Gladys, decked out in orange, including her eyeshadow, was remarkably cheery for a woman in her role. She couldn’t have been much older than he, but Thomas felt mothered by her—in a good way. She escorted him to Human Resources, where he was initiated with keys, a packet of brochures and pamphlets, and an employee manual. He signed more documents than he and Grace had had to sign to rent the tiny four-room ranch three miles from the prison.
Thomas had just arrived for his first day on the job, and already he was eager to get back home to help Grace unpack and set up housekeeping. Her health seemed to have rallied with the new opportunity and a home to call her own. He just hoped she didn’t overdo things.
Thomas worried about his wife. Soon, he feared, he would have to press Grace to see a doctor. Not only was she not herself physically, but her demeanor had also been affected by whatever was ailing her. He knew better, but Thomas had long seen her as perfect, almost too good to be true. He wasn’t complaining, but there were days he would have loved to see her as more human. Nothing ever seemed to get to her, and part of him even suspected that her equanimity had been partly to blame for Ravinia’s revulsion of them.
He’d never dared raise this with Grace, and he knew his own bland consistency in all things spiritual had to be frustrating for a young woman too. But he could identify with Rav’s complaint that she had been raised in the house of a matron saint.
Several days before, however, a bit of Grace’s sheen had worn off, and she had tearfully confessed to him what she considered a sin that had eroded her conscience.
“I wrote a letter to the Pierces,” she said.
“You didn’t.”
“I did. And I even used a bad word in it.”
“Whatever you called them, they deserved it,” Thomas said before he could catch himself.
“I need to apologize,” she said.
Thomas knew she was right, but he wished she wouldn’t. Few people stood up to Paul Pierce. He could only imagine the man fuming at the brass of the former circuit pastor’s tiny wife.
“I want to send a note of apology even before I hear back from them.”
“You think they’ll write back?”
“Of course.”
Grace had fired off the follow-up letter, but she never heard from the Pierces.
Thomas had pestered her for days to tell him what she had called the Pierces, and when she finally admitted she had regrettably referred to them anatomically, it was all he could do to hide his glee. Even now he chortled aloud when he thought of it.
Loaded with all the stuff from the personnel director, Thomas found his way back to his office. He would have to bring in a box of personal photos to adorn the walls and make it homey, but for now he just set the furniture the way he wanted it and jotted a list for Gladys—as she had instructed—of the office supplies he needed.
When he delivered it to her, she rang a tiny hand bell on her desk, and people seemed to appear from nowhere. Offices and cubicles emptied, and men and women of all ages and races—though they all seemed to dress in the same plain, cheap business wear—moseyed into the central area and lined up for a pastry and a cup of coffee.
Frank LeRoy was the last to appear. “Okay!” he said. “Thanks for coming. Get yourself something to eat and drink and introduce yourself to our new chaplain. Then let’s get back to work.”
“Yeah, no,” someone whispered, and several laughed.
“What’s that?” the warden said.
“Thank you!”
“Oh, well, thank Gladys. She arranged all this like she does everything else.”
Gladys bustled here and there, making sure everyone was taken care of, while Thomas stood awkwardly, wondering if he should try to eat and drink while greeting all these new associates. He decided against it, but Gladys brought him a plate with a doughnut on it and a cup of coffee.
“I’d better go easy on the sweets,” he said.
“Oh, go on and have one,” she said. “It’s a party.”
“Lot of calories, I’ll bet.”
“Tell me about it,” she said, beaming. “I say, ‘Get thee behind me,’ and then I eat ’em, and they do!”
Maybe it was first-day jitters, but the unexpected humor caused a snort when he laughed. He would have to engage with the warden’s secretary more when occasions arose. It was a joke, but she had quoted Scripture. He wondered where she was spiritually.
Thomas managed to hold both his plate and his cup in one hand as he shook hands with nearly everyone and quickly recited for each where he was from, that he was eager to introduce his wife someday, and how glad he was to be there.
“You seen the unit yet?” someone said.
“That’s next, I believe, after my meeting with Warden LeRoy.”
“You’d better decide after that how glad you are to be here.”
20
Forest View High School
Dean Hose called Brady out of a morning class. Brady had no advocate along this time.
“Against my better judgment, I slipped into that dress rehearsal.”
“No kiddin’? Did Mr. N. know?”
Hose shook his head. “Thing is, live theater is not my deal, especially musicals. But I loved it. I’ll be bringing my family and even another couple.”
“Cool.”
“You’re really good, Darby. Who would have guessed?”
“Not me. Thanks.”
“Anybody who can do what you do on that stage is no dummy. So what are you doing about your grades?”
“I told you. I’m trying harder, gonna get my homework done, study for these tests, look into getting some help.”
“C’mon, Darby. Who do you think you’re talking to? That’s a load, and you know it.”
“Sorry?”
