Power in the Blood (8 page)

She nodded her head slowly. “Yes, I know,” she said.

“His blood got all over me. I can’t quit thinking about it. I can’t concentrate on anything else because I think I might have gotten AIDS through his infected blood.”

“Oh, you poor man,” she said, sounding like the kind mother I never had. She was a mother—a caretaker, which I was glad of because I needed taking care of just then. “I know how you feel. Blood is such a scary thing these days. I come in contact with bad blood all the time. It scares the hell out of me, too.”

“Should I be scared?” I asked.

“Well, he did have AIDS. That’s true enough, but unless it penetrated your skin or splashed into your eyes or mouth, you probably have nothing to worry about. And even then you’d have to have an open sore or wound. It’s not likely.”

“Officer Shutt splashed it everywhere. It could’ve gotten into my eyes or mouth. I just don’t know. I haven’t found any cuts or sores, but eyes and mouth I’m just not sure about. What should I do?”

“To be certain, I can give you an AIDS test. That’ll clear it up for you and let you know one way or another. But I wouldn’t worry. Chances are, you didn’t get it, okay?”

I nodded.

She smiled at me reassuringly. “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll go ahead and give you the test down here now, and it can be our little secret. Nobody else has to know. How does that sound?”

“That sounds great,” I said. “Thank you.”

She motioned for me to have a seat on the exam table.

“Stone might ask you to go on leave until you know for certain, and that would just be a hassle. You shouldn’t be punished because that little black bastard had bad blood. It’s not right. There’s no justice in this world when people like you and me have to risk our lives just to do our jobs.”

I didn’t respond.

She moved around the room quickly and efficiently preparing to take some of my blood out of the place where I most wished it to stay, my body. All the while she spoke of how high the number of inmates with AIDS had become. And how we were all paying the price for their sins.

While she continued to talk about the same things, my mind drifted. I began to think of how ironic it was that I might have AIDS. Not only had I been monogamous and careful even then, but I was extremely careful in daily life as well. My daily routine in prison involved washing my hands so many times as to be almost compulsive. I didn’t take chances with AIDS, hepatitis B, and the like. I had visited enough hospital rooms to minister to someone in the last stages of AIDS to know that I wanted to avoid it at all costs. If I had it, I would not let it get the best of me.
I’ll kill myself first
, I thought.

When she was finally ready to draw my blood, she put her delicate hands on me: patting, squeezing, caressing, comforting. She even held my hand as she withdrew the blood. And, after she had finished, she gave me a hug. It was, hands down, the best nursing care I’d ever received.

“How long does it take?” I asked. I remained seated on the exam table, not in a hurry to leave. She busied herself labeling the vile of blood and disposing of the needle.

“About a week, give or take a little. I’ll have to sneak it in with some other tests. I’ll call you the minute I know, okay?”

“Okay. Listen, thanks a lot. You’ve been wonderful. Truly an angel of mercy.”

“You’re very welcome. You’re a special man. I want to take good care of you.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s funny that you called me an angel of mercy,” she said, turning to face me. “I wanted to be a nun when I was a kid. I was raised in a Catholic orphanage.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “But . . .” She made a sheepish grin.

“What?”

“I like men too much,” she said. She walked over to the table and stood between my knees, her face just inches from mine. “Sister said I should become a nurse.”

I nodded my agreement. “Forced celibacy is wrong. It’s going to do nothing but cause increasingly more problems for the Catholic Church, I’m afraid.”

She nodded. “Anyway, I wanted to help people, so I became a nurse.”

“You became an excellent nurse,” I said.

She smiled warmly as tears filled her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered and leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. I could feel her tears.

“Thank
you
,” I said.

She turned, pulled some tissues from the flower-covered box on the counter, and dabbed at her eyes. I hopped off the table.

When she had finished wiping her eyes, I asked, “How did you wind up here?”

“In prison, you mean?” She smiled. “Old sour Sister Mary Margaret said I’d wind up in prison one day. I worked for a doctor in Tallahassee that I needed to get away from, and this came open, so here I am.” She backed away from me slightly.

“You needed to get away from the doctor you worked for?” I asked.

