Folsom featured two maximum-security units that housed habitual criminals and violent individuals who posed an extreme risk to the safety of others. The walls encircling the grounds were high and recently topped with concertina wire.

The low sky threatened rain. In the clouds, no shapes could be imagined other than clenched and menacing faces of fierce and inhuman configuration.

In the visitors’ receiving area of the most formidable of the maximum-security units, ceiling-mounted cameras watched as David presented photo ID, passed through a metal detector, and submitted to fluoroscopic examination.

Prison authorities, inmate Ronald Lee Jessup, and Jessup’s attorney had all approved David for periodic visits. They believed that he was researching a book on Jessup, which he wasn’t, but every month, he paid five hundred dollars to Jessup’s account, with which the prisoner could buy snacks and paperbacks and other items to make life behind bars more pleasant. As Jessup was otherwise destitute, these contributions alone ensured David’s welcome, although making the payments abraded his conscience.

They met in a room set aside for attorney-client conferences. The eight-foot metal table and two benches were bolted to the floor.

Prior to David’s arrival, Jessup had been transferred there, shackled to one bench and cuffed to a steel ring in the apron of the table. He could neither stand nor reach out toward his visitor with more than one hand.

An armed guard watched from behind a windowed door that would provide him instant access in the unlikely event of a crisis. The guard was so very still that he looked unreal, as if he were a robot that could be activated only if someone broke the glass behind which he stood.

David sat facing Jessup and put a nine-by-twelve envelope on the table. A guard had earlier inspected the contents.

Ronald Lee Jessup was a big but gentle-looking man with such a suggestion of witless kindness in his soft face that he could have played Lennie in Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. The media sometimes said his eyes were yellow, but that wasn’t correct. They were warm honey-brown eyes like those that might be sewn to the plush-cloth face of a stuffed-toy bear. They were also like such a bear’s eyes because they had little depth.

“Good morning, Mr. Thorne.” Jessup’s soft, musical voice was always a surprise. “It’s so kind of you to come and see old Ronny.”

“How are you today, Ronny?”

“I’m good. Are you good?”

“Yes, I’m doing just fine.”

“Glad to hear it. And thanks for paying to my account and all.”

“Well, that’s only what we arranged.”

“I bought more of them Louis L’Amour books. You like Westerns, Mr. Thorne?”

“I’ve not read as many as you have.”