Free Power in the Blood by Michael Lister Page A

nurse.”
    “You became an excellent nurse,” I said.
    She smiled warmly as tears filled her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered and leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. I could feel her tears.
    “Thank
you
,” I said.
    She turned, pulled some tissues from the flower-covered box on the counter, and dabbed at her eyes. I hopped off the table.
    When she had finished wiping her eyes, I asked, “How did you wind up here?”
    “In prison, you mean?” She smiled. “Old sour Sister Mary Margaret said I’d wind up in prison one day. I worked for a doctor in Tallahassee that I needed to get away from, and this came open, so here I am.” She backed away from me slightly.
    “You needed to get away from the doctor you worked for?” I asked.
    “Yes, well, it’s a long story,” she said. “Bottom line is that we had a relationship. He had a wife . . . and kids. And . . . it was a bad scene.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “Tallahassee’s loss is our gain.”
    “Thanks. Anyway, I didn’t mean to get into all that, but you are so easy to talk to. And so nonjudgmental. I’ve heard you went through a divorce and some pretty rough times yourself. I’m sure that gives you a lot of empathy for others.”
    “I hope so,” I said as I walked over to the door and opened it. “Thanks again.”
    “Thank
you
,” she said. “I’d like to talk again sometime, perhaps over coffee.”
    “Sounds great.” I walked out, leaving the door open.

Chapter 8
     
    Compared to other investigations I had conducted, I was finding out information quickly. Prison is such a closed society and so self-contained that rather than having a lack of information about the case, it seemed as though I’d soon be faced with having too much. Having such easy access to everyone at all times, with the exception of the first- and third-shift officers, made this more like
Murder on the Orient Express
than a modern-day investigation.
    I was trying to track down an inmate named Jacobson, which on the street would have taken days, if not weeks. In a matter of minutes, I discovered that he was in lockup.
    There are four types of lockup in the state prison system. Protective management lockup is for those who are at risk in the general prison population—rapists, child-molesters, ex–law enforcement officers. Close management dorms are for those who, because of their custody, crimes, and behavior on the inside, do their entire sentence inside a cell. Then there is confinement, which has two classifications—administrative and disciplinary. An inmate is placed in administrative confinement when the administration determines that it is best to do so—usually when he is under investigation for a crime. Disciplinary confinement is for those inmates who were accused of a crime and were found guilty. Jacobson was in the latter.
    Whereas most inmates in the Florida DOC are housed in open-bay, military barracks–style dormitories, those in lock-up are housed in single six-by-nine cells. Some of the lockup cells house two inmates, some one. All have a sink, toilet, bunk, and a very small window covered with steel mesh. The inmates in lockup are fed through a slot in the metal door about the size of a food tray. Jacobson’s was open, and I was talking to him through it.
    Squatting down to talk through the tray slot in the door always made my knees ache and my feet fall asleep. I usually chose to talk to an inmate through the tray slot because of the security hassle involved in arranging to meet him in his cell or the conference room. For me to enter an inmate’s cell, he must be frisked and cuffed, and an officer must be present at all times. The same is involved if I meet with him in the conference room. Many times what the inmate has to say to me is so short that being frisked and cuffed takes longer than our meeting. Other times the inmates have a lot to say, but are unable or unwilling to because of the security officer standing within hearing distance. I