The jail wasn’t far. Hell, nothing was far in this town. When I got there, I sat in the car a few minutes listening to Miles Davis. I wondered what my ex, Sarah Pascal, was doing back in Miami. Probably hauling in some drug dealer whose door she just kicked down.

Inside the jail, the guards were tackling somebody. The man, a tall skinhead with skull tattoos, was screaming at them to let him go. One guard lifted his legs out from underneath him, and the guy toppled forward and slammed his head into the wall. Another guard put his knee in his back and cuffed him.

“Never a dull moment, huh?” I said to the front-desk clerk.

“What can I help you with?” He looked up at me. “Oh, you’re the new prosecutor. What can I do for you?”

Once he realized I was a prosecutor, his demeanor changed. It was something I’d grown accustomed to. When I was a defense attorney, they were the good guys and I was the scum of the earth for actually making sure the government had enough evidence before sticking someone in the electric chair. Now the shoe was on the other foot, and I had to admit, it felt damn nice.

“Thank you, yes, you can help me. I’m here to see Anderson Ficco.”

He checked a list. “Of course. He’s ready to go, but his attorney is running a bit late.”

“Well, we have to wait for him. Why don’t you just put us in the room and we’ll stay quiet while we wait?”

He shrugged. “Sure thing.”

A guard came out, huge guy with a barbed wire tattoo on his forearm, and led me back there. The room was all cement and green. A place interior decorators came to die. Across from me sat Anderson Ficco in an orange jumpsuit.

Like Steven, he appeared different than in photos and at the lineup. Sitting down, he looked practically crumpled over, skinnier. The droopiness of his eye was more pronounced, and I noticed now that his face was off kilter and that he had surgical scars underneath his chin. His eyes turned toward me, and he smiled and said, “Russell said you was really good lookin’. Bet bitches just line up at your house, huh?”

I sat down and glanced back at the door to make sure the guard was gone. “Sorry, I can’t talk until your lawyer gets here.”

He chuckled. “He said ya was slick, too. So ya from Miami, huh? Shit, only thing I ever seen from Miami is Cubans. No wonder ya moved back here. I been around them a shit-ton on my daddy’s factory floor, and they thievin’ as hell. Rob ya blind by the time ya turn around.”