From a cell

OCTOBER 1991, another front page with Gen. Manuel Antonio Noriega. This time he’s paler. His skin getting only an hour of sun daily. The eyes developing pouches. And tears. Hair thinner. And he’s reading the Bible.

Fade-in, fade-out. Long years later, possible release rumors. Comes word he needs to speak with me. Forget dialing Prisoner 8 and getting him on the other end. Nor had he his own iPhone to call out at will. Slowly, laboriously, repeatedly, his lawyers negotiated with the military and prison bureau, and a time was fixed.

It had been a long while since we spoke. I stayed in. Alone. No distractions. Time came. Time went. Nothing. He hadn’t been allowed to make the call. Weeks later again. Given the limitations, he missed the appointed moment. When the call finally came hours afterward, I’d left. On a third try, he rang way before it was scheduled. I was out.

A fourth time, I sat there all day. Cradling the landline. Nervous. Not moving. Nobody with me. Just my Yorkie Jazzy on my lap.

Phone rings. Finally ... his voice. “Cindy, it is the general. Here is what I want to tell you . . .” at which point my 3 ¹/2-pound dog jumps onto the buttons of the phone and cuts him off.

I never ever heard from Panama’s Gen. Manuel Antonio Noriega again.

Seems I’m never going to.