The Buck Stops Here

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “Excuse me?”

  “Prisoners have a list of approved visitors. Are you on his list?”

  “Oh, yes,” I lied.

  The guard eyed me suspiciously.

  “What’s his name and your name?” he asked. “I’ll take a look.”

  “He’s James Sparks,” I said, feeling my face turn red. “My name is Callie Webber.”

  He stepped into the booth, the rail remaining in the down and locked position. Up ahead, I could see two guard towers flanking the roadway, each with an armed and uniformed officer inside.

  “How’re you spelling that?” he asked me finally. “His name, I mean.”

  “S-P-A-R-K-S,” I said. “James.”

  He went back to his computer but finally came back out, shaking his head.

  “I’m sorry, but there’s no one here by that name. Have you ever visited him here before?”

  “No,” I whispered, feeling my lunch rise in my throat. James Sparks wasn’t even here.

  What was going on?

  “I’m sorry, but is there someone I could talk to, please? The man is supposed to be here serving a sixteen-year sentence for manslaughter.”

  He went back into the booth and then came back out and handed me a preprinted sheet of paper. On it were listed several websites and telephone numbers, with the heading “Prisoner Locator Services.”

  “Chances are he got reassigned to another prison,” he said, his demeanor a little kinder now. “You just call them numbers or go to them websites and type in his name. You’ll find him.”

  “Thank you,” I said numbly.

  Then I backed up the way he indicated and drove out of there.

  I headed back to the town of Surry and once again sought out a library. I couldn’t find one, so instead I went to a nearby coffee shop where a small sign in the window read “free wi-fi.” I parked at an empty meter just outside the shop and went inside.

  I ordered tea and took the paper cup to an empty table, facing my back to the wall and pulling out my laptop.

  The connection was good and I was online soon. Fortunately, there weren’t many other customers in the shop so the tables around me were empty. I was glad to be left to myself as I sipped my tea and searched for information.

  Heart pounding, I went to the first website on the list and typed in Sparks’ name. He wasn’t listed in that system, so I moved along to the next. I ended up working my way through all of the state prisons in Virginia, North Carolina, Maryland, and Delaware, all to no avail. Sparks’ name simply didn’t register.

  Finally, I came to the last resource on the list, the Federal Prison Locator System. I entered the name “Sparks, James,” expecting another dead end. Instead, it responded with a prison name and address: FCI Berwick, Tobacco Road, Box 1001, Berwick, Georgia. It listed phone and fax numbers and then, under “Security Level,” it said “Minimum/Male.”

  James Sparks was currently incarcerated in a minimum security men’s federal prison in Berwick, Georgia. Or at least that’s what the computer said. But that made no sense to me. Considering his crime, he should be in a state prison in Virginia, not a federal prison in Georgia—and especially not one that was minimum security!

  I logged off, put my laptop away, tossed out my empty cup before visiting the restroom, and returned to my car. Once I was in the driver’s seat, I pulled out my cell phone. It took phone calls to several different branches of the correctional system, but finally I was able to confirm that yes, indeed, one James Sparks was currently incarcerated at the Berwick Federal Correctional Institution in Berwick, Georgia. Of course, there was a chance that this was a different James Sparks, but since they wouldn’t tell me the nature of his conviction over the phone, the only way I could know for certain was to go there and see him in person. As to why he was there and not where he was supposed to be, I didn’t have a clue. The best I could assume was that he was a former NSA agent and that somehow, upon his arrest, special provisions had been made.

  Remembering the guard at the gate of the Virginia State Prison, I asked about visiting restrictions for Berwick. Much to my surprise, even though Sparks was at a minimum security facility, I would still have to be on a list of approved visitors in order to get in to see him.

  The woman who was helping me said that the process for putting my name on a prisoner’s visitor list involved submitting an application which would take at least a month to process.

  “A month!” I cried.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she replied. “All this information is on our website. He would’ve made up his list of visitors when he was first incarcerated, and then everyone on his list would’ve all put in applications and gotten background checks. The only way he can add your name now is if you had a relationship with him prior to his incarceration.”

  The more she talked, the more hopeless my situation appeared to be. I had no idea it would be so difficult to get a face-to-face meeting with the man who had killed my husband.

  “What about special approval from the warden?” I asked, grasping for straws.

  “Put it this way,” she said, not unkindly. “Unless you’re clergy or a lawyer, you’re really out of luck.”

  A lawyer. Of course. I could get in to see him as a lawyer!

  Thanking her for her help, I opened up my computer one more time and went back to the bureau of prison’s website. I scanned the rules for attorney visits to federal prisons. From what I could see, the process was fairly straightforward and merely required that I make arrangements ahead of time with the warden.

  Once I was done with that, I brought a map of Georgia, again needing the big picture of things.

  I also bought some bottled water for what was going to be a long drive. Then I sat in my car and plotted out my course. I would take 95 north to 85 south to 185 south, breaking off to local roads at Columbus, Georgia. Calculating my time, I had a feeling the drive would take around 12 hours. Briefly, I considered heading to the nearest airport and flying there instead, but somehow it just seemed easier to drive than to manage airport parking, flight schedules, and rental cars. It was already after 3:00 P.M., so I figured I could drive halfway, spend the night somewhere in South Carolina, and go the rest of the way in the morning. Saying a quick prayer, I dialed the number of the warden to make my appointment.

