Chapter 19
Aubrey
The Alibi
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.”
He nods rapidly several times. “Ask me anything.”
“In the letter you wrote me, you said there was evidence that would show you weren’t driving your truck that night, but you wouldn’t tell me what that evidence was. I’m here, sitting in front of you, telling you it’s time you share that information. What is it?”
He seems taken aback by my question. I need his answer, though. And there’s no reason he shouldn’t give it to me. He’s never mentioned Foster’s name to me, so he wouldn’t think I knew that’s his source. We only learned who it was because Ben’s PI flipped on him.
The risk we’re taking today is huge, and we need as much information as possible.
We need to know what we’re looking for, whether it’s something digital or physical photos or a voice recording.
Or if it’s just a stack of papers. We need to be able to narrow our search when we’re given the opportunity.
When he doesn’t answer me immediately, I remind him of what he just said. “What happened to ‘ask me anything’?”
“Sorry. I’ll answer you. But please, I’m trusting you with this. You don’t know how easy it is for evidence to disappear. And I’m afraid if the wrong people know what’s out there, that’s what will happen.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t taking this seriously.”
A few more seconds tick by.
“It’s a video from a security camera at the gas station on the corner of the intersection where the accident happened.”
I wait for him to say more but he just watches me.
“And this…person who came to you and told you this, did he say when he got it? Way back then or just recently?”
“He said he got it the morning after the accident.”
“I’m guessing it was a cop who came to see you?” I’m pushing Paul to see if he’ll trust me with Foster’s name. “I mean, who else is checking surveillance cameras the morning after an accident.”
Paul’s eyes get big. “I…uh, please don’t make me answer that.”
So, the answer is no, he’s not trusting me that much.
“Did you ask him why he didn’t turn over the video that morning?”
Paul shrugs. “I did. All he said was, at the time, he was doing someone a favor.”
“But it does show something? Something that would prove you weren’t the driver?”
“Yeah, that’s what he says.”
This is so frustrating on so many levels. “Did he tell you who the driver was?”
Paul shakes his head. “No, he didn’t tell me that.
He didn’t really want to tell me any of this.
He only came here to apologize to me since it was his fault I’m stuck in here.
Told me he found God and he had to make things right.
He knew I didn’t kill your parents, but he let me take the fall for it anyway.
I told him the only way I would forgive him is if he got me out of here.
That’s the only reason he told me about the video.
Then he said he’d try to figure out a way to get me free but that he’s in a tough spot.
There are some very connected people who are gonna be pissed off if he flips on them and he’s worried about his wife and kids.
He asked me not to say anything until he figured out how to get the video to the right people. ”
“But you did tell people. I saw your mom’s posts on social media. She’s telling everybody.”
His eyes squeeze shut, a pained expression crossing his face.
I’m guessing he’s not allowed online so he probably didn’t know.
“She wasn’t supposed to do that. Mama contacted that group that helps us get our case appealed after I told her there was new evidence.
Figured a lawyer’s gotta keep my secrets so that was fine.
But I didn’t know she was going to go public with it like that.
” He runs a hand across his face. “Shit, that’s probably why…
that guy…hasn’t been back. He’s probably pissed at me for telling Mama. ”
I sink back in my chair. Oh, God, Paul doesn’t know. Kevin Foster died more than a month ago.
“I need to go. I’ll be in touch if I discover anything.” I can’t be the one to tell Paul that Foster is dead.
Paul’s face drops. “You’re leaving already? I get up to two hours for a visit.”
“Sorry, I can’t stay any longer.”
He pulls something out of his pocket and pushes it across the table. It’s a leather bookmark. “Thank you for visiting me.”
I don’t touch it and instead look at the guards. One of the rules was very clear—there is no exchange of items between visitors and inmates.
Paul must see the concern on my face because he says, “It’s okay. I got approved to bring this in and give it to you. Since I made it in the shop here, I can gift it to anyone I want.”
It’s not the only handmade leather item I’ve gotten from Paul. He always included something with the letters he sent me.
I pick up the bookmark and then get up from the table, walking quickly to the exit. There’s a process to get out just like there was one to get in.
Finally, I’m on the bus heading back to the entrance.
That was so much harder than I thought it would be.
I may not have gotten all the answers I was looking for, but at least I know what’s supposedly floating around out there.
For ten years I believed he was responsible for my parents’ deaths and now I’m not so sure.
Deacon is waiting for me right as I exit the visitors’ entrance. He pulls me in for a hug as I blink my tears away.
“You okay?”
I nod against his chest.
“Okay, let’s get out of here.”
He leads me to his car, and then we’re back on the road to St. Francisville. Lowering the visor, I start slicking my hair back in preparation for putting the wig and cap back on and fill him in on my visit. “It’s a surveillance video from a gas station.”
“With a clear shot of the driver?”
I shrug. “He made it sound like it was but I’m sure he hasn’t actually seen it. Also, Foster didn’t tell him who was driving. And Paul doesn’t know Foster’s dead.”
Deacon turns the radio down then leans back in his seat. “The best thing we’ve got going for us is no one knows that we’re aware of what Foster’s got in his safe, so it’s good Paul doesn’t know he’s dead. Fear of pissing Foster off is the only thing keeping Paul quiet right now.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“I got a text from Shane while you were in there. They were able to get the tracker on Ben’s Range Rover. So if he takes either that car or the Mustang to Foster’s, we’ll know it.”
I get the wig settled back in place and close the visor. “Okay, good.”
But Ben won’t be the only one who shows up to Foster’s house. Deacon plans on being there too.
“What if he doesn’t go there tonight like we think he will?” I ask, turning in my seat to face him.
“Plan B. We know he has the key and thanks to Shane and Eddie, we know we can get in his house. If he doesn’t go tonight, then we go take the key from Ben and get in the safe ourselves.”
I really hope it doesn’t come to that.
The trip to Angola felt like it took forever, but the ride back to St. Francisville goes by in a blink. We’re back at the feed store. Deacon pulls in the spot in the same corner of the lot where we all met up earlier and throws his car in park.
“I texted Serenity when we left Angola so she should be here any minute,” Deacon says. “You going to be all right here for the rest of the day?”
“Yeah, it’ll be easy. Just going to follow the rest of what she had planned for me to do today.”
“Don’t be afraid to bail if you need to. Don’t get in a bind for her.”
Reaching over, I squeeze his arm. “I’m worried about you. What if things don’t go the way you think they will when Ben goes to Foster’s?”
Deacon gives me a big smile. “Don’t worry about me. This is just regular Saturday-night work.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
He leans closer. “Seriously, don’t worry. He won’t be expecting me. We’re going to surprise him, take whatever he’s got, and be on our way.”
Serenity pulls up, which ends this discussion. I hop out of the car and meet her in front of Deacon’s vehicle.
“All good?” I ask her.
“Yeah, all good.” She gives me a hug and whispers, “Be safe and we’ll see you back at the house.”
I sit in the driver’s seat of Camille’s car and watch them pull away. Glancing at the clock, I calculate how much time until I meet up with Camille. It’s four p.m. so I only have eight hours to go. Nothing more than a shift at the bar.
I put her car in drive and stop at the first boutique I come to. Time to spend some money.