CHAPTER 23
United States Penitentiary: Atwater, was a grouping of concrete buildings located about two hours east of San Francisco. The structure rose up out of the sparse brown landscape of Atwater, California, striking an imposing picture on anyone who was driving in. The prison was cut off from the little town of Atwater by expansive fields of farmlands and a small airport. As we pulled into the visitor’s parking lot, a small plane was rising into the air. I watched it fly away, wishing that I could also be going away from this place too.
Marcus was driving and had spent the past two hours chatting with Darian, who was practically buzzing out of his seat as we parked. I was almost entirely sure that the beta hadn’t slept a wink last night, an assumption that was underlined by the red bull that he currently had a white-knuckled grip on. He was definitely riding on a caffeine high, but I didn’t care, as long as he kept his shit together, it wouldn’t matter if hehadslept or not. I just wanted to go to this meeting and get out as soon as humanly possible.
Worry sat heavy in my gut. We opened the front doors of the prison and stepped inside. I couldn’t shake the instinctual feeling that something was going to go horribly wrong while we were here today. Security made us take off our shoes and put our bags into a plastic bin so that they could go through the metal detector. This was followed by a liberal pat down and a list of rules which basically panned out to: no sneaking weapons or other contraband into the prison, the prisoner will be searched upon our exit from the prison and, if any contraband was found, we would be permanently banned from the prison. It was all very standard for a prison like this and soon enough we were facing a friendly-looking receptionist who looked out of place among the drab gray walls of the surrounding building. She was dressed in a pencil skirt and a bright yellow silk blouse.
“Welcome!” She greeted us with a red painted smile.
I nudged Darian forward, he needed to take the lead here as the prosecutor of record. Everyone here needed to know that his decisions were final, not Marcus’s or mine.
“Hi there, we have a visitation with Mr. Hezekiah Jordan and his attorney?” He phrased it like a question and I had to fight the urge to take over, and I nearly did, but Marcus put a firm hand on my arm. The look that he shot at me was, ‘this is his rodeo, no taking control.’ It was as clear to me as if he had said it out loud.
The receptionist took Darian’s question in stride, “Of course! I’ll just hand you over to Jeremy here, and he’ll take you to visit Mr. Jordan.”
As she spoke, the light above a large metal door behind her lit up, and a loud buzz filled the small lobby of the prison. A stone-faced young man stepped out, he was dressed in a dark green polo and khaki pants, the uniform of an Atwater prison guard. His hair was oil-slick black, and pushed out of his face with gel. A pair of dark brown eyes assessed the three of us as he took short, clipped steps until he stood with us. I was sure his face would be handsome, if not for his nose which looked like it had been broken multiple times and was almost zigzagged across his face.
“Morning.” Was the only greeting we received as he came to a stop in front of us.
Darian stepped forward and held his hand out to the guard, a charming smile already on his face. “Good morning, I am Darian Bellis. I am the prosecutor on the case Jeremy...?”
“King.” The guard shook Bellis’ hand in a white-knuckled grip and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at the show of masculinity that was playing out in front of me.
Stepping forward I held out my own hand. “Good morning, I’m Aria Simmons, and this is Marcus Whitlock. We’re advising counsel on this case.”
Jeremy King’s dark eyes took me in from head to toe, the ghost of a sneer on his face. He ignored my hand and addressed the whole group. “We better get moving. Mr. Jordan has been waiting patiently for you all morning.” I didn’t like how his words implied that we were late, because not only were we on time, we were actuallyearly.
With that, he turned and slid his keycard through the scanner and the door buzzed. I glared at the security guards back as we filed through the door. I was still irritated about his snub, I hated when men treated me like an annoyance, and it happened all too often in my line of work. Anger grated against my skin like glass and I wanted to open my mouth and put the guard in his place.
I never got the chance, however, because Marcus was gripping my arm tightly. Outside of my pack, Marcus was the person who knew me the best. It was why we worked so well together as a team, he tempered my emotional outbursts with his cool, logical personality. Even now, he was shaking his head and I settled almost immediately, it wasn’t worth it to take the time out of my day to put a random prison guard in his place.
