At the height of the peanuts’ performance, Superintendent Stone walked in without knocking. I felt every muscle in my body grow tense: an instinctive reaction—like braking at the sight of a Highway Patrol car.
“Chaplain Jordan, may I speak with you for a moment?” Mr. Stone said as he closed my office door. He made no attempt to hide his annoyance at the floating Styrofoam swirling around him.
“Of course. Please have a seat.” I motioned him to the blue vinyl chair opposite my desk that inmates used when they had spiritual and some not-so-spiritual problems. He paused before sitting and removed two handfuls of packing peanuts from it, ever diligent to care for his expensive suit. Had he been aware of the sweaty, soiled inmate uniforms that normally occupied the seat, he probably would have left the peanuts in place.
As I sat down, the envelope on top of my lopsided stack of mail slid off, revealing an inmate request form from Ike Johnson. I was stunned. Quickly, I opened my center drawer and placed it inside.
Before he started talking, Edward (not Ed) Stone paused to clean his charcoal, wire-rimmed glasses. Like everything he owned, they looked expensive. As he removed them carefully from his face and wiped them with the spotless white silk handkerchief bearing his initials in bold black block letters, he treated them like they were costly jewels. I suddenly realized that the glasses, like everything he owned, seemed so expensive because he treated them that way. As he made these exact, intentional motions, I had a chance to really look at him for the first time. He was much leaner than I had thought. I had seen skin that was darker than his, but not by much. He had all the African features of a man from Nigeria. His nearly hairless skin was smooth and had a slight sheen about it. His movements were slow—not hesitant, but deliberate and economic. He knew exactly what he was doing and the precise amount of energy required to do it. He did everything as if it were the most important thing he would do that day.
Edward Stone’s minimalist actions and conservative policies reminded me of the effects poverty has on people. No matter how successful they become, they always keep plenty in reserve for fear they will have to do without again. My grandmother, a child during the Great Depression, was the same way. It was apparent that Edward Stone and I came from different eras, mine a result of his.
“How are you doing” he asked, paused, then added, “you know . . . with what happened yesterday?”
“I’m okay. I appreciate the time yesterday afternoon to pull everything together.”
“That was a bad thing you had to see. You’d have to be an idiot to try to escape, but to try it in that manner, you’d have to be suicidal.”
“Perhaps he was,” I said with a slight shrug.
“Maybe. I don’t know. But that’s what I want to find out. The thing is, his name came up in another matter that we were considering investigating.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I had not put much stock in the earlier reports, but now . . . I am not so sure.”
“I can see how this would give the investigation a new priority,” I said sarcastically, but only slightly, and he didn’t seem to catch it.
“You can? Then you’ll probably understand what I am about to ask.”
“What’s that?”
“Chaplain, we have a situation that I need your help with.” A little alarm began to ring inside my head.
“I’ll be happy to help if I can,” I said, pushing my mental SNOOZE button.
“Well, I appreciate that, but your help in this matter will not be easy. In fact, it will be extremely difficult, not to mention that it is totally out of the purview of your job. But I honestly do not have anyone else I can turn to.”
I raised an eyebrow and nodded encouragingly. When he didn’t say anything, I said, “You’ve certainly piqued my interest.”
“I need your help with the investigation being conducted on our compound by the inspector general of DOC into the death of Ike Johnson.”
I started to object. He stopped me with a single authoritative wave of his hand.
“I conducted a thorough background check on you long before I ever decided to approach you with this, and I know that you and the IG don’t care for each other very much, but there’s no other way.”
“Even if you could convince me to work with him, and I’m not saying that you can, you’ll never be able to get him to work with me. Never.”
“I’ve already taken care of that through the secretary.”
“His secretary?” I asked.
“Of course not. The secretary of the department,” he said with an amused smile. “So, like you, he really doesn’t have a choice in this matter.”
“I still don’t understand why you are asking me and not someone more qualified.”
“You are more than qualified. Your father has been in law enforcement all your life and is currently the county sheriff, and you nearly completed a degree in criminology before dropping out to attend seminary. I know you served as a police officer in Stone Mountain while you were in school there. It’s even rumored that you were the one who stopped the Stone Cold Killer.”
“As impressive as that is,” I said sarcastically, and this time he caught it, “wouldn’t our own prison inspector be the more logical choice? I don’t get it. Why me?”
“To be completely honest, I don’t trust Pete Fortner. Ordinarily, I would have the colonel assist in this kind of investigation, but he’ll be gone for over three weeks.”
“Why don’t you trust Fortner?” I asked.
“First of all, I need to know if you’ll do it,” he said, his voice reminding me I really didn’t have a choice.
I thought about it. I had, after leading a violent life, dedicated my life to a nonviolent struggle against violence. Fighting fire with fire had only gotten me burned. Conducting an investigation was a part of the violence I had walked away from, but . . .
