Chapter 39
Jailhouse Conversion?
The night following Pastor Rick’s first jail visit, Michael found himself lying sleepless in his jailhouse bunk. Each time he would start to doze off, memories of the accident and the body flying into his windshield would assault his thoughts with a violent fury. They seemed so real. Each time the memory would surface, the horror of it would startle him awake. A human head smashing into the windshield, what sounded like a giant egg cracking echoing in the car’s cab, with human blood mixed with bug guts the only sign of an accident left behind that he could find at the time given his drunken state. He at least thought to clean off the windshield. Unfortunately, he didn’t think to check the bumper. The first couple of flashbacks he just closed his eyes tightly and let the exhaustion take him under. The visions eventually faded. But then the memories became entangled with the things Charles and Pastor Rick said to him during their visits. Seeing the living, breathing victim staring at him through the bulletproof glass of the jailhouse visitation area didn’t help, either. His sheets were now wet from the cold sweats his recent bout of disturbing visions had elicited, making it impossible to sleep comfortably, so he just lay there, sobbing softly at first, but then loud enough to draw the attention of his cellmates.
The jailhouse in Darkwell County, Oklahoma, was even older and more depressing than jails usually are. It was built in the early 1950s and had been remodeled just twice since then, the latest project involving the addition of a new cellblock with another thirty cells. Each cell in both the old and new cellblocks was built to house two inmates.
Due to the recent burgeoning crime industry in the county, mostly meth labs and the accompanying drug distribution enterprises, there were far more incarcerated inmates in Darkwell County than there was bed space. The county had hired a consultant several years before to analyze the jail’s crowding and efficiency issues and make recommendations on how to fix its problems. It had paid the firm just under $100,000 to give a professional opinion. The solution? Put another two bunks in each cell, which the jailhouse’s janitor, who made ten dollars an hour, had suggested to the sheriff’s department captain in charge of the complex before the “expert” was hired. “I’ll take my hundred grand and throw in cleaning the toilets for free,” he had joked.
So that’s all they did. Of course, this meant that the bunks were much smaller than before, just a hair smaller than a child’s single width bed, and it also meant that very violent offenders would often be placed in the same cells as those who just had drug and alcohol abuse problems, like Michael.
“If offered a choice between bunking with violent offenders with anger management problems and other less violent persons, choose the latter”—that was the kind of no-brainer advice Michael would have given another inmate if anyone had asked. Regrettably, Michael himself wasn’t given a choice. Something else to consider: If stuck in a cell with violent convicts don’t let them hear you cry.
“If you don’t shut up that bawling I’ll stick a shiv in your belly and shut you up for good!” The booming voice echoed down from the bunk directly over Michael’s. Michael had just met the man that day and it hadn’t been a pleasant introduction. He made Michael “move” to the bottom bunk—as in “pulled him off the top one”—and threw him to the ground. His name was Jerome. He was a big African American man who was serving a jail sanction for one of his petty crimes, possession of marijuana, but he had served time for attempted murder five years before, or so the rumor had been circulated. The deep commanding tone combined with Michael’s initial encounter with him told him that Jerome meant what he said. If he didn’t hold back his crying, he would be dead. “Sorry,” he whimpered.
The bunks on the other side of the room were occupied by a felony DWI convict on top and a petty theft probation violator on the bottom. The one on top chuckled just loud enough for Michael and the other bunkmates, including Jerome, to hear him.
“You think that’s funny?” Jerome demanded. Michael heard the springs under the mattress overhead creak as he asked the question, telling him that Jerome had turned his body to face the interloper.
“No,” the cellmate answered almost in a whisper.
“Then you shut up, too, and go to sleep before I stick all your heads down the toilets!”
Two things were certain that night. One, no one made any more noise, and two, no one but Jerome got any sleep.
The next morning the inmates were chained up and escorted to the cafeteria for breakfast. Their ankles were chained together, their wrists were likewise chained, and another chain connected the middle link of each of the chains on their ankles and wrists to each other, which made it impossible for them to go very far or very fast. This pretty much rendered chaining the inmates to each other in groups of six redundant and mostly useless, except, of course, for the humiliation factor it caused, but the guards did it anyway. After slowly making their way down one flight of steps and through two huge and heavy electronically locked security doors, they were seated on bench seats in the eating area, six on each side, with the last man of each group of six chained to the table by the ankle.
A man who looked a lot like a priest, with black shirt and white collar, stood up and walked to the front of the dining hall. “For those of you who don’t know me,” he began, “I am a visiting chaplain, Reverend Roush.”
Michael just realized that in the past two days he had heard more preachers talk than he’d heard in five years previous.
“Before you receive your food we have a special treat for you. Today the Gideons are here to distribute New Testaments to anyone who wants one.” At that several older men wearing civilian clothes walked up and down the rows between the tables handing tiny Bibles to all inmates who managed to lift their hands high enough, chains and all, to get their attention. As one of the men walked past Michael, he lifted his hand, too, as high as he could before the chain linking his wrists to his ankles stopped it from going any further. He accepted the Bible and said, “thank you.” He didn’t open it at first. He just looked at its cover, marveling at how good it felt in his hands.
Broken: A story of hope and forgiveness Page 57
