people fearing me, I tried to develop good manners, to strike some balance. I came to believe that they were mandatory for a man with a face like mine. I've worked almost as hard at having good manners as I have mastering Ken-po, or the recoil nuances of the Colt .45 ACP.
"So Joe," said Lucia Fuentes. "Explain the girl to us. If your father wasn't that way, then what was he doing with her?"
"I'm not sure. He said he was trying to do a good deed."
They looked at each other.
Then the voice started building again inside me: you killed him y killed him you killed him . . .
I felt like I was in that fog again, the fog that rolled in the night before Secret fog. Killer fog. I wished I could blow it all away, step from it into something clear and sunny and true. I couldn't do that, but I had a quiet spot I could go to. I can go there any time I want. So I went.
"I've told you what I know," I said, standing, hat in hand. "Call me anytime if I can help more. I'd like to know who the girl was, Detectives. I'd like to help her if I can. Pardon me, but I have to go to work now, or I'll be late."
Alagna looked at Fuentes like she should stop me. Fuentes looked me like someone missing her bus. When I walked out the sun was just starting to come up. The reporters converged and I was happy to see them. I just gave them the basics, but I made sure they knew that a girl named Savannah was loose in the night. I described her exactly, right down to her clothing, a backpack and good manners and fine straight hair. I even sketched her face on my notepad as best I could. It came out slightly better than nothing.
The reporters liked this: here was a chance to help find her, maybe do something good. They're the second most cynical people, after cops.
Sunrise in the county, and me alone in Will's car, the freeways jammed already, everybody acting like Will was still alive. What was wrong with these fools? And what was wrong with Alagna and Fuentes, letting me drive off in a car that was part of a homicide scene, instead of impounding it?
I got through to Mom on my cell phone again. Reverend Daniel Alter had met her at the hospital and she was now in the Chapel of Light sanctuary. She had taken a mild sedative. Her voice sounded light and insubstantial. One of the assistant ministers was going to take her home because she felt too woozy to drive. I told her I'd drive her home myself, but she insisted that I work, stay focused, stay useful. I told her I'd be over as soon as my shift was over.
In the sheriff's gym I showered, shaved and put on my uniform, then walked across the compound to my job.
Orange County Jail. Sixth largest in the nation. Three thousand inmates, three thousand orange jumpsuits. Seventy percent of them are felons. And a hundred jailers like me, mostly young guys, armed only with pepper spray, trying to keep order. Hundreds of new inmates come through the Intake-Release Center every day, a total of seventy thousand every year. Hundreds are released back into society, every day. In and out. In and out. We call it The Loop. The jail is an enormous rotating swirl, a storm system of defeat, fury, violence and boredom. During the day, Men's Central is my world. It's a world of strict order and, usually, quiet compliance. Power and submission. Good guys green, bad guys orange. Hands in your pockets, eyes forward, shut-up. Pull your pockets, show your socks. Them and us. It's also a world of shanks whittled from bed frames, clubs made of knotted Tshirts filled with bars of soap, of rotgut liquor made from leftover bits of fruit and bread smuggled in from the mess hall, of drugs and black tattoos and kites—note smuggled down from the shot-callers in Tank 29 of Module F, or from protective custody in Module J, to the low-security guys who can pass them along to friends and allies on the outside. It's a world of silence, a world of dimly lit guard stations, so the inmates can't watch us watch them. A world of racial gangs, of
"So Joe," said Lucia Fuentes. "Explain the girl to us. If your father wasn't that way, then what was he doing with her?"
"I'm not sure. He said he was trying to do a good deed."
They looked at each other.
Then the voice started building again inside me: you killed him y killed him you killed him . . .
I felt like I was in that fog again, the fog that rolled in the night before Secret fog. Killer fog. I wished I could blow it all away, step from it into something clear and sunny and true. I couldn't do that, but I had a quiet spot I could go to. I can go there any time I want. So I went.
"I've told you what I know," I said, standing, hat in hand. "Call me anytime if I can help more. I'd like to know who the girl was, Detectives. I'd like to help her if I can. Pardon me, but I have to go to work now, or I'll be late."
Alagna looked at Fuentes like she should stop me. Fuentes looked me like someone missing her bus. When I walked out the sun was just starting to come up. The reporters converged and I was happy to see them. I just gave them the basics, but I made sure they knew that a girl named Savannah was loose in the night. I described her exactly, right down to her clothing, a backpack and good manners and fine straight hair. I even sketched her face on my notepad as best I could. It came out slightly better than nothing.
The reporters liked this: here was a chance to help find her, maybe do something good. They're the second most cynical people, after cops.
Sunrise in the county, and me alone in Will's car, the freeways jammed already, everybody acting like Will was still alive. What was wrong with these fools? And what was wrong with Alagna and Fuentes, letting me drive off in a car that was part of a homicide scene, instead of impounding it?
I got through to Mom on my cell phone again. Reverend Daniel Alter had met her at the hospital and she was now in the Chapel of Light sanctuary. She had taken a mild sedative. Her voice sounded light and insubstantial. One of the assistant ministers was going to take her home because she felt too woozy to drive. I told her I'd drive her home myself, but she insisted that I work, stay focused, stay useful. I told her I'd be over as soon as my shift was over.
In the sheriff's gym I showered, shaved and put on my uniform, then walked across the compound to my job.
Orange County Jail. Sixth largest in the nation. Three thousand inmates, three thousand orange jumpsuits. Seventy percent of them are felons. And a hundred jailers like me, mostly young guys, armed only with pepper spray, trying to keep order. Hundreds of new inmates come through the Intake-Release Center every day, a total of seventy thousand every year. Hundreds are released back into society, every day. In and out. In and out. We call it The Loop. The jail is an enormous rotating swirl, a storm system of defeat, fury, violence and boredom. During the day, Men's Central is my world. It's a world of strict order and, usually, quiet compliance. Power and submission. Good guys green, bad guys orange. Hands in your pockets, eyes forward, shut-up. Pull your pockets, show your socks. Them and us. It's also a world of shanks whittled from bed frames, clubs made of knotted Tshirts filled with bars of soap, of rotgut liquor made from leftover bits of fruit and bread smuggled in from the mess hall, of drugs and black tattoos and kites—note smuggled down from the shot-callers in Tank 29 of Module F, or from protective custody in Module J, to the low-security guys who can pass them along to friends and allies on the outside. It's a world of silence, a world of dimly lit guard stations, so the inmates can't watch us watch them. A world of racial gangs, of
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