She was early. Andi sat in her car for a good hour, searching her soul for courage. Courage to retreat or courage to go forward, she wasn't certain. Courage to make a choice, perhaps. But then time ran out. You don't need to choose when the path is clearly laid out for you. She got out of the car, crossed the parking lot, and entered the prison.
She was expected, but there were still security procedures that had to be followed. She secured her purse in the provided locker, empting her pockets at the same time. The sign said to hold onto her I.D., so she kept that in her hand as she shut the locker and chose her combination. She walked to the security window. In a frail voice, she said, "I'm here to visit Inmate James Whitfield."
The guard pointed to a sign on the window, instructing her to slide her I.D. through the slot. She did so, and waited as he copied down the information. "Your name?" he asked.
"Andi Burns," she replied. The guard glanced at the driver's license, then back at her face, telling her silently to try again. "Andrea Michelle Burns."
"Warden wants to talk to you," the guard said. "Go to the gate and I'll buzz you in."
"My I.D.?"
"You'll get it when you leave."
Andi walked to the gate and pulled it open when she heard the buzz. On the other side, an angry-looking guard told her to follow him. He led her through two service doors which unlocked remotely as they approached them. Someone was watching their progress on the surveillance system.
The second door led to a carpeted hallway with offices on either side. Andi followed the guard to a door marked, "Warden." At the guard's knock, a voice called out, "Enter!"
The warden was an obese man with thinning hair and a red face. He pointed to a chair in front of his desk and glared at her as she sat down. "You a lawyer?" he asked.
"What are you? Why are you here?"
"I'm not supposed to say."
"And I'm not supposed to ask you any questions. But I'm asking. You ain't going any further if I don't get some answers."
Andi breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't going to let her in. Courage not necessary. She stood up. "Okay, thank you. Can I leave now?"
"You want to leave?"
"I wasn't thrilled to come here in the first place. And I signed a paper saying would keep my reasons for being here private. If I answer your questions, I go to prison myself. So I guess leaving is my only choice."
For a long moment, the warden stared at her. "Fuck!" he said finally, standing up and coming around the desk. Her spirits sank and she realized her visit was happening after all.
The warden led her from the office, down the carpeted hallway, and through a locked, heavy door at the end. On the other side was a bewildering labyrinth of concrete halls and cage doors. There were no windows and the only artwork were the words, "Respect," "Dignity," and "Honor," stenciled on the walls.
A secure elevator, accessed by a numbered keypad, took them to the third floor. As they exited, the warden said, "We don't do this here, Ms. Burns. Not ever. Someone with a lot of juice arranged the meeting. The governor himself ordered me to make this happen. I'm breaking my own rules and I don't even know why. I don't like that."
Andi remained silent. She wasn't sure she wanted to be here, but the warden's attitude was starting to really piss her off. The courage she'd been lacking was starting to develop, a stubborn determination to go through this just to defy this shithead warden. She understood his dislike for this duty, but he had no choice. It was his duty and his hostile, unprofessional attitude was not going to change anything.
They exited the elevator into a large, high-security reception room. A small holding cell was on the left. On the right was a guard sitting at a bank of monitors. Straight ahead was a cage door, and beyond that was a metal walkway with floor-to-ceiling chain link fencing on one side and cell doors on the other.
"Here we are, Ms. Burns," the shithead announced. "Welcome to Death Row. Inmates get out of their cells twice a day, one at a time. They walk up and down the catwalk for an hour, then go back in. If they refuse to go back, we hit them with pepper spray and we come in heavy, six officers with batons, to drag them back, and they don't come out again. Meals, meds, and mail are delivered through a slot in the door. Only trained personnel are authorized to be here. You do not belong."
"Obviously, I do belong. The warden himself escorted me here."
The warden scowled at her flippancy. The guard smirked and stood up. "All right, Ms. Burns," he said. "You can belong. But I have to search you."
"Isn't a female guard supposed to do that?"
"Supposed to, yes. But females seldom qualify for this duty. There are height, weight, and strength requirements."
"Fine," Andi said. She put up her arms and waited.
"Nope, the guard said with a leer. "Strip."
"No way!"
"Ma'am, this is maximum security. Everyone strips before going past this point. I gotta do it when I come on duty. My relief has to do it before he takes over. We have extremely dangerous men housed here. They're waiting for their execution date and might do anything to escape. Nobody gets through that gate unless I have verified that they aren't smuggling anything in."
Burning with embarrassment, Andi took off her skirt and blouse and heels, and handed them to the guard, who searched each garment before setting them on a chair to the side. She stood there, in bra and panties, glaring at the guard, trying hard to ignore the grinning warden.
The guard looked at her and shook his head. "Nope. Everything," he insisted.
What the hell, Andi decided. She was about to whore for the CIA. Why not start with a striptease? She took off her underwear and handed it over. The guard made her turn around, then crouch and cough. When she stood up, he handed back most of her clothing.
"The hooks in your bra could be used as weapons. Same with the high heels. They've gotta stay here."
A wild recklessness was rising in Andi. She put on the skirt and blouse and waited for the guard to unlock the door. "Keep the bra. Keep the panties, too. My special gift to you. Sniff them as you jack off. And say my name when you come."
"What's your name?" the guard asked.
"Andrea," she lied. "Remember it."
"Will do. Go down the catwalk. Fourth door. I'll unlock it when you get there."
He handed her a rolled up poster and a roll of tape. "Cover the window with this if you want privacy. Take it down when you leave. Whitfield can keep the poster, but bring me back the tape. Lock yourself in the cell with him, if you're determined to do this. You have three hours."
The guard unlocked the cage door and Andi walked through. Then the door closed behind her, locking her in. Breathing hard, she took stock of her surroundings. She had the impression of clinging to the side of a cliff. On one side was the cinderblock wall with heavy metal doors every few feet. On the other was a steep drop. Beneath her feet was a metal walkway, separated from the drop by chain-link fencing. Across the chasm was a wall of windows where guards could keep an eye on these high-security prisoners without ris k of the inmates coming over and creating a threat.
Andi marveled at her situation. She felt incredibly vulnerable. She was barefoot, wearing just a skirt and blouse with no underwear. She was walking alone, and nearly naked, through a men's prison. She was like the cheerleader showering in the football team's locker room or the girl at the beach who had just lost her swimsuit in the waves.
She could see the men's faces as she walked past their cells. The doors were heavy duty steel, painted a dull blue. There was a large window in each door, a clear plastic pane with a wire mesh inside, depriving each man of any privacy.
Each man rushed to his window as she passed by, eager to see their first female in years, and burning with curiosity as to why she was here. But she couldn't enlighten them. Her business was a national secret. And she did not have permission to pass it to any but one.
At the fourth window, she stopped. This was it. Behind this door was James Whitfield. There was no turning back now. The buzzer sounded and the door unlocked. Andi took hold of its handle and pulled it open.
Whitfield looked up in surprise from the book he was reading as Andi entered his cell. He was in his mid-fifties, with a handsome face and fine blonde hair that hadn't seen a barber or a stylist in some years. He sat up slowly and carefully dog-eared the page he was on before setting the book aside.
"Who are you?" he asked in a cultured voice and a European accent. "Why are you here?"
