Incarcerated: Letters From Inmate 92510, Page 2

  I’m not perfect, so if you tell me you have a million tattoos, body piercings, and all that jazz, it might make me feel different and maybe even a bit nervous about writing you. Please don’t be offended. I’ve decided that you look like Colin Farrell and you have an Irish accent! Honestly, it doesn’t matter what we look like. We’ll never meet, but I will continue to send you letters and get to know you. Does that make sense? I hope it does.

  Yours truly,

  Kristen

  In his cell, Logan re-read the letter from his attorney. “Hell no!” He threw the letter on the bed and stood, pacing to cool his nerves. Unclenching his fists, he tried to remain calm, but blood raced through his veins a mile a minute, causing his heart to thunder in his chest. His fucking lawyer was a goddamned snake. Shit, he really couldn’t be mad, that was why he’d hired him, but the bastard was asking for more money. More money for what? The letter wasn’t clear. It’d just stated that fees were adding up and Logan was responsible for covering them.

  “Who the hell else would be responsible for it other than me?” he asked aloud. He was alone in his cell as his cellmate was on kitchen duty. Both of them were close to release and had been moved to a different cellblock, which not only allowed them more yard time, but also the ability to sign up for miscellaneous jobs.

  His anger deflated as he looked at the other envelope he’d picked up at mail call. He could see the yellow paper through the cheap white, reassigned envelope, and the sight of it excited him. Snatching it up, he ripped the envelope open and sat facing the door. If a guard or his cellmate came by, he didn’t want them reading what his pen pal looked like; that shit was only for him. He’d asked her to tell him about herself and other things, but he really wanted to put a face to the woman he’d be writing for the next few months. Although he was positive that his idea of a tall, hot blonde with nice tits and a round firm ass wasn’t the case, a man could only hope.

  Logan opened the letter. He wasn’t sure if Kristen had done it on purpose or not, but the scent of lavender and roses filled his nose. It’d been seven years since he’d smelled, touched, or tasted a woman, and the scent of Kristen’s perfume or lotion drove him mad. Logan wasn’t looking for a woman, not at all. It was because of a woman he got in the car with drugs and stolen money, and almost went across state lines with it.

  As he read the letter, he was a bit stunned. She had all but admitted to using him as a link to the outside world, which seemed a bit off. Even though Logan was close to his parole date, he was still far from free or anywhere near the outside world. This woman had all of the freedoms he wanted, and she was alone? It was sad, but he expected that she was probably ugly, which was why she said she didn’t want to tell him what she looked like.

  In the program, inmates didn’t know what state the letters where coming from unless the pen pal revealed it. He was sure Kristen would never tell him if he outright asked, so he took clues from her writing and he had a good mind to say she was in the same state as he. That was pushing it, though. It was snowing in Vermont and there were mountains here as well, but the same could be said for Northern Cali, Colorado, or Montana, just to name a few. His only other indication she was close was when she said, ‘the prison is good at things like that.’ Not prisons, but the prison. Did she know about prisons? She’d said that she went to school for journalism, so maybe her career had taken her on a path alongside criminals. Lord knows there were more than ten reporters who stuck a recorder in his face every time he went to court seven years ago.

  Logan threw the paper down on top of the annoying letter from his shark-ass lawyer. He was used to disappointment. When he’d signed up for the program, he’d told Denise to make sure of two things. The first was that he got a white woman; he wanted someone he could relate to. Second, she needed to be hot. Denise was a steward in the kitchen in charge of handing out knives and such. She was a nice middle-aged woman whose husband, Graham, worked in administration. She’d said she made sure her husband paired him up with a white woman, and a name didn’t get any whiter than Kristen Svensson. Logan knew a Scandinavian name when he read one. All he could see was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, pale-skinned seductress, but Logan knew Kristen was far from that. What woman who looked like a snow bunny goddess sat in the house all day reading? He knew from experience that hot women spent more time making men chase them, than with their nose in a book.

