That Night (3 page)

We went to Ryan’s room and I threw myself onto his bed while he turned on his ghetto blaster.

“You can’t let Shauna get to you like that,” he said.

“She started it.” I’d told Ryan the basics of the fight on the way to his house.

“So what? Ignore her.”

“Right, like
you
ignore someone who’s giving you a hard time?”

“It’s different with guys, usually when someone beats the crap out of someone, the other one backs off, but Shauna gets off on making you mad, so you’re just giving her what she wants. If you ignore her, you’ll piss
her
off.”

I thought about what he’d said, staring up at the ceiling. It was true that the more I reacted, the more Shauna seemed to enjoy it.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe she’ll run out of steam eventually.”

He dropped down beside me, turned his baseball cap around backward with a cheeky smile, and started nuzzling my neck. He slid his body over mine and reached under my shirt, his rough hands scraping against my skin, sending shivers down my spine that made me want to curl into him. I let myself be carried away, by the hard beat of the heavy metal music, his touch, his warm mouth. I wasn’t going to think about Shauna, wasn’t going to let her win, but I couldn’t help but feel a whisper of doubt. Was she
ever
going to leave me alone?

CHAPTER THREE

R
OCKLAND
P
ENITENTIARY
, V
ANCOUVER

M
ARCH
1998

The transfer van pulled up in front of the prison. I was in the back, in cuffs and leg irons, trapped in a metal cage like an animal. The doors of the van opened and the correctional officers let me out, their hands tight on my biceps. I shuffled forward, staring in terror at the imposing building. It was all gray concrete, the blocks stained in big streaks, like giant tears had swept down the sides. Razor wire wrapped around the top of the twelve-foot metal fence that circled the entire building, and guards in uniforms stood on towers, carrying machine guns.

Fifteen years. The words echoed in my head, but I couldn’t fathom them, couldn’t make myself grasp the reality of what that amount of time meant. As soon as I heard the judge’s words and knew all hope was lost, something inside me had snapped off and disappeared way down inside. I felt removed from everything, like I was watching a surreal movie. They’d brought me over to Vancouver on a plane and I’d remembered how Ryan and I had planned on traveling the world. It seemed like a lifetime ago that we sat in his truck and dreamed of our future, of our big escape. We had wanted out of Campbell River so bad, and now I’d give anything to go back, even if it meant staying there forever.

I watched the officers’ mouths move but couldn’t focus on what they were saying, and they had to repeat themselves. I stared at my ankles as they led me inside. Shuffle. Shuffle. I was aware that my legs and wrists hurt but I didn’t care. All I could hear was the whooshing of my heart and the words
fifteen years.

They took my photo and gave me my ID badge. Next I was asked a bunch of questions while an officer filled out forms. “Have you had any thoughts of hurting yourself?” “Are you on any medications?” I answered no to all of them but I was only half listening, only half there. In another room two female officers ordered me to take off my clothes. I just stared at them. The mean-looking one with the bad haircut said, “Take
off
your clothes.”

I’d been through this before, at the detention center when I was waiting for my bail hearing. I’d cried like a baby that time, sobbed in shame when they barked out their orders: Pick up your hair, stick out your tongue, lift up your breasts, bend over and cough. But this time, as I saw the annoyance and disgust on the officer’s face, I started to wake up from shock, feel reality beginning to sink in at last. My sister was never coming home, and I was in prison. And then I found something I could grab on to, something I could feel with all my heart. I could feel anger. It rushed through my blood, hot and heavy and thick.

I stripped. I spread my cheeks. I coughed. And I hated them. I hated every person in that place who assumed I was guilty, every person who sat in the courthouse watching our trial like it was a show, and every person who’d lied on the witness stand. But most of all, I hated whoever had killed my sister, who’d taken her away from our family, taken away her chance to grow up, to have a future. I clung to the hate and wrapped it tight around me, a fierce blanket. No one was going to get inside my rage. No one would ever hurt me again.

