The Heritage Paper

Chapter 35



The gray autumn sky had faded to black. It was a few minutes before four in the afternoon, but this time of year it got dark early. Just what this amateur horror film needed, Veronica thought.

Bedford Hills Correctional Facility was a block-shaped building surrounded by barbed wire fencing. It looked like a typical prison, but in the quaint, historic hamlet of Bedford Hills, it seemed as out of place as a snowmobile shop in Malibu.

As they moved through a guard-gate and headed toward visitor parking, Veronica was tempted to turn the vehicle around and dash the ten miles to home sweet home.

Jamie and Youkelstein were still out like a light, and Maggie remained lost in her iPodian world. Veronica expected Zach to be the rock he’d been all day, but he looked like he was about to be ill. Prisons could do that to people.

“Are you okay?” she asked him softly.

He didn’t respond. He was lost in thought and staring at the large structure in front of them.

“Zach?”

“Oh … I’m sorry … you were saying?”

“You’re supposed to wait until the second date to start ignoring me,” she said with a grin.

Still no response. But then it hit her why. Bedford was the largest women’s penitentiary in the state of New York. Over eight hundred inmates were incarcerated inside the facility.

Zach’s wife was in prison.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t connect it,” she immediately apologized.

“It’s not your fault. It wasn’t your crystal-meth lab.”

“It’s not too late to turn around.”

“Don’t worry about it. I bring TJ up here every weekend. I should be used to it by now, but there is just something about this place that gives me the creeps. Once I get inside, I’m usually okay.”

“That’s why you moved to Pleasantville and took the job at the local paper, isn’t it? To be close to Bedford.”

“It’s important that TJ continues a relationship with his mother. They have a great program here to promote closeness between the inmates and their children. Eighty percent of the inmates here are mothers.”

“I never really thought about that.”

“They offer programs that allow TJ to stay with a volunteer family overnight, and he can then visit his mother for extended hours during the day. It’s run by this great woman named Sister Goulet. She’s kind of a legend in these parts—she should be sainted.”

“I think I read about her in the paper.”

He smiled proudly. “That was my article. Of course, I also wrote one about the inadequate facilities—not enough heat in the winter and no ventilation in the summer. And how the bathrooms didn’t meet minimal health codes. But I regret writing it, I don’t want to hurt Sara’s chances of parole.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how long is her sentence?”

“Eight years, up for parole in three. She just completed her first year.”

Veronica thought that perhaps Zach should be the one up for sainthood, but he was philosophical about it, “Sister Goulet reminded me that many of the women in here have been bad citizens, but still are good people and great mothers. I like to believe that Sara fits that description. Nothing in life is black and white.”



The superintendent of the prison was waiting for them. Zach was the one who called ahead to request the visit, and after his articles they were ready to put on their best face when he came calling. The other reason for using Zach’s name was so they didn’t raise any suspicion as to why the daughter-in-law of the woman Rose Shepherd murdered would be attending.

The superintendent was a woman named Nina Flores. She led them through a security checkpoint, in which Youkelstein’s umbrella was confiscated with the promise of a return upon their departure. Without his cane, Veronica helped him walk down the bleak corridors. She got the sense that he would’ve preferred Flavia.

Ms. Flores was putting on her best foot forward, but Veronica could still sense a little coldness directed at Zach. They first stopped off at the office of Sister Goulet, whose demeanor was the complete opposite. She greeted them with warm hugs and smiles.

After the introductions, and some brief small talk, they continued the journey to a large room that resembled a nursery, painted in pinks and blues. It was the playroom, filled with children and their jailed mothers—a few of the inmates were pregnant. There was even a pre-natal room with a wading pool.

Sister Goulet suggested the children stay there while the adults go to see Rose Shepherd.

Jamie was attracted to the toys, and didn’t need to have his arm twisted. Maggie, on the other hand, would rather have been put in solitary lock-down. She looked like she was about to deliver a right hook to the sister’s midsection. But showing another mark of her potential sainthood, she somehow convinced Maggie to stay behind without a fight.



Rose Shepherd was a local quasi-celebrity because she was the oldest incarcerated female in the United States. Ninety-nine years old.

Veronica was expecting the traditional jail cell with steel bars. But that wasn’t where Rose Shepherd was spending the late winter of her life. A large window allowed visitors to view into her room as if she were on display in a zoo. When Veronica peeked in, she noticed what looked like an apartment with a couch and television. No windows to the outside world, but frankly, the place would’ve gone for about five grand a month in Manhattan.

Ms. Flores, likely fearing a Zach Chester exposé on preferential treatment of murderers, explained, “Ms. Shepherd is almost a hundred years old. It just isn’t plausible to have her living with the normal population.”

A guard opened a heavy, air-pressured door. Ms. Flores walked them in and Veronica almost choked on the heavy scent of perfume.

The sight before her was odd. Rose Shepherd was sitting on a couch with a blanket over her legs, reading the latest Nora Roberts romance novel. And she looked like she’d dressed for the occasion. Or maybe she was dressed for the Governor’s Ball. She wore a blue, silk dress. Her face was heavily made up, her lipstick was bright red, and her hair was dyed a yellowish blonde and styled in a way that reminded Veronica of a Flapper-cut from the Roaring Twenties. About as far away from an orange jumpsuit as you could get.

She also wore a heavy necklace that hung below the neckline of the dress. Veronica found an object around her neck sadly ironic, since the thing that connected them was the fact that Rose had strangled Greta Peterson to death. She also found it lax in regards to Rose’s personal safety, since it was well known that she had made numerous suicide attempts during her stay at Bedford.

Ms. Flores told them not to be flattered, as the stylish prisoner dressed to the nines every day, despite rarely seeing a visitor. She then left them alone with a warning that the guard was right outside the door. Veronica wasn’t sure if the warning was for them or Rose.

Veronica studied the woman who she never met, yet had altered her husband’s life more than she ever did. And despite all the pain that Rose had caused Carsten, he came to visit her on his last day of life.