Salvage Yard of Souls "Justice Prevails?"

By Joyce Carol Gibson

Her unrelenting quest for justice in a corrupt system paves the road to Toni’s destruction. This is based on a true story of the injustices endured by a naïve jailer who subconsciously seeks resolve for crimes committed against her and her daughter in the early part of a bad marriage.

With a set distinction of right and wrong, and a stubborn will to never defer, Toni finds herself trying to police the police. After a decade of working at the sheriff’s department, Toni has recorded a plethora of wrongs by law-enforcement agents and the services for children. Because she knows too much, the sheriff and some of his followers diligently seek her fall.

What they do not know is that Toni has kept an ongoing journal since her teenage years. She carried a voice activated, mini-cassette tape recorder with her from the day she was interviewed for the job at the sheriff’s department.

Toni is harassed, arrested, and almost destroyed, but her attorney assures her that the journal is proof enough of the corruption, and evidence enough to win her case against the sheriff.

When the attorney turns on Toni, she is left with a decision to make. Physically and emotionally exhausted from the battle, defeated by politics, and spiritually wounded, will she seek justice on her own terms or will she allow God to have His vengeance? Her strong belief in God and her search for the right path has played an important part in her life so far. Forgiveness is essential, but so is justice. Is there a way to obtain both in the salvage yard of souls?

... Justice prevails?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Sep 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781621833833

Joyce Carol Gibson

Joyce is the third of five children, born to a preacher and his wife in a coal mining town of West Virginia. The town was wedged between the mountains and populated with fewer than five hundred people. She spent most of her free time sitting on side of the mountain scribbling her thoughts, aspiring to be a famous poet. Before she knew how to hold a pencil, Joyce often begged her sister to write her words for her, but Brenda refused saying, “I’m not your secretary.” When in her early thirties, Joyce began sending poems and short stories to vanity competitions. Each entry achieved one of the top placements in the publication, and sometimes first place prize money. It was no great accomplishment but was encouraging. Her voice was not completely dead. Divorced and living alone most of the time, on her income from a full time job, Joyce has one grown daughter and three grandchildren. Carla is thirty eight years old, and married to Chad. Her children are nearly grown. The oldest son, Frankie is twenty one, works full time at night and goes to college. He lives with Joyce temporarily, and insists on paying room and board. Jacob is almost nineteen, and Faith is fourteen. Katrina is Joyce’s assumed daughter. She was Carla’s childhood friend. Katrina’s mother died when she was nine years old, and from then has been considered family. Katrina and her husband Eric have two grown sons, Cody and Trevor. If you were to ask Joyce what matters most to her, she would say God and her family. Her mother died in 2012. She lived almost eighty four years and spent the last three years living with Joyce and Margie, the youngest of the five. After their mother died, Margie went to live with her grandchildren in another state. Joyce and her four siblings grew up working. They learned many skills and know how to survive. Joyce turned her attic into a bedroom, including dry wall and electric wiring. She did the work herself. After seeing that she really could do it, she closed in her porch to make another bedroom. Faith helped her lay the ceramic tile floor, and Joyce built a wraparound porch around the existing porch to hold the ladder while she hung the windows and siding without help. Hard work comes easy to her, but relaxing is something she never learned to do. Writing helps her do that. If possible, Joyce would have had fifty children, but is glad she was only able to have one. The storms of her life would have been impossible to weather with more children to protect. However, it is normal to find a teenager, who feels unloved by their own family, sleeping on her couch. The House Rule is simply The Golden Rule—“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” Unruly behavior and criminal activity are not tolerated. She lives modestly in a once two bedroom cottage type house. She has a positive and upbeat attitude about life and is thankful to enjoy good health at sixty two. She loves everyone and though forgiveness is sometimes hard, she forgives readily. She says that Carla has taught her most about real faith and forgiveness. Carla is amazing and has a huge measure of faith, and love. Forgiveness comes natural to her. Joyce says she would like to take credit for teaching Carla to be that way, but she knows that Carla taught her.

Book preview

Introduction

Journaling is an invaluable tool. My fifth grade teacher said it would preserve information our conscious minds may forget.

Later, in high school, I learned that a journal can be a testimony, often admissible in a court of law. That’s when my daily journaling began. I had previously recorded only memorable events and kept them in a shoe box, but they were lost with my early journals in a move from New Jersey.

