The church ladies and the prisoners
They never know when the travelers will arrive or if they will show up at all. So, eyes trained on the traffic along Main Street, bodies poised to leap up and run out, they wait.
This Wednesday was no different. It was already past noon. Kathie Gallagher, Charlotte Bilderback and Carolyn King had been peering out the plate glass windows at El Expreso bus station downtown for nearly half an hour.
They chitted and chatted and passed the time like the old friends they are, bonds sealed by decades spent in the same Kingwood church, by children raised in the same Sunday school, by lives molded to the routines of suburban life.
Every time a van rattled by, their heads swerved; their anticipation mounted; their spirits rose and fell.
Finally, at 12:15 p.m., Gallagher spotted a white van with the state seal, their target: “Okay, bus!”
“Yay!” her companions whooped. “Here we go!”
The trio scurried across the street to the Greyhound bus station. They waved to the driver, who waved back and opened the rear doors. Seven women emerged.
They wore ill-fitting khaki scrubs and carried orange mesh bags bulging with meager belongings. Their black canvas shoes and heavy black boots were institutional grade. In their hands, they clutched bus vouchers – issued by the Texas Department of Criminal Justice and good for a trip to their place of legal residence.
They had just been released from state jail – and for a few moments, looked lost and frightened and frozen in place.
Suddenly, Gallagher’s voice broke through the stasis.
“Hi, I’m Kathie. We’re so glad to see you,” she said, reaching out to wrap the former inmates in a warm embrace. “We’re here to give you a hand.