“Jack.” Aunt Haddie raised a hand. “Eyes on the road.”
Jack straightened out the car.
“The police said he stole that missing woman’s wallet and then tried to use an ATM card that wasn’t his. He didn’t get any money out of the account, but they said that doesn’t matter, he tried to use the card. But he didn’t do it.” Mrs. Martin gripped Aunt Haddie’s hand. “I know Jay. He said he found that woman’s wallet.”
“Do they believe that part at least?” Jack asked. “Or do they think he’s somehow involved in the Stacy Shaw disappearance?”
“They think he knows where Mrs. Shaw is,” Mrs. Martin said, her voice shaking. “But he couldn’t have been involved. He’s never hurt anyone. You know him, Jackie. Have you ever seen him have a temper?”
Jack crooked his head to the side. The truth was, J-Dog’s temper was notorious. Jack had seen him start fights a handful of times—and each time, it was a lopsided victory for J-Dog.
Jack chose to ignore the question. “So that’s why they’re charging him with all those felonies,” he said instead. “They’re leaning on him to get information on Stacy Shaw.” He turned to look at Mrs. Martin.
Aunt Haddie pointed forward. “Pay attention to your driving.”
“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “Where did the police find the wallet?”
“In Jay’s jacket. When they searched the house. I think Jay was going to try to figure out who it belonged to so he could give it back. I’m certain he didn’t steal it like they said…” She broke down and sobbed.
Jack opened his mouth to speak, but Aunt Haddie shook her head.
Mrs. Martin cried quietly as Aunt Haddie rubbed her back. They spent the rest of the ride in silence.
When they pulled into the prison parking lot, Jack got the door and the two women got out. Aunt Haddie patted Jack’s arm.
They walked down the long concrete path to the prison. Jack had been out here once before as part of a police ride-along. He was accompanied by a group of burly police officers, but even so it was unnerving.
As they headed to the entrance, the prison exercise yard appeared in the distance. Several layers of fences crowned with barbed wire separated them from the prisoners. They called the exercise yard at the Bay “The Beast Pit,” because all the weights and illegal steroids turned guys into creatures that only vaguely resembled humans. Right now, a dozen hulking men snarled and growled as they tossed massive steel weights into the air like they weighed nothing. The prisoners looked at the guards like wolves trapped in cages, with contempt and loathing.
Every part of prison put Jack on edge, from the cold, indifferent tone of the guards to the prisoners who glared at him with nothing but hate. The place had the antiseptic smell of a hospital mixed with the stale air of a tomb, and although the concrete and tiles looked as if they belonged in a university, to Jack it was like walking into a morgue.
When the first heavy metal gate clanged shut behind them and the unseen lock sealed it with a loud click, Jack recalled what he hated the most about this place: he was trapped. Locked behind steel doors and concrete. The feeling of panic rippled through his entire being as flashbacks from his childhood rolled through his mind.
Jack flexed his hands and his breathing sped up. It felt as if the floor was rolling out from under him. His eyes clamped shut as tightly as the door. Everything inside screamed at him to turn around and run—to tear the door open and barrel outside. Sweat ran down his back and the room spun. He stretched his hand out and felt the cold concrete.
Get out! yelled a voice in his head.
His eyes snapped open but his feet didn’t move. He watched Aunt Haddie and Mrs. Martin walking down the corridor ahead of him, the two old women holding each other up.
He couldn’t leave them alone in here.
His fist smacked the wall. He hurried to catch up.
After showing their IDs several times, enduring two pat-downs, and handing over their bags and everything in their pockets, Mrs. Martin, Aunt Haddie, and Jack were escorted to a long, stark room. The cinderblock walls were painted a drab gray and green, and the lack of exterior windows made the air smell stale and musty. Warning posters were everywhere, informing prisoners that biting, spitting, or throwing of bodily waste would result in thirty days added to their sentence.
This was the visiting room.
The space was cut in two by a metal and glass divider partitioned into five individual sections. Each section consisted of two metal stools cemented into the floor on the visitors’ side, one stool on the prisoner’s side, and between them, a thick glass window atop a waist-high metal counter. There was no phone or speakers, just dozens of small holes drilled through the glass. Speaking through the holes forced people to raise their voices to a level that enabled the guards and everyone else to hear their conversations.