One of the most memorable times recorded proved my naivety. I was fourteen years old and working in my grandfather’s restaurant. I liked working there because I could listen to the jukebox. We weren’t allowed to listen to the radio or watch television, but the jukebox helped business.

Loretta Lynn came in with her husband and their preschool twins. I enjoyed hearing Loretta sing, but I had never seen a picture of her. She was hosting a rodeo nearby. I didn’t know it was her when she gave me a quarter to play the jukebox.

What kind of music do you like? I asked.

Anything country, she said.

I chose Bargain Basement Dress, What Kind of a Girl, and You Ain’t Woman Enough.

Tell me why you chose those songs, Mr. Lynn said later.

Cause I love Loretta Lynn, I answered. Don’t you?

Loretta bowed her head and chuckled.

Why do you laugh? I asked.

Honey, I am Loretta Lynn.

No you ain’t I answered and went back to the kitchen to get their order.

It was midafternoon, and they were the only patrons in the restaurant. The twins were rowdy and uninterested in eating.

Do you want me to take the girls outside to play so y’all can eat in peace? I asked. We’ll be right there where you can see us.

Honey, would you do that? Loretta asked. That’s sweet ah you.

When the parents came outside to get the girls, Mr. Lynn went to the truck and returned with Loretta’s newest album. She signed it and gave it to me for entertaining the girls.

I felt like an idiot for not knowing it was her, but I was thrilled to meet her. That night was the most exciting time of my young life. Loretta Lynn took me to the rodeo. I sat in the car with her. We ate mints—she ate them to hide the onions on her breath—and we talked about Tammy trying to take over as the Queen of Country Music.

She ain’t a getting it, Loretta said. I’m ah gonna stay queen.

I sat on the corner of the stage while Loretta performed. She sang each song I had asked her to sing. For the first time in my life, I felt like a real person. In fact, that night helped change the way I saw myself because Loretta treated me like she was seeing me through God’s eyes.

Loretta Lynn inspires me. Her faith in God is beautiful. She has touched the hearts of so many people that she probably hasn’t given me another thought. Then again, maybe she has thought of me because she’s not like most people.

Meeting Loretta is a precious memory for me—one which I will always remember vividly. Still, I hated losing the detailed ledger of that day.

When I was in my mid-twenties and working as a private investigator, notes were necessary. But when I was accused of forging notes, my personal journal corroborated my testimony. Since then, journaling has been part of my everyday routine.

My dad said, Journaling may make it harder to forgive because you have written the pain.

I remember the pain, with or without my journal, but I believe I have forgiven everyone who has wronged me. I hope the people who were, or even feel that they were, wronged by me have forgiven me for their sake.

Sometimes forgiveness is not a onetime thing. The more we dwell on the wrong, the more likely we are to have to forgive that wrong again and sometimes even again. It nears impossible, sometimes to forgive an adult. In some cases, it may be necessary to forgive the child who became the abusive adult as a result of their own suffering.

I waited twenty-one years to finish this book. At times I abandoned the idea altogether, but now it feels right. Many of the characters have died. Some have moved on to other employment, and most who still work at the sheriff’s department were not vile characters in the plot.

This book is based on true stories. Some changes were made. Several characters were combined with others of similar personalities to limit the number of characters, but the incidents are real. The names and descriptions were changed to protect those who would be inadvertently affected.

So why did you write this book? a friend asked.

That was a good question. I still don’t know all the reasons, but I believe you may know, better than I, after reading it.

Salvage Yard

Salvage Yard

Souls for Sale

Prices Vary

Bonds and Bail

Value Decreased

Nothing Gold

Self Esteem

Thing of Old

Satan's Playground

Demon's Home

Happiness

Forever Gone

Weakened Hearts

Perverted Minds

Not only Love

but Hate is Blind

Mockery!!!

Justice Prevail?

Salvage Yard

County Jail!!

Chapter One

The Interview

Like a Forest

Trees stand so closely together

Branches reaching to the sky

Reminding me of people

We people

Standing so far apart

Throwing arms up to quit

We would be happier

Like the forest

Standing together reaching higher

Why you’d want to work in that disgusting little place is beyond me. Theresa was like a mother to me. Married to one of the most prominent attorneys in the area, she was somewhat aware of the corruption and evils of the sheriff’s department. Let me know what happens. I wish you the best.

