harvesting the crops outside the institution brought this memory to mind, and I wondered if slavery really ever ended in this country. The two obvious differences between now and then were that they were harvesting watermelons and potatoes, not cotton and tobacco; and they were doing it under the watchful eye of a black man, who, as he put it, was the Head Nigga In Charge.
Being a black man in a small Southern town is not easy. Being an intelligent and ambitious black man in a small Southern town is nearly impossible. I first noticed Merrill’s strength and intelligence in elementary school when I was learning about slavery. Merrill didn’t learn anything during that unit; he already knew it all too well. Our friendship began then, and since that time I’d not had a better friend.
Merrill was a correctional officer sergeant in charge of the outside grounds of the prison. Inmates assigned to him were not considered to be an escape risk and, therefore, allowed to work outside the gate.
I found him in a garden to the left of the institution down on his hands and knees showing an inmate just how to plant the potatoes. The light brown sleeves of his short sleeve CO uniform were stretched tightly over the dark brown skin of his arms. Every time he moved, his muscles flexed, straining his shirt to the point of ripping.
As he instructed the inmate on exactly how to do his job, he spoke in slow, even tones. I had seen him stare down a gang of inmates, two with shanks, the same way. I had also seen him wipe out an entire gang by himself, never raising his voice and never acting as if it required much effort either.
“Sarge, you got a minute?” I asked as I came up behind him.
He stood, nodding at me and pointing at the row of potatoes to the inmate.
We walked away from the garden and the inmates who hear all and see all.
“I was thinking of planting some potatoes and needed some help.”
“Sure, I can help you. Us colored mens knows how to toil under de sun. It what make us so brown and earthy,” he said.
“I am really about to put some sod around my trailer. Want to help?”
“I’ll help with some advice,” he said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Put the green side up,” he said, and then a broad smile crept across his face revealing startling white teeth.
“Thanks for the tip.”
“Us coloreds live to serve y’all, sir,” he said. “It’s what we here for.”
We were both silent a minute. He glanced back in the direction of the garden. I could tell he was not happy with how the inmate was planting the potatoes.
“It’s hard to get good help these days,” I said.
“Yeah. Speaking of which, I heard about what you did in the sally port the other day. Very impressive for a skinny white boy.”
“I’m not skinny,” I protested. “I’m fit.”
“You’s fit before the Atlanta thing,” he said, “Now you skinny.”
He stood directly in front of me, positioning himself between me and the sun. The shadow he cast kept me from needing the shades I did not have. He was always doing things like that and never mentioning it. Any other white person in America, except maybe for Anna, he would have left squinting in the sun.
I could see my reflection in his glasses. I looked distorted, like my face was too big for my head and body. Merrill towered over my six feet by about four inches, totally eclipsing the sun.
“Anyway,” he continued, “you did good. Showed some of these rednecks that a man can be civilized, even holy, and have balls, too.”
“That’s what I came out here to talk to you about. I need to know if Johnson worked for you and what kind of worker he was?”
“He worked for me on paper, but that’s all. He was assigned to me, but he never came to work. Every month I get a note from Captain Skipper that he was using Johnson other places. Said I should go ahead and give him credit for working out here.”
“And you did it?” I asked, a little surprised.
“Captain say do it, I do it. I not smart enough to think for myself. I a machine. They program me, I work. I don’t ask no questions,” he said, falling back into his favorite dialect for expressing his frustration.
Merrill thought for himself all right. However, his life would have been easier if he were a machine. He was as smart as any man I had ever met, but was unable to go to college until recently because of family and money problems. He had, however, spent much of his time at the public library and already had a much better education than most college graduates.
“Did he ever come out here for work?” I asked.
“When he was first assigned here, he came about three times. Didn’t do a damn thing. Worried about his fingernails and hair too much. He should have been a woman. . . . From what I hear, sometimes he was.”
“What have you heard?” I asked.
“Some of the inmates called him ‘Godown-’ “ he said with a broad smile that showed off every one of his snow-white teeth again.
“Godown?” I asked.
“Yeah, because he would go down on anybody.”
“Do you think that had something to do with his death?” I asked, trying not to smile too big.
“It sure as hell a possibility, now ain’t it, Sherlock? Since your man David offed Uriah to have Bathsheba, people been getting dead over the nasty.”
“What can you tell me about Officer Hardy, who works midnights in the infirmary?”
“Ex-military, still in the reserves, I think,” he said. “One hell of a good officer. Smart. Tough. Fair. He’s righteous.”
“How did you know I was playing Sherlock?” I asked.
“I know things.” He smiled.
“Do a lot of people know?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” he said, “but it’s just a matter of time. They’s very few secrets when everybody lives this close together.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“So,” he said, “you better watch your back, Jack. Sooner or later, the wrong person’s going to know. And . . .”
“And?”
“Just watch your back,” he said, tilting his head forward so that I saw his eyes above his shades. They were serious.
“How about you watching my back?” I asked.
“I’ll do what I can,” he said.
“Which is more than most.”
“Which is more than most.”
“You’re pretty confident for a black man named after a dead white woman.”
He ran his hand across his short hair and then started patting it. “I’m named after a beautiful white woman. And she was almost as pretty as me. You know Mama swore that we were kin to her somehow.”
“You probably are,” I said. “For her sake, I hope so. Can you tell me anything else about Johnson?”
“No, I really didn’t know him that well. I’ll tell you who can. There is an inmate named Willie Baker. He’s probably the oldest homosexual alive on the compound, maybe even in the world.”
“The one they call Grandma?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s right,” he said with surprise and amusement. “You chaplains know the four-one-one, don’t you?”
“That’s me, Mr. Information. It’s not the four-one-one, but the nine-one-one that has me concerned.”
“Well, if it come to that,” he said smiling, “I be happy to make the call.”
“Thanks,” I said, “that’s very reassuring.”
I turned to leave and then turned back and said, “Oh, yeah, could you recognize a request that Johnson typed if you saw it?”
