Kings County in the early 90s still had open wards. . .
The first thing the minister said after he stepped up onto the plywood platform was: “We don’t have music.”
The minister’s wife stood just behind him, her arms dropping straight down. They were only filling in for the day, and looked worn and tough, like stretched horsehide.
The minister said: “The person who was supposed to bring the music didn’t come.”
The door banged back against the wall. A man with long black hair wearing an orange jumpsuit waddled down the aisle dragging shackles, his hands cuffed in front. The chain joining his wrists and ankles trailed between his legs so he had to waddle. We had nothing to listen to but his shackles dragging against the wood. Everybody turned