Visiting Bird in His Cage

      The first time I met Tom Bird was the first time I had ever entered a prison. Since then, I have made many visits. I think the average person has a fairly skewed vision of what a prison is like, and for that matter, what inmates are like – I certainly did.

      Tom has spent most of his prison time in the medium security prison at Lansing Correctional Facility. This facility is reserved for men who have previously spent time in maximum security, have had a record of continuous good behavior, and who are considered to have become or are non-violent.

      Some of its inmates were convicted of non-violent crimes and who, during their evaluations, are judged to be capable of living in such an environment. Inmates who are within a few years or months of their release dates, slowly transitioning toward outside life, are also held in medium security. Living in medium security is better than living in maximum security, but that does not somehow make it a good place to be.

      To get to the medium security facility, I had to drive past the old, gray stone-walled maximum security prison, its high walls topped by chain link fence and razor wire, with guard towers on each corner and even more chain link fences with razor wire outside the walls. This prison reminded me of a movie about the old Western frontier – a throwback to our early days. Floodlights shine all night against these walls leaving no shadows in which someone might hide from a guard’s view.

      Located to the east of the walls of the old, ugly and depressing maximum security structure I saw the medium security facility. There are no stone exterior walls here, one nicety that makes the place a bit more livable than maximum security. Here the inmates can see outside, looking through the double row of razor-wire-topped chain link fences that run around the north, east and south sides of this facility. The west side, though, abuts the old stone maximum security prison, a constant reminder of the results of bad behavior.

      When they look out of the south side of the prison, inmates can see houses just across the street, perhaps 500 feet from the walls. They can see people walking about freely, not subject to fences and strip-searches.

      Looking east, inmates peer across a valley where they can see another one of the prisons in the City of Lansing, the one they call “The Hill.” At one time, Lorna Anderson lived there, when it was a co-ed prison (use your own imagination about the results of placing Lorna in such an institution – you can hardly be wrong). If the men were free to walk east outside the fence and look down into the valley or scan the horizon, they would see several other buildings alongside a road that leads up to The Hill. Cattle grazed quietly in the meadows between the facilities totally unaware of the danger represented by the lives of the men and women living behind the walls.

      There is another rather sobering outside facility on the east side of the prison, just across the road from the visitor’s parking lot, perhaps 150 feet east and south of Guard Tower #13. Reaching out of the ground here are neat rows of white wooden crosses in a small cemetery. I learned that this is where the prison used to bury inmates who died during their incarceration, but whose bodies remained unclaimed. Nobody cared about them – theirs were tombs of unclaimed inmates. They no longer bury unclaimed inmates in this cemetery. Now they cremate them; it takes less space and saves tax dollars.

      Once I park my car, I walk up to the first chain link gate across the single lane road that runs around the prison’s perimeter. The guards slowly and periodically drive on this road checking the perimeter, no doubt looking for anything out of the ordinary. Prison administrators and guards loathe anything out of the ordinary. It usually means trouble.

      The first gate is perhaps 30 feet wide and 15 feet tall, with rollers at the top and an electric motor that pulls and pushes a chain that draws it open and closed. A painted sign hangs on the fence to the right of the gate that instructs me to check my firearms at Tower #13 – even if I am a guard or police officer.

      When the guard is ready – and I have no idea what criteria he uses to make that decision – he presses a button to open the gate just wide enough to let me walk through. Almost before I cross the gate’s path, it began to close, locking me inside. Sometimes I am alone when I enter this gate. Other times I enter along with a dozen or so women and a few children, so it seems as though numbers are not what determines when it should open – nor does cold weather or a concern for visitor’s comfort.

      In mid-October of 1999, on my fourth visit to Lansing, it was in the high 30’s and windy. Being from Minnesota, I was wearing a winter coat, gloves and a cap and yet, I was quite cold. Several of the women waiting to enter that morning had left their warm coats in their cars, or they had none. As it was just before 7:30 a.m., these veteran visitors knew they would have to wait outside, but no one counted on the nearly 25 minutes it took before the gate finally opened. I was told that a guard had over-slept so they were understaffed, thereby leaving all of us out there freezing until someone showed up. I really felt sorry for the 70-ish woman who had driven a long distance to see her son.

