A Trust Betrayed

By Debra Viadero

The Rabun County jail sits in the bowels of a modern, brick complex one block behind the main street in Clayton, Ga., a small town in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The building itself is mostly given over to courtrooms, clerks' offices, tax offices, and the usual array of government services.

From the front parking lot, however, you can peer down a sloping driveway to the right of the building and glimpse a high chain-link fence topped by coils of concertina wire. That's where the jail begins.

Brooks Eliot Wigginton has spent the past 12 months of his life here, living alone in a gray-and-white cell that is 6 cinder blocks wide and 12 cinder blocks long. In the mornings, he writes, working at a small, dimly lighted desk borrowed from the laundry room. In the afternoons, he is let out to paint walls, pick up cigarette butts, reorganize filing cabinets, and do whatever other odd jobs need doing around the sheriff's department. When visitors come to see him, he can sit with them on a patch of grass outside the jail, smoke a cigarette, and watch the cars turning up this way...