I valued Theresa’s opinion. I had spent my high school years living with her and Attorney Rollins, helping care for their five small children. That had been nearly fifteen years ago. Theresa had never steered me wrong, but she didn’t realize how badly I needed a job.

My husband had a good job and kept the bills paid, but he wanted to buy a house. For that, we needed another income.

My first husband died from multiple sclerosis. I married Lee when my daughter, Demi, was three. At first, Lee didn’t want me to work, but after a time, I felt the resentment. I kept the condo clean and prepared home-cooked meals (like a good little southern wife), but it wasn’t enough. There were other reasons for my needing a job, but Lee thought it was to get a house.

Officer Sara Rich, my friend since high school, was beautiful inside and out. She was divorced with a young son. Her long, dark hair fell on her shoulders like silk. She was tall and muscular, but had all the girly curves. Sara was tomboyish and could hold her own in a fight, but she was a man magnet. Men swarmed around her begging for approval.

Sara had dispatched at the sheriff’s department for years. When the sheriff started hiring more deputies, Sara chose to be a jailer. She encouraged me to put in an application there.

It’s a good job, and there’s never a dull moment. I’ll love having you there.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to work at the sheriff’s department, but I had exhausted the job possibilities in the quaint southeastern town. Having gotten married immediately after graduating high school, my education was limited. I had a private investigator’s license and seven years of experience doing that, but I had given it up to please Lee.

When I arrived for the interview, I saw concrete block walls painted gray. In the room was a long folding table in the middle of the floor. Eight folding chairs sat empty on the front side of the table, and eight seasoned law enforcement officers sat waiting on the other side.

Have a seat, Captain Winston said. He was short, fat, and bald. He sat at the end of the table. Reaching with his cane across the table to the chair in front of him, he said, Sit here. Captain Winston wore a navy blue suit coat and a pair of brown dress slacks. He loosened his tie, reached under his coat, and took out a cigarette. How many times have you broken the law? he asked and then lit the cigarette.

More than once if you count the times I stole cigarettes from my mom’s purse when I was young, I said.

Good answer. He looked over at the panel of deputies, appearing to seek approval. Ever been in a jail before?

No, sir, I answered. Sara had said I would be in the annex, which was not really the jail but a place to house misdemeanors. I was about to learn more than the difference in a misdemeanor and a felon and little difference in an inmate and a jailer.

Do you still take your mommy’s cigarettes? Captain Winston asked.

No, sir, I answered. I stopped smoking two years ago.

He drew smoke into his mouth, blew it across the table into my face, and then did it again.

Do you mind? Winston asked.

Not too much, I answered.

Why don’t you tell the truth? Winston said accusingly. If it bothers you, say so. He blew smoke in my face again.

I didn’t know what to say without offending him, but I answered honestly. Okay, sir. I hate it, but I want this job.

They all laughed.

Officer Rich said you’re a good person, a Christian. Are you a Christian? Captain Winston asked.

Yes, I believe in God. Would it make a difference to him? I had not always been a Christian, but I had always believed in God. I had finally given my heart to Jesus just two months prior.

Ah bull, he said. We all believe in God. Does it bother you if I use four-letter words? he continued, repeating the four-letter words he must have hoped would bother me most.

Sir, that’s your business, I said.

So you’re not out to change the world? he said.

No, sir, I just want to keep the world from changing me.

Then get up and move to the next seat, Winston said. He slumped in his chair.

Captain Gilray was taller and thinner than Winston. He wore a white shirt and a black tie. His hairline had receded, and he appeared to be in his mid-forties, maybe five or six years older than the smoker. Leaning halfway across the table on both fists, he asked, Ever been beat up?

Yes, sir, I have, I answered.

Did you cry?

When I was young I cried.

The worst thing I have to deal with is a crying female, Captain Gilray said. Did you fight back? Rich said she sees you at the karate school. Do you take karate?

Yes, sir, I do. I’d been taking karate for nearly two months and was just beginning to learn the basics. Sara had taken it for years and had earned a brown belt.

Are you good at it? Captain Gilray asked.

No, sir, I answered. Not yet.

