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tell you how many times these liberal
     crusader types decide to set things right and all they do is cause a lot of harm and put a lot of people at risk, and maybe
     you should ask yourself what business it is of someone from New York City to come down here and meddle in things.”
    I get up from a prison-built chair that is as hard and rigid as the warden who ordered it made, and through open blinds I
     see women in gray prison uniforms working in flower beds and trimming grass borders along sidewalks and fences and walking
     greyhounds. The sky has gotten volatile and is the color of lead, and I ask the warden who from New York City? Who is she
     talking about?
    “Jaime Berger. I believe the two of you are friends.” She steps out from behind her desk.
    It’s a name I haven’t heard in months, and the reminder is painful and awkward.
    “She’s got an investigation going on, and I don’t know the ins and outs of it, and shouldn’t,” she says, about the well-known
     head of the Sex Crimes Unit for the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office. “She has big plans and is insistent that nothing
     is leaked to the media or to anyone. So I didn’t feel comfortable mentioning anything about it to your lawyer. But it did occur to me you might have
     found out anyway that Jaime Berger has an interest in the GPFW.”
    “I know nothing about an investigation and have no idea.” I’m careful not to let what I’m feeling register on my face.
    “You seem to be telling me the truth,” she says, with a glimmer of defiance and resentment in her eyes. “It seems what I’ve
     just said is new information to you, and that’s a good thing. I don’t appreciate people telling me one reason for something
     when they really have another. I wouldn’t want to think your coming here to visit Kathleen Lawler is a ruse to cover up your
     involvement with another individual I’m responsible for at the GPFW. That you’re really here to help Jaime Berger’s cause.”
    “I’m not part of whatever she’s doing.”
    “You might be and not know it.”
    “I can’t imagine how my coming to visit Kathleen Lawler would have anything to do with something Jaime is involved in.”
    “I’m sure you’re aware that Lola Daggette is one of ours,” Tara says, and it’s a strange way to phrase it, as if the GPFW’s
     most notorious inmate is an acquisition like a rescued race dog or a rodeo rider or a special plant cultivated in the nursery
     down the road.
    “Dr. Clarence Jordan and his family, January sixth, 2002, here in Savannah,” she continues. “A home invasion in the middle
     of the night, only robbery wasn’t the motive. Apparently killing for the sake of killing was. Hacked and stabbed them to death
     while they were in bed, except for the little girl, one of the twins. She was chased down the stairs and got as far as the
     front door.”
    I remember hearing Savannah medical examiner Dr. Colin Dengate present the case at the National Association of Medical Examiners’s annual meeting in Los Angeles some years ago. There was
     a lot of speculation about what really happened inside the victims’ mansion and how access was gained, and I seem to recall
     the killer made a sandwich, drank beer, and used a bathroom and didn’t flush the toilet. It was my impression at the time
     that the crime scene raised more questions than it answered and the evidence seemed to argue with itself.
    “Lola Daggette was caught washing her bloody clothing and then made up one lie after another about it,” Tara says. “A drug
     addict who had problems with anger and a long history of abuse and run-ins with the law.”
    “I believe there’s a theory that more than one person could have been involved,” I reply.
    “The theory around here is justice was served, and this fall Lola should get to explain herself to God.”
    “DNA, or maybe it was fingerprints, was never identified,” I begin to remember the details. “Opening up the