Self-Redemption

Coromandel scribbled furiously in the small black notebook, pressing his pencil hard enough to emboss the words onto the surface of the page. He remained intent, pausing only to switch his laser focus onto the pages of the law book open on the table. In a breath he snapped the pages over, then returned to his notes once again. The only other man in the room the librarian – a worn, aged lifer - holding silent vigil over the sparse, industrial prison library. He never spoke; just took requests jotted on scraps of paper, shuffled to a shelf, and pointed his spindly, rheumatic hand to the book. The librarian sensed that this man’s very existence depended on this reading, this writing. Indeed, it had become so.

Half an hour later, a guard stepped into the library, stopping in front of the table. Coromandel didn’t pause, didn’t look up. The guard sighed.

“Ok, Cor. Time.”, he said.

Cor stopped abruptly and shot a look at the clock. One hour. That was all the time he was allotted. He always needed more time, but it would have to wait. Each day a step. He nodded at the guard, closed the notebook, wrapping a rubber band around it to encase the heavily-laden curled pages, and slid it into his uniform’s chest pocket. He stood, closed the book on the table, silently returned it to the librarian and stepped to the door. The guard placed handcuffs on Cor’s wrists. They walked in silence, the cacophony of the prison jungle activity surrounding them, punctuated by the jangle of keys and buzzers as they passed through gated hallways to his block.

Once back in his orderly cell, he settled into his bunk, pulling the black notebook from his pocket and thumbing to the most recent notes. His cellmate poked his head down from the top bunk.

“Anything good?” he asked.

Cor gave a grimace and shrugged a little. For all his research time, he hadn’t quite found the nugget that would help set him free just yet.

***

Coromandel had been in prison for longer than he cared to remember, although he could have marked the time to the month, week, day and hour a few years back. He had long since stopped counting. Time was taken from him, but he didn’t have to relinquish his mind as well. It just took him a long time to realize that. The incident that brought him to prison was convoluted and full of conjecture, but contained at its core the essence of wrongness; in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong people, at the wrong age. Having the wrong attitude. He was young and angry long ago. His decisions then were indeed mad – impetuous and ill-informed. Just like so many others his age. Somehow, he never realized what a heavy price was levied for being so wrong. Wrongfully accused, wrongfully tried, wrongfully convicted. He decided to wrongfully take the punishment and shoulder the righteous resentment as his shield - on the outside. Inside, he was flailing with panicky despair and hopelessness. Powerlessness.

What family he hadn’t driven away back then was now grown old. They had long since become too feeble to help him, or had died. One brother lost from a fatal infection at a young age, one brother a shooting victim; his mother, from a broken heart. No father to speak of. Those on the outside he had any connection to didn’t know him, but only knew of him. After many years with less and less outside contact, Coromandel lost faith in his anger and retreated within himself. He became a calm and sedate prisoner, succumbing to the slow, predictable, monotonous days that numbed your soul if you let it, which he did. He had resigned himself to his fate. Life in prison passed around him. Guards, wardens, prisoners- excepting a few like himself – passed through. This endured for many years.

Until the day he was startled into consciousness.

Cor received almost no mail, excepting official prison or legal papers; parole hearing notices, which he always refused. When a small package was handed to him in December from the mail cart, he passed it to his cellmate.

“Uh...Dude,” he said, handing him the box back, pointing to the addressee. Coromandel Chondas. Post Office box return address. Cor jerked his head back with surprise, frowning. What kind of legal papers came in a box? He took the box, staring at the address, and sat on his bunk.

The wrapping flapped open from the package screeners. They knew this came. Cor peeled back the paper wrapper to reveal a plain brown box. He opened the flaps, revealing a small black notebook. He lifted it, turning its pebbly hard cover over in his hand, thumbing through the smooth, cream pages. Blank. Inside the box was something else. A letter. He lifted out the envelope and placed the box and book down. Cor removed a neatly folded fine sheet of cream paper to reveal a typewritten note:

TO: Coromandel Chondas

FROM: A Friend

Your situation can be changed. Read. Read rights, laws, facts. Read your story. Use this to save your thoughts. Set yourself free.

Help is awaiting you on the outside. It will arrive when most needed. YOU must start the process.

Cor stared at the letter quizzically. What did this mean? It couldn’t be real. Who would mess with him this way, or why? His brain resisted this new information, leaving him in a state the rest of the day. That night in the quiet of his bunk, a wave of unexpected emotion hit him. Free. He couldn’t make that happen, could he? But then again, he had never really tried. Over many years of disillusionment and the anesthesia of daily doldrums, it never occurred to him that he could, or should.

“Yo, man,” his cellmate breathed softly. He couldn’t help but read the letter splayed out in Cor’s hand, “Santa Claus finally found you!” His eyes grew large, and a smirk crept along his lips.

