The Conjugal Wife

By Ray Johnson

Perhaps the most exhilarating experience in all the world is being in bed with a murderess. Every man who has the opportunity should do so at least once in his lifetime. These were the curious and dangerous thoughts of a man by lust possessed. The man was Dalton Nordstrom, a handsome and engaging man who seemingly had everything life has to offer: the type of man that it is hard to buy a gift for because he appears to have everything already. Lanetta is the intoxicating woman that caused Dalton to think so foolishly, to act with blind abandon.

Like Dalton, Lanetta also has many attributes; the most striking of which is her beauty. But it is impossible for beauty to fully blossom behind prison bars. Is Lanetta really a murderess? The courts say she is, but she claims to be blameless. Lanettas sister, Quilla, believes in her innocence. Quilla is just as beautiful as Lanetta, but cut from a different bolt of cloth: a righteous bolt of fabric, rather than cloth woven with menacing threads of narcotics and robbery. A dangerous triangle is forming, a convicted murderess, a rich businessman and a religious sister. It is difficult to envision anything good coming from this disparate trinity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 2, 2004
• ISBN: 9781462839001

Book preview

Chapter One

The home was located in the fashionable hills of Sierra Madre, above the mesmerizing lights and surging freeways of the San Gabriel Valley. Pasadena and Los Angeles glittered like a multicolored carpet of shimmering lights off in the distance. Like many in Southern California, the people in this wealthy area traveled in the fast lane. The main difference was that these residents negotiated the addicting inside lane in luxury cars while wearing expensive designer clothes, ill concerned about the social tickets their heedless speeding might engender.

It was a balmy summer night and the blond woman who lived in the two-million-dollar home had left numerous windows open. She wanted to be caressed by the midnight zephyrs that whispered in off the dark Pacific. She was not as cautious as she should have been, leaving too many doors unlocked and windows open. In her defense, the area was virtually crime free and boasted a private security patrol that complimented the local police.

Her husband and young son were away with her in-laws on a weekend camping outing. The blond woman hated camping. She also hated her in-laws. Two very good reasons for not going with her husband and son into the primeval wilderness, that plus her nails: she hated dirt underneath her nails. Actually her husband and son were staying at a reserved campsite, complete with showers and restrooms, but that was the wilderness as far as she was concerned.

She had been drinking vodka and 7up while watching a late movie on cable television. She may have had one too many, with the ratio of Kamchatka to 7up out of balance in favor of the vodka. The end result of her immoderate imbibing was that she had fallen asleep on the sofa in the spacious den. She had purchased the comfortable sectional for just such an occasion. Her late-night sofa dozing was frequently the result of her husband being away on business. Even worse, too often he was off with her precious son to god-awful places where bugs scurried and snakes slithered, sometimes even bringing home smelly fish after their excursions. Since she refused to stay anywhere other than a five-star hotel, she spent many weekends alone, usually with her vodka. She was out of Swedish vodka, so was forced to use Russian.

Her movie ended at 2 a.m. She was certain about the time because she sensed a change in the volume of the television audio. The cable channel was hyping some upcoming movie and she tried to pry open her eyes, but failed. Morpheus was too powerful and closed her eyelids quickly with nimble fingers. She turned over, vowing to get up soon and stumble to her bedroom. She thought she heard the rolling, metallic sound made by the sliding glass door, the one that led to the patio and black-onyx pool beyond.

She dismissed the grating sound as either imaginary or television generated. She kept her eyes closed, safe in the knowledge that her faithful Yorkie would bark if someone were actually in the pool area. But Fluffy would do no more barking or yipping. He was sprawled awkwardly on the used brick of the patio, his fragile neck broken like a dry twig. As always, he had been too friendly with strangers.

