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“What about the inspector of this institution?” he asked. “He’s all the help I need at this time.”
    “He’ll be working with you as well, but you are to limit his knowledge of the investigation and its revelations.”
    “You better have a damn good reason for that,” Daniels shot back at Stone.
    “I do.”
    When he didn’t explain, Daniels said, “And what’s that?”
    “A good reason.”
    “No. I mean what is your good reason?”
    Stone smiled. That was all Daniels was going to get.
    “I understand what you’re saying, Ed,” Daniels said patronizingly, trying to be patient with the dumb colored, “but if you’re keeping something from me or if I want to change our little agreement for any reason, I will. You know I have the authority. Now, why don’t you brief your little chaplain, here and let’s begin.”
    “You have copies of all the files and reports that I have. You know as much about it as I do. So, I’m going to let you brief Chaplain Jordan. At the end of the day, report back to me. Both of you.”
    With that, Edward Stone stood to leave me alone with Tom Daniels, which resembled an old nightmare of mine. I stood as the superintendent left. His steps were slow, deliberate, dignified; however, an unmistakable rhythmic step was present as well. Edward Stone, God bless him, was a large chunk that refused to melt in the American pot. The inspector remained seated.
    I sat back down, every muscle in my body tightening again. I felt like a guitar string being wound too tightly, ready to snap at any moment.
    “Before we even begin this little exercise in futility,” he began, “I want to get a few things straight.”
    I merely nodded, trying not to break and run. It wasn’t that I was scared of him, although I wondered what he was capable of doing to me when I wasn’t looking, but it was the enormous guilt I felt about his daughter. I could almost taste the bile that burned in his throat for all the things he wanted to say to me.
    “One,” he said, raising his fingers to count his items off as he came to them, “I don’t like you. Two, I’ve never seen a more hypocritical sight in all my life than you in a clerical collar, except for the fact that it makes you look like the little candy-ass faggot you really are.”
    Amazingly enough, I began to relax. The anticipation proved far worse than the actual confrontation, and, like a child who had disobeyed Dad, I found punishment brought with it release.
    “Three,” he continued, “this is my investigation, and you better stay the hell out of my way. Four, I’ll be watching you—hoping, even praying, that you screw up. Five, when you do, and I know you will, I will personally bury your ass.”
    “Six,” he hesitated. He looked desperate to find a sixth point. “Six,” he said again, “don’t forget one through five.”
    He stood up and walked out. As he reached my door, he began to whistle. I recognized the tune. It was “Amazing Grace,” the song he knew to be my favorite hymn. He had threatened me in my own office, and now he taunted me with a song that was sacred to me. I’m not often right, but when I am, I usually am in a big way. I had been right in a big way: this was not going to go well.

Chapter 4
     
    In an institution like PCI, there are all kinds of inmates. There are those who received a DUI and resisted arrest, those who sexually abused children, those who committed murder, rape, or theft—the last usually in the pursuit of drugs. There are inmates who are very dangerous and others who are themselves in danger in open population. Putting all these various individuals in one institution is a very precarious endeavor. Some of them are violent; some are not. Some of them are escape risks; some you couldn’t make leave. Others need close medical or psychological supervision. And, all inmates must be assigned a job that they are qualified to do, even if it’s picking up trash.
    The department that is responsible for