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possibility of
     more than one assailant.”
    “That was her defense, the only remotely plausible story her lawyers could come up with that might explain how the victims’
     blood could be all over her clothes if she wasn’t involved. So they manufactured an imaginary accomplice to give Lola someone
     to blame.” Tara Grimm walks me out into the hall. “I wouldn’t like to think of Lola being free in society, and it’s a possibility
     she could have that opportunity even though her appeals are used up. Apparently new forensic tests of the original evidence
     were ordered, something about the DNA.”
    “If that’s true, then law enforcement, the courts, must have a substantive reason.” I look down the hallway to the checkpoint,
     where guards are talking to each other. “I can’t imagine the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, the police, the prosecution,
     or the court would allow evidence to be retested unless there were legitimate grounds for it.”
    “I suppose it’s within the realm of possibility that her conviction could be overturned. Could be others getting out early
     on good behavior, for that matter. Could be one big jailbreak here at the GPFW.” The warden’s eyes are hard, the glint in
     them now undisguised anger.
    “Jaime Berger’s not in the business of getting people out of prison,” I reply.
    “That seems to be the business she’s in now. She’s not paying social calls on Bravo Pod.”
    “This was how long ago, exactly? When she was here?”
    “I understand she has a place in Savannah, a getaway. It’s just something I’ve heard.” She dismisses the information as gossip,
     while I’m certain it’s more than that.
    If Jaime came here to the GPFW to interview someone on death row, she didn’t do so without going through exactly what I am
     right now. She sat down with Tara Grimm first.
Social calls,
as in more than one. A getaway from what, and for what purpose? It seems completely out of character for the New York prosecutor
     I used to know.
    “She’s been coming here, and now you’re here,” the warden says. “I have a suspicion you’re someone who doesn’t believe in
     coincidences. I’ll let the officers know it’s all right to take that photograph in and leave it with Kathleen.”
    She steps back inside her office, and I follow the long blue hallway, returning to the checkpoint, where a corrections officer
     in a gray uniform and baseball cap asks me to empty my pockets. I’m told to place everything in a plastic basket, and I hand
     over my driver’s license and the van keys and explain the photograph has been approved by the warden, and the officer says
     he’s aware and I can carry it in with me. I’m scanned, patted down, and given a clip-on red badge that says I’m official visitor
     number seventy-one. My right hand is stamped with a secret code word that will show up only under ultraviolet light when I’m
     leaving the facility later today.
    “You might get in this place, but if your hand isn’t stamped, you’re never getting out,” the officer says, and I can’t tell
     if he’s being friendly or funny or something else.
    His name is M. P. Macon, according to his nameplate, and he calls on his radio for Central Control to open the gate. A loud
     electronic buzz, and a heavy green metal door slides open and clacks shut behind us. Then a second one opens, and visitation
     rules posted in red warn that I’m entering a zero-tolerance workplace for inmate-employee relationships. The tile floor has
     just been waxed and is tacky beneath my loafers as I follow Officer Macon along a gray corridor where every door is metal
     and locked and every corner and intersection are hung with convex security mirrors.
    My escort is powerfully built and has a vigilant air that borders on combat wariness, his brown eyes constantly scanning as
     we reach another door that is remotely opened. We emerge into the yard in the heat, and low, ragged clouds stream overhead