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
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
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