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On Christmas Day my second year in prison for murder, my mother stopped coming to visit. In August, she missed my twenty-fifth birthday. Try to understand. Eventually my sister quit coming; she had a lot on her mind with her van full of kids — and no husband. Two or three times a month. Goes on your record as good behavior. You get a cell in the main building and you could talk to guys, set things up. You need a magnifying glass to read the print on the last two pages.
I needed parole, miraculous DNA evidence, a new trial. No one cares. We checked. She was a paralegal before she went back to grad school. Arrested once, but never charged. I signed her papers with a bump-and-a-line so no one could ever read my name.
The researcher, a Ms. Pearlstein, shows up the next day for our first session; she wants to see how things might go. She was maybe five feet two, wore these thick glasses made the dark of her eyes look like raisins, and her voice had this whine like an echo of metal cut with a circular saw. She was sitting on a folding chair with her skinny legs crossed, her head tilted down. She asked me a few questions, like how I felt about prison, and if I was guilty.
She wanted to talk about the crime and my punishment. What did I care? I was feeling like an eagle soaring. She frowned, then glared at me like she could see in my brain.
How you felt. I know the trial transcripts well. Trials deal with evasions of the truth. I waited. You think I lied? I want to know what you and Hershel Cracken were thinking, moment by moment. She was writing again, and I was staring at her when a thought came to me like being run over by an eighteen-wheeler. I work for justice. And I will try to find out any detail that might help in an appeal.