Free Inside These Walls by Rebecca Coleman Page B

my place, then hit Play in time to catch the fading strains of Bob Marley’s Three Little Birds . At the very end I hold the machine close to my ear, and there it is, that distant, two-word utterance. “Goddamn it.”
    I hit Rewind. Listen again. Goddamn it. Goddamn it .
    The technology is a scourge and a miracle.
    At one point I had half a dozen tapes with Ricky’s voice on them—his long, wandering introductions to songs he thought I should appreciate. All of those I threw away without an iota of regret. I kept this tape, I told myself, for the music. The ten songs, painstakingly curated, which I love independent of the fact that it was a gift for that final Valentine’s Day. Here he is, speaking from beyond, but only to utter a curse.
    You talk to her, I want to order him. Apologize. Claim her. Tell me what to say to her. I can’t do this on my own. I can’t even defend myself, let alone you .
    This is the truth. Annemarie will only be the daughter of two murderers if I say the words that will make that so. On the records of the state, and in the knowledge of the public, her father is a nameless, faceless man who could be anyone. In all the life that stretches out in front of me, I will never be able to give her anything more meaningful than that name. And once I say the true one, I can never take it back.
    I rub my fingers against my temples. It’s an agonizing question, and its answer, no matter what I choose, must be bolstered with true details that won’t undermine her chance at a healthy baby. The name I give her must be credible. Virtually untraceable. One onto which I can tack the authentic family medical history without raising suspicion. But I can’t think of any man I have known who would match that profile.
    Tell me a name, Ricky, I think. Help me figure out your fall guy .
    And then, miraculously, I do.
    * * *
    The letter from Karen Shepard arrives at the end of the week by second-day mail. They pass it through the slot in my cell, and I’m impressed by the size of the envelope and the extra expense, even though it’s already torn open along the pull-tab. In it are several pages of death certificates—my father’s and mother’s, Ricky’s parents’, and something I had forgotten about—one for his sister, who had died the year before the family moved to San Jose. CAUSE OF DEATH, I read, and work to unscramble the tight handwriting on the line beneath: postductal coarctation of the aorta due to Turner Syndrome . When I rifle through my memories of his family, I remember Ricky mentioning she’d had a heart problem. I don’t remember anything about a syndrome.
    I breathe a slow, unhappy sigh. I’m going to need to tell Annemarie about this.
    Among the paperwork is a neatly formatted message from Ms. Shepard, promising more information as she is able to procure it, and reminding me in polite terms about our agreement that I will fork over my knowledge of Ricky in return for her trouble. Stapled to this sheet is a list of interview questions. There are only five, but they are pointed, and each will take a good amount of time. Well, I have that.
    I sit on my metal stool, lay out a sheet of lined paper and my best homemade mechanical pencil, and I begin to write.
    Dear Ms. Shepard,
    Thank you very much for the death certificates. They are quite helpful. I look forward to any additional information you can provide, and hope we can be equitable in offering each other help with our various projects.
    First, I would like to offer a bit of background on myself. I was born in San Jose and lived on Magellan Avenue until I was ten years old. My father, who was older than my mother by twelve years, had the foresight to take out a good life insurance policy at the time of my birth, and so my mother was able to stay in our modest house after his death and preserve some stability in my life. That was a blessing. Her job at the travel agency provided for my basic needs, and she lived frugally so that she could