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Authors: Mary Jo Putney
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several major Department of Corrections facilities were jammed together like rock fans in a mosh pit. Rob's skin crawled when they came in sight of the Maryland Penitentiary.
The oldest continually operated prison in America, the Pen looked like a dank medieval castle. The looming stone building sat right on one of the city's major westbound streets without even a sidewalk to separate it from heavy traffic. High above, wicked spirals of concertina wire glinted in the pale sun. He wondered what those slashing razor spikes would do to an escaping prisoner who fell into a coil, then decided he didn't want to think about it.
As they circled the Pen on one-way streets to reach the parking lot, Rob saw women standing on the sidewalk and shouting up to inmates visible in the prison's narrow windows. Wives and girlfriends, presumably. He wondered if drugs and other contraband were ever thrown to the prisoners.
He was glad their destination was the SuperMax prison across the street. Relatively new, the brick structure hadn't had time to accumulate as many ghosts as the Pen. As they parked, Val explained, "Even though death row is here, the main purpose of SuperMax is to secure the most violent criminals. Prisoners spend twenty-three hours a day in solitary confinement, with an hour of recreation time."
"So if they aren't crazy when they're first sent there, they soon will be."
"Probably, but at least they can't murder each other."
They fell silent when they reached the entrance to the SuperMax. Though Rob had never been in this prison, the routine was painfully familiar. Guards and metal detectors, Val's briefcase thoroughly searched, and an atmosphere as toxic as poison gas.
As the guards patted him down for concealed weapons, he felt as if a steel band were tightening around his chest. Recognizing his panicky desire to bolt, Val said quietly, "If you want to wait in the truck, that's okay."
"Thanks, but no. This needs to be done." Grimly he reminded himself that he was here by choice. If he visited the SuperMax again, maybe it would be easier. "But it's a good thing you're doing the talking."
"Talking I can always manage." Her mouth tightened as she surveyed their surroundings. "Making sense is something else again."
"You'll make sense." They shared a glance of mutual support, then followed a guard to a visiting room. It was little more than a glorified closet with a transparent plastic barrier separating the prisoner from visitors. Conversation was through a pair of telephones.
Val took one of the two chairs on their side, but Rob fidgeted about the small space, unable to relax. He didn't take the seat next to Val until the opposite door opened and two guards escorted a shackled Daniel Monroe into the other half of the room.
Rob's first impression was of intimidating size. Monroe was well over six feet tall with massive shoulders that stretched the fabric of his bright orange jumpsuit. A long, wicked scar marred the ebony perfection of his gleaming bald head. Another scar had been carved in his jaw. Knife cuts? Broken glass? If Rob saw this man at night on the street, he'd get the hell away as fast as he could. Even shackled and separated from the visitors' area, Daniel Monroe was scary.
Not turning a hair, Val waited until he'd taken his chair and lifted the handset, then introduced herself. "Mr. Monroe, I'm Val Covington. Kendra Brooks said she'd let you know I would be coming."
"She told me." Monroe's basso profundo voice rumbled the telephone, sounding more resigned than dangerous. "That girl just don't give up."
"Neither do I, Mr. Monroe." Val gestured toward Rob. "This is my investigator, Rob Smith. You fired your previous lawyers. Will you allow us to act on your behalf?"
Monroe turned his attention to Rob. His gaze wasn't that of a mad dog killer, nor did he have the flat stare of a psychopath. Instead, he had the wise, sad eyes of a man who had seen unspeakable things and given up all belief in justice. "Why
The oldest continually operated prison in America, the Pen looked like a dank medieval castle. The looming stone building sat right on one of the city's major westbound streets without even a sidewalk to separate it from heavy traffic. High above, wicked spirals of concertina wire glinted in the pale sun. He wondered what those slashing razor spikes would do to an escaping prisoner who fell into a coil, then decided he didn't want to think about it.
As they circled the Pen on one-way streets to reach the parking lot, Rob saw women standing on the sidewalk and shouting up to inmates visible in the prison's narrow windows. Wives and girlfriends, presumably. He wondered if drugs and other contraband were ever thrown to the prisoners.
He was glad their destination was the SuperMax prison across the street. Relatively new, the brick structure hadn't had time to accumulate as many ghosts as the Pen. As they parked, Val explained, "Even though death row is here, the main purpose of SuperMax is to secure the most violent criminals. Prisoners spend twenty-three hours a day in solitary confinement, with an hour of recreation time."
"So if they aren't crazy when they're first sent there, they soon will be."
"Probably, but at least they can't murder each other."
They fell silent when they reached the entrance to the SuperMax. Though Rob had never been in this prison, the routine was painfully familiar. Guards and metal detectors, Val's briefcase thoroughly searched, and an atmosphere as toxic as poison gas.
As the guards patted him down for concealed weapons, he felt as if a steel band were tightening around his chest. Recognizing his panicky desire to bolt, Val said quietly, "If you want to wait in the truck, that's okay."
"Thanks, but no. This needs to be done." Grimly he reminded himself that he was here by choice. If he visited the SuperMax again, maybe it would be easier. "But it's a good thing you're doing the talking."
"Talking I can always manage." Her mouth tightened as she surveyed their surroundings. "Making sense is something else again."
"You'll make sense." They shared a glance of mutual support, then followed a guard to a visiting room. It was little more than a glorified closet with a transparent plastic barrier separating the prisoner from visitors. Conversation was through a pair of telephones.
Val took one of the two chairs on their side, but Rob fidgeted about the small space, unable to relax. He didn't take the seat next to Val until the opposite door opened and two guards escorted a shackled Daniel Monroe into the other half of the room.
Rob's first impression was of intimidating size. Monroe was well over six feet tall with massive shoulders that stretched the fabric of his bright orange jumpsuit. A long, wicked scar marred the ebony perfection of his gleaming bald head. Another scar had been carved in his jaw. Knife cuts? Broken glass? If Rob saw this man at night on the street, he'd get the hell away as fast as he could. Even shackled and separated from the visitors' area, Daniel Monroe was scary.
Not turning a hair, Val waited until he'd taken his chair and lifted the handset, then introduced herself. "Mr. Monroe, I'm Val Covington. Kendra Brooks said she'd let you know I would be coming."
"She told me." Monroe's basso profundo voice rumbled the telephone, sounding more resigned than dangerous. "That girl just don't give up."
"Neither do I, Mr. Monroe." Val gestured toward Rob. "This is my investigator, Rob Smith. You fired your previous lawyers. Will you allow us to act on your behalf?"
Monroe turned his attention to Rob. His gaze wasn't that of a mad dog killer, nor did he have the flat stare of a psychopath. Instead, he had the wise, sad eyes of a man who had seen unspeakable things and given up all belief in justice. "Why
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