I could feel the strong pull of what was being offered to me. It was seductive. Like an inmate continuing to do the same things and expecting different results, I was going to play with fire again, hoping not to get burned.
“I’m a chaplain,” I said. “That comes first. But if I can do both, I am willing. I will. But I will not work closely with the IG. I don’t trust him.”
“Okay, the reason I’m asking you is because Daniels is Fortner’s boss. Fortner’s looking for a promotion, and he’d sacrifice my institution to get it. I don’t trust the two men together. You, on the other hand, Daniels hates. You’re the man for the job.”
“God help us,” I said.
“That’s what I’m counting on,” he said.
At that moment, my phone rang. As I lifted the receiver, I half-expected it to be God saying that he was too busy just now to help me conduct an investigation at PCI.
“Good morning. Chaplain Jordan,” I said into the receiver.
“Chaplain, this is Officer Jones in the control room. Is the superintendent in your office by chance?”
“Yes,” I said, but I thought, No, not by chance. He leaves nothing to chance. “Hold on just a moment.” I handed the phone to the superintendent. He took it without comment or expression. Like I said, he’s into conservation.
“Superintendent Stone . . . Yes . . . okay, send him over to the chapel right away,” he said into the phone and then turned to me. “It would seem that your new partner has arrived. Before he gets here, I just want to make clear your responsibilities. You are to assist him in the investigation in any way that you can.”
“Got it,” I said. I could tell that arguing was futile.
“But, that’s not all. I also want you to look out for the interests of this institution and its administration—and report to me every step of the way.”
“Yes, sir,” I said and immediately wondered if he had something to hide.
As I heard the front door to the chapel opening, I whispered to myself, “This will not go well.”
“Make it go well, Chaplain,” he said, confirming that I had not said it
softly enough.
“Or?” I said.
“There is no ‘or’—just make it go well.”
The superintendent stood to open my office door for the inspector. I remained seated, preparing for the worst. This was definitely shaping up to be one of those half-empty days.
“Good morning, Inspector. I’m Edward Stone.” He rose as the IG entered.
“Good morning. I’m Inspector Tom Daniels.” The inspector was fifty-five, but looked sixty-five. His battleship-gray eyes matched his hair, which still showed no sign of receding.
When they had finished shaking hands, Stone sat down again, pulling his pants legs up slightly and crossing his legs—the way sophisticated men in expensive suits do. He then steepled his hands together in front of his face as if praying, the tips of his fingers at his lips. Daniels just sort of collapsed into his chair.
Tom Daniels had the look of an alcoholic; I knew, being an alumnus myself. His face was red and swollen; his step was hesitant, matching his slow-moving gray eyes. He was, however, a socially acceptable drunk. He never missed work; in fact, he was an overachiever. Yet he was often late, and, though he worked hard, he didn’t produce the results he once had. Most people attributed that to age, but I knew better. Also, he made a great salary, lived modestly, and yet had financial problems. His nose was pink and puffy, offering contrast to its blue broken veins. He dressed in gray slacks, which matched his hair and eyes; white shirt, which matched his pale skin; and a red tie, which matched his bloodshot eyes. No doubt his enabler, in this case his wife, made sure his clothes were cleaned and pressed to aid in the deception. All that effort, and still so obvious.
The effect of alcoholism on Tom Daniels was severe; however, its effect on his family could scarcely be overexaggerated—not because they were beaten or abused, but because they were neglected. Not only did his children have no father who was emotionally available for them, but their inheritance was turmoil and pain. This caused his son to begin drinking at the ripe old age of fourteen. Nine treatment centers and ninety-four thousand dollars later, he was still a religiously devoted addict. His daughter, though a teetotaler, lacked confidence and any idea how to relate to men in general and a husband in particular. She attracted, and was only attracted to, alcoholics. I knew. I had been married to her.
“I believe you know our chaplain, John Jordan,” Stone said.
“Yes,” Daniels said without so much as a glance in my direction.
“As I am sure you are already aware, he will be the official from this institution who will be assisting you in this investigation. He grew up here and knows many of the employees of the institution,” Stone continued.
Actually, I had been away for so long that I didn’t know many of the people anymore, but the point was moot.
“I have been told that I don’t have a choice in the matter,” he said irritably.
“So has he,” Stone said nodding toward me.
Daniels cut his eyes in my direction. They were cold, dull steel. He smirked. “What about the inspector of this institution?” he asked. “He’s all the help I need at this time.”
“He’ll be working with you as well, but you are to limit his knowledge of the investigation and its revelations.”
“You better have a damn good reason for that,” Daniels shot back at Stone.
“I do.”
When he didn’t explain, Daniels said, “And what’s that?”
“A good reason.”
“No. I mean what is your good reason?”
Stone smiled. That was all Daniels was going to get.
“I understand what you’re saying, Ed,” Daniels said patronizingly, trying to be patient with the dumb colored, “but if you’re keeping something from me or if I want to change our little agreement for any reason, I will. You know I have the authority. Now, why don’t you brief your little chaplain, here and let’s begin.”
