Seminole City
Stubbornness with the guard at the prison gate gets Ethan into the warden’s antechamber, a room as institutional as a principal’s office. Likewise, a woman assailing an ancient keyboard attached to a boxy monitor incites further déjà vu. When her dot matrix printer begins to rattle out a sheet, Ethan is a sophomore again, in need of a hall pass. In this case his pass is the visitation request paperwork to see prisoner 82747L, Donald Alan Aldridge.
“That’s all we can do till the warden gets back,” the efficient woman says when Ethan turns in the completed form. “He shouldn’t be ten minutes now. You’re quite welcome to wait here, Mr. Winter.”
“Thank you,” says Ethan and settles onto a bench near the outer door. An overhead vent blows pleasantly cool air down his collar.
Forty minutes later, a tall man in a gray suit bursts in and hurries across the anteroom. “Hold my calls, Ann,” he says without noticing Ethan. With a second bang the man disappears into the inner office.
“The warden,” Ann whispers unnecessarily. Her newly creased brow confirms that her boss is in a bad mood. At a double ring she snatches up her handset.
“Yes, sir. I’ll get him on the line right away.” Ann signals for Ethan to be patient, then she dials a number. “Agent Daugherty,” she says to her caller. “Warden Eli Wagner at Seminole City Correctional would like a word. Hold on, please.”
Ethan is shivering now. The blowing air vent is chilling him and he gets out from under it. Standing, he can see that the line-busy indicator on Ann’s phone is lit—Wagner’s call. After a minute, Wagner is still talking and Ethan is still hovering. Ann looks up from her keyboard though her fingers keep typing. “It shouldn’t be long. He does know you’re out here. You can have a seat.”
Ethan gives Ann a resigned smile while thinking of his ex-supervisor, Dwayne Hoke. One of Dwayne’s power plays was to make his subordinates wait. “I’ll just stand a while. Unless you mind.”
“Suit yourself,” Ann says, assailing her keyboard. She must type 120 words per minute, like a computer coder on amphetamines.
Ethan puts down Zoe’s cremation urn and leans left and right to loosen his spine. His vertebrae crack and he stays standing to burn off his anxiety. By the time the light blinks out on Ann’s phone, his back is stiffening again. Wagner and whoever Daugherty is have had a lengthy talk—most likely, Ethan thinks irritably, so Wagner could demonstrate how irrelevant Ethan’s time was compared to someone of importance.
Ann’s intercom buzzes.
“Yes, sir,” Ann tells the handset, her manner militarily precise. Upon hanging up she offers Ethan an apologetic expression. “Warden Wagner says he can’t authorize an inmate visit on an hour’s notice. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
Ann’s face tightens. “Mr. Winter, the rules say you need to apply for a prisoner visit a month in advance.”
“The problem is”—Ethan leans over her desk—“I’m here about a death in the inmate’s family that took place three weeks ago. So how could I have applied for a visit four weeks ago?” While Ann absorbs Ethan’s logic he realizes that he’s being a Hoke, an unnecessarily aggressive asshole.
“You know,” Ann says, “the warden is already giving you VIP treatment. Usually special visits like yours have to take place on visiting days—on a Saturday or Sunday. The warden is allowing you to come on a Friday.”
“All right,” Ethan says, capitulating to her reasonableness. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Nine on the dot,” Ann says. Then she studies the ash urn that Ethan has placed on the corner of her desk. “That’s not for Donald Aldridge, is it?”
“Is that a problem?”
“The only items you’re allowed to give prisoners are food from our vending machines or nonpicture books. You know, like Bibles.”
“Oh,” Ethan says. “But—”
“No, sir. There’s no way you can leave behind anything like that.” Ann begins to square the papers on her desk. “And about tomorrow,” she says, looking uncomfortable. “We have your New York address, but the warden wants to know where you’re staying in Florida. I mean, you know, just in case.”
“In case? Of what?”
“In case of . . . gosh, I don’t know. I mean, the warden . . . he’s in charge of three hundred staff and sixteen hundred prisoners. That’s a lot of responsibility.”
Ann would make a lousy poker player. “I still don’t understand,” Ethan says.
“Warden Wagner,” she says, eyes averted, “has his ways is all.”
“I guess I’ll find out what they are tomorrow.” Ethan gives her his hotel and goes to the door.
“Mr. Winter!” Ann says.
Turning back to Ann’s desk Ethan sees that, somehow, he’s forgotten Zoe’s urn.