Bobby Earl and Bunny Caldwell looked like televangelists— flashy clothes, big, perfectly coifed hair, and liberally applied makeup, though that was the only thing liberal about them. They were also white. Nicole, like Stone, was black. Though not as overly made-up as her adoptive parents, it was obvious Nicole had been dressed to be seen, the bow on her ponytail coordinating with her preppy dress and the matching socks folded just above her patent leather shoes.

I recalled flipping past Bobby Earl on more than one occasion in the solitude of sleepless nights. His message was one of guilt and shame, preached from a pulpit of fear and anger, which was why I was alarmed to hear the reporter announce that he would be conducting a crusade in my chapel later that night.

Bobby Earl’s anti-intellectual religiosity and sentimental spirituality were shallow and filled with clichés. They were the first things most of the inmates gravitated toward and the last things they really needed.

I shook my head as I thought these things. I was doing to Bobby Earl what bothered me most about what he did—passing judgement. Maybe we were far more alike than I wanted to believe.

The reporter had to be mistaken. All religious programs performed at the prison had to be approved and scheduled by me. I had neither approved nor scheduled Bobby Earl Caldwell. And I would never even consider letting a child inside the institution—for any reason. Yet, according to him, Nicole was coming in with them.

“Do you sing, Nicole?” Nancy Springfield, the reporter asked.

Nicole was seated on Bunny’s lap, but Bunny barely touched her, and certainly not in any way that could be called nurturing. In fact, the whole family’s interaction looked staged and stilted, more like amateur actors rehearsing a scene than people who loved each other.

Before Nicole could answer, Bobby Earl said, “Yes, she does. She’s got the voice of an angel. In fact, she and her mother will sing in our service tonight. We’ve found that the men really appreciate the fact that we have an African-American daughter. They appreciate the life we saved her from and can see we’re about breaking down racial walls and setting the captives free.”

“Mr. Stone,” Springfield said, “tell me what a program like this does for your institution.”

“Well, first, it gives the offenders something positive to do,” he said, leaning forward slightly, the vest of his three-piece suit gathering as he did, his deep voice and careful enunciation giving authority and weight to his words. “Inmate idleness is a serious concern. But it does far more than fill time. Bobby Earl also gives hope. The men will hear a powerful message of redemption and forgiveness and will see living proof of the real thing—a man of God who practices what he preaches.”