Riven

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Jorge had never asked to see Chaplain Carey.

  Until now.

  Jorge had studied English as a second language by correspondence, resulting in a strange but most understandable accent. Thomas thought it made the man sound sophisticated, almost courtly. He didn’t slur or use contractions, and he pronounced every syllable with care.

  “I appreciate very much your honoring my request, Reverend Carey. I am curious as to what privileges might be afforded a lifer such as myself who converts to your brand of American evangelical Christianity.”

  “Let me be sure I understand what you’re asking, sir. Are you curious about the Christian faith, Jorge, and specifically evangelicalism?”

  “Oh no. I was raised Catholic, was baptized and confirmed. But I understand that evangelicalism is more accepted and may win me privileges that Catholicism may not.”

  “In the system, you mean.”

  “Yes. I am not scheduled for even a parole hearing for thirteen more years. Is it true that if I were to convert, I might see that expedited earlier?”

  “No. In fact, the opposite is true. I’m afraid it would appear manipulative on your part and could work against you. You wouldn’t want me vouching for you.”

  “Very well, then. Thank you very much and I apologize for taking your time.”

  “Not at all. Tell me, Jorge, do you understand the differences between Catholicism and Protestantism?”

  “Oh yes. I have studied both very carefully.”

  “How would you characterize the differences?”

  “Well, the one seems more liturgical, creedal. The other more personal. I believe there are more similarities than differences, but I also understand where Protestantism originated and what Martin Luther believed was needed to reform the church.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “And does one or the other appeal more to you, prison privileges aside?”

  “Yes. Catholicism.”

  “Interesting. You know, many men here misunderstand Protestantism to be the faith of grace and see Catholicism as the faith of works.”

  “Misunderstand?”

  “I mean,” Thomas said, “that they carry the differences to the extreme, thinking that if you are saved by faith and not works, you are free to live however you wish, once you have your eternal destiny decided.”

  “I see. And yet I find Catholic literature also emphasizes grace, though perhaps not as exclusively.”

  “You are very perceptive, Jorge. I find that many who choose between Catholicism and Protestantism choose the latter because they find it more accessible, even in a way easier.”

  “I can see that. But I suppose I prefer the faith I grew up in as a child.”

  “Do you still practice it? You have never asked for any literature that I am aware of.”

  “No. I am no longer a religious person.”

  “Yet you were once?”

  “Yes, as I said, as a child. I loved going to church with my parents and brothers and sisters.”

  “Do you fear for the fate of your soul?”

  “No. I believe when we die, we are simply gone, body, mind, and soul.”

  “You realize your religion does not teach that.”

  “Of course. As I have said, I am no longer religious in any manner.”

  “So your question was wholly based on whether a new allegiance might benefit you somehow here.”

  “Correct.”

  “I appreciate your honesty, Jorge. I would be remiss if I did not tell you that I believe God loves you and that the Jesus you worshiped as a child died for your sins that you might have eternal life by believing in Him.”

  “I know that is what your faith teaches.”

  “Yours too, Jorge.”

  “No. As I told you, sir, I have no faith.”

  “Might you reconsider?”

  “I cannot conceive of it.”

  “Well, you know how to reach me.”

  Thomas could barely put into words, even for himself, how he felt heading back to his office. The man had not been contentious or antagonistic. He was not despairing or angry as Henry Trenton had been so many years before. But Thomas thought Jorge’s views were the epitome of the thinking of these men. It was all about what was in it for them, yet they thumbed their noses at the greatest benefit of all: the forgiveness of their sins and the promise of heaven.

  That night at home, when the volunteer had left and Thomas enjoyed uninterrupted time with Grace, again he found it impossible to hide his angst.

  “I know you, dear heart,” she said. “Talk to me.”

  Thomas told her as much of the conversation as he could remember.

  “I don’t understand it any more than you do, Thomas. But I still believe you are there for a reason. What these men do with the gospel is up to them. Your responsibility is to tell it. Jorge’s response saddens me too, but what you said to him reminds me of how I cherish my faith.”

  Thomas rubbed his forehead. “I wish it did the same for me.”

  “Doesn’t it? When you talk of Jesus’ sacrifice, doesn’t it thrill you?”

  “Don’t worry about me, Gracie. I’m just as low as I can be right now.”

  “I have a song for you but not the strength to sing it tonight. You should sing it.”

  “I’m not up to it either.”

  “It’s a favorite. ‘In the Cross of Christ I Glory.’”

  “Yes, wonderful,” Thomas said. “Sing it for me tomorrow.”

  “But I want to hear it now. Please, for me.”

  It was the last thing he felt like doing, but there was nothing he would not do for Grace. So Thomas sat a little straighter and took a deep breath, and in his pedestrian but serviceable voice, he began to sing for her. And in the middle of it, tears streaming, and with her reminding him of the lyrics here and there, he began to sing it to God.

  In the cross of Christ I glory,

  Towering o’er the wrecks of time;

  All the light of sacred story

  Gathers round its head sublime.

