The corridors outside the cells of Seattle's King County jail were filled with dozens of Sunday visitors. To the accompaniment of banjos, violins and portable organs, they sang hymns. "Nothing but the blood of Jesus will wash away my sins," warbled one woman.
Inside the tanks, most of the prisoners gazed impassively at the bare walls, muttered sullenly among themselves, glanced longingly at a TV set that had been turned off when the visitors arrived. Some played cards, others read Confidential or lay down on their cots and covered their heads.
Every Sunday afternoon...
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