Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [58]
Cook County was a chaotic, depressing place, and the evil there was exacerbated by the relative freedom of the inmates to congregate. It was overcrowded, dangerous, and appeared nearly unmanageable because gang members still associated with one another, guards were compromised, and sometimes even escape attempts were successful.
ASP, though, was an entirely different kettle of felons. Warden LeRoy admitted that many on the outside considered his zero-tolerance policies overkill. “But they simply don’t understand my constituency. These guys have proven over and over that they understand only one language, and that is maximum force, complete deprivation of freedom, and punishment rather than reform. They have lost the opportunity to redeem themselves, because every time they’ve been offered that chance, they’ve violated the state’s trust. Their previous hitches were in correctional facilities. This is a penitentiary. We allow them to be as penitent as they want, but clearly they don’t want to be reformed, or they wouldn’t have wound up here.”
Thomas considered himself a man of justice. Actions had consequences. People needed to be punished. He even allowed that some were worthy of capital punishment, though that notion had fallen into disrepute among many within his own profession. It was hard to argue for something so final and brutal in light of the Bible’s teaching on love and respect and forgiveness. And yet the Scriptures were also clear that one who sheds another’s blood should have his own blood shed. Thomas acknowledged that a death sentence was no trifle and that all the checks and balances and safeguards—fair trials, appeals, and all the rest—were a crucial part of the process. But still, he believed, justice mandated the ultimate punishment in extreme cases.
Yet now, as he tried to absorb all that his senses were trying to communicate, Thomas found himself overwhelmed with pity for this massive population of men. Did they deserve this? Apparently they did. Why could they not have learned at some earlier, more copacetic level of incarceration that changing their ways would spare them this inhumanity? Had they not heard the stories from inside this place?
Yanno told him that even here the cons tried every scheme to manipulate the system, “but at the end of the day, they lose. Every time. They are in their cells twenty-three hours of every twenty-four. They are allowed out only when no other inmate is, and they are strip-searched, manacled, cuffed, and led about by corrections officers. When they return to their cells, they go through the same procedure in reverse. They dare not ask an inch of leeway. They don’t deserve it, and they won’t get it.”
Yanno led Thomas to the far end of the unit, within a hundred yards of the main gate. Already Thomas had learned not to turn at the shouts and jeers of the inmates. He was intrigued, however, by a man about his age who stood quietly next to his solid door, peeking out through the squares in the front wall. The man was balding and paunchy.
“You the new chaplain?” he said.
Thomas looked at the warden, who nodded. “Just stay back about two feet,” he whispered.
Thomas approached. “Yes, sir, I am. Thomas Carey is my name. And yours?”
The man reached his fingers through the opening. “Call me Zach.”
Thomas looked to the warden for permission to touch the man’s fingers. Yanno shook his head.
“Nice to meet you, Zach. I look forward to getting to know you.”
“Yeah, me too. I’d like you to stop by as soon as you can.”
“I think that can be arranged.”
“Yeah, no!” LeRoy said. “Zach, you know the protocol. You know how to go about requesting a visit.”
Zach pressed his lips together and shook his head, then cursed both men. Thomas wanted to assure him he would be happy to come back if the proper request was submitted, but Yanno pulled him away. “You’re tempted to make nice, but he’s just pulling your chain. You’d be falling right into his trap.”
“But I’m here