“Jefferson needs something in that cell,” I said.
“Yes, he do,” the minister said. “You hit the nail on the head, mister. Yes, he do. But not that box.”
“And what do you suggest, Reverend Ambrose?” I asked.
“God,” the minister said. “He ain’t got but five more Fridays and a half. He needs God in that cell, and not that sin box.”
“What sin box?” I said.
“What you call that kind of music he listen to?” the minister asked. “Us standing in there trying to talk to him, and him listening to that thing till she got to reach over and turn it off—what you call it?”
“I call it company, Reverend Ambrose,” I said.
“And I call it sin company,” he said.
“And I don’t care what you call it!” I said to him.”