"As I'm sure you've read in the manual, everyone here has to have a hobby." He spread his arms out wide, indicating the sculptures before them. "This is mine - wood carving."
James walked up to one of the shelves and picked up one of the sculptures of a crying woman, looking at it closely and turning it from side to side so he could see it from different angles.
"Why are so many of them sad?"
J.T. walked up beside James and looked at the same sculpture. His eyes were pointed at the carved sculpture, but he was looking somewhere else. Somewhere in the past. When he spoke next, his voice was subdued and his tone echoed not so much guilt as acknowledgement.
"Because I'm a thief, James."
James looked up from the sculpture into J.T.'s eyes and the man met his gaze, looking intently back at him.
"I stole from people. I took things from them. I stole their money like it was mine to take. Only now, I realize I was taking a lot more from them than that. From some of them, I was taking their hope, or a chance to buy medicine for their sick child, or their college fund. I never thought of that before I came here, to Utopia. I carve these images as a type of amends. It's a way to remind myself that what I did hurt real people so I won't ever do it again."
James looked down at the sculpture he held in his hands. He began to think of his mother and about how much he missed her. Tears began to well up in his eyes as he spoke.
"That's what happened to my mom.... She had cancer. The doctors told her it was incurable and that she might live another year or so, but that was it. She found out about this experimental drug she could get in France that might help stop the cancer. She was going to take the money out of her retirement fund to go get the treatment, but right before she was going to get the money out, they told her the money had been stolen by one of the fund managers. They eventually tracked the guy down and took him to court, but they told Mom the class action suit could take years to settle before she would see any of the money. After that, it was like the life was sucked out of her. She knew she wouldn't live that long. She died on my fourteenth birthday."
J.T. reached up and put one of his big hands on James' shoulder.
"I'm sorry, son."
"Yeah, thanks," James replied as he reached up and brushed away the tears that were threatening to cascade down his face.
J.T. waited another moment before he continued in a more upbeat tone.
"We'll need to get to work soon, so I better cut to the chase. You need to pick a hobby. This workshop contains just about anything you need. If you want to paint, learn to play the guitar, build bird houses, create pottery, take photographs, whatever. Take a look around the place and pick something. Your counselor will want to know what you pick - it has to be approved, as I'm sure you are aware. I'm going to head over to work to get ready. We've still got a few minutes, so look around a little before you come over."
With that, J.T. headed back out of the building.
James began walking up and down the aisles of the warehouse. Just like J.T. had said, there was a little bit of everything in there. He saw some machine shop tools, a ping-pong table, art supplies, even a stack of jigsaw puzzles. He heard the automated voice announce that there was fifteen minutes before the work day began and decided to go back to the front of the warehouse by way of one of the aisles he hadn't yet explored. About half-way down the aisle, he saw twenty or thirty bicycles stacked closely together. The sight suddenly brought back a childhood memory of being with his dad.
On his seventh birthday, his dad had bought him a brand-new bike and taught him how to ride. That summer was probably the best summer of his life. He and his dad would ride down to the playground almost every Saturday. That was also the last summer he'd ever seen his dad. Shortly after that, his mom had gotten cancer for the first time and his dad had left for good. He abruptly turned away from the bicycles and headed to the door.
Chapter Seven
The next day, James went through the daily routine a bit more smoothly as he began to assimilate into the scheduled existence of life in his new prison home. He had reviewed the weekly schedule posted on the wall in the diner and seen that today there was a group session after work. The manual was fairly vague on many of the topics it covered, and mention of the group session was no different. It simply stated that : "The group session is designed to assist the inmate in facing and overcoming the challenges of life in the prison environment and in preparing them for returning to normal life as a fully functioning member of society."
After dinner was over and the cleanup was complete, everyone headed out the door to yet another building James had not been to yet. The building appeared to be a well-cared-for 19th century house. The wooden siding was painted a colorful yellow and the large windows revealed period rugs, furniture, and decorations on the inside of the house. The group ascended the steps onto the spacious wrap-around porch and James noted the ornate carving on the porch railing, spindles, and posts - all painted white.
They filed inside and the women grouped together and went down the hall while the men in the group entered the first door on the right. James followed along. The room was spacious, with twelve-foot ceilings and a large oriental rug laid out on the wooden floor. There was a circle of chairs in the middle of the room and a water-cooler in one corner. Bedsides those items, there was nothing else in the room. Everyone took a seat and began talking among themselves as James looked around silently, taking it all in.
Moments later, from the back of the room, a door opened and a man in his mid-forties entered, wearing a tweed jacket and dark-rimmed glasses. His hair was coiffed to perfection, but didn't totally eradicate the slightly nerdy aura he emanated. He was looking down at a computer tablet he was carrying as he crossed the room and sat down in one of the chairs. When he looked up, he quickly scanned the group and fixed his gaze on James.
"Ah, James," the man said with a smile. "Welcome to your first group session."
