“Not here! But I don’t want to drive my car…”
“I can pick you up. I have something I need to do around lunch and then I can head that way.”
“Okay, Hank. I’ll see you when you get here.” And the call ends.
Glancing at my watch, I think through what I need to do between now and then.
It’s time to have a conversation with Paul.
To outsiders, the Angola Prison Rodeo must seem too ridiculous to be real. Every Sunday in October, the prison that houses the most dangerous criminals in the state of Louisiana opens its door to folks of all ages.
There are the usual events you expect to see at a rodeo: bull riding and barrel racing, but there are some that are unique to Angola. There’s convict poker, where the inmates sit at a poker table in the middle of the arena then a wild bull is released and runs straight through their card game. The person who stays seated the longest wins. And then you have one event called wild cow milking, which is exactly what it sounds like.
The inmates who sign up, risking life and limb, have their reasons, I guess. Any prize money is deposited in their commissary account, which they can use to purchase such luxury items as a new toothbrush, an extra blanket, or even specialty foods. And I’m assuming the bragging rights to winning Angola’s version of the chariot races come with their own benefits. Plus, prison life is stagnant. Every day is the exact same. I would think getting to break that routine while you train to ride a bull would be enticing.
The inmates who have creative skills get to take part as well. They have a chance to peddle their wares from behind a twelve-foot-high fence that is topped with razor wire. Their products, everything from belts and bags to wooden signs to jewelry to clothing, will be laid out on tables onthe other side of the fence. They are free to haggle with customers for the best price for their handmade creations and it’s a safer way to make some money.
While most will make their deals from behind the fence, the ones who have exemplified model behavior are rewarded with a level of freedom they haven’t had since being incarcerated. Those inmates will be under a different shed, where they sit behind their table with no fence separating them from their customers. This is where Paul Granger will be, which I discovered after reviewing Paul’s file again this morning.
I’ve been to this rodeo once before, in college. A big group of us drove over and spent the afternoon watching the absolute chaos and mayhem of the events. Didn’t walk through the arts and crafts part, though.
It’s not uncommon for friends and family members of inmates to buy a ticket for the day and spend their entire time next to them while they conduct their business. I figure I can use that same model to get a few minutes to talk to Paul, off the record of course.
There are guards everywhere, armed to the teeth, but the process to get in is relatively easy. No bags on me so all I have to do is empty my pockets and walk through the metal detectors. Then I’m inside.
The air is thick with the scents of grilled hamburgers and hot dogs, popcorn and churros. The open-air sheds are long but the shade is welcome since the temperature is still in the nineties even though it’s mid-October.
Every inmate behind every table is turned toward the main gate, hopeful either that someone special has shown up to spend the day with them or about the possibility of a big sale that will fatten their account to last until the craft show opens again in the spring.
I’ve met with Paul once so I know who I’m looking for, but by the third aisle, I’m thinking he’s not here. He could have gotten into trouble andthey wouldn’t let him participate today. Or he sold everything in the earlier shows and is out of inventory. I worry momentarily that this is a wasted visit.
Then I spot him. I head to his table, but a family of five beats me there.
“Oh, I love these! Did you make all this yourself?” The mom of the group is picking through the leather goods he has laid out on his table in front of him.
I take this time to study everything he’s selling. He hasn’t noticed me yet since he’s giving the group in front of him his full attention.
Paul had just turned thirty when he was locked up, and there’s no reason to believe he possessed this skill prior to that, so not only did he learn a new craft but he has perfected it. There are braided leather bracelets and necklaces, wide cuffs and belts in every size, and some cool bookmarks. I spot several items that match the ones he gifted Aubrey. The stitching is nice, as are whatever tanning techniques he uses to get the finished color he does. Outside these gates, he could sell these pieces for ten times what he charges in here.
“The leather comes from the cows here after they’re butchered for our food. They weren’t killed for their hide, which I think is important. Everything is handsewn. You won’t find better quality anywhere else.” He is right to be proud of his work.
He haggles with the dad over a bracelet his daughter wants until they finally agree on a figure only slightly less than the original amount.
Once that family moves on, Paul turns his attention to me. It’s clear he recognizes me instantly.
“What are you doing back?” He has a deer-in-the-headlights look. I’m sure he’s heard of Ben’s murder, which would make my visit worrisome.
“Your work is beautiful.”
A smile stretches across his face at my compliment and he relaxes abit. “Thank you. Not much else to do in here.” Then his guard is back up. “Why are you here?”
“Honestly? I’ve got a couple of questions I hope you’ll answer.”
“About my case?”
I shake my head. “No. About Aubrey Price.”
He takes a step back. “Why, because she came to visit me?”
