A Priest in Hell: Gangs, Murderers and Snitching in a by Randall Radic
By Randall Radic
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Extra info for A Priest in Hell: Gangs, Murderers and Snitching in a California Jail
This is John Stofft,” says the guy on the second phone. Frustration gathers in his voice like dust on a table. He is fifty something, with short gray hair, which needs the services of a 44 A PRIEST IN HELL comb, and slender. “I’m trying to get hold of Martin. I’m in the jail, and I need a bail bondsman, someone to get me out. Is anyone there? ” A machine, I realize; he is talking to an answering machine. Hence his frustration. They cannot call him back, not in jail. He hangs up the phone, turns, stops.
Out the steel gray doors to his gold Lincoln Town Car. He places me in the back seat. We drive out the rolling gate, through Ripon, then onto Highway . I sit mute, afraid, numb. “Sharla told me you wrote some religious books,” he says. ” “Yeah? ” I ask. ” “We like it,” he says. ” I ask. ” “Yeah,” he smiles. “I got lucky when one of the detectives 23 RANDALL RADIC retired. They asked me to take his place. ” “You must be good,” I say. I can’t believe I am having this conversation, as if we’re on our way to the country club to play tennis, then have a drink.
I understand,” she says. “Remember, though, I love you. ” I hang up the handset, step aside. In an instant, the orangeclad body behind me has the phone to his mouth and ear. He coughs heavily, spraying germs all over the mouthpiece of the handset. I step back, look at him. Then I look around me, scrutinizing all the inmates. Each one appears unhealthy. I walk to cell , my cell, glance around the sink. No soap. I want to wash my hands. Back outside, I look for the Arab. I spot him over by the television; he is standing, talking to John Stofft.