By Randall Radic
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Extra resources for A Priest in Hell: Gangs, Murderers and Snitching in a California Jail
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. I walk right up to him. ” he asks. “Yeah,” I reply. ” “Soap? You need soap? ” “They didn’t give me anything,” I tell him. I grab the neck of my orange top, flap it. ” “Well . . ,” says the Arab, pondering my dilemma. ” says a voice.
It looks clean. There is a white towel hanging from a stainless steel hook to the right of the sink. At the far end of the cell sits a small dresser with two drawers. I sit on the bunk. The mattress is three inches thick and hard. Tears run down my face. I have nothing left. No energy, no thoughts, no possessions, no food, no personal items, no cup to drink from. No job, no house, no car, no money, no one I love. No book to read, no paper to write on, no pencil. All I have is the orange clothing I wear, and it is not even mine.
He bangs the door shut in my face. ” I ask through the glass. He swings the door open again. ” he shouts. Anger spikes from his eyes. ” I ask. ” The door slams shut. He locks it. “Protective Custody,” I mutter to myself, sitting down on my bunk. ” After I brush my teeth, comb my hair, I settle on my bunk to read. A few hours later the taps at my window. Jumping up, I walk to the glass. “In about ten minutes, you’re gonna have a visit,” he says. “Thank you, sir,” I reply. He walks off. Fifteen minutes later the unlocks my cell door.