“Pretty Boy?” she repeated.

“Rex McCready,” he corrected. He wasn’t Pretty Boy anymore. That was the nickname he’d been given by The Crew.

She gulped for air and dashed a hand across her wet cheeks. “Why d-did you come here w-with them if—?”

“Just be glad I did,” he broke in. “And whatever you do, don’t stay in Colorado. Take your babies far away, and if you want to be safe, don’t ever come back.”

25

It was nearly one in the morning. Except for some hushed talking, the occasional flush of a toilet or the jangle of keys, the Security Housing Unit was quiet this late at night but it wasn’t dark. It was never completely dark. The lights dimmed at 2200 hours after the first-watch shift change, but that was it.

Peyton’s heels clicked as she walked down a corridor fronting eight cells. From inside one of these “pods,” the SHU appeared smaller than it was in reality. Not in terms of building size—the structure was two stories and had a central command post that sat high above both tiers—but in housing capacity. One of the largest and oldest isolation facilities in the country, Pelican Bay’s SHU housed more than twelve hundred men in gray cells made almost entirely of concrete—the bed, the chair, the desk, everything except the stainless-steel combination toilet and sink. There were no bars on these cells like in old prisons. Painted bright orange, the doors were solid steel, except for round nickel-size cutouts and a slot for the meal tray.

Most inmates in this unit lived alone, but thanks to overcrowding more than a few had cell mates. Depending on the cell mate, sometimes it was better to be alone. Peyton couldn’t imagine spending twenty-two and a half hours a day locked in such a small space with the same person for years on end. She wondered how many marriages—even happy ones—could withstand that kind of close, unrelenting contact.

But going without human interaction wasn’t easy, either. Pelican Bay was designed with no windows except a narrow vertical slit in each cell. The convicts couldn’t see trees or earth or sky, or at least no more than a few inches of it. They couldn’t see the outside of the building where they were being held or other inmates because no two cells lined up directly across from each other. Twice a day corrections officers brought trays of food. Every three days they delivered soap, shampoo and toothpaste in little paper cups. Beyond that, SHU residents had very limited contact with officers, and rarely received visitors. For one thing, family and friends had to call ahead, set up an appointment and get clearance, which made it a hassle. For another, Pelican Bay was too remote. Most of the inmates came from L.A., a two-day drive. Even when they did get a visitor, they had to sit in a booth separated by Plexiglas and speak via telephone. There were men in here who hadn’t received a visitor in years.

Some mental health professionals claimed such extreme isolation pushed men over the edge, drove them insane. Pelican Bay was often the target of this kind of criticism. After what she’d witnessed, Peyton wouldn’t argue with that. At a minimum, she believed years in the SHU couldn’t be healthy, that it would do nothing to make these men less angry or less violent. Just the opposite was true. But she didn’t have a better option for curtailing gang activity. As soon as the government provided one, she’d be more than happy to implement it. That was actually one of the things she hoped to achieve in the foreseeable future. She wanted to incorporate more consistent and effective rehabilitation programs to see if that might lower the recidivism rate for Pelican Bay offenders; if so, other prisons might adopt a similar approach. The entire system needed a massive overhaul. Just for starters, Peyton felt the state should provide a structured integration program for offenders who’d be leaving conditions such as these to go back onto the streets. A whopping ninety-five percent of the twelve hundred who called the SHU home were eligible for parole, meaning they’d be free one day.

Weston didn’t have a cellie. Peyton preferred he be alone to reflect on the actions that’d landed him in the SHU. She hoped removing him from gen pop would isolate Buzz, shift the paradigm of power enough that Virgil could make some headway. Weston belonged in the SHU, anyway. This wasn’t a place one was sent by a judge. Only those who acted up on the inside or joined a gang came here.

Clearing her throat, she stopped at his new cell. “Sergeant Hutchinson said you had something to tell me?”

The holes in the door darkened, indicating that he was standing on the other side. “Why you doin’ this to me, boss?”

His voice sounded far more nasal than usual, due to the swelling of his nose. Peyton couldn’t help feeling a bit smug that he hadn’t gotten away with the one-sided beating he’d no doubt intended when he and his three buddies ganged up on Virgil.

“You know why you’re here.”

“No, I don’t!”

She adjusted the goggles she’d donned to protect her eyes, a necessary precaution since so many inmates created homemade projectiles they launched with the elastic taken from the waistbands of their underwear. Although the missiles could be dangerous in their own right, she was less worried about the pointy end of such objects than what might be smeared on them. The inmates used feces, urine, semen, anything they could to spread hepatitis and HIV. She wore a knife-proof vest for the same reason. It not only protected her from blow darts, it covered her vital organs in case someone tried to stab her by shoving a shank through one of the holes in the door. “Come on. You started that fight in the dining hall.”

“Who says it was me?” A flash of white told her Weston hadn’t bothered to dress for this little interview. He was wearing boxers and a T-shirt—standard apparel. Residents of the SHU hardly ever wore the yellow jump-suits they were given, even in the daytime. What Weston had on now, together with a pair of flip-flops, was pretty much what he’d have on tomorrow. There wasn’t a lot of incentive to dress when you never saw anyone. Some of the men in the psych ward refused to wear anything at all.

“You tell her, Wes!” someone shouted.

With so little sensory input, the inmates became very sensitive to any change in their surroundings—and eager for the smallest distraction. No doubt the man who’d just yelled wasn’t the only one listening in. Peyton didn’t have to worry about Detric Whitehead overhearing, though. She’d been careful to put Weston in a different pod than his fearless leader. But that didn’t necessarily mean Detric wouldn’t hear about what Weston had to say, especially if it was at all out of line. “You’re telling me it wasn’t? You didn’t start the fight?”

“No, ma’am. It was that new guy. Bennett.”

She couldn’t see his face, couldn’t even see both eyes at once, but she sensed that he was scowling. “Bennett picked a fight with you—and your three friends?”

“Yes! I’m not lyin’!”

But, of course, he was. That was what he did whenever it suited him. “On his first day inside, when he doesn’t know who you are or what you can do or what the consequences might be? I find that a little difficult to swallow.”

“Then swallow this!” someone yelled, and several others laughed, the sound of it echoing off the concrete walls.

Just as she’d thought she would, Peyton regretted coming. If not for Virgil, she wouldn’t have bothered. “I don’t know very many guys who want to walk into something like that.”

“Because other guys can’t fight like this dude can! He’s not scared of anything. You saw what he did to me, what he did to Doug and Ace.”

Peyton sighed. “You brought me all the way down here for this? So you can whine and complain?”

“To tell you this ain’t fair! Why am I the only one being punished?”