BP was led into the visitor’s room by a deputy sheriff. His stride was restrained because of the leg irons locked around his ankles, and he held his hands waist high to accommodate the belly chains. He wore an orange jump suit, typical prison attire, with a white long sleeved knit shirt underneath. He used the sleeve to wipe a runny nose by dragging his forearm across his face. He was a short, stocky, muscle bound man, 64 years old, and in better physical condition than most men half his age. The stubble on his face had specs of grey that matched the grey that peppered his unkempt short wooly afro. The years of lifting weights - the prisoner’s pastime - had paid off. A prison guard had confirmed to Charles what his dad had often bragged about; that he could do a hundred pushups in sixty seconds. The officer escorted BP to the section of the visitor’s room where Charles was seated. It was towards the back end of the room that provided BP with a clear view out of the window behind Charles. It was BP's favorite spot, their own private space that had them separated by a plexiglass barrier.
“How are you dad?”
BP sat down and gazed out of the window. He sat quietly for several seconds after Charles had greeted him just staring out of the window. He ran his shirt sleeve across his runny rose again before resting the points of his elbows on the table then he placed his hands together as if in prayer. He interlocked his fingers, and slowly lowered his hands as one big fist onto the table.
“Officer Mozingo. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Or am I finally losing track of time in this shit hole."
“Hi dad. How are you?” he said again.
"Same as yesterday, and the day before that. I’ll be the same tomorrow, and the day after that. Lord willing."
“You keep working out the way you do, you’ll be able to break those chains, and escape from this place," Charles said.
“So that you can hunt me down, and arrest me, Officer Mozingo?”
BP slumped back in his chair as the two men on opposite sides of the law looked through each other.
"Something's wrong. Go ahead -- spit it out, Officer Mozingo".
Charles adjusted his seating position, and leaned closer to his father, in their private space.
“It’s Elton, dad.”
The words didn't want to come out.
BP shot up in his chair. His chest widened as his pectoral muscles contracted and expanded. His facial expression hardened, as his cheeks tightened.
“What about Elton? Is he ok? He’s not hurt is he?”
“No dad. But there’s a warrant out for his arrest."
Charles watched and readied himself as his dad processed the information. He sat there motionless then looked past him, over his head and out the window staring into the distant sky.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish