From Ike Johnson to Chaplain Jordan. Dear Chaplin sir, I really need to talk to you very soon. Can I come to your office tomorrow? It’s real important. I’m scared I’m either going to try to escape or kill myself and don’t know who to talk to. Sir, you my only hope. May God bless you, Chaplin sir.

Unlike any other request I had ever received, this one was typed. Most inmates didn’t have access to typewriters, and the ones who did were only allowed to use them for official reasons such as legal work.

I glanced up at the date. It was dated the day he was killed. I should have received the request yesterday, but his death and my involvement in it had delayed me getting it.

I reread the request several times.

The type had several distinguishing marks. The letter t was missing the right side of the crossbar, the letter o was missing the bottom curve, and the letter a was much darker than the rest of the type. The typewriter that produced this request shouldn’t be difficult to find.

While I was examining the request, Mr. Smith tapped on the door.

“Come in,” I said.

“Brother Chaplain suh, they’s two more to see you now.”

Mr. Smith’s blue uniform was always neatly pressed and buttoned all the way to the top.

“Do you know what they want?” I asked.

“One say he didn’t get the Father’s Day card we sent him. The other one wants you to make copies of his legal papers.”

“Sounds like things that can wait a few minutes. Come in and sit down and let’s talk for a minute.”

He slowly swaggered in and took his seat. “I done something wrong, suh?” he asked.

“Not at all. I need your help.”

“Okay suh. Do what I can.”

He was slumped so far down in his chair as to be nearly horizontal, his head hanging to the side as if too heavy to hold upright, and his long arms dangling on either side of the chair.

“I’m still trying to understand how things work on the compound and wondered if you could explain a few things to me.”

“Like what?” he asked, caution and suspicion creeping into his voice and body language.

“How often do you hear inmates talking seriously about trying to escape?”

“Not many ever say anything like that to me. Too hard. Chances are they couldn’t make it. Not worth it. This place harder to get out of than it look.”

“Anyone ever escaped from here before?” I asked.

He had been here almost the entire three years this institution had been open.

“No suh. Not as I know of. Couple from the work camp did, but they caught them lickety-split.”

“Any thoughts about what happened yesterday?”

“Nigga a fool. Everybody know what they do to them bags. Must have wanted to die.”