The Devil's Interval by Linda Peterson Read Free Book Online

“we’re here.”
    In fact, the duties and rituals associated with getting from the front gate guardhouse to sitting down across the table from Travis Gifford did remind me of a religious ceremony. There was a hierarchy at San Quentin, and you had to navigate it just right, or the indulgence you sought—an interview with Isabella’s client—could be withheld. It reminded me of the first time Michael had taken me to Mass with his family. Even though I’d gone to St. Agnes, I still felt like the quintessential outsider, the Jewish girl ignorant of the language, the culture, even the scents, and the responsibilities of all those people in all those elaborate costumes. The costumes were less off-putting here than at Sts. Peter’s and Paul’s—khaki for the guards, denim for the prisoners, instead of all those billowy white getups the priests and acolytes went in for, but there was just as much mystery.
    Isabella seemed to know most of the correctional officers, big, buffed-up guys almost without exception. It was near noon when we arrived, and many carried handled coolers on their way to andfrom lunch. “Why do they look like they’re going on a picnic?” I asked Isabella.
    â€œYou mean the coolers? They’re all into bodybuilding, so they eat massive amounts of food. No little brown sack could possibly accommodate what they’ve got in there.”
    It wasn’t a regular visiting day, Isabella explained to me, so she and I had the family room almost to ourselves. “On a family day, this place is filled with people,” she said. “People come with plastic see-through containers, filled with change for the vending machine.”
    â€œNo cakes with files in them,” I joked.
    â€œYou can’t bring any outside food,” she explained. “So visitors bring enough change so they can get stuff from the machines. Keeps the kids busy, and gives people a chance to feel as if they’re having a meal together. It’s quite a scene on visiting day with all the kids wandering around, people playing checkers, people holding hands.” She gave a dry laugh. “I always think it looks a little like a Jane Austen movie. You see couples strolling around the room, the woman with her arm tucked into the man’s, as if they’re promenading.”
    Today, the room felt like an empty dining hall at camp, just the two of us, alone in a sea of tables and chairs. Suddenly, the door swung open and a correctional officer gestured Travis Gifford in. “One hour, Ms. Fuentes,” he said to Isabella. She nodded. “Travis Gifford, Maggie Fiori.”
    We shook hands and sat down, Gifford on one side of the table, Isabella and me on the other. Pale, pale blue eyes, close-cropped graying blond hair, faint freckles across his nose and visible under the gold hairs on his forearms. He didn’t look bodybuilderish like the correctional officers, but his shoulders were broad and straight, and suddenly a picture of a young Nureyev floated into my head. Muscles under artful control.
    â€œI feel as if I know you already, Mrs. Fiori,” he said.
    â€œIsabella’s been talking too much,” I said.
    He shook his head. “I’ve been reading your books. The onesyou donated to the prison library? Some of them had your maiden name in them, Margaret Stern.”
    I remembered the bags of books, mostly old paperbacks and some battered college texts I’d packed up and sent via Women Defenders to the Death Row Library.
    â€œI’ve got plenty of time to read,” said Travis, “and to pay very close attention. We get a lot of second- and thirdhand books here, so I always read everything on the page. What people underline, notes they write, everything.”
    He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
    â€œWant to know what I’ve figured out about you?”
    Isabella protested, “We’ve got limited time,