The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [108]
“Here you go,” the guard says, passing us our IDs as he stuffs them into two visitor passes with small cutout holes for our ID photos. “And thanks for the donations. The inmates really appreciate them.”
“I assume you left all your weapons at home?” Ann Maura laughs, pointing us toward an X-ray machine and a walk-through metal detector.
“Always do,” I tease, forcing another laugh and tossing my car keys onto the conveyor.
We’re moving quickly now—even my father’s excitedly keeping up—which is why I can’t help but hesitate. Last time things went this well was when Naomi ambushed us at the museum. I look back at the guard, who tosses me a friendly nod. In front of us, we bypass the elevators and the standard visitors entrance. Instead, we walk through a narrow doorway and stop at a thick steel door that could easily do the job at a bank vault.
“Step in,” Ann Maura says.
There’s a soft pneumatic hiss behind us, and I realize we’re in another sally port. From out of the wall, a matching steel door slides sideways, all set to seal us in this small, five-foot-long, bright white space.
My father motions to our left, and I spot the mirrored wall. Two-way glass. The key question is, who’s watching?
Behind us, the back door slides shut, clicking with the cold thunk of a meat locker. The sound echoes like the first clods of dirt hitting a fresh coffin.
This isn’t like the chain-link fence outside. With that back door shut, we’re officially in prison. Next to me, my father is as green as the fluorescent lighting.
“Say cheese,” Ann Maura says, tapping a finger against the two-way glass. “Just hold up your badges for the control center.”
As we do, my dad can barely lift his ID. I’m worried he’s about to pass out.
“I know . . . it can be a bit intimidating,” Ann Maura adds as she presses her palm into a hand scanner and waves her own ID. “What’s odd is how easily you get used to it.”
There’s another pneumatic hiss as the metal door in front of us slowly, slowly slides sideways, disappearing into the wall and revealing a long concrete hallway that runs down to our right. I’ve never been so happy to see sea-foam green in my life.
“And here’s our little island of literary freedom,” Ann Maura sings, stopping at room number H-277. The sign on the door says, “OSPLibrary.” “Now what can I show you first?”
“Whatever you like,” I reply.
My father’s not nearly as patient. He steps into the room, already eyeing the bookshelves. “Where do you keep your Bibles?”
74
Oh, believe me, we can always use Bibles,” Ann Maura says as we follow her through the prison library, which is centered around a large uncluttered worktable, with tall bookshelves lining all four walls and a small glass office in the far corner. Like the hallways, the room is a cheery, maddening sea-foam green, but as I look back to my dad, he can’t take his eyes off the library’s oddest pieces of decor: a collection of soda cans, bedsprings, peanut-butter jars, an empty spool of thread, a tiny cassette-tape motor, a set of chocolate Tootsie Roll Pop lollipops, a moon-shaped horn that soldiers used to carry gunpowder in, a rusted cigarette case, a zebra-print animal skin, and even rabbit ears from an old TV, all of which are glued directly to the wall and run like a junkyard border above the tops of the bookcases.
“What’re those?” my father asks.
She laughs. “The guards call it their trophy case—y’know, all the things they’ve confiscated over the years. See that cassette-tape motor? A prisoner ripped that out of a Walkman to make his own homemade tattoo gun. And those Tootsie Pops? They replaced the lollipops with tiny bags of heroin, then melted new candy around the bag so we wouldn’t find the prize inside. I’m telling you, you wouldn’t believe how viciously crafty these folks get.”
My dad nods. “I can only imagine.”
“Aren’t you worried about keeping the items on the wall?” I ask. “Won’t the prisoners grab them?”
“Oh, no—we don’t allow prisoners in here,” Ann Maura