FIFTEEN
They handcuffed you and told you to climb into a black motor car that transferred prisoners. A police guard sat next to you, watching you until the car reached the central prison whose name, Porta Benito, derived from its similarly named locale. They put you a single cell that smelled like dead cats and locked you in. You felt as though you had been placed in a putrid, tightly sealed tin box.
There was a small opening, the size of the palm of a hand, high up on the wall near the ceiling, but it let in neither air nor light. After your eyes got used to the darkness, you looked around, thinking to find the dead cat but found nothing. It was clearly the smell of urine, mixed with other offensive odours that had accumulated over years. There was nothing in the cell but a straw mattre
