CHAPTER FIVE
New Life
Rio—
The white prison bus bounces over every pothole as we make our way out of Las Cruces. Every jarring motion tugs at the cuffs around my wrists that are manacled to an iron ring welded to the seat in front of me. My leg aches from my wound, even though the doctors were able to get the bullet out. I walk with a slight limp now, but they think that will eventually disappear when my muscle damage heals.
I gaze out the barred windows, glimpsing my last view of people walking the streets and living their ordinary lives. Two kids ride their bikes down the sidewalk. They drop them to the ground and dash into a convenience store. The bus stops at a light and idles. A moment later, the kids come out with popsicles and the bus lurches forward as the light turns green.
Watching those kids reminds me of when I was their age, riding bikes with Zig to escape our sucky home lives. Until one day when the bikes became motorcycles and boys turned to men.
The bus makes a turn and everything squeaks.
I stare at the torn black vinyl on the seat in front of me, and my mind drifts to my day in court. I remember my shock when the district attorney called Miss Shelby Lynch to the stand. It was the first time I’d seen her in months. She was dressed in the same outfit she was wearing that morning at the bank, but this time her hair was down, and she looked more like the girl I met at Blitzy’s.
As she swore on the bible to tell the truth, I couldn’t help wondering how damning her testimony would be, but instead, she defended me… or at least tried. The district attorney cut off her answers when he didn’t like them. When he asked if a gun was fired, she told them how I’d knocked my conspirator’s gun toward the ceiling, stopping him from shooting her and saving her life. She testified I never fired my weapon, and I was not the one who hit the guard.
In the end, as much as I appreciated her efforts, it wasn’t much help.
Armed robbery convictions are second-degree felonies in New Mexico for a first offender like me. The penalty is up to nine years.
It only took the jury four hours to convict me.
The judge gave me the maximum, so I’m on my way to prison for almost a decade of my life. I know these assholes will never give me early parole. I wouldn’t play ball and turn over the names of my associates. That pissed them off to no end.
It’s one-hundred and seventy-seven miles and a little over a three-hour drive from the Dona Ana County Courthouse in Las Cruces to the Roswell Corrections Facility.
We travel thru White Sands to the north where the missile range is located, then on past Hollman Air Force Base and through Alamogordo. Then up and over the mountains where my ears pop as we climb, then back down the other side and then miles and miles of flat empty desert.
Eventually, the bus slows as we come to a crossroads.
The driver downshifts, and the bus chugs around the turn like a lumbering beast.
We pass a sign announcing we’re on prison property.
The road goes on for endless miles and I’m not the only man craning to get a first look at the place. It’s not much. Some square block buildings rising out of the dust, surrounded by barbwire fencing and miles of brown desert as far as the eye can see.
The driver slows and stops at a guard post. He opens the door, and the guard steps on and counts heads, then exits, waving the driver forward.
I’ll spend the next nine years of my life in this shithole, miles from civilization. It’s a sobering thought. If I’m lucky and live to see eighty, that’s like twelve percent of my life. Soon my entire existence will condense down to a six by eight-foot cell.
I take a deep breath and prepare myself mentally, scanning the horizon, taking in this last bit of view. God knows how long it will be before I see freedom again.
By nightfall, I’ve gone through the intake process and am in my new cell with a cellmate who wasn’t happy to see me. Dinner was barely edible, and I’m sure breakfast won’t be any better. I stack my hands under my head and stare at the ceiling. It’s loud in here—louder than I imagined. Every sound echoes, and there’s always someone hollering out something or banging on something. It’s a constant drone I’m already trying to block out. I suppose after a few months I won’t even hear it anymore, like the mother who blocks out her screaming kids at the supermarket.
I close my eyes and try to comprehend the choices I’ve made that led me here. I can’t say I didn’t see this coming. Maybe I’ve known this was where I was headed from the moment I put on those Saint’s Outlaws colors.
I’ve done plenty to deserve to be here, the least of which was knocking over that bank. The Boston chapter has gone through many changes, and it’s gotten darker than it was when I prospected. I never expected to be sent out here to do a drug deal, but once I was out of Boston, I realize how freeing it’s been to be away.
I’m inside three weeks before the first letter arrives.
I’m surprised when the guard slips an envelope through the bars and calls my name.
Taking it, I slump back on my bunk and stare at it. It doesn’t look official, like something from my attorney, but it has a Las Cruces return address. I tear it open carefully so as not to damage the handwritten return address.
It’s two sheets of notebook paper, filled with neat handwriting in blue ink. I flip to the end and read the name.
Shelby .
“Goddamn,” I whisper, stunned she’s written to me and not sure if she’ll be cursing me out in the contents.
Dalton—
I’m sure you weren’t expecting a letter from me, but I needed to tell you how sorry I am you were sent to prison. I know you didn’t want to hurt anyone that day at the bank. You were just after the money. I’m not sure why you needed it, but I suppose you must have had a good reason.
I want you to know I’ll never forget what you did for me the night we met at Blitzy’s. I don’t know what you said to my father, but he hasn’t touched me since. In fact, he walks on eggshells around me now. No one’s ever stood up to him before. So, thank you.
I don’t know what made you do it, but I’ll forever be grateful to you. I know you’re a convicted felon, and that’s bad, but there has to be a part of you that’s good, too. Otherwise, you never would have done that for me.
I’m sorry my testimony didn’t help. They subpoenaed me, and I had to tell the truth.
It was wrong the way that cop beat on you when you were cuffed and obviously couldn’t defend yourself. What kind of a man does that? I thought cops were supposed to be the good guys. Since meeting you, everything I thought was black and white seems to be a million shades of gray. The good guys aren’t so good, and the bad guys aren’t so bad.