  In the swirl of confusion surrounding this case and my eagerness to get answers, I had forgotten one fact that now confronted me head on, that tomorrow I would see my husband’s killer, face-to-face, for the very first time.

  Twelve

  I suppose I should have been better prepared for what I would see once I reached my destination. Unlike the Virginia state prison I had tried to visit the day before, this place had no Fort Knox-like check-in point, no barbed-wire-topped fence, no armed officers looming above the place in guard towers.

  Instead, this facility looked like some sort of industrial farm, with an entry point no more secure than what you might find in a gated neighborhood.

  The woman in the booth didn’t even come outside but merely slid open her window and asked if she could help me. I had the insane urge to ask for fries and a Coke.

  “I’m here to see a prisoner,” I said. “I have an appointment.”

  I hadn’t been able to sleep last night and had gotten back on the road by 5:00 this morning. Now it was 11:30 A.M., and I was in a part of Georgia that was so empty, it gave new meaning to the term “rural.” Though the surrounding countryside was very beautiful, it had felt odd to drive through miles and miles of nothing but woods with only the occasional pecan farm for relief.

  The woman asked for my driver’s license, and then she checked it against a list on a clipboard.

  “Your appointment’s not till one o’clock,” she said.

  “I know. I’m sorry. It took less time to get here than I expected.”

  She made a phone call, hung up, and told me that I could go on in and wait in the common room.

  “But the men are out working in the field r
ight now,” she added. “They won’t be back until twelve.”

  “That’s fine. I don’t mind waiting.”

  She pointed to the building I would need, handed back my driver’s license, and raised the gate so I could pass through. I drove ahead and to the right, parking in a “Visitor” spot near the door. Once inside, I faced a window plastered with a list of “Visiting Rules,” which I skimmed while I waited for the man behind the window to get off the phone. According to this list, the prisoners could have paperback books but no hardbacks, and all food items would be x-rayed. I wondered if anyone ever tried to slip a file in a cake anymore.

  “May I help you?” the man asked, hanging up the phone.

  “I’m here to see a prisoner,” I said, pulling out my driver’s license as the sign directed. I dropped it into a little drawer, which the man slid toward himself on the other side of the glass.

  “Callie Webber?” he said, reading from the license. “Is this your correct address?”

  I waited as he logged me into the computer, and I gave Sparks’ name when asked whom I was here to visit.

  “James Sparks,” the man repeated, typing on the keyboard. “Since this is an attorney visit, you do have the right to request a private conference room, you know.”

  “Private?” I asked, pulse surging. Despite the need for privacy, I didn’t think I wanted to be completely alone with the man who had killed my husband.

  “You might not need it,” he added. “It’s not a visiting day, so you’ll probably have plenty of privacy in the common room.”

  “That will be fine, I’m sure,” I said.

  “Okay, go through the door to your left. You get your license back on the way out.”

  Just like when you rent a canoe, I thought absurdly as I followed his directions.

  The door buzzed and I stepped through to find the same man coming around the desk to process me. He took my purse and put it into a small locker, had me sign my name on a piece of paper next to the locker number, and then he asked me to step through a metal detector.

  “All right, you have a nice visit,” he said, gesturing toward another door. I opened it to find a large, industrial-looking room with tables and chairs and a row of vending machines along one wall.

  All along I had imagined speaking to Sparks on a phone and looking at him through thick Plexiglas. Instead, I realized, he would be right here in the room with me, with nothing between us but a table. I guess that was how minimum security worked, especially when it was an attorney visit.

  The room was empty, and I chose a spot in a corner and sat, my hands folded in my lap. I was glad to have a bit of time before he came because my heart was pounding away in my chest like a jackhammer.

  Closing my eyes, I thought back to the months following Bryan’s death, when the legal system ground along in its quest for justice against James Sparks. Though I had given depositions and visited with attorneys and followed the progress of the man’s case through legal channels, there had never come a point where Sparks and I were in the same place at the same time. I had seen newspaper pictures of him, of course, and a few film clips on TV. I could have even gone to his preliminary hearing if I had wanted to, but there was no reason for me to be there, so I chose not to go. In the end he pled guilty, and we were spared the agony of a trial. Today, for the first time, I would look into his eyes—the eyes of the man who killed my husband.

  Oh, God, I prayed silently, I need You right now like I have never needed You before. Calm my heart. Guard my tongue. Give me strength. Help me to remember that I have forgiven this man.

  When my prayer was over, I thought back to the day I learned that Sparks’ sentence had been handed down. Procuring justice for my dead husband had been my driving force since the accident, and when I learned that, indeed, justice had been served, my heart was filled with a mix of relief and great desperation. Once I knew that Sparks would pay for what he had done, I was left with no focus for my hurt, no target for my rage.

