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Additional resources for A Priest in Hell: Gangs, Murderers and Snitching in a California Jail
If I get hungry enough, I will eat it. But not until then. Thirty minutes later the trustee returns to pick up my tray. The sour accompanies him. The unlocks the cell door, opens it. I hand the trustee my tray. “Thanks,” I say. ” He gives me a secretive look. ” I say to the . ” he barks. ” “You’re ,” he snaps out. “You weren’t supposed to get out for rec last night. ” 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’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. The plump Arabian guy from across the way comes over to John. ” asks the Arab. He has no accent, so maybe he’s not Arabian, I think to myself. “No,” moans John Stofft. “Just a machine. ” “It’s Friday,” replies the Arab. ” John nods, but his face, even his posture, grimaces.
She asks. “Yes, ma’am,” I reply. “In here,” she says. She walks to a desk in the office and sits down. Rolling her chair forward, she rests her elbows on the desk. “Sit down,” she says, nodding to a chair across from her. I sit. The desk is pale yellow with an army green rubber bumper around its edge. The walls and the woman’s skin are the same shade of yellow. “I’m the duty nurse,” she says in a voice like tearing paper. She studies some form in front of her. “I’m going to ask you some questions.