Two of the waiting women were black, the only faces of color I’d seen since entering the prison compound; all three stared ahead with the weary passivity of those accustomed to being of no account to the world around them. A corrections officer looked in periodically, I suppose to make sure we weren’t stealing the furniture. When I asked her to turn down the volume, since none of us was watching the program, she told me to mind my own business and retreated again.
Around one–thirty the older of the black women was escorted to the visitors’ room. Two more people arrived—a Hispanic couple, middle–aged, nervous, wanting to know what to expect when they saw their daughter. The white woman continued to stare stolidly ahead, but the second black woman began explaining the procedure, where you sat, what you could talk about. It was hard for the pair to follow her underneath the noise of the television. As she repeated something for the third time, the corrections officer returned to escort me to the warden’s office.
CAPTAIN FREDERICK RUZICH, WARDEN, the plaque on the door announced. The CO saluted smartly; the captain dismissed her and invited me to be seated. Despite his military title he was wearing civilian clothes, a pearl tropical worsted with a navy tie. He was a big man; even sitting he seemed to loom over me. With his gray hair and eyes he looked almost colorless, certainly terrifying.
“I understand you want to see one of our prisoners, Miss . . . uh . . .”
“Warshawski. Yes. Veronica Fassler. She’s serving a five–year sentence for possession and—”
“So you’re familiar with her case. I wondered if you were coming out here on a fishing expedition.” He smiled, but with so much condescension that it became an insult.
“No one comes to a prison hunting for clients, Captain. The legal–aid money doesn’t even cover gas and tolls from Chicago. Do you take a personal interest in every lawyer–client consultation here at Coolis?”
“The important ones I do. Have you talked to Veronica’s regular lawyer about her case? I would have expected him to be here with you or at least to call ahead to let us know a different arrangement had been made.”
“Ms. Fassler asked to see me when she called my office. And her representation arrangements are with me, not between the prison and other counsel. Or between me and the prison.”
He leaned his massive torso back in the chair, his hands clasped behind his head, the smile lurking at the corner of his mouth. “Be that as it may, we had orders to transfer her. She’s in another part of the prison system. So you made your trip out here for nothing, Detective.”
I stared steadily at his smirk. “It’s true I’m a detective, Captain. But I’m also a lawyer, in good standing with the Illinois bar. Where was Ms. Fassler sent?”
“I wish I could tell you that, but I can’t because I don’t know. Carnifice Security sent someone in with a van and moved her and the infant yesterday morning, and that’s all I can tell you.” His gray eyes were transparent, like a guppy’s, which made it hard to look at them.
“Why was she moved? She didn’t know anything about it when she phoned me.”
The superior smile lingered. “There’s always a problem in the prison when a prisoner has a baby. The logistics are hard here. No doubt too many of the other inmates complained.”
“What a humane place this is, where the women’s complaints are taken so seriously by the staff.” I was not going to let him goad me into losing my temper, but I couldn’t help myself pushing on him a little. “But a man like you who likes to be in charge, I can’t believe you just salute and say yessir when your bosses tell you to move out a prisoner to an unknown destination. Especially in a private prison, where it affects your bed count and your margins.”
The smile hovered at the corner of his mouth. “Whatever you want to believe, Warshawski, whatever you want. How did the Fassler woman get your number to begin with?”
“Probably from the yellow pages. That’s how most people find me.”
“Wouldn’t have been on your visit to the hospital asking questions about Nicola Aguinaldo, would it? When you came out with her—grandfather, was that what you called him?—making inquiries. Was that as a detective or as a lawyer?”
“When a lawsuit is threatened, it’s usually because a lawyer’s present.”
“And usually someone with standing is present.” His smirk turned into a full–fledged grin. “You claimed the man was the girl’s grandfather, but she doesn’t have a grandfather. At least not an American. And that was definitely an American you brought out here.”
I clasped my hands around my right knee in a pretense of thoughtful relaxation. “Is your information about Ms. Aguinaldo’s family from BB Baladine or the INS? It’s hard for me to believe BB pays much attention to the families of the illegal immigrants he hires. Not enough to know whether an American serviceman might have been in the Philippines during World War Two and have a Filipina granddaughter.”
Poor Mr. Contreras: he would have protested mightily if he knew I was imputing that kind of immorality to him. He might have had sex with a local woman in his army service days, but he wouldn’t have left her alone with a child.