Time for Saturday Mission #2: Visiting Austin.
The ride to the prison consisted mostly of Miles’s father talking loudly over early nineties rap music about how happy he was to see him “take some initiative” and ask House for a job, and how he and his brother started trying to make money for themselves at Miles’s age too, but that they did it illegally. Meanwhile, Miles was texting Ganke.
11:51am to Ganke
YO YOU MADE IT THRU DINNER OK?
11:52am 1 New Message from Ganke
IM STILL ALIVE. NO TEARS
“If only we were as smart as you, Miles. Nothing wrong with making money slow, son. Always remember that,” Miles’s father said.
11:54am to Ganke
COOL. HEADED TO THE JAIL NOW
“You hear me, Miles? You listening?” his father asked.
“Yes. I hear you. Money, slow,” Miles said.
11:55am 1 New Message from Ganke
NEVER EVER TEXT THAT AGAIN! IT’S LIKE A JINX OR SOMETHIN
Miles leaned forward and knocked on the wood paneling that lined the dashboard in his dad’s car. He wasn’t sure it meant anything or that it would do anything, and he even felt a little stupid about it, but just in case. Knock on wood.
Almost an hour later, the car bumped onto Old Factory Road in the most barren part of Brooklyn Miles had ever seen. Lots of land. No big buildings. Well, one big building. They pulled up to the prison and were greeted by a big cement sign. DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS. Guards stood post outside the giant windowless block. There were cranes and bulldozers, cones and tape, on one side of the building.
“This place is always under construction. Shoot, I think they were working on it way back when me and Aaron used to pop in and out of here,” Miles’s father explained. “It was much smaller back then.” He killed the engine. Miles couldn’t stop fidgeting, and he tried to calm himself down. “Before we go in here, I need to reiterate that prison changes people. So I don’t want you to have high expectations or anything like that. Let’s just meet him where he is.” Miles nodded and reached for his door handle. “And also,” his father continued. Miles paused in the middle of opening his door. “I know I mentioned this before, but I just need you to know that whatever happens, if he’s related to us or not, I’m proud of you for wanting to come see him. Y’know, me and Aaron sat in the juvie ward with no visitors. Our mother couldn’t bear seeing us in jail, and our father was…y’know.” Miles nodded, pushed his door open. “So…I’m proud of you for caring,” his dad finished.
After walking through the metal detector and being scanned by a man the size of a metal detector, Miles and his father moved through the sterile check-in room to the clerk.
“Who you here to see?” she asked through a small window.
“Austin Davis.”
“Sign in, and ID, please.”
Miles and his father signed the clipboard perched on the ledge in front of the window. Visitor Name. Visited Name. Date. Time In. Miles’s father slid his ID through the window. The lady made a copy and handed it back.
“Okay, Mr. Davis. Somebody will be out to get y’all in a second.”
“Um, sorry, but this is visiting time, right?” Miles’s father asked, looking around the empty room.
“Yes it is, sir.”
“Where is everybody else?”
The lady behind the desk shook her head. “Looks like you’re it.”
Miles watched as his father looked around the gray room of nothing again. It was like he was examining the corners, the cameras, remembering what it felt like to be there. Miles wondered if his father was thinking about his brother going in and out long after he’d given up the life. That his brother didn’t have any visitors because he wouldn’t come.
On the ashen walls were three frames of signage aligned like expensive abstract art in a gallery. Miles took a closer look. The first, in bold black letters above a sheriff star, read:
KINGS COUNTY DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS
IMPORTANT NOTICE
VISITATION SCHEDULE
SATURDAYS: LAST NAMES STARTING WITH LETTERS A–L
SUNDAYS: LAST NAMES STARTING WITH LETTERS M–Z
The next one was a layout of the rules.
PARENTS
? Visitors who appear intoxicated may be denied access to visitation
? Visitors who are inappropriately dressed (sexually or gang affiliated) may be denied access to visitation
? Parents must stay with their other visiting children at all times
? No styling or braiding of youth’s hair in the visiting room
As Miles read on, his father walked up beside him and joined him in reading the long list of rules.
YOUTH
? Youth are not to shake hands with any youth in the visiting area
? No swearing
? Zero gang tolerance
? Dress appropriately. No slippers, and pants pulled up to waist.
? No passing of letters, phone numbers, or mail
? No loud talk
Finally, a startling buzz, like an electrocution. Then another. Then a door opened, and a guard stepped in.
“Davis?” she said, her voice bouncing off the walls of the empty waiting area. “This way, please.”
Miles and his dad went through the door, only to stop and wait for it to close completely before the next door opened. The clinking of the dead bolt jamming locked, matched with the scraping of the next door’s lock pulling back, sent a chill down Miles’s spine. Once the second door was open, they walked down the corridor, which strangely reminded Miles of the halls of his middle school. There was nothing but the sticky sound of rubber rolling off linoleum, and an occasional squeak.
And before they knew it, Miles and his father were there. At the door to the visiting room. The guard pushed a buzzer and waited. A buzz came loud through a small speaker in the call box, followed by the dead bolt retracting. The guard swung the door open, entered first, then gestured for Miles and his father to join.
It was an empty room. Big enough for at least twenty people, and furnished with enough seating for that amount. But there was only one person there, besides another guard who was posted up against the wall. Miles guessed that guard’s job was to escort Austin from his cell to the room, and back. There was a boy sitting at one table, a matted Afro, khaki uniform, his hands nervously tapping on the table. The skin on his face sagged with exhaustion, making him look older than he was. The guard who had escorted Miles and his father spoke to the other guard, then stood in the opposite corner.
“Austin?” Miles’s father called out, walking toward him, Miles right beside him. Miles’s father extended his hand.
“No touching,” Austin’s escort snapped.
“That’s right.” Miles’s dad pulled his hand back, glancing back at the guard. “I forgot.” He and Miles sat down at the small table.
“Um…” Austin started. “What do I call you?”
Miles just stared at Austin, at his face.
“I…Look, that’s not important. Uh…this is Miles.”