“No, and neither would you,” he said.
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“Because Johnson couldn’t read or write. Just another dumb nigga’,” he said smiling, “like all us darkies.”
“You sure he couldn’t write?” I asked.
“As sure as I am that desegregation didn’t end racism in the South.”
That was as positive as Merrill could get. Walking back toward the institution, I wondered who wrote the request for Ike Johnson and if they knew anything about the trouble that Ike was in or maybe who killed him. Maybe he’ll come and see me before the day is over. And, maybe I’ll wake up in the morning and racism will be over, too.
Chapter 14
The compound was alive with the noise of a crowd, distinct voices only heard occasionally-laughter, yelling, religious talk, and profanity, all whirling around together like a brackish whirlpool of sound. Blue movement was everywhere. The activity was astounding; the inmates were in perpetual motion. They buzzed around like bees going from one flower to the next, many of them spreading poison rather than pollen. In the distance I could hear shots being fired on the range, and I wondered if it registered with the inmates that the officers were preparing for the eventuality that they might have to shoot them.
The sun beat down with a vengeance. The only shade was provided by four pavilions that were constructed for just that purpose. Like everything else in the institution, they were uniformly gray. Perhaps they blocked the sun, but they were impotent against the heat. The heat was stifling. Breathing the hot, thick air in and out took extra effort. The breeze that was present at the end of spring had finally given up and left town about a week before. The air didn’t move, which is why the constant movement of the inmates looked all the more out of place.
As I walked through the open population, I was again reminded that I was a stranger in a strange land. This was their world, not mine. Many of the inmates treated me as guests at a dinner party would a servant. Some of them didn’t seem to notice me at all. Others spoke, many of them doing so very respectfully.
As I passed through their midst, I heard contrasting discussions, from talk about God on a seminary level-”The concept of the trinity is not the fixed state of God, but an expression of different ways in which God can be experienced”-to the proliferation of scatological language-”That motherfucker even think about fuckin’ with my shit I’a fuckin’ kick his motherfuckin’ ass two times”-quite often from the same mouth. I heard deals being made, political and sports discussions, and what I never failed to hear anywhere in the prison: discussions of all that was wrong with the Department of Corrections.
I walked down to the recreation field where inmates were very seriously playing. Above the field, in the clear, blue sky, a small flock of birds chirped and sang as they flew-surely a sign to anyone looking: beauty was here, God was here. I usually visited the rec field once a week to be available to the inmates who would never consider coming to the chapel. However, I had already done that this week. This visit was to see Willie Baker, who hadn’t shown up after I had him called to the chapel. I could’ve had security pick him up and bring him to me, but I thought that might make him less than cooperative.
I found Willie at the far end of the rec field sitting on the ground leaning up against the back of the softball fence. He looked about a hundred and fifty. His gray hair, what little there was, made a nearly complete circle around the crown of his head. His eyes were hollow, and his eyeballs seemed as if they would have been too small for their sockets if not for the yellow matter in the corners of them. His stubbly gray beard sporadically covered his gaunt face, dipping down in the recesses of his cheeks because he had no teeth. If he were in any way effeminate you couldn’t tell it by looking at him. However, if he were alive, you couldn’t tell it by looking at him either. Men and women look a lot more alike at his age anyway.
He sat with two other men, both in their twenties. I said men because that’s all this institution incarcerates, not because they looked like men. They were as feminine as any girl I had ever dated, and more so than some. They worked their femininity for all it was worth, too. They were gay and proud; they also seemed to be advertising.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” I said to Willie when I had squatted down in front of him.
Willie’s expression didn’t change. He continued to stare up, which made his pupils almost completely disappear, causing him to look like the blind dude in
“Grandma,” the inmate to his left said in a high falsetto voice, “the chaplain want to talk whichya.”
Willie didn’t respond.
In the center of the field stood a gray officer’s station. Part of it was open, housing free weights and Ping Pong tables. Scattered all around it were card tables where small groups of inmates played checkers, chess, and dominoes. There was no gambling going on-just ask the inmates.
“Grandma,” he said again, this time patting his cheek as he did, “wake up, old girl. They’s a man what wants to talk whichya.”
Willie’s eyes drifted slowly back down to earth, landing somewhere in my vicinity. Then he said in a soft, airy voice, “Who . . .”-he breathed out and paused as if this would require the last bit of life that was left in him-” . . . is . . . it?”
“It’s the reverend. The new one,” he said.
“The fine one,” the other one said. I smiled.
Willie leaned down and whispered something in the ear of the inmate to his left. He was obviously the spokesperson for the group. His name tag read Jefferson.
“Grandma wants to know,” Jefferson said, “if you think homosexuals have no hope of salvation.”
“I don’t think there’s anybody with no hope of salvation. I say this because I am being saved or redeemed or whatever, and if I can, anybody can.”
Willie leaned down again and whispered something else in Jefferson’s ear. Behind us the other inmates on the rec field were loud and active, sounding like children on a playground. And, in many ways, that’s what they were-children who refused to grow up, men who could find no benefit in becoming responsible adults.
“Grandma say what do you think about priests who molest children?”
“I think they need help. I think they do not need to be priests.”
“Do you think that they do that because they fags?” Jefferson asked.
“Pedophilia and homosexuality are two different things, and rarely is a person both,” I said.
Behind me on the track that circled the entire field, two inmates passed by and snickered. They said something I couldn’t make out. Then they laughed some more. Again, Willie whispered something into Jefferson’s ear. Their actions brought to mind Moses and Aaron.
“Grandma say you all right. What you want to know?” Jefferson said.
“I want to know everything there is to know about Ike Johnson.”
“Grandma say he dead. What else is there to know?” Jefferson said after receiving instructions from Grandma to do so.
“I want to know all about him while he was alive so I can find out why he was killed,” I said.
Beyond the blacktop court where young black men played full-court basketball like they did in Miami, the elderly inmates played horseshoes like they did in retirement homes in Sarasota. Past them, the young white inmates played volleyball the way they did on Panama City Beach. Yet, beyond all of this, the wall of chain-link fence and razor wire served as an ominous reminder of exactly which part of Florida this was.
“Grandma say he a real faggot. A bastard of a faggot. Do anything. Worse than a ho. Say, him getting killed just a matter of time. Sooner or later his kind always get stuck.”
“Did he belong to someone?” I asked.
“You mean was he someone’s ho?” Jefferson asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Grandma say everybody think he belonged to Jacobson, but he didn’t. Grandma say he belonged to another inmate, and they both belong to a cop.”
