Tell Me to Go

by Charlotte Byrd

  When I speak to them, I focus on their eyes so that they know that I am being genuine but I’m not really looking at them. More like through them.

  It’s a trick Nicholas told me about on the flight here. Looking into people’s eyes while speaking terrifies me but avoiding eye contact will make me appear deceitful.

  So, he told me to just look behind them. Through them and at some inanimate object right over their shoulder.

  “As you can see, Owen is not here pleading his case,” I continue. “He’s not saying that he’s not guilty. He’s not trying to make you believe something that the jury didn’t. He is telling you that he is guilty and that he is sorry for what happened. Very, very sorry. And that means that prison has taught him exactly what it was supposed to. It rehabilitated him.”

  My speech doesn’t come to a close the way it goes in movies. It doesn’t finish on an uplifting piece of music that tells the audience that the right side will prevail at the end. But I sit down with a quiet feeling of satisfaction nevertheless.

  It’s over. I have made my case.

  I have pleaded for leniency and I did it off the cuff and from my heart.

  The parole board continues to shuffle their papers and then it’s the prosecutor’s turn. Instead of focusing on who Owen is, his speech is more about the purpose of doing time.

  “Prison has four purposes: retribution, incapacitation, deterrence, and rehabilitation,” he says. “Owen Kernes sits before you, telling you everything that you want to hear. You don’t want to hear excuses. You want him to give you a categorical apology. But the Kim family are not the only people who Mr. Kernes has hurt. He has committed a crime against society. He is a criminal, and depriving him of his freedom is the way to make him pay a debt to society for his crime.”

  What fucking crime? Sitting in the car while his idiot friend waves a gun around until it goes off? What exactly did he do that gives you permission to take his twenties away from him? And now you want even more?

  “Incapacitation is the removal of criminals from society so that they can no longer harm innocent people. We did that with Owen, it is up to you to decide if we did it for long enough. Deterrence refers to preventing future crimes. Given Owen’s upbringing and his past,” the prosecutor says, “it is unclear whether prison will deter him to not commit crimes in the future. But if he remains incarcerated, you will be able to rest soundly at night.”

  I stare him down without trying to make it too obvious.

  Who the hell does this guy think he is saying all of this shit? Making all of these assumptions. He doesn’t know a thing about Owen, or our family, or what he will do a month from now, let alone a year from now.

  I glance over at Owen whose expression remains calm and detached.

  This isn’t his first time in court and this isn’t his first time being judged by complete strangers by a few sentences printed on pieces of paper.

  After years of prison, he is used to it.

  I, on the other hand, am not.

  “Finally, we reach rehabilitation,” the prosecutor says.

  He doesn’t need to state the definitions of any of these terms to either the parole board, the defense attorney, Owen, or anyone else in this room except maybe me.

  But he does so for effect.

  He uses these words to make a point and to prove it at the same time.

  “The last but not least important purpose of our penal system is to rehabilitate criminals to make sure that they become law abiding citizens. As we all know, Owen has taken advantage of the opportunities that we offer. He learned to read and write and has gone far in his education. But as you take that into account, don’t forget that with education comes knowledge. Knowledge as to how to manipulate the system and knowledge about what he should and shouldn’t say to you to get what he wants.”

  So, in other words, there is no way to win.

  If he hadn’t learned to read, then you would be standing here saying that he hasn’t taken advantage of any of the resources available to rehabilitate himself.

  But now that he has, you are saying that he has done so only to advance his own agenda.

  My blood feels like it’s starting to boil.

  My throat closes up.

  I start to cough. The sound echoes around the large room, filling it with my contempt and disappointment.

  Finally, his speech is over.

  Every person on the parole board gives the prosecutor a little nod, a courtesy that neither Owen nor I got when we spoke.

  By the time it’s Owen’s attorney’s chance to speak, they are barely listening.

  I can see their eyes glazing over and two of them check their phones. This is the most important moment in Owen’s life and these people, who are supposed to make their decision about his freedom, can’t wait to get out of here.

  Once his attorney sits down, silence falls.

  “Well, thank you all for coming. We will make our decision and notify you all accordingly.”

  “Wait, what?” I whisper under my breath. Owen glances back at me, shrugging his shoulders.

  “They aren’t going to decide now?” I ask his lawyer.

  “No,” she says. “They never do.”

  30

  When I talk to him…

  Owen doesn’t seem as surprised by this as I am. I reach over to him to give him a hug, but a guard blocks me.

  “I am sorry, there is no touching.”

  Owen shrugs his shoulders. He is used to this kind of treatment, but after all of these years somehow, I still am not.

  Why can’t we even hold hands? They are afraid that I will pass him something illegal, but I promise that I won’t. That’s not enough, of course.

  The incarcerated are in there for many reasons, which all boil down to one; they are liars.

  They will tell anyone anything they want to hear to get what they want. At least, that’s what prosecutors, guards, judges, and the parole board think.