Darian continued to talk to King, oblivious to our silent conversation, the guard was in the middle of giving him the spiel about the prison. “We’ve got six cell blocks with exercise yards in between for our general population prisoners, Mr. Jordan is housed in the main building in our RHU—reintegrated housing unit.”
That was new information to me. RHU inmates tended to be kept separately from both general population prisoners and those who were in the segregated population of prisoners. They were kept separate for various reasons but still maintained many of the privileges that SHU prisoners did not receive.
“Why is he in RHU?” I asked, quickening my stride so that I was keeping pace with the security guard. King acted as if I hadn’t spoken, and I was about to reach out and yank him by his oily black hair...when Marcus stepped in and asked the question again. “Why is Hezekiah Jordan housed in RHU?”
King shrugged, “Dunno. He’s been there for years apparently, but I’ve only worked here for nine months.”
Any more questions for the guard would have to wait, because we took a sharp left turn at the end of the hallway, and were suddenly standing in a visitor waiting area. The room was almost empty except for a few inmates meeting with their families and talking quietly. It was a medium-sized room filled with round, metal picnic tables and round seats welded into the floor. The back of the room was lined with red doors that led to private rooms that were meant for inmates to meet with their counsel.
Several security guards stood at various points throughout the room, keeping an eye on the inmates visiting with their family members. King led us past the tables and to the middle door, knocking twice before opening it and holding it open for us to enter first.
Marcus and I let Darian go in first, before we entered after. The room was small, which made it easier to see the prisoner sitting at the table.
My first look at Hezekiah Jordan surprised me. I had, of course, seen all of the press coverage during the trial eight years ago. A picture of him sitting in an orange jumpsuit at the trial had been splashed over every magazine and newspaper in the country. Eight years ago he had been handsome, in a Ted Bundy kind of way, with white-blonde hair that was reminiscent of a surfer dude and a pair of dark brown eyes. He had looked like the forgotten lovechild of the sixties and seventies who had somehow stumbled into 2012 to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting citizens of the future.
Hezekiah Jordan had been forty-five when he was arrested now, at nearly sixty, his looks had taken a definite hit. His age showed clearly in the deep lines in his face, gone were the muscles that he had once used to assert his will over his cult members. They were replaced by a thin, bony frame that was covered with liver spots on his arms and face. The only things that he had been able to retain was his bright blonde hair, which was long and pulled into a greasy ponytail. His eyes had also remained the same. The sparkle of intelligence and a general lack of care for those around him still sparkled in their dark brown depths. It was the same intelligence and calculating look that he’d used to manipulate thirty-two people into ending their lives at his command. I had to hold back a shudder as we filed the rest of the way into the room and the door shut with a final metal click, it was like we were being trapped in the room with a predator. How had Tibby managed to be around this man for any length of time when she was little? I was fifteen seconds in and was about to claw at the door to be let out.
“Thank you for bringing them in, Jeremy.” Jordan greeted the guard with a warm smile, and gestured for us to sit down. I noticed that he wasn’t handcuffed, which was standard procedure, especially for prisoners meeting in private rooms.
As if sensing my eyes, Hezekiah Jordan looked over Darian’s shoulder at me. “They afford me certain privileges here, Ms. Simmons.” He gave a sheepish shrug as if to say, ‘I don’t really understand it myself.’ The fact that he used my name sat uneasily in my stomach as we sat down at the table.
“Mr. Jordan has been a model prisoner for the eight years that he’s been unlawfully detained.” The gruff voice of Henry Reed cut in, and I turned my attention to the fat alpha sitting next to Jordan. Henry Reed was on the shorter side for an alpha, coming just under my chin at his full height. He also resembled a 1920’s oil tycoon more than a defense lawyer. He was dressed in a ten thousand dollar suit with gold buttons and matching gold cufflinks,his brown mustache was even twisted at the ends, giving him the look of Snidely Whiplash—the quintessential cartoon villain. All he needed was green skin and a top hat and I’d be worried that he was going to tie me to a train track and try to run me over with a speeding locomotive.
