The Walls Read online

  Pops was at the kitchen table, wearing pajama bottoms and his worn Dallas Cowboys jersey, hunched over the refurbished laptop she’d gotten him for Christmas, playing solitaire. He glanced up and shook his head in dismay.

  “Jesus, you look like you were rode hard and put up wet,” Pops said.

  Kristy laughed.

  “Thanks, Pops. That’s real helpful. How’s Ryan?” Kristy asked as she threw her purse on the kitchen counter.

  “Boy has a burr so far up his butt, I don’t know how he’s able to sit down. Tried asking him what was wrong but all I got was a grunt before he stomped downstairs.”

  “I told him to heat up dinner for you. Did he—”

  “I can feed myself, Kristy Ann.”

  Kristy wouldn’t take the bait. Pops never prepared his own food. He wouldn’t even reheat leftovers.

  “I’m gonna heat up a pizza. You want some?”

  He wouldn’t turn her down. He never did.

  “I guess if you’re making some for you, I’ll have a slice. Wouldn’t want you to eat alone.”

  Kristy moved over to the freezer and grabbed a frozen pepperoni pizza, peeling off the plastic and placing it on the tray and into the oven. She cracked open a bottle of cabernet, hoping Pops wouldn’t give her shit about drinking on a weeknight. Sometimes he was so damn judgmental.

  “So, you want to tell me what Ryan did, or is it some kind of state secret?” he asked.

  “He beat up a kid. Broke his nose.”

  “Which kid?”

  “Scotty Welch.”

  “Good for him. All those Welch kids are total shitheads.”

  “Well, Tim’s dad disagreed and so did the cops. I had to eat some serious crow to make sure he wasn’t arrested. So rather than jail, Ryan’s been suspended for two weeks.”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Pops said. He began railing against the system and promising he was going to sue those fuckers. Kristy let him vent while she bustled around the kitchen. Sometimes she liked it when Pops went on one of his rants. It made him seem like the strong, powerful man he used to be. After several minutes, he ran out of steam and Kristy managed to change the subject, chatting about work and Gus and the various reasons they hated him. Pops liked hearing about her job, said it made him feel like he was still part of the crew.

  The oven alarm beeped and Kristy dished up the pizza. They ate in comfortable silence, her father’s heavy breathing accentuated by his chewing as he devoured half the pie. Kristy was savoring her last few sips of wine when she heard a loud knock at the door.

  “You expecting someone?” Pops asked.

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  Pops stood up.

  “It’s fine, Pops. I’ll get it,” Kristy said, knowing that he would take ages to even reach the door. He settled back into his seat and Kristy hurried down the hall. Through the peephole, she saw Lance Dobson standing there, his handsome face etched with concern. Kristy swung open the door.

  “Mr. Dobson, I thought I made my feelings clear back there …”

  “You did. I acted like an asshole and I had to make it right. I know what happened today was serious and needs to be treated that way. But I’m here because I want to urge you to reconsider letting Ryan train. I’ll speak to him. I’ll do everything I can to ensure this doesn’t happen again, but I just … I was Ryan. I was that outsider kid. Super smart but I didn’t have the proper outlet for my anger. I know what happens when you’re lost or missing something. And even if you say no, that he can’t train with me, I just couldn’t go home until I saw Ryan and made sure he was okay.”

  Kristy stared back at Lance, his expression so contrite, his handsome features shadowed with worry. Was Ryan lost? Was there something missing? She didn’t want to think she’d failed him, but he was a boy without a father. As much as she hated admitting it, maybe he had been affected. Kristy didn’t know what to do. Lance tried again.

  “Please. If I could just speak to him, I think we could work this out.”

  There was no sense of the jokester or lackadaisical man she’d seen back at the Y.

  “Can you wait here for a few minutes?” she asked him.

  “I’ll wait as long as I need to.”

  Kristy headed back inside.

  “Who is it, Kristy girl?” Pops asked.

  “It’s just one of Ryan’s teachers. I can handle it.”

  “You sure?” Pops asked.

  “Go on to bed. I’ll fill you in on everything in the morning.”

