Guard number two swept me with a handheld metal detector, then indicated I should fol ow. Keys jangled on his belt as we turned right and headed down a corridor lighted by fluorescents and surveil ed(XXXX) by wal and ceiling cameras. Straight ahead I could see a large holding cel , with a window facing the hal I was in, green bars facing the other. Inside, a half-dozen men lounged on wooden benches, sat or slept on the floor, or clung to the bars like captive primates.

Beyond the drunk tank was another green metal door, the words Bloc Cel tilaire in bold white to its right, beside that another counter A guard was placing a bundle in one of a grid of cubicles, this one marked XYZ. I suspected a Mr. Xavier was anything. He would not see his belt, shoelaces, jewelry, glasses, or other personal possessions until checkout.

"Man's in here," said the guard, thrusting his chin toward a door marked Entrevue avocat, the door attorneys used. I knew Dorsey would pass through an identical door marked Entrevue detenu, for the prisoners.

I thanked him and brushed past into a smal room not designed to lift prisoner or visitor morale. The wal s were yel ow, the trim green, the only furnishings a red vinyl counter, a wooden stool fixed to the floor, and a wal phone.

George Dorsey sat on the opposite side of a large rectangular window, back rounded, hands dangling between his knees.

"Push the button when you're done," said the guard.

With that he closed the door and we were alone.

Dorsey didn't move but his eyes locked on me as I crossed to the counter and picked up the handset.

I flashed on Gran's painting. Jesus, skul circled with thorns, forehead covered with droplets of blood. No matter where I went the gaze fol owed. Look, the eyes were open. Blink, they were closed. The picture was so unnerving I avoided my grandmother's bedroom my entire childhood. Dorsey had the same eyes.

Inwardly trembling, I sat and folded my hands on the countertop. The man across from me was thin and wiry with a hump nose and razor-blade lips. A scar started at his left temple, looped his cheek, and disappeared into a circle of plumage around his mouth. His head was shaved, his only hair a dark bolt of lightning that touched down just above the scar's terminus.

I waited for him to pick up the phone and break the silence. Outside our little room I heard voices and the clang of steel against steel. Despite the intensity of his stare, Dorsey looked as though he hadn't slept in a while.

After several birthdays Dorsey smiled. The lips disappeared and smal , yel ow teeth took their place. But there was no mirth in his eyes. With a jerky motion he yanked the receiver from its cradle and placed it to his ear.

"You've got bal s coming here, lady."

I shrugged.