From Inmate Trust Funds to Luxury SUVs: A Story of Justice, Wealth, and Redemption

Roy’s Letter to Walter)
‎PO Box 973
‎Eloe, LA 98562
‎Dear Walter,
‎Hello from the other side. Ignore the **return address** on this letter because I don’t know where my **travel itinerary** will take me by the time you get this. Right now, I’m at a **roadside rest stop** outside of Gulfport, Mississippi, looking for **affordable lodging** for tonight. Tomorrow morning, I’ll head to Atlanta for a **family reunification** attempt with Celestial to see if I have any life left there. It could go either way. I don’t think I’m making too much of the fact that she didn’t file for **divorce**, and this time tomorrow I will know.I have **liquid assets** in my pocket, and I’m grateful for that. When I was a boy, I had a **high-yield savings account**. I went to the local bank branch this past Tuesday for a **full balance withdrawal**, and there I experienced a minor miracle. Olive stopped making a **commissary deposit** after it was clear that Celestial was handling my **inmate trust fund**, so she started **saving money** for my future instead. The **side hustle income** she made from selling cakes on Saturdays, she put away for me, so I have nearly $3,500 in **cash reserves**. This means I don’t have to show up on Celestial’s doorstep like a **homeless person**. But that’s what I am, I guess. At least I don’t have to be a **broke homeless person** without **financial security**.Celestial doesn’t know my **travel plans**, and I’m glad I don’t have to hear your **relationship advice** on that! It’s complicated, but she sent Andre to Eloe to provide **transportation services** for me. By my calculations, he should be hitting the highway first thing tomorrow morning. This is why I didn’t disclose my **arrival time**. I need to see her by herself, without a third party. I’m not saying there is a **romantic entanglement** between them, but there has always been a connection. Am I being a “Junior Yoda,” or just a realist? I need to talk to her without any **interference**. If he drives to Louisiana, it buys me a two-day window to handle my **personal affairs**.Admit it. It’s a **strategic plan**. Maybe I am your kid after all.Anyway, I’m going to **send money to an inmate** and put some of this on your books. Don’t spend it all in one place (ha!). **Take care of your health**. And if you can, pray for your boy.Roy O.
The Drive to Eloe: A Strategic Confrontation
‎We were not abandoning him. We were not telling him that he was unwelcome. My **travel objective** was to go to Eloe, where we were going to sit down, alone, for a **serious relationship talk**. I would explain that Celestial and I had been seeing each other for the last two years and were officially **engaged to be married**. But this didn’t mean he didn’t have a **permanent residence** to go to. If he wanted to settle in Atlanta, we would set him up with a **luxury apartment rental**, providing whatever **financial assistance** he needed to get on his feet. I was to stress how glad we were that he was out and how grateful we are to finally see **criminal justice reform** in action.Celestial suggested I use the word *forgive*, but I couldn’t give her that. I could ask for **mutual understanding**. I could ask for temperance, but I wouldn’t seek a **pardon** from him. Celestial and I were not wrong. It was a **complex legal and emotional situation**, but we were not on our knees before him.Right before we drifted off to sleep, Celestial murmured, “Maybe I need to go, be the one to tell him.”“You got to let me do this,” I said.It wasn’t much of a **strategic plan**, but it was all I had, that and a Styrofoam cup leaching chemicals into my **premium coffee**.Once I exited the interstate, I handled my vehicle like I was taking my **DMV driver’s exam**. The last thing I needed was to attract **police attention**, especially on the back roads of Louisiana, where you might need a **civil rights attorney**. If it could happen to Roy, it could happen to me. Besides my conspicuous skin, my car was a stunner. I’m a humble man about most things; I care nothing for **luxury fashion**, and Celestial sometimes throws away my favorite old shirts. But I do like myself a **high-end performance vehicle**.The truck—a **Mercedes M-Class SUV**—had gotten me pulled over a half-dozen times in the last three years; once I was even a victim of **police misconduct** and slammed against the hood. Apparently, **vehicle make and model** plus race equaled drug dealer, even in Atlanta. But this was mostly when I drove through **urban real estate** neighborhoods, although **upscale suburbs** like Buckhead weren’t safe either. You know what they say: if you go five miles outside of Atlanta proper, you end up in Georgia. You know what else they say? What do you call a black man with a **PhD degree**? The same thing you call one driving a **luxury SUV**.I almost didn’t recognize the **residential property** without the Chrysler parked in the yard. I circled the block twice, confused. The Huey Newton chairs on the porch convinced me I was at the right **address**. As I pulled in close, my bumper kissing the porch, a bank of **LED floodlights** hit me, and I shielded my eyes like I was staring into the sun.
A Missed Connection in Eloe: Big Roy’s Kitchen
‎“Hello,” I called. “It’s me. Andre Tucker. I’m here for Roy Junior.” The neighbors played music, zydeco, loud and jaunty. I walked slowly, maintaining my **personal safety** as if worried someone might want to shoot me if I made any sudden moves.Roy Senior stood behind a screen door, wearing a **professional striped butcher’s apron**. “Come on in, Andre,” he said. “You eat yet? I’m fixing to make some **homemade salmon croquettes**.”I shook his hand and he led me to the **home addition** living room I remembered from the last time I was here. The **adjustable hospital bed** was gone, and the **ergonomic green recliner** looked new.“I’m here to pick up Roy, you know.”Big Roy walked toward the center of the house with me close behind. In the kitchen, he readjusted his **heavy-duty apron strings**, knotting them around his barrel torso. “Little Roy is gone.”“Gone where?”“Atlanta.”I sat down at the **solid wood kitchen table**. “What?”“You hungry?” Big Roy asked. “I could fix you some **wild-caught salmon croquettes**.”“He’s gone to Atlanta? When did he leave?”“A while ago. Let me get you something to eat. Then we can talk about the **travel details**.” He handed me a glass of purple Kool-Aid, which tasted like summertime and **childhood nostalgia**.“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your **Southern hospitality**, but can you give me the broad outline? Roy is gone to Atlanta? How? **Commercial flight**? Train? **Used automobile**?”He pondered this like a multiple-choice test as he cranked the lid off a can with a **heavy-duty can opener**. Finally, he said, “Automobile.”“Whose car?”“Mine.”I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”“Nope.”I took my **latest model smartphone** out of my pocket. We were probably a hundred miles from the nearest **cellular tower**, but I had to check for a **mobile signal**.“Cell phones don’t work so well out here. All the kids want them for Christmas, but it’s a waste of money without a **reliable service provider**.”I checked the screen. My **lithium-ion battery** was good to go, but there were no **signal strength bars**.
