Chapter 2
I reach the two-story brick building of the sheriff’s station on McMillian Road. Radio and TV antennas poke out from the top of the roof like something Ray Bradbury would describe.
Entering the building, I ask twenty-six-year-old Deputy Mark Samson at the front desk if the sheriff is available to see me.
Cora Hastings, the station’s clerical secretary, is out on her lunch break.
Samson busies himself with a mock phone call, pretending he does not see me standing in front of him on the other side of the desk. I am close enough to him to shake his hand. After he states an arbitrary, “Take it easy, Mom,” into the mouthpiece, he reluctantly raises his hard eyes to me. In a machismo gesture, he thrusts his jutting underbite out at me, as if he is going to ask me a long list of que
