As the Department of Corrections transport bus turned into the drive, Felipe Gonzalez saw a half-dozen inmates in bright orange jumpsuits swarming around the prison’s entrance. Two men were repainting the Marion Men’s Correctional Institute sign, earnestly lettering black paint onto the somber gray stone. Another pair raked leaves and two more plunked green lillirope into the Florida sand, shuffling golden mulch around them.
At least they’re not planting f*****g flowers.
Two guards leaned against a prison van, smoking, their shotguns propped against their thighs. They waved at the bus driver.
The bus smelled of sweat and urine. Eight other inmates sat shackled with Felipe, swaying as the bus lurched through its gears, burly caricatures of the schoolboys they had once been.
Once inside