  “How long will it take them?” I ask his lawyer whose name I already forgot.

  “I have no idea,” she says. “It depends. Sometimes, we hear by the end of the day, sometimes it takes a week.”

  I shake my head. It’s almost as if this whole system is designed to make prisoners and their families feel completely out of control.

  Perhaps, that’s the point, huh?

  But Owen isn’t guilty.

  Technically, he was in the car while the robbery took place. Still, there’s the truth that exists on paper and then there’s the real truth. I’m not saying he’s completely innocent. He’s just not guilty the way other people in there are.

  Owen’s hands are shackled in the front attached by a long chain to his feet. Dressed like this, he looks like a scary person to let back out into society.

  If I were sitting on that parole board and this was the first time I saw him, I’d have a hard time saying that the world would be a safe place were he walking among us.

  I watch the guard lead him away and listen to the loud clinking sound that the chain makes with each of his laborious steps.

  I watch the parole board shuffle out the side entrance near the front, leaving all of the paperwork on the table in front of them.

  I wonder whose case they will hear next.

  “You know that he got a shitty deal,” I say, turning to the prosecutor.

  Up close, he doesn’t look like he’s even in his forties, but he already has a head full of gray hair. Hereditary or an occupational hazard?

  He puts the papers in front of him into a briefcase without acknowledging me.

  “You don’t agree?” I ask.

  “It’s not up to me to say,” he says, getting up.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Much of this case is out of my control. There are statutes that govern what sentencing he got. He refused to cooperate with the prosecutor’s office, so our hands were tied.”

  His voice is robotic and detached. He wasn’t the one who originally prosec
uted the case and I wonder how much he knows about any of the details.

  “Please, there must be something you can do,” I plead, touching his arm.

  He looks down at my hand on his suit jacket and then up at me. I pull away.

  “It’s not up to me,” he says. “It’s up to them. But for what it’s worth, you made a really nice speech.”

  “You think it helped?” I ask.

  “It didn’t hurt,” he says, walking past me. “Listen, I have another hearing in here in half an hour. I have to run to my car to get my sandwich.”

  I’ve always thought about lawyers living the high life.

  Fancy apartments. Nice cars.

  Definitely, not people who stuff their faces with smelly bologna sandwiches on their short breaks.

  “Glamorous life of a district attorney,” he says, reading my mind.

  He takes a gulp from a can of soda that he also brought from home. “From what I read here, your brother should’ve turned state’s evidence when they made him the offer. That was the only way he would’ve avoided such a harsh sentence.”

  “He didn’t want to snitch on his friends,” I say, using his words. “I tried to convince him but he wouldn’t budge.”

  “Well, his friends aren’t exactly the easiest people to testify against, but if he had then he wouldn’t have spent so much time in prison.”

  I narrow my eyes.

  “Wait, what do you mean?”

  “They are pretty connected. Organized crime,” he explains. “Not exactly the type that’s easy to testify against. Especially if you’re from Charlestown.”

  This is news to me.

  “Was my brother also involved?”

  “Yes, of course. You didn’t know?”

  I shrug. “I knew that he hung around with some bad people but I didn’t know that he did anything…illegal.”

  “He was a well-known dealer of meth and opioids,” the prosecutor says. “Ran a small crew, with four guys under him. The ones he was with that night were also a bit higher up in the organization. They called each other managers. The ones who worked for them were entry level associates.”

  I shake my head.

  “None of this is on record, of course,” he continues. “But it was well known in the department. The cops never had enough to really put him away, so when he was arrested on this charge, they threw the book at him, so to speak.”

  It’s hard to explain how it feels to find out that something is a lie after years of thinking it was the truth.

  All I can say is that it tastes like bile.

  I feel like Owen and I have gotten very close recently. He wrote me every day telling me everything about his life. The thing that he neglected to share was his past.

  “You didn’t know?” the prosecutor asks.

  31

  When we wait…

  I stare at the prosecutor, hoping that I don’t look too bewildered. He asks me again if I knew any of what he had just told me about Owen. Do I look like I do? I want to ask him. Instead, I just shake my head no.

  “Well, pretty much everyone in prison has a past. That doesn’t change the fact that he might have been rehabilitated.”

  This piques my interest. “You think he should be released?” I ask.

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “That’s what you argued.”

  “It’s my job to argue for the state, whether or not I agree with their position.”

  I shake my head, unable to fathom what it would be like to make arguments that I didn’t believe in. I can hardly make arguments that I do believe in.

  “What are you saying?” I ask.

  “I’m saying that there are a lot of people who are serving time they probably shouldn’t be. And there are a lot of people who are living the good life on the outside, who probably should be incarcerated for life. The system isn’t perfect but it’s all we have.”

  “Where does my brother fit in?” I ask.

  “Somewhere in the gray area. He did something wrong. He got convicted. Should he be paying for that misdeed all of these years later?” He sighs deeply. “I’m not so sure.”

