Michael Lister - Power in the Blood

“Reverend Jordan,” she said as she walked in, “I’m Rachel Mills. How are you doing today?”

“How do I look?” I asked.

She laughed. “You do look like somebody got ahold of you.” She seemed nervous and awkward. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

“That depends on why you’re here.”

“I’m with FDLE. I need to ask you some questions.”

“Have a seat. I thought you might be here to ask me out, in which case you couldn’t be seated because I’m seeing someone.”

She looked at me as if I had just exposed myself.

“It’s a joke.”

“When one is charged with sexual assault, one should not joke about such matters,” she said in an old maid school mistress tone.

“When one is innocent,” I said, “one should feel free to joke about whatever one wishes. Besides, I thought you were here to ask me about the charges against Matt Skipper. He has been charged, not I. You made the same mistake as the paper by saying that I was charged with sexual assault, when really I’ve only been accused of sexual assault.”

“It’s practically the same thing,” she said.

“If one were more professional,” I said, “one would realize the day-and-night difference between an accusation by a private citizen and a charge by a state or federal agency.”

“I did not come to be insulted by you. I came in search of the truth,” she said defensively.

“Truth is the last thing you’re here for, if you believe that an inmate’s wife’s accusations are practically the same thing as charges from your office.”

“Well,” she huffed, “I happen to be passionate about the rights of inmates and prisoners, and I’m sick of the people who exploit them because they are powerless to defend themselves.”

“It sounds like a good crusade, but if it blinds you to the truth, then it’s evil. Like all inquisitions, crusades, and witch hunts, passion must be tempered with wisdom and an open mind. If you are convinced of something before you investigate it, you will only prove what you already believed.”

“Fair enough. I am in search of the truth, and you are innocent until proven guilty.”

“Or in this case, just plain innocent,” I said.

“I sincerely hope so, of course. The church sure doesn’t need another scandal these days-crooked televangelists, pedophile priests.” She paused for a minute and shook her head slowly. “Well, I really do need to ask you some questions.”

I nodded.

“Where were you last Tuesday night? By the way, do you mind if I tape this?” she asked, pulling out a microcassette recorder.

“No, I don’t mind. And I was in the hospital, I am told. I was unconscious.”

“Oh no, I meant the Tuesday night before that. If you will lead me through all the events of that night.”

“I was at an AA meeting in a Sunday School room of the First Methodist Church of Panama City, Florida, from six until eight. I then went to Applebee’s on Twenty-third Street with two of the members of that group. I then drove home, arriving about twelve forty-five. I read a little and then went to bed . . . alone.”

“Can someone corroborate your story?” she asked.

“AA is anonymous. It would be their choice, but I’ll ask.”

“It’s not that important. The crime was said to have occurred later anyway, but if they’re willing, it wouldn’t hurt. Did you speak to anyone after you got home that night who could confirm your whereabouts?”

“No.”

“Do you know Molly Thomas?”

“Yes.”

“How well do you know her?”

“I’ve probably spent a sum total of three or four hours with her. Most of that time has been in the visiting park of the institution. I’ve counseled her and her husband during some of their visits together, at their request, of course. They, like most inmate couples, were having some marital problems and wanted my help.”

“Were you able to help them?”

“Apparently not. I thought so at first, but then lately something has happened to Anthony, her husband. He is on a serious downward spiral.”

“Have you ever met with Molly Thomas by herself at or away from the institution?”

“Yes, I have. Last Friday. I mean a week ago last Friday-she called and asked to see me, saying it was an emergency and she was scared to come to the institution. So we met in the pastor’s office of the Methodist church in Pottersville.”

“What was the nature of that meeting?”

“She described what took place the Tuesday night before when she was raped at the institution and asked for my help.”

“Who did she say raped her?”

“Her husband.”

“He’s an inmate. How could he have even seen her?”

“Captain Skipper arranged it, according to her, but interrupted them in the middle and then stalked her that night and tried to break into her home.”

“Why didn’t you come forward with this information?”

“I’ve been in a coma, but my friends turned it in after he assaulted me.”

“Was there anyone present at your meeting with Molly Thomas that Friday?”

“Yes, one of my few rules is that I will not counsel a woman alone. The pastor of that church, the Reverend Dick Clydesdale, was in the next office monitoring the session, and I told Molly that he was.”

“Would you be willing to submit blood and semen samples? If you’re telling the truth, it will clear this up quickly.”

“From what I’ve seen so far, telling the truth does no good and nothing can clear this up quickly. I’m being drawn and quartered in the press. Can you clear that up?”

“If you will submit those samples and they test negative, I will guarantee you front-page coverage of that fact and a chance to tell your story. What do you say?”

“I say, pardon me if I’ve become cynical, but I don’t believe you. However, I will submit the samples, because I am telling the truth.”

“I sincerely hope so. It would be a refreshing change.”

After reading all the accounts of my alleged misconduct in the papers and talking with Rachel Mills, I was exhausted. I took a nap, but not before praying for my total recovery and for me not to have AIDS.

Please, God, anything but that. I couldn’t handle it; you know that. I’m not nearly strong enough for that .

It was at that moment that a voice inside my head said that God would never put more on us than we can bear.

That’s not what I want to hear right now. I want to hear that there is power in the blood. Power to cleanse me. Power to heal me. Power to kill HIV if it’s in my blood. I want to hear, by his stripes we are healed .

And then I fell asleep and had more bloody nightmares.

I awoke to the sound of the phone ringing. Since it was probably a reporter, I decided to let the machine catch it. I nearly broke my neck and reopened all of my wounds trying to get to the phone when I heard Sandy Strickland’s voice.

“Wait, I’m here,” I said, snatching up the receiver.

“I don’t blame you for monitoring your calls today. You’re really in a bad way, aren’t you?”

“Pretty bad.”

“I’ve heard some very disturbing reports about some things you’ve been doing-crimes, I mean, and against women. I was shocked. I was also confused. I thought you were different.”

“Me, too. They’re not true,” I said, but it didn’t sound very convincing.

“Well, where there’s smoke, there’s fire. And there’s a lot of damn smoke around here.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. All I ask is that you withhold judgment until all this is cleared up. It won’t be long. Are you back at the prison?” I asked.

“Not officially, and I’m glad. It’s a zoo out here. You’ve made it difficult for all of us.”