  After a brief hesitation, Pops stood up.

  “All right, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Over the years there had been a back-and-forth, Pops wanting to make decisions on how Ryan was raised. Kristy always pushed back. Ryan was her son. She needed to parent him her way.

  Pops shuffled to his wing of the sprawling ranch home and Kristy made her way downstairs to the basement, or Ryan’s “studio,” as he liked to call it. She knocked, then let herself in. Ryan lay sprawled out in bed, watching a movie on his laptop. He saw Kristy, slammed the laptop shut, and bolted upright.

  “What did Lance say? Did you freak out on him? Did you tell him I’m sorry?”

  Kristy held up her hand to stop the onslaught of questions.

  “Calm down. Before we discuss Lance, I need to know why you didn’t tell me you were taking these classes.”

  He avoided eye contact, focusing on a space directly above her head.

  “Ryan?”

  “I don’t know. You always make such a big deal out of everything. The classes were fun. I liked hanging out with other people besides Ella and the guys on the team. Even though I’m not very good, all the fighters respect how hard I try. I liked having something all my own. It wasn’t some big conspiracy against you. I promise.”

  Maybe Ryan was right. Maybe it wasn’t a conspiracy. It just felt like one.

  “Mr. Dobson is here to see you.”

  Ryan almost leapt out of bed.

  “Is he upset?”

  “Well, he’s not thrilled.”

  Ryan didn’t even wait for Kristy to respond. He bounded up the stairs and she rushed to follow. Kristy reached the front porch a few seconds after Ryan.

  “I’m sorry, Lance. I really am.”

  “You shouldn’t be apologizing to me. It’s your mama you were deceiving.”

  “I know.” Ryan’s eyes darted over to Kristy.

  “I spent my whole life wishing I had a mother who gave two shits about me. You’re not just gonna throw away what you’ve got. Are you?” Lance said sternly.

  “No, sir.” Ryan was deferential to Lance, an unwavering respect in his eyes. “Can I still train? I mean, I’m grounded now, but once that’s over can I go back to the Y?”

  “Not my call. Can’t say I’d blame your mama for saying no. But if she agreed to let us keep training, I’d do whatever it took to earn her trust. We both would, wouldn’t we?”

  Kristy had remained silent until then, but she was impressed with Lance. It took a lot of courage for him to come here, especially after the tirade she unleashed on him. But it was Ryan and those damn Puss in Boots eyes that turned the tide.

  “Don’t make me regret this,” she said, looking to Lance and then to Ryan. Lance smiled his biggest, most charming smile.

  “You have my word.”

  Dear Ms. Tucker,

  I’m writing to apologize for the events that occurred last week. If I’m being truthful, I still wish you hadn’t found me but I know you were just doing your job. I know what you saw must have been troubling and I am deeply sorry for putting you in that situation. I am making a full recovery and will continue fighting the good fight. I hope you’ll accept this written apology and I look forward to speaking with you in the future.

  Warm regards,

  Clifton Harris

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kristy wasn’t sure what to think when Lance promised to help with Ryan, but she was pleasantly surprised. She had been worried about returning to work and lea
ving Ryan at home with Pops, the two of them moping around the place, like a modern-day Odd Couple, watching TV and eating junk food. But Ryan wasn’t moping. He was pushing himself to the limits with his schoolwork and his training with Lance.

  In the mornings before work, Kristy would find Ryan camped out at the kitchen table, doing his homework. In the late afternoons, Ryan’s entire debate team descended on her home, piles of research covering the table while Ryan led strategy sessions. By the time Kristy returned home from work, she’d find Lance and Ryan in the front yard, dripping with sweat, the two of them grappling on the giant training mats Lance brought from his gym.

  She was grateful that things at home had stabilized, but she couldn’t say the same about work. Her sadness over Clifton’s suicide attempt lingered, clinging to her as she went about her days. Kristy wanted to visit Clifton in the hospital, but the warden denied Kristy’s request. Gus wasn’t happy about it either.

  “Why the hell would you want to visit the baby killer?” Gus asked with a roll of his eyes. “Don’t you have enough work to do?”

