Power in the Blood jj-2

by Michael Lister

  “No, you don’t understand, Son, I’m dying. I haven’t been drinking. Come see me at the hospital, Son, before it’s too late. I love you. I love you, John. You’ve always been my favorite.”

  “That’s what you tell everybody when you’re drunk. And you are dying. I was wrong before. Alcohol is killing you.”

  “I know, Son,” she said and then began to cough. It sounded as if she dropped the phone. Her act was definitely improving.

  It took maybe two minutes, which seemed like thirty, for her to pick up the phone again. When she did, she said, “I’ve got to see you, Son … before I die.”

  “What you’ve got to do is get sober. I won’t come near you until you’re sober again. Got it?”

  “I swear I’m sober, Son. You’ve got to believe me.”

  “I stopped believing you a long time ago. Get cleaned up and dried out, and then call me, okay?”

  “You don’t understand, Son-”

  “Mom,” I interrupted, “I’m hanging up now. You call me when you’ve been sober for at least a week.” I hung up the phone.

  I probably wouldn’t hear from her for quite a while. She hadn’t been sober a full week for as long as I could remember.

  Please, God, help her get sober and to get her life back together. And, please, please, don’t let me have AIDS.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning, inmates stood outside the chapel underneath the brilliant sun that had long since burned off the fog and dew from the night before. The sun was so intense, in fact, that it seemed to explain why all the blues and grays in prison were so muted: it had faded them. After I was situated in my office, Mr. Smith began bringing the inmates in one at a time. The first one was a kid who had recently had some spiritual experiences that he didn’t understand.

  The second was a middle-aged white man who had been inside less than thirty days of a thirty-year sentence. Needless to say, he was devastated, not only because he missed his children and his wife, but also because he had killed two teenage girls while driving under the influence. He was remorseful and offered no excuses. I was moved by both his words and his actions. He spoke slowly, was silent a lot, and occasionally a single tear would roll down his cheek leaving a jagged streak on his sunburned skin.

  We talked for a long time. I don’t know if it helped him; though he said it did, I had my doubts. Before he left we scheduled a weekly appointment together for an indefinite amount of time, and he signed up to attend AA.

  After he left, and before Mr. Smith could bring in the next inmate, the phone rang.

  “I’ve got an emergency message for Tommy Hines,” the shrill voice said over the noise of the bad connection. “I need him to call home.”

  “Okay, ma’am, if you’ll hold on just a moment, there is an emergency notification form I have to fill out.”

  I retrieved the form. “Okay, the inmate’s name is Tommy Hines?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the nature of the emergency?” I asked, flipping through the morning’s mail that sat on the left edge of my desk.

  “Whatcha mean?” she asked.

  “What is the message?” I asked as I separated the inmate requests from the outside mail.

  “His son was killed,” she said quickly.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. Your relationship to the inmate?”

  “I’m his wife.”

  “I am so sorry for your loss,” I said.

  “When can he call me?”

  “I have to get some more information first. What is your phone number?” I asked. Then I saw it: another single piece of typing paper, trifolded, taped, with one typewritten word on the outside: “Chaplain.”

  “Nine, zero, four, eight, seven, one, four, five, six, one. But they’s a block on the phone so he can’t call collect.”

  When she said that, a little red flag went up inside my head. “Okay, I need the name and telephone number of the hospital or funeral home where he is.”

  “Whatcha mean?” she asked in surprise.

  “Before we are allowed to give an inmate any information from the outside, especially a death message because of the security risk that it imposes, we must first verify it with an outside official: either a hospital or a funeral home,” I said, but I was thinking: Open the letter, see what it says. Is Anna in danger?

  “That’s bullshit. His son is dead. Just let him call home, dammit.”

  “Ma’am, if his son is dead, then he will be at a hospital or a funeral home and all I need is the number to one of them.”

  “You son of a bitch. I hate you prison pricks.” And with that she hung up that, phone.

  I received approximately six emergency calls a week for inmates. Of those calls, at least two are people who are trying to get in touch with inmates who stopped calling or writing. The inmate probably didn’t have a son.

  Daily, I am confronted by inmates who are running scams. They try to manipulate every situation-they know of no other way to operate. Many of their families do the same thing. However, there are those who truly desire help both spiritually and psychologically. The key is not to grow cold and cynical because of the abusers and to be able to discern the difference between the genuine and the con.

  After I hung up the phone, I carefully peeled the tape back and opened the letter. I could tell almost immediately that it was produced by the same typewriter as the other one. It said: “Chaplain, if you don’t back off, I’m going to kill you. Just back off, or you’re dead. I will kill you and that girl you love. Killing’s better than fucking. I love it. I will probably fuck her and then kill her. But I might kill her then fuck her. Back off!”

  The institutional mail was delivered every day but Sunday. The note had probably been sent the previous night. Who was it about? I loved Anna, but was it that obvious? The other note had spoken of protection, now this one of threat. Were they about two different women? Anna and who? Sandy Strickland? Who else had I been seen with recently?

