He wasn’t very far across the tracks, but it was far enough to suit him and close enough to the tracks to suit the white establishment. I had heard some of that white establishment refer to him as a “white negra.” No one had ever said anything like that to me, because they knew what I was-what I had been labeled since the eighth grade when I had fallen in love with Merrill’s little sister, Kyria-a nigger lover.
“Cousin John,” Tyrone said as I walked in, giving me his usual greeting, “how are you?”
“I’m okay, Uncle Tyrone. How are you?”
“I’m hangin’ tough, but you, you don’t look okay. You tryin’ to become black the hard way,” he said, laughing. Merrill and I laughed, too. “You ought to just have the opposite of that treatment Michael Jackson’s having. Be a lot less painful.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “Thank you. You sure know a lot about Michael Jackson to be an old man.”
“I watch a lot of BET. And, what they forget to tell me I read in
“Standard,” I said as I handed him the tape.
“Ah, yeah, I can handle this. Right back here,” he said as he began to walk through the faded curtain behind his counter.
In the back of Tyrone’s store was an office roughly the size of my trailer. It was filled with shelves, which were filled with shoe boxes. On a table that stood against the right wall, there were all sorts of electronic equipment-VCRs, TVs, and stereo components. The eight-millimeter VCR sat on top of a small, square monitor in the center of the table.
“You the only white man who come in here,” he said, smiling broadly. “Any other one see all this stuff think I stole it for sure.” We all laughed, though it was more true than funny.
He popped the tape in.
“I have no idea what’s on the tape. Would you mind if Merrill and I previewed it alone?”
“You scared if I see some white man screwing a black man, I might go off. Well, I wouldn’t. I see that all the time,” he said as he began to walk back toward the front of the store. “Just push play when you’re ready,” he said.
I did.
The first scene to fill the screen was of a floor whose carpet looked familiar to me. It was the chapel at PCI. There was very little light, making the picture on the screen grainy-like a special effect for a rock video. When the camera tilted up and panned left, it showed Molly Thomas walking hesitantly into the dark chapel. She was shivering.
Within seconds, Anthony had pounced on her like a leopard and begun to rape her. She didn’t scream very loudly, but you could tell that she was in pain. In between the screams, she tried to reason with Anthony. They both seemed unaware of the camera’s presence in the sanctuary. One time Anthony looked straight at it without looking into it. His eyes were wild, darting back and forth, as glazed over as a frozen pond and just as cold. In a few moments, before climax, Skipper came in and broke up the little party.
The small video did two things. It showed that I was not involved and that Skipper was. However, Skipper was only shown as breaking up the violation and not as instigating it.
Within another minute, the chapel was empty, and the camera stopped recording. The monitor went blue. I stopped the tape. The whole incident lasted less than five minutes.
“Looks like you’ve just been cleared,” Merrill said.
“Maybe,” I said.
“Ain’t no maybe about it. You be just like Rodney King. Got the shit on tape.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said. “Things didn’t turn out too well for Brother Rodney.”
“Now you know how we feel. Guilty until proven guilty.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s your next move?”
“I think I’ll show this tape to the superintendent and the inspector.”
“Not the others?” he asked.
“They don’t prove Skipper did anything. And the fact that I have them makes it look like maybe I did it,” I said. “What do you think?”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Not much in this world’s for sure.”
“That’s for sure.”
Chapter 44
The Department of Corrections of the state of Florida incarcerated just under 65,000 inmates at a yearly cost of roughly 1.5 billion dollars. The number of people required to operate this department was 23,732. I was now one of those people again.
It was an overcast Tuesday morning, and I was sitting at my desk, again active as the chaplain of Potter Correctional Institution. I had been reinstated thanks to the videotape of the chapel incident, or I should say a VHS copy of that video that Uncle Tyrone had dubbed for me in about ten minutes. Being at work again was not only a result of the tape, but also of a feisty, blond FDLE investigator named Rachel Mills, whom I showed the tape to first and who was by my side as I showed it to Daniels and Stone.
It was nice to be back at work. It was even nicer to see Daniels so disappointed at my return.
As I had expected, Stone and Daniels, and even Rachel Mills, were not willing to say that Skipper did anything but break up an illegal activity. The superintendent did, however, demand a full investigation, especially since, as they said, Molly Thomas had committed suicide. They even allowed Skipper to assist in the investigation since he had been acquitted by the grand jury. The man had nine lives.
A few members of the staff seemed genuinely glad to see me back, but most, like most of the inmates, were tentative and seemed reserved around me. Mr. Smith was excited. Well, as excited as he ever gets. He said he knew I was innocent and was hoping Skipper wouldn’t kill me. I had hoped that myself, still did in fact. What I didn’t say, because I was trying not to think about it, was that someone had already killed me.
I called Laura to tell her the good news. She was, at the same time, happy for me and scared, too. She asked if I had changed my mind about finishing the investigation. I realized that I had started investigating again without consciously deciding to do so. I determined that I had decided to do it for Molly. She deserved better than what she got. I intended on finding out who took her life from her-not that I could get it back and not that I could take theirs, but just because I needed to know, and so did the authorities. No doubt the killer would face a higher court and give an account to the Most High Judge one day, but I wasn’t willing to wait that long. I guess I’ve not perfected my passivity yet, nor my patience. Nobody’s perfect.
After talking with Laura and coming to the realization that I was indeed still trying to figure out whodunit, I was more determined than ever to find out what happened that Monday night, just two weeks ago, in the infirmary. Two weeks ago, there were four people alive who weren’t alive now, and I wanted to know why. I think better around smart people, so I decided to go think with Anna in her office. When I opened my door, Officer Charles Hardy was standing there.
“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to see you, sir,” he said. “Several people told me you wanted to talk to me about the morning Johnson was killed, but I’ve been out of town. I’m in the reserves, and they sent us to help with some hurricane damage in Charleston.”
Charles Hardy was an excellent correctional officer. Like most of his fellow officers, he was a good, decent man doing a difficult job. His crisp uniform and patent-leather shoes betrayed his military training, so did his comfort with authority. He accepted the authority of those above him with honor, and even more noble was the fact that he never abused his authority over the inmates.
“That’s okay,” I said. “I appreciate you stopping by. I realize this is not your shift, and you don’t have to talk
