“John, John,” she said, her voice warm and refreshingly sober.
“Hey, Mom, how are you?”
“I’m dying,” she said flatly.
Her honesty was so refreshingly simple that I decided to return it. “That’s what I hear. I’m very sorry. I love you.”
“JJ, what happened to you? Why are you in here?”
“I was in a little car accident, but I’m okay. Looks worse than it really is,” I lied.
“John, I’m so sorry.”
“Mom, it’s nothing really.”
“No. I mean for what I’ve put you through. You were always so sensitive. It’s no wonder you turned to the bottle with a mother like me. I just wanted you to know, if I could have stopped, I would have, for you. Hurting you is what hurt the most. God, forgive me.”
“He has,” I said, with as much conviction as I had ever said anything.
“Can you?”
“I have,” I said.
And though that was not the end of the pain or resentment, it was the beginning of the end.
Chapter 37
I was lying on my couch, my head propped on several pillows. It was Saturday afternoon. Anna and Laura had driven me back to Pottersville from the hospital and tripped over each other trying to wait on me once we had arrived. They had already cooked and cleaned in preparation for my homecoming, and my tin house sported a dull shine and the smell of pine. Finally, after nearly three hours, I had convinced them to leave so I could take a nap. They agreed to do so only with the understanding that they would be back and soon.
I attempted to lean forward slightly and sit up some so that I could read the newspaper accounts of what was happening in my life. My entire body was stiff and sore. The pain, like small needles, shot through me in sharp staccato punctures. It took awhile, but when I was finally up, I pulled the papers up towards me, letting them rest in a neat stack on my upper abdomen.
The first story was in Tuesday’s Times. It said I had been suspended pending an investigation into sexual assault allegations. It detailed how the accusations concerned things done in the chapel of Potter Correctional Institution. The report went on to say that although there were no charges filed yet, they were believed to be forthcoming. The article quoted not one source and failed to mention that I had been hospitalized after being beaten by correctional officers.
There were three papers that carried the story on Thursday-the Panama City Tribune, the Potter County Examiner, and the Tallahassee Times. The Tribune repeated what the Times reported the day before, adding only a few minor details, including a quote from some local ministers who said that the Christian community did not need any more scandals and that I was in the hospital in connection with an automobile accident.
The Potter County Examiner, where my uncle was the editor, said that a man is not guilty just because some inmates or their families accused him and that everything the Tribune copies from the Times is not necessarily true. Thank you, Uncle Mike.
The most damaging report of all, however, came out of Thursday’s Tallahassee Times. It detailed the current charges in three paragraphs and then went on to report that the Stone Mountain Home Journal had carried a story nearly two years ago accusing me of sexual misconduct. It highlighted the best parts of the Journal’s articles, including my alcoholism, divorce, and being asked to leave my church. I felt all of the old embarrassment and depression rolling over me like a fog, but the worst was still to come.
Friday’s Times carried an additional article complete with quotes from some of the members of my church in Atlanta and my ex-wife, Susan. The members said how they never would have believed it and still couldn’t. I was, in their opinion, a wonderful pastor and a good man, but they somehow conveyed the impression that theirs was the minority opinion.
Susan said that she knew me better than anyone and that none of this surprised her. She said that, although it was never proven, I was suspected of stealing funds and having an affair with a depressed woman I had been counseling at the time. I was pond scum, she was convinced of it, and soon everyone would know it.
No one mentioned the Stone Cold Killer case or anything else about my work at the Stone Mountain Police Department.
I sat there in shock. My head was light, and the room was spinning. Thoughts shot through my mind at warp speed, and all of them were as black, cold, and empty as I was. I wanted to run away. I wanted to move to a foreign country where nobody knew any of this stuff and where nobody cared.
Of all of the depressing thoughts that plagued my mind, one turned over and over like clothes tumbling in a dryer. The inmate library at Potter Correctional Institution received daily copies of the Tribune, the Times, and the Potter County Examiner. All of the work I had done to establish trust and confidence with the inmates was being leveled with a wrecking ball known as the free press. I was thinking seriously about having my first drink in two and a half years when I heard a knock on the door.
Like an idiot, I said, “Come in. It’s open.”
A young woman with light-blond hair, pale white skin, and light blue eyes came in. She was wearing a blue business suit roughly the color of her eyes, and I thought I detected a shoulder holster underneath her jacket.
“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.”