To say I’m nervous about going inside a maximum-security prison would be an understatement.
The land the prison sits on was once a plantation named Angola, so most people call it by that name rather than its official name—Louisiana State Penitentiary. Angola is the largest maximum-security prison in the United States and a brutal place to be incarcerated. It’s got a long, ugly history. Really ugly. Advocacy groups have been campaigning for change there for decades and have had some small wins over the years, but there’s a long way to go. My stomach turns every time I think about how awful it would be if Paul Granger was sent there for a crime he didn’t commit.
Deacon stops close to the entrance then turns to face me once he puts the car in park. “Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?”
I nod and swallow down the lump in my throat. “I feel like I have to, especially after everything I’ve found out over the last few weeks.”
“Okay. Take as long as you need. I’ll be waiting out here.”
I get out of the car before I can second-guess myself. The walk to the entrance of the vistors’ center is daunting, knowing what’s on the other side of the tall fence lined with razor wire.
There’s a line of people waiting to sign in, and it takes about ten minutes before I can approach the counter. The guard watches me as I step up to the window. There is a thick piece of glass separating us with a small drawer at the bottom that is open on my side. “Identification and name of the inmate you are requesting to visit.”
I pull my license out of my pocket and drop it in the metal bin. “I’m here to see Paul Granger.”
He pulls the drawer so that it closes on my side and opens on his, then studies my license before typing my name in his computer. You have to be on an inmate’s approved list of visitors to be allowed inside. Paul Granger has been writing me letters asking me to visit for some time, so I know I’m on the list but there’s no way Deacon would be, which is why he has to wait for me outside.
We both read through the rules a dozen times. I made sure I’m not dressed in clothing similar in appearance to the inmates or the corrections officers. I’m not wearing anything too tight or revealing. I only have my ID on me, nothing else, so there shouldn’t be any reason for them not to allow me entrance.
The drawer slides back open. My license is inside along with a laminated card.
“Please read the instructions and give me a verbal response that you understand the rules.”
I read the card.
The inmate you are approved to visit is allowed contact. Visitors may embrace (hug) and exchange a brief kiss, to indicate fondness, not a lingering kiss, with their visitor at the beginning and end of the visit. During the visit, the only contact permitted is holding hands. Excessive displays of affection or sexual misconduct between people in prison and visitors is strictly prohibited. Any improper contact between a person in prison and visitor shall be grounds for stopping the visit immediately.
I drop the card back into the drawer and look at the guard. “I understand the rules.”
“Proceed to the screening area. You are allowed a maximum visit of two hours.”
I get in another line. This one is similar to TSA at the airport. IDs are shown again and all belongings are put through an X-ray machine while we walk through a metal detector. What makes this different from the airport screenings are the large dogs being held on chains by more guards.
I can’t imagine a scenario where you would risk sneaking in contraband past those dogs.
Once we clear the security area, we are loaded on an old school bus that’s been painted white with the prison’s official name down the side. It’s a short ride to the building where we will finally be able to meet with the inmates. From my research, the moment I stated I was here to see Paul, guards would notify him that he had a visitor and start the process of bringing him to meet me.
We’re ushered off the bus into a large rectangular building. It’s a big open space with tables scattered through the room. By the time I make my way to an empty one, I can feel the sweat trickling down my back. I’m not sure I’ve ever been more nervous in my life.
A guard approaches me and asks, “Name of inmate you’re visiting?”
“Paul Granger.”
He nods and makes a note on his clipboard before walking away.
The room is full of people since visiting hours started at noon, and so loud I can hardly hear myself think, which may be a good thing. Guards patrol the room, enforcing the limited contact we all had to agree to before coming inside.
I spot Paul the second he enters the room. The guard points him in my direction, and it’s not long before he’s sitting down across from me. Even though it’s only been ten years, he looks like he’s aged twice that. He’s forty, but he’s almost completely gray and his face is wrinkled and leathery.
It feels like my throat is closing up. Like I can’t swallow my saliva.
“I can’t believe you’re here. That you came to see me after all these years.” He looks relieved. Happy in a way that makes me uncomfortable.
He waits for me to say something, anything, but I can’t seem to make my mouth work.
“Aubrey, are you okay?”
This is my first time in the same room with him since he was sentenced to prison. I jerk my head in a nod, finally taking a deep breath, then clear my throat. “I have some questions to ask you.”