  Logan picked up the letter again and lay down on his bed . . . which was more like a cot. Nothing that thin and hard could ever be considered a bed. He read the letter again and chuckled at the tattoo bit. Hell yeah, he had tattoos. His chest, back, and arms were filled with them and he took pride in it. He’d spent at least twelve grand on his tats, and not once did he allow flash art or some snot-nosed kid on him.

  Lifting his arm, he looked at his latest piece. A phoenix rose anew from the ashes of yesterday, and that piece alone had cost him eight hundred bucks. He’d flown to Miami to have the famed tat artist Ami James ink him. Looking back at the letter, he re-read the name of the man Kristen likened him to. “Who the fuck is Colin Farrell?”

  The click of the door alerted him to his cellmate’s arrival. “That mofuka’s an actor that gots a lot more money than you’ll eva see,” the man snickered, but Logan ignored him. When Logan had first arrived, he’d had another cellmate who called himself an AB member. Logan had never considered himself a white supremacist, or a brother of the Aryan Nation, but with his last cellmate he’d learned that he shared a lot of the same views. Still, there were some major differences between his beliefs and the Nation’s, and that’s why when Aaron had asked him to join, he turned him down flat. Aaron let it be known that the invitation was always open, but he didn’t have time for that shit.

  Logan wouldn’t mix with a race other than pure white, and he didn’t have friends that weren’t white; however, he would never hurt a person because of their race. It wasn’t how he was raised, and being a criminal didn’t make you racist.

  On the other end of the spectrum, his current cellmate was a white boy who grew up in a ghetto where it paid to be black just like he had, but he had no respect for him. This douche had switched sides and there was no excuse for it. Iggy had been one of the few white boys on the block, and had decided to take on the verbiage and general attitude of a black man in the ghetto. It disgusted Logan. He’d never used the term “wigger” a day in his life, but suddenly he had the urge to spit it at the dumb fool every time he saw him. Logan sat up and folded his letters.

  “You hear me, brotha?” Iggy asked, squatting down in front of him.

  Logan gave him a hasty glance, then stood and pushed past him, almost knocking him down.

  “Whoa, shit! All I did was answer yo question. You axed, and I answered.” Iggy stood and wiped imaginary dust off his shoulder.

  Logan had had his fair share of cellmates in the last year, but this one was trying every nerve he had. Coming up on parole, Logan had to play by the rules . . . no fighting being the one rule he was currently having trouble abiding by.

  Clearing his throat, Logan shoved the letters in his manila folder on the only desk in the room. “What time is it?”

  “Thirty minutes ‘til chow time.” Iggy jumped on the top bunk. “Wake me up when it’s time to go.”

  Logan ignored the request and pulled out his legal pad and pencil. He sat down and started to write. He wasn’t sure what he was going to talk to Kristen about, but he was damned sure it wasn’t going to be about how lonely and empty he felt inside. That shit was reserved for no-damn-body. Especially not some stranger he’d never meet.

  Kris,

  First, do you mind if I call you Kris? I like it even though it’s a man’s name. This is the last letter I’ll be able to send you this month, so it will probably be long. Just bear with me. Let me ask you something. It may seem personal, but I need to know. You said that we don’t need to know what the other looks like, but since you have that dude Colin for me, who can I choose for you? Who
would you compare yourself to? I’ll picture that person as I’m writing to you, like you do that Colin dude for me.

  Anyway, please tell me why you are lonely. It doesn’t make sense if you have family and friends. When I was out, the boys and me were always hanging at a bar or the lake. Go do some shit like that, and stop reading all the time. You’re out of college now and too damned young to be stuck in the house with your nose in a book. Okay, so enough advice from the convict.(Ha-ha. But seriously, you are still young, so live your life.

  I’ve been trying to figure out what to talk to you about, and I came up with an idea. My friend in the kitchen told me to try this with you. I’d like to get to know you better. This is how it works. You ask me two questions a letter and I’ll do the same. Most likely, that will spark a conversation each month. I’ll go first.(You can be as personal as you want. I may or may not answer, though..)

  Have you ever committed a crime??

  How much do you weigh??

