The older one held her chin high, defiant, certain someone had made a terrible mistake, that her child was innocent, and someone would pay for this travesty. The younger one kept her chin down, meeting the guard’s questions with a polite murmur and sad smile but not meeting anyone’s gaze. The guilt of a mother who sees her child in prison and sees herself to blame, not quite sure what she’s done, but certain she’s done something—maybe it was that glass of wine in her first trimester or that parent-teacher meeting she missed in fifth grade, some minuscule parenting oversight that had led to this.

I walked past them and into the waiting room—a windowless gray blob of a room that said “We’d really rather you didn’t come at all, but if you must, don’t expect the damned Hilton.” Shabby red-vinyl chairs dotted the room like an outbreak of chicken pox. Goodwill rejects, by the looks of them. Yes, there are things even Goodwill won’t touch. From the way the visitors milled around the chairs, giving them wide berth, they weren’t touching them, either.

As I crossed the room I passed spouses, lovers, parents, and friends, all waiting impatiently…eager to see their loved ones or eager to get this duty visit over with. In the far corner, nearest the guard station, stood a huddle of college-age kids, mostly male. Their badges proclaimed them to be visitors from the state police college. Not one of those badges was flipped over or tucked under a jacket, but all were displayed prominently, lest someone mistake them for a real visitor, someone who actually knew one of the lowlifes in this place. An attitude that would serve them well in law enforcement.

I walked past the cop wannabes, past the guard station, crossed to the prisoners’ side of the Plexiglas partition, then headed through the door they’d enter. I came out in a single-level cell block. The first couple of cells I passed were empty, though they showed signs of habitation—a shirt draped over a chair here, a paperback open on a bed there. The inmates must have been out doing something. Work detail maybe, or occupational therapy, exercise, whatever. The particulars of prison life were a mystery to me, though some might say it was a life experience I’d earned many times over.

I only hoped Sullivan was here someplace, both because it would make my job easier and because, after what she’d done, I didn’t want her experiencing the pleasure of life beyond bars ever again—not even to break rocks under a hot Texas sun.