The Kidnapper's Wife

50. After

I have no idea how this sort of thing works. I probably should have called ahead. Aren't there specific visiting hours at prisons? And I remember the concept of visitor lists from my days before I worked from home. Sometimes I would have to go visit clients in jail, and I have vague memories of them checking some sort of list before allowing me entry. But the rules are different for lawyers. We are allowed to see our clients more often than they are allowed to see their families. Not that we do. 

But now my role has changed. I'm no longer Jade Carter, the powerful defense attorney. Instead I'm just Jade, a lost woman looking for answers in the darkest of places. 

As I park my car, I take a minute to observe the high fences, the barbed wire, the gloomy and imposing building in front of me. I've been into this prison before, it's not my first time. But something about it seems scarier today than it did, even on my very first visit. More ominous. 

I shudder, and open my car door, locking my car three times, as if a prisoner might get out of jail while I'm here and steal it. I chastise myself internally for being so silly. 

'This is still Frederick. It's not a war zone. Chill.' I tell myself. 

When I approach the desk, the woman looks up at me, boredom and disdain written all over her face. This is a look reserved for those associated with the prisoners. Bad eggs by association. The lowest of low, even though they are innocent, because someone they chose to love has messed up. 

Before, I would show my badge, and her expression would change to one of respect. Today, when I manage to stammer out, "Here to visit Connor Carter," her expression stays frozen on her face, and if anything, the frown becomes deeper, etched into her skin as if sculpted out of ice. 

"Are you on his list?" she asks, staring down her nose at me.

"I - I'm not sure."

"A lot of people come here to call on Mr. Carter," she tells me, "But they are unsuccessful. Mr. Carter has a blocked list. That means that only the people on his visitor list are even allowed to request to speak to him. If he doesn't know who you are, you probably aren't on the list." She's eyeing me, obviously hoping I'll give up so she won't have to do any work and go check Connor's list.

"He knows me." I whisper.

She rolls her eyes, and stands up. Crossing the room, she searches a shelf until she finds a large black binder. Opening it, she flips through dividers until she gets to the one she needs. 

"Name?" she calls over to me, "And don't bother lying, i'll be checking your ID."

Do people really attempt to lie about being one of Connor's relatives, just to get in and talk to him. I know people have an unhealthy and unusual fascination with crime in this country, but that seems a bit extreme. 

"Jade Carter." I say, suddenly nervous that I won't be on the list. I'm not even sure why I expect Connor to want to see me. Why would he? I was nothing to him. Something to be used and discarded, like a bouquet of flowers, a short lived object serving a purpose. 

The woman is frowning down at the list, and I begin to think I've been incredibly stupid. I start turning on my heel, to go back out the door when she says, "You'll have to leave your bag in a locker. Remove all metal from your person. You may bring in a notebook and pen if you wish, but no recording devices. That includes your phone."

I turn back around, surprised. "I'm on the list?"

She looks at me like I'm stupid, no doubt wondering why I bothered to come if I didn't even think I'd be on it. "Yes. The locker room is out that door and to the right. The metal detector is to the left. An officer will assist you."

I walk through the door she pointed at slowly, apprehensive now. Placing my bag, my watch, an my jewelry inside the locker, I write the combination down on a sticker which I stick to my shirt sleeve. Then I walk over to the metal detector.

A bored looking officer meets my eyes. "You may come through." he tells me, gesturing with his hand. Even though the machine doesn't go off when I cross under it, he waves a device around my body, spending extra time on my armpits, shoes, chest, and crotch. 

"We'd get you a female guard," he grunts at me as he waves the stick around, "But none are in today."

"That's alright," I say quickly, no particularly wanting to encourage further conversation. I don't know if this guard recognizes me or not, but if he works at the prison and lives in Frederick it's likely he does. 

I always feel uncomfortable talking to people who know me. I've come to realize there are several approaches these people have. The first is to pretend not to know me, but they're never very good at it, giving themselves away with awkward glances, and too frequent eye contact. The second approach is to straightforwardly acknowledge who I am, something along the lines of, "I feel so sorry for you dear." I then awkwardly answer my thanks for their fake concern, and we awkwardly stand there, not knowing what else to say. The final approach comes from those who've read a lot about me, to the point they really feel like they know me on a personal level. They pepper me with questions, incessantly chatting while I die inside. No matter what approach is taken, interacting with people who've seen me on TV or in the news always leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth. 

The guard finishes swiping the stick, and directs me into a small waiting room. "You can sit in here and wait. We'll have to find C-the inmate and determine whether he desires to visit with you right now. They have the right to refuse. If he is engaging in work, or being punished, he may not be able to meet you right now. A guard should be in soon to let you know."

I nod, and sit down in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. The room is sparse, spare a few magazines on a center table. A light flickers annoyingly above my head. In the silence, I feel vulnerable and alone. 

I have no cell phone, watch, or other distraction so I pick up a magazine and turn pages disinterestedly. Fashion and "How to Please Your Man" became moot in my life months ago, from the moment Connor took Anna.

Finally, the door on the other side of the room opens, and an older male guard looks over at me. 

"Jade Carter?" he asks, as if there's someone else in the room who that could be.

I stand, putting the magazine down, "Yes?"

"You can follow me."