      Actually, a lot of the visitors travel significant distances to visit. Some make the weekly trek from hundreds of miles away.

      Once through the gate, I walk across a long, wide concrete driveway. When I stepped off this distance from the outside gate to the first guard house, I calculated it as 450 feet. As I walk toward the first guardhouse I can see the outdoor visitation area on my left (south), an area punctuated by picnic tables sitting in a flat, grassy area. A wide concrete walkway stretches across this outdoor visitation area from north to south and it serves as a place to stroll, perhaps 100 feet one way before turning and walking back the same way. I am separated from the outdoor visitation area by another row of razor-topped chain-link fence.

      The first guardhouse has an enclosed guard’s area next to which is a covered outdoor visitor’s waiting area. Next to that is a storage area. The first inmate I saw came into this outdoor area and crossed to the storage closet, retrieving cleaning supplies. He nodded and politely said “Hello” to me. (I thought, “Seems like a nice enough guy. Wonder what he did to land him here?”)

      To get into the outdoor waiting area, I first pass though a turnstile gate, one of those with three sets of perhaps 15 vertical bars that pivot as a unit as you push against them, the bars meshing with another set of permanent bars on either side of the turnstile. No one could squeeze through this gate. Here, underneath the roof of the area outside of the guardhouse, I wait with the others for our turn to enter. Five are allowed in at a time. On cold days, the wind whips through this area, and it leaves me shivering.

      During the October visit, a pretty, coatless young wife of an inmate stood behind me in line, shaking from the cold, her teeth chattering through blue lips. “You want my coat?” I offered. “I’ve got a sweatshirt on underneath.” “No, it’s my fault I didn’t dress warmer. Thanks anyway.” (Even the visitors seem courteous, except when its time to choose the next five, when they can get somewhat pushy.)

      The guard gets a call from inside the next guardhouse each time a new batch of five of us are allowed to pass through. First I must walk through a metal detector, and then, when the guard pushes the electric release button, I pass through another one of those turnstile gates. By now I have learned about some of the sounds of prison – gates opening and closing, release buttons, guards checking with each other before anyone is allowed to move.

      Once through this guardhouse, I turn 90 degrees and walk across a sidewalk to the next guardhouse. While walking along this sidewalk, I look west inside the prison toward the areas where the inmates live and work. Other than the fences, this area looks to me a lot like the areas near the mess hall at Amarillo Air Force Base where I took my basic training, sort of standard issue government blah architecture. I notice a few of the inmates walking toward the guardhouse I was now approaching, separated from me by yet another razor-topped chain-link fence.

      The sidewalk to the second guardhouse is perhaps 50 feet long and leads to a door that opens into a small lobby. Behind a counter at a desk immediately to the left inside the entry door sits a chubby, curly-haired guard and behind him, a woman guard who assists him as together they try to make this visitor processing routine move along as quickly as possible. First I must sign in on a log-in sheet, entering personal information and record who I am to visit and what constitutes my relationship to that prisoner. I enter “friend.” I hand over my driver’s license to the guard as he asks me who I am visiting, and he looks up my name in Tom Bird’s folder (I was added to his approved visitation list, which is limited to 10 names, in late July of 1999).

      Next I place my right hand palm down on the counter so it can be stamped with an infra-red readable ink.

      I empty my pockets of everything except my driver’s license and the roll of quarters I bring along. Terry Bird, Tom’s wife, had told me the first time to bring in at least ten dollars in quarters, if not more, to buy coffee, snacks and lunch from the vending machines. Otherwise, I would go thirsty and hungry. She cautioned, “never let Tom handle money. It’s prohibited for the inmates.”