This was when her nightmare began. She thought it might have been the Chinese food she had for dinner that brought on the awful dream. She rarely cooked, certainly not when she was alone. She was an abysmal cook and took no pains to hide the fact, an option that wealthy people often exercise. She had the food delivered from her favorite Chinese restaurant. The white cartons with red Chinese characters still cluttered the leaded-glass coffee table. In her Kung Pao-induced nightmare, a large Black man and an attractive Black woman were standing over her. The woman had a gun pointed at her and the man had a knife, poised at her throat. If it had not been a dream, the terrifying vision would have caused her to scream. But since it was just a nightmare, she merely frowned and grumbled.

She was wearing a red-knit chemise with lace trim that was very revealing. She slipped it on because the night was warm and she felt rather sexy while watching the R rated movie on cable. She felt so flirtatious that she left off the matching panties, fantasizing about the handsome actor in her movie.

She wished her nightmare could have taken place during the winter. Then she would be wearing satin pajamas and would not be so embarrassed. Both intruders in her dream were staring at her, the woman looking at her face and the man leering at her breasts and exposed legs.

The troubling nightmare became reality when she felt the cold steel of the serrated knife blade against her throat. Her eyes went wide and she was horrified to discover that the frightening dream was all too real. Before she could cry out, the Black woman put the pistol menacingly to her head.

If you scream… the Black woman warned ominously, you’re as good as dead.

Who… who are you? the blond demanded brusquely, trying to sound authoritative.

The Black woman shrugged with her answer. No one important, but you must be Paula.

How… the blond woman was terrified, how do you know my name?"

The Black woman smiled engagingly and offered, Maybe we have a mutual friend.

I seriously doubt it! Paula snapped. Even though frightened, she remained haughty; another domain that rich people visit freely. Paula was positive that she and this Black woman had no common acquaintances. Most of her friends belonged to the El Dorado Country Club and the exclusive club would not even hire this brazen woman for scullery help.

Oooh, the Black woman smiled again, "we are touchy, aren’t we?"

Get… get out of my house, before I call the police.

You ain’t callin’ nobody! the Black man snarled. He held up a phone cord, which he had yanked from the wall socket, dangling it in front of Paula’s face.

The Black man was tall, six feet two inches and weighed just over two hundred pounds. Even without the knife Paula was no match for him. His breath smelled of rum, causing Paula to turn up her nose. That was one of the reasons she preferred vodka, it was hard to detect on the breath.

There’s… Paula tried another tack, there’s an armed security patrol in this neighborhood. They’ll be stopping by any minute now.

The feeble attempt at deception caused the Black woman to frown. And just why would they stop here? she asked, as if she actually believed Paula.

Because your… Paula sputtered, your junky car is parked in front of my house. They’ll know something’s wrong and come to check on me.

This elitist outburst caused both intruders to smile, one smile thin and sophisticated, the other broad and toothy.

It was the Black woman who responded to the threat. Maybe we came in an S class Mercedes.

Paula’s hopes of being rescued quickly dimmed. She knew the private patrol would not question an expensive Mercedes being in the area. They would assume it belonged to a house guest and not pursue the matter. She hoped these burglars might be driving a twenty-year-old rattletrap Ford, like her housekeeper. Even though she hated her housekeeper, she sincerely wished she were here now, battered car and all.

Still, you’d better leave right now. My… my husband is due home at any minute.

Neither intruder seemed very impressed by this most recent threat.

How old are you? the Black woman asked casually.

Paula bristled and snapped, That’s none of your…

The male pushed the razor-sharp blade hard against the pallid skin of her neck. Bitch, my lady asked you how old you was? He was the less cultured of the two and appeared the more dangerous. His English was no better than his manners, both lacked refinement.

The blade was all the inducement Paula needed. Thirty-five. Why? She lied. She was actually thirty-eight, but was not going to give these villains the benefit of the truth. Besides, Ramon, her hairdresser, said she looked thirty.

The Black woman nodded thoughtfully, then observed caustically, You look sort of saggy for thirty-five, but you’re just about what I expected. She could afford the biting comment because she was slender and lithe. Her smooth skin was the color of a rich chocolate milkshake.

