said about grace is true.”
Two effeminate black inmates in shorts and T-shirts that were several sizes too small jogged past us. They wore pink Keds tennis shoes with matching sweat bands around their heads and white athletic socks that were rolled down around their ankles. They were both extremely thin and ran like awkward prepubescent girls. One of them pulled slightly ahead of the other and began to wiggle his behind as he ran. “Work it, girl,” the other one said. “You’re looking too fine to dine. I’m gonna have to toss that salad, child.”
“Do you remember the story Jesus told about the father and his two sons?”
“The parable of the prodigal son?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Which is true, by the way, though it never happened. Remember when the younger son came home after wasting his father’s money on prostitutes and parties?”
He nodded.
“The older son was so furious with his dad he wouldn’t even go into the house. Not only did his dad not reject or punish his younger brother, but he even threw a party for him. The older son said that it was unjust… and he was right. His brother didn’t deserve the warm welcome and the extravagant party. But that’s what grace is-what we need… not what we deserve.”
“So, God’s unjust?”
“Thankfully,” I said. “None of us want justice-except for others.”
“God’s not unjust,” he said. “I can’t accept that.”
“Neither could the older brother,” I said. “He thought he had earned his father’s love… and he knew his younger brother definitely hadn’t… but so did the younger brother. He didn’t even
He nodded.
The rec yard we were walking around was so enormous that the hundreds of inmates moving about the softball field, the weight pile, the basketball and volleyball courts, playing ping-pong and checkers under the pavilion looked more like ants than people- especially from Tower III, where an officer with one of the few loaded weapons on the compound stood watch, alert for inmates who wander over too close to the fence or low-flying planes or helicopters. Escape attempts by air most often occur on the rec yard because it has plenty of room for a helicopter to land and it’s more isolated than anywhere else on the compound.
“Do you love them only when they’re perfect?”
He shook his head, and a small smile crept across his face. “I’ve got a two-year-old son who’s a rascal,” he said, his whole countenance softening. “That boy stays in time-out. Sometimes his mama has to spank him ten times a day.”
“And?”
“And I love him all the time,” he said. “But… there’s a difference in a two-year-old who’s still learning right from wrong and these bastards.”
He looked out at the other inmates on the rec field. “You don’t know… I live with these people…” he shook his head. “… Most of the time they don’t even act human.”
I nodded.
A group of about ten inmates, running the opposite way from everyone else, presumably so they could be seen, approached us. They seemed to glide along, as if not quite touching the ground as they moved in unison, in beauty and grace. They spent most of their time on the rec yard, lifting weights and running around the track, and their lean muscular bodies were rippled with hard knots that barely moved as they ran. Their shirts were off, and the slick layer of sweat covering their hard, black bodies made their smooth, hairless skin look like fine silk.
“You’re telling me there’s not a difference between them and my son?”
“Sure there is,” I said, “but not in the way God loves them.”
He shook his head.
“If God’s love is based on behavior… if it’s based on anything, it’s conditional,” I said. “Perfect love is not based upon whether the one being loved is lovable, but on the lover’s ability to love, and in the case of God, the love is perfect and complete.”
“So why do we do all the things we do?”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like praying, studying our Bibles, going to church or a class… doing what’s right.”
“Not to earn something we’ve already got,” I said. “That’s what the father said to the older son when he said he had earned a party, but had never been given one. He told him that he could have had a party anytime… every day at the father’s house is a party…but not because he had earned the right. Because that’s just the way the father is.”
“I’m trying so hard,” he said. “And it’s not like I wasn’t before I ever came here, but now I’m really bustin’ my behind to…”
“To what? Earn God’s love?”
“And they’re still playing the same tired old games,” he said, gesturing toward the other inmates. “And…”
“And,” I said. “God loves them just as much as he does you.”
When we reached the gate, we stopped. I turned back and looked at the activities on the rec yard once more before we continued walking through the first gate and waited for the second one to buzz open.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Chaplain,” he said. “I understand what you’re saying… and you’ve made some convincing arguments. But I’m not there yet.”
“Me either,” I said. “Me either.”
We passed through the second gate and onto the compound framed by the enormous dorms on all sides.
“It’s hard to believe,” I said, looking at him intently, “that God loves Nicole and her killer equally.” He stopped walking abruptly, rage flaring in his eyes. “You don’t think so?” I asked. “I think there’s a special place in hell for him,” he said. “That may be,” I said. “But if he or she chooses that, it doesn’t change God’s love or the fact that it will break God’s heart any less than it’d break your heart if one of your children rejected you and did something so self-destructive.”
“He should be tortured and killed as painfully and slowly as possible.”
“Who?”
“Her killer,” he said.
“Who do you think it is?” I asked.
He shrugged, then shook his head. “If I knew,” he said. “I’d…”
As we talked, a steady stream of inmates passed by on their way to or from the rec yard. I thought about how few came to the chapel by comparison, and wondered if I was doing any good here at all.
“You were out in the hallway that night for a while, weren’t you? Did you see anything?”
“I just went to the bathroom,” he said. “I rushed in and out because I didn’t want to miss any more of the message than I had to.”
“When was this?”
“Near the end,” he said.
“Someone said they thought maybe you and Bunny Caldwell had something going on.”
Unable to respond, he stood there slack-jawed, stunned into wide-eyed speechlessness.
“What?” he finally said. “No. No way. I would never. I’m married.”
I could tell he was lying, but when it came to sex I expected most people to, so I filed it away as a fact that might become important when joined with other the facts I had yet to gather.
“Did you see anyone else out there?” I asked. “In the hallway or the bathroom?”
He looked up and closed his eyes as if trying to remember. “Register,” he said.
“Paul?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “And Porter.”
“Cedric?”
“Yeah.”
“Had you ever seen the Caldwells before?” I asked. “I’ve heard they’ve been here for the last couple of