It's strange I didn’t even know your name when you wrote your number on my hand. I didn’t learn it until I received the subpoena to testify at your trial. Your name was on the paperwork. The State of New Mexico vs. Dalton McBride.
Is your leg okay? Did they get the bullet out?
Sorry, I guess I sound like I’m rambling.
There’s another reason I wrote this letter—something I wanted to ask you. Would it be okay if I visit you? I looked on the computer, and it says an inmate has to put a person’s name on a list before they’re allowed to visit. Would you put me on your list?
I think about you a lot.
Please write me back. Here’s my address.
2112 Sunnybrook,
Las Cruces. NM 88001
Shelby Lynch
Holy shit.
I wasn’t expecting any of that. Least of all that she’d want to visit me. My first reaction is no. Hell, no. This is no place for a girl like her.
Two days pass before I can’t stand it anymore. Then I get a piece of paper and write her back.
Shelby—
You don’t owe me anything—least of all a thank you. I did a horrible thing. What I put you through that day—the terror you must have felt—I can only tell you how sorry I am.
As far as you visiting me, this is a very depressing place and a long drive from Las Cruces. Visits are only thirty minutes, and you’d be driving over six hours here and back. So, the answer is no, I won’t add you to my visitor list.
I hope you are doing well, and that you are able to get past the trauma I caused you.
Take care of yourself, angel.
Dalton
I stare at it a long time, hesitating. In the end, I can’t resist adding six more words.
P.S. I think about you a lot, too.
“Hey, Pete, you got an envelope I can borrow?”
I never figure I’ll hear from her again, but a week later, another letter comes, then another and another. They mostly tell me about her day and ask me about my life.
I reply, and soon, we’re corresponding like pen pals. I don’t give her too much information about me, just vague details about my childhood, and I never mention the club or even that I ride. She doesn’t need to know any of that. What she seems to need is a confidant—someone other than her best friend to tell her troubles to. I’m more than happy to be that person for her. It’s the least I can do after everything I put her through.
I’ve come to realize just how much I look forward to her letters, and how depressing it is when I’m passed by with just a shake of the guard’s head.
Every time she writes, she asks me to add her to my visitor’s list, and every time I refuse.
One day after I’ve been here almost a year, and it’s closing in on the anniversary of the bank robbery, a letter comes. This one has a photo of her enclosed, one I never dared ask her for. It’s a beautiful shot of her smiling, and it makes me content to know she’s happy. At least, I hope she is. She deserves to be happy.
Dalton—
I’m turning nineteen next month on Sunday, May 25th, and there’s only one thing I want—to come see you.
Please.
—Shelby
I stuff the brief letter into the envelope and stare at the only picture I’ve got taped to the wall. Then I lay on the bed and glower at the ceiling.
Finally, frustrated, I climb from my rack, drop to the floor, and start doing pushups.
Pete rises to his elbow and watches. “What’s the bug up your ass? Bad news?”
“Just shut your damn mouth,” I say through gritted teeth and continue pumping until my muscles burn and my arms start to shake with the effort. Breathing hard, I drop and roll to my back.
“Impressive. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone do that many pushups.” Pete smirks. “This chick must really be getting to you.”
“She wants to visit me.”
“Most guys would be pretty thrilled about that, judging from the photo. What’s the problem?”
“She’ll be nineteen next month.”
“Pretty and young. What’s to complain about?”
“When I get out of here, she’ll be twenty-seven… and I’ll be almost forty.”
“Again, so?”
“If I give her any encouragement, she’ll…”
“She’ll what?”
“I don’t want her wasting years of her life waiting for me and maybe passing up other men and a real chance at happiness.”
“Gee, how do you fit that big head through the cell door?”
“Don’t be a dick. You know what I mean. I did a nice thing for her once, and I think she’s romanticized the whole thing like I’m some kind of goddamn hero.”
“So, don’t put her on the list.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Sure, it is.”
“It’s her birthday next month. Says it’s all she wants.”
“Then let her visit. Maybe she’ll get another look at your ugly mug, and she’ll drop you like a hot potato. Or you break her heart, and on her birthday, too. Then she’ll know you really are an asshole.”
I think about it for a week before I go against my better judgment and fill out the forms to put her on my visitor list. The prison will send her a packet, requesting information. She’ll have to be approved, and I’m cutting it close with the timeframe.
I don’t get any more letters, and the day before her birthday rolls around. It’s a Saturday. Visiting hours are Saturdays, Sundays, and holidays, so I wonder if she’ll come on Saturday or Sunday. Or if she’ll visit at all.
Maybe she changed her mind when she saw all the crap she has to go through.
I slump back on my bunk and stare at the ceiling, wondering how I got to the point of knowing I’m the one who will be disappointed if she doesn’t come.
No one from the club has ever visited me. They can’t. Everyone in the club knows that. I can’t have anyone knowing of my association. Occasionally, for something important, we’ll use a “fake girlfriend” letter to pass information in code, but it’s risky and only used in an emergency. If I ever get a letter from a girl named Teresa, I’ll know. But so far, I haven’t.
I’ve got a lot of tattoos, but my gang affiliation isn’t shown in any of them. There’s symbolism there, but nothing anyone would know about except a member.
It’s important, because that type of thing can influence all sorts of decisions the board of prison can make, from where they put me to who can visit me.
Having these letters from Shelby has been a lifeline, and I don’t know what I’ll do if she stops. I think it’ll be worse than before I read the first one. Because now I have something to lose—something precious. Though I’ve fought it from the start, it’s there—a connection we share that grows stronger by the day.