Power in the Blood (28 page)

It was happening again. My mind raced back to Atlanta and the painful experiences of losing my marriage and my church. My whole body tingled, as if it had been asleep and I was just getting the feeling back. I was floating in a black hole, suspended above the abyss. There was no gravity, nothing to hold on to. I was powerless. I was lost.

“So, that’s it,” I said. “You don’t want to hear my side of what’s going on here. Evidence I might have to contradict all of this?”

“Now is not the time, Chaplain. Let these men do their jobs. If you are innocent, it will all work out and we will owe you an apology. But, as they say, it does not look good for you right now. You have done an excellent job here, and I hope, even pray, that this is some kind of horrible mistake, but if it’s not, we are going to move forward with prosecution to the fullest extent of the law.”

“When was this alleged to have happened?” I asked.

“I can’t say,” Daniels said.

“How can I offer a defense if I don’t even know with whom or when I’m to have done this?”

“Chaplain, now is not the time for defense,” Stone said. “I will have an officer escort you over to your office to gather your personal things.”

“FDLE will send an investigator to talk with you. If you’re innocent, it’s in your interest to cooperate,” Fortner said.

“Remember,” Daniels said, “do not leave town. Do not attempt to contact anyone involved.”

“I don’t know anyone involved, because I’m not involved,” I stood up and walked out.

The radio was on, but I didn’t hear it. The heat was stifling, but I didn’t feel it. The scenery was pretty, but I didn’t see it.

My mind was frantically searching for something, anything, that could make sense of what was happening. I didn’t understand how or why or even who was behind all this. I wondered if the allegations were related to my investigation or if they would have happened anyway. I was clueless. And yet I couldn’t help but feel as if the answer were in my mind, somehow encoded in all the data I had collected.

I was driving my rusty old S-10 in the direction of town—a direction, not a destination. I needed some time to air out, to think for a while. I had canceled my date with Anna and Merrill to watch the videos. I really didn’t feel like it, and besides, I was no longer on the case. I was a chaplain without a church and an investigator without a case. I was lost, and I didn’t know who to turn to for direction. Laura had enough going on without this, and we were too newly together. Anna and Merrill were still at the prison, a place I would not be allowed in—by phone or in person. My dad was involved in a prisoner transfer. So, I drove.

I considered calling Susan to ask her to get her dad to back off. I hadn’t talked to her in over a year and had no desire to do so now, but I was desperate.

I pulled into the Jr. Mart parking lot and used the pay phone. She was not home. Thank God for small favors. Her answering machine said, “We are not at home right now.” I wondered who the “we” was, but only for a minute. Whoever the “we” was, they were entangled and endangered. Even in the midst of my present crisis, my heart found the grace to rejoice to be free of Susan and the sickness that was our marriage.

I got back in my truck and continued to ride. I thought about going to my dad’s place or the state park, but in the end I just drove.

I drove for an hour or more, most of the time not aware of where I was. I needed a destination. I didn’t have one. My truck, which was approaching ten years old, didn’t have a low-fuel light. However, I knew from experience when it was almost out of gas. When I looked at it, for the first time since I had been driving, it was at that point. I figured I had just enough gas to get back to town. Then I realized that I didn’t know how far town was because I didn’t know where I was.

I slowed and pulled off on the shoulder to get my bearings. I was at Potter’s Landing, which was about ten miles south of town.

I began to make a U-turn, waiting long enough for a white Ford Bronco to pass by, but it didn’t. It slowed and pulled off the road at an angle blocking me from the front. It was Matt Skipper, and he was not alone. Three other men were in the Bronco with him—all white, all COs, although not in uniform. One of them was Shutt. I could tell by their expressions that this was not a social call.

I jammed the gear shifter in reverse—it ground in protest—and punched the gas pedal. I began to move backwards, although not very fast because my truck had some carburetor problems. I did move away from them, though, and that was the point. When I looked over my shoulder, something I usually do
before
I start to back up, I saw a car approaching in my lane. The car, a green Buick, was maybe twenty yards away. I jerked my steering wheel hard to the right, and in a few seconds I was off the highway again. I slammed on my brakes just before plowing into a rather large pine tree.

