III
Years passed. Large swaths of Seán’s life were lost or rendered incomplete, his memories beaten and smudged by time. Names forgotten, men discharged or died, cells reassigned, cellblocks changed, guards left. Seán, now sixty-seven years old, hair thin and gray, body periodically painful, always sore somewhere, walked with a stoop to lessen his pain. He listened to his wife more often.
During a mail call, a guard shouted, “Tyyyyy-lerrrrr.” Elongated words reverted quickly to the clipped form, “Tyler, somebody love ya.” As if dumping trash, the guard discarded a nine-by-twelve manila envelope on the pile of opened mail strewn across the floor. Seán hustled down the iron steps. The right corner of his mouth tilted upward. He was smiling again.
After years of research into out-of-date law books and the struggle to find relevant cases in the library, rarely able to secure a current Supreme Court opinion, and if he could, spent hours hand copying it. It all culminated in this – a manila envelope.
Back inside his forty-eight sq. ft. room, Seán sat rocking back and forth. Head lowered, he read amid shadows cast by a single light embedded nine feet above the floor.
His mouth moved as he read his final appeal. The Federal Court’s obligatory recitation of the history of his case: His jury trial – lost. Direct state appeal – denied. Motion for a Federal jury trial – denied. Appellate Court affirmed the denial. Petition for Writ of Habeas Corpus in federal district court – lost. Appeals court affirmed the denial.
The court referenced a fifty-nine page order issued by a court years ago – the higher court agreed with the federal district court. Seán had failed to show that he had been denied any important federal rights. The court outlined Seán’s issues – all denied. DENIED AND DISMISSED. Christ, they actually capitalized the words.
Jury trials lost. State court appeals lost. Verdicts affirmed. Federal appeals lost; legal issues rejected, dismissed. His final appeal – denied.
Nothing outside his cell and certainly nothing outside the walls existed for Seán. Whether it was sunny or dark, summer or winter, held no personal relevance. He lifted his battered five foot eight inch frame and walked to the bars, looked each way, neither saw nor heard anyone.
He examined the walkway again, saw no one. No trustees. No guards. He placed his right hand over the cover of a book – the dug-out interior of which held the sharpened toothbrush, and secreted it in the lining of his jacket.
What’s the point? Dismissed, ignored, the remainder of his life sealed inside limestone walls and vertical bars. Every day a repetition of yesterday. Hour after minute. Why? He knew he was a lifer. No parole. No release. They’ll bury me in the prison cemetery in a few years. A grim smile formed when he added his number, Grave stone number 3817-9.
He heard his wife speak to him slowly and patiently. He trusted her. When she stopped, he saw her smile, then glanced around his crude enclosure. Why not? What do I have to lose? Seán put on his jacket, tapped the lining and smiled.
Once outside the metal door, he walked past the Mess Hall over pathways that snaked between three and four story buildings. Spotlights swept the yard and bisected the stadium lights above the towers. It was almost windless with only small, scattered patches of snow.
Seán’s face now pale, almost bleached-out, his shoulders once broad now rounded, hand held over his scarred stomach, he neared the limestone towers, looked up, adjusted the collar of his jacket, quickened his pace, and moved purposefully near the walls. From guardhouse to towers, through walkways, Seán saw trailing shadows. His breathing grew shallow and quick.
He looked into the eyes of every man he passed. He saw the face. Knew it was the man. He made his decision. Seán reached inside his jacket, and began to laugh.
Within ten minutes, Seán was escorted up the metal steps to the cement grounds. The men walked slowly. His head down, a stained, brown paper bag in hand, Seán’s eyes watered. Palm out as in supplication, he reached for assistance. Preoccupied, no one made eye contact.
“He’s on an anti-psychotic, but this damn place won’t approve it,” someone said. “Be careful of him, he hears voices and has imaginary friends. He’ll be buried in the hole.” The sun caught Seán’s face as three uniformed men hauled him away with his life’s possessions in a brown paper bag.
Seán saw his bloodied his white T-shirt. Within minutes, he stood stunned inside his second floor cell. Bag in hand, he watched the shadows weave through the walls. His eyes watered. “Why? Why do they keep talking? The voices.” His right shoulder pressed against the wall, he paced and waited for Kilmer’s.
– THE END –
