Fiction

Prison Story

by Gary Ritter
08/29/14
Not For Sale
Author requests article critique

  Message Writer
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“Wait in the car.  I will clear the way for us.”

Pastor Lawrence approached the gate of the prison and spoke to the guards through the heavy bars that separated them.  The yellow block walls loomed as a foreboding presence, a warning to those outside that the law knew no mercy.  The gate opened and the pastor entered the compound.

A sultry breeze came through the open windows of the car.  Gasoline was expensive, sold in jars by enterprising merchants along the side of the road.  Leaving the car running with the air conditioner on wasn’t an option.  Although they were parked partially in the shade it made little difference.  Temperatures close to triple digits were the norm in this equatorial, West African country.

The two men waiting in the car engaged in small talk: discussion of the mission and the work accomplished thus far.  Part of a larger group, they had been teaching God’s Word to those hungry to hear and learn.  For fourteen years the country had suffered from a devastating civil war.  Many men had been compelled to act in ways they normally never would, taking sides under threat of death, and killing in order not to be killed.  Most of the women had been raped, often at the point of a knife; the ones who hadn’t were the exception.  Children had become soldiers; a generation lost.  Now only two years since the end of the war, much healing was needed.

Forty-five minutes after he had disappeared from view, Pastor Lawrence returned.  He leaned in the window and smiled.  “We’re in.”

Sam Murray and Bill Hayford pumped their fists in victory.  At the prison gate the three had to sign several forms that released liability.  With that they followed the guard leading them to their destination.

They walked a narrow dirt path past squat block buildings with few windows, all secured by the ubiquitous iron bars.  In the bright sunlight Bill Hayford could see only the eyes of those peering out.  The dark skin of their owners hid them in the shadows of their cells.

Hayford was along for the ride.  When Sam Murray said he hoped to preach at the prison, Hayford asked if he could come.  Since he’d come to the Lord the place he had been graciously spared in his prior life fascinated him.  Pastor Lawrence, one of their native hosts at the church the mission group had come to help, had never been to the prison, but he knew his way around and what it took to get things done in his country that, since the war, had sprouted hope and corruption.

The chapel was a large room that held about a hundred seats with a raised platform holding the lectern.  Sam Murray placed his Bible there and along with the others began greeting the men as they entered.  All who weren’t held under extra security were invited, but only those who desired to hear God speak into their lives attended.  Most of the men wore lightweight, buttoned, short-sleeve shirts.  To a man they all wore flip-flops, the country’s national shoe.

Sam Murray brought the Word.  When finished he asked if any of the inmates wanted prayer.  All stood.  Forming three lines the ones who had come to minister did just that, asking for blessing and that each prisoner might walk more closely with God through the knowledge of His Son, Jesus Christ.  With the prayer completed, most of those who lived in these difficult circumstances had smiles on their faces.

One of the guards came over and spoke to Pastor Lawrence.  He nodded and said to the others, “The warden would like to see us.”  After a short walk they came to the small structure housing the administrative offices.

The warden, a tall, gaunt man, greeted them; they sat elbow to elbow on wooden chairs he had provided in his tiny office on the other side of his desk.  After several minutes of conversation the warden got an uneasy look on his face.  Speaking directly to Sam Murray he said, “My guard told me you mentioned that you are a police officer.  Is that true?”

Murray nodded.  “Yes, I showed them my badge.  I work in the largest county jail in the United States.”

“Really.  May I see it?”

Murray pulled out his wallet and flipped it open for the warden to peruse the shiny star.

“Ah, you are a deputy?”

“Yes, Deputy Officer Samuel Murray.”

The warden grinned weakly.  “That is good.  You probably have much knowledge of the way of the criminal justice system.”

“I’ve been an officer for twenty-nine years.”

Rising quickly, the warden clapped his hands.  “Okay, then, it was nice to meet you.”

Taking the cue, Pastor Lawrence also stood, saying, “We appreciate the opportunity to minister at your prison.”

Already busying himself with some papers on his desk, he waved away the thanks, “Yes, yes.”

The three men left and walked back the way they had come in the brilliant heat, one of them somewhat perplexed at the abrupt dismissal.

Back in the car with the AC on at last, Bill Hayford said, “That was strange.  He sure got tired of us in a hurry.”

Behind the wheel Pastor Lawrence shot a glance at Deputy Officer Murray.  “You know why.”

Nodding, with a bemused expression on his face, Sam Murray said, “I’m afraid so.  When he saw my badge, he knew he couldn’t shake us down for an under-the-table contribution.  He feared that with my law enforcement connections, he could get in trouble demanding a bribe.”