      Terry had also told me to make sure I wore long pants. Shorts are not allowed on either male or female visitors, children included. Apparently shorts provide temptation for some clandestine and prohibited physical contact. Why make the men uncomfortable? (Women wear long pants, or dresses and skirts that come well down the legs.)

      Once the chubby guard clears me through, he hands me a key attached to a 3” x 5” piece of metal. The key has a number on it that corresponds to one of the many wooden lockers on the wall opposite his work station. Here I store my tape recorder, cell phone, billfold, comb, pen and pencil, coin purse, note paper and other paraphernalia that bulge our of my pockets. Armed with just my quarters and driver’s license, I am now ready to enter the visitor’s area.

These people know all the tricks

      I feel a certain sense of personal security knowing that every visitor has to go through this same process. Terry had explained that some visitors were near artists at sneaking in contraband, especially drugs. They find unique ways to use various body openings in which to hide stuff. “I once saw a woman pull five small bags of drugs out of her nose. They were on a string she had pushed up in there.”

      A woman sometimes passes a bag of drugs to an inmate during a kiss, pushing the bag with her tongue into his mouth. He promptly swallows it. “Once in a while a bag will burst in a guy’s stomach. It usually means death.”

      Pages of books can be soaked in LSD or other drugs, and inmates chew the paper to get high. Photographs can be laced with drugs. Items of clothing serve as hiding places and visitors, at great risk to themselves and the inmate. Good “drug horses” can pass these drugs so nonchalantly that only the best trained or most experienced eyes can catch it. This is all very hard for me to imagine.

      Walking into the room, I move to another guard station, a three-sided counter actually, behind which sits another guard. He or she tells me to turn my pockets inside out, empty my license, locker key and quarters into a metal dish on the counter, and walk through another metal detector. Satisfied that I am not an immediate threat to anyone’s safety, I am finally free to roam about the visitor’s room.

      This is a rather large L-shaped room, perhaps 30’ x  40’ with the L-area another 20 x 25’. The first time I visited, Terry ushered me to “Tom’s table,” one of perhaps 80 tables in the room. Already sitting on the table when we arrived the first time were two bagels and two pieces of pecan pie. Another inmate’s wife bought them from the vending machines long before I arrived with Terry. They are popular items with inmates and are often the first items to disappear from the vending machines, so if not purchased right away, Tom would have been out of luck. Given the quality and sometimes-questionable nutritional value of a prisoner’s daily diet, even a sugar-filled, mass-produced pecan pie is a treat to be hoarded.

      Terry explained that many of the inmates had their own designated tables, though this was not a system designed by the guards, but rather a part of the pecking order among inmates. Tom’s table sits close to the visitor’s restrooms and nearby the vending machines. A sign is pasted on it. “No more than four visitor’s allowed at a time.”

      All of the people in the visitor’s center, inmates and visitors alike, roam freely about the large room. They pay little attention to anyone else but their own little group, although I notice that a few seem to acknowledge Tom. “Is this some sort of respect?” I wondered.

      The noisy visitor’s center looks and sounds a lot like a busy government issue employees’ lunch-room. The walls are painted in a latex enamel, faint light green color. The few double-hung windows are covered with opened horizontal blinds. The floor is vinyl tile, clean and highly polished. The tables are Formica-covered pedestals with molded plastic chairs around them, or metal armchairs.

      From the vending machines, I can choose popcorn, pastries, some fruit, various deserts, both cold and microwavable sandwiches and soups, fruit drinks and most popular sodas. A coffee machine, which I frequent too often, sits across the room and offers coffee, tea and hot chocolate for 30 cents.

      One vending machine sells a ticket for $1.25 that buys a Polaroid photograph taken with a favorite inmate, the only photographs allowed to be taken in the facility. These photos can be shot standing in front of or sitting on a small set designed for that purpose or, if the outdoor visitor’s area is open, in a designated photo area in front of a garden.

