Chapter Two

Shawshank (Minus the Redemption)

After the Mexican border agents lowered their guns but before they could cuff him, Jimmie pulled out his duct-taped wallet.

“I have rights,” he said, fishing out his press credentials. “Don’t you believe in freedom of the press down here?”

A helicopter buzzed overhead as the agents examined his 2009 Cannes Film Festival press pass.

Jimmie shielded his eyes from their spotlights. “They don’t hand those out to just anyone. You have to be a member of an elite media organization to be on the red carpet at Cannes. That year, I interviewed Harrison Ford and Natalie Portman.”

This piqued the interest of one of the agents. “¿Harrison Ford?”

“Han Solo,” Jimmie said, pointing at the press pass. Although his days on red carpets were long gone, the Mexican border patrol didn’t need to know that.

“Han Solo,” the agent repeated, staring for another moment at the press pass. He shook his head and handed it back to Jimmie. “No eres Han Solo. Te ves como . . . Chewbacca.”

This got a few chuckles from the other agents. With the crazy beard and unkempt hair, Jimmie had to admit he probably did look a little like a Wookiee. His postbreakup “no-shave November” scruff had eventually given way to a “zero-fucks-given 2017” beard. He was pretty sure it was 2018 now. Like, 90 percent sure.

The agents weren’t really interested in hearing a sob story. They carted Jimmie and the American migrants off to San Miguel—the most lawless prison this side of Guantanamo. No phone call. No text. Not even a tweet. “I want my hundred and forty characters!” Jimmie shouted as they tossed him into the general population.

The Mexican authorities no doubt expected him to be shivved and left to bleed out in the shower. If so, they had no idea just how resourceful Jimmie Bernwood was.

On his first day on the inside, he would seek out the baddest hijo de puta in the yard . . . and beg him for protection. In exchange, he would use his superior command of the written word to pen love letters to the man’s girlfriend or wife.

Unfortunately, Jimmie quickly learned he wasn’t the only aspiring Nicholas Sparks in San Miguel. The prison love-letter racket was every bit as competitive as New York City publishing. Too many pencil jockeys. Not enough horses. The big difference between New York and San Miguel, however, was that if you scored a cover story for Rolling Stone, your competition wasn’t going to shank you in retaliation.

Anyway, that’s how Jimmie came to be shivved and left to bleed out in the shower.