Simple.
But we both knew nothing was ever that simple.
Keith took the turn onto the winding canyon road, and the silence seemed to deepen, despite the fact that neither of us was talking. The radio was off, the windows were up, the air was turned down. My gut felt inside out.
“Remember,” he said softly. “It’s all in the way we play it. It’s in the eyes and the voice. Who are you?”
“Julia Wishart. OIG. You don’t need to worry, I can handle myself.”
“I know you can. So does the judge now.”
“Maybe I should shoot off Randell’s toes.”
“Maybe not.” We both grinned, but our attempt at humor fell flat.
“We stick to our agreement,” Keith said. “We go in, confront Randell, tell him if he touches Danny he’ll spend the rest of his life in a far worse place, learn what we can about Sicko from him, warn Danny, then get out. If everything falls apart, we call the authorities using the number on speed dial. I’d rather be at the mercy of law enforcement than of the warden. If neither of us can make a call and we can’t get out…” He blew out some air. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t come down to that.”
“You’re sure they won’t search us?”
“They could by law but they won’t. I’ve checked. Once they process us we can come and go as we please. Just remember that and wear it on your face, not just on your badge.”
“Like I said, I can handle myself.”
I wasn’t exactly new to this. I knew I could flip a switch if I had to. You do what you have to do when the world is at stake, and Danny was my world.
We passed the bluff where I’d stood and looked down at Basal just over a week earlier. Keith guided the car around a curve, and the prison’s first checkpoint came into view. A brick guardhouse with a gate. Two officers stood inside behind the large glass window.
“Here we go,” Keith said. “Let me do the talking.”
He slowed the car and came to a stop next to the reinforced glass. I immediately recognized one of the men in the guardhouse. It was the blond man I’d talked to on my first visit.
My first thought was that it was over. He’d recognize me. He knew I wasn’t with the OIG.
But I wasn’t the same woman he’d met, was I? I was Julia Wishart, OIG.
Keith beamed at the man. “Afternoon, gentlemen.” He casually stuck out his ID. “Myles Somerset, OIG. We need access to the facility for an inspection, if that’s not a problem.”
The man stared at Keith, then at his ID, then looked at me. For a moment I wasn’t sure how to take his stare. He’d been confident, casual, completely in command when I’d met him before. Now he seemed off guard, and I wasn’t sure if it was because he sensed something wrong or because a visit from the inspector general naturally set most prison staff on edge.
“OIG,” he said. “What’s the nature of your visit?”
“Well now, that would take all the fun out of it, wouldn’t it?”
The officer stared at him. We all knew that OIG had no obligation to explain itself. Keith let the question stand for a second, then grinned.
“We’re doing routine inspections tied to an investigation of the Prison Industry Authority. You can understand my reluctance to give any opportunity to suppress evidence. It’s a supply-side issue. We’ll be in and out in an hour.”
The guard’s eyes met mine again. “Identification?”
I reached across Keith and handed him my ID. “Afternoon, Officer. Deputy Julia Wishart.” I could think of nothing else to say, so I just said, “Shouldn’t take long.”
The man took my badge and dipped his head. “Just one second.”
He retreated into the booth, spoke to the other staff member, then lifted a phone off the wall and made a call.
“He’s checking,” I whispered.
Keith didn’t respond. He didn’t even look at me, which was message enough. Shut up.
The guard spoke into the phone, tapped quickly at a keyboard, then hung up the receiver. Our names would come up on a list of registered OIG deputies because our counterparts actually existed, far away in Sacramento, probably pushing paper. Keith had done his homework. An elderly man with round spectacles somewhere in Culver City knew he’d forged two OIG IDs for the fair price of five thousand dollars, but any admission on his part would land him in prison. We were covered.
Again, I only half-believed it.
The guard leaned back out of the booth and handed Keith the IDs. “Long way from Sacramento.”
“Tell me about it,” Keith said. “They’re running this one out of the main office.”
He nodded. “Head on down to the first sally port. They’re expecting you. A staff member will accompany you from there.”
“Thank you, sir.” Keith gave him half a salute, put the car back in gear, and headed past the lifted gate.
We drove for a hundred yards before either of us spoke. “Never underestimate the value of a good forgery,” Keith said.
“Just like that.”
“Not quite.”
But it was just like that.
I knew it was too easy. I should have known then that something was terribly wrong. I kept telling myself that it would work, that everything was going to be all right, that the demons screaming inside of me were just a part of my neurosis. I kept thinking that although getting in was the easiest part, God was on our side, because we’d come to set the world straight and sometimes the good side does win.
But then suddenly it wasn’t just like that, because we came around a corner and the massive structure called Basal loomed before us.
I sat next to Keith, numbed by our audacity in the face of that fortress. It had all seemed so doable on paper, but driving up to the prison I was suddenly certain that I wouldn’t come out alive. If I did, it would be in Danny’s shackles because he would no longer need them. He’d be dead.
Then again, maybe it really was just like that, because we were breaking in, not breaking out, and getting into prison was very easy in the United States of America. You can check in anytime you like, but you can never leave.
The first gate at the perimeter fence rolled open as we approached. I sat still and tried to keep my mind on Danny as we rolled into the sally port.
“This is it,” I heard Keith say.
“Just like that,” I returned.
“Not quite,” he repeated.
But it was. A deputy welcomed us, asked us to leave the rental car where it was, and then led us, briefcases in hand, along the fences to steps leading up to the arching front entrance. The massive bolts on the iron doors were drawn back. Some would say that Basal looked stately compared to other prisons, but all I saw was a glorified dungeon. I tried to imagine Danny locked away inside such a beautiful building, but I couldn’t and my mind returned to flip-flopping between just like that and impossible.
Something was wrong.
No, nothing’s wrong, Renee. My palms were sweating, but everything was going exactly as we’d planned it.
We were breaking into Basal to save Danny.
We were ushered into a reception area that reminded me of a waiting room at a doctor’s office. I stood by the window, looking calm and collected with both hands clasping my briefcase as Keith gave our badges and paperwork to the staff member on duty.
I was thinking that I should do something besides stand there like a coat rack, but Keith was in charge of getting us in.
The CO who’d ushered us in stood by the door patiently, watching me. I gave him a shallow smile and a nod, then averted my eyes. Did he suspect anything at all? Evidently he didn’t, because he just stood there for the five minutes it took the clerk to process us and call for our escort.