“Can’t say,” Jefferson said, and Willie nodded his head in agreement.
“What can you tell me about Captain Skipper?” I asked.
Willie said nothing, but for just a split second the seemingly knocking-on-death’s-door old man was as alert as any twenty-year-old I had ever seen. He leaned over and whispered in Jefferson’s ear again.
“Grandma say, he won’t say nothin’ about that redneck son of a bitch,” Jefferson said.
“Okay, what about Jones, the inmate who works in the infirmary?”
Again the whisper, again Jefferson with the response: “Say all he know is he well looked out for. He in love with them nurses, especially Strickland. Jones say they do things for each other, but Grandma think it a one-way street. Grandma understand what Jones mean. Say if she was straight, she’d love Nurse Strickland, too.” All three inmates smiled widely.
“How about a young officer named Shutt?” I continued.
“Must be new, ’cause Grandma don’t know him,” Jefferson said.
“I don’t really know what else to ask you. I’m trying to find out who killed Johnson and why. Is there anything else you can tell me that would help me do that?”
He shook his head. And then he, and not Jefferson, said, “Look into sex and drugs. It gots to do with sex or drugs or both. Everything out here got to do with sex or drugs.”
“Only thing missing is rock ’n’ roll,” I said.
“We got a little of that, too,” he said.
Chapter 15
“Who can I get drugs from?” I asked a very surprised Anna Rodden.
“Excuse me,” she said, moving her head from side to side in mock confusion. “Have things gotten that bad?” She was wearing a colorful jumper with blooming spring flowers all over it. It fit nicely, though not too nicely, which would have violated her oath. Her long brown hair was worn down in long rolling waves. She was lovely.
“If an inmate wants to buy drugs on the compound,” I said, “how does he do it?”
I was seated across from her desk in a blue plastic chair that sloped down to the left. Behind her, through the window, I could see inmates mowing dead grass. The sun had taken a toll on everything this year, but the grass most of all. The waves of heat made the inmates look as if they were many miles away rather than a few hundred feet. An overweight officer with mirrored sunshades stood nearby to inspect their work.
“Well, let’s see,” she said, narrowing her eyes and tapping her pencil on her forehead. “First he would have to have something to buy them with. This could be cash from an outside account; personal property to trade—say, a watch, rings, or canteen items; or he could be willing to do something—sex, a hit, a favor.”
“Do many of them have what it takes to buy drugs?” I asked.
The officer inspecting the crew outside behind Anna turned slightly to the side. He looked pregnant in profile.
“Not many have money, but almost all can do some service or something. We’re talking about an economy like our own, the trading of goods and services.”
“Just how available are drugs on the compound?” I asked.
“Not as much as you might think after working here and seeing all the crime, but a whole hell of a lot more than a person on the street would think.”
Her phone rang. She picked up the receiver, tossing her head back and slinging her hair out of the way. It swung out to the right of her head and then settled back down to the center. It looked like silk and moved with the bounce of hair on a Breck commercial. If I had seen a more graceful or beautiful sight, I couldn’t remember when.
“Classification, Rodden,” she said into the receiver. “Yes, I’m in a meeting right now. I’ll come over when I finish. Okay. Good-bye.”
She hung up the phone and said, “Sorry. Where were we?”
“I was about to ask how the drugs get in? I mean how can an inmate get drugs past all of the security measures taken to prevent them from getting in?”
She smiled. “Some of the drugs on the compound are homemade. We have chemicals here and a pharmacy. Sometimes inmates get their grubby little hands on that stuff. Usually though, the homemade stuff is liquor. Real drugs come in because someone brings them in.”
“Who brings drugs into a state prison?” I asked, though I knew the answer.
“Well, if you’re asking for names, I can’t help you, but generally it comes down to two types of people. First, there are family members who smuggle dope in mail packages, although that is extremely difficult. Most of the time, family and friends bring drugs into inmates when they come for visitation.”
“But security shakes them down. I see them do it every weekend,” I said.
“That’s true, but you know that it would still be possible to hide the stuff, especially in certain body cavities or in certain parts of the female anatomy. And which officer is going to pull out an inmate’s wife’s tampon to see if she has drugs hidden in it?”
“I see what you mean,” I said, unable to hide my disgust at the picture she had just painted on the canvas of my mind.
“Remember these are the families that produced criminals. Now, not all of them are bad, but some are criminals themselves.”
I nodded my head in agreement. Then, I shook it in disbelief, thinking of the implications of all that she had said.
“Another way,” she continued, “is for corrections officers to smuggle them in and sell them.”
“I’ve heard of that, but does it really happen that much?”
“It’s really hard to say, but drugs do get in, and it’s too much to be coming in just through inmates who get visits. COs don’t make a lot of money. Not often, but occasionally, there’s a thin line between the captives and their captors.”
“What is that thin line?” I asked.
“Time, place, luck—I don’t really know, but I think it’s always borrowed time.”