*   *   *

After I had a delousing shower, they handed me my new clothes: four pairs of jogging pants, four sports bras, four pairs of underwear, four gray T-shirts, two sweatshirts, and one pair of running shoes. I was also given a bag of bedding and a small package of hygiene supplies. It was late at night and all the other women were in their cells. We walked down a cold and drafty hallway, the floors painted gunmetal-gray, the air smelling musty and stale, like death. I was coiled like a tight spring but I kept my head down, didn’t look at any of the cells we passed. I could hear women’s curious whispers, feel their stares.

My thoughts flitted to Ryan and I felt a sharp stab, an ache under my rib cage as I imagined what horrors he’d be facing. He was also at Rockland but in the men’s prison across the road. We wouldn’t be allowed to see each other, not even once we were on parole—which would be for the rest of our lives. I couldn’t bear the idea of a life without Ryan, couldn’t fathom how I was going to survive. Our only hope was to be found innocent. The lawyer said he was filing the documents so our case could get heard in the Court of Appeals. It could take three to six months before he even got a date for the hearing, but there might be a chance. I caught my breath for a second, swinging back from hate to hope.

The guard stopped in front of a cell, fit the lock into the key, and slid back the door with a loud clang.

“Here you go, Murphy. You’re on the top bunk.” I stepped inside, and he locked the door behind me with another loud clang.

I surveyed my cell. It was about nine-by-twelve, with a stainless steel toilet and a mirror over a small metal sink, everything in the open. One wall was covered with taped photos. On the bottom bunk a skinny woman with long straight black hair and arms covered in scars and tattoos was reading a book. I’d never seen so many tattoos on a woman. She was staring at me.

“My name’s Pinky,” she said.

“I’m Toni.”

“You that kid on TV? The one who killed her sister?”

My face flushed, remembering the news trucks surrounding the courthouse, the cameras and microphones thrust in my face.

The words came unbidden out of my throat. “I’m innocent.”

She laughed, a deep, rattling smoker’s laugh full of phlegm. “Guess nobody told you we’re all innocent in here.”

I ignored Pinky, who was still laughing, as I made my bed. Then I climbed up to the top bunk, curled into a ball, my bag of toiletries tight against my stomach in case she tried to steal anything. I wanted to wash my face and brush my teeth but I was too tired, and too scared. I closed my eyes, started to drift off.

Pinky popped her head up and grabbed my arm. I tried to tug it back, but she was holding fast, her hands white claws with long nails. Her thin face looked like a skull in the dim light. I almost screamed.

“I wouldn’t go around telling anyone that shit about you being innocent,” she hissed. “They’ll beat your ass.”

She let go and disappeared down below. I stared up at the ceiling, my heart thudding, still feeling her fingers digging into my flesh. A few minutes later I heard her snoring. I pulled the thin blanket over my head, trying to drown out the sound, trying to drown out everything.

*   *   *

For the first few days, I stuck to myself and tried to learn about the terrifying new world I’d been thrust into. My mood swung between helpless rage, where I wanted to punch and kick something or someone, and depression. But mostly there was fear, whenever another inmate glanced at me, whenever I thought about how long I was going to have to stay in this place.

The prison was old, noisy, and housed about a hundred and eighty women of various security levels. The air was poorly ventilated, the corridors and stairwells dark and narrow. Everything felt cold to the touch: the walls, the bars on our cells, the floor. The prison was broken into four units. One wing was the minimum-security side, for women who were the lowest risk. Over on my side, there were two ranges. I had been placed on A Range, which was medium-security. Both ranges were long two-tiered banks of about sixty cells, but B Range was about half the size of A Range and was the maximum-security side. The other half of B was protective custody and the segregation unit.

I sat stunned, still trying to take everything in, while I was given an introduction class for general orientation, and a handbook with information on things like visiting, phone calls, and inmate accounts. I’d be going through an assessment over the next ninety days, where my institutional parole officer would look at my risk level and needs. Then they’d come up with a correctional plan. Everyone was polite, businesslike, and firm, and I tried to pay attention to what they were saying, but part of me kept screaming in my head,
No, this isn’t for me. I don’t belong here. I didn’t do anything wrong. Nicole’s killer is still out there!