Then keep taking it. He leaned back to his chair. Take the next seat.

Across the table sat a distinguished-looking man who was also wearing a white shirt and a black tie. His pocket bore a flat badge. He was probably thirty pounds overweight, but he was so tall it didn’t affect his appearance much. His sandy-colored hair was short and thin.

You seem a bit afraid, Captain Minton said. Are you afraid?

I don’t think I’m afraid, sir. I was nervous because I didn’t know what to expect. It was intimidating but not frightening.

Have you ever spanked a child? Captain Minton asked.

Not often and not very hard. Would he reprimand me for it? I believe children need discipline.

Well, these are grown children and you won’t be able to spank them. They’ll frustrate you more than children do. He questioned me about patience and warned that I could get killed trying to discipline the groundhogs in the jail. Then he told me to take the next seat.

Captain Dean, a tall slender man with a full head of snow-white hair, glared at me. Every hair was in place, and I realized that the alluring aroma was coming from him.

Did you ever smoke pot?

Yes, sir, I attended high school during the Vietnam War. Almost everyone I knew smoked pot.

Do you still smoke it? Captain Dean dropped his shoulders.

No, sir, I answered. I never could enjoy it. It made me paranoid.

Can you be bought? These people will try to buy you. They’ll lie to you, and you’ll believe them. He continued with examples.

I hope not. I do believe almost everyone has a price, though they may not know it. I hope I don’t. I must have seemed silly to them. I was telling the truth, but it felt wrong. I wondered what it would take for me to be bought.

Could you kill anyone? Captain Dean asked.

I’m not sure. I guess it depends on—

Next, he interrupted.

I moved to the next chair just as the white-haired captain yelled out, Put that nasty cigarette out. I’ve breathed that stuff all day, and I don’t even smoke. I bet my lungs are black. You’ve smoked since we got here. I need some clean air.

The sudden outburst startled me, and I almost missed the chair. Winston hastily extinguished his smoke.

Depends on what? Sergeant Hager had a tan, shaved head with gray stubble. His uniform had a crease ironed into the sergeant stripes on his sleeves. Continue, Hager said. I’d like to know what it would take for you to kill someone.

I’ve been angry enough to kill someone, but I considered the consequences. I really don’t know what it would take, I said.

Oh, he said and took a deep breath. Where were you last night? Then he alluded to my having been with someone named David Dingus in a bar. You fit the description of the girl who made his wife jealous. That started a brawl. We booked David this morning for the murder of his wife. Is there anything you want to tell us?

No, sir, I answered. I was at home.

Do you lie? Sergeant Hager asked.

I try not to, sir. I don’t believe in lying. They must have thought I had a grand image of myself. We all have to face the truth sooner or later. We may as well get it behind us. Lying causes an imbalance in our spiritual health. I struggle to maintain a proper balance. But would anyone there have understood that?

Are you for real? Sergeant Hager asked. If you are, I’m taking you to the chapel now so we can get married. He scratched his head and motioned for me to take the next seat.

Captain Elgrove looked rough. His salt-and-pepper hair was too long and shabby, and he appeared to have enjoyed too much strong drink the night before. His wrinkled shirt diverted my eyes from his collar brass, which was on crooked.

Would you arrest a fellow officer?

No, sir, I said. If he was doing something very bad, I’d report him to you, or whoever was his superior, but I wouldn’t arrest him myself.

Even without knowing the politics of the department you’d snitch him out?

Was he angered by my statement, or did he appreciate it? I’m sorry you see it as being a snitch, sir, I said. I think it would be the right thing to do. What would you prefer? Would you want me to tell you so you could deal with it in your own way? I wondered if I would ever trust that officer.

I would want you to tell me and no one else, Elgrove said. I would also want to know what you see as wrong. Would you tell on someone for having an affair with someone else’s spouse?

Anything I reported would be to you, sir, and no one else, I answered, realizing that he had just instructed me to trust only him. I don’t believe having an affair is a crime, sir. I wouldn’t consider that my business, and, no, I wouldn’t tell.

Actually, adultery is illegal, he said.

Sir, mooching is illegal, but it’s not legal to throw a moocher out if he’s been in your house two weeks or more and has received mail there. Some laws make no sense, I said.

So will you choose which laws to enforce?