  My office door opened while I was still rereading the letter. When Mr. Smith didn’t say anything, I looked up. Tom Daniels was standing there. I nodded my head toward one of the chairs across from my desk as I carefully folded the letter and stuck it in my desk drawer. He sat down. He looked better than he had yesterday, like maybe this case had breathed some life into him. His face wasn’t as red, and his eyes were not bloodshot. If the case continued to be eventful, he would probably replace his addiction with it for a while. I used to have the same experience from time to time.

  He looked down at the clipboard that he was carrying, flipped through a couple of pages, looked back up at me.

  “Look, the superintendent said we got to work together. Neither of us is happy about it, but whatcha gonna do, right?” He said it as if we were suddenly pals.

  I knew that the superintendent’s words alone were not enough to bring about this change in him, but I said, “Right.”

  “So, I say the investigation is more important than our dislike of one another. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I agree, but I don’t dislike you. And before all of this is over, I wish you would give me the opportunity to talk with you about things.”

  “I’ve heard your excuses before.”

  “I don’t intend to offer you any excuses, but then again I never have. You’ve only heard things from Susan’s perspective.”

  “Listen, I don’t want to discuss the past now or ever. Let’s just concentrate on our jobs and do the work. I don’t care for you, never have much, but we can work together. I can work with anyone.”

  “We can work together, and I apologize for any pain I’ve caused you and your family, especially Susan. I really loved her. Still do.”

  He was unable to hide his obvious awkwardness and discomfort at my apology. He’d never been good at dealing with personal things.

  “Okay,” I said. “What’s our next move?”

  “We need to follow up some of the leads that our physical evidence has produced-some
of which you could do without anyone noticing. If the inspector of the prison system walks in and asks to look at things or asks questions, people get nervous.”

  So that was it. No wonder he was being almost civil toward me. He needed my help. It had nothing to do with what Mr. Stone said, although that made it so much easier for him.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “The lab said there were traces of a chemical on his pants that’s used in floor cleaner and wax in medical and dental facilities. We’ve traced the exact chemical to two types of cleaners manufactured by PRIDE.”

  PRIDE is the manufacturer of various products for prisons. It is operated by the Department of Corrections and staffed with inmates. Just one of the many ways taxpayers save money.

  “The cleaners,” he continued, “are used in the medical offices, the infirmary, and the dental offices.”

  “From what I understand,” I said, “Johnson spent a lot of time in the infirmary.”

  “Yes, I think he did, but you couldn’t get it on you from just being in medical or dental, even if he fell on a recently mopped floor.

  Besides, the chemical on his pants had not been diluted. He would have had to have been around the actual bottle of cleaner to get it on him, and it had to have been within a few hours prior to his death, according to the lab.”

  “Did he ever work with the cleaner?” I asked.

  “Not that I know of. He was supposed to have worked on outside grounds. We need to check with his work supervisor,” Daniels said.

  “Perhaps I should. We went to school together,” I said. “You know inmates’ uniforms often get switched in the laundry. It may have come in contact with the cleanser when another inmate was wearing it.”

  “Maybe, but I doubt it. The chemical had not been through the washer and dryer, and the uniform had his name tag on it. It actually stuck to the spear,” he said shaking his head. “Okay. How about medical and dental?” he asked.

  “I’ll check them both over the weekend. I can’t today because I have to continue my regular work as well. Also, I’ve been asked to do Ike Johnson’s funeral tomorrow morning.”

  “Find out all you can about him from his family,” he said. “They may know something useful and not know they know it.”

  “If the opportunity presents itself I will, but they’ve just lost a family member in a horrible way. I’m not going as a detective, but as a minister.”

  “You better go as both or some other family is going to lose their son.”

  “Like I said, I’ll do what I can.”

  “I think it’s best if we’re not seen together. You do those things. I’ll talk with Fortner, make him feel a part of the investigation, and continue to check with the lab. Why don’t we meet again on Monday?”

  “Sounds good. Where?”

  “If I stop by here, no one really sees. Besides, I could be asking you questions like anybody else. You are a witness.”

  “Okay, but don’t believe that nobody sees you. Somebody sees everything that is done in this place. Everything.”

  Chapter 13

  When Merrill Monroe and I were in elementary school, the history books and the teachers that taught from them painted a benign picture of slaves singing soulfully as they worked on the plantations. It wasn’t that they said slavery was right; they didn’t tell us just how wrong it really was. The slaves were not happy, of course, but only because they didn’t own the land on which they were working. Seeing the inmates, most of whom were black, harvesting the crops outside the institution brought this memory to mind, and I wondered if slavery really ever ended in this country. The two obvious differences between now and then were that they were harvesting watermelons and potatoes, not cotton and tobacco; and they were doing it under the watchful eye of a black man, who, as he put it, was the Head Nigga In Charge.

