Heart to Heart Page 9

  She also seemed to be making friends. He sure as hell hadn’t heard a peep from Geoffrey since Leigh had come along. David smiled. At least he wouldn’t have to make up excuses to avoid antiquing with Geoffrey on Sundays anymore. Still, he missed shooting pool and drinking beer at the marina with his buddy.

  He had to admit Geoffrey had been right about some things. Leigh was a lot like Ben. She had a way of making the people around her feel good about themselves. Pam hung on her every word and James, the cranky old sot, appeared completely enamored with her. He’d even overheard Jen ask her for layout advice. Jen never asked for anyone’s advice on anything.

  In the meantime, he’d been dodging her for days. He wanted to make amends, but every time he got close, she looked so defensive he immediately got his back up. Besides, one icy stare from her, and he felt as he had the first time he’d met her some fifteen years ago — insignificant and awkward. He couldn’t really blame her. Deep down he knew he had provoked that knee-jerk reaction in her. Still. This had gone on too long. He picked up the phone.

  “Hi. Got a minute?” He watched as she looked over her computer and made eye contact through the glass partition.

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  He crossed the distance that separated them in a few long strides and looked around the half-open door. No skirt today; black pantsuit instead. Good. He didn’t think he could handle apologizing to her and keeping his eyes off her legs at the same time. He walked in and she smiled. A delightful, disarming smile.

  “Have a seat.”

  He sat and glanced at her with incredulity. What? No attitude? She folded her arms and leaned back into her chair in silence.

  He cleared his throat. “Leigh, I’ve been watching you … .”

  She stirred, and a worried look clouded her eyes.

  “No, in a good way. I’ve been watching you, I mean, not watching you-watching you … .” He took a deep breath. “I wanted to let you know you’ve been doing a good job and … .” There it was again. The fresh smell of wild roses. He’d have to find out what that fragrance was. Maybe he’d get her some. What was he thinking? “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry, about the way I acted — overreacted.”

  Her blue eyes pierced the distance between them.

  “You’re a very talented writer, and I was wrong to try to keep you from reporting.” He extended his hand across the desk. “Truce?”

  A corner of her mouth lifted in a half smile, and she accepted his outstretched hand. Her long beautiful fingers curled around his boat-roughened mitt. Today, he wished he didn’t have such calluses. Realizing he’d held her hand a beat too long, he let go. “Leigh … ..”

  The look in her eyes seemed the perfect mix between nervousness and — longing? He looked at her full lips and a shiver went up his spine. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to feel those pouty lips give in to his fierce, demanding embrace.

  “What it is?”

  “It’s nothing. Never mind.”

  “You opened the door, now walk through it.”

  “Why did you become a journalist?”

  Her face clouded over. Then, with her trademark cool, all traces of conflicting emotions disappeared. She shrugged. “Contrary to popular belief, I adored my father, and I grew up wanting to be just like him.”

  “What happened?”

  “I did exactly that.”

  “That’s not what I mean. What happened between you two?”

  She shifted her gaze to her manicure. “I don’t know. He was never the same after my mother died. When I was little, Dad was the man who spent hours on end writing in the solitude of his office.” Her soft voice resonated with nostalgia. “I tiptoed through the house trying not to disturb him. My mom told me he was a brilliant writer and that millions of people read his stories.”

  David leaned forward and encouraged her to continue with his eyes.

  “My parents adored each other. I could tell by the way they looked at one another. Mom and I would spend our weekends going to art galleries and museums so Dad could write. At night, they’d put me to bed and he’d tell me fabulous stories and stay with me until I fell asleep.” Her face softened. “It was magical.”

  “Sounds almost too perfect to be true.”

  “It was.” She sipped from the coffee cup on her desk. “Then my mother died. And nothing was ever the same again.”

  She looked up, proud defiance in her eyes. A small laugh escaped her mouth. “And I, I became a journalist, because I thought that maybe, just maybe, we’d … .” She stopped talking and looked off into the distance. Her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. “Anyway, that was a long time ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” She snapped her gaze back. “I’m over it.” Her tone was firm, final. After a moment, she added, “About the paper — I’ve been thinking.”

  “Uh-oh. That can’t be good.” He grinned.

  “Hear me out. I think I’ve come up with a plan to increase readership and open people’s eyes to a serious problem.”

  Genuine interest replaced the irony in his eyes.

  “I’d like to do an in-depth series on life at the Kingston Penitentiary seen from the inmates’ point of view.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good — ”

  “It could be a follow-up to my Behind the Prison Walls editorials. You’ve got to admit, my stories make people think, and they sell newspapers.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no? I’m not asking for permission.”

  He clenched his mouth tighter and a muscle pulsed at his jaw. “Then why even bother telling me?”

  “Because I thought you, of all people, cared about these men.”

  An angry shadow hardened his gaze. “Because I’m an Indian?”

  “No. Because you’re all about upholding true journalistic values, and these men have a right to be heard just as much as everybody else.”

