8
I drove the Charger east on I-10 to Scottsdale. Pima Bail Bonds was a block away from the Scottsdale City Jail on Pima just south of Thomas. The office was an old renovated house with faded-yellow wood siding. The letters on the sign out front were peeling from decades of brutal heat.
Last time I’d been here was after the Phoenix Living weekly newspaper outed me as transgender and got me fired from the bail bond agency I’d worked for. Maurice was one of the many agents who’d agreed to keep my resume on file but never called. Conor later confirmed I’d been blackballed.
The cluttered office showed the years. Faded pictures, recognitions, and framed thank-you letters competed for space on the scuffed walls. The corners on the wood furniture had been worn smooth in spots. The scent of pin
