Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  “Whatta you mean?” she asked.

  “From what I’ve seen, if something occurs that close to the shift change, the officers leaving save it for the officers just coming in.”

  “That’s true,” she said. “They definitely do.”

  5

  Potter Correctional Institution was its own little world—a society of captives and captors with its own social order, classes, economy, and laws.

  Neither captive nor captor, I wasn’t just an outsider, I was a stranger in limbo between the two groups.

  I needed a guide into the first group, and the first and most obvious choice was the inmate assigned to the chapel to assist me, Mr. Smith.

  I was told during orientation not to call any inmate mister or sir, but I made an exception for Mr. Smith.

  Mr. Smith was an old black man whose back was slightly bent, causing him to bow forward a little as he walked.

  Life had bent but not broken this man.

  As he walked, with his head down, a small bald spot could be seen right at the crown of his head. He was raised in the old Southern school of repression, in an era when a black man was to be seen and not heard—seen working, that is.

  Mr. Smith and I had developed a good rapport since I had been at PCI. After returning from Anna’s office, I decided to ask him to explain a few things to me about life on the inside, but when I reached my office there were several inmates waiting to see me.

  On an average day, I had contact with over a hundred inmates, twenty of whom usually came to my office for some form of crisis counseling.

  Some inmates actually came to my office out of a desire for rehabilitation, recovery, and spiritual growth. Most came over trivial matters relating to their job or bed assignments or wanting to use my phone.

  “Chap, I’s wandering if I could use your phone,” Inmate Jones, an elderly, slow-talking, and slow-moving black man said when we were seated in my office. “My aunt is real sick. I need to call my peoples.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “As you know, the department will only allow me to place a phone call for you in the event of the death or serious illness of an immediate family member. Even then I have to verify it by an outside official like a doctor or funeral director.”

  “Just this once. I really need to talk to her. She raise me, you know.”

  “Is she at home or in the hospital?”

  “She at home.”

  “The only thing I can do is give you a phone pass that will allow you to call from your dorm. I’m sorry.”

  I opened my desk drawer to retrieve a phone pass form. As I did, I saw the inmate request from Ike Johnson. In my discomfort and distress of dealing with Daniels I had forgotten about it. I quickly closed the drawer.

  “She got a block on her phone,” he said.

  If he perceived the contradiction in what he was asking for with what he was saying, he gave no indication.

  If she really wanted to hear from him, why would she have a block on her line? I often wondered how inmates could tell me with a straight face how close they were with their families and yet admit that their families had gone to the trouble of placing a block on their phones that prevented them from calling.

  “If she has a block on her phone she obviously doesn’t want to be called. Have you tried writing her?”

  He stood up angrily and stormed out.

  As soon as he was gone, I opened my desk drawer again and pulled out Ike Johnson’s request.

  The triplicate inmate request forms are how inmates ask for help from staff members in prison.

  From Ike Johnson to Chaplain Jordan. “Dear Chaplin sir, I really need to talk to you very soon. Can I come to your office tomorrow? It’s real important. I’m scared I’m either going to try to escape or kill myself and don’t know who to talk to. Sir, you my only hope. May God bless you, Chaplin sir.”

  Unlike any other request I had ever received, this one was typed. Most inmates didn’t have access to typewriters, and the ones who did were only allowed to use them for official reasons such as legal work.

  I glanced up at the date. It was dated the day he was killed. I should have received the request yesterday, but his death and my involvement in it had delayed me getting it.

  I reread the request several times.

  The type had several distinguishing marks. The letter t was missing the right side of the crossbar, the letter o was missing the bottom curve, and the letter a was much darker than the rest of the type. The typewriter that produced this request shouldn’t be difficult to find.

  While I was examining the request, Mr. Smith tapped on the door.

  “Come in,” I said.

  “Brother Chaplain suh, they’s two more to see you now.”

  Mr. Smith’s blue uniform was always neatly pressed and buttoned all the way to the top.

  “Do you know what they want?” I asked.

  “One say he didn’t get the Father’s Day card we sent him. The other one wants you to make copies of his legal papers.”

  “Sounds like things that can wait a few minutes. Come in and sit down and let’s talk for a minute.”

  He slowly swaggered in and took his seat. “I done something wrong, suh?” he asked.

  “Not at all. I need your help.”

  “Okay suh. Do what I can.”

  He was slumped so far down in his chair as to be nearly horizontal, his head hanging to the side as if too heavy to hold upright, and his long arms dangled on either side of the chair.

  “I’m still trying to understand how things work on the compound and wondered if you could explain a few things to me.”

  “Like what?” he asked, caution and suspicion creeping into his voice and body language.

  “How often do you hear inmates talking seriously about trying to escape?”

  “Not many ever say anything like that to me. Too hard. Chances are they couldn’t make it. Not worth it. This place harder to get out of than it look.”

  “Anyone ever escaped from here before?” I asked.

  He had been here almost the entire three years this institution had been open.

  “No suh. Not as I know of. Couple from the work camp did, but they caught them lickety-split.”