  Kristy told Gus it was in order to give the reporters a proper assessment of Clifton’s condition. It was true that she’d been inundated with questions, but Kristy had also seen Clifton’s suffering up close and personal. Was it so wrong that she wanted to make sure he was all right?

  A week after Clifton’s suicide attempt, he was back in his cell at Polunsky under twenty-four-hour suicide watch. Kristy received word from Warden Solomon that Clifton wanted to resume all of his scheduled interviews. Before that happened, she needed to have a strategy in place if Clifton wasn’t comfortable discussing his hospitalization and the events that led to it. Kristy didn’t know why she was so anxious meeting with him. She’d read his letter. He didn’t hold any grudges against her or ill will toward her.

  Surrounded by peeling white and green paint, Kristy sat in the small drab cubicle where inmate interviews were conducted, her feet nervously tapping on the ground. There was never any direct face-to-face contact. Thick panes of bulletproof glass separated inmates and visitors, with only an old-school rotary phone connecting them.

  She sat in the plastic chair and watched as guards ushered Clifton toward her. Leg, arm, and waist restraints were fastened tightly, white gauze covering both his arms. Head lowered, he shuffled along, compliant, the fight completely drained from him. Kristy had first met Clifton eight years ago. At that point, he had served three years and his death row appeals were winding through the judicial system. He was a quiet man, always respectful, something you couldn’t say about other inmates. Child killers are the lowest of the low in prison. Inmates and guards have it out for you, and Clifton endured his share of abuse. She’d seen him with black eyes and broken bones, but the guards said he never ratted out the perpetrators and he never fought back. He’d once told Kristy that the things that happened to him each day were simply distractions. He had to stay focused if he ever wanted to get out of this place. But maybe that fighting spirit had been worn away by all these years locked up and his approaching execution date. Watching as Clifton settled into the chair across from her, Kristy couldn’t believe how much he’d aged since she’d seen him last.

  When news first broke of his arrest, Clifton’s face was plastered on every news broadcast and magazine in the country. Tall and broad-shouldered, he’d once possessed a confidence that made him hard to ignore. But incarceration had changed all that. At forty-three, Clifton’s mocha skin was pale and splotchy, a by-product of the lack of sunlight. He’d lost most of his hair. His prison jumpsuit was falling off his once powerful frame. His skin appeared sallow and sunken, his eyes flat and listless. The lines around his mouth were deep and pronounced. Broken blood vessels were visible on his nose and around his eyes. Clifton settled into his chair and reached for the phone that allowed him to communicate with her. Kristy did the same.

  “You hanging in there, Clifton?” she asked gently. The guards posted nearby couldn’t hear the conversations. This was one of the few safe spaces for the inmates to share their stories. He attempted a polite smile, but it came off like a wince.

  “Doing my best, ma’am.”

  She wanted to say something comforting, but everything running through her head seemed empty and meaningless.

  “I spoke with the producer at 48 Hours and we’re still scheduled for two weeks from today. They’re insisting on discussing your suicide attempt or they won’t do the interview. It’s your call. You don’t have to do it.”

  “No,” Clifton said, looking down at his wrists. “I don’t mind talking about it.” He hesitated, then looked back up at Kristy. “I still wish you just let me die,” he said.

  “You know we couldn’t do that.” Kristy paused. There were likely lots of other guards who would have laughed as they watched Clifton bleed out. It had happened before. Kristy corrected herself. “I couldn’t do that.”

  “If I just had another two minutes …” He trailed off.

  Kristy was silent, searching for what to say. Clifton filled the gap.

  “I guess you want to know why I did it,” he said.

  “You received your execution date. Three months from today, isn’t that right?” One of the rules Kristy learned early on when discussing death row details was not to sugarcoat them when the inmates were discussing their fates. It made you seem like you weren’t on board with what happened behind these walls. Working here, you either agreed wholeheartedly or you learned to fake it.

  Clifton shifted in his seat. “No. It wasn’t that.”

