57
Adamsville
It had been years—years—since Gladys had called Thomas Carey at home.
“Wanted to catch you before you left,” she said now. “I still don’t know what you have against cell phones, Reverend. I could have waited a few minutes and talked to you while you were driving.”
“It’s called a budget,” Thomas said, hoping she could hear the smile in his voice. Plus, cell phones didn’t work in the supermax with all the steel and concrete. And he wasn’t going to invest in a phone and monthly charges so he could be reached anywhere else.
“How’s your sweetheart this morning?”
“Still in remission,” he said. “Believe me, we’re enjoying it while it lasts.”
“I’m praying it lasts forever.”
“Thank you, but you didn’t call to tell me that. I’m on my way out the door.”
“You must have a long cord on that phone, then.”
“Funny.”
“I just thought you’d like to know whose request to see you has been approved and who you can visit whenever you want.”
“I’ll bite. Who?”
“Guess.”
“A Muslim. A Wiccan. A Buddhist. Worse than that? A satanist? Surely not someone interested in what I’m selling.”
“You never know, but you’re wrong on all counts.”
“Another one of those who’s invented his own religion and wants me to get it cleared with the state so he can, what, worship girlie magazines or something?”
Gladys cackled. “I’ll never forget that guy. Nope, believe it or not, it’s the Heiress Murderer.”
Thomas held his breath. The very one he had been praying for. The one with the vacant look. “He’s been with us ninety days already?”
“Last week. Yanno just signed off on the request.”
“You know, Gladys, one of these days I’m going to tell the warden that you call him that.”
“You’d blackmail me?”
“If I could figure out a reason. But if I did, what would I get out of it?”
“My loud scarf collection. Any one of ’em would go well with your somber suits.”
“That’s just my uniform, Miz Fashion Plate.”
“And you wear ’em well. Now get your tail in here and do your job.”
“Can you do me a favor? See if you can get the man’s file for me?”
“You didn’t get enough of that story in the papers and on TV?”
“More than I wanted, actually, but there’s always stuff the press ignores that can be enlightening.”
Death Row
Brady got word late that morning that the chaplain would visit his cell at four in the afternoon. Interesting timing, he thought. If he gets bored, he can leave at the end of his workday.
They would have an hour and a half before the dinner count and then the meal delivery. Brady couldn’t imagine it taking that long. He was curious was all. Just wanted to know where the local man of the cloth stood on this stuff. Brady had heard friends say over the years that when you’re dead you’re dead, but being a Christian or trying to live like one was good because it made you a better person in this world.
Well, he had certainly failed on that account, and long before he murdered Katie North.
Administration Wing
Thomas spent the day busy but distracted. Brady Wayne Darby was the highest-profile inmate the penitentiary had had in ages. While there had been no trial to make the thing the media circus it might have become, the murder had been center stage for weeks.
Andreason and LeRoy were adamant about no information being leaked out of the prison about Darby, though a couple of corrections officers reported that they had been offered money by the tabloids to sneak a cell phone photo or any tidbit of news to them. The truth was, one of them might have taken the offer had the inmate been the least bit interesting. Word was he was quiet and cooperative, though still considered a suicide risk. But he was talking with no one, so anything sold to the cheap newspapers about Brady Darby would have to be invented, like most everything else in those rags.
At 2:00 Gladys swept into Thomas’s office and plopped a three-inch file on his desk. “You owe me,” she said.
“I’m hopelessly in debt to you already.”
“And don’t you forget it. Someday you’ll pay, Padre.”
“How would I ever?”
“Oh, trust me, I’ll think of something. And if I can’t, my hubby will. If nothing else, we ought to have a barbecue at your place while your darlin’ is up and about.”
“C’mon, Xavier wouldn’t want to cook on his day off. That’d be like me preaching on my day off.”
“I didn’t say he was gonna cook. You are!”
“Then I’ll really owe you.”
Thomas found investigative files fascinating and had taken to watching real-life mystery shows on television when he had the chance. He might have enjoyed a career as a detective. He certainly couldn’t have done worse than as a clergyman. Thomas had to smile at the memory of Grace’s scolding when he had mentioned that.
He read through the entire corpus of the Darby case, which included the young man’s whole criminal history. Everything was fairly straightforward. Like many other men at Adamsville State, he had been raised by a single parent, had suffered a loss in his immediate family, had a history of drugs and petty crimes before graduating to bigger ones, and had been in and out of all sorts of penal institutions from juvie to local lockups and even the notorious county jail.
Again, like many, he’d had the occasional bright spot—sort of like remission, Thomas thought. He had enjoyed stellar marks at his last halfway house and was on the verge of finishing, getting a certificate, and being recommended for job placement. Then came the murder, which had taken everyone by surprise.
Darby’s lengthy rap sheet showed the telltale signs of almost every other inmate Thomas had ever studied. He had progressed in his career from little stuff to big, eventually pulling armed robberies, grand theft auto, assault with deadly weapons, and finally murder. He’d also had his share of escape attempts and violence against other inmates and staff at previous institutions.
Lord, Thomas said silently, I still don’t know what to ask You in regard to this man, but You put him on my heart, so I hope his request is an answer to my prayers.
An officer met Thomas as he emerged from the last security envelope before death row. It still struck him that if one didn’t know, he would not have been able to tell this pod from any of the others. It was different, there was no question. These men were all living by the calendar and the clock. But no sign or look or noise or smell distinguished it from any of the other units.