No, sir, but I wouldn’t insist on enforcing laws that may irritate the judge.

Neither would I, Captain Elgrove said. Maybe we will get along.

Lieutenant Nobel seemed proud and probably on steroids. His biceps bulged out from his short-sleeve uniform shirt, and he intentionally made his pectorals dance on his chest. His dark hair was cut military style, and he appeared to be in his early thirties. Arrogance seeped from his pores and hypocrite was written in spirit across his forehead.

Are you an on-time person? Can you shoot a gun? Are you sick a lot?

Yes, I’m almost obsessive about being punctual. I can shoot a gun, and I’m rarely sick, I answered.

Officer Rich said you can put five bullets in one hole. Is that true? Lieutenant Nobel asked.

I’ve done that with a P38, but that’s the smoothest shooting gun in the world. I hoped he would challenge me to prove it.

That’s your opinion, Lieutenant Nobel said. What’s a P38, and how do you know about it?

Yes, it is my opinion, I said. It’s a German Lugar used in World War II, and I know about it because I have one. Noting the lieutenant glaring at me, I guessed his next question. Yes, it is registered to me.

I didn’t ask you that, Lieutenant Noble said. Don’t ever presume to read my mind. I don’t know if you’re that intelligent. You must pass your physical and your written exam, and then, you know, you have to pass a psychological exam. Are you willing to take it? They’re going to ask you all kinds of personal questions. Will you lie on the test? If you do, they’ll catch you with other questions. You do know that, don’t you? This place is dangerous and tricky. You have to be on your toes twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, because you’re on call twenty-four seven. For that reason we, can’t allow psychos to work here.

Except him, I thought. Yes, I’ll take and pass the exam without lying.

Do you know your limitations? Can you fight a man of my build? Would you call for back up or would you handle it yourself? Do you think karate would keep you alive if you were to fight a man like me? What would you do if I grabbed you now and put you in a headlock?

I learn fast, sir, and will learn limitations all my life, I answered. I’ve already learned not to fight a man with your ripped musculature. I wouldn’t fight you if there were three of me. I will always want backup, though I hope I never need it. I don’t depend on karate. I do it for the exercise, but it sharpens my instincts. Lastly, sir, the first thing I’d do if you put me in a headlock is pray.

Captain Oliver, who sat in the last chair, was a slim cowboy-looking man with dark hair and a nice physic. He wore a crisp uniform, and he looked like he was in his late-thirties. His voice was soft and slow.

I have only one question. What’s the first thing you’d do if an inmate spit in your face?

I’d wipe it off, sir, I answered.

Good. You can go. We’ll tell the sheriff what we think. Someone will call you on Monday if you have the job. If you don’t get a call, you should keep looking.

Just as I reached the door, Captain Oliver said softly, By the way, Toni, I was going to arrest a drunk one night for riding a horse. He was a real jerk, but I didn’t arrest him because we had nowhere to put the horse. It’s against the law to ride a horse when you’re drunk.

Thank you, sir, I said. Why did he tell me that?

Sara was waiting outside the jail annex.

How did it go? Did you get the job? When do you start? I know they’ll hire you. Hager likes you. He told me in the alley that you’d get the job because I asked them to hire you. They all like me.

I hoped she was right, but I wondered. Hager was the one who tried to scare me about the Dingus guy. He didn’t seem to like me. They were all intimidating except Captain Oliver. I guess I’ll just wait to see what happens.

At home, before my ten-year-old daughter, Demi, arrived from school, I took the voice-activated, mini-cassette recorder from my purse and logged the day’s events into my journal.

Chapter Two

A Different World

Silence

Silence is only silent

when the spirit is at rest

because the loudest noises

come from the mind and inner chest

where the spirit of the of the being

is constantly at war

so silence is not silent anymore.

At six o’clock on Monday morning, Sergeant Eastland called and instructed me to be at the jail at 8:00 a.m.

Officer Belinda Lithcom gave me the tour and told me how and when to open the slams.

"I heard you’re a Goody-Two-Shoes, she said. A snitch won’t last long around here. Keep your religion to yourself. It’s against the law to preach to the inmates about God, unless they ask, and they won’t. This place will change you, not them."