  He paused, considering. “Last Tuesday was my Mikey’s birthday. He would have been fifteen. I woke up thinking about what we’d do. He loved pancakes. We’d always go to McDonald’s and I thought about buying him a puppy. How stupid. What fifteen-year-old boy wants pancakes and a puppy? But in my mind he’s forever four. And I keep hearing his voice: ‘Daddy, it’s my birthday. I’m gonna be a big boy now.’ I wasn’t even thinking about this place or the execution date … all I wanted was to see my kids again.”

  It was irrational but Kristy wanted to apologize for saving his life. She couldn’t seem to find the words. Clifton continued.

  “Watching my children burn … watching that fire … it was hell. Then they gave me death … I heard the jury forewoman say, ‘We sentence this man to death,’ and I thought someone would step forward, that Janice would come to her senses and say, ‘Hell no, my husband couldn’t do this.’ Or one of the firefighters on duty would tell them how hard I fought, that I tried to go back into the burning house, that I tried to save my babies. I kept telling myself that Mikey’s preschool teacher would show up and tell everyone how devoted I was, or one of my coworkers might remember how much I talked about the kids or how much overtime I put in so we could have a nice life. But no … they created this story, this grotesque story. One person said it and it spread like that goddamn fire. It spread and it burned and before the trial was over, I was Clifton Harris, baby killer. They made sure of it. And you know, my mama always said, ‘You’re a strong black man. You have to be better than everyone else. Get an education. Show them you’re not the product of your environment.’ But those bastards couldn’t’ve cared less. They used our poverty and my father’s temper against me. They didn’t understand everything I witnessed, all the damage my father inflicted, made me different. I swore I wouldn’t be like him. I swore up and down I’d be different and none of it mattered.”

  Kristy sat across from Clifton, staring into his eyes, and she wondered if what he was saying was true. Was this the face of a killer? Or was he really innocent? It was too terrible to imagine. How could she come here week after week and do this if Clifton was innocent, if any of these men were innocent? She couldn’t go down that road, and yet she wasn’t heartless. She wanted him to know he wasn’t alone.

  “Clifton, you know there’s nothing I can do about your case. But I’m here to listen and answer any questions. Whatever is going on, even if you just need someone to
vent to, I’m here for you. You’re not alone. You can write to me and we can speak anytime I’m visiting Polunsky.”

  Clifton’s eyes darted to his bandaged wrists. He gently rubbed them. When he looked up, his eyes were wet. He blinked away the tears. “You don’t know how much that means to me, Ms. Tucker. You just don’t know.”

  She chatted with Clifton about his family and his court dates until the first reporter arrived to speak with him. She forced herself to forget about Clifton’s pleas of innocence. She had to try to compartmentalize her job. She’d never survive if she didn’t.

  The fact that things were going well at home made it easier to leave her doubts at work. Lance’s larger-than-life presence made things a bit easier. He would be cracking jokes with Ryan and Pops and charming Kristy. Ryan and Lance’s training continued despite the fact that his suspension was coming to an end. Lance must have sensed that she was still uneasy about Ryan practicing martial arts. She didn’t like to watch, hurrying past them with a quick hello. Seeing her son inflicting violence was bad enough. Watching Lance overpower him, taking him down to the mat in one single strike, was almost unbearable. She’d rushed past them one evening and into the house to start dinner. A few minutes later, Ryan, dripping with sweat, bounded into the house.

  “I’m taking a shower. I told Lance he could stay for dinner.” And then he disappeared downstairs. Kristy turned and saw Lance leaning against the doorframe.

  “I said I’d stay if that was okay with you,” Lance said with a smile.

  “Of course. I just put the chicken in the oven so it’ll be about twenty minutes.” She gestured to her glass of cabernet. “Care for some wine?” she asked. “We could sit out on the porch for a few minutes,” Kristy said.

  “I’d love that.”

  Kristy poured him a glass and they headed outside, settling onto the porch swing, Lance on one end, Kristy on the other.

  “I’ve noticed you haven’t watched a lot of our practice sessions. Ma’am, I just want to assure you that I’d never hurt Ryan,” he said.