“You told her?” he asked.
“Yeah. Would you keep an eye on her?”
“Always do. Will watch her with both now.”
Shortly after Merrill left, Mr. Smith brought Sandy Strickland in to see me.
It was a pleasant surprise.
“Just wanted to stop by and check on you.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you. I am anxious to know the results of the test. Found a cut on my leg last night. Don’t know when I got it, but . . .”
“I know waiting’s the worst part, but I really don’t think you have anything to worry about. Even if you did have a cut on your leg, his blood would have had to seep all the way through your pants.”
“I know. I’m just . . .”
She frowns and shakes her head. “I’m so sorry. We’re at such high risk here. It’s . . . Anyway, call me if it gets too much for you. But try not to worry. I’m sure you’re fine.”
She stood to leave.
I stood and came around my desk to walk her out.
When I reached her, she kissed me briefly on the lips.
“See?” she said. “I’m so convinced you haven’t been infected that I’m willing to kiss you.”
I started to say something but she leaned in and kissed me again.
The second kiss started out friendly enough, but grew deeper and more passionate as she lingered.
“Sorry,” she said. “I got caught up, but would I do that if I thought you were infected?”
20
“Chaplain?” Stone was saying.
“Sorry,” I said. “I was just thinking.”
Something had been said, something I missed while I was lost in thought—Anthony and Molly Thomas, Ike Johnson, Sandy Strickland, Anna, Laura Mathers, HIV, AIDS, blood, and murder all swirling around in my head.
Tom Daniels and I were in Stone’s office to give him an update.
“About what the inspector said?” Stone asked.
“What’d he say?” I asked.
Stone frowned deeply.
“That Officer Shutt has been written up several times on accusations of brutality toward inmates—every one of them black,” Daniels said.
“What has been done? Did you know about this?” I asked Stone.
He frowned at me again and shook his head.
“Not much has been done,” Daniels said, “as you would expect, because the grievances have been written by inmates. It seems that on a couple of occasions, he was reprimanded by his supervisor.”
“That’ll teach him,” I said.
Stone frowned at me again. The man was nothing if not consistent.
“You both know what it’s like,” Daniels said. “We get grievances on staff members all the time. Some inmates spend all their time writing grievances. Good officers and staff get written up all the time. It’s almost impossible to know. There’s nobody in the entire department who hasn’t been written up by some inmate for some silly something.”
I shook my head.
Daniels said, “What?”
“There’s a difference in frivolous inmate grievances and a pattern of abuse against a single race.”
“There’s no evidence of that,” he said.
“But there’s accusation and it should have been investigated.”
“How many reports of abuse has he received?” Edward Stone said.
“Twelve,” Daniels said.
“How many years with the department?” I asked.
“Less than two.”
“Watch him very closely, Inspector. If he’s guilty, I want his ass.”
“Were any of the grievances filed by Ike Johnson?” I asked.
Daniels nodded.
Edward Stone’s eyebrows peeked several inches above his glasses. “Seems significant.”
“I’ll look into it and him more,” Daniels said. “About the sleeping pills . . . Doc says they were not given by syringe or in food. So it seems Johnson just took them. Some of the capsules weren’t even fully dissolved yet.”
“Suicide?” Stone asked, his voice sounding hopeful.
“It’s at least a possibility.”
“But it rules out staff and officers,” Stone said.
I shook my head.
Daniels said, “It probably does remove the suspicion from the employees, yes, sir.”
“What about Skipper?” I said.
“I’ve initiated an investigation into him,” Daniels said.
“Shouldn’t he be suspended pending the investigation?” I said.
“Because of the accusation of an inmate’s wife?” he said.
“A very serious accusation,” I said. “And she’s not the only one saying he’s dirty and brutal. Several staff members have said it too.”
“He may be dirty. If he is, I’m gonna take him down,” Daniels said. “But for now I’m leaving him in place while I investigate and or build a case against him.”
“Which is your call—”
“You damn right it is.”
“—but how many more people will he brutalize or kill while you do?”
21
The air in Confinement was ten degrees hotter than the air outside and lacked the breeze.
Body odor and the smell of sleep hung in the air like a fog, so thick as to be visible.
It was quiet, as if the heat had zapped everyone’s energy.
When I reached Anthony Thomas’s cell, he was kneeling at the food tray slot as if he had been expecting me.
“How are you, Anthony? I asked.
He shook his head slightly and stared up at me, trying to focus on me. His movements were slow and unsteady. When his eyes finally came within the vicinity of mine, he grinned with way too much familiarity.
“Hello, John,” he said.
It was the first time an inmate had ever called me by my first name.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Top of the world. Top of the fuckin’ world. You?”
“Looks like maybe you might have left this world,” I said.
He didn’t respond.
“How’s Molly?” I asked.
“Molly. Molly. Molly,” he said. “Molly is my wife, but you, you are my true love.”
“Me?”
“Sure you are. I really love you, man.”