"You… you uncultured trollop! How dare you call me saggy," Paula hissed. She hated to admit it, but the Black woman was in excellent shape and beautiful.

The Black woman shrugged with her apology. No offense intended. I think it comes with having lots of money, but plastic surgery would have been helpful.

Well, I’m… I’m not rich and I certainly don’t keep any cash here in my house. The money comment troubled her, but nowhere near as much as the saggy and plastic surgery remarks. She was positive that one was a lie and the other unneeded.

The Black woman cocked her head and asked pointedly, "My house? I thought you said your husband was due back at any minute."

He… Paula became flustered, he is, but this house is mine.

Then you’re not actually married? She twisted the verbal blade a bit.

Before Paula could answer affirmatively, the Black man lifted the hem of her chemise. Her eyes went wide in horror as he felt between her legs. His glare said he would kill her if she resisted and the knife against her jugular vein reinforced the searing visual threat. She closed her eyes and bit her lip as his finger violated her innermost sanctuary.

My… my husband will kill you for this, Paula threatened angrily.

First… the Black man scoffed at the hollow threat, he ain’t here. And second, the way it sounds, everything here is yours, not his. Maybe this pussy don’t belong to him neither. His ribald comment caused him to chuckle and the Black woman to smile.

The Black woman said casually, Paula, honey, I want to see your bedroom and some of your clothes.

The man pulled Paula roughly to her feet, taking his cue from the Black woman.

Why… why would you want to see…

I want to see how you live and what you wear. Now, come along, we’re going upstairs. The Black woman motioned toward the door.

The man pushed Paula out of the den, toward the staircase. She desperately wanted to resist, but was powerless because of the gun and knife. Plus they were both stronger than she was, even without the weapons. They forced her up the broad stairs and down the hall toward the master bedroom. The Black woman stopped them abruptly as they passed Paula’s son’s room.

Michael’s room? the Black woman asked as she flicked on the light.

How… how could you possibly know my son’s name? Paula demanded angrily.

The unexpected question had stunned Paula. Perhaps she had been wrong about the country club not hiring this woman. Maybe she was an ex-employee who had gained access to the club’s computer records and had illegally obtained her name and information about her family. Now she was using the stolen data to intimidate her.

The Black woman looked around the boy’s room and nodded slowly. Nice room, very nice. I wish my child had something like this. She did not answer the question concerning how she knew about Paula’s son.

The bedroom had every creature comfort that a five-year-old boy might want. Paula had spared no expense, from a giant toy giraffe to a Formula One racing bed. Expensive toys abounded, some placed neatly along the walls, others not so neatly.

Once the Black woman had satisfied her curiosity, she pushed Paula forward, toward the master bedroom. The master bedroom was huge, with a king-size bed anchoring the far wall. The thick beige carpet felt like quicksand, gripping at their feet. The drapes were pulled back, giving a magnificent view of Greater Los Angeles at night; a billion points of light, winking and blinking a visual symphony.

The man shoved Paula onto the bed, with lust pouring from his bloodshot eyes. Paula tried to pull her scanty chemise down to cover as much as possible, but there was more Paula than chemise. She silently cursed the R rated movie that had tempted her to dress so provocatively. The Black woman began going through the items on the dressing table.

What are you doing? Paula objected strenuously. Those things belong to me. She mentally castigated herself for leaving her jewelry in jewel boxes, rather than in the hidden wall safe as her husband advised, numerous times actually.

The Black woman nodded, then observed bitingly, And lucky you are, even though you don’t deserve them. Unfortunately, most of them will now belong to me. She picked up a pair of diamond earrings and held them to her ears, viewing the flashing stones in the large, lighted mirror.

You… Paula blurted, you horrible woman. You’re nothing but a common thief. It irritated her that the earrings looked better on the Black woman than they did on her.

A thief, yes… the Black woman corrected her, "common, no. I’ve never ever been common." She picked up a diamond choker and held it to her neck, smiling slightly. Her ebony hair was pulled back and extension curls tumbled down her neck like a black waterfall.

