Free Love Her Madly by Mary-Ann Tirone Smith Page A

can.”
    We went out and crossed the small yard to the main building. I didn’t ask why we weren’t driving.
    Instead, I sprang my question when he wasn’t expecting any more of them.
    â€œWarden?”
    â€œYes, ma’am?”
    â€œSeeing as how Rona Leigh never slipped once, have you ever considered that she might not have done it? I mean, I know you’re not paid to cross the court’s decisions, but maybe such a consideration doesn’t quite do that.”
    He stopped. He pushed his Stetson back one inch with the knuckle of his forefinger. “And what would be the point of my considerin’ any such thing?”
    â€œPoint? No point. But did it ever occur to you?”
    He folded his arms across his chest. Captain Shank at his post gave us a sideways glance. “Truthfully, ma’am, there were a couple of times I wished she hadn’t done it. This is a real tricky business we got happenin’ here. We are usherin’ in an era of executin’ women. Lotsa red tape and headaches. I got enough ribs on the fire without wonderin’ whether any of my prisoners committed the crimes they were found guilty of. I say again, I respect the justice system of the great state of Texas.”
    â€œBut have you—”
    He held up his hand, palm in my face. Maybe he’d begun his career as a traffic cop.
    â€œEnough, ma’am. Enough.” He turned on his heel. I followed him.
    And I wondered about the comfort that lies in faith. I wondered how comfort could possibly override consideration of the truth.
    I felt my heels digging in a little further.
    Before the warden left me, he said, “Agent, the woman is a killer. She’s a psycho, and as far as I’m concerned she’s downright brainwashed.”
    â€œWho’d have brainwashed her? Her husband?”
    He hooted. “That little boy? No, ma’am. Mind, now, their marriage was not consummated. To my mind it ain’t a real marriage. No conjugal visits on death row. Ask me, even Rona Leigh wouldn’t want to do it with that pinhead. So here’s who brainwashed my prisoner: She brainwashed herself. All that self-help business. I am a good person. People like me. I like me. I am no longer in the hold of Satan. I am a saint. Damn them all.”
    He looked at his watch. He was almost through. “Rona Leigh has finally become the character she’s acted over all these years. Brainwashed into thinkin’ she’s the RC virgin. Now let me ask you somethin’, Agent Rice of the FBI, ’fore I take my leave. What do y’all want from us? The law don’t account for any presto-chango killers. Gal may sound like a saint, might act like an angel. But it don’t make her any less a killer. Innocent people are dead, and they were made dead at her hand. The court has spoken.”
    â€œThe court didn’t get all the evidence that could have been made available to them.”
    â€œWho says?”
    â€œI do.”
    He took me in. “But you, ma’am, are an outsider.”

4
    I was an outsider, but I wasn’t bound to rules and regulations when it came to visiting a prisoner in Texas, though Corrections Officer Captain Harley Shank thought I might be interested in knowing what they were. Shank was inside now, a different guard at the fence. Positions had shifted. He handed me a pamphlet to read while I waited for Rona Leigh to come out. There were two categories: what visitors were not allowed to wear and what they weren’t allowed to bring in. First category: no hats, belts, sweaters, jackets, vests, coats, boots, hair ornaments, or jewelry. Within that category also fell handbags, briefcases, bags, cameras, and computers. Second category: no food (including gum, candy, and drinks); no medications, cigarettes, cigars, newspapers, books, magazines, paper of any sort, pencils, pens, gifts, or money.
    I put the pamphlet down on the ledge in front of me. The