Excerpt
Larry
Phillips, a diminutive man who in attire other than
Leavenworth Federal Prison denims might look like a
bespectacled young college professor, had been waiting
in line for two hours signing forms, turning things
in. He was holding a small cardboard box that contained
the contents of his cell.
A hound-jowled guard with a jagged scar circling one
of his eye sockets stood behind a metal counter. He
gave a little nod. Phillips stepped forward to a white
line on the floor. The guard's lips barely moved as
he spoke.
"Put
the box down on the counter. Take off your trousers
and blouse and drop 'em in the hamper behind you."
He slammed a plastic bag down on the counter. "These
are the civvies you came in with. Put 'em on."
Phillips set the box on the counter and undressed.
The guard poured the contents of the box out on the
counter and examined each item. He barely looked at
the books: A Collector's Guide to Chinese Porcelain,
Clinical Hypnosis: Fact and Fiction, and a dog-eared
copy of A Stock Broker's Guide to U.S. Government Securities,
and tossed them back in the box. He examined the bathing
suit photograph of strawberry-blond Melba rivers carefully
and tossed it in along with a letter with an American
Embassy postmark.
The letter was from Phillip's red-faced mannequin of
a father, the only one he had received from him during
the eighteen-month stretch. He knew its wishy-washy
phrases by heart. In his cell Phillips had visualized
his father standing behind his portable mahogany bar
mouthing words stronger than "down-to-earth."
The glass rod tapped the edge of the martini glass like
a deafening chime
Phillips tossed the stenciled denims and shirt in the
canvas hamper. He pulled a black polyester sports shirt
of the plastic bag (it was probably out of style by
now) and put it on. He zipped up his pants.
The guard initialed a form and shoved it across the
counter with a pen. "Sign-the-form-first-name-first,"
he mumbled.
Phillips signed his name and picked up the cardboard
box.
"Step
to the door," the guard said, "If you don't
have a ride, there's a bus to Kansas City at the road
stop in two hours. Don't loiter in front."
Phillips stepped to the door. The guard pushed a button,
and the door lock made a violent snap. The door creaked
open, and Phillips got goose bumps that were electric,
uncontrollable. He strode out the door and along a sidewalk
to the parking lot.
A car horn sounded, and a station wagon pulled op next
to the curb. Melba was driving. She was wearing jeans
and a sweatshirt, though somehow he had expected her
to be in a bathing suit, like the photograph. With a
sort of squeal, she rushed out of the car into his arms.
He dropped the box as she kissed him hungrily, her tongue
flicking deeply to find his. Their mouths parted.
"Mercy"
she said with a Texan twang. "A year and a half's
a long time.' They hugged.
"Did
you bring the package?" he whispered.
She lifted her head off his shoulder. "Mercy,"
she said again. "Same old Mr. Business First."
They got in the station wagon, and Melba started the
engine. "It's in the glove compartment," she
said accelerating onto the main highway.
Phillips opened the compartment and pulled out a package
the size of a bar of soap. He tore it open and removed
business cards that read INTERNATIONAL PAPER INCORPORATED,
a California driver's license with his photograph, a
Social Security card, and an assortment of credit cards.
Everything had the name Lawrence T. Porter.
"I
kept it in a safe-deposit box
just like you told
me to" Melba said.
He put the identification in his pocket and leaned back
in the seat.
"Should
I stop in a motel?" she said. "Or if you want,
I can just pull of to the side and give you a
"Let's
get some miles in," he interrupted. "It's
a long way to Washington, D.C." He was staring
at the road.
Nothing was said for a while.
"I
know how you feel," she said sympathetically. "You
think about everything and then one day they set you
free and you don't know whether to shit or go blind
I felt the same way when I got out of Terminal Island."
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