Every morning of incarceration was the same for Clete Younger Loften.

The electronic buzz-click, the heavy roll of the steel doors opening, joining the other inmates watched by cameras and correctional officers as they filed by the cinder-block walls to the dining area for breakfast.

“Loften.” The CO who the inmates called Brutus pulled him from the line. “You got a message. Call your attorney. Let’s go.”

Brutus escorted him to the dayroom of his housing area and the phone where he made his call to Tarrah Pond at the Public Defender’s office.

“Mr. Loften,” Pond said, “the FBI and Miami-Dade detectives have requested to interview you with respect to several ongoing investigations.”

Loften was silent on the line.

“I advise that you grant the request. I’ll be present. You do not have to answer questions that may incriminate you, but this would be a good step in demonstrating cooperation to the court.”

Loften said nothing.

“Mr. Loften, it would help our case for pretrial release. Do you agree to meet with them?”

Loften’s thoughts shifted to his memory of Tarrah Pond, all bangs and frames. The sound of her voice gently stroked his imagination. He envisioned the color of her bra and panties, their delicate lace design and what they smelled like.

“Mr. Loften? Do you agree?”

“All right.”

“Good. They’ll send me a summary of questions. I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon, in advance of them to prepare you.”

Loften hung up, turned to Brutus, then joined the others for breakfast.

He picked at his scrambled eggs while his anger and frustration ate at him. His attorney figured that helping the FBI would demonstrate cooperation. Loften sneered to himself. Young Tarrah Pond knew nothing. The way he saw his situation, if the FBI was knocking on his door, he might as well help them put a noose around his neck.

After breakfast, Loften reported for work in Sanitation.

The crew of trustees started the morning routine, which Loften knew by rote. Every morning, with little scrutiny, the trustees went floor by floor, block by block, collecting all garbage, trash and rubbish from all inmate units and residential areas. The trash was stored in wheeled bins that they rolled through the institution to the rear dock of each block.

The docks were secured within the jail complex and had an industrial-size stationary compactor with an open chute. The trustees emptied the bins into the chute. When full, the metal ram was turned on to compress the trash, crushing it under thousands of pounds of pressure.

The compactor had a tailgate that extended through the jail wall, topped with barbed wire, to the outside where a sanitation-company truck would collect the compacted trash and haul it away without entering the institution.

That the FBI was now on his case was all Loften could think about as he worked. Well, he also thought of Tarrah Pond’s underwear, which was why he agreed to the interview.