  “I don’t have time for a lecture on true journalistic values.” His curt voice lashed at her. “Especially not from a woman who has no qualms about flying all over the world on someone else’s dime to attend parties and write nice things about bad products.”

  Leigh resisted the urge to slap him and softened her tone. Having him on board with her idea would make her life so much easier. “We live in a town with two correctional facilities filled to the brim with detainees. And no one ever goes there or talks to them unless somebody dies or they torch the place.”

  He turned to face her, and stared at her for a moment before speaking. “There’s no denying your past items have shaken things up around here. But you start questioning inmates out of the blue, and before you know it, half the town will be up in arms.”

  “So what? Prisoners have a right to be heard.”

  David’s jaw hardened. “They lost that right when they took the law into their own hands.”

  “You don’t really believe that.”

  “What I believe is irrelevant. But I am pretty sure most of your interviewees won’t have too many good things to say about life in the joint.”

  “And your point is?”

  “And — a third of the people of this town either work at one of its penitentiaries, or for one of the industries that support them. I’m not going to let you stir up all kinds of issues and get everybody all wound up just because you think it’s going to increase sales.”

  “That’s just the icing on the cake. Come on. We all know or have worked with someone who’s got family in the slammer. And no one wants to admit it. It’s like our dirty little secret. Aren’t we, as journalists, supposed to document the truth? All of it, especially the stuff most people would rather ignore? That’s the only way we can correct injustices and effect change.”

  �
�Journalism 101. Nice to see you paid attention.” A sarcastic light danced in his eyes and curled his mouth into a smirk.

  She rubbed her brow to calm the all-too-familiar headache she got whenever someone contradicted her. He really had a way of getting under her skin. She glared at him but resisted the urge to retaliate. The effort just annoyed her even more.

  He must have noticed he’d overstepped his bounds because he changed his approach. “Look, I’m glad to see you’re finding your true journalistic calling, but look at it from where I’m standing. A few weeks ago you hated this paper, and now you want to save it. Your newfound devotion to The Sun is sweet, but you can’t blame me for being cautious.”

  “I don’t believe this.” Anger and disappointment bubbled to the surface. “One minute you’re telling me to take the job more seriously, the next you’re telling me to back off. I have to do this, David. It’s not just the sales, it’s those men. When I see the pictures Geoff takes, and I look into those men’s eyes I see so much pain and anger. I can’t just sit back and pretend they don’t exist. I have to do something.”

  He searched her face as though he were trying to uncover a lie. God forbid she might actually begin to care about the portion of Watford’s inhabitants who lived on the wrong side of town. “And then you’ll go back to New York and leave us behind to clean that something up.”

  “That’s not fair.” She cast her eyes downward to hide her confusion. She’d been so caught up in everything, she’d forgotten she’d be leaving in a few weeks. “David, trust me. Give me your blessing. It’ll be good for the paper and for the town.”

  “Fine. I can’t stop you, anyway. You’re going to do exactly as you please, aren’t you?”

  A smile crept up her lips. She’d won.

  “I want you to interview everybody. Not just the inmates. That means the superintendent, the prison guards — everyone from the educators to the janitors. Got me?”

  “Gotcha.”

  “If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right.”

  • • •

  “Please leave your personal effects — briefcase, purse, keys, and any other sharp objects in one of these lockers.”

  Leigh nodded at the imposing man who’d introduced himself as Superintendent McKinney. After interviewing everyone from the Department of Corrections to the local police chief, there’d only been one last logical step. She had to meet the inmate whose controversial incarceration still inflamed the Wampanoag population of New England and whose image had been ingrained in her mind ever since they put his photo on the cover of The Sun. She had to meet John Blackbear in person.

  She pulled out a notepad from her briefcase only to have McKinney add, “No notepads, pens, pencils, tape recorders, cameras, radios, or cell phones either.” She slipped the notepad back into her briefcase and shoved everything into the small cubbyhole. “Bring your driver’s license.” She nodded and shoved the plastic card in her pants pocket.

  She followed him to the visitation room down a narrow hall devoid of windows. With its imposing architecture and dark corridors, the Kingston Penitentiary was living up to its reputation of being one hell of a scary place. She shuddered and picked up the pace to shorten the distance between them. Supt. McKinney flashed his ID card at an unsmiling guard. She followed, and they were waved through the “trap” — the automatic sliding metal door that separated convicts from the outside world. A chill went down her spine at the metallic clang that followed their walk through.

  A routine search ensued — her blazer and shoes examined, belt removed, and pants pockets turned out. After a final metal detector test, the blazer, belt, and shoes were returned to her with a polite thank you.

  Then, as she began wondering if she would ever get to the other side, Supt McKinney ushered her to a large room that looked a lot like a church basement. And, judging by its tired orange chairs and brown velveteen sofas, the place had last been decorated in the seventies. “Make yourself comfortable, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  She sat in one of the chairs and folded her hands on her lap.

