by Randy Alcorn
The officer drove Clarence to the Justice Center, pulling into the secured underground area. Clarence thought about all the time he’d spent in this same building, meeting with Ollie. But this time he would end up on one of those floors where the public elevator didn’t stop—lockup.
At an intake station, Officer Rodriguez removed Clarence’s handcuffs and the Justice Center guard put on the county handcuffs, equally uncomfortable.
Rodriguez handed the intake officer his booking sheet. The woman made copies and returned the original to Rodriguez. They chatted pleasantly, as if Clarence didn’t exist. They took his watch, keys, wallet, pocket change, insulin and needles— everything but his clothes—and bagged them up.
Another guard led Clarence through a door and said, “Stand there on the red X.” Clarence stood. In front of him were three heavy steel doors. It felt like a bizarre version of Let’s Make a Deal. Which will it be? Door number one, door number two, or door number three?
A security officer made the choice for him. Door number one. He escorted him into a large, poorly lit cell smelling of vomit and urine. The predatory expressions of some of the room’s inhabitants instantly changed when they saw Clarence’s imposing physique. Everyone moved back from him except one high-strung guy whose pupils looked like pinpoints. Clarence plopped down on the stark metal bench, staring at the twelve-inch grate in the middle of the floor.
“Well, look what we got here, boys,” the addict said. “We got ourselves a nigger.”
Clarence looked around the holding cell, doing some quick math. Three white guys, including the addict, one other black, and a Latino.
“Yeah, he’s a nigger, all right,” the addict said. “What you doin’ in here, boy?”
Clarence looked at him with disgust. He wouldn’t let this guy push his buttons. He wasn’t worth it.
“I seen yo’ mama, black boy. She was sellin’ herself over on Third Street and I had me a—”
Clarence’s right fist smashed the man’s nose, knocking him across the room. One of the guys beat on the door and called for a guard. Two guards rushed in and saw Clarence hovering over the man with the bloody face. One of them jumped on Clarence. Thinking he was another inmate, Clarence threw the officer against the wall.
“Stop or I’ll shoot,” the second officer yelled. Clarence turned and looked down the barrel of a Colt Police .45. He raised his hands. They handcuffed him again and escorted him to a private cell. The officer he’d thrown against the wall gave him a shove for good measure. At least this cell didn’t smell of urine. He sat there, index finger brushing against the scar under his right ear.
Later, whether fifteen minutes or two hours Clarence didn’t know, a guard escorted him to the photograph and fingerprint processing section. “We’ve got your fingerprints on file, I’m sure,” the man said.
“Never been fingerprinted,” Clarence said.
The man gave him an unbelieving look. “We’ve got to determine your classification. Decide how to house you. What’s your record? What aliases have you been arrested under?”
“Never been arrested,” Clarence said. “Just pulled over for speeding.”
“Well, we’ll just take your prints here, and it’ll run out your record for us.” Clearly this was a man used to being lied to.
A guard escorted Clarence to medical intake, where he explained to the nurse his diabetic condition, and that he took four shots a day. “While you’re in here, it’ll just be two shots,” she said gruffly. “Nurses come into the population twice a day, that’s all.”
Clarence didn’t bother arguing. After a few minutes, they escorted him to a room with eight other men, including three from his original holding cell, all of whom backed away.
“Take off your clothes. All of them.” With two armed guards looking on, the officer gave directions like an exercise instructor. He told them to bend over and do humiliating things to prove they weren’t hiding something. Clarence had never been strip searched until now. He felt like an animal. He felt like what his ancestors must have felt. The smirk on one of the guard’s faces chilled him.
“Okay, fellas. Now we dress you for success.” The officer guessed at their sizes and passed out faded blue pants and smocks. For Clarence he didn’t have to guess. Extra large.
The men were escorted through another security area. Clarence was put in a little cell by himself, equipped only with a small cot and a metal toilet, which stank. The bars went from ceiling to floor, so his most private actions were not private at all, but completely visible to anyone in the corridor.
An hour later they escorted him out for dinner. The man next to him said, “Trade my ham for your roll.”
“Okay,” Clarence said, making his first jailhouse deal. He ate quickly, as he had as a child when food wasn’t plentiful. He looked around the eating area and stood up at the table. A guard tensed, stepping toward him.
“Can’t I call my wife or my lawyer or somebody?” Clarence asked him.
“Phone privileges are at seven. Another hour and a half. You haven’t called a lawyer?”
“No,” Clarence said. The man left to check out Clarence’s story. He came back in five minutes. “I’ll take you to the phone.”
Instead of dialing his lawyer, Clarence called Geneva. “Hey, baby, it’s me.”
“Clarence, where are you?” Her voice sounded shrill. “Jake called and said you’d gone off in a police car. I’ve been worried sick. Where are you?”
He heard the panic in her voice. “I’m … I’m in jail.” The smelly phone mouthpiece was suddenly flooded with hot tears.
The guard felt sorry for Clarence and let him make another phone call. This one wasn’t to his attorney either. It was to Ollie. He promised Clarence he’d check on bail and get hold of his lawyer for him.
“It’s wonderful you’re still a teacher here,” Dani said to Lewis.