Thomas caught sight of Darby from about twenty feet away. Usually the sound of anyone walking nearby captured everyone’s attention. They would at least look up, just for the change of scenery. But Darby was sitting on his cot, fiddling with his TV. He appeared thinner than Thomas remembered. Could he have lost that much weight in three months?
The officer rapped on Darby’s door and called out, “Your chaplain visit!”
The young man immediately turned off the TV and stood, but he seemed to carefully approach the front of his cell, as if he had learned not to appear threatening. Thomas kept his distance but tried to welcome the approach with a smile. Brady Darby looked wretched, wasted.
From all over the pod, other cons began to stand and yell and whistle.
“Chaplain visit!”
“Lover boy has a meeting!”
“Gonna get right with your Maker?”
Thomas leaned close and spoke directly. “Thomas Carey.”
“I’m Brady. You didn’t bring your Bible.”
As soon as they began, someone shushed everyone else. Thomas and Darby whispered, but Thomas was certain some could hear.
“Happy to bring it, anytime you’d like me to. Lucky for you, I have much of it memorized.”
“Seriously?”
Thomas nodded.
“I memorize too,” Brady said. “You want to hear what it says on the juice boxes and in the induction packet?”
“You know one of the things I can offer you is reading material. You can borrow anything in my library and keep it for as long as you’re here.”
“What’ve you got?”
Thomas pulled a folded list from his suit coat pocket, showed it to the officer—who checked it for staples or paper clips and nodded—then rolled it and passed it through one of the openings.
Brady tossed it on his cot. “So you believe in Jesus and all that?”
“I do,” Thomas said. “Helps in this job.”
Brady nodded, either not catching or not appreciating the humor. “Heaven and hell? The devil? Satan?”
“Everything in the Bible,” Thomas said. “Yes, I believe it.”
“Sinners go to hell, good people go to heaven?”
“No, I don’t believe that.”
The con looked genuinely surprised, just as Thomas had hoped he would. “What then? Heaven and hell aren’t real? They just stand for something else?”
“Oh no. Heaven and hell are real. Jesus talked more about hell than He talked about a lot of other things. You believe in Jesus, the afterlife is part of the package.”
“Then who goes where?”
“Sinners go both places.”
“Sinners go to heaven? How does that work?”
Suddenly the cacophony from men in the nearby cells erupted again.
“Get him saved, Reverend!”
“Bring him to Jesus!”
“Hallelujah!”
“Amen!”
Thomas beckoned him forward and the man turned his ear toward one of the openings. “You want to talk about this somewhere else?”
“Yeah, I guess we’d better.”
“Because, listen to me, son, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you have serious questions. We both know you’re not talking about sinners, plural. You’re talking about you.”
Brady hung his head.
“We’re all sinners,” Thomas said. “The Bible says no one is good enough. ‘No one is truly wise; no one is seeking God. All have turned away; all have become useless. No one does good, not a single one.’ So, we’re all sinners, but it’s the believing, forgiven ones who get to go to heaven.”
Brady looked desperate. “What if you believe but aren’t forgiven?”
“You’re saying, what if you do your part and God doesn’t do His? The Bible says, ‘If we confess our sins to Him, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all wickedness.’”
“C’mon, not all wickedness. You know what I did.”
“So does He.”
Darby shook his head as if that was not what he wanted to hear. Had Thomas come on too strong too quickly? Had his years of seeing no response in this hellhole made him want to close the deal before the prospect was really sold?
God, don’t let me mess this up.
The hollering from all around made it nearly impossible to hear the young man.
“He’s starting to cloud up!”
“Here comes the waterworks!”
“Oh, man, get the boy some cryin’ towels!”
“Pass the offering plate, Preacher! You got him right where you want him!”
Thomas put a finger through the opening and said, “Request a meeting in an isolation room.”
The young man ignored his hand and looked down, nodding. But Thomas got the distinct impression he had not gotten through at all. He was sure Darby would not ask to see him again.
For the next two weeks, as Thomas enjoyed a season of normalcy with Grace and continued to talk with Dirk and Ravinia separately, plus get time with his granddaughter—whom he had taken to calling the light of his life—he was plagued with despairing thoughts about the man on death row.
He had heard nothing, not even a request for reading material. And Thomas had already set aside several books he thought would help, including a Bible in modern, easily readable language.
Finally he spoke with the warden. “Is there no way I can even send this man some books without his requesting them? I know he’s curious and wants to talk with me, and I expected him to ask for a private meeting.”
“Yeah, no. We can’t start making exceptions. You know this guy’s history. You really think he’s redeemable?”
“What kind of a question is that, Frank? Is any one of us redeemable? The day I start deciding who’s worthy of love and forgiveness is the day I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Well, I don’t want you to do that, but this has to be nothing new for you. You’ve been telling me for years that you can’t get these guys to take spiritual matters seriously. Why should this guy?”
Thomas didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t tell the warden that he had felt more compelled to pray for Brady Darby than for any other con in a long time—in fact since Henry Trenton went to the gallows.
Oh, please, he thought, don’t let this turn into another of those. He could just picture it. The kid wouldn’t want to read or hear any more Scripture, couldn’t see himself ever worthy of forgiveness, but would appreciate Thomas’s interest just enough to ask him to accompany him to his death.
If it came to that, Thomas would quit first. He’d do what Russ did, and when he left, he would be done. No way in the world would he pray for this man for two and a half more years, only to see him go to his death as unrepentant and lost as the Deacon.
And yet, despite himself and his disappointment, Thomas could not shake the compulsion to pray for Brady Wayne Darby. He didn’t even have to be specific. God knew what the man needed.
And God had to know what Thomas needed too.
I know You and You alone do the work, but use me. Please.