Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [68]
“What do all these guys want?”
“Some just want to talk about their cases or their lives. You’d be amazed, though, at how nothing is private there. Even if we’re whispering, everybody else quiets down, turns down their radios and TVs, and listens to the conversation. They all chime in, boohooing, teasing, jeering. And it’s obvious they’ve heard everyone’s stories before.
“One guy was telling me about his childhood, and from another pod a guy hollers, ‘Here comes the part about his mom treating him like dirt!’ Well, the first guy cusses out the other, I try to calm him down, others start fake bawling, and now he’s screaming at them all to shut up.”
“Sounds like elementary Sunday school.”
“That’s where the similarities end. But I’m finding that the one thing I have to offer these guys that they want the most is a free fifteen-minute phone call. It has all kinds of restrictions, but it’s entirely up to me whether to grant it. It has to be for a family emergency. Gladys tells me Russ granted just a few each year in all the time he was there. If a parent or a child is deathly ill or dies, we have to see bona fide verifiable documents. Then I can authorize a prearranged time when the inmate is strip-searched, bound, extracted from his cell, delivered to the phone bank, and allowed the call. He must talk to an immediate family member or someone principally involved in the matter, like a pastor, a funeral director, or a lawyer. And there’s no leeway on the fifteen minutes. The phone goes dead right on the second.”
“How often is there such a death in the immediate family?”
“Well, if you can believe these guys, four of the six today swore they had just lost someone.”
“What are the odds?”
“Exactly. I told each what I needed from him, and they all earnestly pleaded with me to understand that by the time they got all the documentation in the mail, Mama or Grandpa or Baby or whoever would have been in the ground for weeks. I have to tell you, I’m glad I was warned about this.”
“Or you’d have believed every one of them.”
“Hook, line, and sinker. These are the most convincing, sincere liars I have ever met. I do have an interesting request pending from one con though.”
“For a phone call?”
“No. Just a visit. It’s for a private session in the separation room.” Thomas told Grace all about the room with its Plexiglas barrier and its tiny slot for the transfer of documents. “Most requests are turned down or parceled out very sparsely, but I’m inclined to think this one will be honored.”
“Because?”
“It’s from a guy on death row who had regular weekly meetings with Chaplain Russ. And he’s due for execution before the end of the year.”
“Oh no.”
“Calls himself the Deacon, and the warden thinks he might be sincere.”
Forest View High School
The stretch between the end of the school day and the curtain that evening became the longest of Brady Darby’s life. He found himself having to go to the bathroom every half hour, despite having hardly eaten all day. And it warmed him to see on the faces of all the other leads, and even the orbital characters, the same dread he felt deep in his gut.
He had looked forward to this all day, and now he had to talk himself into not escaping. All the confidence, the bravado, the eagerness to strut his stuff seemed to pool in his heart. Why had he thought he could do this? Yes, he knew his lines, his lyrics, his cues, his moves. But would they vanish in a wave of stage fright that would make an utter fool of him?
Of course they would. He would get out there and freeze, be unable to see the director or anyone who might believe in him or encourage him. He would be unable to spot Alejandro or any other friend. All of a sudden he was grateful his mother wasn’t coming, at least for opening night. Each performance had to be better than the previous.
Could Brady survive this? Would he be able to somehow muddle through, get the opening-night jitters out of his system, and avoid all the calamities that came with them so