Michael Lister - Power in the Blood

“I know. I love you too. And thanks again. You were amazing.”

“Was there ever any doubt I would be?” she said with a small chuckle, pretending to be kidding, which she was not.

Potter Correctional Institution was its own little world-a society of captives with their own social order, classes, economy, and laws. In this world, I was a stranger. PCI was my job; it was their home. I spent eight hours a day there; they spent twenty-four. I needed a guide. There were less than three inmates out of fifteen hundred that I felt might actually help me. My first choice was the inmate assigned to the chapel to assist me, Mr. Smith. I was told during orientation not to call any inmate mister or sir, but I made an exception for Mr. Smith.

Mr. Smith was old, exactly how old I wasn’t sure-I don’t think he was either. His back was slightly bent, causing him to bow forward a little as he walked. Being a black man in America had bent, but not broken this man. As he walked, with his head down, a small bald spot could be seen right at the very crown of his head. He was raised in the old Southern school of repression, in an era when a black man was to be seen and not heard-seen working, that is. We had developed a good relationship since I had been at PCI. After returning from Anna’s office, I decided to ask him to explain a few things to me about life on the inside. When I returned to my office, however, there were several inmates waiting to see me.

On an average day, I have contact with over a hundred inmates, twenty of whom usually came to my office with their problems. Issues ranging from family crises to conflicts with one of the other inmates or officers filled the majority of my counseling sessions. Many inmates came to me with things I could do nothing about, especially if they related to security or housing issues; however, since I am one of only a few that will even take the time to listen to them, they come.

Some inmates actually came to my office out of a desire for rehabilitation, recovery, and spiritual growth-that was as refreshing as it was novel. Most came over trivial matters relating to their job or bed assignments or wanting to use my phone.

“Chaplainsuh, I’s wandering if you could let me use the phone,” Inmate Jones, an elderly, slow-talking and slow-moving black man, said when we were seated in my office. “My aunt is real sick. I need to call my peoples.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “As you know, the department will only allow me to place a phone call for you in the event of the death or serious illness of an immediate family member. Even then I have to verify it by an outside official like a doctor or funeral director.”

“Just this once. I really need to talk to her. She raise me, you know.”

“Is she at home or in the hospital?”

“She at home.”

“The only thing I can do is give you a phone pass that will allow you to call collect from your dorm.”

I opened my desk drawer to retrieve a phone pass form. When I looked down, there was the request from Ike Johnson. In the events of the morning, I had forgotten it. I shut the drawer.

“She got a block on her phone,” he said, failing to see the contradiction in what he was saying.

If she really wanted to hear from him, why would she have a block on her line? I often wondered how inmates could tell me with a straight face how close they were with their families and yet admit that their families had gone to the trouble of placing a block on their phones that prevented them from calling.

“The only thing I can suggest is for you to have another family member call or write her.”

He stood up to leave, obviously angry.

“Would you like to talk about how your aunt’s illness is making you feel?” I asked.

“All I want to do is call my peoples,” he said, opening my door to leave.

“By the way,” I said, “how did you find out that she was sick in the first place?”

“I call my moms,” he said before he thought about what he was saying.

“Why don’t you call her again and ask her how your aunt is? In fact, if she has a three-way feature on her phone, she can then call your aunt, and you can talk to her that way.”

“You don’t understand,” he said walking through he open door.

“I’m trying to,” I said. “If you can think of how I can help you within the rules, I will be happy to do it,” I said-more to the back of his head than anything else.

As soon as he left, I opened my center desk drawer and extracted my mail and the request form. Inmate request forms are how inmates make requests from of staff members in prison. The top of the request form stated that it was from Ike Johnson and to Chaplain Jordan. The request read: “Dear Chaplin sir, I really need to talk to you very soon. Can I come to your office tomorrow? It’s real important. I scared I either going to try to escape or kill myself and don’t know who to talk to. Sir, you my only hope. May God bless you, Chaplin sir.”

Unlike any other request I had ever received, this one was typed. Most inmates did not have access to typewriters, and the ones who did were only allowed to use them for official reasons such as law work. I glanced up at the date. It was dated the day he was killed. I should have received the request that day, but, because of the incident in the sally port, I had not picked up my mail. Ironically, his death was the very thing that had delayed my getting his plea for help. I felt sad for him and just a little sick. If he were planning an escape, why would he request to come and see me? Obvious question, I know, but it must be asked. Did he really send it? I wondered what he was going through and if it were the sort thing that people were killed for.

I reread the request several times. The type had several distinguishing marks, not the least of which was that the letter “t” was missing the right side of the crossbar, the letter “o” was missing the bottom curve, and the letter “a” was much darker than the rest of the type. The typewriter that produced this request would not be difficult to find.

While I was examining the request, Mr. Smith tapped on the door.

“Come in,” I said.

“Brother Chaplainsuh, they’s two mo’ to see you now.” Mr. Smith’s blue uniform was always neatly pressed and buttoned to the top button.

“Do you know what they want?” I asked.

“One say he didn’t get the Father’s Day card we sent him. The other one wants you to make copies of his legal papers.”

“Sounds like they can wait a minute or two. Would you mind coming in and talking to me for a few minutes?”

“Nosuh, I don’t mind,” he said as he swaggered in and slowly took his seat. “I done something wrongsuh?” he asked.

“No. Nothing like that at all,” I said reassuringly. “Actually, I need your help.”

“Okaysuh.” He was slumped so far down in his chair as to be nearly horizontal. His head hung down as if it were too much effort to keep it up. His long arms dangled on either side of the chair, nearly touching the floor.

“I’m still trying to understand how things work on the compound and wondered if you could explain it to me.”

“’Splain whatsuh?” he asked slowly.

“First of all, how often do you hear inmates talking about trying to escape? I’m talking about serious talks about escape attempts.”

He hesitated. “Nosuh, not many ever say anything like that to me. Too hard. Chances are they couldn’t make it. Not worth it. This place harder to get out of than it look.”

“Has anyone ever tried to escape from here before?” I asked, knowing that he had been here almost the entire three years this institution had been open.

“Nosuh. Not as I know of. Couple from the work camp did, but they caught them lickidy-split.”