Fourteen
Visiting hours at the prison didn’t typically start this early, but my badge was the exception. I waited in a small room with a table and two chairs, a thick metal bar protruding from one side. The door to my right opened and a familiar figure shuffled in—hands and ankles shackled—and sat down across from me.
Life behind bars may have meant a serious lack of hair gel, but it hadn’t dulled Jamison Taggart’s sharp features or penetrating stare. He did sport several fresh cuts and bruises on his cheeks and knuckles. Apparently, they’d stuck him in the general population. He waited patiently as the guard secured his wrists to the bar on the table. The guard took up a position by the door. I wanted to ask him to wait outside, but I knew prison protocol wouldn’t allow it unless I’d be
