morning.
Goodnight and good morning, Fang.
Chapter Twenty-five
“You’re sure you’re okay?” I asked Monica for the tenth time.
She nodded but looked a little overwhelmed. I didn’t blame her. We were at Chino State Prison in Ontario, California, sitting in a stark waiting room with a few other people. I had made special arrangements with the warden for a late evening visit. Both he and the inmate agreed. Being an ex-federal agent has its advantages.
The plain waiting room was smaller than I thought it would be. We sat in plastic bucket seats that were covered with gang graffiti. Took some balls to carve gang graffiti in a prison waiting room.
Monica looked lost and fragile, and I wondered again at my logic for bringing her here. Chad was busy tonight and I had had no one else to turn to. As I was contemplating calling the private investigator Kingsley and I had met at the beach, brainstorming out loud, Monica had volunteered to come with me, telling me she would be fine. “After all,” she had said, “I’m just going to be in the waiting room, right? I won’t be seeing him.”
I reached out now and held her hand, forgetting for a moment that my own was ice cold. She flinched at the touch, but then gripped my hand back tightly.
“Sorry,” I said. “My hands get cold.”
“So do mine. Don’t worry about it.” She squeezed my hand again, tighter, and looked at me. “So what are you going to say to him?”
“I’m going to convince him to leave you alone.”
She nodded and looked down. I didn’t want to mention that maybe her ex-husband’s next attempt to find someone to hurt her might slip past prison officials. Although all his calls were monitored, there is more than one way to smuggle information out of a prison.
“How are you going to convince him?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m going to kind of feel my way through it.”
“He’ll want to kill you, too, you know.”
“I’m not worried about him.”
She kept holding my hand. Hers, I noticed, was shaking. I shouldn’t have brought her—
But maybe this was a good thing for her. Maybe on some level, she was facing her fears.
Just then the heavy main door into the prison opened and a young, serious-looking guy wearing a correctional uniform stepped into the room.
“Samantha Moon?” he asked.
I gave Monica’s hand a final squeeze before I released it. “I’ll be back,” I said.
Chapter Twenty-six
Ira Lang was shown through a heavy metal door.
Monica’s ex-husband was a medium-sized man in his mid-forties. He was wearing an orange prison jumpsuit, and not very well, either. The clothing hung loosely from his narrow shoulders and flapped around his ankles when he walked. He looked like a deflated pumpkin. Ira was nearly bald, although not quite. Unlike my client, Stuart, Ira did not have a perfect bald head. In fact, his was anything but. Misshapen and oddly flat, it was furrowed with deep grooves that ran from the base of his skull to his forehead. What Monica had seen in the man, I didn’t know.
I watched from behind the thick Plexiglass window as Ira was led over to a chair opposite me. I noticed the guard
Goodnight and good morning, Fang.
Chapter Twenty-five
“You’re sure you’re okay?” I asked Monica for the tenth time.
She nodded but looked a little overwhelmed. I didn’t blame her. We were at Chino State Prison in Ontario, California, sitting in a stark waiting room with a few other people. I had made special arrangements with the warden for a late evening visit. Both he and the inmate agreed. Being an ex-federal agent has its advantages.
The plain waiting room was smaller than I thought it would be. We sat in plastic bucket seats that were covered with gang graffiti. Took some balls to carve gang graffiti in a prison waiting room.
Monica looked lost and fragile, and I wondered again at my logic for bringing her here. Chad was busy tonight and I had had no one else to turn to. As I was contemplating calling the private investigator Kingsley and I had met at the beach, brainstorming out loud, Monica had volunteered to come with me, telling me she would be fine. “After all,” she had said, “I’m just going to be in the waiting room, right? I won’t be seeing him.”
I reached out now and held her hand, forgetting for a moment that my own was ice cold. She flinched at the touch, but then gripped my hand back tightly.
“Sorry,” I said. “My hands get cold.”
“So do mine. Don’t worry about it.” She squeezed my hand again, tighter, and looked at me. “So what are you going to say to him?”
“I’m going to convince him to leave you alone.”
She nodded and looked down. I didn’t want to mention that maybe her ex-husband’s next attempt to find someone to hurt her might slip past prison officials. Although all his calls were monitored, there is more than one way to smuggle information out of a prison.
“How are you going to convince him?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m going to kind of feel my way through it.”
“He’ll want to kill you, too, you know.”
“I’m not worried about him.”
She kept holding my hand. Hers, I noticed, was shaking. I shouldn’t have brought her—
But maybe this was a good thing for her. Maybe on some level, she was facing her fears.
Just then the heavy main door into the prison opened and a young, serious-looking guy wearing a correctional uniform stepped into the room.
“Samantha Moon?” he asked.
I gave Monica’s hand a final squeeze before I released it. “I’ll be back,” I said.
Chapter Twenty-six
Ira Lang was shown through a heavy metal door.
Monica’s ex-husband was a medium-sized man in his mid-forties. He was wearing an orange prison jumpsuit, and not very well, either. The clothing hung loosely from his narrow shoulders and flapped around his ankles when he walked. He looked like a deflated pumpkin. Ira was nearly bald, although not quite. Unlike my client, Stuart, Ira did not have a perfect bald head. In fact, his was anything but. Misshapen and oddly flat, it was furrowed with deep grooves that ran from the base of his skull to his forehead. What Monica had seen in the man, I didn’t know.
I watched from behind the thick Plexiglass window as Ira was led over to a chair opposite me. I noticed the guard
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