The door to Cell 208 didn’t just open. It yawned wide like the rusted jaws of some old machine. A grim correctional sergeant with a face gone red from too many sleepless nights shoved Ethan between the shoulder blades.
Not hard, but hard enough that he stumbled over the high metal lip and pitched inside, nearly dropping his thin plastic property bag. “Step right in, college boy. Make yourself at home,” the sergeant muttered, then slammed the door.
One bolt clanged. Then another. The sound had a finality to it, like a judge’s gavel. Ethan pushed his glasses back up his nose.
The frames were thin and horn-rimmed. One arm had been wrapped in blue electrical tape. A souvenir from processing.
He wore a stretched-out gray sweater with pills on the sleeves and corduroy pants that, even in the late ’90s, made him look like either a substitute teacher or a man who had long since stopped trying. On first glance, he was exactly what predators looked for. Skinny. Harmless. Easy prey.
Ethan raised his eyes. The cell was small, built for four bunks. The walls were painted a sick institutional green that worked on the nerves even faster than the smell.
And the smell was thick—old sweat, cheap cigarettes, damp plaster. But the smell wasn’t the main thing. The main thing was the men.
There were three of them. And they had clearly been waiting for him. On the lower bunk across from the door sat a mountain of a man.
He was huge. A white tank top strained over muscle layered with blue-black tattoos. His face was broad and flat, with a broken nose and small deep-set eyes that held nothing human, only the cool interest of a butcher sizing up a side of beef.
His name in the block was Big Val. He ran the pressure cell. To the left, crouched by the table, was the second man—thin, wiry, restless, with darting eyes and nervous hands.
He rolled a sharpened aluminum spoon between his fingers. They called him Corkscrew. A twitchy sadist they kept around for the messy work, when somebody needed to bleed.
The third man, Silent Mike, lay on the top bunk facing the wall. All Ethan could see was a broad back and a shaved head. “Evening,” Ethan said quietly.
His voice caught a little on the last word. Big Val slowly set aside the puzzle book he’d been working on. He looked at Ethan the way a man looks at a roach that’s wandered into the middle of the kitchen floor.
“What evening?” he rumbled. His voice was low and heavy, like rocks rolling in a barrel. “For you, kid, it’s a long night.”
Corkscrew snickered and tested the point of the spoon with his thumb. “Well, would you look at that. We got ourselves an educated one, Val. Glasses and all.
Bet he reads books.” Ethan hugged the plastic bag to his chest. His heart was steady.
Sixty beats a minute. The trembling on the outside was reflex, camouflage, something his body did on its own. His body was afraid.
His mind was recording. “My name’s Ethan,” he said, trying not to meet Val’s eyes. “Fraud charge.”
“Fraud.” Big Val stood.
The cell instantly felt smaller. He walked right up to Ethan, bringing with him the smell of garlic and stale cologne. “What kind? Rob a bank?
