The Godless One by J. Clayton Rogers Page A

"Later," he said.
    Ari thought they were soliciting
spiritual advice, but as they turned up a long corridor, Grainger
said, "I help them with their petitions to the parole
board."
    Ari was not sure what a parole board
was. He added it to his growing list of Americanisms to
research.
    They passed several rooms that
contained inmates sitting at computer terminals.
    "These are computer literacy classes,"
Grainger explained. "You can’t get very far in the modern world
without knowing the basics of Windows and Mac."
    "That sounds like a course I should
take," Ari said.
    "They don’t have access to the net,"
Finley said, a little too smugly. "No CD/DVD burners, either. We’ve
spent tons on software programs that mimic the internet, but all
they really want is porn."
    Grainger made a sound of impatience. A
responsive nod from Finley told Ari he was familiar with that
particular cough. "You’re too tolerant, Reverend. If that inmate
wins the lawsuit we were talking about, you watch how much hell
breaks loose."
    To an inquiring glance from Ari,
Grainger said, "The inmate in question wants to read Lady
Chatterley’s Lover."
    "Straight out porn," said
Finley.
    Grainger coughed. Finley
nodded.
    "’Mohammed Jones’," the Deputy Warden
continued. "That’s the prisoner you’re going to see. That’s what
we’ve called him since he was processed out of Culpeper County
Jail. The Reception Center people were pulling out their hair. A
little unusual. We’re Level Three, and they didn’t know how
dangerous Mohammed is, so they sent him here. We can’t even get a
surname out of him."
    "I understood that your previous
translator visited several times," said Ari.
    "They talked a mile a minute, at first,
but nothing useful came out of it," Finley answered. "My guess is
they talked about life back home, family, useless
stuff."
    He stopped in front of a classroom.
"The reverend and I have to stop here. This is privileged
client-lawyer business." He popped his head into the room.
"Jenny?"
    "Yeah!" came a gruff response. There
was a scraping of furniture and a short, overweight woman shuffled
up to the door. She looked up at the three men, giving a grunt when
she saw Ari. He was reminded of the woman he had seen feeding feral
cats at Manchester Docks.
    "This is Ari Ciminon," said Grainger,
stepping aside.
    Jenny held out her hand and Ari took
it, intending to give it a gentle shake. The woman whipped his arm
up and down like a hand pump. "You speak Arabic, Mr.
Ciminon?"
    "Enough to get by," Ari
smiled.
    "I hope you can get more out of
Mohammed than your predecessor."
    "I’ll do my best."
    She held up a blank notepad. "This is
all I got in three sessions. Well, that plus complaints about the
food here. Mohammed said he wanted something called
‘hell-meat‘."
    "Halal meat," Ari corrected.
    "Right," Jenny nodded.
"And don’t even talk about days when pork is on the menu! Anyway,
Mustafa Zewail, the guy before you, said the name of Allah has to
be pronounced when the animal is slaughtered. We’ve got plenty of
Muslims here, and in the Culinary Arts program, too. I’m sure they
must say ’Allah’ when they carve the roast. But that doesn’t suit
Mohammed. He says those are black Muslims. I always thought a Muslim here is a
Muslim there. Are you aware of any Koranic rules that apply to
this?"
    Ari put on a show of deep thought, then
shook his head. "It sounds like Mohammed is trying to be a pain in
the ass."
    Grainger looked dismayed, but Finley
barked another laugh.
    "You’ll do just fine, Mr. Ciminon," he
said, then turned at a noise in the corridor. "Here’s your man,
now."
    Mohammed was wearing a belly chain and
accompanied by a guard. He was almost as short as Jenny. In his
orange jumpsuit, he looked like a shizi. Ari’s mind ticked down a
mental list and thudded against a picture from an IPS
file.
    Iraqi , he thought with alarm. Ari's trepidation rose when
Mohammed's eyes fixed on him in puzzlement—the first step