Michael Lister - Power in the Blood

“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.”

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.”

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.