There were antiabortion demonstrations the day before Mother’s Day, but I wasn’t aware of them until I heard the commotion outside.
They were gradually led into cells around mine. I couldn’t see beyond the walls of my cell, but I could hear other detainees asking them if they were demonstrators.
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Someone began singing a hymn, “The Old Rugged Cross” or something. I had been trying to use my down jacket as a pillow, but now I pulled it over my head. They sang lustily, vigorously, one verse. Then the second. They knew the third verse too.
“We sure saved them babies,” yelled one loud-voiced demonstrator. “Hallelujah, yes we did,” rejoined another. “Praise Jesus.”
Time passed. They read the Bible to one another, calling out favorite passages by book and number. “What’s that passage in Isaiah I like so much?” someone asked. One of the others actually knew and read it to him. It was something about tribulations and eventual victory. “That’s great!” he said appreciatively when it was done.
“Say, when are we getting out?” asked someone, in a really loud tone possibly meant for the police in the adjacent office.
Time dragged on. Talk turned to speed limits in other states (everyone slows down in Pennsylvania–the police there have a really bad reputation), short biographical sketches about how these people got involved in Operation Rescue, and the real meaning of various passages in the Bible. I squirmed on my wooden shelf, trying to get comfortable.
