The Buck Stops Here (12 page)

“I don’t remember much about that day,” I admitted softly.

“That’s funny,” he replied. “Because I’ve never been able to forget it.”

Eleven

I was in a daze once the officer left, my mind reeling.

James Sparks hadn’t been drunk after all? Surely, that couldn’t be true. I looked in my notes for the phone number of Harry Stickles, the man who had chased down the speedboat in his own boat and then tackled James Sparks on the dock.

His wife said he was out in the yard, working on the car, and that he would have to call me back. I told her it was urgent, so she asked me to hold on and then set the phone down with a clunk. I listened as she yelled for her husband. After about two full minutes, it sounded as though he had come inside.

“Don’t get grease on the phone,” she said in the background.

“I won’t,” he said irritably. Then he spoke into the phone. “Hello?”

“Mr. Stickles,” I said, “this is Callie Webber again, the one who called about the boating accident. I’m sorry to bother you, but I just have one more question for you.”

“Oh, it’s no bother,” he replied. “But call me Harry, please.”

“Sure,” I said. “Harry. I just wanted your impression of James Sparks that day you caught him at the Docksider.”

“My impression?”

“About his…about him being so drunk. His blood alcohol level was very high. I’m sure he must’ve been pretty out of control?”

“Naw, on the contrary,” he said. “He was upset at first, but then he got real quiet. I was surprised when the paper said he’d been drunk at the time. Sure didn’t seem drunk to me.”

“Did you smell alcohol on him?”

“Not that I noticed, but then again, I had already had one beer myself, so maybe I wouldn’t have smelled it anyway.”

“I see.”

“He sure wasn’t out of his head, though. I mean, I know drunks. I’ve seen my share around here, that’s for sure.”

He cracked up laughing, his laugh finally turning to a cough. I waited for the spell to be over before I spoke again.

“So you would say he definitely did not seem drunk at the time?”

“That is correct. He did not seem drunk at the time, though I guess he might’ve been. Some folks is quiet drunks, you know. Takes all kinds.”

I thanked him for his help and concluded the call, knowing what I had to do next. The time had come to see Sparks in person. I didn’t feel that I had any other choice.

After stopping in a convenience store for a small fruit salad in a cup, I drove back to Melville and then hit the interstate once again and headed south toward the state prison in Surry.

I had a little trouble finding it once I got there, because the road to the prison wasn’t well marked. Still, that came as no real surprise. Most counties didn’t exactly like to advertise the locations of places that brought down property values.

Finally, I found a small, brown sign that simply said “Virginia State Prison, Next Right.” I turned and followed a long road that wound through deserted farmland, finally reaching a checkpoint with a guard and a tall barbed-wire-topped fence branching out on both sides. Large signs warned that both my vehicle and I were now subject to full search.

“May I help you?” the guard asked as I pulled to a stop.

“I’m here to see a prisoner,” I said.

“Are you on his list?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Prisoners have a list of approved visitors. Are you on his list?”

“Oh, yes,” I lied.

The guard eyed me suspiciously.

“What’s his name and your name?” he asked. “I’ll take a look.”

“He’s James Sparks,” I said, feeling my face turn red. “My name is Callie Webber.”

He stepped into the booth, the rail remaining in the down and locked position. Up ahead, I could see two guard towers flanking the roadway, each with an armed and uniformed officer inside.

“How’re you spelling that?” he asked me finally. “His name, I mean.”

“S-P-A-R-K-S,” I said. “James.”

He went back to his computer but finally came back out, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, but there’s no one here by that name. Have you ever visited him here before?”

“No,” I whispered, feeling my lunch rise in my throat. James Sparks wasn’t even here.

What was going on?

“I’m sorry, but is there someone I could talk to, please? The man is supposed to be here serving a sixteen-year sentence for manslaughter.”

He went back into the booth and then came back out and handed me a preprinted sheet of paper. On it were listed several websites and telephone numbers, with the heading “Prisoner Locator Services.”

“Chances are he got reassigned to another prison,” he said, his demeanor a little kinder now. “You just call them numbers or go to them websites and type in his name. You’ll find him.”

“Thank you,” I said numbly.

Then I backed up the way he indicated and drove out of there.

I headed back to the town of Surry and once again sought out a library. I couldn’t find one, so instead I went to a nearby coffee shop where a small sign in the window read “free wi-fi.” I parked at an empty meter just outside the shop and went inside.

I ordered tea and took the paper cup to an empty table, facing my back to the wall and pulling out my laptop.

The connection was good and I was online soon. Fortunately, there weren’t many other customers in the shop so the tables around me were empty. I was glad to be left to myself as I sipped my tea and searched for information.

Heart pounding, I went to the first website on the list and typed in Sparks’ name. He wasn’t listed in that system, so I moved along to the next. I ended up working my way through all of the state prisons in Virginia, North Carolina, Maryland, and Delaware, all to no avail. Sparks’ name simply didn’t register.

Finally, I came to the last resource on the list, the Federal Prison Locator System. I entered the name “Sparks, James,” expecting another dead end. Instead, it responded with a prison name and address: FCI Berwick, Tobacco Road, Box 1001, Berwick, Georgia. It listed phone and fax numbers and then, under “Security Level,” it said “Minimum/Male.”

