49: Sarah Werner followed Porter out into the hallway. The guard closed the door behind them, locking Jane Doe in the interview room.
Werner glared at Porter. “What was that you gave her?”
“A diary Bishop left for us at a crime scene a few months back. It details specific events from his childhood. If that’s really her, she should recognize those events.”
She frowned. “You say recognize and events, and all I hear is implicate and crimes. You told me if I let you see her, you wouldn’t do anything that would lead to additional charges.”
“At best, the information in that book is circumstantial.”
“How did you get it past the guards, anyway?”
“Down the back of my skivvies.”
Werner’s eyes narrowed. “For future reference, as her attorney, I could have given it to her. No need to smuggle in contraband—”
“Good to know. I’m prone to chafing.”
“. . . and as her attorney, I’d appreciate a heads-up before you share anything with her.”
“Noted. How long will they leave her in there?”
“Until lights out, if that’s what I tell them to do,” Werner said. “Why?”
“Can we observe her?”
The attorney locked eyes with him. Porter knew she was upset. She had every right to be. But he didn’t think she was that upset. This was more about setting a pecking order, putting him in his place.
Porter gave her his best poker face.
She clucked her tongue as she thought it over, then shook her head and turned toward the door to their left. “Come on.”
The small observation room was little more than a narrow hallway. Judging by the doors, similar rooms were placed between each of the interview rooms. There was a large one-way mirror window on the wall to the left overlooking the interview room. There was also a small desk with a computer monitor. On the monitor was a close-up of Jane Doe sitting at the table from the angle of the camera in the corner of the room.
A single chair stood at the desk. Porter offered it to Werner, but she declined, opting to stand.
Jane Doe hadn’t moved. She faced them, the small book in front of her on the table, her fingers drumming over the cover. Her eyes were fixed on the mirrored side of the glass, yet Porter still felt she could see them.
Five minutes passed, then ten. Porter was ready to go back in when she sighed, flipped the cover open with a finger, and began to read. His body relaxed, and he leaned on the desk. Werner stood beside him, the envelope bouncing against her thigh.
“Has she been in other fights?”
She stopped tapping the envelope, crossed over to the desk, and sat on the corner. “This prison is horrible, one of the worst I’ve seen. The staff turnover is so high—more than fifty percent just in the past year—I have yet to see the same guards twice. There’s a revolving door on this place. Most of the inmates know the facility better than the guards at this point. Many of those inmates are lifers with absolutely nothing to lose and an axe to grind on any surface presenting itself.”
“Like a new prisoner who refuses to speak?”
“Like a new prisoner unwilling to play by any of the rules. She keeps to herself in the yard. If someone tries to talk to her, she walks off. You send those kind of signals in a place ruled by hierarchy, you’re bound to piss someone off.” She raised the envelope. “Now, with this, she’s declared hunting season. I’m worried other prisoners smell blood and they might gang up on her. They’ll join just about any cause to help break up the boredom.”
“Can you confine her to isolation?”
She grunted. “Sure, if there’s room. Violence is at a record high, and prisoners see those spaces as the only reprieve. It’s gotten so bad, the feds are considering taking over management of this prison from the City of New Orleans and the sheriff’s department. Who knows if that would even help. A report came out last month—in the past twelve months there have been over two hundred inmate-on-inmate crimes, forty-four uses of force by the staff, three reports of sexual assault—who knows how many others unreported. They’ve had sixteen suicide attempts, twenty-nine inmates transported to a hospital with injuries too severe for the on-site infirmary. Here’s the real kicker, though—when the feds published their findings, they said these numbers were seriously understated.”
“How so?”
“They keep a log in the infirmary, a handwritten log. Only the warden has access. The log listed one hundred and fifty incidents of assault since last January. One hundred and nineteen of those were never reported by the Orleans Parish Sheriff’s Office. Broken bones, stitches . . . traumatic injuries, all swept under the proverbial rug. Prisoners are supposed to be housed based on a classification system—risk factors like mental health, past violence both outside and inside. The guards don’t seem to take any of that into account. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them get off on the violence. I’ve heard rumors of backroom betting and purposeful placement of problem inmates together to get something going. Internal investigations are a joke, just memos between staff and management, the warden. Nothing concrete gets to the files.”
She must have realized Porter was staring at her. She looked down at her feet. “Sorry, I get a bit passionate about this. I’ve seen some relatively good people go in here over the years and come out not-so-good people.”
Porter smiled. “It’s nice to know someone is passionate about something. This isn’t an isolated problem. We’ve got the same issues in Chicago. Sometimes the only clear difference between an inmate and a guard is the side of the bars they happen to be standing on that particular day.”
Werner stood up and turned back to the one-way window. “I don’t know what to make of her yet.”
Jane Doe turned the page, the faint sound of her chains clanking through the observation room’s speakers.
“Ask the guard to remove her restraints,” Porter told her. “Let her get comfortable.”