The man was becoming visibly frustrated and pleaded his case to the Black woman. Baby, my jimmy’s about to jump out of my pants. I want some of this pussy. How about it?

Be my guest, she shrugged, as if ill concerned. Just make sure she doesn’t scream. I don’t want any neighbors to come running.

He grinned like a Cheshire cat. She won’t scream none, ‘cept cause she’s happy.

Paula was horrified. The Black man had actually asked permission to rape her. To compound the felony, the Black woman had readily acquiesced.

You’re not…Paula stuttered, not really serious?

The man began to unzip his trousers. Serious as a heart attack, bitch. He proceeded to remove his pants.

Paula tried to get away, but the Black woman put the 9mm pistol to her head and advised coldly, Don’t be dumb, Paula. One peep out of you and I’ll splatter your brains all over this bed.

But he’s… she began to cry, he’s going to rape me.

The Black woman nodded philosophically and counseled, Worse things could happen. Now, if you want to live through this, I’d suggest that you remain quiet.

What… what will happen to me? Tears streamed down her face, streaking her makeup.

He’s going to steal some pussy and I’m going to steal your jewelry. He won’t wear out your pussy and your insurance will cover your jewelry losses. So keep quiet and the only thing that’ll get injured is your precious pride.

I hate the foul way you talk. And… and I hate you, Paula sniffled through her tears.

All right, the Black woman became condescending. Let me rephrase it to make you happy. He’s going to put his rigid penis in your moist vagina. He’ll perform in and out motions until he has an orgasm. I seriously doubt that he cares whether you climax or not. And while he’s copulating, I’m going to unlawfully take your jewelry and anything else of value. Now, did that sound better?

No! It means the same thing. I hate both of you.

Paula closed her eyes, like a child hoping the night monsters would go away if they cannot see them. Not only was she about to be raped, but this unprincipled woman was going to watch. She opened her lips to scream for help, but the male shoved his jockey shorts in her mouth, stifling her cries.

The Black woman shook her head, disgusted. And to think I trusted you, Paula. Nothing is sacred anymore. She held the pistol to Paula’s temple as the Black man pried her legs apart.

Paula tried to cry out when he made entry, but only a muffled sound made it through the smelly shorts. Once the Black woman was certain that Paula was securely pinned beneath her randy companion, she returned to Paula’s dressing table. As Paula suffered through the humiliating rape, the Black woman perused her large array of jewelry, all real, none cosmetic. Periodically she came across items of jewelry she fancied and placed them in her purse. She also took a diamond-encrusted gold Oyster Perpetual Rolex and a platinum Patek Phillips watch, both worth over $35,000.

Her companion was huffing and puffing on top of the unwilling Paula, enjoying every moment. Occasionally the Black woman would glance at Paula, making certain she was not trying to escape. But there was little chance of Paula getting away because her tormentor outweighed her by sixty pounds. He had torn away the chemise to expose her breasts, which, as the Black woman critically claimed, did sag. And, as the Black Woman had predicted, her companion had absolutely no concern for Paula’s well being. He climaxed amid a barrage of heated grunts and groans, pounding away with wild abandon.

Once satiated, he slumped atop Paula, whose eyes were closed as she attempted to blot out the traumatic event. Finally he rose from the bed and stood gazing at his handiwork. The Black woman moved to Paula’s side and again pointed the weapon at her head. Paula glared at both of them as she yanked the shorts from her mouth. She spit out her anger, as if clearing her mouth might help cleanse her soul. The unrepentant rapist picked up his shorts and began to dress.

The Black woman asked her companion nonchalantly, I take it you enjoyed that?

Sure, baby, it was good. A toothy grin dominated his face. I wish we could take her with us and do it again.

That wouldn’t do, the Black woman shook her head. She’s seen too much.

