Chapter 33
Kellen reached the front entry door and stepped into the large, old brick building and out of the baking Texas sun, the inside air a welcome respite from the heat emanating from the concrete. Despite the cooler temperature, sweat formed on his scalp.
A woman officer dressed in a blue shirt, damp at the underarms, stepped forward. “I’ll need your driver’s license.” She thrust a clipboard at Kellen. “Sign at the designated spot and put the time next to your name.” She tilted her head toward a large clock on the opposite wall. “And place your belongings in the basket.”
He swallowed and did as he was told. When finished, he held up the basket to the officer.
The woman pointed to a wall lined with lockers and handed him a key. “Over there.”
As soon as Kellen stored his belongings, he glanced around, confused about where to go next. An older black lady with white hair gave him a toothy smile and pointed toward a metal door with a sign posted above that read “Visitors Holding Room.”
Kellen gave the lady a token nod of gratitude and followed a crowd of people moving in that direction. After passing through the metal detector, he was patted down by another female officer, who smelled of cigarettes and maple syrup. “Wait over there,” the woman said, pointing to metal chairs lined up against a pea-green wall in bad need of paint.
He nodded and scanned for an empty chair, then sat to wait.
A man moved past, mopping the floor. His shoes made a slight squeaky sound every time he sludged forward, slowly pulling the dirty-looking mop across the speckled linoleum floor.
Kellen leaned his head back against the cold, hard wall of the holding room, keeping his eyes closed so he wouldn’t have to see countless young girls waiting to see their baby daddies. The sight was far too depressing.
“Kellen Warner?”
The booming voice caused him to startle. He glanced about the room. “Me?” he asked.
The officer with the clipboard heaved a sigh laced with boredom. “Your name Warner?”
Kellen nodded and stood. He followed the officer through the door and down a long hallway with windowless walls the color of dried mud.
He was led through a heavy metal door into a room less than half the size of his tiny kitchen at home. A barrier cut the room in half, the upper portion made of glass grimy with handprints. The scene was straight out of a television episode of CSI.
Kellen turned to thank the officer, but he was now alone. Nervous, he slid into the empty chair on his side of the barrier.
And waited.
Then Jess Dorsey entered, appearing older, more tired than the photos Kellen had found on the internet.
Lucan’s grandfather quickly moved to the window and took his seat. With a guard standing nearby, he placed his shackled palm against the glass and mouthed, “Do I know you?”
Kellen blinked several times before picking up the telephone receiver and motioning for him to do the same.
The older black man who was graying at the temples scrambled for the phone at his side and nestled the black handset against his ear. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice gruff and impatient.
Over the next minutes, Kellen told him exactly why he was here and what he wanted.