“Five minutes.”
Honestly, most of my nervousness revolved around the thought of seeing Danny again. Would I? What condition was he in? Was he even alive? I stared at the road ahead and tried to imagine seeing him again. Would he recognize me with a wig on? What would I say?
I’d written a letter that laid it all out—everything that had happened, everything we planned. Although the judge didn’t know it yet, with his help I was going to get Danny transferred out of Basal. But first we had to keep him alive. We had to stop Randell. We had to deal with the warden. That couldn’t be done from the outside because there was too much risk of the warden being tipped off, which would send him sky-high. He’d blow up the whole prison with Danny in it. He’d become the new Jim Jones, and Basal would become his Jonestown.
The letter was folded neatly in my underwear—nothing was as important as getting it to Danny.
Keith gave me a quick glance, then returned his gaze to the road.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
He waited a while before answering. “I was thinking that I’ve been over this a hundred times, and I’m still having a hard time believing the system would leave such a gap in their security. They must have retina scans, fingerprints—
I gave him our pat answer. “Who wants to break into prison, right?”
“Yeah, but you’d think they’d have more protocols in place. What if someone wanted to break in to kill a high-value target? I know we’re not talking witnesses here, we’re talking convicted inmates. One gets knocked off and no one really cares much. Still…”
“But you trust your source,” I said, knowing the answer.
He nodded absently. “Sources. Three of them.”
Our break-in would be made possible because of the separation of power between the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation and the governor’s Office of the Inspector General, the investigative watchdog that had reporting authority over the way the CDCR ran the prisons. In essence, the OIG could investigate any complaints of abuse in the department of corrections. Misappropriation of funds, theft—any form of misconduct in the prison system was the OIG’s to flush out.
OIG deputies routinely showed up unannounced to audit, inspect, or investigate complaints. According to California law, any prison official’s refusal to cooperate constituted a misdemeanor. The OIG was seen by some as the governor’s Gestapo arm, the adversary, the ones who made the difficult task of controlling prison populations even harder.
But that adversarial relationship gave OIG deputies healthy respect, and we intended on tapping it. We needed only an hour inside, plenty of time to do what we needed to do and get out before any collateral damage was discovered.
There were problems, challenges that would have been impossibilities without Keith’s connections, like getting fake ID badges made quickly. And any investigation into a prison like Basal would immediately put the warden on high alert. He would watch us like a hawk.
After numerous phone calls and hours of digging, the plan that Keith landed on seemed flawless.
We would show up unannounced as two deputies dispatched from the main office in Sacramento. The warden would be familiar with regional deputies. Our papers identified us as deputies Myles Somerset and Julia Wishart. We were investigating a current well-known problem in the system: spiked milk supplied by the Prison Industry Authority. We would take random blood and urine samples from inmates, and milk samples from the kitchen. It would take only an hour and we’d be out of their hair.
The warden wouldn’t call the Sacramento office to verify our task, because doing so would cast suspicion on his motives for inserting himself into the investigation. You don’t call headquarters and demand to know why the Gestapo are checking out your prison unless you’re covering something up. He might be able to make inquiries through back channels, but it would take time. Hopefully enough for us to get in and out.
Once we were processed and inside, we had the authority to ask the staff to help us or stay clear. We would find Randell and Danny, do what we needed to do, and leave.
Simple.
But we both knew nothing was ever that simple.
Keith took the turn onto the winding canyon road, and the silence seemed to deepen, despite the fact that neither of us was talking. The radio was off, the windows were up, the air was turned down. My gut felt inside out.
“Remember,” he said softly. “It’s all in the way we play it. It’s in the eyes and the voice. Who are you?”
“Julia Wishart. OIG. You don’t need to worry, I can handle myself.”
“I know you can. So does the judge now.”
“Maybe I should shoot off Randell’s toes.”
“Maybe not.” We both grinned, but our attempt at humor fell flat.
“We stick to our agreement,” Keith said. “We go in, confront Randell, tell him if he touches Danny he’ll spend the rest of his life in a far worse place, learn what we can about Sicko from him, warn Danny, then get out. If everything falls apart, we call the authorities using the number on speed dial. I’d rather be at the mercy of law enforcement than of the warden. If neither of us can make a call and we can’t get out…” He blew out some air. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t come down to that.”
“You’re sure they won’t search us?”
“They could by law but they won’t. I’ve checked. Once they process us we can come and go as we please. Just remember that and wear it on your face, not just on your badge.”
“Like I said, I can handle myself.”
I wasn’t exactly new to this. I knew I could flip a switch if I had to. You do what you have to do when the world is at stake, and Danny was my world.
We passed the bluff where I’d stood and looked down at Basal just over a week earlier. Keith guided the car around a curve, and the prison’s first checkpoint came into view. A brick guardhouse with a gate. Two officers stood inside behind the large glass window.
“Here we go,” Keith said. “Let me do the talking.”
He slowed the car and came to a stop next to the reinforced glass. I immediately recognized one of the men in the guardhouse. It was the blond man I’d talked to on my first visit.
My first thought was that it was over. He’d recognize me. He knew I wasn’t with the OIG.
But I wasn’t the same woman he’d met, was I? I was Julia Wishart, OIG.
Keith beamed at the man. “Afternoon, gentlemen.” He casually stuck out his ID. “Myles Somerset, OIG. We need access to the facility for an inspection, if that’s not a problem.”
The man stared at Keith, then at his ID, then looked at me. For a moment I wasn’t sure how to take his stare. He’d been confident, casual, completely in command when I’d met him before. Now he seemed off guard, and I wasn’t sure if it was because he sensed something wrong or because a visit from the inspector general naturally set most prison staff on edge.
“OIG,” he said. “What’s the nature of your visit?”
“Well now, that would take all the fun out of it, wouldn’t it?”
The officer stared at him. We all knew that OIG had no obligation to explain itself. Keith let the question stand for a second, then grinned.
“We’re doing routine inspections tied to an investigation of the Prison Industry Authority. You can understand my reluctance to give any opportunity to suppress evidence. It’s a supply-side issue. We’ll be in and out in an hour.”
The guard’s eyes met mine again. “Identification?”
I reached across Keith and handed him my ID. “Afternoon, Officer. Deputy Julia Wishart.” I could think of nothing else to say, so I just said, “Shouldn’t take long.”
The man took my badge and dipped his head. “Just one second.”
He retreated into the booth, spoke to the other staff member, then lifted a phone off the wall and made a call.
“He’s checking,” I whispered.
Keith didn’t respond. He didn’t even look at me, which was message enough.