  My pastor had been trying to counsel me about forgiveness, but I had turned a deaf ear until that point. Once Sparks was sentenced, I knew it was time to hand the whole matter over to God.

  According to what I understood, “forgiveness” of the unforgivable didn’t mean retribution nor restitution nor reconciliation. It simply meant that I let go of my claim toward the anger and hurt, no matter how justified. In forgiving, I would grant a pass, so to speak, releasing this man to my heavenly Father, who alone was in a position to judge.

  It hadn’t been easy, but there came a point late one night where I knelt on the floor in the middle of my silent, empty living room, sobbing, repeating a prayer over and over: “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who have trespassed against us. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who have trespassed against us.”

  Somehow, the healing hand of God had touched my soul and let those words soak into my heart. The next morning, I got up feeling as though a weight had been lifted just a tiny bit from the core of my being. I decided then to move away, to leave behind the home my husband and I had shared and start a new life in a completely different place, out on the shores of Chesapeake Bay. Despite making the move, it ended up being many more months before I recovered from the dark depression that enshrouded me. But at least I had given forgiveness. That much was done and over with. Today would be a test of how genuine my heart had really been.

  I looked up at the sound of voices to see two guards coming in from the visitor processing area. They didn’t even glance my way but instead bought some drinks from the soda machine and exited through a door on the other side of the room. Soon, the door they had gone through opened up again, and this time a different guard entered, escorting a man dressed all in khaki, the prison uniform. It was James Sparks. I recognized him from his pictures.

  I stood. Sparks saw me and then took a step back in reaction.

  “Hello, James,” I said loudly. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

  The guard positioned himself near the door, hands folded in front of him. Slowly, Sparks walked toward me, a suspicious squint on his face.

  “I know who you are,” he said in a slow Southern drawl. “When they said your name I wasn’t sure if it would be you, but it is. I recognize you from the newspapers.”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling suddenly tongue-tied. The man across from me was about my age, with sandy blond hair and dark brown eyes. He wore glasses, which he pushed nervously into place.

  “What do you want?” he demanded.

  I gestured to the table between us.

  “Why don’t we sit down?” I said, feeling oddly detached from my voice. I took a seat and then watched as he pulled out a chair on the other side of the table and perched on the very edge.

  “What do you want?” he repeated.

  “I want to talk to you,” I said, sounding much calmer than I felt. “I’ve been trying to piece some things together, and I have questions I think only you can answer.”

  “What questions?”

  He looked ready to bolt, and I tried to gather my wits about me. I was quaking on the inside, as the situation had really thrown me for a loop.

  “First of all, why are you here, in this prison? I thought you were in a state penitentiary in Virginia.”

  “Long story and none of your business. Why did you come here?”

  He grew agitated, bouncing his knees up and down frantically.

  “How do you know Tom Bennett?” I asked.

  “What do you mean, how do I know Tom Bennett? He’s my brother-in-law.”

  If he had punched me in the stomach, my reaction wouldn’t have been more profound.

  “Your brother-in-law?” I managed to gasp.

  “Yeah, my wife’s brother. Well, ex-wife.”

  My mind reeled. Tom’s sister had been married to James Sparks? Everything in me yearned to stand up right there and start screaming. Instead, I forced myself to remain calm.

  “How was Tom connec
ted to my husband’s death?”

  “What?”

  “Tom. Was he there in that house on vacation with you? Did he rent the house, the boat? What was his connection?”

  “I’m not telling you that.”

  “You killed my husband, James. Is a little information too much for me to ask?”

  Sparks turned pale and his breathing grew ragged. He started digging frantically in his pocket. He produced a small yellow asthma inhaler, which he immediately put to his mouth, squirting it out and inhaling deeply. Once he caught his breath, he surprised me by reaching out with his other hand and gripping me tightly on the wrist.

  “Don’t come here asking questions like this,” he rasped sharply. “That time is over. Done.”

  The guard called out a warning and James let go of me.

  “You were wrong to come here,” he whispered. “You’ve got to go.”

  He stood, and as he did I could feel a sort of blackness closing in on me. He had to tell me more—I would make him tell me more!

  “Are you allowed to make phone calls from here?” I demanded, wishing they hadn’t taken my purse, wishing I had a business card to hand him.

  “Collect,” he said suspiciously.

  “Then please call me,” I implored him. “I need some answers.”

  He started to walk away, and I called out my cell phone number after him.

  “Please,” I called. “Write it down.”

  He stopped and looked at me.

  “I don’t have to write it down,” he said derisively. “I have a head for numbers.”

  Thirteen

  Somehow, I was able to find the mental resources to make the next logical move. Tucking my emotions carefully away for the moment, I forced myself to breathe normally and decide on a rational course of action. Rather than leaving the prison straightaway, I claimed my purse and license and asked the man at the window how I might be able to meet with the warden. Perhaps he would be able to give me a little background information on Sparks—not to mention explain to me why a man who was supposed to be doing hard time in a state prison in Virginia was sitting in a cushy minimum security prison in Georgia. I wasn’t sure if I had a right to any of that information, but I should—as an attorney, as an interested party, and as the widow of the man Sparks killed.