Dreams from the Monster Factory by Sunny Schwartz & David Boodell

Author:Sunny Schwartz & David Boodell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2009-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Ten months later, Marcum, Becky and I walked into the Third Baptist Church of San Francisco for Sunday morning services. Leroy had asked us to come. By all reports, he had kept on track at San Quentin, finished his sentence, and had been released on good behavior. Leroy Clinton was now here, apprenticing to be a preacher himself. None of us knew what had happened to his Muslim faith, but anything that kept him from dealing coke and boosting cars was something we could get behind.

We found room in a pew about two-thirds of the way from the back. There had to be about three hundred people in the church. It was pulsing with energy. Kids were running around, giggling. A gospel band was noodling around, waiting for the service to start. People came and filled in around us, pushing us to the middle of the row, and I grew anxious. Ever since I was a kid, Christian services had made me uncomfortable. It was the memories of the Pulaski brothers, taunting me in the playground about killing Jesus. I turned to Becky and said, “There is no way I’m going to kneel down.”

“That’s the Catholic church, Sun,” she whispered. “Don’t freak out. These are the Baptists. You can stand up whenever you want.”

The choir started up, and the congregation joined in, full-throated. Everyone was clapping, the organist took a solo, and I tried to relax. We never got to move like this in temple. I could feel the surge of joy that moved through the people, and to me it was like a sudden rainstorm in the desert. Leroy was a test case for our jail. He had been one of the first inmates admitted into the program facility, and had probably come the most distance in the program, from angry rabble-rouser to advocate. He had natural skills that should serve him well. He was a born leader, not frightened of speaking out, and possessed a stubborn streak. If he failed, if he fell on his face, then, in some ways, our program was a failure. We were trying to institute a largely untested jail philosophy—create a humane atmosphere, give criminals some opportunities, make them responsible and accountable for their behavior, and some will turn around. But if a fighter like Leroy couldn’t turn around, then I would have to rethink everything I was doing.

The preacher, Pastor Amos Brown, was giving a welcoming prayer. He had a bass drum of a voice, and was getting the congregation revved up. “We’ve got a new man here today,” he roared. “He’s seen the light. He’s been to prison but today he is transformed. He’s going to come up and preach to us this morning.”

People said “Amen” all around us. Michael, Becky and I exchanged looks. What exactly were we going to get this morning? Marcum shrugged at me as if to say, Wait and see, Schwartzy, wait and see.

Leroy bounded to the podium, his unmistakable dreadlocks still framing his face. He looked dapper, having traded in his orange uniform for a coat and tie.

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