  “Any thoughts about what happened yesterday?”

  “Nigga a fool. Everybody know what they do to them bags. Must have wanted to die.”

  “So you don’t think it was a serious escape attempt?”

  He shook his head. “No suh. Either he want to die or somebody want him dead.”

  “What’s the drug and alcohol situation on the compound?”

  “They’s those who have it. They’s those that would love to have it but can’t afford it. They’s those who do anything for it.”

  “Lot of it on the compound?”

  “No suh, not a lot. But more than you’d think. Homemade hooch, buck, pills, grass, coke, meth.”

  “How does it get in?”

  “Most the liquor is homemade. Inmates in Food Services or the chapel sneak juice or old fruit and sugar back down on the ’pound. Mix it up. Let it ferment.”

  “You mean inmates have stolen our communion juice to make buck?”

  “Oh, yes suh. Some go to church on communion night just ’cause of it. They hold it in they mouth, spit it in a pill bottle or bag they stole until they get back down to the dorm, and empty it into an old can or plastic bag. Clerk worked here before me used to steal it. Sell it down on the ’pound.”

  “What about the drugs?”

  “Come in during visitation or staff bring it in. Some inmate family member sneak it in and slip it to them while they visit or leave it in the bathroom and the orderly get it when he clean up. They also officers, staff what bring it in to sell.”

  “Is it expensive? Hard to get?” I asked.

  He nods. “Sex, cookies, cards, smokes, favors—beat up or kill someone for it.”

  “No cash involved?”

  “Most everything done on trade. Inmate say �
�You do this for me or that for me and I give you my canteen.’ They pay—it just ain’t with money. If money involved it happen on the outside. Inmate family or friend pay a staff member out there to bring somethin’ in here.”

  “What about sex?” I asked. “I heard Ike Johnson was a workin’ girl.”

  He nods. “It just like on the street. They’s punks, pimps, sisters, and the gay and straight inmates what use they services. Punks are the real gays. They gay before they come in here. Some have pimps what look after them, hire them out. Sisters are only into each other. They got no protection, don’t hire out. They just in love, I reckon.”

  We were both silent a moment.

  “You said some straight inmates use the services of some of the prostitutes,” I said.

  He nods. “They straight on the outside. Just can’t get none in here. So they have to . . . make do. But they only pitch. Never catch. In here they a big difference between pitchin’ and catchin’.”

  We were silent again, and I mused about the equivocations of pitching and catching in the social order of Potter Correctional Institution.

  “Some of the punks wears women’s stuff,” he said.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Panties, pantyhose, perfume. Shit like that.”

  “Where do they get it?”

  “Buy it off female officers. Even trade some of them sex for it. Funny, ain’t it? Gay guy givin’ sex to womens in exchange for girly stuff for they man.”

  It was certainly among the more ironic things I had encountered in here.

  “Thing you gots to remember about this place. If an inmate do somethin’, most of the time it because officer or staff allow him to.”

  “Most of the inmates trust you, don’t they?” I said.

  “I got respect. Not the same thing. Most inmates don’t trust no one. They life say they can’t trust no one, not even the chaplain. You gots mine. Probably get a few others. Not many.”

  “If an inmate wanted to escape, could an officer be bought to help?”

  “Probably not. They sell you dope, maybe turn they head when you beat up a punk, but they wouldn’t help you get out. Too risky.”

  “How well did you know Ike Johnson?”

  “Not really at all.”

  “What about Jacobson?”

  “Yeah, I know him. Watch your back ’round him. Some people say he crazy, but he ain’t. He dangerous. Lot of inmates say they kill before. Most of ’em ain’t. But Jacobson for real.”

  “I appreciate you talkin’ to me,” I said.

  “Someone else you should talk to,” he said. “Old homosexual on the ’pound. Say very little, but he know a lot.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Don’t know his real name. Everybody just call him Grandma.”

  6

  Ike Johnson had spent the last night of his life in the infirmary. Jacobson had been there too.

  The medical building, like every other building at PCI, was gray cinderblock with light blue trim. It housed Dental and Classification also, and its waiting room was always filled with inmates.

  When I entered the small, crowded, but quiet waiting room, I was presented with a choice. The locked door to the left led to Classification and Psychology, the locked door to the right, to Medical, Dental, and Pharmaceutical. I chose right—away from Anna, whom I would rather be visiting again—and as I unlocked the medical department door with my key, I wondered how many other staff members carried a similar key. It made sense that a chaplain would. I spent a great deal of time in the infirmary. But who else had one? Who else had access to the victim the night before he died?

  Walking down the long hallway toward the infirmary, I passed the nurses’ station where two nurses—one white, one black, both elderly and overweight—sat. Each had an inmate seated across from her and was laboring to check his vital signs.

  I also passed by two exam rooms. In one, Dr. Mulid Akbar, PCI’s senior health officer and one of the chapel’s advisors on the Muslim religion, was examining the knee of one of the inmates, who seemed to be in a great deal of pain.

