Page 5 of Bram

He produced a single sheet of paper, folded in thirds. He set it down on my blotter, smoothed the edges, and tapped the top line.

I read it upside down. California Department of Corrections. The word “RELEASE” in bold; the date should have been on a tombstone.

I let a second pass before looking up. Met his eyes—steel gray, cold and direct, the kind that broke stares and noses with the same effort.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

He tapped the sheet again, harder. “You tell me.”

I blinked. “It’s a routine matter, Mr. Jackson. Inmate serves his time, the Board signs off, the DA’s office is notified. No appeal was filed because there was no legal basis for one.”

He didn’t move. “Bullshit.”

I shrugged and let my lips go tight. “I can have Marcy bring the full case file if you want. Or you can make an appointment like everyone else.”

He leaned down, slow enough to be deliberate, but not slow enough to be a threat. The room shrank to just the two of us. When he spoke, I felt it in my chest.

“I had to hear about this from a prison clerk,” he said. “You and me, we have an understanding. Or I thought we did.”

Now he was looking straight at me. I could smell the engine oil on his jacket, the desert sun baked into the fibers. He was close enough to see the way the scar above my left eye—two centimeters, pale and flat—caught the overhead light.

“I don’t answer to you,” I said. My voice wanted to tremble, but I kept it still. “If you want to talk about the Desert Scorpions, you make an appointment. If you want to threaten me, you’d better be a lot smarter about it. Chief Maddox…”

“Don’t name-drop to me, Julie. You know what this means.” He leaned across the desk, the whiskey on his breath burning my nostrils.

I gathered myself, not wanting to show fear. “There was nothing I could do about it, Bram. You know that.”

“Mr. Jackson,” he said.

“Okay.”

“Are you ready for the war that’s coming, Julie?”

“Ms. Sparta,” I said.

Bram straightened, picked up the paper, and refolded it. The silence between us was dense as wet sand.

“I’m not here to threaten you,” he said. “I’m here because every time you pull a string, someone bleeds.”

I let that one hang. He wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t right, either.

He said, “You want to keep running this town, you don’t keep me out of the loop. We have a system.”

“We had a system,” I corrected. “Now we have a problem. I’m not responsible for what’s about to happen. I’m the one who has to try and manage a bunch of dick-swinging men who want to kill each other!”

His face cracked a fraction, something between amusement and rage.

“You don’t think I know that?” He turned and walked towards the door, and I knew he was going to slam it just by the way his shoulders tensed.

He didn’t. He paused, half-in, half-out, and said without looking back:

“Next time, you come to me first.”

“Bram, I’m sorry about what happened to her.” I knew better than to mention her name.

“Yeah, I can tell.”

He left, the air in the office breaking with the closing of the door.