Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [161]
And that was the rub. Many were the days at the state penitentiary where he felt incarcerated too. Maybe it was only eight hours a day, but it was in many ways as much a prison to him as it was to the men in the cages.
Only four inmates had asked to see Thomas in the past few weeks. All were lifers. One was a Native American complaining that the sweat lodge was inadequate and insisting that Thomas interact with tribal authorities and do whatever was required to bring it up to code, regardless what that meant.
Thomas did what was asked of him, willing to honor another man’s faith, no matter what he believed. He just hoped that perhaps by doing his part, as required by his job description, he might earn the right to discuss spiritual matters with the man someday.
But when Thomas raised the sweat lodge matter with Frank LeRoy, the warden said, “Yeah, no. He knows religious rights extend only so far as they don’t threaten security. You know what happened, don’t you? That man lost his last chance at parole after assaulting an officer while being escorted to the sweat lodge.”
The other three men Thomas talked with during that quarter told him of bad childhood experiences in church but pleaded for family phone calls—none of which met requirements. One settled for having Thomas lend him a couple of books from the chaplain’s library, but these soon were delivered back, apparently unread. Thomas had not heard from any of the three again.
Was it too much to ask that someone would ask to see him who was sincerely interested in spiritual things? Apparently it was.
Death Row
After sitting twenty-four hours in his undershorts and ingesting as much as he could stand of two single-slice, dry bologna sandwiches and two lukewarm boxes of fruit juice, Brady had suddenly become the man of the hour again. Four officers showed up, one toting Brady’s new clothes. But rather than allow him to change, he was instructed to back up to the meal slot to be cuffed, then was asked if he could be trusted to cooperate so they could open his door before manacling him at the ankles.
“Like I’ve got a choice,” he said.
“You’ll behave or you’ll wish you’d never been born,” one of the officers said.
I already wish that.
It made sense, he figured, that they would treat him as the murderer he was, but Brady wondered if there was another con in the whole place who was less interested in violence now that he had committed the ultimate violent act. Brady had been involved in a lot of brawls, in and out of jail, with cops and civilians, other cons, you name it. But these guys at ASP had nothing to worry about with him. He had lost the will to live, let alone to fight.
Brady found it hard to believe, but his need for a cigarette soon drowned out everything else in his mind. Maybe that was for the best. He knew he was just this side of insane anyway.
Why did they feel it necessary to parade him through the other pods and cells and security checkpoints in his underwear? He wanted to ask, but he had already learned that they resented questions. It was bad enough the whole place smelled and was variously too cold or too hot. Again, everyone seemed to know who he was. He was met with screams and whistles and comments all along the way. Brady just kept his head down and shuffled as quickly as he was able.
The reason for not letting him dress became clear when he was delivered to his unit and ushered directly to the shower, hands and feet unfastened, and handed a safety razor. “That comes back to us in one piece or you’ll regret it.”
His clothes were left just outside the stall. The water seemed to come on and go off on its own schedule, so Brady just hurriedly showered, shaved quickly in front of a reflective sheet of metal on the wall, handed the razor back, and reached for his clothes. He found strangely inviting the idea of finally being clothed.
“Not so fast. Body cavity search.”
Brady complied