"We''re all prisoners of our minds." Charles Promise liked to let the words hang in the air before he continued. "Doesn''t matter which side of these cell bars you''re on. The bars don''t imprison you, your thoughts and feelings do. The bars won''t set you free either, only your thoughts and feelings will. Someday you''ll leave here. But when that day comes will you step out of prison a free man?" With a nerve-grating scrape of metal on metal, my cell door sliced open. I sat on the edge of my bunk mesmerized, unable to move, pondering Promise''s words.
After two years in prison, I was being set free. I was anxious to reclaim my life. Yet, from the pit of my stomach a hot swell of anger rose. I swallowed hard to keep it down. I''d served this time for murdering Danny Rodrigues. Now thanks to a smart lawyer I was temporarily free. I wanted to avenge Danny''s murder and I wanted to vindicate myself. But I feared that this firestorm of anger would consume me first.
"Time, Shannon," a guard called out. He strummed the bars with his nightstick, beating out a one-note metallic dirge that ricocheted off the cellblock walls. I stepped out of my cell. I nodded to the guard and then walked along slowly as he trailed me. We call this "walking the long mile." It''s a term of honor, reserved for inmates taking their last steps down Death Row or their first steps toward freedom. A familiar musty smell hung in the air. Under my feet, the concrete felt hard and unforgiving.
I walked past men standing silently in their cells. Our gazes met. Their eyes were fixed straight ahead, unflinching, an inmate''s salute of defiance and respect. As a former NYPD detective, I never thought that I would earn the respect of convicted criminals, nor they mine. Now after two years in prison, I believe I knew why these men stood silently for me this morning. They saluted not the crimes for which we were convicted but the spirit within each of us that allowed us to survive in here day after day. I slowed my pace and leaned over the railing for one last look down at the concrete floor four flights below. In my two years here, six men had taken this plunge.
Some were pushed. Others jumped willingly. It''s said that in the split seconds before hitting the floor, one has an unimaginable feeling of freedom. "Move on, Shannon," the guard behind me growled, jabbing his nightstick into my back. I stumbled forward but stopped at "the penthouse." I didn''t care about the guard, or his nightstick. Neither could keep me from saying goodbye to my friend, Charles Promise. I reached through the cell bars and clasped Promise''s hand.
Our thumbs locked. Beneath his sagging flesh, I felt his bones. "Thanks," I said. "Wasn''t nothing, John," he replied, looking me in the eyes, searching not saluting. Then his gaze softened. I let mine do the same. Promise and I stared at each other with our hands clasped. My palm grew warm.
In his early seventies, Promise''s dark brown skin was wrinkled, drawn at the corners of his eyes and lips. His light gray hair bordered on white. He had a prominent nose and deep, penetrating eyes. A serene smile always seemed to grace his lips. Behind Promise, a thin blue light painted the early morning view from his barred window. On each level, the inmate closest to the stairs had a window, but only Promise, from his top-level cell, looked beyond the prison''s walls. The guard jabbed me harder, then barked, "Come on, Shannon." I grit my teeth but I did not move.
"Ease up on him, Tom," Promise said, his voice floating like a feather from his darkened cell. "He''s ''walking the long mile'' this morning. Let him walk it in his own time, in his own way." Promise''s voice had a hypnotic quality. The young white guard simply stared at the old black man. I''d witnessed this scene many times: A few quiet words from Promise calming an inmate or a guard. I believe Promise could do this because he''d been here in this same prison for so long. In some cases, he''d actually seen the fathers and grandfathers of inmates and guards come and go.
His thin, ebony body was stooped now, though his arm muscles hinted of a once younger, robust man. He had an uncanny worldliness about him. In all his years inside prison, I bet he''d seen a lot more of life than the average person sees outside. I believe that Promise had found peace with his lifetime incarceration, and that gave him tremendous power over others on both sides of the cell bars seeking a similar peace in their lives. I dropped my hand and Promise pulled his inside. "Been two years," he said, his voice still a whisper. "Walking out may shock your system." "I''ll manage," I said.
