Mona. She has a sheaf of papers beneath her arm, and a voice recorder tucked into her palm.

“You survived,” the nurse congratulates me. “In a little while the physical therapist will be here to take you on a walk around the floor. If you don’t show signs of internal bleeding, you’re going home in a few hours. Or—” She shoots a nervous glance at the guard. “Well, you’re going
back
.”

The nurse helps me to the bed and then steps out of the room, leaving me alone with my lawyer. Just before she closes the door I see the C.O. standing outside it, on guard against my possible escape. His presence doesn’t seem quite as much like artifice now. After twenty-four hours of better food, quiet, television, hot private showers and panoramic sky views, I know that if I were in better shape, it’s not out of the question that I’d try to slip out.

“Good Lord, Clara,” Mona says, taking in the sight of me on crutches in my hospital gown. “Who did you piss off to get in here?”

“The white women. How’s that for irony? I live in fear that the Latina women will come after me if they take Janny away, but instead it’s the white ones who put me in the hospital.” I ease myself onto the bed and rest my crutches against its side.

“No honor among thieves, after all.”

I make a wry face. “Speaking of which.”

“Yes.” She turns on the voice recorder. “What did Penelope tell you?”

I pull in a deep breath, then tell her everything—about the mother and her landscaper, the reason why, the trust fund and the apartment. “I hope that won’t make things worse for Penelope,” I say haltingly. “Maybe she could be offered a deal, too. She’s just trying to protect her mother. It’s not so different from what I did—covering up one person’s crime so my mother could live peacefully.”

Mona purses her mouth a bit and pauses from scribbling down her notes. “But your mother wasn’t the one to allegedly commit the crime.”

“No, but one’s mother is still one’s mother. It’s the nature of being a daughter—to try to protect her from suffering.”

“Well, I don’t have any control over what charges they bring against her. I’m
your
advocate, not Penelope’s. What I’ll do is get in touch with the Attorney General’s office and let them know you’re willing to offer substantial assistance in exchange for a sentence reduction. They’ll follow through on the tips, and if they find evidence and make an arrest, you’ll probably get a deal.”

“But that isn’t for sure?”

“Nothing is for sure, and it’s too bad she didn’t give you much concrete information—the location of the gun, for example. But I’ll talk to people. I’ll make the case that a significant sentence reduction is appropriate.”

Given my past experiences with judges, that isn’t very reassuring. “All right. How long will it take?”

“A couple of months, if all goes well. In the meantime, they’ve already decided to put you in Medical Segregation because of your injuries. Were it not for that, I’d encourage you to go back in and see if she reveals more, but you won’t have that chance now.”

I nod and, through my nose, breathe out a slow breath. That’s the end of my job at the Braille workshop, creating the drawings Shirley depends on me to do. No more Sunday mornings at Mass, crocheting classes and library visits, meals in the chow hall, time in the sun. No more afternoons spent with Clementine on my lap, if she’s even survived this ordeal. But it could be worse. It could be the Hole.

“Could they put me with Janny, at least?” I ask.

“I don’t think so, Clara, but I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

The sign above the prison wing reads Medical Segregation Unit, and the mere sight of those words is enough to make my stomach clench. It hasn’t changed at all in the twenty-some years since I’ve been here. The walls are the same shade of maize, the smell still that of roach powder and urine, and the high ceiling and open staircases offer the same acoustic qualities that cause the shouts and screams of the mentally ill to echo from one wall to its opposite one. It’s just past the clinic, and though the nurse is kind to me—guiding my ungainly steps with the crutches, offering soothing encouragement—I still feel nauseated as I make my way down the hall. This will be my home for the next two months or more, and if Penelope lied to me or the investigation hits a dead end, my next housing options are even worse.

I’m led to a cell at the far end, which will probably be quieter. All my things are already here, thrown haphazardly into cardboard boxes. There is a single bed against the wall, no bunk.

“You can’t bunk me with Janny Hernandez?” I ask, my disappointment compounding. “My lawyer was supposed to ask about it.”

“She did, but we don’t have any bunked cells available. We’ll try to make arrangements for you to visit her. She asks about you often.”

“She does?”

The nurse nods just before the C.O. shuts the door with a sonorous clang. The cell doors are different here—solid, with a small window and a slot for food, rather than the bars of D-Block where I lived before. That means my built-in ballet barre is gone now, but that hardly matters. My ankle was fractured and one of the bones in my calf broken in the attack, so I’m not sure if I’ll ever go on pointe again. I try not to think about that very much.

I write to Forrest on the day I arrive, but three weeks pass before he receives my letter telling him about the fight and my new location. I receive a hasty reply from him the day before he visits, and when I’m brought down to the windowed visiting booths, moving slowly on my crutches, his expression looks as abject and broken as the words of his letter made him sound.

He picks up the phone at the same moment I do. “What are we doing here?” he asks, gesturing to indicate the smelly, green-painted room. “What happened to Scrabble and that beautiful waterfall?”