Police claimed that reporting procedures had changed since then, but they simply did not have the resources to devote much attention to cases other than those that clearly indicated the immediate endangerment of a child. Those presumed to be voluntarily missing were a much lower priority.
I talked the executive news editor of the Express, John Walters, into letting me write a story about the children who weren’t voluntarily missing. This included the second-largest group after runaways-so-called “family abductions”-and I focused on the more than 203,000 cases that fell into that category. In one year, that was the number of children whose custodial parent reported them as abducted by a former spouse or other family member.
Like any good-sized city-about half a million souls live in Las Piernas-ours had its share of these cases. I interviewed several people who didn’t believe their former spouses would harm their children, or cause them to be in the way of harm, but who were both angry and heartbroken that they had been separated from their children. They also felt concern over what the children had been told about them, and anxious about the effect that being “on the run” would have on their kids.
I interviewed other people whose children or grandchildren had been taken from their lives by a noncustodial parent, but who had good reason to fear the children might be in danger-the ex-spouses had histories of substance abuse, mental illness, or violent criminal records.
For an accompanying story, one of my coworkers interviewed a fugitive mother who had taken her children from their father-he was the parent who had legal custody. The mother was now living in Mexico with her two kids and her second husband. We talked to grandparents and aunts and uncles, all of whom were affected when a child was abducted by a noncustodial parent.
Frank predicted we’d get complaints on that one.
“We’ll get complaints about all of it. I couldn’t write about all of them, so other people whose kids are missing will be upset. Noncustodial parents will complain that we didn’t write more about them. Some days I think I’m in the business of making the public unhappy.”
“Another thing our jobs have in common.”
He was about to say more, but we heard Ethan moving around in the living room. The dogs, who had been sleeping on the bedroom floor, perked up and wanted out to see if they could persuade him to give them treats- our animals were gaining weight due to his lack of resistance.
We stretched and hurriedly dressed. I managed not to look back at the bed, although I couldn’t help thinking about how much longer those lazy moments would have lasted on most Sundays. I comforted myself with the thought that we couldn’t be the only people on Earth who had to get up early on weekends.
CHAPTER 9
Sunday, April 23
8:15 A.M.
CALIFORNIA CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION
TEHACHAPI, CALIFORNIA
CALEB waited at a table in the inmate visitors’ center.
He had awakened at four this morning, a little earlier than usual for a Sunday, because of the rain. The trip from Las Piernas to Tehachapi took just over two and a half hours when everything went perfectly. Since Los Angeles lay between Las Piernas and the prison, things never went perfectly. If he missed traffic, he caught construction. Rain caused further delays.
Still, this was by far the most convenient of the three locations where Mason had been kept. The first few weeks, when the CDCR-the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation-was deciding where Mason should be incarcerated, Mason had been in one of the euphemistically named “Reception Centers” in the desert east of San Diego. He had then been placed in Susanville, at the High Desert State Prison-a Level IV facility, surrounded by a lethal electrified fence, the kind of facility where someone sentenced to “life without possibility of parole” must be kept.
LWOP-life without possibility. Caleb tried to keep that phrase out of his head.
By car, Susanville was ten hours north of Las Piernas. The CDCR said they tried to place prisoners in facilities close to where family members lived, but with half the prison population coming from the Los Angeles basin and only one prison in L.A. County, something had to give.
For a year, Caleb and his mother made the long drive every weekend. During the second year, Grandmother Delacroix-widowed by then, and having a change of heart toward Mason-joined Uncle Nelson (who wanted to impress Caleb’s mom) in the battle to get Mason moved closer to Las Piernas. Grandmother became a determined advocate for Mason. She was joined by the legions of Fletchers enlisted by Uncle Nelson, which made a difference. Mason was transferred to Tehachapi, formally known as the California Correctional Institution.
Tehachapi was overcrowded, as were all the California prisons. More than five thousand inmates were held in a prison built to hold half that many. At first, since Mason had to adjust again to a new group of inmates, Caleb was worried they might not have done him any favors. But if there were new problems, Mason never mentioned them.
Throughout most of the state’s prison system, inmates could only have visitors on Saturdays and Sundays and five holidays: New Year’s Day, July Fourth, Labor Day, Thanksgiving Day, and Christmas Day. Here in Tehachapi, the visiting hours on those days were from 7:45 A.M. to 2:45 P.M., and Caleb could usually stay most of that time. Once in a while, if a lot of visitors showed up on one day, the first visitors in had to leave a little earlier so that the next group could come in. Father’s Day, Easter Sunday, and similar holidays were usually the only times Caleb’s visits had to be shorter for that reason.
He had carefully dressed in conservative clothing, in accordance with inmate visitors’ regulations. Clothing that resembled inmate clothing-blue denim or chambray shirts, blue denim pants-was forbidden, as were clothes that resembled law enforcement or military clothing, including rain gear. It had been raining when he woke up before dawn today, but by now Caleb was an old hand at dressing for prison visits and didn’t make the mistake of carrying a poncho.
He knew the list of allowable items by heart:
His driver’s license, which could not be carried in a wallet, but was necessary for identification for each visit.
One handkerchief-no bandanas.
A package of tissues, unopened.
A clear change purse, holding no more than thirty dollars, which must be in coins or one-dollar bills only. None of it could be left with the prisoner.
A comb or brush.
Two keys on a key ring with no attachments.
Up to six photographs, to be carried in a clear plastic bag.
No chewing gum, cigarettes, food, cameras, pagers, cell phones.
He never wore a belt or shoes that might have metal in them.
He had parked his car and walked to the first processing area. He was in line early, and completed the necessary paperwork, which was checked against computer records to ensure that Mason had agreed to the visit and was available that day. He got the ultraviolet-ink hand stamp and went through security screening-taking off his shoes, walking through the metal detector, putting his shoes back on. He rode the van that took him to the visitors’ area for the facility where Mason was held, checked in through a second security screening and went downstairs, checked in again at the booth on this level, then staked out a table and waited the twenty additional minutes it took for Mason to make it through his part of the process.
He tried to shake off the effects of the nightmare he had every Saturday night-that he drove to the prison and waited there, only to have a guard come to the table and say that Mason was dead. On other nights, the dream would be of a phone call to his home-he would drive and drive and never reach the prison to reclaim Mason’s body. Only his fear-filled dreams about Jenny were worse.