  Moments later the man bearing the Bear Child tattoo, a.k.a. John Blackbear, was brought in by McKinney and another guard in a dark blue uniform. The inmate’s heavily lined face and crow’s feet lent his face a much older air than his fifty-eight years — probably due to a combination of hard living and incarceration. His eyes bore the same peaceful expression she’d seen in Geoff’s photos.

  Supt. McKinney stationed himself just outside the entrance of the room while the other guard, a portly dark-haired man with a moustache, escorted the prisoner to the area where she sat.

  “Miss Cameron, here is the inmate you asked to interview. I’m Sergeant Mitchell, and I’ll be standing by should you need anything.” He turned, leaving John Blackbear standing in front of her.

  She stood and held her hand out. “Mr. Blackbear, I’m Leigh Cameron. We spoke a few weeks ago.”

  Thick dry hands clasped hers with a firm hold. “Of course. Ben Cameron’s daughter. Pleased to finally meet you.” At her surprise he added, “I read The Watford Sun, Miss. Every day.”

  So he’d read her editorial.

  “You’re much prettier in person than in the picture in the paper.”

  Leigh smiled, unsure of how to react to the compliment. “You must be surprised to see me.”

  “I’ve been expecting you.” Despite his stoic demeanor, he winced as he sat in the chair across from her.

  “How are you feeling? Are you all right?”

  “I’ll live. These aches and pains are the dues I’ve paid for the right to pray in my tribal ways.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ve been beaten, humiliated, and shipped from facility to facility by prison officials as payment for practicing native spirituality.”

  “But the First Amendment guaranties you freedom of religion.”

  “That’s the root of the problem. Many superintendents don’t recognize Native spirituality as an official religion. Administrators are against the use of sacred pipes and tobaccos, because they associate them with what they perceive as a ‘drug culture.’”

  “Isn’t smoking forbidden in prisons now?”

  “Smoking cigarettes is forbidden in a lot of places. But this is different. We don’t smoke cigarettes. Burning tobacco and sharing it is a part of our sacred rituals.”

  She gazed at the scars marring his shaved head. Were they remnants of past beatings? She had to know. “Where did you get those scars?”

  “This one?” He pointed at a large four-inch scar, its white path a line across the top of his skull. “A guard beat me after I was caught smoking tobacco from a ceremonial pipe.”

  Blackbear seemed to interpret her silence as encouragement to keep talking. “Pipes aren’t the only ceremonial objects to cause problems between these walls. Beads and headbands are treated the same way. Prison officials consider them contraband and confiscate them because they say they identify the wearers as gang members.”

  “Tell me what happened the other night.”

  Blackbear’s eyes clouded over. “I told you everything I know when we spoke over the phone.”

  “Please, sir.”

  “One of our brothers took his own life.”

  The damp air suddenly seemed to still. “Why?” she asked, her voice soft and caring.

  “They shaved his head.”

  “He killed himself because they shaved his head?”

  Blackbear’s face hardened. “Everything the Creator gave the Indian remains sacred. The body, along with nature and the earth, symbolizes spirituality. Hair is considered a gift from the Creator. It embodies the strength needed to endure difficult times. If an Indian’s hair is removed, his life is drained of all energy. After everything he’d been through, it was the fi
nal straw.”

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  Blackbear’s eyes took on a faraway look as he recounted the rest of the story. “Shawn Rainwater was thrown to the floor, handcuffed, and shackled, then carried out of his cell to the middle of the quad. The guards held him down and laughed while a barber cut his hair into a ragged mess.” John’s voice cracked and for a moment, the tranquility she’d seen in his eyes earlier, left. “They said they didn’t care if he was Geronimo. He was getting a hair cut and some white religion in him.”

  Leigh’s reporting instincts went into warp speed. There had to be more to the story than what John Blackbear was volunteering. Why single Shawn Rainwater out? Someone or something must have incited him to end his life. “John, let me tell your story.”

  She’d have to get both sides of story. Maybe the guards had been pushed to the limit. Even in prison, things happened for a reason.

  • • •

  July third, Leigh clambered up the steamship’s ramp, Geoffrey at her side. Everyone from the paper-delivery boy to David had the night off for The Watford Sun’s yearly moonlight cruise. With the next day being Independence Day the atmosphere crackled with excitement.

  She looked up and caught David staring at her. Her heart skipped a beat. They hadn’t had any one-on-one contact since their talk in her office. And even though she doubted it had meant anything to him, just thinking of it filled her stomach with butterflies. She smiled and lifted her hand in a tentative wave. Andrea came up and pulled him toward a group of people before he could respond.

  At the story meeting every morning for days they’d debated not having the yearly company cruise. James felt it was too soon after Ben’s death to have a party. David, on the other hand, believed Ben would have wanted them to go ahead with the festivities. Despite employee wrangling, in the end they had decided to follow her wishes and celebrate.

  Geoffrey ushered Leigh to the bow where Sue waited for them, drinks in hand. He’d gone all out for the occasion; white linen pants, a tight white t-shirt, and blue tinted glasses. She’d been surprised at his flamboyance.

  “All you’re missing is a feather boa.” She laughed at his ruffled expression.