“Yes, well, it’s a long story,” she said. “Bottom line is that we had a relationship. He had a wife . . . and kids. And . . . it was a bad scene.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Tallahassee’s loss is our gain.”

“Thanks. Anyway, I didn’t mean to get into all that, but you are so easy to talk to. And so nonjudgmental. I’ve heard you went through a divorce and some pretty rough times yourself. I’m sure that gives you a lot of empathy for others.”

“I hope so,” I said as I walked over to the door and opened it. “Thanks again.”

“Thank
you
,” she said. “I’d like to talk again sometime, perhaps over coffee.”

“Sounds great.” I walked out, leaving the door open.

Compared to other investigations I had conducted, I was finding out information quickly. Prison is such a closed society and so self-contained that rather than having a lack of information about the case, it seemed as though I’d soon be faced with having too much. Having such easy access to everyone at all times, with the exception of the first- and third-shift officers, made this more like
Murder on the Orient Express
than a modern-day investigation.

I was trying to track down an inmate named Jacobson, which on the street would have taken days, if not weeks. In a matter of minutes, I discovered that he was in lockup.

There are four types of lockup in the state prison system. Protective management lockup is for those who are at risk in the general prison population—rapists, child-molesters, ex–law enforcement officers. Close management dorms are for those who, because of their custody, crimes, and behavior on the inside, do their entire sentence inside a cell. Then there is confinement, which has two classifications—administrative and disciplinary. An inmate is placed in administrative confinement when the administration determines that it is best to do so—usually when he is under investigation for a crime. Disciplinary confinement is for those inmates who were accused of a crime and were found guilty. Jacobson was in the latter.

Whereas most inmates in the Florida DOC are housed in open-bay, military barracks–style dormitories, those in lock-up are housed in single six-by-nine cells. Some of the lockup cells house two inmates, some one. All have a sink, toilet, bunk, and a very small window covered with steel mesh. The inmates in lockup are fed through a slot in the metal door about the size of a food tray. Jacobson’s was open, and I was talking to him through it.

Squatting down to talk through the tray slot in the door always made my knees ache and my feet fall asleep. I usually chose to talk to an inmate through the tray slot because of the security hassle involved in arranging to meet him in his cell or the conference room. For me to enter an inmate’s cell, he must be frisked and cuffed, and an officer must be present at all times. The same is involved if I meet with him in the conference room. Many times what the inmate has to say to me is so short that being frisked and cuffed takes longer than our meeting. Other times the inmates have a lot to say, but are unable or unwilling to because of the security officer standing within hearing distance. I was hoping that without an officer present, Jacobson would sing me a song. He did. Unfortunately, it was one I had heard before.

“Fuck you, motherfucker,” he said in response to my first question, which was “How are you doing?”

From the last cell of the corridor to my right, I could hear Inmate Starn yelling, “CHAPLAIN, CHAPLAIN, COME HERE. COME HERE, CHAPLAIN.”

He did that every time I came to confinement. It was Wednesday, and I had already seen him twice that week.

It didn’t look like Jacobson was going to cooperate. Perhaps I had spoken too soon about the overabundance of information I was going to uncover during this investigation.

Crouching down on the bare cement floor of the confinement hall, I smelled the same smell I always did down there—sleep. The stale air was thick with smells of drool, perspiration, and halitosis. The cell was one of twenty along a long corridor. There was an officer seated at the end of the hall, a round black man with virtually no hair. Another officer, a tall slender man with strawberry blond hair and pink cheeks, was crouched down by a food slot about five cells down from me.

“Is there nothing I can help you with?” I asked. “Nothing you would like to talk about?” Behind me, the gray block wall was lined with empty milk cartons, wads of crumpled napkins, and various other items of trash the inmates had tossed out of their cells.

“Fuck you, motherfucker.”

“From what I hear, you would, but I’m not interested,” I said, deciding to change my approach. A few cells down, an inmate yelled, “DON’T TALK TO THE CHAPLAIN LIKE THAT, YOU STUPID SON OF A BITCH!”

