her skin having been scarred by acne, which she hid by liberal use of cosmetics, she had a trim body and nice legs. From the cell-house windows came the calls: “Ahh, Mama! Lookin’ good, girl!” “Jimmy boy, check out this foxy bitch on the stroll.” “I got her, bro’.” “Naw, you ain’t got her. You
wish
you had her.”
The Sergeant led her into the administrative wing. It had the clean sheen more likely found in a hospital than a prison. The Sergeant held open a door marked
Business Manager
, explaining that the Captain’s office was in the high security area. “We don’t usually allow women in there.”
A white inmate was behind a desk in the business manager’s waiting room. “Is the captain here?” asked the Sergeant.
“He’s waiting for you,” then to Sally, “You are –”
“Sally Goldberg.”
The inmate opened the inner door. “Miss Goldberg, Cap’n Moon.”
Captain Moon motioned her in and told the Sergeant to wait outside. “Sit down,” he said to Sally, indicating a chair across from the desk.
Sally sat down.
Captain Moon looked at her. He already knew that she was affiliated with Charles Connelly, a lawyer, probably a commie, who had gotten an acquittal for a Black Panther, for killing a Bay Area policeman. He convinced the simpletons on the jury that it was self-defense.
“So you want to see Eddie Johnson.”
“Yes I do.”
“I checked his files. You’re not his attorney of record, and there’s nothing indicating he’s requested to see you.”
“His mother called our office.”
“That doesn’t comply with procedure. You have to be his attorney of record, or he has to file a request to see you. I can’t understand why you’re interested. He is profoundly unlikable – vulgar, a bully and a hater of white people. Now he’s murdered a young officer, and I hope we can put him in the gas chamber.”
Sally had more to say, but she knew it would be as futile as spitting in the wind; this man wasn’t going to let her in.
“I guess I’ll have to see a judge and get a court order.”
“That’s what you’ll have to do.”
“See you in court, Captain.”
“I suppose so… but I hope not.” Captain Moon touched a buzzer, the door opened and the escort appeared. Sally departed.
Instead of driving back to the Bay Area, Sally spent the night in the downtown
Ramada Inn
. She was waiting in the shade of a pepper tree outside the courthouse when the prison van turned into a narrow alleyway beside the building. Good. It was more than an hour until Court convened at 10:00am. That would give her plenty of time to confer with her new client. A correctional officer exited the van and rang the doorbell. Several deputy sheriffs came out wearing ten-gallon Stetson hats with American flag shoulder patches. Two more correctional officers stepped away from the van and unlocked the rear. The prisoner’s leg-irons were removed so they could step down. One was gangly tall, another dark-skinned and small, while the last was about six feet in height, brown-skinned and handsome. He managed an aura of arrogance despite the handcuffs chained to his waist. Sally sensed that this was Eddie Johnson. With guards pressed around them, they entered and the door closed, the click of the lock loud as it turned.
Sally started to follow and was about to press the bell, but then stopped and lit up a non-filter Camel. There was a knot of tension in her belly and her hand trembled perceptibly. She had to smile, for this display of tension was unusual for her. She had met all kinds of people in all kinds of situations without a nervous reaction.
Sally mashed out the cigarette, thinking that she had to quit, and rang the doorbell. The door had a barred observation window, and this was what opened. The face that appeared was round, with hanging jowls, thinning hair pressed against the skull, and small eyes. “What can I do for you?”
Sally had her bar membership card in hand. “I’d like to
wish
you had her.”
The Sergeant led her into the administrative wing. It had the clean sheen more likely found in a hospital than a prison. The Sergeant held open a door marked
Business Manager
, explaining that the Captain’s office was in the high security area. “We don’t usually allow women in there.”
A white inmate was behind a desk in the business manager’s waiting room. “Is the captain here?” asked the Sergeant.
“He’s waiting for you,” then to Sally, “You are –”
“Sally Goldberg.”
The inmate opened the inner door. “Miss Goldberg, Cap’n Moon.”
Captain Moon motioned her in and told the Sergeant to wait outside. “Sit down,” he said to Sally, indicating a chair across from the desk.
Sally sat down.
Captain Moon looked at her. He already knew that she was affiliated with Charles Connelly, a lawyer, probably a commie, who had gotten an acquittal for a Black Panther, for killing a Bay Area policeman. He convinced the simpletons on the jury that it was self-defense.
“So you want to see Eddie Johnson.”
“Yes I do.”
“I checked his files. You’re not his attorney of record, and there’s nothing indicating he’s requested to see you.”
“His mother called our office.”
“That doesn’t comply with procedure. You have to be his attorney of record, or he has to file a request to see you. I can’t understand why you’re interested. He is profoundly unlikable – vulgar, a bully and a hater of white people. Now he’s murdered a young officer, and I hope we can put him in the gas chamber.”
Sally had more to say, but she knew it would be as futile as spitting in the wind; this man wasn’t going to let her in.
“I guess I’ll have to see a judge and get a court order.”
“That’s what you’ll have to do.”
“See you in court, Captain.”
“I suppose so… but I hope not.” Captain Moon touched a buzzer, the door opened and the escort appeared. Sally departed.
Instead of driving back to the Bay Area, Sally spent the night in the downtown
Ramada Inn
. She was waiting in the shade of a pepper tree outside the courthouse when the prison van turned into a narrow alleyway beside the building. Good. It was more than an hour until Court convened at 10:00am. That would give her plenty of time to confer with her new client. A correctional officer exited the van and rang the doorbell. Several deputy sheriffs came out wearing ten-gallon Stetson hats with American flag shoulder patches. Two more correctional officers stepped away from the van and unlocked the rear. The prisoner’s leg-irons were removed so they could step down. One was gangly tall, another dark-skinned and small, while the last was about six feet in height, brown-skinned and handsome. He managed an aura of arrogance despite the handcuffs chained to his waist. Sally sensed that this was Eddie Johnson. With guards pressed around them, they entered and the door closed, the click of the lock loud as it turned.
Sally started to follow and was about to press the bell, but then stopped and lit up a non-filter Camel. There was a knot of tension in her belly and her hand trembled perceptibly. She had to smile, for this display of tension was unusual for her. She had met all kinds of people in all kinds of situations without a nervous reaction.
Sally mashed out the cigarette, thinking that she had to quit, and rang the doorbell. The door had a barred observation window, and this was what opened. The face that appeared was round, with hanging jowls, thinning hair pressed against the skull, and small eyes. “What can I do for you?”
Sally had her bar membership card in hand. “I’d like to
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