Birth Row

Part Five

The Warden made it clear he didn’t want Clara visiting his jail, but she persisted and finally got her way.

She always did.

It didn’t matter that she was paying for the procedure to rebirth Watkins. In the end, it wasn’t the money, but her family’s notoriety and the extensive media coverage she received, that provided the necessary leverage.

Everybody who watched a public view screen knew Clara Gannett. She was rich, beautiful and famous.

It was important to let Watkins know who was doing this to him. She wanted to look him in the eyes and gloat for the pleasure of her last four generations.

Clara had been taught death wasn’t enough for Watkins, this was a better arrangement. He had been in solitary confinement six days a week from the age of twenty-one and now at seventy-five he would have to do that sentence over again . . . for the third time. Finally, after more than one hundred and fifty years in prison, he would die a broken man, having paid for the lives he took so many years ago.

Trailing a line of dust, Clara’s black Bentley turned onto the two mile entrance road for the Middle Country Central Prison located on the outskirts of O’Neill, Nebraska. Flat land bristling with endless green fields of corn filled every direction to the horizons. Dozens of cement prison buildings sprouted from the prairie as if they grew along with the surrounding crops.

Clara pursed her lips in disapproval as a throng of people came into view. It looked to her more like a carnival than a prison. She had expected an empty road and gray concrete. Instead, she saw hundreds of unwashed people milling aimlessly about. Some carried signs stating, “FREE WATKINS” and “WATKINS=GOD”.

“Henry, why are we stopping here?” Clara said to her driver, “There has to be a private entrance, certainly the Warden doesn’t come in the main entrance.”

Henry replied, “I’m sorry Miss Clara. I’ve had the car send your security clearance to the prison several times requesting a private entrance, but they insist all visitors have to come through the main entrance. Would you like me to escort you?”

“No, I can do this on my own. You just make sure to keep them away from the car.”

Clara stubbed out her cigarette and exited the car, watching the crowd as they turned toward her. They had unexpectedly drawn closer together. Standing in dim-witted silence, the mass of dirty rabble blocked the main entrance intently watching her. They reminded her of a gaggle of geese mindlessly blocking her path to protect a patch of worthless territory.

Dressed in a red designer suit of the latest fashion, Clara stood in stark contrast to the ragged crowd before her. Undeterred, she locked her elbows out and waded into them defiantly. They parted as she walked and closed ranks behind. Clara traveled slowly through them, akin to a bubble working its way up through a jar of molasses.

Focused solely on the front door, Clara paid no attention to the sea of worthless rabble around her. But, as she moved closer to the door, she began to hear whispers coming from the crowd,

“That’s her, she going to see him!”

“That’s her!”

“She’s the one!”

“Bitch”

A guard waited at the door, opening it carefully, ensuring only Clara entered. Trembling, yet feeling triumphant, she turned to face the crowd through the thick glass doors and gave them the finger before turning her back to follow the guard.

The Warden unconditionally insisted on seeing her before she met with Watkins. Yet, when she arrived, he didn’t have the common courtesy to meet her on time.