The Hearing
T
he prison was set back from the highway about a mile. It sat at the top of a hill that gave a sniper ’s view of the surrounding
valley, at the end of a gravel road that passed over a sort of canal. One of New York State’s oldest penitentiaries, it loomed like a me dieval fortress that had been taken over by a race of malignant and warlike beings. Barbed wire sprouted from the ground and from the ramparts, resembling some deadly new species of flesh-shred ding ivy; the ground here was inexplicably gray, splotched with stubborn patches of snow that had resisted the thaw. It was an old prison, as far as prisons went, built a century earlier out of man-sized blocks of dun-colored stone—but, weathered by the de spair that seemed to emanate from the very ground, it had be come ageless in the way that only institutions can.
Michael was driving—Colt was in the back, so that his broken arm could extend unimpeded—and he pulled the Camaro into the visitors’ parking lot. Colt noticed that even in the parking lot, re mote cameras were keeping an eye on them from the tops of the sodium-arc light poles. A sign on one of the poles said
DO NOT
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LEAVE VALUABLES IN CAR
.
PRISON NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR BREAK
-
INS
.
Now that was the funniest thing he’d heard in months, he thought. Prison not responsible for break-ins? Of course not. It was only the breakouts they cared about.
“Jeez, what a depressing place,” said Michael. He turned off the car and sat for a moment, doing deep-breathing exercises.
“You mind letting me out?” Colt asked.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m just doing some cleansing breaths, man,” said Michael. “Can’t you feel it?”
“Feel what?”
“The negativity. The sadness. This place is heavy.”
“It’s a prison,” Colt snarled. “It’s supposed to be heavy. Now let me out.”
❚ ❚ ❚
They walked up the sidewalk together, Michael sticking close to Colt’s side, until they came to the visitors’ entrance, which was a large steel door with a small window in it. They were admitted by a robotic eye that whirred and buzzed at them, and then searched and processed by a series of emotionless guards, who gave them visitor ’s passes to wear on their coats. Then they were sent down a long hallway. All at once, it appeared that they had entered some kind of high school. There were small, thick plastic windows in the doors, and through one of them Colt caught a glimpse of orange-clad men sitting in desks too small for them.
“What room did he say?” Michael whispered. “This one,” Colt said.
They went in one of the doors, finding themselves at the back of the room, and squeezed into the closest empty seats. The hear ing room was exactly like a high school classroom, except that it had folding chairs instead of desks; at the front was a long table, where presently were seated three men and one woman. This, Colt assumed, was the parole board. A number of people were sit
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ting around listening and watching; these must either be the fam ilies of the potential parolees, hoping for an early release—or pos sibly their victims hoping to delay the same. Facing the table was a lone plastic chair, and in it sat an old man. Colt couldn’t see his face, but by his wizened and shrunken posture it seemed he had been in prison for a long time. His orange jumpsuit fell loosely about his shoulders, and he sat huddled into himself, looking down, as if in deep contemplation.
“Is that him?” Michael whispered.
“I don’t know,” Colt said. “I don’t think so.” “You don’t
know
?”
“I haven’t seen him in twenty years.” “He doesn’t know you’re doing this?”
“Doing what?” Colt hissed. “I didn’t say I was doing anything.
We’re just
here
.”
The board was apparently in the middle of a hearing. The woman at the table removed her glasses now and rubbed her fore head.
“So, Mr. Alonso,” she said to the wizened man in the chair, “what you’re telling me is that you do feel you’ve been rehabili tated. Is that it?”
The old man nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“And you were admitted to a court-ordered psychiatric program as well? Did you finish that up, and how did it go?”
“Went good,” said Mr. Alonso. “All done with that now.”
“And what are you going to do, if you get paroled today? What are your plans?” one of the men asked.
Mr. Alonso turned around and pointed to someone seated in the crowd, or the audience, or whatever one called it; Colt could see now that the old man was toothless, his face nothing but a map of wrinkles. Following where he was pointing, Colt saw an other man that looked much like him, except that he had no hair. “That’s my brother,” he said. “He’s been out ten years. He has a
’partment.”
