I had only taken a few steps when I saw the warden walking directly toward me.
Bat Matson, Potter Correctional Institution’s new warden, had been the warden of the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola, the largest maximum-security prison in the country, just a few months ago.
Known as “the farm,” Angola was named after the home of African slaves who used to work its plantation. The site of a prison since the end of the Civil War, Angola’s eighteen thousand acres houses over five thousand men, three-quarters of whom are black, 85 percent of whom will die within its fences.
A fleshy man in his early sixties with prominent jowls and thick gray hair swooped to one side, Matson had come to Florida and to PCI with the new secretary of the department, who had been appointed by the new governor. He was authoritative, totalitarian, and fundamentalist, and not in any way fond of me.
I turned to my left to avoid him and came face to face with Anna’s soon-to-be ex-husband Chris Taunton.
“Just the man I’ve been wanting to see,” he said. “You been duckin’ me?”
I reached back and dropped the plate of catfish in the large plastic garbage can behind me and turned to face him, bracing for anything he might do.
“What can I do for you, Chris?”
“Well, for starters, John, you could stop fuckin’ my wife,” he said.
His breath smelled strongly of whiskey, but I wasn’t sure if that or his desire to embarrass me was behind his excessive volume.
Several of the men in our vicinity turned toward us. “Your marriage being over has nothing to do with me,” I said, “but it is over. I know you regret your affairs and other desperate acts and not treating that amazing woman like she deserves. Just make sure you direct that anger and disappointment in the right direction.”
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talkin’ to?” he said.
“Chris,” I said, “you’ve made some mistakes. Don’t make others. Stop calling. Stop riding by the house. Stop––”
“It’s not a house,” he said. “It’s a fuckin’ old tin box. You’re trailer trash. You’re––”
“Stop the harassment. Stop making everything more difficult than it has to be.”
Clinching his fists at his sides and bowing out his chest, he took another step toward me.
“You don’t want to do this here,” I said.
“That’s where you’re wrong, you self-righteous piece of shit.”
Just before he took a swing, Don Stockton, the forty-something corrupt county commissioner, stepped between us and put his arms around Chris.
“This is not the place,” he said. “Not the time. Come on, let’s go out to my truck. There’s somethin’ I wanna show you.”
Chris seemed to be thinking about it.
“Come on,” Stockton said again. “I promise you’ll like it. It’ll take your mind off all this bullshit. John’s not goin’ anywhere. If you still want words with him later, y’all can go behind the barn when the place clears out. Okay?”
Chris shrugged Stockton’s hands off but didn’t make a move toward me.
“It’s me,” Stockton said. “You know if I say I’ve got something good for you then I do. Come on.”
“Okay,” Chris said, “but when he runs like the little pussy he is, you have to promise me you’ll help me catch him.”
“I promise.”
“What’s goin’ on here, Chaplain?” Bat Matson said as he stepped up beside me.
“I’ll tell you,” Chris said. “Your chaplain’s fuckin’ a married woman. That’s what.”
Matson looked at me with contempt, shook his head, and kept walking.
He had only gone a short distance when he turned back and said, “My office. First thing in the morning.” When I finally reached the bar area, I found Hugh Glenn sloshing his vodka and cranberry as he spouted his qualifications and vision for the sheriff ’s department.
There were several men around him but only because they were in line for the bar. Still, he spoke with the conviction that his captive audience was there for him.
After I found an ice-cold Dr. Pepper in the tractor bucket, I got in the bar line for some grenadine.
“Here’s Jack Jordan’s secret weapon right here,” Glenn said.
A few of the men turned and looked at me.
“John, what is your unofficial role in your dad’s department?”
“I have no role. Unofficial or otherwise.”
“How many cases do you solve for him each year?” he asked. “What percentage?”
I didn’t respond.
“First thing I’m gonna do when I’m sheriff is offer you a job,” he said. “How would you like to be my lead investigator?”
I still didn’t respond.
“I’m serious,” he said.
“Did you have anything to do with that meth lab bust last night?” a youngish strawberry-blond-haired guy I only vaguely recognized said.
I shook my head.
“Notice how drug busts go up right before an election?” Glenn said.
“You have to admit that’s true,” the young guy said to me.
“It’s bullshit,” another guy said.
He was a short, dark-haired, dark-complected guy in his late twenties.
“Don’t listen to him,” the guy in line behind him said to me. “His sister was one of the ones that got busted.”
“Stepsister,” the dark guy corrected. “Got nothin’ to do with it. I’m glad her sorry ass is in jail, but if the sheriff was doin’ his damn job, her loser boyfriend would’ve been in there years ago and last night never would’ve happened.”
Thankfully, I reached the front of the line, got my grenadine, and was able to slip away.
“You guys enjoy your evening,” I said.
I found Jake over near the barn helping fry the fish and boil the shrimp.
He was standing in front of a large outdoor deep fryer hooked to a propane bottle, stirring the boiling shrimp with a wooden boat paddle.