He was so high I had nothing to lose. I probably wouldn’t get good answers but it didn’t mean I couldn’t ask good questions.
“I know Molly is your wife but I hear you have a girlfriend here at the prison?”
“I have lots of friends.”
“Like who?”
“You’re my friend, John. Ike was my friend, but he’s not my friend anymore. He’s dead. He’s like on a different plane now.”
“Tell me about Ike?” I asked.
“He was . . . my friend.”
“I think we’ve established that. Anything else you can add?”
“He was a good friend. A real sweetheart. I wish they didn’t kill him.”
“Who?”
“That pig fucker Skipper. He’s . . .”
“He’s what?” I asked.
“Head pig fucker. Runs this place. He’s the skipper of this ship.”
“What makes you say that?” I asked.
“Does what he wants to, man. Uses . . . abuses . . . Nobody can stop him. Stone’s scared of him . . . My name should be Stoned.”
“How about Molly? Does Skipper use or abuse her?”
At that his face clouded over and he began to cry. First small tears, followed hard on by bigger and bigger ones. “Fat pig fucker son of a bitch. Gonna kill him.”
He leaned his head against the steel door and cried some more. In a few minutes, he was snoring.
I walked back down the hallway toward the desk to speak to the officer seated there. On my way by Jacobson’s cell, I looked in. He was completely naked, standing in the center of the cell with a full erection.
When he saw me, he ran to the door and began to shout, “I
’M THE DEVIL’S SON. I’M THE DEVIL’S SON.”
“I’m sure he’s real proud,” I said, continuing to walk.
“Got a question for you,” I said to the officer when I reached his desk.
“Shoot,” he said.
“Is he on medication?”
“Jacobson, yeah. Sleeping pills. But between you and me, he don’t take nearly enough of ’em. Wish he’d sleep all the time.”
“I meant Anthony Thomas,” I said. “He’s high as hell.”
“Thomas?” He shrugged. “Beats me. Better ask the nurse.”
“Which one?” I said, finding it odd he knew Jacobson was on sleeping pills and didn’t know what was making Anthony Thomas float around his cell.
“Any of them can tell you, I’m sure, but he sees Anderson the most, I think.”
“Thank you,” I said, and walked out.
I was walking back toward the chapel when I saw her.
Well, not her, but her truck. It was headed toward the warehouse. And in an instant, so was I.
When I reached the warehouse the truck was still there, backed up to the loading dock, its flashers blinking.
I walked up the ramp and entered the cargo bay.
When I stepped inside, I could see her and the warehouse supervisor in his office. I walked over as nonchalantly as I could, but it probably resembled running.
“Hello, Chaplain, what brings you out here?” Rick Spawn said when I stepped into the doorway of his office.
Before I could answer, I glanced in her direction.
“Hey there Chaplain JJ,” she said with a big smile.
“Hey,” I said.
“Good to see you again,” she said enthusiastically.
“You two know each other?” Rick asked.
“I bought the chaplain a pizza the other night,” Laura said. “It wasn’t a date or anything, but I think he’s smitten. Probably here to ask me out. You think I should go?”
“I think you should go out with me,” he said.
“I don’t date married men,” she said. “Besides, he’s cute. In a discarded-mutt sort of way.”
We turned to walk out together.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Rick asked.
“What’s that?”
“What’d you come out here for?”
“Just stopped by to say hi. You know, making the rounds.”
“It’s obvious he came out here to see me,” Laura said. “When he saw my truck, he nearly ran across the compound.”
I smiled as I turned to leave. “And it was worth it. For the abuse if nothing else.” I walked out ahead of her.
“Wait up,” she said as she caught up to me. “You’re not going to break your neck running over here and then not even ask me out, are you?”
“Thing about it,” I said, flashing her another smile.
“Well, hell. My mom would die if she heard this, but . . . I guess I’ll just have to ask you out.”
“Don’t do that. I couldn’t bear to be the cause of your mother’s departing. Would you go out with me? I’ll pick you up Saturday morning.”
“Saturday morning? The hell kind of date is that?”
“I have to go to Tallahassee. You can come along and we’ll make a day of it.”
“Doing what?” she asked.
“It’ll be a surprise.”
“Okay. I’ll try anything once.”
“Where do I pick you up?”
“You going to the jamboree? Find me at the game, and I’ll tell you where to pick me up. And if you lose that little priest outfit you have on, I just might let you help me chaperone my little sister’s jamboree dance.”
22
It is the chief paradox of Florida that the south part of the state resembles the north part of the country and the north part of the state resembles the south part of the country.
There are two Floridas.
The one that most people are familiar with, that of Disney and South Beach. The second one that most people drive through or fly over on their way to the first one—the Florida of pickup trucks and gun racks, house trailers with cars on blocks in the yard, the rural Florida of poverty and pine trees.
Pottersville was a part of the second Florida, Gloria Jahoda’s Other Florida, a rural town much like those of South Georgia and Alabama.