  Yeah, I know it’s rude to ask, but I want to know. It doesn’t matter what your answer is. Even if you say three hundred pounds, I’ll still keep writing to you. You already know the answer to number one for me. Number two is two hundred and fifteen. I worked out every day before prison, and have kept it up since I’ve been here. I take pride in my body. You only get one, and if you fuck it up that’s it. I must admit that when I was younger I smoked—weed and cigarettes—but not anymore.. Have you ever smoked? I know that’d be three questions, but I want to know..

  Don’t take this the wrong way, but you seem real conservative. I like that you were honest about not liking tattoos. You’re the first girl I’ve ever met to feel that way.. Tell me, what don’t you like about them? Most people I know use them as a form of expression, or to tell their life story without even opening their mouth. Honestly, it’s a beautiful form of illustration. One man in here has a big ass tat of the world on his shoulders. I thought that shit was amazing. His burdens went so deep that he tattooed that shit on his body. Even when his time comes, and it’s all said and done, those burdens will still sit on his back.

  Let me ask you this. What is so wrong with telling a story with ink? If you could tell a part of your story with ink, what would it look like. Let me guess. You’d have roses on your lower back heading down and onto your hips where they flare out. I only say roses because your last letter smelled like roses and lavender. Maybe you’d get a small rose on your shoulder. I can imagine you in bed at night, lying on your stomach with a white sheet around your waist. Your smooth skin and tattoos on display for me. Don’t think I’m getting fresh, I’m just trying to paint a picture for you..

  Kristen, tell me . . . if you could have any tattoo, what would it be, what would it represent, and what part of your life would you let it tell? I know we said that we’d never meet, and I think that’s for the best, but give me your story in the form of art. Tell me who you are..

  Scott Logan

  Katie stared in the mirror. It was six a.m. and she’d pulled another all-nighter. Her book wasn’t going to write itself, and her agent was elated over the progress she’d made thus far. She’d have this book finished in record time. The last one had taken a year to write, but with this novel she was sure to be finished in six months tops. Pushing her curls out of her face, Katie picked up a wide tooth comb and started to detangle the mess on her head.

  Her flat iron beeped, signaling it was ready for use. She sectioned off her hair and ran the hot ceramic over each parted section of hair, straightening the unruly tangle of curls. When straightened, her hair fell past her shoulders in jet-black waves. She loved her hair like this, but only did it for special occasions. Too much heat on her hair and she’d be managing a straw-like mess with split ends. It’d taken her years to decide to go natural. The perms—a.k.a. creamy crack—at one point had broken off her hair, but five years later she’d managed to get her hair healthy, long, and glowing again.

  Katie ran her hands through her straightened hair and checked her makeup. Her weekly lunches with her father always went well. Her father stayed busy with work, and when Katie’s writing finally took off, he was fine with her sleeping until noon and her hermit-like ways. Grabbing her keys, she locked up her house and headed to her car.

  First, she had a stop to make at the MailWerks, to check for her letter from Scott. It’d been four days, and she felt a letter would be in her PO Box waiting for her. Katie hopped in her car and started it.

  Looking for something to calm her nerves—because lately, leaving the house was a bit stressful—she opted for a CD instead of the radio. Katie pressed play and sat back, listening to the hauntingly smooth voice of alternative artist Charlene Soraia. Finally, she backed out of the driveway, singing along with the tune.

  Pulling into MailWerks, the parking lot was empty, so it was a quick in and out. She checked her box and bought stamps. Back in her car, she was tempted to read the letter from Scott, but she needed to get to Mel’s bistro. Being late would get her nothing but a lecture. Years as a prison warden had made him colder and a bit aloof, but Katie guessed her father needed to be that way. Dealing with murderers and rapists on a daily basis could change anyone.

  Katie headed down Macon Street. Snow was coming down in sheets, but she considered herself a seasoned snow driver. Living in Vermont had taught her she didn’t need sand bags in her trunk, seasoned snow drivers knew that to be a rookie mistake. She’d bought all-season tires and felt ready for anything. Katie didn’t live in a big town, so it seemed like it took ten minutes to get anywhere.

