54

Adamsville State Penitentiary

Dirk Blanc was in Thomas’s office celebrating with him the summary judgment throwing out Jorge’s case against him when Frank LeRoy knocked and entered.

“Hear the news, sir?” Dirk said, rising and shaking the warden’s hand.

“Yeah. Thrilled. Good job. Gettin’ tired of these frivolous wastes of time. You guys want a peek at our new celeb?”

Thomas rose. “He’s here?”

“Should be by the time we get down there.”

Like everyone else in the state, Thomas had followed the Murdered Heiress case from the beginning. People were naturally fascinated by a condemned man without an excuse, let alone one who insisted on paying the ultimate price for his crime. Pundits everywhere had proffered every reason imaginable why a young man from the wrong side of town would fall for a socialite and wind up slaughtering the very one he claimed to love.

Others wanted to blame everything and everybody but the perpetrator: poverty, drugs, culture, society, the school system, the courts.

As they left his office, Thomas grabbed his Bible off the desk. He would not be allowed to engage the new man for at least ninety days, and in fourteen years as chaplain he had learned never to take his Bible with him unless visiting a cell at a con’s request. But it seemed the thing to do this time. Maybe it was just for himself, a security blanket. Some things never became routine here, and one was the sobering experience of seeing a death row inmate processed in, even though most of the condemned men in the supermax would outlive Thomas. But not this one. If the press could be believed, he would die in three years.

“Ya gotta hand it to the kid,” Dirk said as they made their way through all the security checkpoints. “Not trying to get out from under it.”

“Yeah, no,” the warden said. “I mean, okay, most of the guys in here, even on the Row, are innocent to hear them tell it. Friends betrayed them, lawyers blew their case, the judge made up his mind before the trial, and on and on and on. But hand it to this guy? You won’t hear that from me. Vicious killer getting what he deserves, I say. And he’s no kid. He’s thirty, ya know.”

“It’s sad, that’s all I can say,” Thomas said as his ID was scanned yet again. “Two young people in the primes of their lives . . .”

“Yeah, no,” the warden said. “Her maybe. He was in the prime of nothing.”

The prison was, if anything, noisier than ever. There wasn’t a man inside who didn’t know who was coming. Everybody was talking, catcalling, hooting, hollering, or banging something. The place depressed Thomas more every time he stepped into it. God had once bestowed on him a deep burden for these men’s souls. Oh, it was still there, but now it came to him in the form of a rolling wave of melancholy and frustration. The evangelist in him wanted to call for order and begin preaching right then and there, calling men to repentance and belief. But he could not. He could talk to one man at a time, and then only at the man’s request. And to Thomas’s knowledge, not one con had come to faith under his influence.

George Andreason, the former governor and now director of the state’s Department of Corrections, waited near the intake cell. Yanno greeted him like the old friend he was. Thomas introduced to him Dirk Blanc.

“Nobody in Ad Seg I see,” Andreason said.

“Had one with a coupla days to go and another on his way,” the warden said, “but they’ll wait. Give the new man his space.”

“Good idea,” the director said. “The press are here. They stay outside the overhead door.”

Yanno nodded, and the four of them turned as one at the sound of the door opening a football field’s distance away. The press was being held back as they shot live footage of the Heiress Murderer taking one last long drag on a cigarette, both cuffed hands to his mouth. Finally he flicked the butt away.

“Hope he enjoyed that,” Andreason said. “His last forever. Think of it.”

Maybe it was the distance, but Thomas had pictured a bigger man. This guy was of average height and lean build, and as a phalanx of heavily armored corrections officers brought him toward the intake cell, Thomas noticed he was dark-complexioned for a Caucasian. Dark hair and eyes too.

The officers seemed to be aware they were part of this center of attention and appeared to want to move faster. But the condemned man, garish head to toe in his Day-Glo orange county jail uniform, was slowed by his ankle shackles and chains. He was also bound around the middle, hands cuffed in front. Thomas had seen men jog along with mincing steps when so constrained, but this man was in no hurry. And why should he be?

Thomas could not help but think of the man’s victim as the party drew near. She apparently had been no saint either, but as a father and grandfather, Thomas grieved with her family. He could not conceive of losing his beloveds, let alone in such a manner.

God, please grant me some compassion for this man in spite of everything.

Screaming, whistling, yelling seemed to come from every cell in every pod as the cavalcade passed. Some cons called out vile questions or insults. But neither the officers nor the new man so much as turned to look. Once the prisoner lifted his hands high enough to flash double obscene gestures, making the caged men shout even louder.

It appeared to Thomas that the officers were aware that the big bosses were waiting for them at the end of the line. Every uniform was crisp and clean, every boot spit-shined, every badge gleaming. Each man stood ramrod straight and bore a serious countenance. What may have started as each man putting his best foot forward for the press now took the form of showing the head of the DOC and the warden that they meant business.

The man leading the procession, the biggest and widest of the officers, stopped about ten feet in front of Thomas and the others and looked to the warden. “You handling it from here, sir?”

“Yes, thank you,” Yanno said. “Assume your positions.”

The officers formed a semicircle behind the inmate, and the warden approached him and introduced himself and Andreason. The con appeared sullen and only nodded.

“This is our intake cell, where you will spend your first twenty-four hours. Once you are inside and the door is secured, step to the meal slot so we can remove your cuffs. Then lie on your back and rest your ankles above the slot so we can remove your shackles. Then strip down to your underwear and pass your uniform out through the slot. When we come get you tomorrow for transfer to your cell, we’ll reverse the process and you’ll get your tee and khakis and slippers.”

The young man peered into the cell, scowling. “I’m sleeping here? On the floor?”

