followed Coel, slinging his arms and shaking his head in silent protest. Coel led him over to the corner of the chow hall and stood him in it as if he were the class clown.
“Every inmate gets to eat every time,” Coel said when he reached me again. “Every inmate gets the same amount regardless of when he eats. There’s no logical reason to break the line. None.”
I could tell that the inmates’ insistence on breaking the rules offended Coel’s military sensibility and bothered him more than it would most.
“Unless there’s just something in you that has to break the rules,” I said.
“Criminal mentality,” he said. “We’re surrounded by it. All we do is keep them a while until they get out and rather than skip line, they rob banks. Rather than disrespecting a female officer, they’re gang-raping a woman in their neighborhood.”
“Some change,” I said.
“They’re the exception,” Coel said.
I didn’t say anything. He was right, of course, but if I dwelt on it I wouldn’t be able to do my job.
In the silence that followed the grim reality we had just discussed, I could hear numerous inmates complaining about their food, the force of their negativity palpable.
“I don’t have anything to add to what I’ve already said about what happened,” he said.
“Well, can I just ask a few questions?”
He shrugged, his eyes leaving mine briefly to scan the noisy chow hall. When he got the attention of a group at a table in the corner, he pointed to his watch signaling their fifteen minutes were up.
“Did Bobby Earl, Bunny, or Nicole go anywhere in the chapel beside my office and the sanctuary?”
He shook his head.
“You’re sure?”
He nodded. “Positive.”
“They never left my office by the hallway door during the service?”
“How many different ways can I say the same thing?” he said. “No, they didn’t leave your office. No one went in and none of them came out-except to go the platform.”
“What if I said we found evidence that suggests they might have gone into the back during the service?”
“What if you did?” he asked.
“Listen,” I said. “If you’re gonna change your story, now’s the time to do it. Get in front of this thing and it’ll go a lot easier on you.”
He turned his attention away from the inmates and fully onto me, his pale, lightly freckled face a mixture of anger and incomprehension.
“You tryin’ to help Stone set me up?” he asked. Then patting my chest, asked, “You wearin’ a wire?”
“I’m only trying to find out what happened,” I said.
“Well, then why won’t you hear what I’m sayin’?” he asked.
“I just want you to be sure,” I said.
He laughed coldly. “I think I’m the only one who is,” he said. “And I am. I’m certain that no one went in and no one came out of that office. Strap me to a polygraph right now and take my statement. I tell the truth all the time. I swear to God what I’m saying is true. And I’m willing to back it up by beating the box.”
“Okay,” I said, “I believe you.”
“Oh, that’s such a relief,” he said.
Ignoring his sarcasm, I asked, “Did the Caldwells go into the chapel before you got there?”
He shook his head. “I unlocked the chapel for them, let them in, searched the place-including your office and bathroom. No one was in there. No one. I did my job. I did my best to protect that little girl and I’ll swear under oath, I’ll take a polygraph on national television that everything I’ve said is the truth, so help me.”
“So what do you think happened?” I asked.
“There’s only one or two things that could have happened,” he said. “Either Bobby Earl or Bunny Caldwell killed their daughter or they did it together. No one else could have.”
CHAPTER 24
Tell me about Bobby Earl and Bunny Caldwell,” I said into the receiver.
I was seated at the desk in the staff chaplain’s office in the chapel, collar and shoes off, enjoying the cool air and solitude.
“I heard what happened,” Chaplain Rouse said. “What was that little girl doing in your chapel?”
Jeremiah Rouse, one of the oldest and most respected chaplains in the state of Florida, was a thick-bodied, balding black man of indeterminate age-one of those people who looked middle-aged their whole lives.
We had become fast friends when I met him at a statewide chaplaincy meeting in Orlando, which was why I didn’t mind calling him now.
After answering his question, I said, “You were the chaplain when Bobby Earl was there, weren’t you?”
As I recalled, he had been the chaplain at Lake Butler for as long as they had a chapel at Lake Butler.
“Uh huh,” he said, “and Bunny was my secretary.”
“So they met in the chapel?” I asked.
“I’d’ve never had them working together if I’d known what was happening, but I didn’t even suspect anything until he was about to EOS,” he said, referring to Bobby Earl’s release date or End Of Sentence.
“How long did she stay after he was released?”
“She didn’t leave right away,” he said. “She had to pay the bills until Bobby Earl could get his ministry established.”
“What kind of inmate was Bobby Earl?”
“Perfect in every way but one,” he said.
“Which was?”
“He tried to run my chapel.”
“And he had an affair with a staff member,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. “Every way but two.”
“So you think his conversion was genuine?”
“Who am I to judge?” he asked. “But look at the fruit. All he’s done. I’d say it was genuine. You don’t think he killed his…” He trailed off as if unable to say it.
“Do you think he’s capable?” I asked.
“I’ve worked inside too long not to know anybody’s capable of anything,” he said. “But I’d have to see evidence to be convinced.”
“What about Bunny?” I asked. “Could she-”
“Same answer,” he said. “I’d have a very hard time believing it of either of them.”
“There’s a rumor going around that Bunny had or has a thing for black men,” I said, “that Nicole was actually her biological daughter.”
He hesitated before speaking again. As I waited, I could hear the little bits of static and white noise that were undetectable when we were talking.
“I did see in Bunny an especially strong interest in black men,” he said, “but primarily as forbidden fruit. The interest was in illicitness more than anything else, I think. The way she was raised, black men were off limits.”
“Did she ever…”
“Come on to me?” he said. “She did. Which, with our age differences, my position of authority, and me being a married man, confirms what I said about it being stolen bread.”
“Do you remember another inmate there around that time named Cedric Porter?” I asked.
“I always suspected they were involved,” he said. “He was a chapel clerk for a while, too. He was one smooth dude. Full of himself like nobody’s business.”
“Cedric Porter?” I asked, my voice conveying my disbelief.