“You believe in divine justice?” I asked.
“I’ve seen it too many times not to. It’s just not like most people think. It doesn’t come in the same way as the crime. It comes in guilt, paranoia, anxiety, fear, loneliness, and ultimately death—spiritual, emotional, moral death. And those who don’t pay now will pay later.”
“I wonder sometimes,” I said and then fell silent, wondering. “This is off the subject but, have you received any threats lately?”
She smiled. “You mean in addition to the normal stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“No. Why?”
“Just curious,” I said.
“You’re never just anything,” she said. “Especially just curious.”
“Well, just be careful.”
“I always am,” she said.
“Be extra careful for a while, okay?”
She nodded slowly. “Okay.” Her expression said she trusted me and that she didn’t have to ask why.
“What about drug screening?” I asked.
“Officially, they will tell you that we do random drug screening. Unofficially, most of them are conducted after we receive a tip from another inmate. And, of course, after an inmate tests positive once, he is watched very closely.”
When she stopped talking and before I started, I found myself hoping the phone would ring just so I could witness an encore of her earlier Breck girl performance.
“If that is true, how could Johnson have been full of crack in confinement and then the infirmary, both of which did drug screenings that came back negative?”
“There are only three possibilities. The inmate somehow faked the test—traded urine with someone or something like that. Or, it was an honest mistake by the officer doing the test. Or, someone, I mean an officer or a staff member, was looking out for him.”
“Who could tell me names of inmates and/or officers supplying drugs?” I asked.
“A lot of people, but they wouldn’t do it. They wouldn’t tell any of us—that would be crazy.”
“Well, I just happen to know a crazy inmate.”
>
“Who?” she asked.
“Jacobson.”
“I said crazy, not psychotic.”
“Speaking of which— This is off the subject, but have you received any threats lately?”
She smiled. “You mean in addition to the normal stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“No. Why?”
“Just curious,” I said.
“You’re never just anything,” she said. “Especially just curious.”
“Well, just be careful.”
“I always am,” she said.
“Be extra careful for a while, okay?”
She nodded slowly. “Okay.” Her expression said she trusted me and that she didn’t have to ask why.
Like the answer to a prayer, Anna’s phone rang again and I got to watch a repeat performance of a woman who could force all the other Breck girls into early retirement.
“It’s for you,” Anna said, after touching the hold button. “She says it’s urgent, but she’ll only talk to you in your office.”
“Who is it?”
“Molly Thomas.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll take it down there. Will you transfer it, please?”
“Yes,” she said. “But should I be jealous?”
“No,” I said. “You never should, but you should be careful. And let’s talk some more about that this afternoon.”
“Okay, if you say so.”
“I do.”
“Just call.”
“I will,” I said. “If for no other reason than to get you to do that thing with your hair again.”
Chapter 16
When I got back to the chapel, my phone was ringing. Fumbling with the keys, I rushed in just as it stopped ringing. I sat down at my desk and less than a minute later it started ringing again.
“Chaplain Jordan,” I said as I pulled the receiver to my mouth.
“Chaplain, this is Molly Thomas,” she said in a soft voice.
Molly Thomas was the devoted wife of an inmate here at PCI named Anthony Thomas. She was devoted enough to her husband and their relationship to move up here from south Florida when he was transferred here. She rented a small trailer in a trailer park not very far from mine. She moved all the way up here so that she could be with her husband for six hours every Saturday and Sunday each week. She was either very devoted or very controlled. The romantic inside me said that it was the former. The cynic in me said the latter. Both sides of me longed for someone to love me like that.
“Hello, Molly. How are you?” I asked.
“Not very good right now. I was wondering if I might talk with you?” she asked hesitantly.
“Of course, you know that,” I said.
“I can’t do it over the phone,” she said abruptly.
“Why don’t you come to the institution this afternoon? We can meet in the administration building.”
The administration building is the only building that is not behind the fence.
“I can’t meet you there either. I’m in a real bind, and I feel as if I need to be very careful. I’m scared. Can we meet somewhere in town?”
“I don’t see why not,” I said, though I really saw a lot of whynots. “There’s a conference room I use sometimes at the sheriff ’s station. We can meet there if you like.”
She hesitated. “I can’t really meet you there either.”
“How about the Methodist Church on Main Street at one o’clock?”
“That would be great. Thank you, Chaplain.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll see you at one.”
After we hung up, Mr. Smith swaggered in with some inmate requests and passes for me. I took them from him and looked through them. Nothing urgent.
“Have a seat,” I said. “I’ve got a few more questions for you, if you don’t mind?”
“Nosuh, I don’t mind,” which is what he would have said even if he did.
“I need to know who supplies the most drugs on the compound.”
“Probably the biggest supplier that is a inmate is Jasper Evans.”
I sat there stunned, unable to speak or move. Mr. Smith sat quietly with no expression on his face.
