A COUPLE OF WEEKS LATER the Archbishop gave me permission to visit Myerton. A mild October had given way to a chilly November, and the wind whipped down Main Street as I drove past the storefronts and Saint Clare’s Parish. I made a mental note to check on Father McCoy before I left. The Archbishop had assigned him to the parish permanently, and I wanted to see how he was settling in. And by settling in, I meant getting along with Glenda. Before I did that, I had a stop to make.
I drove just past the police station to the courthouse parking lot. On the other side of the parking lot was the county jail. With the exception of the barbed wire topped fence, it looked more like a medical office building than a jail. I parked the car and got out. Walking across the lot to the jail, I heard