I thought about flagging down the Buick, but as it got closer, I could see that it was an elderly couple. There was nothing they could do, except let me use their car phone, if they had one. I had a fleeting thought of the luxurious car and car phone I had in Atlanta. I missed them both, but mostly the car phone at the moment.

Once the Buick passed, I gunned it back onto the highway and headed toward town. Skipper was close behind. In a matter of seconds, he had caught up with me, my old Chevy no match for his new Ford. He pulled up beside me in the left lane, not a problem on the desolate road. He swerved away from me going to the edge of his lane and then swerved back and slammed into me.

I tried to steady the wheel, but it was no use, both of my right-side tires went off the road. The truck bumped and bounced hard on the uneven ground of the shoulder. I resisted the urge to jerk my steering wheel back toward the road. Instead, I slowed and eased back on. Skipper was maybe ten feet in front of me now, still in the left lane.

I wanted to stop. I wanted to go in the other direction. But to get any help at all and not run out of gas, I had to continue toward town. Glancing at the gas gauge, I knew I wouldn’t make it. My tank and perhaps my life were not even half-empty. I looked up again to see Skipper slowing to match my pace.

As he did, I sped up and passed him. I downshifted, which was the only way to get any power out of my little truck, and floored it. I gained speed, but I lost precious fuel.

In less than fifteen seconds, Skipper caught me again. This time he came up from behind. When he caught up with me, he didn’t slow down. He hit me hard from the back. I was thrown forward in a classic whiplash motion and realized that in my disorientation at the afternoon’s events, I had failed to buckle up. Needless to say, I remedied the situation.

After buckling up and praying to arrive alive, I checked my rearview mirror. Skipper was no longer right behind me. Now there were maybe fifty yards in between us. I checked my gauge again, not good, and looked at the road in front of me again. It was empty. When I looked back for Skipper again the distance between us had increased to a hundred yards.

And then he began to increase his speed, decreasing the gap between us. He was coming up fast. It was decision time. I knew I couldn’t outrun him. I knew I couldn’t outmaneuver him. I was in trouble. I had the gas pedal to the floor, and I was doing just over sixty-five. Before I could think of what to do, he was right on me again. I braced myself.

He plowed into me hard. I pitched forward, but the seat belt snapped me back. My bumper dropped off, causing Skipper’s Bronco to bounce up in the air as he ran over it.

That was it. He had bumped me hard, yet I had managed to keep it on the road. I felt encouraged. Pottersville was less than seven miles away now. I just might make it.

And then my engine died. I was out of gas—literally and figuratively. How, I do not know, but I had the presence of mind to pray.

When my truck finally rolled to a stop on the right shoulder of the road, Skipper and company were right behind me. They jumped out quickly. I knew it was only delaying the inevitable, but I locked my doors. Within seconds a tire iron crashed through my window. Glass shattered everywhere. My eyes fixed on a single shard of glass as it slid the length of my dashboard.

When you get hit on the nose, it has a feeling all its own, and, besides being hit in your credentials, nothing hurts worse. This is especially true if you are hit very hard in the nose with a tire iron.

Blood spurted out; cartilage shifted, and bone crunched; my eyes filled with those painful, I-got-hit-in-the-nose-with-a-tire-iron tears; and the pain made me nauseous. I fell over to the side, but not very far—the seat belt held me up. Somebody grabbed me by the shirt, which ripped open as buttons shot like bullets across the cab.

Someone snatched me hard from the seat, but the seat belt held. He yanked even harder, jarring me unmercifully. My brain felt as if it were rattling around inside my skull. Finally he figured out that the seat belt would not give me up, so he unbuckled it. He yanked at me again, and this time I went flying out.

I had probably seen him at the prison, but everything was blurry, and I didn’t recognize him. He reared back and hit me hard in the gut. I fell down as my lunch came up.

