The Prison Patient

Bennett drove to the state prison in the last moments before dawn. A second-year resident went to the prison at this promising hour every day of the year, and Bennett liked the drive. Long before other cars lit up the freeway with a dazzling headlight show, Bennett rolled his pickup truck down the entrance ramp and onto the empty night road. He kept his window down to touch and breathe the air. When he switched lanes, his turn signal blinked through the blue night like a satellite, and Bennett rocketed toward the great floodlit towers of the prison, glowing in the empty country.

Inside the prison, the lights were repellent, and the same air felt chilly and damp. Cheryl, the nurse, brought him a cup of coffee. Bennett fell into his chair in the little concrete office. He leaned back, legs spread wide like a high-school football coach, and flipped the list over. Only one name was on the roster.

“Only one today, hey,” he said, still flipping at the corner of the list.

“Oh yes. Did you see who it is?” said Cheryl.

“Masterson? Oh boy.” Bennett knew Masterson from other days. He came often. “Well, bring him in,” he said, although the deputy had gone to retrieve the prisoner when he heard Bennett's heels coming down the hall.

“This is Masterson's last visit,” Cheryl said. “He's going to court today. He's getting out.” She was sure about this. In fact, Bennett trusted her to know more about these things than the law partners or the reporters because her mundane daily workload depended on the outcome. He was …