Dr. Hose pointed to the brass plate on the edge of his desk. “You see my title, ‘academic dean’? Academic, son. You think I’m not in daily touch with every teacher in this school and don’t know who is and who isn’t in trouble? You haven’t talked to one of your teachers about your situation, haven’t asked for help, haven’t asked for a tutor, and worse, you’re not keeping up with your homework. That one I can’t figure at all. At least do that!”
Brady hung his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, believe me, I understand. You’re not the first smart kid who’s more concerned about his image than his grades. It’s one thing to be the hip tough guy who crashes the preppies’ party and lands the sweetest role in the musical. But to do your daily assignments, carry your books, take notes, get help—no, that’s beneath you. Am I right or am I right? Huh?”
Brady felt exposed. “Let’s be real. I’m going to be a workingman all my life. I just can’t get myself worked up over these classes.”
Hose stood and thrust his hands into his pockets. He peered out the tiny window in his door, then turned to face Brady. “That’s something else that’s always puzzled me. Most of your friends are in work-release programs where they take shop classes in the morning and head for a job in the afternoon. Why not you? You get to start that as a junior.”
Brady shrugged. “Can’t afford a car yet, so I haven’t gotten a job like that. Anyway, I wanted to play football, and when that didn’t work out, I tried out for the musical.”
“You know, don’t you, that if you don’t do something drastic, you’re going to be out of the musical? Past that, how will you ever graduate? While there’s nothing wrong with being a workingman, as you say, you’re never going to get to be a foreman if you don’t have a sheepskin. It’s all right to punch a clock, but wouldn’t you like to at least be on salary someday, get some benefits, have a little job security? You’re going to want a wife and a family, aren’t you?”
Now Hosey had hit Brady where he lived. He had no crazy notion that he could find the right woman, have the right job, find a decent place to live, and make the family thing work the way his aunt and uncle had. Desperate as he was to be a good example to Peter, he was al
ready failing miserably at that and could only hope against hope that Peter had no idea.
Brady nodded. “You think I could try that work-release thing when the play is over?”
“I do. But, listen, you can’t just let everything slide until then. It happens that your midterms end the Friday night the play opens, so your grades won’t be recorded until Monday. But if your GPA slips an iota, you’ll disqualify yourself from the three performances the following weekend. And the work-release thing would be out the window too.”
Adamsville State Penitentiary
The warden waved Thomas in while still on the phone and pointed to a chair. “All right, then, George. I’ll be back to ya.”
He hung up and studied Thomas. “There’s still time to turn tail and run, Reverend,” he said, smiling.
“I don’t guess I’ll be doing that. I’m excited about this.”
“It’ll be no picnic. That was Andreason on the phone. The gov and I go way back, you know. College. He’s not happy about me trying to run the DOC from here, but for now I’ve got him convinced it’s cheaper. We’re saving a salary, for one thing, and I have a good team. But I do have to travel a fair amount to the other facilities, so you won’t be seeing me a lot. Our work doesn’t overlap much anyway. Gladys can answer most of your questions. I’m glad we’ve got ya, because I know the spiritual health of the population here is important. It’s not very good, of course, but it’s important.”
“You believe that?”
“I sure do. I’m a churchman myself, ya know.”
“Really?” Thomas wondered why Chaplain Russ had never mentioned that.
“Yeah, saved when I was a little kid, the whole bit. Now saying I’m a churchman is a little overstated, ’cause I admit I find more reasons to stay home than go anymore. But I get out when I can.”
Thomas was tempted to ask about the man’s personal devotional life but feared it would be too forward this early in their relationship. He also wanted to urge the warden to become regular again in his church attendance for the sake of the survival of his spiritual life. But he wasn’t the warden’s chaplain. Russ had reminded him of that. “The people in the office might come to you with a question, but they don’t want to be approached. Your constituency is the men in the cells, not the staff.”
LeRoy looked at his watch. “I got to be heading out in a couple of hours, but that leaves plenty of time to give you the lay of the land. You’ve never been in a place like this, so prepare yourself. You may hear things you’ve never heard before, smell things, see things. You show the least bit alarm, they’ll be on you like wounded prey.”
“But they can’t get to me.”
“Not physically, no. And they might be more likely to behave because I’m with you. But there’s an incredible rumor mill inside any penal institution. Everybody knows Russ is gone and the new guy is coming in. It won’t surprise anyone who you are.”
“I was thinking of carrying my Bible, you know, just to make plain who I am and what I’m about.”
“Yeah, no,” Frank LeRoy said. “Word to the wise: I think they’d see that as a little pious, a little holier-than-thou.”
“I see. If someone greets me . . . ?”
“In a civil way? It’s okay to respond, but keep it noncommittal. Tell them you look forward to getting to know them eventually, something like that. As you know, they have to ask for you to visit, so it’s on them. And then you’ve got to watch all the religious games they’ll play, trying to get next to you, get favors, get you to get them a free phone call—usually for some made-up crisis. And then when you don’t, they’ll try to lay a big guilt trip on you, questioning whether you care, challenging your faith, your interest, your love, everything. Russ used to get guys whining about how he never came around, when they knew as well as he did that they had to officially request a visit. Now, you ready for a look?”
