Ten days ago, I was in Pixley, California, population three thousand thirty, finishing up a job, when I got a call from Seth Tanenbaum, a criminal attorney, asking me to visit one of his clients. Tanenbaum thought his client could use my services. I was intrigued. It had been several years since I last heard from Tanenbaum.
Early the next morning, I got on I-5 north, and drove shy of four hours. My destination was Folsom Prison to meet Walt Taylor.
It was my first trip to Folsom—in fact, to any prison. I didn’t really know what I was expecting, but definitely not a medieval castle with its own tower, guards on catwalks, and an arched gateway. Gray granite stretched as far as the eye could see. It was an architectural beauty, but it was still as intimidating as its inhabitants.
I drove i