  When the woes of life o’ertake me,

  Hopes deceive, and fears annoy,

  Never shall the cross forsake me:

  Lo! it glows with peace and joy.

  Serenity Halfway House

  Brady liked the days when Jan conducted group therapy sessions solely for the drug addicts. And while he had been clean for weeks, not only was he still required to go, but he also wanted to. He found it helpful to hear from so many others who faced the same struggles and temptations he did. And while he felt self-conscious at first when he too admitted his triggers and weaknesses, in time it became easier for him.

  But who was he kidding? He liked the sessions because, unlike the classes under Bill, they were coed and drew not only from the immediate community but also from the entire county.

  Brady liked checking out the ladies, though most of them looked so strung out and wasted that they didn’t appeal anyway. The ones who seemed to be succeeding and were attractive appeared way too young for him. But he was closing no doors, as long as they were of legal age. Up till now he had just been looking.

  Today one of the outsiders had upper crust written all over her. Oh, she had the streaky hair and pierced tongue and showed a tattoo on her midriff, but Brady had never seen those kinds of clothes on a typical junkie. Funny thing was, she looked vaguely familiar. Or maybe he was only hoping. One thing was for sure. This woman had her eye on him too.

  He casually looked around the circle—they always sat in a circle—and noticed who seemed engaged, who was slouching and looking elsewhere. Each time his gaze landed on her, she was looking back, brows raised. Once she even smiled.

  Hello.

  Finally Jan flipped open her notebook and said, “Let’s greet each other.”

  “Hi, I’m Brady, and I’m an addict.”

  “Hi, Brady.”

  And so it went. Most of the names flew past without Brady catching them or cari
ng to. He knew his housemates, of course, and he wouldn’t likely be getting to know the outsiders anyway. Though he held out hope for “her.”

  “Hi, I’m Katie,” she said, “and I used to be an addict.”

  Some returned her greeting, but most waited for the inevitable reproach from Jan.

  “Katie,” she said.

  “Okay, I’m still an addict. Always will be.”

  “No, but you may always be in recovery.”

  “Whatever.”

  Brady liked her spunk. Was there a chance he could speak to her before she boarded the van back to wherever she came from?

  Halfway through the session Jan raised the issue—as she often did—of the future. She had established early that one thing many addicts lost was a dream, a plan, a view of what might be in store for them. After living only for the next hit for so long, that was as far ahead as they could look. “And when we finally start to think further ahead than our next score, where else should we look? Anyone?”

  “Our past,” someone said.

  “Exactly. Search the recesses of your mind for your innocent years, your curious years, your best years. What was it you loved to do? What was it that was lost to you when you lost your way? What would you go back to if you could? I know maybe some of it is unrealistic now. Maybe you wanted to be an Olympic gymnast and those days are gone. But you could enjoy the sport in another way. Could you teach, coach, judge, just help out somewhere?

  “That’s the same with any sport. Or maybe you were a ballerina. It isn’t likely you’re going to dance at the Met, but let’s not put any boundaries on our thinking right now. What did you once love to do that you would do again if you could?”

  “Race cars.”

  “And why not?”

  “Work construction.”

  “A clean and sober guy can do that. Go for it!”

  “Be a model,” Katie said.

  “You’ve kept your figure,” Jan said.

  Brady wanted to shout, Amen!

  “What’s in your way?”

  “My parents. I already just about got disowned ’cause I didn’t make the Ivy League. To them modeling would be only one step down from druggie.”

  Everybody laughed.

  Several other dreams were revealed and encouraged. Finally Brady said, “Acting.”

  “You were an actor?”

  “Believe it or not.”

  “As a child?”

  “High school. Actually played Conrad Birdie once.”

  Suddenly Katie was on her feet. “Get out!” she squealed. “I knew I knew you! Brady! I’m Katie North, Alex’s sister!”

  “No way!” Brady jumped up to embrace her. “I don’t believe this! You were nothing but a snot-nosed kid back then.”

  “And you were the bad boy everybody had a crush on. Just look at you now.”

  “Yeah, same guy.”

  “How long ago was that, Brady?”

  “Only fourteen years.”

  “I was like nine,” she said.

  “All right,” Jan said, “you two can catch up later. Now who else can look back to look ahead?”

  Adamsville State Penitentiary

  “I think Dirk has a girlfriend,” Ravinia told her father that afternoon in his office. “He’s begged off of taking Summer twice in a row, claiming he had to work both nights.”

  “Hmm. Have you ever known him to lie?”

  “No.”

  “Then why not take him at his word?”

  “Maybe I’m paranoid. But Summer asks for him every evening.”

  “Tell him that. He needs to see her. He can’t keep doing this to her. Listen, Rav, do you want him to have a girlfriend?”

  “What are you saying? You mean so I wouldn’t be the only guilty one? No. Would I be jealous? Yes, I would.”

  “Then you do care for him.”

  “I’ve said that all along.”

  “But his having someone else would take a little of the load off of you for, you know, what happened.”

