Josie for the break. “I was worried for my safety at first, but I’ll die from boredom before anything else.”
Dooley unlocked the door and rattled off a set of rules to Gutiérrez, who kept his eyes closed. It gave Josie a minute to size him up. His face was drawn, his eyes puffy and lifeless. She knew from information that Dixon had provided that he was forty-eight years old, but she would have guessed seventy. His arm was bandaged with white gauze where she had shot him, but he wasn’t connected to any medical apparatus. He was still dressed in a blue hospital gown, lying on his back in bed. To the right of the bed was a toilet, a metal chair, and an empty metal shelf attached to the wall. The walls were concrete, as was the floor.
Dooley locked the door behind her, and she turned and noted that he remained close, within her line of sight. The sheriff ran a tight ship. Other than petty grievances and minor fights, there had never been a serious altercation against a prisoner or a guard since he took the reins when the jail opened five years ago. Martínez allowed very minimal contact with outside visitors, and absolutely no physical contact. Prisoners were searched daily, and metal detectors were in place throughout the facility. For a small jail, it was run very efficiently. Josie wondered what kind of firepower would be necessary to reach the prisoners.
“Mr. Gutiérrez, I’m Chief Josie Gray with the Artemis Police Department.” He opened his eyes and turned his head to stare at her. “I’m your arresting officer. I have a few questions to ask you.”
He said nothing, seemingly uncomprehending.
“Do you speak English?” she asked. Nothing.
She kept going nevertheless. After several minutes of Mirandizing in English, telling him who she was and telling him briefly about his situation in the U.S., Josie confronted him with his identity, his mug shots, his deportation record, and his testimony at trial. He finally broke his silence, apparently convinced it would no longer serve his purpose.
“When will I be deported?” he asked, his English good.
“You killed a man on U.S. soil. You may be deported, but only after you serve your time here for first-degree murder.”
His face grew angry, his eyes suddenly bright, and the man she faced at gunpoint two days ago showed through. “This should not have been a problem for your soil! You were the ones who took a Mexican problem and made it your own. You cannot lay that on my shoulders. I was simply following my orders.”
“From who?”
He turned his head from her and looked at the gray concrete wall to the right of his bed.
“Are you associated with La Bestia Cartel?”
He said nothing.
“Is the man referred to as ‘the Bishop’ your cousin?” she asked.
He stared at the block wall.
“Because in this jail cell, with the entire Medrano cartel ready to blow you to pieces, you are quite a target.”
No response.
“Okay,” Josie said, nodding. “Here’s your situation: This is your second offense. You get to rot in an American jail. I will monitor your progress as you serve your life sentence. I don’t like you, or what you stand for, and you will serve maximum time.”
He continued to stare at the wall, saying nothing.
“I don’t know how prisons in Mexico work, but here in the U.S., we despise pedophiles. They don’t get treated well. In the world of prisoners, men who screw around with little kids are the bottom feeders. A guy could blow up a church full of nuns, and he’d still have the moral high ground compared to a guy like you. You can request the hole, but I hear solitaries are full up at federal penitentiary. All the filthy kiddie lovers already have those beds taken, so you’ll be in with the biker boys, the skinheads. And a Mexican pedophile? The Aryans dream about guys like you.”
Even with Gutiérrez partially covered under the hospital sheets, Josie could see his body was rigid, his jugular vein swollen and pulsing on his neck.
“Maybe you decide to share information, talk about La Bestia. Tell me why they want to move through Artemis so badly. What their connection here is. You might get out of jail before your family forgets you’re alive.”
SIX
Josie drove back to Artemis and parked one street north of the square in front of a small brick building with a sign that read OFFICE OF ABACUS. Dillon Reese, a forty-two-year-old accountant, had opened the business