“But he is our choir director and the most faithful member of the church,” I said at long last, unable to conceal my shock.
“Yesuh, he is. He a good singer, but he a dope pusher, too.”
Chapter 17
Weekly church attendance across America was higher than it had been since 1962. This was not true of Pottersville. In most small towns, church attendance, like the population, rarely varies. People go to church in small towns for different reasons than they do in large cities. Attending church in a small town is as much social as it is spiritual— and often more so. It is also about family tradition and social acceptability. And, to be honest, there is less to do in a small town. Another reason for going to church—the reason in fact, that brought Molly and me to church today, and one that occurs more often in larger cities than in small towns—is having a genuine need or personal crisis. Molly had both.
When I reached the First United Methodist Church of Pottersville, Molly Thomas was waiting on me. The church was red brick with white trim and, like most Protestant churches, looked like an old schoolhouse. Recently, however, like many Protestant churches, it had undergone cosmetic surgery to make it look more churchy: stained glass, a statue of Jesus holding a lamb in the front yard, and a bell tower on the roof. These changes created a confusing look: part school, part church, and part brick home.
Molly sat in her car, an older dark brown Ford Taurus, with her window rolled down. Her auburn hair was moist, and sweat trickled down the sides of her cheeks. Her green eyes, aided by colored contact lenses, looked like the Gulf after a summer rain. She glanced around nervously and then got out of the car.
I got out, too, but without the nervous glances. Later, I realized I should have been glancing.
“Molly, how are you?” I asked when we were both out.
“I’m scared out of my mind. I don’t know what to do. I need your help,” she said frantically.
Her eyes moved rapidly around in their sockets like flies too hyped up on speed to light. She blinked often and jerked her head occasionally. I wondered if she were high or just needed to be.
“Come in. We can use the pastor’s office. He’s at lunch right now,” I said, walking toward the office at the rear of the church.
She followed. Actually, she walked at such a brisk pace that she passed me, which I guess means I followed her.
Pastor Clydesdale’s office was way too small, or his library was way too big. He had three rather large bookshelves that held approximately twice the amount of books that they were made to. The books standing vertically on the shelf held books lying horizontally, and the top shelf had four large stacks that reached the ceiling. The floor, or what could be seen of it, was covered with a dark green shag carpet from deep in the 1970s. A small window air conditioner, which was not in a window at all, but rather an oversized hole in the wall, pushed the sweet smell of pipe smoke around the room.
I sat in the pastor’s seat, an old swivel desk chair with wheels on its legs, and as I did I could feel two small springs—one under each cheek.
Molly sat on an old couch that occupied the wall to the right of his desk. The couch, which was beside his desk so the desk wouldn’t serve as a barrier between the shepherd and his sheep, was covered with a thin rust-colored bedspread and sloped down at the rear. This made Molly look at least six inches shorter than she really was. It seemed to me to defeat the purpose of having the couch beside the desk, something I was sure that the sensitive Dick Clydesdale had thought of before.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on, Molly.”
“I’m taking an awful risk in talking to you. I think I can trust you, but I’m not sure,” she said.
“If you have any reservations, I would encourage you to speak with someone you know better and can trust more.”
“I don�
��t know anyone. I am all alone down here. I’m out of options,” she said. Her auburn hair and green eyes were striking, and she looked as if she should have been beautiful, but she was not. It was as if individually her features were attractive, but taken together they were not. The total was not equal to the sum of the parts.
“Down here? I thought you were from south Florida,” I asked surprised.
“No, I’m from Michigan. We were in Miami about to leave for a two-week cruise when Tony was arrested,” she said and smiled a sad, ironic smile.
“So you moved down here from Michigan just to be with him?” I asked, envious of him for having such devotion from his wife.
“No, I never went back. I had my sister send my things and sublet our apartment. I haven’t left his side.”
“Are you sure you want to talk with me?” I asked.
“I have no one else.”
“Don’t try flattery. I’m immune to it,” I said. “But it is nice that you are confident in my abilities.”
She did not smile. We were silent a moment.
“If you want to talk with me, there are some things you should know first. I will keep confidential anything you say unless to do so would cause harm to you, someone else, or the security of the institution. Also, we are not alone here.”
She startled. Sitting up in her chair, she asked, “What do you mean?”
“No one is listening in on us. We have privacy. I just have this rule. I do not meet with young women in a pastoral role alone. It’s nothing personal; it’s just the best way to do things.”
“Who’s here?” she asked looking around the room.
“The pastor of this church, the Reverend Dick Clydesdale, is having his lunch in the other office.”
“I understand. I guess that lets me know that I picked a trustworthy man.”
I shrugged. “I try. Now, why don’t you tell me what is going on.”
“Okay,” she said and took a deep breath. “Tony’s been doing real good. This is his first time down, you know. I was worried about him at first. He’s not tough like those other men. But he’s doing good. A lot better than I ever thought he would.”
MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH Page 11