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 Tshirts, 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.”