Page 11 of Rio's Release

I stare at the torn black vinyl on the seat in front of me, and my mind drifts to my day in court. I remember my shock when the district attorney called Miss Shelby Lynch to the stand. It was the first time I’d seen her in months. She was dressed in the same outfit she was wearing that morning at the bank, but thistime her hair was down, and she looked more like the girl I met at Blitzy’s.

As she swore on the bible to tell the truth, I couldn’t help wondering how damning her testimony would be, but instead, she defended me… or at least tried. The district attorney cut off her answers when he didn’t like them. When he asked if a gun was fired, she told them how I’d knocked my conspirator’s gun toward the ceiling, stopping him from shooting her and saving her life. She testified I never fired my weapon, and I was not the one who hit the guard.

In the end, as much as I appreciated her efforts, it wasn’t much help.

Armed robbery convictions are second-degree felonies in New Mexico for a first offender like me. The penalty is up to nine years.

It only took the jury four hours to convict me.

The judge gave me the maximum, so I’m on my way to prison for almost a decade of my life. I know these assholes will never give me early parole. I wouldn’t play ball and turn over the names of my associates. That pissed them off to no end.

It’s one-hundred and seventy-seven miles and a little over a three-hour drive from the Dona Ana County Courthouse in Las Cruces to the Roswell Corrections Facility.

We travel thru White Sands to the north where the missile range is located, then on past Hollman Air Force Base and through Alamogordo. Then up and over the mountains where my ears pop as we climb, then back down the other side and then miles and miles of flat empty desert.

Eventually, the bus slows as we come to a crossroads.

The driver downshifts, and the bus chugs around the turn like a lumbering beast.

We pass a sign announcing we’re on prison property.

The road goes on for endless miles and I’m not the only man craning to get a first look at the place. It’s not much. Some square block buildings rising out of the dust, surrounded by barbwire fencing and miles of brown desert as far as the eye can see.

The driver slows and stops at a guard post. He opens the door, and the guard steps on and counts heads, then exits, waving the driver forward.

I’ll spend the next nine years of my life in this shithole, miles from civilization. It’s a sobering thought. If I’m lucky and live to see eighty, that’s like twelve percent of my life. Soon my entire existence will condense down to a six by eight-foot cell.

I take a deep breath and prepare myself mentally, scanning the horizon, taking in this last bit of view. God knows how long it will be before I see freedom again.

By nightfall, I’ve gone through the intake process and am in my new cell with a cellmate who wasn’t happy to see me. Dinner was barely edible, and I’m sure breakfast won’t be any better. I stack my hands under my head and stare at the ceiling. It’s loud in here—louder than I imagined. Every sound echoes, and there’s always someone hollering out something or banging on something. It’s a constant drone I’m already trying to block out. I suppose after a few months I won’t even hear it anymore, like the mother who blocks out her screaming kids at the supermarket.

I close my eyes and try to comprehend the choices I’ve made that led me here. I can’t say I didn’t see this coming. Maybe I’veknown this was where I was headed from the moment I put on those Saint’s Outlaws colors.

I’ve done plenty to deserve to be here, the least of which was knocking over that bank. The Boston chapter has gone through many changes, and it’s gotten darker than it was when I prospected. I never expected to be sent out here to do a drug deal, but once I was out of Boston, I realize how freeing it’s been to be away.

I’m inside three weeks before the first letter arrives.

I’m surprised when the guard slips an envelope through the bars and calls my name.

Taking it, I slump back on my bunk and stare at it. It doesn’t look official, like something from my attorney, but it has a Las Cruces return address. I tear it open carefully so as not to damage the handwritten return address.

It’s two sheets of notebook paper, filled with neat handwriting in blue ink. I flip to the end and read the name.

Shelby.

“Goddamn,” I whisper, stunned she’s written to me and not sure if she’ll be cursing me out in the contents.

Dalton—

I’m sure you weren’t expecting a letter from me, but I needed to tell you how sorry I am you were sent to prison. I know you didn’t want to hurt anyone that day at the bank. You were just after the money. I’m not sure why you needed it, but I suppose you must have had a good reason.

I want you to know I’ll never forget what you did for me the night we met at Blitzy’s. I don’t know what you said to my father, but he hasn’t touched me since. In fact, he walks on eggshells around me now. No one’s ever stood up to him before. So, thank you.

I don’t know what made you do it, but I’ll forever be grateful to you. I know you’re a convicted felon, and that’s bad, but there has to be a part of you that’s good, too. Otherwise, you never would have done that for me.

I’m sorry my testimony didn’t help. They subpoenaed me, and I had to tell the truth.

It was wrong the way that cop beat on you when you were cuffed and obviously couldn’t defend yourself. What kind of a man does that? I thought cops were supposed to be the good guys. Since meeting you, everything I thought was black and white seems to be a million shades of gray. The good guys aren’t so good, and the bad guys aren’t so bad.

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