The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [107]
“Let’s just get it and go,” he insists, twisting the handle and opening the chain-link fence. As we step through, there’s another closed fence just a few feet in front of us. In law enforcement, they call it a “sally port”—the front door doesn’t open until the back door is closed. For us, it means that for at least the next minute, we’re trapped.
I think back to the fact that Naomi had to’ve put a lookout for us in the system. The only question now is, how hard are the guards here looking?
“Can I help you?” a soft male voice asks through the intercom.
“We’re here from the Western Reserve Historical Society. To see the librarian,” I call back. “We have an appointment.”
We don’t. But that doesn’t mean it won’t work.
“Hold on for me, sir,” the man says, leaving us in silence. My father’s standing barely a foot behind me. I can’t see him, but I hear the speed of his breathing. The inmates in the windows are still peering down at us. From the angle we’re at, we can’t see their faces. They’re just shadowy, opaque ghosts haunting from above.
“Come on up—I’m calling her now,” the voice announces as the metal gate clicks and we follow the walkway toward the front door of the building.
My father looks directly upward and takes one last look at the prisoners. Ghosts don’t go away that easy.
Inside the building, a thick-necked guard with a triangular face and delicate, spindly fingers stares down from a podium. “ID, please,” he says as we’re blinded by the sea-foam green walls and matching sea-foam tile floor of the waiting area. I’m assuming the colors were picked because they somehow soothe the savage beast. But as my dad fidgets with his wallet, fighting for his ID, it’s clearly not doing its job.
“We’re from the Historical Society,” I tell the guard as I hand over the two IDs we used to get on the plane. “We do the society’s book donations, and—”
“I’m sorry, can I help you?” a woman in a flat midwest accent calls out. She’s got boyish Buster Brown hair, a long knit skirt, and the strongest, most painful handshake I’ve ever received. “Ann Maura Spencer, prison librarian,” she adds as I spot the bright orange Chuck Taylor sneakers peeking out below her skirt. “They said you were from the Historical Society?”
“We do book donations,” I clarify. “And since we donate so many titles here—”
“Which we appreciate so much,” Ann Maura says.
“And we’d love to keep doing it,” I tell her. “That’s why we set up the appointment.” I stare straight at her, smiling like she should understand.
“I—I’m sorry,” she offers. “What appointment are we talking about?”
“To visit the library. Y’know, to see where all our books are going—to make sure your facilities can deal with and distribute them so we can keep—” I cut myself off. “No one told you we were coming, did they?”
“Oh, I bet you spoke to Elliot. In the morning, was it?”
“It was definitely early,” I say.
“That’s Elliot. He’s kinda—” She forces a laugh. “He kinda flounders with details.”
We all laugh together.
“Listen, we didn’t mean to catch you unprepared,” I say. “Why don’t we come back next week when you’re all ready for us?”
“No, don’t be silly—we’re ready—of course we’re ready,” she promises. Even the world’s toughest prison knows better than to disappoint one of its biggest donors.
I look at my dad, then back to Ann Maura. “You sure?”
“Positively.” Turning to the guard, she adds, “Kellis, can I get two passes, please?”
Up on his podium, the guard who’s still holding our IDs is now staring down at them. There’s a small laptop in front of him. Here’s where the fire starts to singe some skin. For most prison visitors, he’d do a LEADS check, putting us in the Law Enforcement Automated Data System to discover exactly who we are. But I know for a fact that most prisons don’t have the time to run it on every single delivery that comes through the door. Best of all, he’s heard our conversation. He knows we’re not here to see inmates. We’re here to see books.
So why isn’t he handing back our IDs?
The guard hits a button on his laptop, and I feel drops of sweat rolling down my