“Where was Officer Hardy?” I asked.
She shrugged. Her expression said he was often away from his assigned post. “I really don’t know. Could’ve been anywhere. He was not where he was supposed to be.”
“Really?” I said. “I’ve heard he’s an excellent officer.”
She shrugged. “Don’t believe everything you hear around here, Chaplain.”
I smiled. “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 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,” she said defensively. “Why?”
“I’ve worked with he and his wife some,” I explained. “Where did he find him?”
“I really don’t know, but he did find him eventually and locked him up for not being where he was supposed to be.”
“How long did he stay?” I asked.
“Not long at all,” she said. “He left when he couldn’t find Thomas.”
“What happened next?”
She gave an elaborate shrug and a took a deep drag on her cigarette. “They must have started fighting again. Obviously, Officer Hardy had Jacobson locked up. I went back up to my desk to finish some paperwork, and that was the last I saw of either one of them. Until the truck,” she said, turning pale again.
“Who else was in the building at that time?”
“Well, let’s see. There was Nurse Anderson, and our inmate orderly, Allen Jones, was gathering the trash and cleaning the exam rooms.”
“What about the trash? When is it picked up?”
“Early in the morning usually. I’m not really sure. Our orderly always gets it ready and puts it out here to be picked up.”
“Is that orderly here now?” I asked.
“Yeah, I think so,” she said.
“Can I talk with him?” I asked.
“Sure. Let’s go back inside,” she said taking a long final draw on the stub of her cigarette and tossing it into the ashtray.
We found her orderly, the same old black man that I had denied a phone call to earlier this morning, in one of the storage closets near the back. She told him that I wanted to talk to him and that we could go into the staff break room, which was just around the corner.
I could tell he didn’t want to talk to me, but he swaggered toward the break room nonetheless.
“This won’t take long,” I said when we were finally seated at the table in the break room. “I’m sorry I couldn’t let you use the phone this morning.”
He shrugged as if he didn’t care, but didn’t say anything. I continued.
“I just want to know how you normally gather and take out the trash down here and if you did it any differently on Monday night or Tuesday morning.”
Without facial or verbal expression he said, “I gather it all up before I leaves every night and puts it near the back door were you’s just standing. Then, in the morning I picks up any new trash and sets them outside the door. The officer and inmate who pick up the trash then come around and pick it up.”
“Is that how it happened Tuesday morning?” I asked.
He shook his head slowly. “I already told the inspector. I gathered it all up and put the bag in the back hall, then Miss Anderson come say she need me to clean up a spill in the exam room. When I come back to load it on the truck, the bag was gone. Miss Anderson was with me. She can tell you. The trash wasn’t outside the door neither, and the truck was gone.”
“Did you see the inmates in the infirmary that morning?” I asked.
“Yes, sir,” he said nodding his head. Each time his head went down I wondered if it would come up again. In addition to seeming old, Allen Jones seemed weary, as if every year he had lived was a hard one.
When he didn’t elaborate, I added, “Anything unusual about them?”
“No, sir. All three were lying there in they beds sleepin’.”
“All three?” I asked, the surprise in my voice obvious. “Who else was there?”
He wondered if he had said something wrong. Then after a long pause, he said, “Johnson, Jacobson, and Thomas.”
“You saw Thomas in an infirmary bed that morning?”
“Yes, sir. Well, I thought I did. I could’ve been . . . maybe I didn’t see him. I don’t know,” he said.
“What time were you in there?”
“Can’t say, sir. Don’t wear a watch. But I come in at four. It wasn’t too long after that,” he said.
“Did you see Jacobson and Johnson fighting around five?” I asked.
“No, sir. I’s still gathering up the trash and cleaning up. I’s all over the building.”
I walked back to the nurses’ station and called the trash officer, Officer Shutt, whose acquaintance I had briefly made the day before.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“Better,” he said. “Thanks. And thanks for your help yesterday. I just freaked.”
“I understand,” I said. “It was an awful thing you had to experience. I’m surprised you’re back at work so soon.”
His voice became slightly defensive as if I had made an accusation. “Whata you mean? I’m just trying to do my job, to stay busy so I don’t have to think about it. That’s all. It wasn’t my fault, just an awful accident I was involved in.”
“Of course,” I said. “How do you think Johnson got into that trash bag to begin with?”
“Johnson? Who’s Johnson?” he asked, but it was unconvincing. He knew who Johnson was.
“The inmate who was killed,” I said. “The one in the trash bag.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, that’s a good question. You see, usually I pick up the trash from every department early in the morning. They set it outside their back door, and me and an inmate pick it up. But yesterday, there was no trash outside of medical.”
“So what did you do?” I asked.