James Sparks was currently incarcerated in a minimum security men’s federal prison in Berwick, Georgia. Or at least that’s what the computer said. But that made no sense to me. Considering his crime, he should be in a state prison in Virginia, not a federal prison in Georgia—and especially not one that was minimum security!

I logged off, put my laptop away, tossed out my empty cup before visiting the restroom, and returned to my car. Once I was in the driver’s seat, I pulled out my cell phone. It took phone calls to several different branches of the correctional system, but finally I was able to confirm that yes, indeed, one James Sparks was currently incarcerated at the Berwick Federal Correctional Institution in Berwick, Georgia. Of course, there was a chance that this was a different James Sparks, but since they wouldn’t tell me the nature of his conviction over the phone, the only way I could know for certain was to go there and see him in person. As to why he was there and not where he was supposed to be, I didn’t have a clue. The best I could assume was that he was a former NSA agent and that somehow, upon his arrest, special provisions had been made.

Remembering the guard at the gate of the Virginia State Prison, I asked about visiting restrictions for Berwick. Much to my surprise, even though Sparks was at a minimum security facility, I would still have to be on a list of approved visitors in order to get in to see him.

The woman who was helping me said that the process for putting my name on a prisoner’s visitor list involved submitting an application which would take at least a month to process.

“A month!” I cried.

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied. “All this information is on our website. He would’ve made up his list of visitors when he was first incarcerated, and then everyone on his list would’ve all put in applications and gotten background checks. The only way he can add your name now is if you had a relationship with him prior to his incarceration.”

The more she talked, the more hopeless my situation appeared to be. I had no idea it would be so difficult to get a face-to-face meeting with the man who had killed my husband.

“What about special approval from the warden?” I asked, grasping for straws.

“Put it this way,” she said, not unkindly. “Unless you’re clergy or a lawyer, you’re really out of luck.”

A lawyer. Of course. I could get in to see him as a lawyer!

Thanking her for her help, I opened up my computer one more time and went back to the bureau of prison’s website. I scanned the rules for attorney visits to federal prisons. From what I could see, the process was fairly straightforward and merely required that I make arrangements ahead of time with the warden.

Once I was done with that, I brought a map of Georgia, again needing the big picture of things.

I also bought some bottled water for what was going to be a long drive. Then I sat in my car and plotted out my course. I would take 95 north to 85 south to 185 south, breaking off to local roads at Columbus, Georgia. Calculating my time, I had a feeling the drive would take around 12 hours. Briefly, I considered heading to the nearest airport and flying there instead, but somehow it just seemed easier to drive than to manage airport parking, flight schedules, and rental cars. It was already after 3:00
P.M
., so I figured I could drive halfway, spend the night somewhere in South Carolina, and go the rest of the way in the morning. Saying a quick prayer, I dialed the number of the warden to make my appointment.

In the swirl of confusion surrounding this case and my eagerness to get answers, I had forgotten one fact that now confronted me head on, that tomorrow I would see my husband’s killer, face-to-face, for the very first time.

Twelve

I suppose I should have been better prepared for what I would see once I reached my destination. Unlike the Virginia state prison I had tried to visit the day before, this place had no Fort Knox-like check-in point, no barbed-wire-topped fence, no armed officers looming above the place in guard towers.

Instead, this facility looked like some sort of industrial farm, with an entry point no more secure than what you might find in a gated neighborhood.

The woman in the booth didn’t even come outside but merely slid open her window and asked if she could help me. I had the insane urge to ask for fries and a Coke.

“I’m here to see a prisoner,” I said. “I have an appointment.”

I hadn’t been able to sleep last night and had gotten back on the road by 5:00 this morning. Now it was 11:30
A.M
., and I was in a part of Georgia that was so empty, it gave new meaning to the term “rural.” Though the surrounding countryside was very beautiful, it had felt odd to drive through miles and miles of nothing but woods with only the occasional pecan farm for relief.

The woman asked for my driver’s license, and then she checked it against a list on a clipboard.

“Your appointment’s not till one o’clock,” she said.

“I know. I’m sorry. It took less time to get here than I expected.”

She made a phone call, hung up, and told me that I could go on in and wait in the common room.

“But the men are out working in the field right now,” she added. “They won’t be back until twelve.”

“That’s fine. I don’t mind waiting.”

She pointed to the building I would need, handed back my driver’s license, and raised the gate so I could pass through. I drove ahead and to the right, parking in a “Visitor” spot near the door. Once inside, I faced a window plastered with a list of “Visiting Rules,” which I skimmed while I waited for the man behind the window to get off the phone. According to this list, the prisoners could have paperback books but no hardbacks, and all food items would be x-rayed. I wondered if anyone ever tried to slip a file in a cake anymore.

“May I help you?” the man asked, hanging up the phone.

“I’m here to see a prisoner,” I said, pulling out my driver’s license as the sign directed. I dropped it into a little drawer, which the man slid toward himself on the other side of the glass.