Power in the Blood by Michael Lister Read Free Book Online Page B

such as law work. I glanced up at the date. It was dated the day he was killed. I should have received the request that day, but, because of the incident in the sally port, I had not picked up my mail. Ironically, his death was the very thing that had delayed my getting his plea for help. I felt sad for him and just a little sick. If he were planning an escape, why would he request to come and see me? Obvious question, I know, but it must be asked. Did he really send it? I wondered what he was going through and if it were the sort thing that people were killed for.
    I reread the request several times. The type had several distinguishing marks, not the least of which was that the letter “t” was missing the right side of the crossbar, the letter “o” was missing the bottom curve, and the letter “a” was much darker than the rest of the type. The typewriter that produced this request would not be difficult to find.
    While I was examining the request, Mr. Smith tapped on the door.
    “Come in,” I said.
    “Brother Chaplainsuh, they’s two mo’ to see you now.” Mr. Smith’s blue uniform was always neatly pressed and buttoned to the top button.
    “Do you know what they want?” I asked.
    “One say he didn’t get the Father’s Day card we sent him. The other one wants you to make copies of his legal papers.”
    “Sounds like they can wait a minute or two. Would you mind coming in and talking to me for a few minutes?”
    “Nosuh, I don’t mind,” he said as he swaggered in and slowly took his seat. “I done something wrongsuh?” he asked.
    “No. Nothing like that at all,” I said reassuringly. “Actually, I need your help.”
    “Okaysuh.” He was slumped so far down in his chair as to be nearly horizontal. His head hung down as if it were too much effort to keep it up. His long arms dangled on either side of the chair, nearly touching the floor.
    “I’m still trying to understand how things work on the compound and wondered if you could explain it to me.”
    “’Splain whatsuh?” he asked slowly.
    “First of all, how often do you hear inmates talking about trying to escape? I’m talking about serious talks about escape attempts.”
    He hesitated. “Nosuh, not many ever say anything like that to me. Too hard. Chances are they couldn’t make it. Not worth it. This place harder to get out of than it look.”
    “Has anyone ever tried to escape from here before?” I asked, knowing that he had been here almost the entire three years this institution had been open.
    “Nosuh. Not as I know of. Couple from the work camp did, but they caught them lickidy-split.”
    “What do you think about the escape attempt we had yesterday?
    “I think he a fool. Everybody know what they do to the trash. Maybe he wanted to die. Never tell about him.”
    “But you don’t think that it was a serious escape attempt?”
    “Nosuh. Either he wanted to die, or somebody wanted him to die.”
    “I see. What can you tell me about drugs or alcohol on the compound?”
    “They’s those who have it. They’s those that would love to have it but can’t afford it. They’s those who do anything for it.”
    “Is there a lot of it on the compound?”
    “Nosuh, not a lot. And they’s really only two things—buck and hash.”
    “How do they get it?”
    “Most the liquor is homemade. Inmates in food services or the chapel sneak juice or old fruit and sugar back down on the ’pound. Mix it up and let it ferment.”
    “You mean inmates have stolen our communion juice to make buck?”
    “Yesuh. Some go to church on communion night ’cause of it. They hold it in their mouth until they get back down to the dorm and then they all spit it into an old can or a plastic bag they stole. The clerk that worked here before me used to steal some every week and sell it down on the ’pound.”
    “What about hash?”
    “Hash come in during visitation, or some officer bring it.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Some of the inmate’s