As quickly as I could, I pressed hold, then the second line, and punched in the number to the control room. Without going into much detail, I told the sergeant in the control room to find Simpson and get him to my office as soon as humanly possible.

I then punched line one again, hoping she’d still be there.

She was.

We talked about five minutes, waiting for her husband to come to my office. Our conversation dealt primarily with all the pressures she faced being a single mom whose husband was incarcerated.

I actually felt as if I did her some good, but chances were I’d never know.

When Simpson finally did arrive, after what seemed like days, I quickly put him on the phone and went into the other office where I called the Tampa Police and reported her threat of suicide. While talking to her I had discovered where she lived, and I told them. I then jotted down a few notes about what had transpired and called the OIC and filled him in. He advised me to fill out an incident report, which I did. I then walked back into my office and sat down at my desk.

Noticing that Simpson was crying, I busied myself with opening the rest of my mail.

My mail consisted of roughly fifteen requests from inmates for everything from Bibles and greeting cards to phone calls. There were also two letters from citizen volunteers who ministered at the prison saying what a blessing they themselves were, a memo from the chaplaincy administrator about upcoming religious holidays that were to be observed by the Jewish, Muslim, and Christian inmates, and a single piece of typing paper trifolded and taped together on the end with the word Chaplain typed on the outside.

I unfolded the typing paper, tearing it slightly while removing the tape. It read, I’ve seen you talking to her. I watch over her. If you don’t stay away from her, I will kill you like I did that little bastard yesterday. She’s an angel, and I’m her guardian. She’s mine. Stay away from her.

I reached into my desk and pulled out the request from Ike Johnson. I laid them both on the desk in front of me and began to compare them. Within seconds, I could tell they were typed on the same machine.

I thought of Anna as I reread the note.

“I’m sorry, what’d you say?” I said when I realized Simpson was talking to me.

“Thank you, Chaplain. I thinks she going to be all right. I should have called her or written or something. It’s my fault, but this place is getting to me. I don’t know what to do.”

“Why don’t you start coming to see me every week for a while, and you might want to think about seeing the psych specialist as well.”

“Okay,” he said. “I will.”