I had no way of knowing exactly who had been typing the threatening notes and sending them to me, but I now knew they had been typed here on this machine. Though it could be virtually anybody, it was most likely an inmate. A staff member could use a computer or another machine—even one outside the prison, but an inmate like Allen Jones wouldn’t have access to any other machine.

30

Confinement felt even more dark and oppressive today.

When I signed in at the sergeant’s desk, I told him I had received a note from the first shift sergeant asking me to check on an inmate named Larkins.

He nodded and gave me the cell number.

I thanked him and headed toward Larkins’s cell.

About halfway down the long hallway, a small group of inmates appeared, stepping out of dark cells into the dim corridor.

The confinement cells were supposed to remain locked at all times. No inmates should be out of their cells, in a group, in the hall.

I glanced back at the sergeant’s desk. He was gone.

When I looked back at the group of inmates they were moving toward me, closing in, having picked up their pace.

Continuing to face them, I began to move back toward the empty desk—not that being down there would be any better than here. I was locked in with no way of escape.

Behind the group of inmates I caught sight of an officer.

At first I felt relief but it was quickly replaced by a sinking dread as I saw that it was Captain Matthew Skipper.

In another few moments, the inmates had me surrounded.

Skipper stepped into the circle with me.

“Chaplain, I hear you’re confused about exactly what your job is around here,” he said, his breath smelling of tobacco and coffee.

He was probably six-four, but he slumped, as if the weight of his belly was pulling him forward.

“Thought I’d remind you,” he said. “You’re here to give this bunch of degenerates some religion. That’s it. Nothing else.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I think you’re in serious need of some job counseling.”

“That what these men do?” I asked, nodding toward the inmates circling us. “Career counseling.”

“When it’s needed.”

“You should speak to the warden about my job description.”

“Stone? He’s a prissy little pussy. Thinks he’s HNIC around here, but everybody knows I run this bitch.”

“And doing a mighty fine job of it,” I said.

“You got a complaint or a suggestion, now’s the time. These boys are also my complaints department.”

Before I could respond, he stepped aside and the circle closed in on me.

The first blow was a body shot that caught me in the kidney. It was a hard blow, well delivered, and I wondered if the guy who threw it had been trained as a boxer.