Prologue - Repent
The dictionary has it defined as a verb, to feel or express sincere guilt or remorse for a wrongdoing or sin.
Emma Landry sat in the welcoming office of the prison psychologist and reflected on this word in silence, staring at the man she was mandated to meet with twice a week individually and once a week in a group setting for anger management.
Emma was supposed to be serving five out of ten years for manslaughter. Discovering her wife, Bailey, cheated on her with the man who raped her in college, sent her on an all-night bender of drinking and drowning in vacillating feelings of rage, pain and disbelief. Exhausted, emotionally and physically, Bailey came home from an all day and night fuck fest with the worst person in the world and then defended him to Emma. She snapped (although, if asked, she hated the word ‘snapped’ and would tell anyone who used that word to describe what had happened, though she had no plans, and was outside of herself at the time, she did not snap, but there really was no better word for it). After strangling Bailey, burying her body in the woods where her own father buried her mother (after he strangled her) and going on the run, she turned herself in. Her guilt and falling in love with a new woman broke her. She had been compelled to do the right thing.
She was now just over a year and a quarter into the five years she was supposed to be mandated to serve. The psychologist, Dr. Bennett, occupied one of the nicer offices in the prison complex. His walls, instead of the institutional white matte paint which surrounded everything in the prison complex, were a soft beige tone, and he put posters on his wall of art prints and other posters explaining the value of emotional health. His Ikea furniture was cheap, but it felt homey in his office. There were plants on the windowsill, which he took great pride in. They were well cared for and something about those well cared for plants made Emma happy and gave him some form of added credibility in his ability to help her make sense of the fact she was not just a killer like her dad.
His office always smelled like clean linen scented air freshener and eucalyptus, which added, in an odd sense, to the coziness factor in his office. The safe, quiet space was a vacation from the stark white walls, constant noise and buzzing, and scent of sweat and bodies which surrounded her most days.
Dr. Bennett was gentle in nature. His voice was always soft, and so were his dark brown eyes. His facial hair was well groomed, and he dressed in sweater vests and bow ties and loafers every day. Emma had very little hope she would ever get to the point of self- forgiveness, but if anyone could get her even close, it would be Dr. Bennett, she was sure.
“Tell me, Emma, about your relationship after you killed Bailey. You felt the need to get involved with this woman only to run away from her and turn yourself in.”
Nearly six feet tall, long and lean, Emma stretched out across the cheap Ikea chair, draping her long arms across the back. Her sharp, self-described ‘like sapphire blue’ eyes and olive complexion were still striking at forty-six years of age. Even in prison, she took care of herself and did her best to maintain her vegetarian diet and consistent fitness. Her almost black hair still showed very little signs of gray, and though not in her typical well-groomed undercut, still gave most pause to notice her. Her vanity and the perception others had of her would constantly be considered one of her weaknesses. She cared about her image and worked hard to maintain it, until she killed Bailey.
“I didn’t think I would find love again. I didn’t want to find love. I was not worthy of it. Morgan just kind of happened. I thought, foolishly, that I could bury my past and move forward with her. But she eventually got curious. She looked me up and figured out what was going on. I felt the need to... I don’t know... repent. I can’t have a future without reconciling my past.” It was an answer she knew would please Dr. Bennett, not one she necessarily believed in from her core.
“What does it mean to you, to repent?”
“Good question. I feel guilty. I’m here. I’m doing my time. I’m helping other prisoners who are less fortunate. But am I really repenting? I’m sitting on a massive amount of assets. When I get
out, I really won’t have to work except for the conditions of my parole. I don’t know. I don’t know if this is enough.”
“What about Morgan? You said she wrote to you.”
“Yeah. I think she’s still wanting us to explore being together. She says she forgives me for not being up front from the beginning.”
“Have you written her back?”
“No.”
“Will you?”
“Should I?” She leaned forward, a chunk of her hair falling in her
eyes.
“That’s not for me to say.”
Emma sat back into the chair, pushing her hair back with her
hands, and exhaled.
The knock on the door indicating the end of her session seemed
to come at the perfect time.
Emma hopped up from her seat and Dr. Bennett looked at her
with his fingers steepled under his chin. “Emma, think about what you need to move forward in your life. To feel closure with what you did and your past, and what you want your future to look like. Remember, you won’t be here forever, and your early release is pending.”
Emma nodded and the door opened. Officer Williams, her favorite correctional officer, came in. “Landry, let’s go.” His large frame filled the doorway, and his deep, gruff voice reminded her of her basketball coach from college.
She nodded at him and let him guide her down the sterile-looking white corridors and back to the common room of her prison unit.
“You know Jacobs is getting out because of your help, right?” Williams informed her as they walked, rounding a corner. “I escorted her to the courthouse yesterday and sat in on the proceedings. This’s the fifth inmate you helped get released.”
Emma smiled satisfied. “She got a raw deal. A lot of these women have.”
“Why are you so compelled to help them?” They rounded another corner passing the kitchen. The smell of canned green beans, and cooking chicken filtered out around them, as did the sounds of
women talking loudly at each other across the kitchen and laughing in camaraderie as they made the best of their work detail together.
