Bobby Bonaroo stares at me like I just suggested we should eat a baby.

“Catch Me If You Can is sort of an underrated performance of his,” I continue. “The one where he’s the FBI agent chasing Leo DiCaprio? Sure, Leo’s young and hot and charming, but Tom Hanks just won’t quit chasing him. He never stops. I mean, he gets the French police to work on Christmas Eve.”

Bobby Bonaroo is not dumb. He has assessed his situation and found himself tied up in an unknown location, at the mercy of a woman he thought would be an easy lay and who has instead drugged him and is clearly crazy. With a visible effort, he takes a deep breath, then another. “I never saw that one,” he says.

I smile, appreciating the gesture. “It’s not a great work of cinematic art,” I admit. “But it’s fun to watch. And it illustrates a point.”

The conversation is already taking a toll on Bobby. When I don’t continue, he says between clenched teeth, “What point?”

“The bad guy always gets caught in the end,” I say. “It’s a movie, granted, and the point’s not always true. Not by a long shot. But it’s true in this case.”

Bobby narrows his eyes. Playing along is clearly not his forte, so he opts for threatening. “Lady, I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re fucking with the wrong guy.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I’ve got the right guy,” I say. “You’re a private contractor with American First Defense. You ran an immigration detention facility called Casa Madre, which, I mean, the name alone is laughably obscene.”

Bobby glares at me, which is less impressive than he wants it to be, considering he’s trussed up like a damsel in distress on a railroad track. “You drug me and tie me up—no, chain me up,” he says, “and you want to talk to me about Tom fucking Hanks and my job?”

“How many girls did you have in Casa Madre, Bobby? Four hundred?” I lean forward, my eyes on his. “All between the ages of ten and seventeen. All separated from their parents.”

Bobby Bonaroo shakes his head in disgust and looks away, his gaze directed up into the dark.

“Maria Flores,” I say.

That gets his attention. He looks back at me, and for a moment I see a flicker in his eyes. Guilt, maybe, but that might just be optimism on my part.

“She died in your prison because one of your people gave her the wrong meds,” I say.

“Wait,” Bobby says. “Is that what this is about?”

“Other girls reported being abused or raped by guards.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” Bobby says, his voice rising. “The guards who gave that girl the wrong medicine were punished. I told the government lawyer—”