There weren’t set visiting days, but I had to mail forms to anyone I wanted on my list. I also had to fill out a form to get a phone number approved. The cost of a call would be billed to the receiver—if I called collect. I was told it could be weeks before my phone number and visitor lists were approved. I could write people as much as I wanted, including Ryan, which was a relief, but all mail was inspected. I was allowed books, but a limited amount of paper, and each cell had a storage tote where prisoners could keep their belongings. There was a personal line each week for health and hygiene—anything else would have to be bought at the canteen. I was also allowed to purchase a fifteen-inch TV, a CD player, and a few clothing items like underwear and socks, or approved jeans. But I wasn’t permitted to have more than fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of personal effects in my cell. If I broke any rules I’d get a charge, which could be a fine or the loss of a privilege. If I did something really serious, I’d be sent to segregation. I wasn’t allowed in anyone’s cell, and I wasn’t allowed physical contact with another inmate. At the time I didn’t give a rat’s ass about that part—there was no one I wanted to touch anyway. It would be years before I discovered that loss of physical contact was one of the hardest things to deal with.

For now, I struggled to adapt to the daily routine and all the rules. Guards shone their flashlights in the cells late at night and early morning, startling me awake after I’d finally fallen into a restless sleep, shivering under my thin blanket. They did hourly rounds and formal counts, the first at five in the morning. Then anyone who worked in the kitchens was sent down while the rest of us rushed for the showers. After breakfast, people left for work, went to programs, or hung out in their cells and the activity area. You got paid a little bit for working, five or seven dollars a day. The maximum-security side prisoners had to remain locked in their cells unless they were working, but every hour they were given a chance to go to the activity area. After dinner we were allowed out in the yard if the weather was decent.

You were expected to work or participate in the programs, but I spent most of my time pacing my cell, sleeping, crying, or writing letters to Ryan—I was given a few pieces of paper and a pencil, which wasn’t much more than a stub. We hadn’t been able to have any contact for over a year, and then only at trial, so I was desperate to hear that he was okay. I didn’t have stamps yet and was waiting for the canteen to open in a few days. I hoped my dad had been able to send money—everything seemed to take forever to process in prison.

After my arrest, I’d sworn to my parents that I was innocent, and I was pretty sure my dad still believed me, but my mom was a different story, especially since the trial. My dad was allowed to send some personal things, like CDs and some photos, but I’d been warned it would also take a while before the prison approved them. I’d asked for some of Ryan and our family, especially ones of Nicole. He’d paused on the phone when I asked for those, then agreed, his voice quiet. Mom had spent hours going through all our albums after the murder, crying, but I’d avoided even walking close to Nicole’s photo in our house. And I’d hated seeing her yearbook photo on every news show, in every newspaper. But now, a year and a half later, I needed to see pictures of her, needed to remember everything about her, how she smiled, what she liked, what she didn’t like, terrified that she’d slip from my memories, needing to keep her alive, somehow, in some way.

My institutional parole officer decided I should be in substance abuse programs because I’d been stoned the night Nicole was murdered, but I insisted I didn’t have a drug problem and refused to attend. The parole officer was a small man, only a few inches taller than me, with tiny hands. I wondered if he liked the power he had over women in prison, if in the outside world they laughed at him.

“This is part of your assessment,” he said. “If you don’t participate in your correctional plan you won’t be able to reduce your classification level. It could also affect your future parole eligibility.”

“I’m innocent,” I said. “My lawyer’s filing an appeal—I’m getting out soon.”

He made a note, his expression blank.

*   *   *

In the evenings I started to walk the track, around and around, passing the other women in their groups or the odd solitary woman running. Then one day I also broke into a run, zoning in on the feeling of my feet hitting the ground, each
thud
,
thud
,
thud
drowning out the constant thoughts in my head, the endless despair. I tried not to think about how much I missed Ryan and Nicole, tried not to think about my sister’s empty room, all her belongings untouched. I’d never lost anyone I cared about before, not even a pet, and I was struggling to understand death, the permanence of it, the staggering thought that I would never see my sister again, never hear her voice. That she no longer existed. I wrestled with thoughts about heaven, about life after death, about where she might be now. I couldn’t grasp that someone could just be
gone.
I’d also never experienced violence before and didn’t understand how someone could have done those terrible things to my sister, couldn’t stop thinking about how afraid she must have been, how much it must have hurt.