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.
“So, um, I guess I should have asked earlier, but why is he in Angola instead of the county jail?” I began doodling and forced myself to stop.
“Good question, Ms. Montreat. I asked the same when I found out he’d already been shipped here. He’d been receiving more than a few threats at county, so the State wanted him somewhere safer. That was the story Matt gave me, anyway. I’m certain they just wanted to make it harder for us to get to him.”
“The State plays dirty.”
“You have no clue.” He wrote the date and time in a slanting, stark hand, at the top of his notepad. My bubble writing could not compare to his elegant lines.
“So that Matt guy is on this case, too?”
“Yep. The second he sees I’ve been chosen as defense counsel, he signs right up to prosecute.” He wrote our names on the right side of the page under the heading “Attending,” mine on top of his and Rowan’s at the bottom.
“Y’all got some sort of beef?”
He grimaced and stopped writing. “Something like that.”
“What hap—”
The door creaked open and a man in orange (it’s the new black) was led inside. I recognized him from his mug shot and multiple press photos. Tall and slender with a shaved head, his eyes were beady and shifted from Mr. Granade to me and back again. His hands were cuffed, with a length of chain extending from them down to the shackles on his ankles. He wasn’t winning any footraces anytime soon.