“People do different things, they chat, they play soccer, they go over there, you see? To the workshops. We have two computer workshops and one for woodworking. From five in the evening until nine they can stay in their sections and socialize. But they can’t leave the section. At ten o’clock we shut the armored cell gates and then it’s lights out.”

“What about meals?”

“We serve lunch from eleven o’clock to twelve noon, and dinner’s at six thirty. We have a library and a gym and those are the two most heavily used spaces.”

“What time was it when Cuntrera died?”

“Two thirty?”

“Are you asking me?”

“No, no. Two thirty,” the guard hastened to state.

“Let’s go back upstairs . . . This courtyard is disgusting.”

“I know. But you ought to see the cells. They’re even worse. The real problem here is health. We’ve had cases of tuberculosis, and even inmates with full-blown cases of AIDS. But with all the cuts in funding . . .”

“Listen up, are the four North Africans still in the infirmary, or have they returned to their cells?”

“Only Omar’s still in the infirmary. Two of them have gone back to their section, whereas the one who got the worst beating, Aziz, is in the hospital.”

“There’s something I need to understand. How do you get into this? What are the points of access?”

Marini nodded. “Every section has its own entrance. See? There are three. But the inmates restricted to solitary confinement have a section all their own, and they don’t come into this courtyard; they go to the covered yard, over there.”

Rocco went back to the corner where Cuntrera had given up the ghost. A recess, just yards from Wing 3. “What about this entrance? Where does it lead?”

“It’s the third wing.”

“And was that where Cuntrera had his cell?”

“Yes, he was in that section.”

“So when he was killed, he was very close to the entrance to his detention wing. Fine. Who was at that door on the day of the brawl?”

“I don’t remember. But I think Tolotta. Federico Tolotta.”

Rocco stepped closer to the gate. “Why don’t you have them open up, please.”

Marini picked up his radio. A moment later, the gate leading into the section opened. A short, balding guard with a sad face appeared. “I’m Deputy Chief Schiavone. Are you Tolotta?”

“No. I’m Biranson. Tolotta is my colleague, he comes on duty tomorrow.”

Rocco, followed by Marini like his shadow, stepped into the hallway. Straight ahead were the stairs. On the right a metal door. “What’s this?”

“That door leads to an internal corridor,” replied the diminutive Biranson.

“And where does this corridor lead to?”

“To the other side,” Marini replied. “Open up, Bruno, let’s show the commissario just where this corridor leads.”

“Let’s show the deputy chief,” Rocco corrected him.

“Ah, of course, excuse me.”