Not that Wright hadn’t done the best job he could. It was just that fifteen years ago, Wright was so new to law you could rub the shiny off him with a rag.
Because Wright was the attorney of record, the two men were allowed the privilege of a secure room, no recordings, no video tapes. At least in theory. After what’d happened to him, inmate Z143973 – Roger Franklin Milano – didn’t trust police or guards or anyone anymore.
Apparently Wright had decided to meet with Roger in regular visitation with the other inmates. No confidentiality. Was that good or bad? It must be important.
Surprise or shock or something must’ve registered on his face because Wright’s first words were, “Walt sent me.”
A jolt of terror raced through his blood like wildfire because he knew immediately what that meant.
“It’s Frankie. She’s in trouble,” Wright continued, his sad basset-hound face drooping almost comically.
“What?” Roger whispered, his voice as rusty as an old engine. He realized he rarely used his vocal chords anymore. “Who? Why?”
“I’m trying to get a private room,” Wright assured him. “I don’t want to say more here.” He glanced around. “Publicly.”
Roger looked at the door where a guard waited for visitation to end, and behind Wright where the reception officers watched through tinted windows. Every word said during inmate visits could be recorded and listened to later – no expectation of privacy inside a prison facility.
“Walt said to give you the message about Frankie, and see what you can learn about ... ” The attorney looked down meaningfully at Roger’s hands splayed on the counter. The letters L-O-D were tattooed into the first three fingers of his right hand, below the knuckle joint.
Roger Franklin Milano – inmate Z143973 – was a member of the Lords of Death.
“I’ll see you tomorrow under privilege,” Wright continued, “and tell you everything I know about – about what’s happened.” He cleared his throat. “Try not to worry. We’re taking care of it.”
Wright stood abruptly and exited the room before time was up, leaving Roger staring after him. He sat on his round stool, gazed fixed on his folded hands, thinking desperately of the only thing in the world that mattered to him anymore.
What had happened to his only daughter – Frankie Jones she called herself now – and what could he do about it stuck inside his concrete cage?
Chapter 29
Maybelle’s was a breakfast-lunch restaurant that had been an established attraction in Placer Hills for three decades. Worn and a little seedy, it served the best food in town and was still operated by the original owners.
Cruz had just settled with a menu and a glass of water when Dr. Jones entered the diner and spotted him in the corner. She was as stunning as he’d remembered, and wore a casual look again today, her hair up in a loose ponytail.
Slow down the hormones, he warned himself, as he rose from his chair.
Instantly recognizing him, she sat down quickly while the wait server placed a menu and glass of water before her.
“What’s good?” she asked, scanning the list.
“They serve breakfast all day.” Cruz wondered why she seemed so jittery. Her fresh face and wide-eyed expression contrasted with her ill-at-ease body.
“I like the biscuits and gravy with a side of sliced tomatoes, so I can pretend I’m eating healthy.”
She tried a lopsided smile that didn’t quite work and ordered the same. They settled into an uncomfortable silence until the server, whose name tag said “Sally,” placed their breakfasts and the check on the table.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Sally said. “We’ve got great bread pudding if you’re hankering for dessert.”
They ate a few minutes without talking while the other customers gradually left and only they remained. He was starved. Being so occupied with his cases, he hadn’t taken time to eat all day.
“Tell me about Cole Hansen,” she said at last, laying her fork down.
Again, a command, not a request.
“We talked about confidentiality, Dr. Jones,” he answered, testing the waters.
“Frankie, please.” She removed her sweater and hung it on the back of her chair. She wore a tank top that hugged her slender figure without being too revealing.
“All right – Frankie,” he conceded, trying to keep his mind on her words. “I can’t give you parolee information without cause.”
She sighed, patted her mouth, and placed her napkin beside the empty plate, signaling for the server. “I’ll have a Pepsi, please, lots of ice, and try that bread pudding you mentioned.”
“Same for me.”
After Sally left, Frankie continued, “There – there are – odd things happening at the prison where I’m head doctor. I can’t elaborate, but I think Cole Hansen is in serious jeopardy.”
She leaned over the table and lowered her voice when Sally left to fill their dessert orders. The neckline of her tank revealed smooth, white flesh. “I saw him in my clinic right before he paroled. He dropped out – you know what that means?”