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The free Mr. Alonso stood up and waved at the board members, who nodded at him.
“Your brother was in prison, too?” asked the woman, who, Colt surmised, was in charge of things—the chairman. Or chair woman. Chairperson. Whatever. “For what crime?”
“Robbery,” the imprisoned Mr. Alonso said. “I see. Armed robbery?”
“I believe it was,” said the imprisoned Mr. Alonso. “I see. And you’re in for robbery, too.”
“I tried ta heist a Stop N’ Go. Didn’t get too far.”
“Which means we’d have two convicted robbers living together under the same roof.”
“I’m almost seventy years old,” said the imprisoned Mr. Alonso. “My brother, he’s sixty-three.”
“Right,” said the chairwoman. “But you’re still both convicted felons.”
“And, uh, how do you intend to support yourself?” asked one of the men on the board, who wore a brown three-piece suit, and looked as if he might be bucking for office; serving on a parole board, Colt knew, was one way to break into politics, since it looked good on a resume—and the brown-suited man looked as if he had his sights set on nothing less than the Office of the Presi dent of the United States of America, so eager and serious was his expression.
“Well,” said Mr. Alonso, “there’s a little savin’s-and-loan we’ve had our eye on for quite some time now. No guards, no teller shields. We could be in and out in three minutes, as long as my trick knee isn’t botherin’ me.”
The board remained silent for one long, stunned moment. The free Mr. Alonso rested his head in his hands. The imprisoned Mr. Alonso turned around and looked in his direction, then back at the board.
“Uh-oh,” he said.
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“Right, well, under the circumstances I don’t think the board needs to deliberate,” said the woman, glancing for confirmation at her colleagues—one of whom was apparently trying not to laugh. “At this time, Mr. Alonso, the board finds that it would not be pru dent to commute your sentence to parole, and we hereby recom mend that you continue to serve the remainder of your term, which is—” here she checked a paper in front of her—”three years from this date.”
“Thank you!” said Mr. Alonso. He stood up enthusiastically, apparently with no understanding of what had just taken place. A guard came in to escort Mr. Alonso from the room, and the spec tators began talking among themselves in a low buzz.
“He acts like they’re taking him to Disneyland,” said Michael. “If that had been him” said Colt, but he didn’t finish that
thought.
The free Mr. Alonso got up and left the room, still shaking his head. The board member who had been trying not to laugh re gained control of himself.
“You can bring in the next candidate,” said the woman at the table. “Is there anyone here with respect to the case of—” she checked the papers again—“Mr. Nova Hart? Anyone here for Mr. Hart?”
Michael elbowed Colt. “That’s you, dude,” he said.
“Shut up. I know it’s me,” Colt said. “I haven’t decided if I’m going to say anything yet.”
Michael raised his eyebrows. “You came all the way up here and you’re not even going to say anything?”
“I told you, I haven’t even seen the guy in more than twenty years,” said Colt. “I wouldn’t know him if I passed him on the street.”
“Yeah, but he’s your dad!”
“He’s not my dad. He’s my father. There’s a difference.”
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“Whatever.”
Michael leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. Colt took a deep breath and stood up.
“Here, ma’am,” he said.
The parole board looked up as one, and their eyes went to his upraised arm, appraising him.
“And you are, sir?” said the chairwoman. “Did you notify the board that you were coming? Did you wish to address us in this matter?”
Colt cleared his throat. “My name is Coltrane Hart,” he said. “I’m Mr.—ah, I’m his son. Sorry, I didn’t tell you ahead of time. I wasn’t sure if I was going to come or not. I only made up my mind this morning.”
“Right,” said the woman. “You can sit closer if you like, Mr.
Hart. We’re not going to bite you.”
A titter went through the spectators. Colt, fighting the flush that threatened to rise to his face, went up to the front row of seats, Michael trailing close behind.
“And you are, sir?” the woman asked, addressing herself to Michael.
