We checked in at the desk and then prepared to go through the metal detector. Mr. Granade went ahead of me and dropped his keys, wallet, and a few other items in the bin. Then I heard the jingle of a belt buckle. Is he taking off his b-? Yes, he whipped his belt off and dropped it into the bin along with everything else and stepped through. No beeping; he was clear.
I dropped my bag into a bin and walked through. Beeping. The guard came around and waved the wand all over me. The beeping happened whenever it went over my chest. The girls needed more than a regular underwire, as the metal detector could attest.
"Put your arms out." The guard kept waving his wand like he was directing airport traffic.
I did as instructed. He kept beeping it over my chest. Heat rushed into my cheeks. Mr. Granade put his belt back on and stared as the guard kept up the TSA routine. At least he wasn't laughing at me.
"You got anything in your bra?"
"Just my tits." My face grew redder, and I wished, for just once in my life, I could think before I spoke.
"I'm going to have to pat you down." The guard grinned and dropped the wand onto the conveyor belt. He stepped toward me.
Hell no.
"No. You aren't touching her." Mr. Granade's voice held a warning.
"I have to search her. Can't be letting people bring contraband into the prison." The guard kept his eyes on me, or rather on my tits, until Mr. Granade walked between us.
"I said you aren't touching her. She's an officer of the court, and she's with me. If you lay a finger on her, I'll file a civil suit for section 1983 violations so fast it'll make your hillbilly head spin."
I could only see his broad back, but tension was in his voice, his stance, his everything. I would have protested the search anyway, but having him step in for me was definitely more entertaining.
"I have to search-"
He took a step toward the guard so they were almost nose to nose. "Get Ted on the phone."
"Th-the warden?"
I stood on my tiptoes and peeked over Mr. Granade's shoulder. He smelled delicious, like some sort of woodsy soap. The guard glanced at me and back to Mr. Granade.
"Yes, the warden. We pledged together in college. I spent a week at his beach house two months ago. So either let her through or get him on the phone. I don't care which. But I can promise you, you aren't touching her."
The guard opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and grumbled before waving us through. I grabbed my items and gave the guard my best stink eye before following Mr. Granade down the hall. My heels were like gunshots on the linoleum, echoing off the whitewashed cinder-block walls.
Mr. Granade rolled his shoulders, as if trying to unknot his earlier tension, and strode ahead to a set of iron bars. Another guard waited there, a comically enormous set of keys attached to a loop at his hip.
"Washington Granade and Caroline Montreat here to see Rowan Ellis."
The guard radioed back to the front desk and got the okay before swinging the bars inward. We passed through another set of bars before entering the visiting area. I expected a row of chairs and reinforced glass separating us from the client, with old-school telephones to talk into. Instead, we were led to a small room with a desk and four chairs.
"We'll bring him out." The guard closed and locked the door behind him, leaving Mr. Granade and me alone in the sparse room.
"Have a seat facing the door. Get set up. Did you bring a recorder?"
I dug in my bag. "Yes."
"Don't use it."
I dropped it as soon as my fingers touched the device. "Why?"
"You'll be more present if you have to go off memory, and I'm wary of digital files with possible confessions on them. You're a lefty, so sit to my left." He motioned to one of the metal chairs.
He'd noticed what hand I used? "Um, okay."
I sank down where he'd instructed and got my legal pad ready for use. We didn't have much other paperwork to go on. Just the press coverage from the killings and the grand jury indictment. We hadn't met with the State to get their file yet. That would no doubt be a cornucopia of information-likely all damning.
The Bayou Butcher had been killing for three years. His victims numbered at least seven, though there may have been more. The bodies were always dumped in remote bayou inlets. Hookers, mostly, who'd been tortured and disfigured before they were killed. Each was missing the pinky finger on her left hand. Trophies taken by the killer, no doubt.
A chill went through me at the thought of meeting the person capable of such evil.
Mr. Granade took the seat next to me, his leg touching mine beneath the steel table. "Don't worry. This isn't my first rodeo. You're safe. Trust me."
I let out a deep breath. Despite the bars, and the criminals, and the metal everything all around, I actually did feel safe with him at my side. His words with the guard certainly helped. If Mr. Granade wouldn't let the guard touch me, then there was no chance an inmate would get anywhere close.