She remains silent for a few minutes, as if she’s trying to decide what it is she wants to say to me. Or perhaps how to say it. Finally, she begins. “You love him, don’t you?”
That’s a simple question to answer. I feel a warmth spreading through me, and my lips cannot keep from smiling as I reply, knowing exactly whom she is speaking of. “Yes, I do. Very much.” I look into her eyes. There’s nothing but kindness there—kindness and understanding.
“I could tell,” she says. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I think you two are so cute together.”
That’s the first time I’ve ever heard that, and she laughs as I uncharacteristically redden, before she turns serious. “I’m sorry this is happening to you,” she says, “I don’t believe for a moment you’ve done anything wrong. I don’t understand what’s going on here, other than someone wants to cause you trouble because you won’t behave the way they think you should.” She squeezes my hand, looks earnestly into my face. “Once you get out of here, get yourself away from here. Far, far away. You and Mr. Jarvis. You deserve better than this.
Don’t let these people do you wrong, you don’t deserve it.” Her sweet words are balm to my aching soul, but alas, I know in my heart what she says cannot and will not be. I know I’m destined to never achieve the bail of which she speaks. By that time, I shall already be dead. This I do know. But at least if all goes well tonight, and I intend to see that it does, at least Judas will still be alive, and far, far away from here. And that’s what matters most to me at this moment.
“Thank you,” I reply sincerely.
She leans in, kissing my cheek.
“Might I ask a favor of you?”
“Yes, Joshua?”
“Might I be allowed to see the members of my band tomorrow? Just a few minutes each, if it would be possible…” It will be my last chance to speak with my apostles, until the next time.
She nods her head graciously. “Of course. We’ll make arrangements in the morning.” She turns to look at my untouched supper tray, and then back at me.
“Will you even try?” she asks, hopefully.
I shake my head, regret evident in the simple gesture. “I’m sorry,” I apologize,
“no offense meant, it smells wonderful, but I cannot eat…”
“I won’t push.” She sighs, rising as she picks up the tray, her hand caressing my cheek briefly, offering comfort as she would to anyone—man, woman, or child.
“You’re a very sweet lady, please always be happy. Might I see little Sarah again tomorrow?” I request.
“Oh yes, she’s made me promise to bring her to see you tomorrow, too.” She laughs softly. “How can I possibly refuse?” She draws her hand back, and leaves the cell, closing and locking it reluctantly. For a moment she stands there, contemplating me. Then she whispers softly, “Good night, Jesus,” her words and her tone a reminder of my purpose and my place as I give her a pleased smile before she turns and walks away, joining her husband and child for a few minutes before they leave for the night. Kaplan stays. Apparently he has a cot of his own inside his office that he uses for those times when he cannot get away from the jail to go home to sleep. Times such as now.
He sits behind his desk, feet propped up on it comfortably, a paperback in his hands. The only sound is the ticking clock and the occasional turned page. That’s how the evening passes—Kaplan lost in his reading, me in my thoughts. Until, finally, he replaces his bookmark, sets the paperback down, and begins to stretch.
Rising, not bothering to stifle his yawn, he checks the door to the jailhouse, makes sure it’s locked, but not before going outside, checking to make sure all is quiet there. The picketers have gone home, undoubtedly to return on the morrow. Once he’s certain all is safe and secure, he approaches my cell, checks the locks there as well.
“I’ll be in my office if something happens,” he says, not unkindly. “Try to get some rest, Mr. Stone. I have a feeling tomorrow will be a busy day for you.”
“Thank you, Sheriff Kaplan, you’ve been very kind.”
He studies me for a moment, as if wondering what to make of me. “Everything will be all right, if you let it be,” he says. “I’m here to help, whether you believe that or not.”
“I do believe that, I know you are…”
“Well, then, I’ll say good night,” he says at last. “I have to warn you, I’m an early riser. Hope that’s not a problem. ’Course it’ll make it easier for your visitors, so if they’re early risers, too, all the better for them.” And with a final good night, he leaves me to myself, and retires.