I go to prison, MCI Norfolk, about once a month. I have business there, assisting inmates with life sentences to prepare for their parole hearings, their sole chance of see the light of day free of bars. I love the work and I’m good at it, even if I‘m not particularly correct in my terminology. Although I appreciate the humanity in the term, ‘incarcerated person,’ the harsher term, ‘inmate’ more accurately reflects the reality of life inside.

I’m always anxious when I go to prison. I don’t sleep well the night before. I wear the same outfit, which I’ve learned does not set off any detectors. I get to the train early. (God forbid they should build prisons near subway lines, even though most of the inhabitants are inner-city folk.) I pocket extra quarters for the waiting room lockers, because sometimes the guards want you to retrieve stuff already stashed. And sometimes not. I am super polite to every prison official. And no matter how long it takes to process my paperwork and review my ID and infra-red stamp my hand and check the bottom of my feet and the inner lining of my waistband, I remain patient. But I don’t really breath until I’ve stood in the vestibule that separates inside from out, and the big metal outer door closes and the big metal inner door opens and I know for sure I’ll be able to see my guys.

Last week the process was super smooth. As I waited to be processed I noticed the other folks in line. Another rangy white guy, who turned out to be a BU professor teaching a course in Astronomy. Interesting subject for men forbidden to see the stars. A middle-age mom-looking woman. And a curvaceous Hispanic woman in a clingy white pants suit. Clearly, she never received the training we got on prison attire. No denim, no rivets, no open-toed shoes, no bling. This babe was a total fox, even to my aging gay eyes.

The professor and I got bumped up and proceeded to the visitor building, where “Aaron,” my client. was already waiting.

This was an unusual visit for me because it was 100% social. Aaron’s already had his parole hearing and is awaiting his decision. I came to visit just because it’s his birthday, and the sweet man has not a soul in the world to celebrate. No family, not a friend outside the walls.

Because I’m considered a paralegal, we get to sit in a private room, though I can see the main room through the glass door. Suddenly the middle-aged woman is wearing a robe and the gorgeous Hispanic woman’s holding a flower. Yes, Aaron confirms, it’s a wedding. The groom arrives, the C.O.’s are witnesses, as Aaron explains why women marry inmates. “Many of these women have been treated bad outside. We treat them well. We write. We call every day. We are always happy to see them.” Aaron explains that conjugal visits are not allowed, but the bride and groom definitely hug and kiss.

Aaron leaves and “Benjy” arrives. Benjy’s hearing was more than a year ago, and though he received parole, one snafu after another has left him here, still. The misjustice of this could be the subject of another, less sunny post, but today we’re all about good cheer and wedded bliss. I watch the bride insert money into various vending machines scattered across the visiting room, accumulating Cokes and Chee-tos and Hostess cakes for the wedding feast. Benjy got married while incarcerated, in this same room. The marriage lasted ten years, but fell apart when he was last denied parole. “She wasn’t willing to wait any longer,” he explains.

Commuter trains to Norfolk only run every two hours during the day, so I have to monitor my time carefully, or add another two hours to my stay. A visitor can’t enter/exit MCI Norfolk around noon, because of ‘count.’ You can’t do it between 2:30 or 3:15 either, as that’s shift change. I arrived at 12:30 pm today and hope to be gone by 2:30, time to walk to the 3:30 train in the center of town.

At 2:20 the C. O. knocks on our door to inform us that the prison is in lock down, so I’m there until who knows when. I shrug because the 5:30 or 7:30 train will have plenty of seats. Benjy carries on: he’s great company and hasn’t any place to go either.

Surprisingly, the C.O. returns at 3:10. Lockdown is lifted. Shift change is about to start. I can leave: NOW! Quick handshake to Benjy. Nod to the couple noodling chips in the corner. Thanks to the C.O. and I skedaddle back through the big metal doors, retrieve my phone and paraphernalia from my locker, walk double time into town, and, lucky me – catch the 3:30 to South Station. Norfolk Depot is no place to loiter into a cold December evening.

I glide home over the rails and think about the men stuck back in Norfolk for another night. They did terrible things. Most of them, many years ago. How is it useful for these guys to stay locked up so many years later? And how happy can the bride and groom be when visiting hours end and they too must part?