I scanned the lines of print, picking up a detail here and there. His successes had netted him close to $134,000 over a period of sixteen months. In his demands, he claimed to be armed, and while he never actually brandished a gun, the tellers were sufficiently intimidated to surrender the cash without an argument. Though this was standard bank policy, three of the young women were so traumatized, they never returned to work.

Hallie waited until I’d finished reading and handed me a folded newspaper with an arrow calling my attention to a notice dated six months before. Satterfield had been released, having served a little over eight years, which I was guessing represented 85 percent of a ten-year bid.

“As you can see, he was released from Lompoc to a halfway house in the San Fernando Valley. Since he was a Santa Teresa resident when he was arrested and tried, I’m told he’s most likely been returned to the community by now. I wondered if you could get me his current contact information. I called the county probation department twice and got nowhere.”

Her manner of speaking had become more formal, suggesting she was ill at ease. The United States Penitentiary at Lompoc is a federal prison located an hour north of us. The facility opened in 1959 and houses male inmates serving long sentences for sophisticated offenses: white-collar crime, interstate drug deals, tax evasion, and major fraud. As a bank robber, Satterfield must have felt right at home. I wondered about the nature of her interest in him. To me, the two seemed an odd mix.

I said, “He wouldn’t have been released to the county. His crime was federal. You’d have to call the U.S. probation department and ask for the name of the agent supervising his parole.”

She frowned. “I’m not happy with that idea. I don’t know the system and I’d only end up at another dead end. This whole process has been frustrating enough as it is. I leave town early tomorrow. We’ll be in Malibu for a few days, and after that we’ll be traveling. I’d prefer to have you deal with the situation. As you might well imagine, I have no experience with matters of this sort.”

“I’ll do what I can, but I make no guarantees,” I said. “Parole officers are notoriously tight-lipped.”

“All the more reason for you to handle it. I assume your inquiry will be discreet.”

“Of course.”

“Good,” she said. “Once you have his address and phone number, you can send me a note in care of my post office box. My assistant will know where we are and she’ll be forwarding mail twice a week.”

“May I ask what this is about?”

She paused, her gaze not quite meeting mine. “He’s my son.”

Intuitively and from the heart, I hadn’t seen that one coming and I was taken aback. I said, “Ah.”

“I became pregnant and bore a child when I was fifteen years old. If the choice had been mine, I’d have kept the baby and raised him myself, but my parents were adamant. They felt I was too young and too immature to take on such a burden; a point I could hardly refute. They were convinced he’d be better off in a two-parent home. Given his criminal history, they were obviously mistaken in that regard.”