They seemed unaware of the camera’s presence in the sanctuary. One time Anthony looked straight at it without looking into it. His eyes were wild, darting back and forth, glazed and icy as frozen ponds. In a few moments, Skipper came in and snatched them both up, laughing and taunting them as he did.

The small video did two things. It showed that I was not involved, and that Skipper was. Unfortunately, Skipper was only shown as breaking up the violation and not as instigating it.

Within another minute, the chapel was empty, and the camera stopped recording. The monitor went blue. I let the tape play a little longer then stopped it. The whole incident lasted less than five minutes.

“Looks like your ass just been cleared,” Merrill said. “Got that Rodney King shit.”

38

The Department of Corrections of the state of Florida incarcerated just under 60,000 inmates at a yearly cost of roughly 1.5 billion dollars. The number of people required to operate this department was 23,732.

I was among them once again.

It was an overcast Tuesday morning. I was sitting at my desk, having been reinstated thanks to the footage of the chapel incident and the relentlessness of FDLE agent Rachel Mills.

It was nice to be back at work. It was even nicer to see Daniels so disappointed at my return.

As I had expected, Stone and Daniels, and even Rachel Mills, agreed that all the tape showed was Skipper breaking up illegal activity.

A few members of the staff seemed genuinely glad to see me back, but most, like most of the inmates, were tentative and seemed reserved around me.

Mr. Smith was excited to me. Well, as excited as he ever gets.

He said he knew I was innocent and was hoping Skipper wouldn’t kill me. I had hoped that myself, still did in fact. What I didn’t say, because I was trying not to think about it, was that someone else already had.

I called Laura to tell her the good news. She was, at the same time, happy for me and scared too.

I was headed down to tell Anna in person—and to talk to her about the case—when I opened my door and saw Officer Charles Hardy standing there.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to see you, sir,” he said. “Several people told me you wanted to talk to me about the morning Johnson was killed, but I’ve been out of town. I’m in the reserves, and they sent us to help with some hurricane damage in Charleston.”

Charles Hardy was an excellent correctional officer. His crisp uniform and patent-leather shoes showed his military training, as did his comfort with authority. From all appearances and reports he accepted the authority of those above him with honor and never abused the authority he was given over others.