'I've got nothing for him. But he may have some papers or something

'Well, that's okay. We ain't so concerned with stuff being smuggled out of the prison…'

The sergeant laughed again. He had a booming laugh to match his forthright speech. Rogers was obviously the sort of man who could tell you much or make your life miserable, depending on his inclination. 'You're also supposed to tell me how long you're gonna be.'

'I don't know.'

'Well, hell, I got all morning, so take your time. Afterwards I'll give you a little tour of the place. You ever seen Old Sparky?'

'No.'

'It's an education.'

The sergeant rose. He was a wide, powerful man, with the sort of bearing that implied he'd seen much trouble in his life and always managed to deal with it Successfully.

'Kinda puts things in perspective, if you know what

I mean."

Cowart followed him through the doorway, feeling dwarfed by the man's broad back.

He was led through a series of locked doors and a metal detector manned by an officer who grinned at the sergeant as they passed through. They came to a terminal center where several wings of the immense wheel-like prison building came together. In that moment, Cowart was aware of the noise of prison, a constant cacophony of raised voices and metallic clangs and crashes as doors swung open, only to be slammed shut and locked again. A radio somewhere was playing country music. A television set was tuned to a soap opera; he could hear the voices, then the ubiquitous music of commercials.