Twenty-Two
I’M ALREADY AWAKE WHEN the guard brings me breakfast at 6 a.m. I didn’t know what to expect for jail food, so I’m astonished when the tray he hands me is piled with eggs, bacon, sausage, a stack of three pancakes, coffee, and orange juice.
At my questioning look, the guard says in a low voice, “No, this isn’t normal. You don’t want what the other prisoners get, Father. Special request from Detective Parr. She asked me to hand you this.” He produces a note from his pocket.
I unfold the paper and can just make out what she wrote—her handwriting is terrible:
From Anna. Eat up. You need your strength today.
“I have a cousin who goes to your church, Father,” the guard says. “Baptist myself. He told me about your little sermon the other day. Takes a real man to do that. Not like