"I get to see my wife. and my son. That''ll help." "That boy needs you," Promise said. I smiled. "He''s thirteen now. Bet he thinks he''s grown and doesn''t need anyone." "I needed my father, and he wasn''t there for me.
You needed your father and he wasn''t there for you. JJ needs his father, and you can be there for him now." "I want to make up for lost time with him and with Liz." "Man leaving prison doesn''t always get a hero''s welcome," Promise said. "Don''t be surprised if JJ''s angry ''cause you left him for two years." "Didn''t want to." "It''s his feelings that matter, not the facts." I nodded.
"Don''t be surprised if Liz''s angry, too." "''Cause I left her?" "Yes, and ''cause she''s had a long time alone to think about what she really wants. Something''s churning inside her or she wouldn''t have sought a separation." "Now that my conviction''s been overturned she and I can talk and set things straight between us. I want to start over," I said. "May have less to do with your conviction then you think. It''s her feelings that matter, not the facts," Promise said. "But there are some facts that do matter," I said.
"Like who killed Danny Rodrigues, and who framed me for his murder. Those facts I''ve got to discover." "And I believe you will." Promise nodded. "But don''t push the river. Let it come to you." I nodded back. "I''ll come to see you," I said.
Promise''s eyes brightened. "I''d like that," he said. I''m sure he''d heard similar promises from other inmates "walking the long mile." He fixed his gaze on me. His eyes moved slowly, deliberately, as though he was searching for something inside me. Maybe he already knew the truth of the promises I''d just made. Maybe he was searching for the truth in places within me I had yet to discover. The guard let us finish our exchange and when Promise''s smile widened, I knew he''d found what he''d been searching for.
"Whatever comes your way, you''re gonna do just fine. I can see that," he said. "May not be easy, but you''re gonna do just fine." "Thanks," I said. I turned to leave, moving slower now. Whenever I walked away from Promise, I felt like I carried the added weight of his words. The guard''s heavy boots clunked on the metal steps down. Bed springs squeaked as men flopped back onto their bunks.
At the end of a long corridor illuminated with rows of fluorescent lights, we stopped in front of an office with a metal Dutch door. The guard shoved past me, then rapped his nightstick on the door, sending two dull thuds racing down the hallway and back. The top half of the door swung open. "Shannon, John M," the guard on the other side said in a low monotone. He pushed a paper my way. I signed for my possessions. He handed me a large envelope. But he held on.
He set a cold piercing gaze in his eyes. The edges of his lips curled into a sneer. "You lucky son-of-a-bitch," he said. "You kill another cop and then you beat the rap." He sounded like a viper hissing. I tugged on the envelope, but the guard would not let go. His eyes said, Go ahead. Rip it from my hands.
Give me one last excuse to beat you. And I wanted to rip it from his hands. I wanted to rip my life from every hand that had stolen these two years from me. "You''ll be back," the guard said, adding a malevolent chuckle. "Just like homing pigeons, you black guys find your way back here." I hardened my stare, while the firestorm inside me grew. Then I remembered what Promise had done moments ago; what he''d told me many times: Not the eyes of a raging bull about to run into a matador''s sword, but the eyes of a man steady within himself, who takes control by projecting quiet strength. I softened my gaze, still holding on to the envelope.
Suddenly, the guard let go and then he slammed the upper half of the door in my face. I opened the envelope and turned it on its end. I couldn''t remember all the parts of me I''d given up when I stepped inside this prison. My wallet fell out, and it shocked me to see my photograph on an outdated driver''s license. I wasn''t bald then. I felt more inside the envelope, but I decided to wait for a quiet moment away from here before rediscovering these lost pieces of myself. Moments later, I walked the final steps of my "long mile," through the prison''s front gate. I squinted and when my eyes finally adjusted to the brilliant sunshine of this early October morning, I saw the rolling hills of upstate New York aflame in reds, yellows and oranges against a cobalt blue, cloudless sky.
Early morning traffic whizzed by in both directions in front of the prison. Chilly air kissed my face and found its way through the weave of my sweater. I shivered slightly, but it felt invigorating.