The Best Buddhist Writing 2010 - Melvin McLeod [20]
She beamed up at me. Then, nearly in tears, she responded, “Oh, thank you, young man,” in a voice so loud that everyone in the lobby spun around, including the hospital employees behind their desks. Then I noticed her hearing aids; she wasn’t aware of how loud her voice carried. Some of the people were smiling at our exchange.
I knew I’d been impulsive, but I just had to say something to somebody! Outside the prison, people didn’t seem to talk to each other. Was it the orange jumpsuit? The several pounds of chains around my waist, and the restraints around my hands, that were to blame for the hush-hush in the lobby? Everyone in the lobby kept their own space, even when they were seated next to each other. Nobody seemed to acknowledge that someone else was sitting right there—not even the kids! I would have been so hyper at their age, but they weren’t saying anything, not even bouncing around in their chairs. They were too well behaved, just frozen stiff.
As I was escorted out, I again noticed the guy with the newspaper held up over his face. I couldn’t help but ask, “Dickerson, is that you? Is that you, Dickerson?” He didn’t look up at first. I could feel a guard giving my waist-chain a tiny push to say, Keep moving, when the newspaper came down. Behind the glasses was my counselor, cracking a smile. He let the glasses slide down his nose so I could see his eyes.
“Man, Dickerson,” I said. “I thought that was you! What in the world you doin’ here?”
My counselor still didn’t say a word, but gestured to the guards that I could stop walking. He looked down, folded the newspaper, then looked up at me again, leaning back in his seat, grinning. His eyes were signaling me to take a look around to see for myself why he was there. In the thin second it took me to scan the lobby, I saw familiar faces here and there—even behind the front desk—of both men and women. They were all prison guards dressed in plain clothes, scattered all over the lobby.
Holy shit! I said to myself. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Where did they all come from? My counselor got up from his seat. Through subtle hand movements, quietly and effortlessly, he directed all the guards to begin their exits, with some in front of me and others behind. There were more guards stationed outside in the parking lot.
When my escorts put me back in the car, I saw the plainclothesmen searching the bushes around the parking lot. Then state cars pulled up alongside them, picking them up one by one. I turned to the guard beside me. “Man, what is all this secret service stuff? Some sort of presidential escort you guys got goin’ on?”
“Well, Mr. Masters,” he answered, “you’re a very important person to the state of California. We don’t want to lose you.”
“Aw, come on! Give me a break!”
“No, seriously,” the guard responded. “We know your supporters want you out of San Quentin. We just tryin’ to make sure it doesn’t happen today!”
“You thought my supporters would be here at the hospital waiting to break me out? Is that why you were all hush-hush about where I was going?” I asked.
“All I can tell you,” he said, “is that we’d rather be safe than sorry! Whenever we transport a prisoner outside the prison, especially a condemned prisoner, every precaution is taken to ensure that we get you where you’re going and return you safely.”
As we drove out of the parking lot, I saw a state car in front of us and two others directly behind, all carrying plainclothes guards. “Tell me something,” I asked the guard. “Have all these other cars been with us since we left San Quentin? Because I know I saw Dickerson walking out of the prison parking lot, and I’ve been wondering how he could have been sittin’ in the lobby when we arrived.”
“You’re going to have to ask Dickerson that,” he answered.
I hoped the ride would be slowed by lots of red lights.
I