      Two microwaves sit near the vending machines and allow for the somewhat soggy and barely eatable beef-burgers, hot dogs and soup to be heated, or popcorn popped. I notice that when a visitor steps up to use one of these, the inmates step respectfully step aside.

      I usually get a cup of that awful coffee and sit at Tom’s table, waiting for him to come. Apparently, once an approved visitor has signed in, the guards notify other guards who tell the inmate he can leave his room and come over to the visitor’s center. It’s a great frustration of prison life that someone else must first approve every move. I do not know what Tom has to do on the inside before leaving his living area, but I saw that once he arrives at the visitation center, he is searched. The first time we met, he had brought along an armful of legal documents, and the guards meticulously paged through them to make sure no contraband or other unapproved item was carried into the room. Somehow they missed a photograph he had mixed in the papers, but he quickly stuck it back in the middle, not wanting to cause a problem.

A holy and hot kiss

      As Tom enters the room, if his wife Terry is with me, the first thing he does is go directly to her and surround her with his arms. The two embrace passionately, though later they told me they had toned it down on my first visit and indeed, I notice in later visits that the embrace lasts longer, perhaps pushing to the edge the 1-minute time limit the rules allow. He is dressed in the same blue jeans and light blue shirts worn by every other inmate and there is nothing in his pockets. He wears an identification badge clipped to his pocket.

      Tom says he is 5’ 10”, but I am just a tad taller than that and I think he’s more like 5’ 9”. Yet, I notice that he holds his bald head slightly at an angle, downward toward the front, displaying his natural humility about which so many people had told me. This would make him seem shorter.

      He smiles easily, but his smile is unlike anything I have seen before. He has inherited a dental problem related to some malformation of his baby teeth. This has required him to receive extensive dental care and his front lower teeth on the right side are covered with silver fillings. I wonder if this has always made his smile seem a bit different. He often smiles through a tight mouth. Yet, when he laughs he shows a great, full-toothed smile.

      He is quite a bit huskier than I had expected. Everything I had previously read about him and pictures of him indicated that he was quite thin, even skinny. Pastor Kothe told me later that Tom had apparently bulked up, perhaps as a way of providing protection in the macho environment of a prison.

      Tom is still a competitive athlete, playing softball on one of the prison teams. He and Michael Bornholdt held, for several days, the Guinness World Record for a tennis marathon, played in 1988. The two played 125 hours and 10 minutes of continuous tennis before laying down their rackets. In a note to Rev. Ken Kothe written just days after the event, Tom wrote:

      “I’m still showing signs of drowsiness and am a bit in a daze. I lost 12 pounds which isn’t too bad because I loaded up on carbohydrates the week before to gain about 5 pounds.

      “Terry was able to be inside at courtside for about 48 hours of the 125 hours. She added a lot of incentive to keeping going. This event marked the beginning of a good progressive attitude by the administration in such a way that the endeavor will have a great effect in the future for this place.”

      A large group of inmates were involved in the logistics of staging the event and Tom said it had a good, positive residual effect on them all. They raised more $1,000 for the Ronald McDonald House from prisoners and others inside the walls. It gained a lot of short-lived national attention, but nowhere as sensational as the 1987 airing of CBS’ four-hour docudrama, Murder Ordained.

      Tom still regularly plays softball. There is a diamond located just outside his cell block.

      Tom has a low-pitched voice with a cutting edge to it and has retained some of his Arkansas accent. I can see how as a pastor, when he projected his voice, people would listen.

      Tom is, himself, a very good listener and remembers details. He pays close attention to me as I ask questions, and looking back, I see that he exercised great patience. Most of my questions had been asked of him scores of times before, yet he answered freely and without frustration.

      We quickly built a high level of trust. My own relaxed demeanor may have something to do with it, and the letters I had sent in before we visited. He had already read my novel, Two weeks that will last Forever and thought it good enough to pass around to other inmates. Most importantly, though, Ken Kothe had told him to trust me, and that recommendation spoke volumes.