“Why not? I could have been them. I grew up poor. I got lucky because I was an athlete. I was talented. People saw more in me. Recognized my potential. I was able to climb up and out of that life. I made a lot of money. I invested well. I was a damn good attorney before I... before what I did. I have what it takes to help these women. Maybe by helping them they can go out and make changes in their own life.”
“For what it’s worth, Landry, I’m happy to see you doing it for them.”
“Thanks, Williams. Honestly, it means a lot to hear it.”
Prior to losing her shit (not snap) and killing her wife, Emma had been a successful attorney. A fierce litigator with a promising future. She and her best friend from high school had started their own firm after Emma rose through the ranks as a corporate litigator. Helping the women she felt were handed a raw deal kept her busy, kept her mind sharp, and gave her some semblance of the aspect of herself she was most proud of.
She entered the common room. Four large gray round tables, bolted to the floor, with half circle round benches also bolted to the floor took up the majority of the space. There was a large flat screen television bolted to a wall. A few of the long-term inmates nodded in deference to her. Her work in helping other inmates with appeals kept her in good graces and allowed for her to be left alone; it also protected her from any of the bullshit which tended to be inevitable in a prison situation.
She was a creature who thrived on habit and routine. Unsurprisingly, prison life suited her. She attended her twice weekly meetings with Dr. Bennett, and her assigned job of helping to teach GED classes, and then her self-created position where she volunteered with helping inmates review their cases and finding ways to help them win appeals. Any free time was spent in the gym when she was allowed. There were also regular visits from her best friend since high school, who was also her legal partner – Brandon. Bailey’s mother, Mary Anne (who blamed herself for the situation –
much to Emma’s chagrin), also visited regularly as well as her friend Abby.
Repent. This does not feel like I’m repenting for any of it. This is not punishment for what I’ve done. This is a hiatus from my life. The only true punishment is being disbarred and I may not ever get readmitted. I didn’t lose friends. I still have assets and they are now talking about releasing me early.
Her case was high profile, leading to her getting loads of mail from women (and a handful of men) who pledged their devotion. She threw those letters away without reading them. She only sorted through the stacks to see the return addresses. She found the different locations the mail came from fascinating.
She went back into her cell and opened a book on her shelf, flipping through the pages until she found the letter she kept safe amongst the pages.
Morgan Hale sent the letter almost three months ago. It sat in the pages of the book, where it would be saved from the occasional cell toss or just getting pushed aside in piles of files Emma kept in her cell to review. Emma would pull it out and re-read it every day.
She lay on her rack with the letter in her hands. Okay, so maybe this rack is punishment. I miss my bed and my pillows. She folded her pillow over to give it height and opened the letter again. She knew the letter by heart, but read it anyway, following Morgan’s flowing and neat script.
Dear Emma,
I have started this letter and thrown it away so many times over the last few months. I didn’t even know how to address it. Dear? Dearest? Anyway, here it all is. The words I feel need to be said. What you left behind in your wake.
I don’t know what to say. You turned my life upside down. You woke me up and you made me love you. I fear that I will never love another like I loved you. I believe there was a reason us two broken people came together. I understand now what you said about two broken people trying to mash our broken pieces together, ignoring the cracks. I have so much that I never told you. So much I left out
when I told you about my own past. But that is for another time. Another letter, maybe? I want to focus on you right now.
You said in your sentencing (I could not help but to watch every single bit of coverage), that the love you had with Bailey was electrifying and like a drug. I laughed out loud because that was how I described what loving you was like when they interviewed me. They didn’t play that clip on the news. It must have been left on the cutting room floor.
I believe you. I believe, also, that you loved me. Maybe not in the way you loved Bailey. But no two loves are the same. But knowing you as I knew you, watching you go through what you went through, I know you have remorse, and you are a good and beautiful person. I know that you speak from the heart, and you feel things so very deeply. When you told me you loved me, you meant it.
I watched the documentaries about your case, and I read the articles. Everyone tries to figure you out. But I knew you. Even though you never talked about your past, so much of you makes so much sense now.
I have missed you so much in the days since you have been gone. I feel like I’m mourning a death again. I was harsh and judgmental when I sent you away. That was wrong. I should have listened to you and listened to my heart. Hurt people hurt people. You didn’t mean to, plan to, or want to kill Bailey. It’s evident. You were hurt. After a lifetime of hurt, the betrayal of the person who pledged to love you and protect you sent you outside of yourself.
I’m sorry for not listening to you. I’m sorry for not asking questions to clarify or seek to understand. I’m sorry for pushing you to turn yourself in. I understand why you did. I understand your need for penance.
You deserve love. When you get out, I will be here waiting for you, because I can never stop loving you.
Love Always,
Morgan.
PS. I know you are thinking you don’t deserve my love. I’ve been
there and felt I didn’t deserve forgiveness or grace either. This quote has gotten me through the worst of times: ‘Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done,’ Bryan Stevenson.
Emma stared at the last line again. She committed it to memory. ‘Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.’ What on earth did you do that you chose this line to cling to?
The Present
Emma