Her bleached-blond hair complimented her overloaded saddlebags and heavy butt, though her four-foot frame suffered for it. The smell of cigarettes on her breath took away the sex appeal she claimed. Lithcom flaunted her seniority. It would be a challenge to get along with her.

I wasn’t a Goody-Two-Shoes. I had been forgiven for much. I was raised to do right, but I had strayed. It’s wasn’t simple, especially in the South, to learn that love is the basis for Christianity. Many proclaimed love, but few showed it. They seemed more entitled to the right to judge, dismissing their own sins. I was trying not to judge Lithcom, but my mind had already arrested her for unmerited arrogance and pride. After all, pride got Lucifer expelled from Heaven. I was justifying my own judgments. As a new Christian hoping to be able to love and forgive, leave judging to the judge, I stood guilty.

The once gray walls and floors were stained with years of blood, sweat, and other unmentionables. The bars were caked with nasty goo, and smoke rolled out from under the cellblock door.

I didn’t know how contaminated public places were. The filthy people who are housed in the jail handled everything when they roamed the streets and left their bacteria to invade others. I would consider that for the rest of my life. I would also try to remember to wash my hands after handling money. Money is nasty. The only way to keep money in jail is to hide it, and the safest place to hide it is in a personal cavity.

Sara had told me about the man who robbed and killed a cabdriver. He had rolled up the thirteen hundred dollars and hid the stolen bills in his rectum. Cavity searches are illegal, but when the jailers made him squat and cough, the money slid out.

The families of the inmates brought personal property to them. It was searched before the inmates got it. In my most inventive thoughts, I would not have considered carving out the middle of a Bible to hide cocaine and then glue pages together to keep it from being found. Nor would I have thought to hide pin joints (tiny marijuana cigarettes) in a straw, burn the ends of the straw together, and slide it into a tube of toothpaste. I wondered who was first to slice, horizontally, a bar of soap, dig out the center to hide contraband, then seal it back with water, return it to the box, and glue the box back together. Desperation is the best inventor.

After lunch, I drove to the mental health center to answer personal and redundant questions. Yes, I was abused as a child. Most every child was abused when I was young. It was deemed necessary, but not called abuse. Discipline and perhaps abuse taught me right from wrong. It didn’t hurt as much as it helped. At least I’m not an inmate, though I probably should have been at least once.

After passing the three-hour exam, I returned to the jail to clock out. I would be working under Sergeant Hager’s lead until assigned to a shift.

Sergeant Hager was calm, to the degree of near sedation, except when aggravated, which took a lot. More than protecting me by staying near me most of the time, Sergeant Hager was fixed on me. Sara teased that Hager and I would end up together, though he was twice my age.

On Tuesday, I had inmates waiting to be processed when I arrived.

What’s your name? I asked. I didn’t know what to think as I booked in the crazy woman. She had removed her clothes and thrown beer bottles at the officer who finally arrested her. Long, red, stringy hair lay tangled on her shirt. She wore men’s work clothes turned inside out with the pockets dangling, and her feet were bare. She weighed nearly 250 pounds and reeked of body odor. Her long toenails were filled with street dirt. The red chipped nail polish covered a thick fungus.

My name’s Charlie Pride, she answered. Her front teeth were missing on the top and on the bottom.

What is your real name? I asked.

Rocky, she answered.

Tell me your name, and you can go to the cell before they serve breakfast.

Office Lithcom pranced toward me. Her name is Sue Wright. She lives on the streets of the city. She’s a regular. She acted up so she could get dinner and a bed for the night. Just flip the book back a few pages and copy everything except the charge. The new charge is disorderly conduct. Write ‘D/C.’

The book, which stayed open on the desk, was about four inches thick when closed. It would measure about eighteen inches across and twenty-four inches down. Each page allowed space for five inmates’ information to be recorded and a mug shot taped near each name. Sue’s information was found only three pages back.

I took a new mug shot and re-recorded her information. Her prints were on file, so she was ready to go downstairs.

Hesitating as I approached the intersection in the hallway and leery of what might be on either side, I peeked to the left before taking a right to the female cell. The musty smell, mingled with the stench of human excrement, churned my stomach.

Echoes bounced from the walls—noises perfect for a horror movie: an old man crying and begging for just one drink, the loud voice of a butch demanding to sit at the end of the table, groans from hopeless and wounded subjects, and curses from