He wore an apron with an American flag and the words HOME OF THE FREE BECAUSE OF THE BRAVE written on it. Beneath the words was the silhouette of soldiers before a red, white, and blue background.
“Last batch,” he said. “Want some fresh, hot shrimp?”
“Thanks,” I said, not wanting to reject any offer of civility he made toward me and searching desperately for something to do.
“Coming up.”
I thought about how much I had always loved fresh Gulf shrimp, and how the Deepwater Horizon oil spill had changed that for me. I couldn’t eat anything from the Gulf without thinking of and even sometimes tasting 4.9 million barrels of oil and 1.84 million gallons of Corexit dispersant in every bite––all of which still remained under the surface of the beautiful blue-green waters, and would continue to long after we who were doing so much damage were dead and gone.
“I can take over if you want to go mingle,” I said.
“Mingle?”
“What would you call it?”
“Not something gay like mingle,” he said. “Thanks, but I’m done after this. I’ll go get my mingle on then.”
He knew how much using gay as a pejorative bothered me, but seemed to be saying it more out of habit than aggression.
Given the fragile nature of our new relationship, I let it go.
“How are the Jordan boys tonight?” Judge Richard Cox said as he walked up.
Richard Cox was a tall, trim man in his early sixties with bright blue eyes and a calm, confident manner.
He had been a judge in the county for as long as I could remember. He was respected and liked, but lacked the warmth and personableness to be loved. To the right of the most rightwing conservative, he was rigidly religious and punitive in his sentencing, but his approach to the law and life emanated from genuine conviction and he applied his judgements both in and out of the courtroom with equal severity for all.
“Just fine, Judge Cox,” Jake said. “How are you?”
“Be better if I could trouble you for a few of those fresh shrimp.”
“You got it.”
“They’ve run out over there and I didn’t get to try any. They’re my favorite. ’Specially in that spicy cajun seasoning.”
“Have all you like, Judge. We got plenty.”
“Don’t want any more than my fair share.”
“Yes, sir,” Jake said. “Of course, sir.”
“Chaplain Jordan, how are you?” he said.
He said chaplain the way he always said it––with a hint of ironic derision. He had told me on more than one occasion that my belief in grace and the absolute unconditional love of God was misguided and dangerous, and that what he called my cheap grace, social gospel, works theology was leading weak and vulnerable people astray, away from instead of unto God.
“Good,” I said. “How are you?”
“Blessed,” he said. “You read any of the books I recommended to you yet?”
I shook my head.
I’d read books like them before, both in my youth and in seminary, and had no desire to ever read any like them again. They were all judgement-filled Fundamentalist rhetoric that took a literalist, exclusive approach to sacred texts and religion and were antithetical to everything Jesus taught, lived, and died for.
Dressed far more formally than anyone else in attendance, he wore a gray suit, white shirt, and black wingtips. His only concession to the casualness of the setting and event was to unbutton his top button and loosen his tie ever so slightly. His idea of letting loose.
One of his lapels held an American flag pin, the other a white button with the silhouettes of a man and a woman, an equals sign, and the word marriage.
“Well, if you boys’ll excuse me, I think I’ll take these shrimp to go,” he said. “Have a lot of people to see and a speech to prepare for and pray about.”
Each of the four candidates would have five minutes to address the crowd tonight after the pledge and prayer and before the meal.
“You think Dad is praying about his speech?” Jake asked when he was sure Cox was far enough away not to hear.
I smiled.
“He asked me to do it,” I said. “Have you?”
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
“The hell you waitin’ on?”
3
The speeches were what you’d expect.
They took place on a makeshift stage consisting of a flatbed trailer that had been towed here for just that purpose. In addition to the speakers, the yellow lowboy trailer held the American and Florida flags, a Republican Party of Potter County banner, a mic on a stand, and a PA speaker on each end.
Each candidate was truly honored to serve God and the best county in the best state in the best country in the world. Their doors were always open. Small government.
Answerable to the people. Washington was bad, bad, bad. Local was where it was at. Honesty. Integrity. Humility.
In the sea of white faces, I saw two black ones. One belonged to the county commissioner from the “black” district, the other, an activist minister and the pastor of the largest African-American church in Potter County.
Dad didn’t do a bad job, but public speaking wasn’t where he excelled.
After each candidate spoke and the host and the organizer and the head of the party recognized and thanked everyone several times and took the opportunity to promote themselves and their projects and agendas, dinner was served at a little after five.
Large, tender, juicy steaks, baked potatoes, a salad, and a roll.
The rest of the evening consisted of excessive eating, drinking, and talking––and me regretting not having driven myself.
The night wore on.
Eventually a few of the overly full, inebriated men began to stumble to their trucks and take their leave, most of them far too under the influence to drive but driving anyway.
I missed Anna. Ached for her.
But there were still voters present and Dad showed no sign of stopping until he had spoken to everyone individually.