  At the end of the hallway and to the left, I entered the officers’ station for the infirmary. There I found to both my surprise and delight the nurse who had helped during the incident in the sally port the previous day. She was seated on the officer’s desk, swinging her legs back and forth and chewing gum while conversing playfully with an officer named Straub.

  She smiled when she saw me.

  I smiled back.

  “Hey, Chaplain,” she said. “Jordan, isn’t it?”

  “John, please, but yes. How’re you?”

  “Better than the last time I saw you,” she said. “How are you?”

  I nodded. “The same.”

  “That was . . . brutal. I . . . I didn’t sleep a wink last night. You?”

  “No, but I usually don’t.”

  “By the way, my name is Sandra, but everyone calls me Sandy. Sandy Strickland. I don’t think we’ve met yet. Not really.”

  “John Jordan,” I said. “Nice to meet you Sandy.”

  “You too—I can’t call you John. Will have to be Chaplain.”

  “Please call me John.”

  “I’ll try, but no promises.”

  “Never seen you here during the day before and now two days in a row,” I said. “You been transferred to day shift?”

  “Oh, no. I’m too much of a night owl. I wouldn’t be much use around here most mornings. Getting ready for an ACA inspection. Tryin’ to get everything ready. Plus with what happened yesterday . . . here to help if I’m needed.”

  “We keep trying to get her to join us on day shift,” Officer Straub said, never taking his eyes off her.

  Ignoring his obvious flirtations, she said, “I keep thinkin’ about what happened yesterday . . . It was just so . . . horrible. So much blood . . . everywhere. It really got to me. Think I’m gonna step outside a minute for some fresh air. You wanna join me, Chaplain?”

  “Sure.”

  The fresh air was far too hot and humid to be refreshing, but it did seem to do Sandy some good. Of course it could’ve been the super slim Capri cigarette she was inhaling.

  We were standing at the back right corner of the medical building. It was a popular designated smoking area, but for now we had it all to ourselves.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Mostly needed a break from Straub.”

  “Did you know him well?” I asked.

  She looked confused. “Who? Straub?”

  “Johnson.”

  “Oh,” she said, shrugging. “Some. About as well as you can know any of the inmates, I guess.”

  “He in the infirmary a lot?”

  “More than most, but . . . not a ton.”

  “Anything you can tell me about him that might help me understand what happened?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. Nothing that would explain—”

  “How about just anything about him.”

  “He was kind of small. Slightly effeminate. Got bullied. And worse, I think.” I nodded. “I heard he had a pimp.”

  “Really, who?”

  “Jacobson.”

  She nodded. “He’s been in to see us a few times. I try to avoid him. He’s . . . unbalanced. So he was . . . That really pisses me off. The shit this place does to people. A little sweet guy like Ike. Wish I’d’ve known. Jacobson. Sick of . . . Tell you what, if you’re not a criminal when you get here, you’ll damn sure be one when you leave.”

  Her eyes glistened, and I was touched by her compassionate anger.

  We were silent for a moment, her enjoying her cigarette, me enjoying the day.

  “Wait,” she said. “They were together in the infirmary the night before . . . Ike was killed.”

  “Anything happen between them? How did Jacobson wind up in Confinement and Johnson . . . in the back of that truck?”

  She shook her head and shrugged as she gazed into the dist
ance. “I really don’t know. It was a relatively quiet night. They were the only two we had in the infirmary that night. In the early morning hours of Tuesday—five maybe—they started yelling at each other, and before too long Jacobson was on top of Johnson punching him in the face. The officer on duty, Officer Hardy, wasn’t at his desk, so Captain Skipper and I broke them up and separated them. He told them to go back to bed and he would forget about it. I’ve never seen Skipper do anything like that before. Told them if they did it again, he was going to write them a disciplinary report and send them to Confinement.”

  “Where was Officer Hardy?” I asked.

  She shook her head and gave me a frustrated expression. “I have no idea where he goes. He wasn’t where he was supposed to be.”

  “What days does he work?” I asked.

  “Hardy? Thursday through Monday, but Monday night was his last night for two weeks. He’s on annual leave now. Pretty convenient, huh?”

  “Why was Captain Skipper down here that night?”

  “I think he came to take a statement from one of the inmates involved in an incident earlier that night, but he wasn’t here.”

  “Which inmate?”

  “Thomas, I believe.”

  “Anthony Thomas?”

  “Yeah. You know him?”

  “I’ve worked with him some. Where was he?”

  “No idea. But he’s in Confinement now. Skipper locked him up for not being where he was supposed to be.”

  “How long did Skipper stay?” I asked.

  “Not long at all,” she said. “Left when he couldn’t find Thomas.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Not sure. They must’ve started fighting again. Officer Hardy had Jacobson locked up. Strange he didn’t have them both locked up. I went back up to my desk to finish some paperwork, and that was the last I saw either of them. Until . . . the truck.”

  “Who else was in the building at that time?”

  “Let’s see. Nurse Anderson, and our inmate orderly, Allen Jones. I believe he was gathering the trash and cleaning the exam rooms.”