“Elyon’s gifts are irrevocable. We do not set them aside here, we develop them further. Our service on earth was preparatory to our service here. I’m still writing. I’ve completed a number of volumes since I arrived. I’ve just finished a children’s series. I’ll pick out a book for you—I’ve got just the one in mind.”
“Please! Writing and reading in heaven? Books in heaven? I never imagined it.”
“The Bible itself talks about the books in heaven kept by God—the book of remembrances, the book of life, the books of man’s works on earth. He even keeps a book of the laments of the righteous in the Shadowlands. His Word says, ‘Record my lament; list my tears on your scroll—are they not in your record?’”
“Still, I’ve never thought about people writing new books here.”
“If Elyon had some of his people teach and write and speak and compose songs on earth, why would he do otherwise here? If we learned about him through books on earth, why would we not do so here? If we took joy in reading on earth, why would that joy cease here? Wouldn’t we expect more of what brings joy rather than less? Does life stop here or does it commence? Does life contract here or does it expand? You were an artist on earth, were you not? Does it surprise you to be an artist here?”
“Yes, it did at first.”
“But why? Life here is a continuation of life there,” Lewis said. “It is not a new volume, not even a sequel, but the next chapter. Granted, the setting has changed dramatically, but the children of God are the same characters, the plot of the unfolding drama of redemption continues, and the theme is still the glory of God. You bring here the same desires, knowledge, and skills. The difference is those desires are fulfilled in all the right places, and your ability to learn is far superior. Knowledge here is not merely isolated facts, pearls without the string, but facts held together by perspective. And as for your skills, your creative gifts, your artistic talent, they were given you by Elyon, were they not?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“And is he one who takes back gifts he has given? Or is he rather one who gives ever more opportunity to use those
gifts? How could anyone imagine that in heaven Elyon would remove the knowledge and gifts he gave us and cultivated in us on earth? How strange it would be for him to take away the abilities he gave us now that we can finally exercise them without impediment.”
“Professor Lewis is correct,” Torel said. “Earth was far more closely connected to heaven than most there ever imagine. And for those who do not bow their knee to Elyon, earth is far more closely connected to hell than they imagine. Every day on earth, every choice you made influenced your life toward eternity.”
Torel pointed to a large building with inscriptions written in many languages. “Let us go to the Hall of Writings. It is filled with writings done on earth that are still read and studied here—words that outlasted the dark world because they derived their perspectives from this world.”
“I’ve been here many times, Dani,” Lewis said. “It’s one of my favorite places. May I show you around?”
“That would be wonderful.” She took his arm and they walked, Torel beside them. “I’m sure you have many writings here, Lewis,” Dani said.
“You have some as well,” Torel said to Dani.
“What? I never wrote a book. Not even an article.”
“Do you think it had to be published to qualify?” Lewis laughed. “Most of what is published does not qualify. And much qualifies that was read only by a few, some read by none but Elyon.”
“But what did I write that could be here?” Dani asked.
In the gigantic Room of Letters, they showed Dani letters of love and encouragement she’d written to her parents and Clarence, letters of devotion and direction she’d written to her children, evangelistic letters written to Harley and Ellis, letters of moral concern written to school principals and newspapers, letters of thanks written to many others. Finally, there were letters of praise she had written to Elyon.
“Most of these I’d forgotten,” Dani said.
“But Elyon does not forget,” Lewis said.
In the midst of this engaging tour, Dani felt a sudden tug toward the portal. She rushed to it, Torel and Lewis behind her. She saw quickly what had transpired over the last hours on earth. Clarence was in trouble.
She looked at the throne, toward the Carpenter, her heart pleading, then fell to her knees to intercede. Lewis and Torel followed her lead.
Clarence kept thinking maybe they’d come and escort him out, apologizing for the mistake. Or at least that they’d let him out to visit with Geneva or somebody. But nothing happened. He felt as if everything he’d worked for, everything he’d earned, his character, his reputation, suddenly meant nothing. He told them he needed more insulin, that he needed to check his blood sugar, but guards and nurses alike seemed to assume he was lying, that he was trying to get away with something. It seemed not to occur to them that he might be innocent.
They let him out of his room at 7:00, just for an hour. He looked at the books on some makeshift shelves. Most of them were trashy. He found a Bible. He devoured it, reading the Psalms. He asked if he could take it back to his cell. The guard wouldn’t let him.
He lay in the bed, cold and shivering, a frightened child lying in the darkness. He remembered what they’d done to his daddy in jail and wondered if this was punishment for what he’d done to that boy in the projects. He wanted to sleep until the nightmare was over. He didn’t.
After breakfast the next morning, at which Clarence traded sausage for pancakes, a guard ushered him into a room where Ollie and Jake came in to meet with him, they on the free side of the thick glass, he on the captive side. He instinctively placed his hand on the glass. Jake put his up to it.
“How are you, brother?” Jake asked, eyes red and wet.
“Been better. The food’s not Lou’s, that’s for sure. You’d starve, Ollie.”
“I had to pull in some favors to get in here with Jake,” Ollie said. “We don’t have much time. I’ve been talking to everybody since you called last night. It doesn’t look good.”
