Attending a funeral from prison

There are no absolutes in prison anywhere. Just a soon as you say this is how it is, bam, somewhere else handles it entirely differently. Funerals are no exception. If I was to attend my sisters funeral the first thing that would have to happen would be that I would have to be approved by the administration, probably a captain, my caseworker and possibly the Chaplain. I would need medium security at best, which I amazingly had. The second thing I would need to be able to do is afford the trip, one that I would have to pay for. I would also pay the way for the guard that would be traveling with me, plus his housing at a hotel, plus any overtime that he would incur. Most men can't afford these costs and neither could I.

Hanging around the Chaplain's office after hearing the news offered minimal consoling. The Chaplain and Catholic Priest moaned that they wished there was something they could do. In walked Staff Psychologist Jim Woods. Mr Woods was a congenial enough fellow, always with a smile and something uplifting to say. I had done him a favor in times past by reading onto a cassette a very technical text book that a fellow psychologist and friend needed to have to take a particular course. The problem was that he was blind. My help enabled him to listen to his course studies thus being able to take the course.

Mr. Woods could see the devestation written all over everyones faces and asked what the problem was. Mr. Woods went into the office with Chaplain Beherens and Father Jones. When he came out he walked right out of the office not saying a word. Chaplain Beherens with a smile on his face said, "We got the money." Some things you don't ask questions about, you just go with the flow, and if I had the money then I had the money.

The last call a prisoner wants is from the Chaplains office. No good news comes from the Chaplain's office. It usually means someone has died in your family. The first time was when Aunt Dorothy died. I was in Sheridan at the time, a youth reformatory, when I received a letter telling me Aunt Dorothy died. Normally someone who is assigned to read all incoming mail would have spotted it and told the Chaplain but, since she was only my Aunt it probably didn't mean anything to them so they let it go by.

The second time was a little more harsh. The Chaplain, a Captain and a Sargent called me out of the hole and asked me when was the last time I had seen my father. It had been almost ten years. My father and mother had got a divorce when I was about eight. When I was ten, my mother put me in a military school because with four kids I was chosen to lighten the load by being sent away. My father came one Easter and took me from the school. It was the last time I saw him. The Captain asked me if my father had done anything for me. "Like what," I asked. "Did he take you to any ball games or picnics?" I could remember only one occasion when he took me to a Chicago Cubs game. "Is that all?" the Captain asked. It was the only one I could remember. "Well," he continued, "since its been so long and he apparantly didn't love you we don't think you should feel so bad that he is dead."

The third call was equally as devestating. I was serving time in the U. S. Medical Center for Federal Prisoners in Springfield, Mo. when I got a call to see the Chaplain. As soon as I sat in the chair offered to me by the Chaplain I knew something bad had happened. Chaplain Niles Behrens asked, "who is Theresa Killian?" "My sister," I said. "Whats the problem?" "Your sister has died in the Hazelcrest Jail from hanging.