“And it’s freezing in New York.”
“You and that freezing in New York. So what? At least I’m going somewhere, sister.”
She gave him a sharp look. He was staring straight ahead, his profile innocent of criticism.
“Well, at least we didn’t get the prison story,” she said.
“I hear that,” he said, nodding with the words. “I hear that.”
38
The prison story went to Debbie with Jason as her photographer. She pleaded with George for someone else. She had managed to avoid Jason for months, conniving and manipulating to work with other photographers.
“Clifford would be good on this one,” she told George. “Or, how about Cappy? We work well together on things like this.”
“Nope. Jason’s it. Everybody else is out.”
“Ah, George, doesn’t Jason need to work on some series?” she tried.
“Debbie, go out and do the story,” he said in frustration. What was wrong with these people? First they wanted to work together. Now they didn’t. Well, they could forget it. He didn’t have time to juggle the schedule first thing in the morning.
“How’s everything been with you?” Jason asked her as they started the hour drive to the prison.
“Fine.”
“I haven’t seen much of you.”
“No,” she said, staring out her window. “I’ve been busy.”
“Yeah, right.” He turned on the radio. Rock and roll blasted through the van.
“You haven’t gotten any shorter,” he yelled over the music.
She said nothing.
He turned off the radio.
“Missed you,” he said, looking over at her..
She continued looking out her window.
“Have you ever been in the prison?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’ve never been in any prison.”
“It’s bad,” he warned her. “We’ll get in and out as fast as we can.”
For Jason, prison stories were the worst, county, state, city, any prison. And, it wasn’t only because they were hard to shoot, no faces allowed, and the light was bad. It was the noise, the sounds of metal on metal, cell doors closing, the strange screams of laughter.
“We’ll get out fast,” he promised.
He tried before, being friendly, talking to her in the newsroom. She would give him a smile but not much more.
“How’s Ashley?” she asked suddenly.
“Working in Washington, as far as I know.”
“Poor you.”
“Come on, Debbie.”
“Let’s not talk,” she said. “I really don’t feel like it.”
He turned the radio on and they rode the rest of the way without speaking.
They signed away any special consideration for their safety at the front gate. If anything happened to them, if they were taken hostage, they should not expect anything to be done for them. The gate slammed behind them and they stood in the open yard. Jason set up the tripod. The man from the warden’s office stood with them.
“You can go up there,” he said and pointed to the walkways running atop one fortress-like wall. “Would that be good for you, a good view?”
The legislature was in session. Any story about prison overcrowding could mean more money. The warden told him to give the television people what they wanted.
“And we’ll need to go inside one of the cell blocks. Is that okay?” Debbie asked.
“Already set up.”
The warden told him to take them into the three-story square brick jail built back in Territory days. They wanted shots of a prison system in need of money, they’d get them there.
“That about does it,” Jason said, straightening up from his stance over the tripod. “Anything else you can think of, Debbie? Out here, I mean?”
“No. I guess we should go inside.”
“Now remember,” said the man with the short-sleeved white shirt, “stay back from the cells. Stay in the middle.”
He shouldered the recorder so Jason could carry the tripod with the camera screwed into position. They passed into the gloom of the brick block.
“This is where we put the men who need protection from the general population,” he told Debbie.
Her eyes moved across the high rows of cells.
“Do they ever go outside?” she asked in a whisper. “When the other prisoners are inside, sure.”
Jason moved to the center of the cellblock. The warden’s man turned back to the guards at the door. Debbie moved further into the dark of the building.
“Hey, hey,” the voices called to her. “Hey, lady.”
They came from a dark corner of the old brick building.
“Hey, hey, come here,” came the soft plea from the dark. “Come closer.”
She took a few steps toward the cells and peered through the gloom, trying to find the face that matched the voice.
“I can’t see you,” she cried.
“Whatcha doin’, lady?” came the voice of a black man lost in the blackness.
“We’re doing a story about overcrowding down here,” she said and tried to turn in the direction of the voice but she was confused. She turned again.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“What station you work for?” This seemed to be another voice.
Jason worked far from her, raising the camera and his eyes to the highest tier.
“Can we see it? When?” came the first voice.
“Tonight, probably. Maybe again tomorrow at noon.” She tired to talk to all of the cells in that corner, like an audience. She smiled shyly.
“You never really know, but probably tonight.”
“What station?” asked a voice.
“What she say?” came a faraway call.
“Hey, hey, lady,” The first voice softly begged for attention. “Hey, you know that Jean Ann Maypin? You know her?”
“Yes,” she said. “I work with her. Same station.”
“She a nice lady? She looks like a real nice lady.”
“You fool,” came a laugh. “What a motherfuckin’ fool.”
“Shit,” echoed down the cell row.
Jason signalled to her.
“I have to go,” she told the wall of darkness.
“Hey, hey, lady, what’s your name?”
“Debbie Hanson,” she said without hesitating.
“You’re on television, lady? Can we see you on the television?”
“Almost every night.” She gave a little laugh and turned away.
“You got everything?” she asked Jason.
“Everything I can get and it ain’t much. I hope you don’t plan more than a minute on this story because we don’t have squat.”
She looked up to the top row of cells. There was more light up there. It wasn’t so terrible.
