Despite the cramped configuration of the backseat, I managed to doze off for almost a half hour. Earl woke me on our approach to the prison. I checked my phone and saw that we had made good time despite the early traffic. It was only ten o’clock and that was when attorney visiting hours began.
“You don’t mind, boss, I’m gonna wait outside on this one,” Earl said.
I smiled at him in the mirror.
“I don’t mind, Earl. I wish I could, too.”
I handed him my phone over the seat. There was no way I would be allowed to take it inside, which was ironic, since most prisoners had access to cell phones.
“If Cisco, Lorna, or Bullocks calls, answer it and tell them I’m inside. Everything else let go to message.”
“You got it.”
He dropped me at the main visitors’ entrance.
The process of getting in to see Fulgoni and Moya went smoothly. I had to show a driver’s license and my California bar card, then sign one document certifying that I was an attorney, and a second certifying that I was not smuggling drugs or other illegal contraband into the facility. After that I was walked through a magnetometer after removing my belt and shoes. I was placed in an attorney-client room and given an electronic alert to clip to my belt. If I was physically threatened by my client, I was instructed to yank the pager-size device off my belt, and an alarm would sound, drawing guards to the room. Of course, I would still need to be alive to pull it but that detail wasn’t mentioned. This had all come about because of one court ruling or another that had prohibited guards from watching over attorney-client meetings in the prison.
I was left alone in the ten-by-ten room to wait. There were a table and two chairs and an electronic call box on the wall next to the door. The waiting was a given. I don’t think I had ever made a prison visit where I walked into the interview room and my client was there waiting for me.
It was routine for attorneys to stack interviews with multiple clients at a prison—even when the cases were unrelated. It saved travel and clearance time to get it all done in one visit. But usually the prisoners were brought in on a timetable that suited the prison staff and was based on the schedules and availability of the prisoners. I had asked the visitor center captain to allow me to visit with Fulgoni first and then Moya. He frowned at the request but said he would see what he could do.
Maybe that was why the wait seemed extraordinarily long. Thirty minutes went by before Fulgoni was finally brought into the interview room. At first I almost told the guards escorting him that he had the wrong guy, but then I realized it was indeed Sylvester Fulgoni Sr. Though I’d finally recognized him, he still wasn’t the man I recalled from the courthouses and courtrooms we both worked at one time. The man shuffling into the room in leg chains was pale and haggard, hunched over, and for the first time, I realized he must have worn a toupee all those years I knew of him in L.A. No such vanity was allowed in prison. The crown of his head was bald and sharply reflected the overhead fluorescent lights.
He took a seat across the table from me. His wrists were cuffed to a waist chain. We didn’t shake hands.
“Hello, Sly,” I said. “How was lunch?”
“Lunch was the same as it is everyday here. Bologna on white bread, unfit for human consumption.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m not. I figure when I start liking it, then I’ve got a problem.”
I nodded.
“I get that.”
“I don’t know about you, but back in the day I had clients who liked to hide out in prison. Places like this. It was easier than the streets because you got your three squares, a bed, clean laundry. Sex and drugs readily available if you want ’em. It was dangerous, but the streets were plenty dangerous, too.”
“Yeah, I’ve had a few like that.”
“Well, that’s not me. I consider this place to be a living hell on earth.”
“But less than a year to go, right?”
“Three-hundred and forty-one days. I used to be able to tell it down to the hour and minute but I’m a little more relaxed about that now.”
I nodded again and decided that was enough as far as the pleasantries went. It was time to get down to business. I hadn’t driven all the way up to discuss the pros and cons of prison life or to figuratively pat Sylvester Fulgoni on the back.
“Did you talk to Hector Moya about me this morning?”
Fulgoni nodded.
“That I did. And you’re all set. He’ll take the meeting and he’ll take you as co-counsel with young Sly.”
“Good.”
“I can’t say he’s too happy about it. He’s pretty convinced that you’re in part responsible for him being here.”