42

If a chemist combined 115 degrees Fahrenheit with the accommodations of steerage, the result would be Cochise Penitentiary—a medium-security installation deep in the desert where the sands of the Mojave sank below sea level. The site was as fiery as the bowels of the earth, the surrounding terrain flat, bleak, and tan, broken up by occasional spindly cacti and roadkill. Brill and I had the luxury of doing most of the trip in an air-conditioned Ford Escort, but then the temperature needle started nudging the red zone. Since we weren’t on a survival show and there was no million-dollar check waiting, the idea of being marooned in this godforsaken land wasn’t at all pleasant. Brill turned off the air-conditioning and opened the windows.

Immediately, we were sandblasted by scorching air and grit. Brill went profane, pounding his fist on the dash. “Asshole couldn’t have waited a couple months before he fucked up?”

“Asshole” was Joseph Nicholas Fedek. Like all rotten apples, he eventually made it to the compost pile, picked up on a B-and-E charge in Rampart Division, home of scandal and Dodger Stadium. And Brill had a point. The Inland Valley area in late August was hell.

“Look on the bright side,” I said cheerfully. “Germando El Paso would probably give up a nut to get out of Cochise early. That gives us real bargaining power.”

“What a dumb shit! All he had to do was stay clean for six weeks on a stupid traffic bust. The jerk plays hotshot dealing X from his County cell, then buys himself a year and a half of misery in this inferno.”

“How did El Paso get the bag into County?”

“Rumor says his girlfriend sneaked it in way up in dark places.”

“Didn’t someone pat her down?”

“You take a peek; you don’t fist fuck her. I can’t believe I gave up my Saturday for this!”

“At least you’re getting paid.”

“Yeah, time-and-a-half along with a bad case of crotch rot.”

He adjusted his butt in the seat. He wore a pair of ecru linen pants and a short-sleeved white shirt, both articles of clothing darkened with sweat stains. I had on a white blouse and a dark blue cotton skirt that fell below my knees. My hair was tied back, knotted into a tight braid. I looked like a parochial-school girl.

“That’s the turnoff.” I pointed to the sign.

Brill took a swig from his water bottle. We had two cases sitting on dry ice in the back. “I see, I see.”

It took us another twenty minutes to arrive at the institution—a three-story cinder-block edifice surrounded by six guard towers and a sea of barbed wire. Cochise wasn’t very big, and it didn’t house the more violent criminals. It had an infirmary but no hospital and it didn’t have a psycho ward. Whenever someone freaked, he was immediately transferred out to San Quentin or some other maximum-security facility.

We checked in with the parking-booth guard, who assigned Brill’s Escort a space in a sizzling lot of dirt and pebbles. Asphalt in this heat would have been a tar pit.