“Hey!” Yanno shouted to the officers. “What happened to the king bed and the down comforter? And remind the maid about the mint on the pillow.”

The officers laughed. The con didn’t.

Thomas was not amused.

Yanno signaled an officer in the observation booth, and the loud click of the electronic lock echoed in the hallway. The warden removed the manual security device, and the lead officer used his key on the main lock. Throughout the process of getting the man inside, unbound, and undressed, Thomas looked away, noticing that everyone else, his son-in-law included, gawked at the murderer the whole time.

When the man was on his feet again, Yanno beckoned him close and spoke softly, informing him of when he would be fed (twice while in intake) and that someone would deliver an envelope. “Normally when someone is in this cell, it’s for Administrative Segregation, and they get nothing to read. But when being processed in, you are expected to become familiar with our rules and regulations and procedures, understand?”

The man pursed his lips as if the question insulted him.

“One piece of advice,” the warden said. “Do your own time. The less you listen or talk to anyone else, the better off you’ll be. You’ll be treated the way you act. Do what you’re told, follow orders, and you’ll get along. We’re not here to judge you. That’s already been done. Our job is to keep you, and we’ve never failed at that. You follow?”

“Whatever.” The man’s eyes seemed to fall on Thomas’s Bible, then directly into Thomas’s eyes.

The chaplain couldn’t bring himself to smile, but he found himself instinctively greeting the con with a raise of his brows and a tightening of his lips.

This man certainly didn’t look thirty. In fact, for an instant, he looked like a child. His eyes were distant, his cheeks hollow, and a great cavernous emptiness seemed to reside in him. He appeared to want to say something to Thomas, but Yanno interrupted.

“We’re done here,” he said. “Your packet will show you how you can talk to this man if you wish, provided you behave as required your first ninety days.”

As the quartet made its way back through the labyrinth to the administrative offices, Thomas wondered if this would be just another sad soul swept into the black hole of the ASP. He sure looked like he needed to talk with someone, but would he ever ask?

“If I had to guess,” Thomas said, “I’d say that one is a real suicide risk.”

“Only way he could off himself in intake,” Andreason said, “would be to tie his underbritches around his neck and yank it as tight as he can before our guys get to him.”

“I would hope our guys take their time,” Yanno said. “Sorry sack of garbage. Save us the cost of feeding him before we get to kill him anyway.”

“You don’t mean that,” Thomas said.

The warden looked genuinely surprised. “Oh yeah, I forgot. You want these monsters around long enough for Jesus to get to ’em.”

Thomas had never spoken angrily to Frank LeRoy, but there was an edge to his voice now. “Well, that is my reason for being here, after all. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

“Man, Dad,” Dirk chimed in, “you know where I stand on capital punishment, but that guy . . .”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Thomas said, and as they emerged from the last security envelope, he hurried ahead of the rest and went directly to his office, slamming the door. Then he noticed Dirk’s overcoat on the chair and knew he would have to face him again. He picked up the phone to call Grace, hoping to be busy when Dirk came in. But he had barely begun dialing when he heard the knock and the door opened.

“I apologize, Dad,” Dirk said as Thomas hung up. “That was insensitive. I wouldn’t want you making fun of my beliefs.”

“Your beliefs? I didn’t know you had any.”

Dirk held up both hands. “All right, apparently not in the mood. I surrender.” He began putting on his coat.

“Well,” Thomas said, “I know you believe it’s wrong to put a man to death, but I guess it’s okay in this instance because, why, the victim was different from all the others of the men on the Row in here?”

“Dad, listen, really, I didn’t mean to push your buttons. I’m sorry. Even if we don’t see eye to eye on the God stuff, I admire what you’re doing here or trying to do.”

“I’m doing nothing here, Dirk. I have wasted my life.”

“Surely you’ve brought comfort and inspiration to someone in here.”

“That’s not what I’m here for! I am here to introduce these lost men to God, and I feel like a blind man in a mine shaft, trying to show people the way.”

“I don’t know how else to say it, sir. I was out of line. I’m going to go now.”

Did God still answer prayer? When was the last time He had for Thomas? Dirk and Ravinia were prime examples. Was Thomas praying in the wrong way for them? Was he really asking for something that was not in the will of God? And how could it not be?

As Thomas left at the end of the day, Gladys moved directly into his path.

“Excuse me, dear,” he said, but when he went to slip past her, she blocked him again. He sighed.

“Hold on there a minute, Reverend,” she said. “I need to tell you something. I like the new you.”

“I really need to get going, Gladys. Can we talk tomorrow?”

“We can, but you’re going to hear me right now. For a lot of years you’ve been known as the easy mark, the milquetoast man around this place.”

“I’ve worked on that.”

“And you’ve succeeded, at least with the inmates. But I’m talking about with your coworkers. I like to see a little fire in you.”

“Well, thank you. Can I go now?”

“Don’t ask, man. Just go. Be the new Thomas.”

Thomas had no idea what that was all about. He certainly didn’t feel new. He felt like a frustrated old man who’d been through the same thing so many times he could hardly imagine bearing it again.

And now he had this haunting encounter with the Heiress Murderer to plague him. Well, it was time to put God to the test once again. Apparently his first prayer about this man had been answered. There seemed to have been planted within Thomas some kernel of compassion or concern or care. But it meant nothing if the inmate never asked to see him again.

What kind of a policy was that anyway? Hire a chaplain, give him an office and a huge congregation, but don’t allow him to talk to anyone without their permission?

Craziness.

But in spite of himself, Thomas felt led to pray for the young man. But how? And for what exactly? God knew. And so Thomas’s petition took the form of simply repeating the inmate’s name to God, over and over.

The newspapers always called him by all three names.

Brady Wayne Darby.