“I had already parked the truck between medical and laundry. So I walked over with the inmate, and we picked up the bags from laundry. When we got back to the truck, medical had already put theirs in.”
“Have they ever done that before?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “But not very often. And usually we see that old black inmate ’cause he’s so slow, but we didn’t see anybody put it in the truck. Why all the questions?”
“I’m just trying to figure out exactly what happened.”
“I can tell you what happened. A dumb inmate tried to escape and became a dark meat shish kebab. Everybody’s saying what a great job I did. Hell, I’ll probably get Officer of the Month. And, if anybody has anything else to say about it, they can say it to my lawyer.”
“You have a lawyer?” I asked. It was the most surprising thing I had heard all day.
“Hell, yes,” he said. “I been grieved and sued so many damn times by these dumb nigger sons a bitches I had to get one. What kind of world do we live in? A bunch of stinkin’ inmates can make me need a lawyer.”
“So you think Johnson was trying to escape,” I said. “How do you think he got into the bag and into the back of the truck?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I really don’t. All I know is that I didn’t put him back there.”
If they were telling the truth, neither Shutt nor Jones had put medical’s bags in the truck. But, somebody had, and there was a good reason why that somebody had, and I intended to find out who that somebody was. But, first, there was something more pressing on my mind.
Chapter 7
Every eleven minutes, someone in the U.S. died of AIDS.
In Florida state prisons, those with HIV outnumbered those in Florida’s free population two to one. In fact, HIV an
d AIDS was spreading throughout both federal and state prisons at extraordinary rates. Many inmates came to prison already infected with HIV—the result of illicit drug use and unprotected sex. And in prison, it spread. Tattooing, drug use, and especially unprotected sex caused HIV to spread inside prison nearly as quickly as the latest rumor—and only six prison systems in the U.S. distributed condoms. Florida’s was not one of them.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” I asked Nurse Strickland when I had found her again. This time, she was in exam room two looking through some supplies.
“Sure,” she said as she turned around to face me, her blue eyes sparkling even under the dull fluorescent lights. She was really beautiful, and so delicate. Laura and Anna were beautiful, but they seemed to be as strong as they were pretty, but this woman was pretty in a fragile, vulnerable way, like a ceramic figurine. “Come in,” she continued.
I did. And, when I had closed the door, she looked a little surprised.
“What is it? Are you okay?” she asked, and I sensed her genuine concern. She was a good nurse, I could tell. I had come to the right place.
“I need some help,” I said, “and I really don’t know where to turn.”
“Sure. Anything. What is it?” she asked.
“I don’t really quite know how to say this.”
“Take your time. It’s okay. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. Okay?”
“Okay, here it goes. I found out today that the inmate that was killed yesterday had AIDS.”
She nodded her head slowly. “Yes, I know,” she said.
“His blood got all over me. I can’t quit thinking about it. I can’t concentrate on anything else because I think I might have gotten AIDS through his infected blood.”
“Oh, you poor man,” she said, sounding like the kind mother I never had. She was a mother—a caretaker, which I was glad of because I needed taking care of just then. “I know how you feel. Blood is such a scary thing these days. I come in contact with bad blood all the time. It scares the hell out of me, too.”
“Should I be scared?” I asked.
“Well, he did have AIDS. That’s true enough, but unless it penetrated your skin or splashed into your eyes or mouth, you probably have nothing to worry about. And even then you’d have to have an open sore or wound. It’s not likely.”
“Officer Shutt splashed it everywhere. It could’ve gotten into my eyes or mouth. I just don’t know. I haven’t found any cuts or sores, but eyes and mouth I’m just not sure about. What should I do?”
“To be certain, I can give you an AIDS test. That’ll clear it up for you and let you know one way or another. But I wouldn’t worry. Chances are, you didn’t get it, okay?”
I nodded.
She smiled at me reassuringly. “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll go ahead and give you the test down here now, and it can be our little secret. Nobody else has to know. How does that sound?”
“That sounds great,” I said. “Thank you.”
She motioned for me to have a seat on the exam table.
“Stone might ask you to go on leave until you know for certain, and that would just be a hassle. You shouldn’t be punished because that little black bastard had bad blood. It’s not right. There’s no justice in this world when people like you and me have to risk our lives just to do our jobs.”
I didn’t respond.
She moved around the room quickly and efficiently preparing to take some of my blood out of the place where I most wished it to stay, my body. All the while she spoke of how high the number of inmates with AIDS had become. And how we were all paying the price for their sins.
While she continued to talk about the same things, my mind drifted. I began to think of how ironic it was that I might have AIDS. Not only had I been monogamous and careful even then, but I was extremely careful in daily life as well. My daily routine in prison involved washing my hands so many times as to be almost compulsive. I didn’t take chances with AIDS, hepatitis B, and the like. I had visited enough hospital rooms to minister to someone in the last stages of AIDS to know that I wanted to avoid it at all costs. If I had it, I would not let it get the best of me. I’ll kill myself first, I thought.
