A sergeant led us to Whitehall’s cell so we could exchange some brief words before he was taken away. Whitehall got up as we entered and coolly shook our hands. He didn’t look the least bit anxious or concerned. He should’ve, though. He should’ve been quaking in his boots.

I opened with, “Good day, Captain Whitehall. You know anything about South Korean prisons?”

He offhandedly said, “I’ve heard stories.”

“They’re nasty places,” I warned him. “But I guess they’ll isolate you for your own safety. The accommodations, though, and the food, aren’t nearly as swank as you get here.”

“I went to West Point,” he said, like that accounted for everything. “I can handle it.”

I wanted to say, Oh boy, buddy, are you in for a surprise: Comparing West Point to a South Korean prison is like comparing the Waldorf-Astoria to a Bowery homeless shelter. But why throw fuel on a fire that was already lit? He’d feel the heat soon enough.

A moment later, the tall, oxlike Korean strutted into the cell, accompanied by two only slightly smaller thugs in blue uniforms. He gave an indifferent glance in our direction as he roughly shoved Whitehall against a wall, efficiently patted him down, then signaled the two policemen to come over. With the kind of lightning speed that comes only from ample practice, they cuffed Whitehall’s hands and feet. The cuffs were connected by heavy black chains that were not nearly as elegant as the American variety.

They forcefully swung Whitehall back around and started pushing him toward the door.

“Stop this right now!” Carlson yelled.

They ignored her. Or actually, they didn’t ignore her. They shoved him harder.

With a ferocious snarl, she stepped courageously into their path. She held up her business card and waved it across their faces. “I’m his attorney. I’m ordering you to stop shoving my client. Right now!”

One of the policemen looked over at the tall Korean in the black suit. A cold, peremptory nod was bestowed before the cop reached out and shoved Carlson so hard she flew against the wall and landed on her tush.

My manly ego told me to step in and clobber the officer who’d shoved her. And I started to, too. Then I heard the sound of a pistol being cocked. The tall guy in the dark suit, I now noticed, had a nasty-looking.38-caliber revolver pointed at my chest.

I smiled and humbly stepped back. Then Whitehall was whisked out of the cell by a series of more hard shoves.

Katherine was just lifting herself off the ground. I offered a hand, but she stared at it like it was the last thing on earth she’d ever touch.

I said, “I warned you they were rough.”

She wasn’t the type who liked I-told-you-so’s. She just gave me a sullen glance before we rushed out to follow Whitehall’s convoy. Our driver fell in at the end of the procession and we rode for the next forty minutes without exchanging a word.

The convoy turned off onto a street about midway between Seoul and Inchon, two cities that had grown so spasmodically they’d become all but connected. The huge, forbidding front gate of the prison swung open and the black paddy wagon, followed by eleven cars, proceeded inside. The Korean cars formed a ring and an army of police officers climbed out like ants and assembled into a cordon.

Two overeager Korean camera crews were already set up and ready to roll. They had their lenses focused on the black paddy wagon, so that all of Korea could witness the accused American getting his righteous comeuppance. Suddenly I noticed two of the blue-suited police officers step directly in front of the cameras to block their view.

Then the rear doors of the paddy wagon flew open and a body came sailing out. Whitehall landed on the ground with a loud whoompf and lay there a moment, perfectly still, like he was unconscious. Nice try. It didn’t work.

Three of the Korean cops came over and roughly yanked him off the ground. I looked at him closely. I didn’t see any visible damage, but maybe they’d limited themselves to body blows on the ride over.

His composure had evaporated. He looked scared as hell. I didn’t blame him. This was the moment when the two police officers blocking the cameras’ views stepped away and let the film roll. What the whole of Korea saw was a very frightened prisoner being dragged on both feet through some menacing-looking double doors. It was a picture sure to bring merriment to all those Koreans who wanted the homo rapist-murderer humbled and punished.

Katherine and I tried to follow him through the doors, but the tall cop with the linebacker’s shoulders stepped into our path.

“We have the right to see our client,” Katherine insisted in her most frigidly commanding tone. The cop grinned and stared down at her. For all we knew, he didn’t speak a word of English.

“Please,” I very humbly lied, “we are only trying to ensure our client is given adequate treatment. We have an appointment to report back to Minister of Justice Chun. Would you please be so kind as to allow us to proceed?”

“No problem,” he finally replied, in almost perfect, oddly colloquial English. Then he gave us a big, frosty smile. “You can visit his cell. But you may not speak with him. Not today. In Korean prisons we believe the first day is crucial. The prisoner must learn to respect our rules. He must learn his place in our order. Whitehall will not be damaged as long as he obeys our rules.”

Odd that he chose the word “damaged,” as though he was referring to a piece of property rather than a human being.

Katherine had a horrified look, but frankly, even American prisons play by the same rule. Not as aggressively, perhaps, but it’s the same principle. Make the right first impression and things go smoother for everybody.

The officer led us inside. We walked down some long, well-lit hallways and through several sets of steel doors, until we found ourselves inside a large chamber with three floors of cells. Unlike American prisons, which are rambunctious and kinetically noisy, this chamber was profoundly silent. I thought at first it must’ve been empty, but as we proceeded, almost every cell contained a prisoner. They were all sitting upright on the floors, legs tightly crossed, like they were propped up at attention. Not a one of them was so much as breathing heavily.

“This is reading time,” our muscle-bound companion informed us.

“I don’t see anyone with a book,” I casually mentioned.

That brought a wolfish smile. “The book is inside their heads. We call it the Book of Regrets. They must spend three hours every morning contemplating their debt to society.”

He stopped and dug a key out of his pocket. Opening a cell door, he ushered us through the entry.

The cell was maybe four by seven feet. It looked like a tall coffin. There was a thin sleeping mat on the floor, and a small metal bowl for the toilet. There were no windows, only a dim light inside a cage on the ceiling. The cell was cold. It smelled – of human waste, of vomit, of despair.

Katherine looked around and shuddered.

“Don’t worry,” the officer assured us, beaming even more broadly. “I am personally responsible for Captain Whitehall. I will take excellent care of him.”

You can imagine how reassuring that was to hear.