In a place like Pottersville, where there wasn’t a lot to do, a Friday night high school football game was a social event. When it was the July jamboree game, it was the social event of the year.
Why football in the summer? It was Pottersville. Every other game was played in the fall but the July jamboree was reserved for the early summer to correspond with the other celebrated annual event—the Pottersville Possum Festival.
When I walked inside the football field gate, Merrill was standing there waiting for me. His clothes matched his skin tone—midnight. He wore black tailored slacks with a thin white pinstripe, black-and-white wing tip shoes, and a black collarless long-sleeve shirt.
People swarmed around everywhere—lining the fence around the field, standing in line at the concession stand, sitting in the bleachers.
Cheerleaders roamed around selling programs and blue and white shakers while the two teams, on opposite ends of the field, warmed up.
In stark contrast to Merrill’s cat-burglar ensemble, I wore Levi’s 550 stone-washed straight-leg jeans, leather deck shoes with no socks, and a white collarless long-sleeve shirt.
As we approached the home bleachers, Merrill extracted a quarter from his pocket and said, “Call it.”
“Tails,” I said.
Merrill flipped the coin.
“Tails,” he said. “You win. What will it be, eighty or twenty?”
For as long as I could remember, the bleachers had been divided up into eighty-twenty. The first eighty percent, the unofficial white section, the last twenty, the unofficial black section.
“Twenty,” I said.
We walked along the narrow sidewalk at the front of the bleachers past the white section, where a few people spoke to us, down to the black section, where a few more people spoke to us.
We sat down beside a heavy black woman whom everybody called Miss Tanya. She said, “Boys, how y’all doin’ tonight?”
“Just fine, Miss Tanya. How are you?” I said.
“Honey,” she said, “I am blessed.”
When the game started, Miss Tanya yelled, “Come on, Tigers. Kick some butt!” Her whole body, all three hundred pounds, bounced up and down as she yelled.
Miss Tanya continued to talk to us and to the players throughout the first quarter. Merrill and I were quiet—he watching the game, I looking for Laura.
Near the end of the second quarter I spotted her. She was on the other side of the field helping the jamboree court prepare for its halftime program.
I could see that all of the young ladies on the jamboree court and most of the women helping them had on corsages, but Laura did not.
“Idiot!” I exclaimed.
“That was stupid,” Merrill said. “The whole left side of the field was open.”
“No, not that. I forgot something. Miss Tanya,” I said looking over at her, “where’d you get that corsage?”
“From the school this afternoon. Shaniqua bought it for me.”
“Are they still selling them?”
“I don’t think so, baby. What is it?”
“I’m meeting a girl tonight and I forgot to get her one.”
“Here,” she said and, began to pull the pin out of hers, “take this one, baby.”
“No, I couldn’t,” I said.
“Don’t argue with Miss Tanya. Now go on—take it, boy. Go on now. Take it to her.”
“Thank you,” I said, and gave her a hug. “I’ll see you in a little while,” I said to Merrill.
“If things don’t go well, you’ll see me in a little while. If things go well . . .”
“I’ll see you Monday.”
As I walked over to the
visitors side of the field, I thought about how generous Miss Tanya had been. Every time I wondered why I was living in a place like Pottersville, something like this happened to remind me.
Laura was straightening the corsage on her sister when I reached her. She wore a peach sundress with shoulder straps and light brown sandals. Her summer tanned skin contrasted nicely with the dress and the sandals. Her toenails were painted to match her dress. Her light brown hair, roughly the color of her sandals, was held in a ponytail by a peach bow.
“Prettiest woman here needs a corsage,” I whispered when I came up behind her.
She spun around, her brilliant, deep brown eyes twinkling flirtatiously.
“Here?” she said. “Just here? Not the county? Or the country?”
As I pinned Miss Tanya’s flower on her dress, she said, “Watch your hands there, Priest. Wouldn’t want to be an occasion of sin for you.”
“More like an occasion of grace,” I said.
“How long is this going to take?” she asked. “This your first time? Pinning a corsage on a woman.”
“Of course not, but it has been a while.”
“I’m sorry I’m giving you such a hard time,” she said.
“No you’re not.”
“Are you finished playing with my breasts yet, Preacher?” she said, her voice louder than it had been.
Before I could respond, Laura’s sister walked back from where she had been giggling with some of her friends.
“This is Father John,” Laura said. “The priest I was telling you about.”
“I’m Kim.”
“Hey, Kim. I’m John Jordan. And I’m not a priest.”
“I know. She likes you. That’s just her obnoxious way of showing it.”
“Hey, JJ,” Ernie yelled from where he stood with the rest of the kids waiting to enter the field.
“Well, I’ve got to go,” Kim said. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” I said. “You look great.”
Later that night we danced to Boz Scaggs’s “Look What You’ve Done to Me.”
It reminded me of high school—distant dances and young love.
“I think your dress is overpowering me.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” she whispered.
“Because I’d swear you smell like peaches.”
Six John Jordan Mysteries Page 10