“Mr. Hart’s personal assistant,” said Michael brightly. “I see. Please be seated.”
The door at the front of the room opened again, and the same guard entered, leading another prisoner by the arm. He, too, was clad in the regulation orange jumpsuit, and if it had not been for the fact that his name had just been announced, Colt thought, he would never have known that this man was his father.
Nova Hart had once been handsome, in a severe way, with a strong, thin nose and high cheekbones, over which arched a broad and intelligent forehead; he had never been particularly strong, but in Colt’s memory he was tall, with a commanding appear ance, and he’d boasted a luxurious mane of black hair that had reached well past his shoulders. This man looked nothing like what Colt remembered. His shoulders and spine were curved, and
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his skin had faded to a pasty gray color. What little hair he had left was cropped close to his head, and had gone completely white. He seemed to have settled into himself, like a dock into a river. He was at least a foot shorter than Colt remembered, though whether that was his memory playing tricks on him or not, he didn’t know. He gave no sign of recognizing his son. He shuffled to the chair that Mr. Alonso had just vacated and sat in it gingerly, as if afraid of breaking himself. Colt could only stare at him. This man is not Nova Hart, he wanted to say—there’s been some mis take. But at that moment the prisoner reached up and smoothed a few strands of hair back from his forehead, and this familiar ges ture triggered a memory in Colt. It was really him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hart,” said the woman. The prisoner nodded and mumbled something.
“You’ve been serving a prison term of fifteen years, and your re view is now taking place as scheduled,” she said. “You were last up for parole three years ago. At that time the board made the deci sion not to grant it to you. Do you know why that was, sir?”
The man mumbled something.
“I’m sorry,” said the brown-suited hopeful. “Could you repeat that, please?”
“I was too sick,” said the prisoner. “Didn’t show up.” “And you chose not to reschedule?”
The prisoner nodded. He coughed, a deep, hollow sound that seemed to resonate in the frail cavity of his chest.
“Are you sick again?” asked the woman.
The prisoner nodded. “Not again,” he said. “Still.”
“Okay. And so—well, let me ask you this. What kind of pro grams have you been involved in since your sentencing that might make the board consider offering you terms of parole?”
The prisoner shrugged. “Went through some counseling,” he said. “That was a while back now.”
“And you were sentenced originally for trafficking drugs.” The prisoner nodded.
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“Heroin, in particular. Isn’t that right?” “Yeah,” he said. “That’s right.”
“Have you been involved in any work programs?”
“Too sick,” said the prisoner. “I’m in the infirmary most of the time.”
“Mr. Hart, are you still addicted to drugs?”
The prisoner shook his head. “I’ve been clean for a long time.
Since I came to prison.”
“Well, you are drawing close to the end of your term. It would be complete in another year. And your behavior has been exem plary, according to your records. The board is inclined to be lenient at this time in your request for parole, but there’s some questions we need to ask you first, in order to make sure that you’re going to be able to support yourself.”
There was a long silence, during which the board first pondered the man before them, and then looked as one at Colt. He still had not spoken, and still his father hadn’t noticed him.
“I can’t support myself,” said Nova Hart. “You better just leave me in here.”
“Are you saying you don’t want to be paroled?” said one of the men.
“Sayin’ there’s no point,” said Nova Hart. “I’m too sick to work. I don’t know anybody anymore. Don’t have any money. No point. I didn’t file this request anyway. It went through auto matic. You better just lock me up again.”
“Was there anything you wanted to add, Mr. Hart?” the woman asked Colt.
The prisoner shook his head and stood up. “That’s it,” he said. “Wait a moment, sir,” said the woman. “I was speaking to the
gentleman behind you.”
The prisoner turned, an act that seemed to take a very long time, and his gaze traveled over his son and went on, uncompre hending. Colt stood up and cleared his throat.
“Ah,” he said. “Yes.”
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The prisoner stared at him first in surprise, then in astonish ment. Then he recognized him, and he swayed backward, as if hit by a gust of air.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Look at you.”