Birth Row

Part Seven

Clara had barely spoken to Mark since her visit to the jail four months ago. After paying the rebirthing fee, he made it clear to her that he wanted no part of the feud anymore.

She despised him for his weakness.

     In fact, she was sure her entire family was composed of cowards. They only wanted to live off the family fortune, without recognizing the burden that was anchored to the wealth.

     Why was she going to see Watkins again?    Mark had asked the question repeatedly, but she couldn’t produce an answer. Jumbled emotions and disconnected thoughts filled her mind, blocking out logic and reason. She knew what she wanted to do, but not why. Something she couldn’t explain, intuition she guessed guided her, and this time she’d be prepared. The warden had tried to convince her, but she didn’t listen. Now, she would make sure to correct her mistake.

 

The three hour drive from their home in Lincoln to the prison gave her time to think about Mark’s parting words to her,

“What is it that makes you act like this? I mean, where’s the switch in your brain that says you have to be psychotic? No one cares anymore what happens to him, except you, and the few crazies that still camp out in front of the prison. Not even the media covers it anymore. He’s rebirthed and back in prison--it’s over, nothing else happened, it’s boring, there’s no story anymore. No one finds it entertaining to watch him rot in a cell day after day, except you. Let it go.”

Immediately after Watkins’ third rebirth, Clara began feeling remorse over her decision. During the next several weeks, it shot past the point of being a feeling, and blossomed into a full on obsession.

She had to go back to the prison.

Watkins had to die.

Months of anguish, combined with little research, led to her plan. She thought about paying a guard or another prisoner to kill him, but found it was harder than it sounded. Plus, since she was an amateur, she would probably get caught before the job was done. All the plans that went through her mind ended with her getting caught, but with her popularity and money, jail time wasn’t going to happen. Not for Clara Gannett. Getting the job done was her biggest concern.

She was convinced her plan would work. Wiggling her right foot, she could feel the Kevlar knife tucked into the custom pouch sewn in her boot. Last time at the prison, she refused the whole body scanner, and was so difficult during the pat down that the female guard barely touched her. It would work again. No one would suspect she wanted to kill him, especially with a knife.

     When the limo turned down the final county highway before the prison entrance, Clara took the time to quell her nerves and notice the scenery. Fall had crept into the Nebraska countryside, dulling the vibrant greens into dirt browns and pale yellows. Gone also, was the sea of tall corn, whose absence lent a vast bleakness to the landscape. This was a different place than she remembered during the warm summer day of her last trip.

     Once again, as they drew closer, the massive concrete prison buildings jutted from the prairie earth. However, this time they seemed to more closely match the landscape.

Masses of people were gathered in front of the prison, not hundreds as before, but thousands. With the crowd covered in a multi-colored sea of winter coats and blankets it had the appearance of an outdoor rock concert. However, orderly rows of sleeping tents had sprung up, with several large trucks in the center, giving the impression of a small army. This time, the rabble didn’t carry signs and mill about aimlessly. Four months had not only grown their numbers, but seemed to also instill them with a purpose, as if they were following a plan.