  Pulling up to Mel’s, she searched for her dad’s truck. Finding it, she parked her little Ford Focus next to his massive Ford F-250. Her father called her crazy for buying a little car—he worried about the snowstorms and blizzards—and had told her that the small car wasn’t very practical. Regardless of his opinion, Katie had wanted the little red car as soon as she’d seen it shiny and new on the lot. He bugged her on a daily basis about checking her tires and gas gauge before she left the house.

  He’d even gone as far as using his spare key to leave her his special concoction. A soda bottle filled with water, distilled white vinegar, and dish soap. He called it Jan-Erik’s super ice melt. Being that her dad was from Sweden, where the snow fell on a regular basis, he was a snow expert . . . in his eyes. However, Katie had done her research; her front wheel drive and all-weather tires were perfectly fine for Vermont’s snowy months. Also, that “super ice melt” was in her back seat . . . frozen.

  Katie pulled on her gloves, grabbed her phone, and headed into the bistro to meet her dad. He sat with his back to the wall, watching the door. Her father had immigrated to the US back in the fifties. He’d joined the Coast Guard, and after years of college, made a career switch to the Air Force. A proud yet stoic man, Jan-Erik had been Katie’s rock when her momma died, and she often wondered if he’d had any time to mourn his wife’s death. He’d been so wrapped up in picking up the pieces of Katie’s shattered life that she was sure he’d never once had a moment to himself.

  Jan-Erik stood and headed toward his daughter. “Sweetheart, it’s a pleasure,” he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

  “Hey, Dad.” Katie slipped out of her jacket with the help of her father and sat down. After placing the jacket on the back of the chair, he returned to his seat. “Are they bringing over some menus?” She asked, removing her gloves and laying them on the table.

  He shook his head. “No, I’ve ordered the salmon and asparagus for both of us.” Jan-Erik glanced at his Rolex. “I only have an hour before I have to get back to a meeting.”

  Katie never asked her dad what he made a year, but she was sure that it had to be up there. He was a Warden level five, which meant he was in charge of a correctional facility housing more than twenty-five hundred inmates, on all security levels. His job included planning and enforcing orders of executions mandated by the state. It was a job she often wondered how her father managed, but as of late his cold outer demeanor p
roved that a job like that could change any man.

  Katie sighed and pushed back her chair. “You seem to have a lot of meetings lately.” She looked up at him warily. “I even heard rumors about you stepping down, but I know that’s not true.”

  Jan-Erik’s ice blue eyes widened before he spoke, “Stepping down? Varför skulle jag göra det?” His surprise disappointed her. He’d asked her in his native tongue why she thought he’d quit.

  Katie shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you work twenty hours a day, you’re never home, and you are close to . . .” she sat back and crossed her arms over her chest, before amending her words, “you are past retirement age.” She eyed him, curious to see if her response had upset him. Jan-Erik was always a calm man, and it’d take much more than a comment about his age to set him off, but she wondered about how he felt being told it was time to settle down and think about retiring.

  He didn’t say a word, and Katie worried that maybe she’d hurt his feelings, but just as she was about to speak, the waitress ambled over to the table and noisily set their plates down in front of them.

  “Here ya go, hun.” The woman placed a plate of buttered asparagus and seasoned salmon in front of Katie. “Anything else I can get’cha?” She glanced between the two, but her dad kindly waved her off.

  Katie felt sick to her stomach. She hadn’t meant to hurt her dad’s feelings; she’d only meant to tell him that it was his turn to settle down and relax like her mom had before the cancer took her.

  Jan-Erik took a few bites of food before he sat his fork down on his plate. Katie could only nibble at the asparagus as she waited for him to speak. “The Inmate Pen Pal Program is off to a great start.” He took a sip of water. “So far, I have twenty-five inmates set up.” Katie almost questioned her father on the number. When she’d proposed the program to her father, she’d asked for forty or more men, and at least ten of those men to be death-row inmates. Her father paused, and Katie was sure he was waiting for her to object.