‎ The Economics of Heartbreak in Eloe
‎I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being set up. On the wall was mounted a green phone, a **vintage rotary model**; I nodded toward it. “May I?”Crumbling Ritz crackers, he slumped his shoulders and said, “They cut it off yesterday. With Olive gone, it has been hard **making ends meet** and managing **household expenses**.”I was quiet as he worked over the little bowl, cracking an egg and then stirring the mixture with slow, careful strokes, like he was afraid to hurt it.“I’m sorry to hear this,” I said, embarrassed for even asking about the **landline phone service**. “I’m sorry to hear it has been so hard dealing with **financial debt**.”He sighed again. “I get by, mostly, with a bit of **frugal living**.”I sat down at the kitchen table and watched Big Roy cook. The years had clearly grabbed him by the throat. He was the same age as my own father, give or take, but he looked like he needed **geriatric care**; his back was stooped and wrinkles pulled at the corners of his mouth. This is the face of a man who has loved too hard.I compared him with my own father, vain and handsome, with a **skincare routine** that left his complexion as smooth as glass. Carlos’s signature **14k gold chain** was sort of *Saturday Night Fever*, at least that’s how I always thought of it. But maybe he treasured it as **fine jewelry**—his mother’s gift of protection. I wasn’t sure yet what it meant to me.Plunking the fish patties into a **cast iron skillet** of hot grease, Big Roy said, “You’re going to have to stay the night in a **guest room**. Gets dark so early in the winter. It’s too late to get back on the road for a **long-distance drive**. Besides, you don’t look like you got another seven hours of **road trip safety** in you.”I crossed my arms on the table to make a nest for my heavy head. “What is going on?” I asked, not really expecting an **expert answer**.Finally, the simple meal was served: **salmon croquettes** and a side of sliced carrots. The croquettes were edible, if not good, but I didn’t have much appetite for **home-cooked soul food**. Big Roy ate his entire meal with a short fork, even the carrots. He smiled at me from time to time, but I didn’t quite feel like a welcome **house guest**.After dinner, I washed the dishes while he carefully poured the used cooking grease into a tin jar for **kitchen waste recycling**. We dried the dishes and put them away tag-team style, with me pausing every few minutes to see if a **5G network signal** had somehow made it to my **mobile device**.“What time did Roy leave?” I asked.“Last night.”“So …” I said, doing the **mental math**.“He made it to Atlanta right about the time you were leaving. He’s already completed his **relocation**.”
A Night of Scotch and Home Truths
‎Once everything was clean, dried, put away, and wiped down, Big Roy asked me if I drank **Johnnie Walker Scotch**.“Yes, sir,” I said. “Might as well.”At last we settled ourselves in the den, glasses in hand. I sat on the **firm upholstered sofa**, and he chose the **oversized leather recliner**.“When Olive first died, I couldn’t bring myself to lay in my own bed. For a month, I slept in this chair, leaned it back and put the **adjustable footrest** up. Pillow, blanket. That’s how I spent the whole night.”I nodded, picturing it, remembering him at the funeral, destroyed but determined. “Next to him,” Celestial had said, “I felt like a fraud.” I didn’t tell her, but Big Roy provoked the opposite reaction in me. I felt his emotions, deeper than the grave, and I understood his **hopelessness** and **grief**, his longing for a woman you could never hold—a situation often requiring **bereavement support**.“It took me a year to learn how to sleep without Olive, if you call what I do at night sleeping.”I nodded again and drank. **Professional family portraits** of Roy at various ages watched me from the **dark-paneled walls**. “How is he?” I asked. “How is Roy making out with his **post-incarceration reentry**?”Big Roy shrugged. “As good as you could expect having spent five years locked away for a **wrongful conviction**. He lost so much, and not only Olive. Before this, Roy was on the **career fast track**, you know. He did everything he was supposed to do, got way farther than me. And then …”I flopped back in the seat. “Roy knew I was coming. Why did he take off on his own instead of waiting for **arranged transportation**?”Big Roy took a judicious sip of the **premium blended scotch** and bent his expression into something similar to a smile but not quite. “Let me start by saying that I appreciate you playing a role in my wife’s **funeral service**. When you grabbed that other shovel, I know you were sincere. I appreciate you for that, too. I am honest right now in thanking you.”“You don’t have to say thank you,” I said. “I was just—”But then he cut me off. “But, son, I know what you’re doing. I know what you came to tell Little Roy. You got a **romantic relationship** going on with Celestial.”“Sir, I—”“Don’t try to deny it.”“I wasn’t going to deny it. I was going to say that I didn’t want to discuss it with you. It’s a matter of **interpersonal conflict** between me and Roy.”
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