Forest View High School
Brady knew exactly what he should do, yet he also knew he would not do it. He should swallow his pride and enlist all the help he could in order to succeed on the midterms, believing that even if he failed, his teachers and Dean Hose would recognize that he was giving it his all. They would be able to make concessions for him, keep him in the play, keep him in school, and transition him into the work-release program.
But that crazy part of his brain, that lazy, hope-things-will-work-out part of him, heard the timing issue—that his midterms could all be Fs and still not affect his first three performances—as a license to coast. He knew there was no way he could pass even one test with that attitude. He would be flunking himself out of of the play, even out of the work-release program.
But what if a talent scout saw him that first weekend? Then Brady wouldn’t need school. He wouldn’t need anything but his dream and his passion and his talent. And maybe, just maybe, he would be so impressive that the school would let him try the work-release program on probation.
Hose had been crystal clear on that score, though. It wasn’t going to happen. The second weekend of the musical was in no way guaranteed—unless Brady failed, and then it was guaranteed he would be on the outside looking in.
Yet still Brady mentally shut the door on his midterms. He wouldn’t be cracking another book, taking another note, talking to any teacher, employing any tutor. He would do his best on the tests, excel on the boards, and hope for a miracle.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, he knew. But he had never played the game before, and he wasn’t about to start now.
Adamsville State Penitentiary
“Eight percent of the state budget goes to incarcerating criminals,” Warden Frank “Yanno” LeRoy said as he led Thomas Carey out of the office wing and down a long, sterile corridor. When they turned right, Thomas’s senses were assaulted. The tang of industrial cleaners hit his nostrils, and as they approached the first envelope, as Chaplain Russ had called it, he heard all the clanging and yelling.
“These men cost us over three hundred dollars a week each,” Yanno said. “It’s no surprise some wonder why we don’t just execute ’em all and save money.”
Thomas couldn’t imagine anything worse. Sure, some no doubt deserved to die. But to kill them all just for economic reasons? How, then, could any of them be reached for Christ?
He was quickly processed through the double entry into the main unit, surely because the warden was with him. The corrections officers greeted the warden, and they were friendly, though businesslike, with Thomas.
As they moved into the corner of the massive first floor, Yanno stopped to point out things and explain. And from all over the unit came shouts and cries.
“Padre!”
“Father!”
“Reverend!”
“God squad in the house!”
Thomas tried to take in everything at once. In some ways, this reminded him of a zoo. Cement floors, concrete block walls, tiny slits of windows, and cages everywhere. He was surprised to notice that each cell had a solid steel door with an opening for a food tray, the rest of the front wall made up of two-inch square openings, almost as if metal strips had been woven. There were no bars, per se, except between corridors and envelopes. Each man’s “house” was identical.
“Each cell is seven feet by ten feet with a built-in bunk, a concrete stool, a metal table, and a sink-toilet unit.”
“I’ll never complain about the size of my office,” Thomas said.
“I hear that. But this is the price for bein’ a bad citizen. They carp and complain and write letters and cry to the public, but we’re not trying to be mean. They’re not in here for chewing gum in class, know what I mean?”
Closer to the cells, the industrial cleaner smell was overwhelmed by a stench that seemed to be a combination of sewage, garbage, and body odor. “Each man is responsible for cleaning his own house, and we give ’em what they need for that once a week. They tend to misuse good cleaning products, so they get watered-down stuff that can’t be turned into anything dangerous. And some of
them just don’t care to clean their places. Again, that’s on them. If they want to live in filth, that’s their problem. Once a week someone is let out, by himself—shackled and cuffed, of course—to mop the area around the pods. The banks of cells are the pods.”
The cells were arranged five side by side, with another five directly above them, a single shower stall at one end, and the exercise area at the other. The ten-cell units were arranged in a circle of six, clustered around a two-story watchtower. From the tower, which Yanno called the observation unit, corrections officers could see into all sixty cells.
“The locks are controlled from within the tower, but each man’s house also has a manual locking device, so we’re talking triple security. When an officer is extracting a prisoner for a shower, a meeting, the work assignment, or his daily one-hour visit to the exercise kennel, he signals the tower first. The electronic lock is disengaged for that one cell; then the officer must remove the manual lock before using his key for the main lock.”
“Did you call the exercise area a kennel?”
Yanno nodded. “I probably shouldn’t, because the bleeding hearts would just love to quote me that way. But it’s a ten-by-twenty-foot, two-story, fenced-in area with fresh-air grates in the ceiling. Certain times of the day a man can catch a glimpse of the sun through there, but usually, no way. As you can see, it looks like a big kennel.”
As they strolled, Thomas was struck that so many of the inmates—all wearing white T-shirts, khaki pants, and soft slippers—were living in the dark. Many had clothing draped over their lights, and paper hung even over some of the four-inch-wide windows cut vertically near the top of each cell.
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