When she was finally ready to draw my blood, she put her delicate hands on me: patting, squeezing, caressing, comforting. She even held my hand as she withdrew the blood. And, after she had finished, she gave me a hug. It was, hands down, the best nursing care I’d ever received.
“How long does it take?” I asked. I remained seated on the exam table, not in a hurry to leave. She busied herself labeling the vile of blood and disposing of the needle.
“About a week, give or take a little. I’ll have to sneak it in with some other tests. I’ll call you the minute I know, okay?”
“Okay. Listen, thanks a lot. You’ve been wonderful. Truly an angel of mercy.”
“You’re very welcome. You’re a special man. I want to take good care of you.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s funny that you called me an angel of mercy,” she said, turning to face me. “I wanted to be a nun when I was a kid. I was raised in a Catholic orphanage.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “But . . .” She made a sheepish grin.
“What?”
“I like men too much,” she said. She walked over to the table and stood between my knees, her face just inches from mine. “Sister said I should become a nurse.”
I nodded my agreement. “Forced celibacy is wrong. It’s going to do nothing but cause increasingly more problems for the Catholic Church, I’m afraid.”
She nodded. “Anyway, I wanted to help people, so I became a nurse.”
“You became an excellent nurse,” I said.
She smiled warmly as tears filled her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered and leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. I could feel her tears.
“Thank you,” I said.
She turned, pulled some tissues from the flower-covered box on the counter, and dabbed at her eyes. I hopped off the table.
When she had finished wiping her eyes, I asked, “How did you wind up here?”
“In prison, you mean?” She smiled. “Old sour Sister Mary Margaret said I’d wind up in prison one day. I worked for a doctor in Tallahassee that I needed to get away from, and this came open, so here I am.” She backed away from me slightly.
“You needed to get away from the doctor you worked for?” I asked.
“Yes, well, it’s a long story,” she said. “Bottom line is that we had a relationship. He had a wife . . . and kids. And . . . it was a bad scene.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Tallahassee’s loss is our gain.”
“Thanks. Anyway, I didn’t mean to get into all that, but you are so easy to talk to. And so nonjudgmental. I’ve heard you went through a divorce and some pretty rough times yourself. I’m sure that gives you a lot of empathy for others.”
“I hope so,” I said as I walked over to the door and opened it. “Thanks again.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I’d like to talk again sometime, perhaps over coffee.”
“Sounds great.” I walked out, leaving the door open.
Chapter 8
Compared to other investigations I had conducted, I was finding out information quickly. Prison is such a closed society and so self-contained that rather than having a lack of information about the case, it seemed as though I’d soon be faced with having too much. Having such easy access to everyone at all times, with the exception of the first- and third-shift officers, made this more like Murder on the Orient Express than a modern-day investigation.
I was trying to track down an inmate named Jacobson, which on the street would have taken days, if not weeks. In a matter of minutes, I discovered that he was in lockup.
There are four types of lockup in the state prison system. Protective management lockup is for those who are at risk in the general prison population—rapists, child-molesters, ex
–law enforcement officers. Close management dorms are for those who, because of their custody, crimes, and behavior on the inside, do their entire sentence inside a cell. Then there is confinement, which has two classifications—administrative and disciplinary. An inmate is placed in administrative confinement when the administration determines that it is best to do so—usually when he is under investigation for a crime. Disciplinary confinement is for those inmates who were accused of a crime and were found guilty. Jacobson was in the latter.
Whereas most inmates in the Florida DOC are housed in open-bay, military barracks–style dormitories, those in lock-up are housed in single six-by-nine cells. Some of the lockup cells house two inmates, some one. All have a sink, toilet, bunk, and a very small window covered with steel mesh. The inmates in lockup are fed through a slot in the metal door about the size of a food tray. Jacobson’s was open, and I was talking to him through it.
Squatting down to talk through the tray slot in the door always made my knees ache and my feet fall asleep. I usually chose to talk to an inmate through the tray slot because of the security hassle involved in arranging to meet him in his cell or the conference room. For me to enter an inmate’s cell, he must be frisked and cuffed, and an officer must be present at all times. The same is involved if I meet with him in the conference room. Many times what the inmate has to say to me is so short that being frisked and cuffed takes longer than our meeting. Other times the inmates have a lot to say, but are unable or unwilling to because of the security officer standing within hearing distance. I was hoping that without an officer present, Jacobson would sing me a song. He did. Unfortunately, it was one I had heard before.
Power in the Blood (John Jordan Mystery) Page 6