As I scanned the still not insubstantial crowd for someone to talk to, I saw only one face that looked even more miserable than I felt.
Richard Cox, Jr. was sitting at one of the tables in the corner of the event tent alone, nursing what looked to be a Tom Collins.
I found him staring blankly into the bottom of his glass.
“Richie, if you’re contemplating suicide just remember they’ll run out of food and booze eventually,” I said as I walked up to stand across the table from him.
“John, I didn’t know you were here. How are you?”
“Been better,” I said, indicating the event.
“I’m being punished for my sins,” he said. I smiled.
“I’m truly shocked he even wants me here.”
Though not out, there was no doubt about Richie’s sexual orientation––something that must keep his homophobic dad up nights.
He was a talented actor and theater director, frustrated by the few opportunities the Panhandle offered him.
“Pretty sure the demographic I appeal to isn’t here,” he added. “Though I did see one or two public servants I’ve serviced before.”
“If my dad’s one of ’em don’t tell me,” I said. “Honey, you can smell the straight on him.”
“Actually, it’s Old Spice,” I said, “but I can see why you’d confuse the two.” He laughed.
“Your dad’s all right,” he said. “Mine’s the prick.”
I started to say something but Richard Cox, Sr. called to him from across the way.
“Richie, come over here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Duty calls,” he said, rising wearily and a bit unsteadily. “By the way, when you gonna let me write and direct a play about your life?”
He had asked before and like before I just laughed it off.
Walking beside him for several steps to make sure he was okay, I broke off and wandered down in the direction of the lake, passing the barn, leaving the pandering and promise-making behind.
The moon was just a small silver sliver in a cloud-tinged sky, but was enough to shimmer on the glass surface of the lake.
The air was damp and cool and the dew on the ground caused sand and small blades of grass to cling to my shoes as I followed the slope down to the water’s edge.
As I neared the closest bank, I became aware of a figure leaning against a pond pine, the red glow of a cigarette tip blazing in the dark.
“Showin’ any sign of stopping?” she asked.
“The shindig?” I said, nodding. “Food and booze are nearly all gone. Won’t be long now. You waiting for someone?”
“Sort of,” she said. “Waiting for this farce to end so the real party can begin. You stayin’ for it?”
It was dark. Her disembodied voice all there was of her save for red lips, pale skin, and blond hair seen intermittently in the red glow accompanying big, long drags.
“It?”
“The after-party. You’re cute. You should stay.
There’s poker, real liquor, cigars, and me.”
“You’re . . .”
“The entertainment,” she said. “Won’t be the only one. There’ll be others if I’m not your type.”
“Only have one type,” I said. “And she’s waiting at home for me.”
“Ah, that’s so sweet. Is it true?”
“As true as anything you’ll ever hear.”
“Well, damnation honey, a simple yes would’ve sufficed.”
I smiled, but shook my head. “No. It really wouldn’t’ve.”
“Gotcha handsome,” she said. “You’re a one-woman man and you don’t care who knows it. Not many of those left these days. And I’m in a position to know.”
“Hey John,” Richie yelled. “You down there?”
He was standing near the barn, backlit by the bank of halogen lights.
“Yeah.”
“I talked my sister into comin’ to pick me
up. You wanna ride?”
“There’s your big chance to get home to your one-and-only type,” she said. “You gonna take it?”
“Thanks,” I yelled back to Richie. “I’ll be right there.”
“There’s a shocker,” she said.
“Can we give you a lift somewhere?” I asked. “Have you been listening, sugar?”
“I have,” I said, “which is why I’m offering you a ride out of here.”
“Whatta you know,” she said, “an honest to God good Joe. Thanks, but I got work to do.”
I took out one of my cards and handed it to her. “You change your mind,” I said, “just give me a call.
I’ll come back out and get you.”
She shined the light from her cellphone onto the card.
In the spill and reflection from the light, I could see that she was a shortish, thickish, heavily made-up blonde with large breasts dressed and like a TV prostitute.
“Prison chaplain?” she said. “No shit?”
“None.”
“Okay, Chap,” she said. “I’ll call you if I need you.”
4
No women allowed,” Diane Cox was saying. “Why? It’s so creepy.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, sister,” I said.
“Do they do secret man stuff? Walk around, dicks swinging, drinking testosterone and plotting how to oppress women even more?”
“You know Dad wouldn’t be party to that,” Richie said. “Well, at least the dicks swinging part. His might touch another man’s and he’d go straight to hell.”
“The shit we do for our dads,” I said.
“You have a reputation, you know,” Diane said to me. “I’ve heard about you. Really surprises me you’d be at something like that.”
“See previous answer,” I said. “Being a dutiful son.”
“How far does that go?”
“That far,” I said. “That was the limit.”
“Thanks for gettin’ us out of there, Dir,” Richie said.
“I did it for our father as much as you,” she said.
“Knew it was only a matter of time until you had enough to drink and did or said something that would cost him the election.”
Innocent Blood; Blood Money; Blood Moon Page 22