“John John, answer me. Are you there?” she asked like a little girl lost in the woods at night.
“I’m here,” I said, and that was the truth. I was here, and she was there, and that was the way it was going to stay.
“John John,” she slurred again, “they got me locked up again. I’m dying. You got to come and see me.”
“Mom, you’re not dying; it just feels like that. You’re just having withdrawals. Remember? How could you forget? You’ve done this many, many times. They’ll pass eventually.”
“No, you don’t understand, Son, I’m dying. I haven’t been drinking. Come see me at the hospital, Son, before it’s too late. I love you. I love you, John. You’ve always been my favorite.”
“That’s what you tell everybody when you’re drunk. And you are dying. I was wrong before. Alcohol is killing you.”
“I know, Son,” she said and then began to cough. It sounded as if she dropped the phone. Her act was definitely improving.
It took maybe two minutes, which seemed like thirty, for her to pick up the phone again. When she did, she said, “I’ve got to see you, Son . . . before I die.”
“What you’ve got to do is get sober. I won’t come near you until you’re sober again. Got it?”
“I swear I’m sober, Son. You’ve got to believe me.”
“I stopped believing you a long time ago. Get cleaned up and dried out, and then call me, okay?”
“You don’t understand, Son-”
“Mom,” I interrupted, “I’m hanging up now. You call me when you’ve been sober for at least a week.” I hung up the phone.
I probably wouldn’t hear from her for quite a while. She hadn’t been sober a full week for as long as I could remember.
Please, God, help her get sober and to get her life back together. And, please, please, don’t let me have AIDS.
Chapter 12
The next morning, inmates stood outside the chapel underneath the brilliant sun that had long since burned off the fog and dew from the night before. The sun was so intense, in fact, that it seemed to explain why all the blues and grays in prison were so muted: it had faded them. After I was situated in my office, Mr. Smith began bringing the inmates in one at a time. The first one was a kid who had recently had some spiritual experiences that he didn’t understand.
The second was a middle-aged white man who had been inside less than thirty days of a thirty-year sentence. Needless to say, he was devastated, not only because he missed his children and his wife, but also because he had killed two teenage girls while driving under the influence. He was remorseful and offered no excuses. I was moved by both his words and his actions. He spoke slowly, was silent a lot, and occasionally a single tear would roll down his cheek leaving a jagged streak on his sunburned skin.
We talked for a long time. I don’t know if it helped him; though he said it did, I had my doubts. Before he left we scheduled a weekly appointment together for an indefinite amount of time, and he signed up to attend AA.
After he left, and before Mr. Smith could bring in the next inmate, the phone rang.
“I’ve got an emergency message for Tommy Hines,” the shrill voice said over the noise of the bad connection. “I need him to call home.”
“Okay, ma’am, if you’ll hold on just a moment, there is an emergency notification form I have to fill out.”
I retrieved the form. “Okay, the inmate’s name is Tommy Hines?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the nature of the emergency?” I asked, flipping through the morning’s mail that sat on the left edge of my desk.
“Whatcha mean?” she asked.
“What is the message?” I asked as I separated the inmate requests from the outside mail.
“His son was killed,” she said quickly.
“I’m so sorry to hear that. Your relationship to the inmate?”
“I’m his wife.”
“I am so sorry for your loss,” I said.
“When can he call me?”
“I have to get some more information first. What is your phone number?” I asked. Then I saw it: another single piece of typing paper, trifolded, taped, with one typewritten word on the outside: “Chaplain.”
“Nine, zero, four, eight, seven, one, four, five, six, one. But they’s a block on the phone so he can’t call collect.”
When she said that, a little red flag went up inside my head. “Okay, I need the name and telephone number of the hospital or funeral home where he is.”
“Whatcha mean?” she asked in surprise.
“Before we are allowed to give an inmate any information from the outside, especially a death message because of the security risk that it imposes, we must first verify it with an outside officiaclass="underline" either a hospital or a funeral home,” I said, but I was thinking: Open the letter, see what it says. Is Anna in danger?
“That’s bullshit. His son is dead. Just let him call home, dammit.”
“Ma’am, if his son is dead, then he will be at a hospital or a funeral home and all I need is the number to one of them.”
“You son of a bitch. I hate you prison pricks.” And with that she hung up that, phone.
I received approximately six emergency calls a week for inmates. Of those calls, at least two are people who are trying to get in touch with inmates who stopped calling or writing. The inmate probably didn’t have a son.
Daily, I am confronted by inmates who are running scams. They try to manipulate every situation-they know of no other way to operate. Many of their families do the same thing. However, there are those who truly desire help both spiritually and psychologically. The key is not to grow cold and cynical because of the abusers and to be able to discern the difference between the genuine and the con.
After I hung up the phone, I carefully peeled the tape back and opened the letter. I could tell almost immediately that it was produced by the same typewriter as the other one. It said: “Chaplain, if you don’t back off, I’m going to kill you. Just back off, or you’re dead. I will kill you and that girl you love. Killing’s better than fucking. I love it. I will probably fuck her and then kill her. But I might kill her then fuck her. Back off!”
The institutional mail was delivered every day but Sunday. The note had probably been sent the previous night. Who was it about? I loved Anna, but was it that obvious? The other note had spoken of protection, now this one of threat. Were they about two different women? Anna and who? Sandy Strickland? Who else had I been seen with recently?
My office door opened while I was still rereading the letter. When Mr. Smith didn’t say anything, I looked up. Tom Daniels was standing there. I nodded my head toward one of the chairs across from my desk as I carefully folded the letter and stuck it in my desk drawer. He sat down. He looked better than he had yesterday, like maybe this case had breathed some life into him. His face wasn’t as red, and his eyes were not bloodshot. If the case continued to be eventful, he would probably replace his addiction with it for a while. I used to have the same experience from time to time.
He looked down at the clipboard that he was carrying, flipped through a couple of pages, looked back up at me.
“Look, the superintendent said we got to work together. Neither of us is happy about it, but whatcha gonna do, right?” He said it as if we were suddenly pals.
I knew that the superintendent’s words alone were not enough to bring about this change in him, but I said, “Right.”
“So, I say the investigation is more important than our dislike of one another. Wouldn’t you agree?”