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
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
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