Page 20 of Go First
The news reached even into iron and stone.
Elijah Cox sat on the edge of his bunk, shoulders squared, watching the corridor on the other side of the bars.When the guard passed earlier, carrying the folded newspaper meant for the officers’ lounge, Cox had seen the headline in black type:
TELEVANGELIST JONATHAN WHITFIELD FOUND DEAD
He hadn’t needed to read the rest.
It was written already in the faces of the men around him, in the murmurs that ricocheted off concrete walls, in the way the prison’s daily rhythm faltered like an old clock.Some prisoners chuckled, others cursed, some whispered that the pastor had been cursed by his own Lord.Men whose faith was little more than a superstition suddenly stood straighter, sniffing judgment in the air.
There were three things – an Unholy Trinity – that got the cons excited. When a short-eyes – a child molester – came onto the wing.When the drugs ran out.And when someone ‘big’ was murdered, in or out of jail.
Cox only bowed his head when the news came in.Not in grief.Not in satisfaction.In confirmation.
The death of Pastor Jonathan Whitfield had not surprised him.Nor the manner of it.Delicate work, by a craftsman.Chosen well.Jakes looked like he carried bricks for a living, but he was surprisingly agile.
Although Cox had rights over two beds, in the daytime he sat very still on the top bunk, spine ramrod straight, hands resting neatly on his knees.Stillness was his weapon here.Most of the cons filled their days with noise and threats, constant grandstanding and contesting, like little boys.But Cox cultivated silence like a monk in his cloister.It gave him authority.It gave him control.And because his cell was visible through the bars, everyone who passed could see just how in control he was.
It was in that stillness that the guard came for him.
“Cox.That guy who requested a visit.Did you give consent?”
Cox looked up slowly, those eyes giving nothing away.“A visitor?”His voice was calm, deliberate, each syllable carved.
“You must have consented.Because he’s here.Looks like a Chaplain.”
Cox allowed himself the faintest of nods.He hopped down from the bunk.The cuffs closed over his wrists with their cold bite.Shackles clinked around his ankles, the chain short enough to shorten his stride.
He did not resist.Chains were expected.They were part of the ritual.He moved in a way that saidyou cannot chain my heart.
The guard – an older man with a slight limp - escorted him down the corridor.Prison smell: disinfectant layered over men’s sweat, stale bread from the kitchen, metal rusting where paint had peeled.The doors they passed were studded with eyes, some curious, some hostile, some hungry.Whispers followed:
“Hey preacher man, there’s no savin yo ass”
“Chaplain wanna confess something?”
Cox ignored them.
The visitation room was a cold box of beige walls and bolted-down furniture.A single table waited, with two chairs on opposite sides.Once in the room, the guard guided Cox into the seat, secured the shackles to a metal ring in the floor, and stepped back to stand by the door.A camera above his head recorded everything.
The visitor was waiting.
The man calling himself Father Michael Santos was in his early forties, with a neat conquistador beard which, like the hair at his temples, was just starting to turn silver.His collar was crisp, his black shirt uncreased despite the damp morning air.He had the build of a man who had known hard work in his youth—broad shoulders, strong hands—and yet his expression carried a gentleness that did not belong in this place.
Santos did not begin with the perfunctory small talk most chaplains favored.He did not offer hollow assurances of prayer or redemption.He simply studied Cox with keen, thoughtful eyes, then inclined his head in greeting.
“Reverend Cox.Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.I’ve applied for the chaplain’s post here, and as part of that process, I wanted to meet with a few… residents.”
Cox’s lips curved in the faintest suggestion of amusement.“Congratulations.”He rattled the chain lightly with one hand, as if he wanted to shake the chaplain’s hand, but couldn’t.
Santos smiled—not mocking, not condescending, simply patient.“I’m not here to press my version of faith on you.I suspect that would be… unnecessary.”
Cox tilted his head.“Unnecessary.An interesting choice of word.Do you consider me already converted, Father?”
“I consider you,” Santos replied evenly, “to be a man who thinks deeply about scripture.A man who interprets it with… intensity.I came because I want to understand how you see divine justice.”
Cox let the silence stretch.Many men flinched under his gaze, but Santos did not.His composure was steady, as if he had rehearsed calmness.
“Divine justice,” Cox said at last.“Few dare speak of it.Fewer still act upon it.Most prefer a comfortable, loving God who forgives without condition.They want mercy without righteousness.Comfort without judgment.A gospel watered down until it has no taste at all.”