  Being a black man in a small Southern town is not easy. Being an intelligent and ambitious black man in a small Southern town is nearly impossible. I first noticed Merrill’s strength and intelligence in elementary school when I was learning about slavery. Merrill didn’t learn anything during that unit; he already knew it all too well. Our friendship began then, and since that time I’d not had a better friend.

  Merrill was a correctional officer sergeant in charge of the outside grounds of the prison. Inmates assigned to him were not considered to be an escape risk and, therefore, allowed to work outside the gate.

  I found him in a garden to the left of the institution down on his hands and knees showing an inmate just how to plant the potatoes. The light brown sleeves of his short sleeve CO uniform were stretched tightly over the dark brown skin of his arms. Every time he moved, his muscles flexed, straining his shirt to the point of ripping.

  As he instructed the inmate on exactly how to do his job, he spoke in slow, even tones. I had seen him stare down a gang of inmates, two with shanks, the same way. I had also seen him wipe out an entire gang by himself, never raising his voice and never acting as if it required much effort either.

  “Sarge, you got a minute?” I asked as I came up behind him.

  He stood, nodding at me and pointing at the row of potatoes to the inmate.

  We walked away from the garden and the inmates who hear all and see all.

  “I was thinking of planting some potatoes and needed some help.”

  “Sure, I can help you. Us colored mens knows how to toil under de sun. It what make us so brown and earthy,” he said.

  “I am really about to put some sod around my trailer. Want to help?”

  “I’ll help with some advice,” he said.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Put the green side up,” he said, and then a broad smile crept across his face revealing startling white teeth.

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Us coloreds live to serve y’all, sir,” he said. “It’s what we here for.”

  We were both silent a minute. He glanced back in the direction of the garden. I could tell he was not happy with how the inmate was planting the potatoes.

  “It’s hard to get good help these days,” I said.

  “Yeah. Speaking of which, I heard about what you did in the sally port the other day. Very impressive for a skinny white boy.”

  “I’m not skinny,” I protested. “I’m fit.”

  “You’s fit before the Atlanta thing,” he said, “Now you skinny.”

  He stood directly in front of me, positioning himself between me and the sun. The shadow he cast kept me from needing the shades I did not have. He was always doing things like that and never mentioning it. Any other white person in America, except maybe for Anna, he would have left squinting in the sun.

  I could see my reflection in his glasses. I looked distorted, like my face was too big for my head and body. Merrill towered over my six feet by about four inches, totally eclipsing the sun.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “you did good. Showed some of these rednecks that a man can be civilized, even holy, and have balls, too.”

  “That’s what I came out here to talk to you about. I need to know if Johnson worked for you and what kind of worker he was?”

  “He worked for me on paper, but that’s all. He was assigned to me, but he never came to work. Every month I get a note from Captain Skipper that he was using Johnson other places. Said I should go ahead and give him credit for working out here.”

  “And you did it?” I asked, a little surprised.

  “Captain say do it, I do it. I not smart enough to think for myself. I a machine. They program me, I work. I don’t ask no questions,” he said, falling back into his favorite dialect for expressing his frustration.

  Merrill thought for himself all right. However, his life would have been easier if he were a machine. He was as smart as any man I had ever met, but was unable to go to college until recently because of family and money problems. He had, however, spent much of his time at the public library and already had a much better education than most college
graduates.

  “Did he ever come out here for work?” I asked.

  “When he was first assigned here, he came about three times. Didn’t do a damn thing. Worried about his fingernails and hair too much. He should have been a woman… . From what I hear, sometimes he was.”

  “What have you heard?” I asked.

  “Some of the inmates called him ‘Godown-’ “ he said with a broad smile that showed off every one of his snow-white teeth again.

  “Godown?” I asked.

  “Yeah, because he would go down on anybody.”

  “Do you think that had something to do with his death?” I asked, trying not to smile too big.

  “It sure as hell a possibility, now ain’t it, Sherlock? Since your man David offed Uriah to have Bathsheba, people been getting dead over the nasty.”

  “What can you tell me about Officer Hardy, who works midnights in the infirmary?”

  “Ex-military, still in the reserves, I think,” he said. “One hell of a good officer. Smart. Tough. Fair. He’s righteous.”

  “How did you know I was playing Sherlock?” I asked.

  “I know things.” He smiled.

  “Do a lot of people know?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so,” he said, “but it’s just a matter of time. They’s very few secrets when everybody lives this close together.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “So,” he said, “you better watch your back, Jack. Sooner or later, the wrong person’s going to know. And …”

  “And?”

  “Just watch your back,” he said, tilting his head forward so that I saw his eyes above his shades. They were serious.

  “How about you watching my back?” I asked.

  “I’ll do what I can,” he said.

  “Which is more than most.”

  “Which is more than most.”

  “You’re pretty confident for a black man named after a dead white woman.”

  He ran his hand across his short hair and then started patting it. “I’m named after a beautiful white woman. And she was almost as pretty as me. You know Mama swore that we were kin to her somehow.”