Serial

Chapter Eight

It's harder to get into prison than you'd think. I had to take three separate busses to get there, which unfortunately, gave me plenty of time to think about what I was walking into. I'd never been to prison before—that was a sentence I never thought I'd say—and the trip there felt a lot like I was heading to my own execution.

Which ironically made Kyle my executioner.

The night Agent Walker had come to the station, I'd assured him I wouldn't go there, that I wouldn't see Kyle face-to-face. And I'd honestly planned to follow through with my promise. But Kyle's last phone call had made it practically impossible for me to do so.

You will come and visit me. Or else.

It was a threat I had no desire to challenge him on. So, I'd called the prison and made my plans to visit, despite the warnings I'd been given otherwise. Because I didn't feel like I had another choice.

If I was being honest, there was a part of me that thought I could reason with him. He was an academic, after all. Maybe if I gave him all the facts, he'd come to the most logical conclusion: that I wasn't worth focusing on.

Then again, he was also psychotic, so any plans I had could be a crapshoot.

When I finally arrived at San Quentin, the officer assigned to checking in visitors, told me I had to lock up all of my personal belongings—cell phone, wallet, Chapstick, keys—in one of their lockers. I was given a paper with a number on it, the kind you'd get after leaving your jacket at a coat check. Beside the metal grate that separated the officer and me, was a single printout, stating that the prison wasn't at fault if belongings were stolen.

Somehow that didn't seem right. We were required to leave our things with them, but we couldn't expect them not to be stolen? While they were in their custody? If they couldn't keep people from stealing my wallet while it was locked up, how was I supposed to trust them to keep me safe from the inmates inside?

My nerves began to bubble.

I was escorted through a metal detector, like the ones you saw at the airport. When the alarm didn't go off, I was ushered inside the gated area and then issued a visitors pass, which displayed my full name, the photo from my driver's license, the date of my visit and the words VISITOR in big block letters.

Looking down at the pass, I felt like the words should've been bright red or covered in neon, just so everyone inside was clear that I didn't belong there. Unfortunately, I had the feeling that the man to my right, whose hand appeared to be permanently attached to his gun, wouldn't appreciate my request for a highlighter.

So, I remained silent and tried to stay out of the way as the armed guards checked in another six or seven visitors before bringing us to the first set of metal bars. We'd go through no less than four gates on our way to the visitor's area, and each time the door clanged behind us, I felt more and more like I might not make it out. A few of those around me looked as shell-shocked as I felt, while some seemed to be old pros. I wondered how long their loved ones had been locked up and why.

The air was stale as we walked down the linoleum-paved hallways, passing the occasional guard along the way. Surprisingly, the interior looked eerily similar to a school when class was in session. Ironic considering so many people described high school as a prison. Except here, there were no lockers and bars covered every window.

When we finally got to the visitors' room, we all shuffled inside and were asked to sit in a group of chairs located at the back of the room. This was the designated waiting area, a place where we could sit while others finished up their visits.