If Jacobson heard him, he didn’t acknowledge it. “I ain’t no punk,” he said, his eyes seeming to take on a demonic glow in the dark cell.

He may or may not have been a punk, but he certainly did not look like one. His shaved head, pale white skin, sparse beard, and puke-green tattoos made him look like a neo-Nazi serial killer.

“What are you then?” I asked. Somewhere in another corridor a steel door slammed. The noise bounced off the concrete walls and floors and reverberated through confinement. It was, perhaps, the most depressing sound I had ever heard. Another inmate, from a cell to my left this time, said, “We’re locked in now, boys.” Someone else said, “Yeah, and so is the chaplain.”

“I’m Satan, man,” Jacobson hissed.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I said.

“Don’t be so hard on Satan,” the inmate to my left said and started laughing.

“Did you come to cast me out, Holy Man?” Jacobson asked in such a way as to doubt my ability to do so.

“Actually, I just wanted to see if there was anything I could do for you and maybe ask you a few questions.”

“There’s nothing you could do for me. I’m well taken care of. What you really mean is, there’s something I can do for you. You need something I have.”

“CHAPLAIN, CHAPLAIN,” Starn continued to call.

“Which is what?”

“Secrets.”

The officers’ radios sounded at the same time, and because of their distance apart and the cement surroundings, every word was doubled. It sounded like the digital delay that many recording artists overused during the late eighties.

“What makes you think I want to know your secrets?” I asked.

“Believe me, you do. I see evil. I hear evil. I see and hear that which is done in darkness,” he said. His eyes were wide and wild, and he hissed his words, placing about fifteen s’s on the end of darkness. He was a bad actor doing Manson.

I felt something moist on the back of my hand. It was a small dot of water. I looked up. Above me, hanging from the ceiling, there were two bare galvanized pipes running the length of the hallway. I saw condensation around the joint of one of them directly above me. For a moment, I lost my train of thought, forgetting what he had said. Then I remembered—he knew things that were done in the dark.

“What sort of things?” I asked.

“I see evil. I hear evil. But I speak no evil. I’ve crossed my heart, hoped to die. Watch it, or I’ll stick a needle in your eye. I’ll cast you out, Holy Man.”

“I see,” I said. “And hear.”

“Don’t play games with me. I can have you stuck, just like Johnson. Was it in his eye? Corrections officers are so sloppy, you know. I heard it was very messy. Did all his blood drain out? There’s power in the blood, you know. Life and death. Atonement’s in the blood. But, I guess you know that. You think he atoned for his sin?”

“CHAPLAIN, CHAPLAIN. CHAPLAIN, I NEED YOU,” Starn yelled.

“So you had Johnson stuck? What was his sin?” I asked, trying to keep up.

The officer seated at the end of the hall propped his feet on the corner of the desk and leaned back in his chair. The shortness of his legs caused his feet to fall off the desk when he leaned back in his chair.

“I can have anybody I want to stuck,” he continued. As he talked, he widened and narrowed his eyes. I had seen Charles Manson do the same thing on a TV interview. “But I like sticking pigs best.”

The officer at the desk stood, pulled the chair closer to the desk, and then repeated his earlier attempt. This time he was successful. However, his new position made him look extremely uncomfortable.

“Was Johnson your punk?” I asked.

“Hickory, dickory, dock—Johnson didn’t have a cock, but he got one . . . every night, and now he’s taken flight.”

“CHAPLAIN, CHAPLAIN.” Starn’s voice sounded sad and whiny.

“Did you have Johnson stuck?”

“The pig had him stuck because he was tired of getting stuck in the butt.”

He jumped up suddenly from his crouched position at the slot and began dancing around the cell, crashing into the sink, bed, and walls as he did. All the while he was singing the old hymn, “There’s Power in the Blood.”
There is power, power, wonder-working power in the blood of the lamb.

“Jacobson,” I yelled at him, “Jacobson, come here, now.”

Power, power, wonder-working power in the blood of the lamb.

Evidently the officer at the other cell heard me yelling because he rushed over and looked through the narrow glass window of the cell door. He yelled for the other officer, who was still seated at the end of the hall, to come quickly and began to fumble for his keys.