the truth—and, finally, call his superior.
Sister Eileen would regain consciousness and apparently be none the worse for her ordeal. She would have a new, if guarded, regard for the hospital’s security.
And George Snell would become almost a folk hero to St. Vincent’s staff.
For another reason entirely, he would be enshrined in Helen Brown’s memory and imagination.
* * *
Father Koesler’s dreams were busy. In several of them, Sister Eileen was under attack, sometimes by the Nestorians of unhappy memory, sometimes by the modernists, sometimes by the Holy Inquisition. Koesler had a difficult night defending her.
It was one of those times when he was glad to see the dawn. Even if it was one of those dark, frigid, snow- caked mornings typical of a Michigan January.
4
The Eugene I. Van Antwerp Correctional Facility was a recent addition to Detroit’s penal system. At one time, the city had owned only one jail—the Detroit House of Correction, more familiarly known as DeHoCo. But, at the insistence of the state legislature, the city had been forced to expand its penal faculties.
The expansion did not necessarily involve change. The buildings, of course, were new, modern, and clean. The consensus, however, was that it would be difficult to improve on the philosophy that governed DeHoCo. So, the new facility housed a tried-and-true approach to penology in a new setting.
The facility was christened after a one-term (1948–49) mayor of Detroit. Mr. Van Antwerp, a Catholic, was the father of eleven, among them two priests and two nuns. Mrs. Van Antwerp candidly explained that she had planned an even dozen until she learned that every twelfth child born into the world was Chinese. Mr. Van Antwerp’s fertility, both in quantity and quality, might have won a Catholic Family of the Year Award. Unfortunately, Mr. Van Antwerp passed away on the very same day Marilyn Monroe died. Consequently, Mr. Van Antwerp’s obituary was buried in Detroit’s metropolitan newspapers.
Those who remembered and valued Mr. Van Antwerp’s many contributions to the city in a long life of civic service, were gratified when an important edifice was named in his honor. No Detroit buildings bore the name of Miss Monroe.
Just as the Detroit House of Correction was more familiarly known as DeHoCo, so the Eugene I. Van Antwerp Correctional Facility was becoming more popularly known as Van’s Can.
Three of the inmates of Van’s Can had begun their terms several years before, at Jackson, then moved up to DeHoCo, and were now serving their final years at Van’s Can. The three had been found guilty of conspiracy to commit manslaughter.
As with many murderers, these three convicts were among the least dangerous inmates in the prison. The reasons for, and objects of, their erstwhile homicidal attempts were outside the prison walls. Inside the prison they were obedient, even docile.
In fact, if one could ignore the reality that they had attempted to kill—and, at least in one instance, almost did kill—they were rather resolutely law-abiding citizens. Their one area of bitterness sprang from the treatment they had received while studying for the priesthood in a Catholic seminary many years before. They had gotten into trouble as a result of their attempt to, in their view, balance the scales of justice.
In the beginning of their incarceration, they had been four, not three. But one, having been judged less culpable than the others, had received a lesser sentence. What with serving “good time” (five days per month credited against the sentence) and a parole, he had been released from Van’s Can some six months ago.
With these six months behind him, he was now permitted to visit his still-incarcerated companions. And this is what he was doing now. Carrying a small white index card setting forth his identity, the identities of the three prisoners he wanted to visit, and their prison numbers and terms, he approached the guard. Somehow, he had never been able to bring himself to call the guards “screws” as the other prisoners did.
The uniformed but unarmed guard studied the request for visitation. “Okay, but you gotta wait. They’re over in the Big Top at lunch.”
The lobby was virtually deserted. Whitaker seated himself on a long, hard bench, near the far wall. He sat quietly and studied the prison reception area as only one who had once been incarcerated there could. It brought back memories, few pleasant.
He sat, staring at the blank, whitewashed wall. He could hear the faint but unmistakable prison sounds. Barred doors being slammed. The shuffling of feet moving but going always only a brief distance. Several TV sets tuned into different channels, loud in the various blocks, muffled at this distance.
How could he ever have thought that Van’s Can was “not so bad”? It was the comparison, of course. Jacktown had been so severe, forbidding, threatening. So old, with the lingering odors of urine, feces, perspiration. Filled with desperate men.
Jacktown had made DeHoCo seem almost like a resort. In the beginning of their stay at DeHoCo, all four had initially been confined in the dog ward because their crime had been murder, or at least conspiracy to murder.
The dog ward had been a mistake, an almost fatal mistake. Only the most violent killers were confined in that ward. Strangely, it was the most peaceful ward in the block—only because its inmates respected the viciousness of their colleagues. None would raise a hand to another—because of the certainty of savage, hair-trigger retribution.
Almost immediately, it became all too obvious that “the four” were completely out of place in the dog ward.
They were removed at once and placed in medium security with Outside Placement. In this category, they were able to work on the farm and attend the various trade school classes.
From that time, prison officials became aware of the special character of these men. Despite their crime, none of them had a distinctly aggressive, violent nature. They had been angry at treatment they had received from their Church years before. They were angry now at what they considered the dangerous liberal trend of their Church. But beyond that, they were rather peaceful, respectful, obedient, reverent men. Almost like Boy Scouts. Their most disconcerting behavior was a bizarre tendency to be consistently clumsy. And while that could be extremely annoying, it was not a crime.
Because of the exemplary behavior of these four, they were among the first to be sent to Van’s Can.
It was their transfer from DeHoCo to Van’s Can that Bruce Whitaker was now recalling. At first it had seemed to them a large leap toward eventual freedom. But soon they realized that this impression was due entirely to the freshness of the new facility. Here there were no leftover odors, memories, or ghosts. Those would come later.
Some of the sounds were growing louder. The shift that had been eating in the Big Top, the central refectory, was done.
A guard summoned him. Whitaker knew the way from the reception area to the combination auditorium/gymnasium well. He had walked it many, many times. But he obediently followed the guard through the various cell-block doors. There was no alternative. As he often reflected, this procedure was like passing a ship through the locks of a waterway. No door unlocked before the previous one had been relocked.
Whitaker and the guard entered the vaulted room. Trustees and medium-security prisoners were allowed to receive their visitors in the gym. Those in maximum security were confined to a long, narrow, screened-off room in the basement where they could communicate with visitors only by phone.
Whitaker immediately found his three friends. They were seated at a picnic table, on a long bench whose uneven legs made balance precarious at best. They seemed pleased at his visit. He had no trouble believing they were pleased.
The guard left Whitaker at the table, then moved to a nearby wall where he kept them, as well as other inmates and visitors, under casual surveillance.
“So, how are things in the world?” the First Man asked.
“You shouldn’t ask,” Whitaker, the Second Man, said. “I can see now why some of the guys here don’t want to leave. And why when they do leave they want to get back in.”
“You’re forgetting what it’s like in here,” the Third Man said. “You always did have a convenient
