“Classification, Rodden,” she said into the receiver. “Yes, I’m in a meeting right now. I’ll come over when I finish. Okay. Good-bye.”
She hung up the phone and said, “Sorry. Where were we?”
“I was about to ask how the drugs get in? I mean how can an inmate get drugs past all of the security measures taken to prevent them from getting in?”
She smiled. “Some of the drugs on the compound are homemade. We have chemicals here and a pharmacy. Sometimes inmates get their grubby little hands on that stuff. Usually though, the homemade stuff is liquor. Real drugs come in because someone brings them in.”
“Who brings drugs into a state prison?” I asked, though I knew the answer.
“Well, if you’re asking for names, I can’t help you, but generally it comes down to two types of people. First, there are family members who smuggle dope in mail packages, although that is extremely difficult. Most of the time, family and friends bring drugs into inmates when they come for visitation.”
“But security shakes them down. I see them do it every weekend,” I said.
“That’s true, but you know that it would still be possible to hide the stuff, especially in certain body cavities or in certain parts of the female anatomy. And which officer is going to pull out an inmate’s wife’s tampon to see if she has drugs hidden in it?”
“I see what you mean,” I said, unable to hide my disgust at the picture she had just painted on the canvas of my mind.
“Remember these are the families that produced criminals. Now, not all of them are bad, but some are criminals themselves.”
I nodded my head in agreement. Then, I shook it in disbelief, thinking of the implications of all that she had said.
“Another way,” she continued, “is for corrections officers to smuggle them in and sell them.”
“I’ve heard of that, but does it really happen that much?”
“It’s really hard to say, but drugs do get in, and it’s too much to be coming in just through inmates who get visits. COs don’t make a lot of money. Not often, but occasionally, there’s a thin line between the captives and their captors.”
“What is that thin line?” I asked.
“Time, place, luck-I don’t really know, but I think it’s always borrowed time.”
“You believe in divine justice?” I asked.
“I’ve seen it too many times not to. It’s just not like most people think. It doesn’t come in the same way as the crime. It comes in guilt, paranoia, anxiety, fear, loneliness, and ultimately death-spiritual, emotional, moral death. And those who don’t pay now will pay later.”
“I wonder sometimes,” I said and then fell silent, wondering. “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.
“What about drug screening?” I asked.
“Officially, they will tell you that we do random drug screening. Unofficially, most of them are conducted after we receive a tip from another inmate. And, of course, after an inmate tests positive once, he is watched very closely.”
When she stopped talking and before I started, I found myself hoping the phone would ring just so I could witness an encore of her earlier Breck girl performance.
“If that is true, how could Johnson have been full of crack in confinement and then the infirmary, both of which did drug screenings that came back negative?”
“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.”
Chapter 16
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?”