  “For what triggered all this, you mean? Sure. But if he’s guilty, that doesn’t make me any less so. Just makes us even. Except mine really was a one-time fling, and who knows what his is?”

  “Or even if it’s anything.”

  Ravinia shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m talking with my own father about this.”

  Serenity Halfway House

  Brady and Katie had only a few minutes to talk before she had to go. He had so little experience with women, he hardly knew what to say. “So, you’re all grown up, eh?”

  “Yeah, you like?”

  “Who wouldn’t? Can’t believe you got into drugs. I wouldn’t have expected that in a million years.”

  “You kidding, Brady? There’s as much booze and dope in my part of town as there is in yours.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “So, where’ve you been, Katie? What have you been doing all these years? What’s Alex up to?”

  “He’s got two wives and three kids between ’em.”

  “What?”

  “Well, not at the same time. Had one with his first wife, two with his second. He’s a financial planner. Already a big shot for my dad’s firm.”

  “Figures. He ever get anywhere with his acting?”

  “Nah. Couldn’t make any money at it, and that’s what it’s all about for us Norths.”

  “Community theater?”

  “Maybe someday. He says he has no time now. When he talks to me, that is. I’m the black sheep, you understand.”

  “You still live at home?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” she said, lifting her designer jeans pant leg and showing an ankle monitor. “They know where I am all the time. But I could come visit.”

  “Visit?”

  “Here. You know I’ve been in love with you since I was nine.”

  Brady roared. “Right! Now admit it, you haven’t given me a second thought since.”

  “You’d be surprised. I told all my girlfriends you were my guy. I even cut your picture out of the newspaper and carried it around to make them jealous.”

  “C’mon, I bet you’ve had a ton of real boyfriends since then.”

  She was being summoned to the van.

  “True, and every last one of them has added to my dad’s ulcers. Do me a favor. Soon as you get out of here, beg, borrow, or steal a Harley and come rumbling up to my door. Guaranteed, it’ll make my mom a widow.”

  Brady couldn’t wait to see Katie North again.

  46

  Adamsville State Penitentiary

  Gladys poked her head into Thomas’s office. “Got a minute, Reverend?”

  He followed her to her cubicle outside the warden’s office. Yanno was out.

  “The boss thought you might want to see this,” she said, handing Thomas a beat-up videocassette that appeared to have been used several times. “Documents the Guatemalan’s extraction and transfer to isolation.”

  “Jorge? What’d he do?”

  “The usual.”

  Gladys led Thomas into the warden’s office, where an ancient combination TV–VHS player sat atop a small stand in one corner. Thomas pulled a chair away from the conference table. “Have you seen it?” he said.

  Gladys shook her head and emitted a low chuckle. “No, thank you. Got my initiation years ago. One is enough. I don’t know these guys and don’t want to know them. I don’t feel any sympathy, I can tell you that. And I don’t want these images in my brain.”

  Thomas smiled sadly. “And I do?”

  “Mr. LeRoy said you recently talked to the man, that’s all. Thought you’d be interested.”

  Thomas shook his head as he shoved the cartridge into the machine. He couldn’t understand why they didn’t record these things on DVDs.

  Gladys left and shut the door as the video came to life.

  The bored voice of the videographer announced the date of the action, gave the prisoner’s full name and number and the
location of his cell. Each of the five corrections officers was shown and identified as well. “Subject assaulted an officer through his meal slot with a feces bomb to the face constructed from toilet paper and remnants of a juice box. Officer had not been wearing a face mask due to no incidents in this pod for more than six months. Extraction commenced at 2:10 p.m.”

  Every member of the team wore a helmet with face mask, rubber gloves, and all the protective gear they seemed to have been able to amass. One carried a huge Plexiglas shield. The team leader instructed Jorge to back his way to the meal slot to be cuffed. He remained passively on his bunk at the back of his cell.

  “Don’t make us come in there!”

  Jorge responded with an obscene gesture.

  “Show your hands.”

  Jorge hid his hands behind him.

  “Could be armed,” the leader told the others. “Watch yourselves.” Then, to the prisoner, “Last chance.”

  Jorge let loose a stream of expletives, whereupon the team leader pressed a can of gas through one of the openings and filled the cell with a white cloud. Through the haze Thomas could see Jorge cover his face.

  “He’s unarmed!” the leader shouted. “Come on, Jorge. Just back up to the slot.”

  Jorge just sat there, gagging and coughing.

  “One more,” the leader said, reaching behind him and accepting another canister from a teammate. This one made Jorge stagger to the door and thrust his hands through.

  “No! Turn around. We’re cuffing you in the back!”

  Jorge would not move.

  The leader shrugged and cuffed him in front, then released the manual lock, thrust his key into the main lock, and nodded to the officer in the pod, who tripped the remote so the key would work. As soon as the door was open, the team surged in.

  Jorge swung his cuffed hands and kicked and tried to bite the officers. One circled behind him and wrapped a spit mask around his face while the others each grabbed a limb and the one with the shield drove him to the back of the cell.