When the news came that F-67 or Harvey Gilmore had met his end in the grim confines of Ironwood Prison, a grim satisfaction rippled through us. He had only been inside a few months when another inmate called him a predator. That was all it took to ignite the fire. Harvey fought, but he was outmatched, outmaneuvered, and utterly unprepared. They dragged him into the shadows of the block, and the chaos that followed was merciless—his skull crushed against cold concrete, his struggle ending in the filth and rot of the cell. Outside, he had been untouchable, a force to be reckoned with. Here, he was nothing but a number. A complete nobody.
We decided to all get dinner together that night. Marjorie arrived first, her mom trailing behind, both immaculate in dresses that looked like they could