Less than ideal working conditions

      Just how does a journalist writing on a complicated murder story interview an inmate when he is not allowed to bring in note paper, a tape-recorder or even a pen? How can an interviewer keep a session focussed when hundreds of people are milling about, talking and laughing, sometimes crying, in a very noisy environment? What about the prison guards who walk through the room at regular intervals? And how does one reclaim an interview thread when Tom and the others are ordered to line up for an inmate count? It’s not easy.

      The prison makes available several items for visitors to use while they visit. Games and playing cards are well-worn and appreciated. For me they provide loose sheets of notebook paper and #2 pencils. Thankfully, the soft pencils can be sharpened at a hand-operated pencil sharpener like the one in the cloak-room of Mrs. Pasch’s sixth grade class, except that this one sits clearly out in the open, hung on the wall opposite the guard’s station. (I wonder if they count the pencils? They could be dangerous in the wrong hands.)

      By the time Tom and I finished our first interview after eight hours, I had 20 pages of notes scribbled out on notebook paper by ever-dulling soft pencils. It’s a miracle that I can still read what I wrote, given how atrocious is my handwriting. This is how I have to do it, though. There are no other options.

      Our interview is made even more difficult by the constant loud noise in the visitor’s center. Tom does not speak loudly as a habit, and it is often hard to hear him, especially when he relates stories about Sandy and her last night on earth. His eyes are very active and alive and speak volumes, giving away his excitement as he talks about his children, his early days in the ministry and his vision for Faith Lutheran. They fill with sorrow and tear up when he gives me the details of the last night with Sandy. They flare up with passion as he describes the pain of going through three trials and endless interrogations. They show great remorse when we discuss the possibility of Sandy’s suicide, the likelihood of which he rates as remote. “I couldn’t live with myself if I thought she committed suicide. But my attorneys tell me my feelings don’t count.”

      Seldom does he look away from me when answering questions, but bores deep into my eyes, answering firmly, confidently. He never dodges a question. He is willing to take on any subject, most of which I can corroborate or disprove with outside evidence. Sometimes he misses a detail by a day or two, but almost always I can find corroborating source material for his claims. Granted, as often as he has told these same stories they are well-rehearsed, and though new details have been added nearly every year, given recent developments in his case, none of my questions come as a shock to him.

      During all of our interviews, he remains relaxed, usually folding his hands together when answering, and leaning in so I can hear him better. He laughs freely at the many odd and controverted theories about his case. Some resulted in bizarre conclusions about him and his lifestyle – like Emporia investigator’s belief that he ran barefooted, mostly on gravel roads, from Rocky Ford Bridge to Faith Lutheran, about 8.2 miles, in the total darkness of a moonless night and that he did so in about an hour. “I was a great runner a long time ago, but in 1983 I would have had trouble running that kind of a race in an hour in daylight on good pavement. It’s absurd!”

      Tom listens carefully and closely to my questions and he never interrupts. During times when we grow weary of discussing facts, like the location of the three bullet holes in Marty Anderson’s head, or whether the blood on the rocks near Sandy’s car proved to be human or animal, he asks about my life and family. He listens intently, reacting only with facial gestures, but leaning in, to indicate I have his full attention. I reflect now that this process was not much different in style from those endless counseling sessions he provided at Faith Lutheran and still does inside the walls at Lansing Correctional Facility. I can imagine him doing the same with prisoners and guards, whom I have been told, seek him out. They know that beyond the prisoner’s code of silence, he still takes seriously the Eighth Commandment and knows to keep a confidence.

      Tom loves sports, and especially football. One time, Terry and I went to bookstore and bought one copy of every football-related magazine she could find. “He just devours these,” she said. But he and I have never talked football. If we are not talking about his case, our conversations go to my family or some theological point, or we talk about perceptions of other prisoners.

      Tom seldom shows me a sign that he is growing weary of my visits and endless questions. After the fourth visit, though, we both realized that we had been repeating ourselves and knew we needed a break.

