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After months of correspondence by mail, we discussed the possibility of telephone calls. She told me that no incoming calls are allowed, and that the inmate must make calls from a pay phone at the prison, with the charges reversed. I invited her to call me collect at anytime.

When we were finally able to connect, it was interesting to hear her voice. It was bright, enthusiastic and devoid of any perceptible accent. She sounded young, even though she must have been close to 50 years old. And with the exception of recorded reminders of the time left on the call, the first telephone exchange was interesting. It's one thing to communicate through letters and quite another to actually speak with someone you've never met. It seems only natural to form mental images that often change when a voice is heard ­ or when a person is met face-to-face.

Over the ensuing years, her letters and calls have been both revealing and predictably prosaic. After all, her day-to-day existence is programmed and routine. But in spite of this, she seems to have an extremely inquisitive manner ­ one that probes and investigates everything she reads and observes. It makes for a fertile mind, full of information that stimulates the senses. And in a very important way, I suspect this is the ammunition she uses to remove herself, spiritually and intellectually, from her surroundings ­ in a sense, transcending the physical with a mind that is energized.

After exchanging well over 50 letters and phone calls, I decided to move to the next level in our relationship. A personal visit was in order. She readily agreed.

* * *

It was a Thursday in September when I arrived in Los Angeles. I rented a car, and after a good night's rest, drove to the prison. As I drove into the crack-filled asphalt parking lot, it seemed I had arrived at a sprawling farm, not a prison. I parked the car and stepped out. The acrid smell of animal manure and fertilizer filled my nostrils. As I looked around, there seemed to be a working farm in the distance and a variety of single-story buildings behind wire fences in the foreground.

A long sidewalk next to the parking lot led around a fence to a small wooden building with a breezeway. A few feet away was the entrance to the prison ­ a gate behind which was a guard shack in its own small, fenced enclosure. There, an attractive female guard let me in, had me fill out a one-page form, and had me go through a metal detector. Afterwards, she opened the gate and let me proceed to a close-by building where I entered a small waiting room.

After a very few minutes, I glanced through a wall of windows that separated the waiting room from the visiting area and saw Patricia standing there. The Correctional Officer led me through and we were face-to-face for the first time. After a brief embrace, we chatted aimlessly for a few minutes, getting accustomed to each other. As the awkwardness of the situation wore off, she seemed genuinely pleased to see me. She looked me in the eye and smiled.

"You know why I like corresponding with you?" she said rhetorically. "Because we talk about lots of different things out there in the real world and not so much about my situation here. That's nice."

In spite of the compliment, I had lots of questions, but I decided to wait for a more opportune time to broach the subjects.

It was a pleasant day, so Pat suggested we walk outside where several couples were seated at picnic tables. It was a small fenced-in area, not particularly private, but we managed to find a semi-secluded grassy spot in one corner near the fence. She pointed past the fence toward the modest, cinder block buildings. "That's where I live. A hallway runs down the center of each building with cells on either side. Mine has two bunk beds, two lockers, one desk, a small john, and a sink."

She seemed almost proud of her surroundings, like a college student showing off the campus to a visiting relative. Although I couldn't see it, Pat indicated that off in the distance behind the buildings was a track where she walked everyday and sometimes played volleyball.

"You've mentioned that you have a job," I said.

"Yes, I work everyday ­ except on weekends. I think I told you that I'm working in arts and crafts and I really like it, but they make you change jobs every two years."

"Why is that?"

"They don't want inmates to get too comfortable or set in their ways."