Under the watch of security cameras and correctional officers, they filed by the cream-colored cinder-block walls, along the polished floors to the dining area. Loften held no expression. He knew how to survive, how to keep from being blinded by his anger.

It enraged him that he was here, that he’d been stopped by some suburban snowflake named Jeff Taylor.

I shoulda killed that motherfucker and tapped his wife when I had the chance.

The more Loften chewed on it, the more intense his anger grew.

I’ve got needs. Painfully powerful needs.

After breakfast, Loften reported for work in Sanitation. Call it providence or call it good luck, but after the booking process and Loften’s first court appearance, which resulted in nothing but a new court date because he didn’t have an attorney yet, he was assigned, probably incorrectly, to the trustee program. There, because he knew the rules, he exercised his right to volunteer for a job that gave him mobility in the institution. He chose Sanitation.

Every day, all the garbage in the jail was removed by trustees from inmate units, collected and stored in containers, then moved to storage areas, dumpsters and compactors for transfer. As Loften worked, he watched and listened until he became expert in the patterns, rhythms and timing of the process.

He rolled with the frequent personal searches and surprise shakedowns of housing units for contraband. Each day passed the same way, until a CO took him aside.

“Attorney visit, Loften. Let’s go.”

He was escorted to a secure area and one of the private booths, separated by a glass partition with a phone on each side.

Waiting for him on the opposite side was a woman who looked to be in her teens. Long dark hair and bangs framed her face, and oversize glasses took over half her face.

He sat and watched as she reached into her briefcase for papers but dropped them, causing them to spill on the floor. Flustered, she collected them, retrieved a legal pad and pen, then picked up her phone.

Loften picked up his.

“Mr. Loften, I’m Tarrah Pond from the Office of the Public Defender. I’ll be representing you.”

Loften’s scarred, frightening face was stone cold. He said nothing, and Pond diverted her attention to her notes.

“Let me bring you up to speed on where things are at,” Pond said. “I’ve gone through the criminal report affidavit. The prosecution’s pushing for continued pretrial detention. They argue that the nature of the charges against you, the fact you’re unemployed with no family or ties to the community, and the fact they continue to investigate you for additional crimes make you a flight risk.”

Loften stared at her, his nostrils flaring a little. He said nothing.