      Thankfully, we are able to conduct some of our sessions outdoors where it is quiet, though the heat is often stifling. Though the visitor’s center is air-conditioned, the noise is nearly intolerable and it is almost too cold.

      Tom’s room has no air conditioning. It is hard to imagine the discomfort he experiences at night when the temperature pushes past 85 or 90 degrees. Yet, it has always been my contention that people who do violent acts should not be comfortable in prison, and suffering from heat at night seems to me like a small price to pay for their violence.

Every inmate is a story waiting to be written

      I habitually spend a lot of time watching and studying people. If you and I ever meet, I will quickly assess you and in the short span of moments, write something about you in my head. Don’t worry, it won’t be published. Imagine how my mind spins nearly out of control watching the inmates at Lansing, some of whom I began to recognize after a few visits and with whom I have exchanged verbal niceties.

      Tom once introduced me to his roommate Don, who was enjoying a quiet visit with his son when we approached. He reluctantly shook my hand and said, “Nice to meet you.” As we walked away from Don’s table, Tom said calmly, “He’s a serial killer. Killed five women.”

      I quietly gasped, cleared my throat and walked on, but kept glancing at the man. He was about 5’ 7”, balding and overweight. “He looks so peaceful and relaxed. It’s hard to imagine he’s a serial killer.”

      Tom explained, noting that Don was afraid of any publicity, which is why I have not included his last name here, “He had a hard time relating to his wife. She was rather domineering.” Then, without any emotion he understated, “He took it out on other women.” Don will never be out of prison. Maybe he is finally at peace, knowing he will never again hurt anyone.

      One day I noticed a very young man sitting with an older couple. “Do you know that young boy? How old is he?”

      Tom didn’t know him but estimated his age at 20. “We get a lot of young guys in here, but most are in maximum security. It’s dangerous in there. Lots of gangs reunited behind prison walls.” He thought the young boy probably was in on a drug charge, auto theft or something like that.

      Tom is always eager to see me. He keeps up his energy level, and it often seems to me he wants to answer more questions. There are hundreds of questions I have asked of him, of course, and many have had to be answered through the mail, knowing all the time that prison officials have the right to read everything that goes in and out. He has apologized a few times for not getting answers to the questions to me as quickly as I would like.

      Tom holds a fulltime job in the prison working 70 hours a week for Impact, a prison industry. He loves his work. It provides him with a tolerable life and the ability to pay his own way, plus send some money out to his wife. Because of this, he has paid more than $11,000 in court costs associated with his trials. He pays income taxes. There are prison service fees. He knows there is dignity in gainful employment, and he is protective of his work.

      Not having any personal wealth, Tom is forced to do a great deal of his own legal work from behind prison walls. The availability of materials and documents, great gaps in time between lawyer contacts and the constant need to have his every move monitored adds to the frustration. Having a nagging author on his case adds further frustration. All of this stress can lead to overload.

      Tom and I take periodic breaks from our interviews, during which I buy yet another cup of weak, rotten instant coffee and, perhaps, a soda for Tom. When I need to use the restroom, it is no different than any other place I frequent. Get up, go in, do my business and come back out. I never even notice if anyone is watching me move about, though guards are everywhere – except in the restroom (maybe they have cameras hidden in there).

      When Tom needs to use the restroom, however, it is quite a different matter. One man at a time is allowed into the separate restroom facility located near the guard station. Tom is searched before entering and searched once again upon exiting. He seems to be rather oblivious to these searches.

What about the others?

      One large and not particularly good-looking inmate spends most of the day playing cards with his likewise unattractive wife. They nestle themselves close together, and he often coils his left arm around her right arm, joining their hands together. They don’t talk much, but seem at peace.

