Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [49]
No amount of help from Mrs. Stevens, and certainly no snot-nosed student tutor, could give Brady a handle on this stuff. And for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine when he would ever need to know any of it. Sure, the UN stuff, if he were to become president of the United States, but even then, would he need to know so much English?
On his way out of class, Mrs. Stevens called out, “Going to be prepared, Mr. Conrad Birdie?”
“You bet,” he said.
“I hope so, son,” she said. “I’m looking forward to seeing your performance.”
That was the most she had ever said to him, and he found himself wondering if she meant in the musical or on the exam.
Brady found a note from the office taped to his locker. “Call Alejandro.”
Terrific.
Adamsville State Penitentiary
Thomas Carey felt the furtive stares from the staff as Russ led him through the maze of glassed-in offices and cubicles, finally to the short corridor that housed the warden, his aides, clerical staff, and a tiny, windowless corner office stuffed with institutional gray metal furniture.
“Gotta go out in the hall to change your mind,” Russ said. “It’s not mahogany row, but it’s empty. I’ve cleared out. You get the job, you get the digs. Guy from NCIC isn’t here yet, but lemme see if I can introduce you to Yanno.”
At the other end of the hall, Russ chatted with Warden Frank LeRoy’s secretary, a short, stocky black woman he introduced as Gladys, wearing a loud purple muumuu. She knocked softly on the warden’s door and ushered Russ and Thomas in.
LeRoy, a big man in ill-fitting clothes—shirt too tight around the belly, trousers too short—was hanging up the phone. His office was bigger than the others and painted nicely, but the furniture was as modest as the chaplain’s. Plaques and pictures hung everywhere, and the desk was messy.
“So, you’re gonna be the new chaplain?” LeRoy said as he shook Thomas’s hand.
“Well, I hope so, sir.”
“Got to do the NCIC thing first, you know,” Russ said.
“Oh, so you’re just starting the process. Once they waive all the restrictions over your sordid past, we’ll welcome you to the team.”
Thomas was puzzled until Russ burst out laughing. “The warden says that to all newbies. I think he’s aware you’re a man of the cloth without a criminal record.”
Thomas smiled.
“Well,” LeRoy said, “we all have records. Some just served more semesters than others. Ever served time, Carey?”
“Oh no.”
“Russ has. Did he tell ya?”
“No,” Thomas said, sure this was another joke.
“Seriously,” LeRoy said. “A little county time, wasn’t it, Russ? NCIC cleared him, though. Probably wouldn’t happen today.”
“Long time ago,” Russ said. “Listen, Frank, I was wondering. You know that little office down there hasn’t seen a coat of paint in years. I’ve got everything off the walls and out of the desk and cabinets. Might be a good time to spruce it up, you know, before Thomas moves in.”
“Yeah, no,” LeRoy said, and it was all Thomas could do to keep a straight face. “I mean, if you get the job, Carey, and you want to do a little spackling and throw a can of paint on the wall, feel free. But with budgets and all, that’s on you. Proud as this state is of its prisons, money will always be an issue.”
Gladys poked her head in. “NCIC is here for Reverend Carey, waiting in the chaplain’s office.”
The “guy” from the National Compliance Integrity Commission turned out to be June Byrne, a tall, handsome woman in her midfifties with red hair and freckles. She wore large pieces of jewelry and carried a bulging soft leather satchel. From it she produced a three-inch-thick sheaf of computer printouts and set them on the desk in front of her.
After shaking Thomas’s hand and introducing herself as a former police chief, she said, “If this turns out to be your office soon, thanks for letting me use it.” As they sat, she said, “What makes a man want to become a prison chaplain?”
Thomas briefly told her of his faith, his education,