The man reached out his hand and noticed James' reluctance to respond.
"It's o.k., this is one of the locations in which the monitoring software is not programmed to zap you."
James reached out and shook the man's hand. The man then settled back in his chair and addressed the group.
"Hello everyone. Let's jump right in. As is protocol, since we have a new member of the group, we're going to start with principle one." Turning to James, he continued. "James, this is a twelve-step group somewhat akin to A.A. I could go into a long explanation, but you'll catch on soon enough. Let's introduce ourselves; then I'll read the rules and the first principle and we can begin sharing."
He looked around at the whole group before he continued.
"My name is Greg, I struggle with commitment issues and insecurity."
When he stopped speaking, everyone but James spoke in unison.
"Hi Greg."
J.T. was seated to Greg's left, and continued the introductions.
"My name is J.T.. I struggle with stealing and pridefulness."
"Hi J.T.," everyone but James replied.
When it came time for James to introduce himself, Greg interjected.
"James, you don't need to tell us what you struggle with today if you don't want to. You can just tell us your name and something else about yourself if you want."
James felt strange telling everyone who he was when they already knew, but he did it anyway.
"My name is James, and as you all know, I'm the new guy."
"Hi James," everyone responded.
Once the introductions were completed, Greg clicked on his tablet and began reading. He read some rules about not interrupting and not trying to tell someone how to fix their problems, as well as a few others. The last sentence, Greg read very slowly and deliberately, as if he were reading to a small child that might not understand the sentence if he read too quickly.
"We admitted we were powerless over our
destructive, compulsive behaviors and that our lives had become unmanageable."
He looked up from his tablet and took a look around the room.
"Who would like to begin sharing?" he asked.
Samuel spoke up.
"Hi, my name is Samuel, I struggle with anger and desire for revenge."
"Hi Samuel," the group responded.
This time James joined in the response. Samuel continued.
"I think I'm beginning to forgive my father for never being there, for always working and not spending time with me. I realize now that he grew up in a dysfunctional home too, and part of what drove him to work so much was a feeling that his value in life came from his bank account. I think he neglected me not because he didn't love me, but because he felt so worthless himself that he felt he constantly had to be working harder to make money in order to feel that he had any value as a person."
When Samuel was done, everyone but James said in unison, "Thanks for sharing, Samuel."
The meeting went on with everyone but James eventually sharing something. Some were just as forthcoming as Samuel. James noticed that Greg didn't give any advice, nor did anyone else. They just listened. It was a strange feeling, being listened to. James couldn't recall the last time someone had really listened to him like these men were listening to each other. They weren't making jokes or wise-cracks at what each other were saying. They were just listening.
Later that night, after James was back in his room, he was laying on the bed and thinking over what had transpired at the group session earlier in the day. He had never experienced anything like this in prison before. He felt a glimmer of hope that this might actually help him break out of the destructive lifestyle he had been in for so long. Maybe he could find a different, better way to live. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't doomed to follow the road he had been on to the bitter end. Maybe he could learn to change.
He closed his eyes and began to think about what a different life might look like as he drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Eight
Laura woke up in a cold sweat as her body involuntarily sat upright in her bed. She had been dreaming of Paul again. She hadn't gone more than a few nights since his death without having the same nightmare over and over. Only, it wasn't just a nightmare... it had really happened.
She got out of bed and went to the bathroom sink to rinse off the cold sweat with some warm water. She looked at herself in the mirror and began to cry. She vowed to herself that she would never allow herself to be in a position to feel this emotional pain again. It was tearing her apart inside and she wasn't sure how much longer she could take it without having a nervous breakdown - or worse.
The scene played out again in her mind. One minute, she and Paul were sitting across from each other in a booth at the diner here in Utopia, laughing and talking. He had reached his hand across the table and gently caressed hers. They'd looked into each other's eyes, each letting the other know how much they cared for one another in a silent conversation. Then, suddenly, Paul's countenance had changed. He began to make gasping sounds and fell out of the booth onto the floor. His lips began turning blue as Laura slid out of her seat onto the floor. She grasped his hand and shouted out, "He's having an allergic reaction! Someone give me the epi pen, now!"
Malcolm had run around behind the counter to the medicine storage unit, a secure refrigerated unit where any emergency inmate medicine was stored. Malcolm punched in the code on the keypad and tried to turn the handle to open the door, but it didn't turn. Malcolm frantically punched in the code again, but still the door wouldn't budge.
"Where is the pen!? He's dying here!" Laura yelled as she watched the life ebb out of Paul's face and his eyes begin to glaze over. She grasped his hand in hers and looked into his eyes. "Hold on, Paul, help is on the way."
"The code isn't working!" Malcolm shouted back. He shouted out into the air as if to an unseen entity, "Security! The code has been changed! What is the current code to open the medicine cabinet!?"
A nervous human voice came across the loudspeaker, "Ahh, I'm checking now. Hold on!"