      Another man, a young, short and thin black guy with corn-rowed hair, sits casually and acts cool alongside a rather portly white girl. I don’t know if they’re married, but it seems to me that he does most of the talking and quite often, seems content with just being in close proximity to her, as if she is a trophy or something. He seldom touches her. I notice he wants to “jive” with other people who walk by, even me, but gets little attention.

      There is a married couple that sits near Tom who talk a lot with each other, and play cards. He looks to be in his late 30s, and seems very sociable. It was his wife that bought Tom the bagels and pies. He seems to want to impress me with his knowledge of what’s going on in the prison.

      The pretty young wife I had met outside that cold day, who had forgotten her coat, visits with her husband. He looks like he could be an attorney or businessman. They sit closely and talk with intensity, but appear to be happy with each other. One time he stopped Tom and me and asked Tom if he would be going to the committee meeting that night. Tom said it was for a group known as Convicts for Christ. Tom once served as its President.

      Terry tells me that she and Tom, who were married in prison in 1988, never consummated their marriage. They have something in their marriage, though, that seems to set them apart from many couple. Almost every weekend, Terry travels out to Lansing on Saturday and Sunday where she and Tom talk, and talk, and talk. And they listen to each other. Theirs is a deep and spiritual level of communication.

      Watching all the men and their visitors, it is really hard to draw any general conclusions about them, except that just like on the outside, they run the gamut in sizes, personalities, goals, aspirations and beliefs. They share one common thread – all of them have been convicted of breaking the law. The only way to draw specific conclusions about any of them is to get up close, spend time, ask questions, listen and watch, like I have done with Tom Bird.

Parting is such sorrow

      There is a ritual at the end of the visitation day that is hard to fathom.

      One man in particular always catches my eye. I estimate he is in his early 60s, with near shoulder-length straight gray hair and a leathery, crease-lined face. He is slim and in pretty good shape, though he smokes a lot while we are outside. His wife looks a lot like him. When it is time to say good-bye, these two wrap themselves in a standing embrace near the guard’s desk, and hold on for dear life, enjoying a deep passionate kiss that goes well beyond their allotted 60 seconds. It’s humbling in a way. I know many men, myself included, who leave for work, barely planting a peck on the cheek and a quick “see ya later” as they rush out the door. Time for us is taken for-granted. Not with this man and his wife – every moment together is cherished.

      Tom and Terry have their own version of this good-by kiss, and it is just as passionate. The difference though, is the age differential. I wonder how many men and women in their 60s have any passion left in their marriage? Maybe they would if all they had was a few hours together on the weekends.

      Tom and I always hug when I leave, only it is a decent, man-kind of hug and certainly not lingering. His hugs are much like a strong handshake. Firm, strong and confident, expressing love and appreciation, much like the hugs I have been told he freely shared with folks at Faith Lutheran.

      Before Tom or I are allowed to leave the visitor’s center, he has to suffer one more indignity. He enters a small room near the exit door where he is strip-searched. Guards check his various body parts to make sure I have not slipped him any contraband or escape paraphernalia. What an indignity! Tom sees the strip-searches from a unique perspective. “At first it really bothered me, but soon I got used to it. It happens a lot and I just learned to tolerate it. Really, I feel bad for the guards who have to do it. Imagine how degrading it is for them.” That’s Tom Bird, worried about the sensitivities of a guard who is forced to dig around in his body.

      Once he’s been cleared, I can leave. I collect my stuff out of the locker, head out from the lobby of the visitor’s center and walk along the sidewalk to the next guardhouse. If Tom has finished dressing, he too is walking back to his room and we can stop and say good-bye through the fence on my left. I pass through another guard-activated turnstile and walk across the concrete driveway. At the large outside gate, the guard in Tower #13 opens and closes the gate so I can leave.

      As I drive back along the south side of the prison, I can turn into the parking lot back toward the medium security facility, and look again inside to the ball fields that sit just west of the cell-block in which Tom lives. Once we saw each other and were able to wave good-by.

      I drive off to eat a big meal and relax in the motel. Tom goes to his room sleep away more of his life. 

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