“You have copies of all the files and reports that I have. You know as much about it as I do. So, I’m going to let you brief Chaplain Jordan. At the end of the day, report back to me. Both of you.”
With that, Edward Stone stood to leave me alone with Tom Daniels, which resembled an old nightmare of mine. I stood as the superintendent left. His steps were slow, deliberate, dignified; however, an unmistakable rhythmic step was present as well. Edward Stone, God bless him, was a large chunk that refused to melt in the American pot. The inspector remained seated.
I sat back down, every muscle in my body tightening again. I felt like a guitar string being wound too tightly, ready to snap at any moment.
“Before we even begin this little exercise in futility,” he began, “I want to get a few things straight.”
I merely nodded, trying not to break and run. It wasn’t that I was scared of him, although I wondered what he was capable of doing to me when I wasn’t looking, but it was the enormous guilt I felt about his daughter. I could almost taste the bile that burned in his throat for all the things he wanted to say to me.
“One,” he said, raising his fingers to count his items off as he came to them, “I don’t like you. Two, I’ve never seen a more hypocritical sight in all my life than you in a clerical collar, except for the fact that it makes you look like the little candy-ass faggot you really are.”
Amazingly enough, I began to relax. The anticipation proved far worse than the actual confrontation, and, like a child who had disobeyed Dad, I found punishment brought with it release.
“Three,” he continued, “this is my investigation, and you better stay the hell out of my way. Four, I’ll be watching you—hoping, even praying, that you screw up. Five, when you do, and I know you will, I will personally bury your ass.”
“Six,” he hesitated. He looked desperate to find a sixth point. “Six,” he said again, “don’t forget one through five.”
He stood up and walked out. As he reached my door, he began to whistle. I recognized the tune. It was “Amazing Grace,” the song he knew to be my favorite hymn. He had threatened me in my own office, and now he taunted me with a song that was sacred to me. I’m not often right, but when I am, I usually am in a big way. I had been right in a big way: this was not going to go well.
Chapter 4
In an institution like PCI, there are all kinds of inmates. There are those who received a DUI and resisted arrest, those who sexually abused children, those who committed murder, rape, or theft—the last usually in the pursuit of drugs. There are inmates who are very dangerous and others who are themselves in danger in open population. Putting all these various individuals in one institution is a very precarious endeavor. Some of them are violent; some are not. Some of them are escape risks; some you couldn’t make leave. Others need close medical or psychological supervision. And, all inmates must be assigned a job that they are qualified to do, even if it’s picking up trash.
The department that is responsible for giving inmates a security evaluation and a job assignment, as well as determining whether or not they are a risk or are themselves at risk in open population, is the classification department. Since Inspector Daniels made it clear that he did not want me working with him, and because the feeling was mutual, I decided to conduct a little inquiry of my own, beginning with a classification officer named Anna Rodden.
Anna Rodden, God bless her, was Potter County’s only true feminist. She was intelligent, strong, spiritual, and beautiful. The last she tried to conceal behind the first, saying, “I do not wish to be judged by the shape of my ass, but on my true assets.”
I once asked, “And once you’ve been judged on your true assets?”
“Then one may, if one is so inclined, evaluate the shape of my ass, which I must admit, is truly an asset” was her reply.
Anna, who in many ways was like my sister, was in fact my sister Nancy’s best friend all through school. She had always been successful at nearly everything she did, with the exception of hiding her beauty. In fact, her attempt at repression made the subtle fire of her sen
suality smolder. Her sexuality, buried just beneath the surface, threatened to make men lose their religions and, in the process, find new ones. Judging by her husband’s expression of eternal bliss, it was not an idle threat.
“Anna,” I said after tapping on her door.
She was seated behind her desk wearing a sleeveless white silk blouse, a fire-engine red skirt, with the matching jacket draped over the back of her chair. Her long brown hair was gathered in a single long ponytail at the nape of her neck held by a red-and-white bow. The white of her shirt made her olive skin look even darker. She was dark in other ways too. She was, like most women, dark and mysterious, only more so. As she looked up from her work, I was again amazed at the depth of her seemingly bottomless brown eyes.
“John,” she said, sounding happy to see me. I loved the way she said my name. “Come in. How are you? I heard what happened yesterday.”
“I’m okay, really. How are you doing?” I asked.
“I’ve certainly had better days. Escape attempts produce a shipload of problems and paperwork, but when the inmate gets killed in the process, it produces an oceanload.”
“Was he one of yours?” I asked.
“Unfortunately,” she said with a quick shake of her head and roll of her eyes. “Which means everyone from central office on down wants to know why I didn’t know he was an escape risk. Like I’d be willing to read his sick little mind if I could, which I obviously can’t, because I thought he was an institutional man.”
“I don’t see how you do it all,” I said. And then added, “And so well.”
“Don’t do that,” she said shaking her head but smiling at me.
MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH Page 3
