Broken: A story of hope and forgiveness

by Kevin Mark Smith

  ******

  Breakfast lasted thirty minutes. There was no time to pass the time of day afterwards. They were immediately escorted back to their cells. On the walk back to their cell Michael noticed again how depressing the atmosphere was. It was a dank, dreary place. The walls were cinderblock. For some reason “they” decided to paint the hallways and cell doors the exact same drab grey color that was the cinder blocks’ natural color. Maybe they think that if they keep the inmates depressed they won’t act up, Michael reasoned as his group of six inched their way up the stairs and to their level in the cell block, the oldest one. Each of the cells was just big enough for a door of iron bars to fit between rows of bars on each side, though the edges of the bunks went over the entrance by an inch on each side. In between the bunks and at the end of the cell was an aluminum toilet that was directly under an aluminum sink, so they had to wash their hands and brush their teeth directly over the same place they deposited their bodily waste.

  It made Jerome mad when they used the toilet in the cell, so the other bunkmates used every opportunity they could outside of the cell to do their business, so to speak, mostly immediately before or after they showered, which carried its own unique set of risks. Jerome used the toilet anytime he wished, and the grunts he gave them afterwards made it clear that he wouldn’t put up with any objections.

  Soon they were back in their cells. As each entered his chains were removed. It was a relief to have the chains taken off, but the space was so sparse that all they could do was crawl into their bunks and lie down. It was inhumane, Michael considered, as he wondered if it would be this bad in prison. After the cell quieted down, he dared to ask, “So, Jerome, what’s prison like?”

  The other bunkmates took deep breaths as soon as he asked the question. Michael thought, I must have just asked the one question that’s sure to uncork Jerome’s rage. He heard Jerome let out his breath at the same time.

  “Better than here.”

  Don’t say anything else, Michael was pretty sure the other men were wishing.

  “How’s it better?”

  It was as if Jerome had waited the week for someone to finally ask him for his expert opinion on the one thing he knew a lot about, like a kid asking a doctor at career day what it was like to deliver a baby. Suddenly, the threatening, growling tone of Jerome’s voice softened to a more grandfatherly resonance. It was still deep and commanding, but more like a principal telling the students in his school that they shouldn’t do drugs. “Better food,” he began, “and much bigger living quarters. They even have weight rooms and recreation areas to play basketball and watch cable TV.”

  Michael smiled. “Really?”

  “Yeah. The guards are nicer, too. They sometimes join in the card games. Nothing for money, but just cards for a diversion.”

  From that point forward Jerome was a lot easier to deal with. Michael and his other two calmer, less angry bunkmates just kept their distance and were careful about what they said. When the inadvertent politically incorrect comment set him off they would just ask another question about the big house. He would morph into his authoritarian, teaching mode and things would settle down. Michael was still really scared, but at least he knew he would survive.

  Lying in his bunk after Jerome’s last comment, Michael felt a bulge in his right pocket. He reached down and slid his hand inside to find the Bible. He pulled it out and opened it to a random passage.

  “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son so that whosoever believeth in him shall not perish but shall have everlasting life,” he whispered to himself. Those words came back to him from somewhere deep in his memory—he wasn’t sure where, but they sounded somehow comforting. For the first time in two days his eyelids gently closed and did not open again for four hours, up until the time the guards took the inmates to lunch. The same thing happened again that afternoon after lunch, and again later that night, with the latter giving him more than eight hours sleep. Only when he didn’t read his Bible did the bad memory of the accident return, so he made it a point to read his Bible every chance he got. Lying in a jail cell with nothing else to do with his time, he had lots of chances.