“You’ve got to believe me,” Clarence said. “I didn’t do it!”
“I know you didn’t do it, Clabern,” Jake said. “We’re doing everything we can to get you out.”
“Ollie, why would somebody do this to me?” Clarence asked.
“I’m not sure. Maybe it means we’re getting close. Maybe it means they wanted to get you off track or undermine your credibility. If they can make this thing with the girl stick—or even if they can’t—who’s going to confide in you? People back off from anyone involved in a scandal. When I was accused, even after I was cleared, people wouldn’t trust me. Maybe they’re trying to dry up your contacts. Obviously they see you as a threat.”
“I don’t feel like much of a threat.”
“The good news is I pitched a case to the lieutenant this morning. I convinced him you’re being framed. Well, maybe being framed. He thinks I’m a good judge of character. He’s always thought that since I lobbied for him to get his promotion. Anyway, I sold him on the idea that whoever did this to you didn’t want you nosing around about your sister’s murder. So if we can find who framed you, we may find out who killed your sister.”
“Hadn’t thought of that.”
“You’ve had other things on your mind. Anyway, I’ve got some latitude to look into Gracie Miller’s case against you. Maybe I can help clear you and we can find whoever’s behind the murders.”
“When can I get out of here?”
“They’re raising bail right now. Unfortunately by the time people found out yesterday, banks were closed. Hopefully you’ll get out today. I’ve made some calls on your case. I’ve talked with several people and looked at the reports. Wednesday night the Miller girl was definitely picked up at the Gresham end-of-the-line MAX station by a big black guy in a suit who checked into the motel with her. Last week she definitely left her uncle’s bar with a big black guy in a suit, presumably the same guy. People noticed they were … familiar with each other.”
“But it wasn’t me. Can’t you just show them my picture?”
“I did. I even went to the bar last night. Talked to the girl’s uncle and two barflies. They all looked at the picture of you and said the same thing. ‘Yep,’” he put on his best redneck bar voice, which wasn’t that far from his own, “‘that’s him all right. Like we said, he’s a big black guy.’”
“What did you say?”
“I said it doesn’t matter that he was a big black guy, the only thing that matters is whether he was this big black guy. They insisted he was, but I could tell they weren’t sure. Problem is they say they are. Now, this blonde girl they could pick out of a lineup of twenty blonde girls the same size. But you put twenty big black guys in a lineup and they’d maybe narrow it down to fifteen. Same with the hotel manager. He looked at the picture and of course he said yes. What else would he say?”
“My brother Harley says white folks are descriptively disadvantaged about black folks.”
“Yeah. And it sure made it easy to set you up. This big guy dresses like you, shows up in a shadowy bar, then he walks out with the girl and kisses her under the streetlights. You didn’t help things by writing out your home phone number on your business card. You really called her at home?”
“I know. It was stupid.”
“Yeah. But stupid isn’t the same as statutory rape and drug abuse.”
“No. But who’s going to believe it isn’t?”
All three knew the answer.
“Clarence,” Jake said, “I want to pray for you now.” He put one hand up to the glass, Clarence matched his hand to it, and Ollie sat uncomfortably while Jake prayed aloud.
At noon, twenty-one hours after he’d been arrested, Clarence was escorted out of his cell and taken through out-processing. Forty minutes later he walked out the door into the Justice Center lobby, into Geneva’s arms. They held each other for a long time.
They walked out the front door, past the Justice Center cornerstone with its prominent quote above the name Martin Luthe
r King—“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”
Geneva drove Clarence to the law offices of Bowles and Sirianni.
“How much did it take to bail me out, Grant?”
“For the three charges it was going to be thirty-one thousand, so 10 percent was thirty-one hundred.”
“Going to be?”
“Well, you managed to pick up a few more charges. Try Assault 2. Class B Felony. Something about ‘Intentionally causing serious physical injury.’ Ring a bell?”
“You mean the crankster in the holding cell?”
“Yeah, for starters.”
“He kept calling me nigger and then he dissed my mama.”
“There’s no law against that.”
“There ought to be.”
“Clarence, the guy’s a career felon arrested for armed robbery. What do you want them to do? Add ‘using the n-word’ and ‘saying naughty things about somebody’s mama’ to armed robbery and assault and battery charges? Did you have to hit him?”
“I guess I was a little upset. It’d been a bad day, all right?”
“Remind me to stay away from you on a bad day. You broke his nose.”
“Yeah. I thought I heard something crack.” He looked at Geneva out of the corner of his eye.
“Your final charge was assault on a public safety officer.” Clarence looked surprised. “Two officers claim when they came into the holding cell, you tossed one of them against the wall.”
“I didn’t know it was an officer. I thought it was one of the other creeps in the cell.”
“Well, you’ve made things complicated, to say the least. Final bail was sixty thousand, so we had to pay six.”
“Where’d you get six thousand dollars?” Clarence asked Geneva. “We’ve got just two thousand in the bank.”
“Now it’s fifty in the bank,” Geneva said. “Jake and Janet came up with another two thousand. Pastor Clancy threw in eight hundred from the church. Our Bible study group came up with the rest.”