from them?”
“Nosuh. You got mine. You probably get others, not many though.”
“I see. What’s the overall feeling about the officers and staff?”
“Nobody give ’em much thought ’less they mess with us. The jits are not smart enough to be cool so that the officers don’t get in our business. They so stupid.”
“The jits?” I asked.
“Jitterbugs. Young inmates. They not convicts like us. They inmates. A true convict don’t get in no trouble. ’Cause if you stay clean or look like you do, officers stay away from you. Convict wants to do his time quiet with no trouble. Jit ain’t got the sense God give a dung beetle. ’Sides, most of them don’t have a lot of time anyway, so they do it the hard way. But, they be back. Eventually they learn.”
“If an inmate—or a convict—wanted to escape, could an officer be bought to help?”
“Nosuh, probably not. They sell you dope, maybe turn they head when you beat up a punk, but they wouldn’t help you get out.”
“Did you know the inmate that tried to escape yesterday? Johnson.”
“Nosuh, not really.”
“What about an inmate named Jacobson?”
“Yeah, I know of him. Watch your back around him. Some people say he crazy, but he ain’t. He’s dangerous. Lot of inmates say they killed before; most of ’em ain’t, but Jacobson’s a killer for real. I bet he’s lost count of the number of people he’s offed.”
“Is there anybody else I should talk with?”
“Yesuh. They’s an old homosexual on the ’pound. He say very little, but he know a lot.”
“What’s his name?”
He started to speak and then stopped. “I don’t know his real namesuh. Everybody on the pound call him Grandma.”
I couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Thank you for all your help. I really appreciate it.”
“Yesuh. Thank you for what you do. You the first chaplain I seen who really care and don’t act like he any better than the rest of us.”
“Mr. Smith, I’ll tell you a little secret: I’m not.”
Chapter 6
John Jordan’s first rule of detection: start with what you have, even when what you have isn’t much. I knew that Johnson spent his last night in the infirmary and that Jacobson was there too. So I went to the medical building. The medical building, like every other building at PCI, was gray. At least everybody referred to it as gray; I felt that it lacked sufficient color to actually be classified as a color, even a color as colorless as gray. The medical building, which actually housed dental and classification also, was always filled with inmates lined up waiting for service. Some of them were there to see their classification officer, others to see the dentist, and still others to see a doctor or pick up medication.
Just inside the building there was a small inmate waiting room where inmates sat in silence staring at the front wall until they were called in by the particular official they were waiting to see. To the left was dental and classification, and to the right was medical and pharmaceutical, all of which were behind locked doors. I turned right— the opposite direction from Anna, whom I would rather be visiting.
After unlocking the medical department door with my key, I walked down the long hallway leading to the infirmary, wondering how many other staff members had a key to the medical department. It made sense that the chaplain did; I spent a great deal of time in the infirmary.
Along the way, I passed the nurses’ station where two nurses— one white, one black, both elderly and overweight—sat. Each had an inmate seated across from her and was laboring to check his vital signs. The inmates’ slightly amused slightly fearful looks said they wondered if the nurses had a vital sign between them.
I also passed by two exam rooms. In one, Dr. Mulid Akbar, PCI’s senior health officer and my personal advisor to the Muslim religion, was examining the knee of one of the inmates, who seemed to be in a great deal of
“Nosuh. You got mine. You probably get others, not many though.”
“I see. What’s the overall feeling about the officers and staff?”
“Nobody give ’em much thought ’less they mess with us. The jits are not smart enough to be cool so that the officers don’t get in our business. They so stupid.”
“The jits?” I asked.
“Jitterbugs. Young inmates. They not convicts like us. They inmates. A true convict don’t get in no trouble. ’Cause if you stay clean or look like you do, officers stay away from you. Convict wants to do his time quiet with no trouble. Jit ain’t got the sense God give a dung beetle. ’Sides, most of them don’t have a lot of time anyway, so they do it the hard way. But, they be back. Eventually they learn.”
“If an inmate—or a convict—wanted to escape, could an officer be bought to help?”
“Nosuh, probably not. They sell you dope, maybe turn they head when you beat up a punk, but they wouldn’t help you get out.”
“Did you know the inmate that tried to escape yesterday? Johnson.”
“Nosuh, not really.”
“What about an inmate named Jacobson?”
“Yeah, I know of him. Watch your back around him. Some people say he crazy, but he ain’t. He’s dangerous. Lot of inmates say they killed before; most of ’em ain’t, but Jacobson’s a killer for real. I bet he’s lost count of the number of people he’s offed.”
“Is there anybody else I should talk with?”
“Yesuh. They’s an old homosexual on the ’pound. He say very little, but he know a lot.”
“What’s his name?”
He started to speak and then stopped. “I don’t know his real namesuh. Everybody on the pound call him Grandma.”
I couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Thank you for all your help. I really appreciate it.”
“Yesuh. Thank you for what you do. You the first chaplain I seen who really care and don’t act like he any better than the rest of us.”
“Mr. Smith, I’ll tell you a little secret: I’m not.”
Chapter 6
John Jordan’s first rule of detection: start with what you have, even when what you have isn’t much. I knew that Johnson spent his last night in the infirmary and that Jacobson was there too. So I went to the medical building. The medical building, like every other building at PCI, was gray. At least everybody referred to it as gray; I felt that it lacked sufficient color to actually be classified as a color, even a color as colorless as gray. The medical building, which actually housed dental and classification also, was always filled with inmates lined up waiting for service. Some of them were there to see their classification officer, others to see the dentist, and still others to see a doctor or pick up medication.
Just inside the building there was a small inmate waiting room where inmates sat in silence staring at the front wall until they were called in by the particular official they were waiting to see. To the left was dental and classification, and to the right was medical and pharmaceutical, all of which were behind locked doors. I turned right— the opposite direction from Anna, whom I would rather be visiting.
After unlocking the medical department door with my key, I walked down the long hallway leading to the infirmary, wondering how many other staff members had a key to the medical department. It made sense that the chaplain did; I spent a great deal of time in the infirmary.
Along the way, I passed the nurses’ station where two nurses— one white, one black, both elderly and overweight—sat. Each had an inmate seated across from her and was laboring to check his vital signs. The inmates’ slightly amused slightly fearful looks said they wondered if the nurses had a vital sign between them.
I also passed by two exam rooms. In one, Dr. Mulid Akbar, PCI’s senior health officer and my personal advisor to the Muslim religion, was examining the knee of one of the inmates, who seemed to be in a great deal of
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