Over the next several months, Cor mulled the idea that he could take on more than he ever had before on his own behalf. He took small actions one at a time. He made requests for his court files. He gained permission for access to the prisoner’s library. He took on a job in the prison kitchen to fill his time with more than waiting. He began to think. Where to begin was a problem.

He hesitated to mar the clean, pure pages of the new notebook, but finally decided on the first page:

Coromandel Chondas - Freed Man

That day he launched into reading all he could get his hands and mind on.

***

Once again, Cor was calm and sedate, but it was different than before. Now he felt purpose. There were days when his reading left him lost in confusion, and others when a gem would emerge from the page. Somber days of explosive frustration and anger, quiet days full of extreme boredom. The guards were uncharacteristically patient with his library time. Some days they let him stay a little longer. His days were lost in new words and thoughts. December arrived again, and Cor paused when he realized it had been a year. His momentum faltered briefly. What could he do with all this?

“Maybe Santa Claus will deliver again,” offered his cellmate with a hopeful lift of his eyebrow. They waited.

It came the day before Christmas. A plain envelope, same post office box return address. Cor received it with a lurch of hope, and didn’t delay opening it. This note was brief and to the point.

TO: Coromandel Chondas

FROM: Your Friend

You have been working hard.

Go see the warden.

Then come see me.

He dropped the note in his lap.

“What the F**k, man,” objected his cellmate, having read from the bunk above again. “This is one crazy mystery dude. I ain’t never been to see the warden. Damn.” He rolled back onto his bunk. “Good luck, man. I hope this guy don’t shank you.”

Cor waited for the guard to come for his daily library trek, his body humming with nerves and fear.

“I need to see the warden,” he asked tentatively. The guard looked him up and down and tilted his head.

“You gotta have a good reason,” he retorted.

Cor showed him the note.

“Hmpf. Wait here,” he said, closing the door of the cell and taking the note with him. Cor loathed letting the note go. It was a tenuous thread to the outside word, and the hope that came with it departed with the guard. After an hour, the guard returned and jerked open the cell door.

“You’re one luck S.O.B. Come on. Gimme the notebook.” Cor showed no response, but his stomach turned into a knot. He handed over his small tome reluctantly and extended his hands. The guard clicked the cuffs onto his wrists, closing the cell door behind them. Cor’s heart pounded with every step closer to the warden’s office.

“Coromandel Chondas to see the warden,” the guard announced, stopping at the assistant’s desk and handing over the notebook.

The assistant nodded curtly. She took the notebook and stepped into the warden’s office. They stood for several minutes waiting. When she returned, she held the door open for them to enter.

The office was warm and carpeted, with soft light and upholstered chairs; Cor’s feet bounced to the unfamiliar feel of carpet under his shoes. Much to his surprise, a late middle-aged maternal woman, with soft silver hair sat in front of him, glasses dangling on a chain. She was neatly but plainly dressed, and carried an imposing air of authority.

“Mr. Chondas,” she stood briskly and extended an open hand to the chair across from her desk. “I have been expecting you. Please take a seat.” Cor hesitated a moment, but sat gingerly. She began.

“You may be aware that I have been the new warden of this prison for a little less than a year now. Every warden brings their own approach to things, and I have taken on a review of cases like yours to look for any …unaddressed issues. You have been a long-time prisoner, and have exhibited model behavior. Yet you refused your parole hearings for many years.” It was a statement awaiting an answer.

Cor shrugged. She waited. With a sigh he spoke.

“No hope. Why try. Nobody on the outside. No money.”

“And yet you have spent the last year allocating a fair amount of your time very… differently,” she pointed out.

“Yes.”

“Is this the product of your time?” she asked, holding up the small, worn, black notebook. Cor nodded. She had leafed through the pages, and the original letter was laid out on her desk.

She opened a file that had been laying to the side of the letter, pulling out another envelope, placing it in front of him. This one was sealed.

“Before I arrived, this was put into your file. I only found it recently, and think it’s time to ‘address’ it. Please open it.”

Cor’s hand shook slightly as he picked it up, turned it over and slid his thumb under the flap. Inside were three things. A thick, fancy business card of a law firm, a letter, and a smaller envelope, still sealed. He read.

TO: Coromandel Chondas

FROM: Your Friend

Your work is paying off. You have found what you need. Call as soon as you can.

Bewildered, Cor opened the last envelope. He lifted out a slip of paper, frowning, unsure if what he was seeing was real. A bank check for $20,000. In the note line: Coromandel Chondas, legal defense fund.

He froze in disbelief, looking to the warden.

“Looks like you do have a friend on the outside after all.” She smiled slightly.

He blinked, but could not control the tear that slid from his eye.