  I look down at my shoes not sure what else to talk to him about.

  “Listen, I have to get back inside and review my notes. But it was nice talking to you, Olive, right?” He extends his hand and I realize that I don’t know his name.

  “Yes, Olive Kernes. And you are?” I ask.

  “Bradley Bookout.” He gives me a firm handshake. “It has been a pleasure.”

  Watching him walk back into the room, I wonder if the next argument he makes for the state he will actually believe in.

  Or maybe, he has done this for so long, that he’s past the point of caring.

  Our legal system is based on the assumption that if both sides fight hard, then the truth will emerge.

  How does that saying go about what happens when you assume? You make an ass out of u and me?

  I texted Nicholas as soon as the hearing was over so that he could drive from the hotel. There was no point in him waiting for me in the parking lot because I had no idea when everything would come to an end.

  “How long have you been waiting?” I ask, climbing into the rental car, a new model Range Rover.

  “How did it go?” he asks.

  He starts the engine but doesn’t move the car from park. He turns his body toward mine and waits.

  “It was in the administrative part of the building but I still had to go through all the checks like I was a visitor,” I start. "Those can take an enormous amount of time, depending on how many guards are on duty and how many visitors show up. In the past, I had to wait in a lineup of cars at three a.m. just to get in at six. But today, because I had an appointment, they actually let me through.”

  This isn’t really what he is eager to hear but I can’t bring myself to tell him the rest. Not yet.

  “Let’s just get out of here,” I say. “I’m starving.”

  We don’t talk much on the way to the restaurant. I’m so famished I want to ask him to pull over at the nearest fast food place so I can order everything on the menu, but I keep my cool. It’s the anxiety talking.

  Besides, I’ve made a promise to myself to eat clean and healthy for thirty days. No processed food. No sugar. No bread.

  I haven’t eaten meat in years and, for this challenge, I quit dairy as well.

  What’s left? Greens like asparagus and celery and kale. Fish - salmon and tilapia are my favorites, and eggs.

  I’ve been cooking with olive oil instead of butter for a while now and have taught myself to snack on sunflower seeds and walnuts in moderation.

  This morning I broke the rules and had a power bar. But this evening, I’m going to stick to them.

  I scan the menu and quickly order sautéed salmon with asparagus and green beans on the side. Technically, green beans are also not allowed, beans are a processed food, but the cheating here isn’t out of control. It’s when Nicholas suggests a dessert of chocolate cheesecake that my mouth really starts to water.

  Chocolate has always been my downfall. A few years ago, I switched to very dark chocolate like eighty-five or ninety percent instead of milk because those bars have a lot less sugar in them. I developed my palate and now I can throw back one or two of them on a bad day, quite easily. I love the bitterness and the tartness as well as the complexity in the taste.

  “You’ve been quiet all evening,” Nicholas says, as I stare at his gigantic plate of pasta, yearning for just one bite.

  “Just thinking about your food. It looks delicious.”

  “It is,” he says, taking a bite. “You want some?”

  “Yes, but no.”

  “It’s okay if you have some.”

  No, it’s not. I have made a commitment and this time I’m going to stick to it. I have started and stopped this thirty-day challenge about five times already, always giving up just a day into it. Beans and a power bar are not such bad cheats, but if I take even
one bite of pasta, I know that I won’t be able to stop.

  “You look beautiful just the way you are,” Nicholas says.

  “Thank you, I appreciate it.” I give him a nod.

  I'm glad that he finds me attractive but it’s not really him who I’m doing this for. I appreciate and love my body but at the same time I know I need a change.

  I want to get out of this spiral where whenever anything bad happens, I immediately turn to food to make it better.

  Today is a hard day to say no, but if I can stay strong today then I can do it on all of those other days as well.

  “So, are you ever going to tell me what happened?” Nicholas asks.

  32

  When we eat…

  Back in Hawaii, Nicholas didn't want to let me come back here. We had a fight about it. I did something that was probably stupid and too dangerous. The only reason I’m here at all is that he chartered a private plane and traveled with me.

  I look into Nicholas’ eyes. Under the candlelight, the flecks of green are almost gold. Owen’s warnings echo in my head.

  Can I really trust him? I don’t know much about him.

  But then again, I don’t know much about Owen either.

  “The prosecutor told me that he was a lot more involved in the gang than I knew,” I finally say.

  Owen’s going to be my metaphor. I don’t know what Nicholas is hiding from me but I want him to know that I don’t appreciate it.

  “I’m sorry about that,” he says nonchalantly.

  “He lied to me. All of these years. It doesn’t feel good,” I say.

  “Well, maybe he had a good reason.”

  I clench my jaw. “Like what?”

  “Isn’t every conversation you had recorded? Don’t they check all the mail and the emails?”

  I nod.

  “Well, there you go. He didn’t want to implicate himself in anything by telling you the truth.”

  That is such a convenient explanation. It’s almost too convenient.