Malcolm could hear papers rustling in the background as the guard frantically searched for the needed code. Precious seconds later, the voice returned.
"Try 7238!"
Malcolm punched in the code, ripped open the door, and grabbed the epinephrine pen. He tore around the corner, slid onto the floor, tore the top off the pen, and slammed the needle a bit too forcefully down into Paul's leg in order to deliver the life-saving medicine. It was only then that he realized Laura was no longer frantic, but that a steady stream of tears were flowing down her face.
"He's gone," she said, holding his hand against her face as the tears continued to flow.
Just to be sure, Malcolm checked for a pulse, but could find none. He began trying to administer CPR. A minute later, the on-staff EMT threw open the door to the diner and quickly moved in to assess Paul's condition himself. He saw the pen, but asked anyway.
"Did you give him the shot?"
"Yes," Malcolm replied.
The EMT felt for a pulse but couldn't find any. He took out another epinephrine shot from his medical bag and gave it to Paul; then he took over administering CPR. He tried desperately to blow air into Paul's lungs, but couldn't. After trying to resuscitate Paul for fifteen minutes, the exhausted EMT sat back to catch his breath. He looked over at Laura, who was still clutching Paul's hand.
"I'm sorry."
The next few days were a blur to Laura. A special investigator was flown out to investigate Paul's death. Everyone was questioned. The medicine chest lock was tested and the code was changed. The new code was printed on the outside of the cabinet so everyone could see it. Then, the following day, everything returned to the new normal. The same schedule, the same activities, the same work, the same food. Except, no Paul.
About two weeks later, in one of the group sessions, they were informed that Paul, who was allergic to shellfish, had accidentally ingested shellfish from an improperly labeled pre-packaged sandwich. The code on the medicine cabinet had been changed during routine maintenance, but the form that was filled out so that the inmates could be notified of the new code had fallen behind a desk and was only found after the investigation into Paul's death.
It was about a month later that James showed up in Utopia. Laura hated to even look at him. His very presence was a constant reminder that Paul was dead. In her heart, she knew it wasn't James' fault, but she needed someone to focus her anger on, and for now, James fit the bill.
There was no use trying to go back to sleep now. It would be a few hours before her mind settled down enough to allow that to happen. She wished she could make herself a cup of tea and sit on a nice couch with a blanket wrapped around her, but that wasn't going to happen either. Even though she was in Utopia, she was still in prison, and in a room with one bed and an uncomfortable wooden chair with little padding on the seat. It would be another few hours before she could leave her room to get that cup of tea. Instead, she lay back down in bed and stared up into the darkness, letting her mind wander back over the years and consider how she had ended up here.
Laura had grown up in a troubled home with abusive parents. She could still remember hiding under the kitchen table while her parents fought, throwing whatever happened to be near them at each other and yelling at the top of their lungs. Her dad finally left when she was seven years old, but instead of things getting better, they got worse. Her mom then began a series of relationships with abusive boyfriends. As Laura got older and began to mature, the boyfriends began taking an interest in her physically. More than one of them would sexually abuse her over the years.
When she was fourteen, she had had enough, and ran away from home. She fell in with a drug dealer and began taking and selling drugs. Her taste in men wasn't any better than her mother's, and she and her drug-dealing boyfriend would have violent fights.
She was arrested for drugs on a couple of occasions and did time for possession. Then, one night after getting out of jail for the second time, her boyfriend came home in a drug-induced rage. For the first time in their relationship, she was terrified that he might actually kill her. He beat her so badly that she passed out. When she woke up on the floor, bloodied and bruised from the beating, she crawled into the bedroom to find him asleep in the bed, like nothing had happened. She pulled a pistol out of the bedside table drawer and shot him six times in the head as he slept. Next stop - prison.
The chance to come to Utopia had been a chance for a new life. She had begun dealing with her anger and her past, and had made real progress over the past few years. When Paul came into the program, she kept her distance. She didn't want to get involved with another criminal.
Over time, Paul won her over. He was funny, charming, and he actually respected her. He did little things like asking if he could touch her hand for the first time instead of trying to force himself on her. He shared about his own abusive past with a father that beat him, and how he'd left home after he grew bigger because he was afraid he might beat his father to death the next time he laid a hand on him. He said he didn't want to be the same kind of person his father was. He'd begun stealing cars to make a living at sixteen and eventually ended up in prison, then Utopia.
Laura could relate to him. They thought about things the same way and they both wanted their futures to be different from their pasts. They became allies and tried to help each other change, and encourage each other when things were tough. Slowly, they became best friends. Then he died, and she had been in a tailspin ever since.
The automated voice came over the loudspeaker, bringing her back to the present and signaling the beginning of a new day in Utopia. Normally, she hated that voice, but today she was glad to have something else to focus on besides her own inner voice and the memories that tormented her. Laura got out of bed and began to get ready for the morning exercises.
Chapter Nine