18. THE FEDERAL HOLDING FACILITY is under the levee, outside the main gate, and not really part of the Angola Prison Farm. It is a nondescript, two-story frame building which in fact I remember. It used to be a residence for junior correction officers. It looks like a crewboat washed up from the Mississippi, which flows just beyond the levee and all but encircles Angola like a turbulent moat.
It is not yet midnight. But the place is brightly lit by a bank of stadium lights. There are two tiers of rooms and a boatlike rail running around both decks. A couple of men, not dressed like prisoners, are lounging at the upper rail like sailors marooned in a bad port.
It turns out I know the jailer. He’s a Jenkins, Elmo Jenkins, one of several hundred Jenkinses from upper St. Tammany Parish, sitting behind not even a desk but a folding metal picnic table in a passageway amidships which looks like the rec room of an oil rig with its old non-stereo TV, plastic couches, a card table, and a stack of old Playboys.
Officer Jenkins is uniformed but shirt-sleeved. When I knew him he was a deputy sheriff in Bogalusa. He is older than I and heavy. His thick gray hair, gone yellow, is creased into a shelf by his hatband.
He looks at me for a while. “How you doing, Doc,” says Elmo mournfully, holding out his hand and not looking at me. He is embarrassed. He’s expecting me. “What can I do for you fellows?” he asks the two federal officers in a different voice. He doesn’t have much use for them.
“Just sign this, Officer,” says Providence Purvis, taking a paper from his pocket, “and the doctor will be out of our jurisdiction and into yours.”
“He was never in yours,” says Elmo, an old states’-righter. He is speaking to Louisiana Fats, for whom he seems to have a special dislike.
“I beg your pardon, Officer,” says Purvis crisply, pronouncing it perrdon. Midwest after all? “If you will consult the federal statute for ATFA detainees, I think you will find you’re in error.” Errr.
“Come back tomorrow and see the warden,” says Elmo, not looking at either one of them.
“But—” begins Louisiana Fats.
“Let’s go,” says Purvis.
They leave.
“Doc,” says Elmo, “what in hail you doing here?”
“I don’t rightly know. I’m tired. What time is it?”
“You look like you been rid hard and put up wet.”
“You got a room, Elmo? I’m tired.”
“I got the V.I.P. room for you, Doc. The one we keep for political refugees. The last occupant was the ex-President of Guatemala. You think I’ll ever forget what you did for my auntee, Miss Maude from Enon? You cured her after the best doctors in New Orleans tried and couldn’t.”
I remember old Miss Maude Jenkins. She had shingles. I often get patients after medical doctors and chiropractors strike out. She was over the worst of the shingles but still had pain which, with shingles, can be pain indeed. I perceived that she was the sort of decent and credulous woman who believes what doctors tell her. The other doctors had not bothered to tell her anything. I did what I seldom do, used hypnosis and a placebo, gave her a sugar pill and told her that the pain would soon get better. It did. It might have, anyway.
“Here’s what is going to happen, Doc,” says Elmo. “It seems you’re being held for some sort of parole violation. Tomorrow morning a Dr. Comeaux and a Dr. Gottlieb will come to see you and you’ll be taken care of one way or another. That’s about all I know. You going back to Fort Pelham?”
“I don’t know. Could I go to bed?”
“Sho now.” He takes me upstairs.
My cell could be a dorm room at L.S.U., except for the steel door and barred window. There’s even a student-size desk with a phone on it.
“Can I use the phone?”
“Sho you can. I’ve authorized it. Just dial direct. If it’s long distance, call me and I’ll fix it up. There’s some pajamas under the pillow. Left by the President of Guatemala. Silk. How about that?”
“That’s fine.”
“He jumped ship in Baton Rouge. Before him we had six Haitians. They were as nice as they could be. Highest-class niggers I ever saw. Three of them spoke better English than you or me. All spoke French.”
“Thanks, Elmo.”
“If you need anything, call me. Here’s my number downstairs.”
“I’m fine. Thanks, Elmo.”
After Elmo leaves, I call Lucy
“My God, where are you?”
“At Angola.”
“My God, I thought so.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not bad. Are the children all right?”
“They’re fine.”
“Lucy, did you get Claude out of Belle Ame?”
“No. I tried. They’re not answering the phone and the gate is locked.”
“I see.”
“My God, where have you been all night?”
“Making a house call.”
“Bob Comeaux has been looking for you.”
“I know.”
“He’s been calling all evening. He wants to see you tomorrow. Before the wedding.”
“He knows where I am now. What wedding?”
“At Kenilworth next door. You know. That fellow from Las Vegas bought it—Romero? Romeo? He had in mind an English manor house, but it looks like Caesar’s Palace. His daughter is getting married at noon. But Comeaux is mighty anxious to see you. He’ll be there first thing.”
“I know.”
“What are they going to do with you?”
“Probably send me back to Alabama.”
“They can’t do that!”
“They can.”
A pause. “You sound funny. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“I want you over here by me.”
“That may be possible later.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes. Can you be available tomorrow morning and have Vergil and your uncle available?”
“Sure. You mean—”
“I mean stay there. By the phone. We have to get Claude. It’s no good calling the police. Wait by the phone until you hear from me.”
“Sure. I will. Are you—”
“What?”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. A little tired.”
“You sound funny.”
“I’m fine.”
“Please—”
“What?”
“Take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
Sure enough, the pajamas are under the pillow. They are silk. The cot is hard but comfortable. The sheets and pillowcase are fresh.
I never slept better. There is something to be said for having no choice in what one does. I felt almost as good as I did in prison in Alabama.