“Keep the windows down,” Brill told me. “Just remind me not to touch the steering wheel when we come back.”

It took us about a half hour to go through all the sign-in procedures. We checked our weapons into a gun locker and walked through a double-door sally port into the main facilities. There was some minimal air-conditioning, but inside was still hot and dry and smelled of sweat, piss, and barely controlled fury. The cell doors were open, but the hallways were almost entirely empty. Most of the blue-shirted inmates lazed on their cots, staring at the ceiling, listening to the ball game, or playing a torpid game of solitaire.

Rest time, the guard explained.

He led us into the interview cell—hot and smelly—with a wall clock and a barred window showing a view of heat waves rising off the sand. The area had the requisite metal table and chairs, the furniture bolted into place. We sat and waited and drank tepid water.

Germando came in around ten minutes later, dressed in prison blues—a uniform not a lot different from Koby’s blue scrubs, reminding me once again that it was all context. Sweat coated his face, and the tiger tattoo on his neck looked as if it were stalking prey in the humid jungles of Southeast Asia. El Paso’s expression was one of contempt. He still had his dinky mustache and a plug of beard under his lower lip. He slouched in one of the metal chairs.

Brill gave him a cup of water.

El Paso didn’t drink.

Brill rubbed his eyes. “This is the story. We picked up Juice Fedek, got him on a solid B-and-E, so he’s going to do time. We’re in the process of getting a warrant for his place. And when we do, we’re going to find his gun. And then that means Juice is going to do lots of time and not in Cochise. He’s going upstate to San Quentin. Because once we find the gun—and we will find the gun—we’re going to connect it to an attempted-murder indictment. He’s going away for a long time because the idiot was popping lead at a cop. And anyone associated with him is going away for a long time.”

El Paso shrugged. “Wha’ this have to do with me? I been here for the last two months.”

It was my turn. “I was shot at by that bastard because he didn’t want me looking into the Sarah Sanders rape. There was only one person who could have told him about my investigation. And that same person told Fedek what car to look out for.”

A smile spread across El Paso’s lips. “I don’ know what you talk about.”

“Then I’ll make it clear. When I arrested you, you saw my friend drive away in his car. You noted the make and model. You told Fedek, your stepbrother, that I was investigating Sarah Sanders’s rape and you told him what car to look for. You set me up!”