I knelt there vomiting as they stood around laughing. On my last heave, I fell forward. With everything in me, I tried to get up, but I couldn’t.

“Search the truck,” Skipper called to Shutt. I lay there with tears, blood, vomit, and dirt smeared all over my face while they searched the truck.

“It’s not here, boss,” Shutt said.

“Get him up,” Skipper yelled.

He got right in front of me after two of his men were holding me vertically again. “Where the hell are those tapes, you son of a bitch?”

I thought I answered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” but evidently nothing came out.

“Answer me,” he yelled again, and this time his spit joined the other disgusting things on my face. Of everything, it disgusted me most.

He turned, and with his back to me he said, “Okay.”

That was just what the two men holding me were waiting for. One got behind me to hold my hands back as the other one moved in to position in front of me. They were placing me in the classic working-over pose. However, rather than keeping me from defending myself, the man behind me was actually keeping me from falling to the ground.

The guy in front of me began working on my midsection as if he were doing a heavy-bag workout. My knees buckled, but the officer behind me held me up. I began to heave again, but everything in my stomach had been purged. I coughed in between heaves. The heaving and the coughing only produced blood. It wasn’t a lot of blood, but it was my blood, which made it way too much blood.

“My turn,” the officer behind me said with an evil sneer.

He was enjoying this way too much. Come to think of it, they all were, with the possible exception of Shutt, who seemed not to have the stomach for violence.

The officer released me, and I crumpled to the ground as they switched positions. I could see the boots of Skipper and the other officer on the other side of the truck, and it looked as if they were still searching through it. When the two officers had switched positions, the one behind me kicked me hard with his pointed-toe boot and said, “Get up, you big pussy.”

I tried.

Finally, he yanked me up, primarily by my hair.

The officer in front of me said, “Hold him still now. I don’t want no moving target. I held him still for you.” The officer holding me began to push me from side to side as if I were a boxer bobbing and weaving. “Cut it out,” the one in front said.

“We got to give him a fair chance now, Jeff, don’t we?” He continued to jerk me from side to side, but I could tell his arms were getting tired. As his grip loosened, I thought of trying to break free to run. When he finally did get so tired that he released me slightly, I fell to the ground again.

When he pulled me back up to my feet, he said, “Now be still, boy. Can’t you see we got work to do? The one in front drew back like he was about to pitch a baseball and swung his fist fast and furiously toward the left side of my head. The blow landed between my ear and eye.

And then the strangest thing happened. Somebody turned off the lights.

I awoke to the muted sounds of soft, constant beeps, whispering voices, and the low hum of an air conditioner. Everything sounded as if I were in outer space or under water.

When my eyes finally opened, they closed again from the assault of the bright light.

Someone said, “Close the blinds. He’s waking up.”

Someone else said, “Okay.” Both voices sounded excited.

My eyes opened again. I saw white light, less bright now, but still very present. A TV mounted on the wall in front of me played CNN. I lifted my right hand. Something was attached to my forefinger. I tried to remove it, but a hand descended out of the sky and prevented me.

My eyes followed the hand up the arm to the body to which it was attached. It was a beautiful goddess with large brown eyes and long brown hair. Beside her was another one. The second one looked like Bambi with a broken nose. Bambi? Laura. And Anna.

Thank you for letting me live. I love you.

“I must be in heaven,” I said. There was laughter, so my words must have come out, but I hadn’t heard them.

The loudest laughter came from the left of the bed. I looked over to see Merrill standing there with a wide grin on his face.

“Oh, no. It must be hell,” I said. And this time it was the ladies who laughed.

“How are you feeling?” one of the ladies asked.

I turned in that direction again, which didn’t take more than five minutes, and said, “Who said that?”

“I did,” Laura said with a warm, adoring smile as she rubbed my leg. Anna had dibs on my hand and arm.

They would just have to share.

“I feel like I just went fifteen with Foreman,” I said.

“You look it, too,” Merrill said. This time I didn’t attempt to look at him.