Paula was too engrossed in her own misery to comprehend the magnitude of their conversation. She did grasp the fact that the Black woman did not want to kidnap her and for that she was grateful. At the moment she was concentrating on memorizing their faces. She planned on describing them perfectly, so the police could quickly arrest both of them. Then she would testify at their trial. Hopefully they would both get the death penalty. She wanted to be there when they threw the switch for the electric chair. Or was it death by injection in California? Who cares, she mused angrily, as long as they both die painfully.

An arrest and conviction should not be that difficult. The Black woman knew far too much about her for this to be a random rape and robbery. Paula kept harking back to the troubling thought that the woman must have been employed at the country club at one time or another, probably in the kitchen. Perhaps the woman had stolen numerous records and she was merely their first victim. God forbid there ever be any more, she thought. Monstrous as it sounded, the Black woman was right about two things. She would survive the hideous rape, scarred but alive; and the stolen items would be covered by her insurance polices. But only their deaths would dampen the fires ignited by her burning rage.

Can I get dressed now? Paula asked aggressively. She would not shower because she had watched a program on television where the police advised rape victims not to shower or bathe. That way they could get a semen sample and the DNA profile of the rapist. She wanted every bit of evidence possible against this marauding duo. The thought was disturbing, but the taking of semen samples could not possibly be as mortifying as the rape itself; besides the sample would be taken by a doctor, a professional.

No need to get dressed, the Black woman shook off the request.

Why? Paula frowned, unnerved by the arbitrary denial.

Maybe we like to see you in the nude. The lewd justification rang disingenuous.

Paula felt painfully self-conscious with both of them staring at her. She again tried to cover her breasts and between her legs. The man leered at her with renewed lust, as if he were thinking about raping her again.

You’re… you’re both perverts! Paula blurted injudiciously, considering her predicament.

The Black woman nodded stipulative agreement. You’re probably right.

Before you go… and she hoped, now that they had raped and robbed her, that they were planning on leaving soon, tell me how you know so much about me.

The Black woman laughed softly, but wickedly. That would spoil the fun. I want you wondering about that right up until… she hesitated.

Paula grimaced and asked, "Right up until what?"

The Black woman snapped her fingers and opened her palm. Her rapist companion placed a razor-sharp survival knife in her hand without displaying any emotions whatsoever.

The Black woman’s voice hardened. I want you to wonder about me right up until the time you die.

You… Paula’s eyes went wide in abject fear, you promised if I didn’t scream or yell you wouldn’t hurt me. She was still on the bed, sitting up and trying to cover her nakedness.

Well, I lied. The Black woman made a lightning sweep with the knife and the serrated blade slashed across Paula’s throat. Hot blood splattered over Paula and the white comforter as the conscienceless blade severed the external jugular vein, the sterno-mastoid muscle and the pharynx.

Paula’s eyes blurred as she clawed at her throat. The wound was mortal, so lethal that she was unable to speak. But her eyes begged for answers. Who are you? Why did you do this to me?

Again the Black woman shook her head, refusing the poignant visual death plea. Keep asking, Paula, all the way to Hell.

Paula died on the blood-soaked comforter, the all-important questions still on her lips, her green eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

The Black woman returned the knife to her companion and ordered, Make it look like a robbery, the rape was incidental.

Sure, baby. He wiped the blood from his knife on the satin sheet.

Chapter Two

Dalton Nordstrom was a troubled man. The events that led him to his unusual conclusion about sleeping with a murderess began three months previously. At the time his life was a shambles, not financially, but mentally. He had, and he was positive about this, the absolute worst marriage in America. He did not hate his wife, but he sincerely hated living with her. She had the uncanny ability to make his every day one of misery and despair. What he liked, she detested. Things she relished drove him to distraction. If ever on earth there were two people who should not be married, it was Dalton and his wife.

Dalton possessed all the materialism that any man could ask for. Exotic cars, expensive home, position, wealth, he had them all. He was the senior vice-president in charge of sales for a successful firm that manufactured arms and armament for both the domestic and foreign markets. But his married life was a bowl of tepid mush, topped with a slice of soggy milk toast.

One afternoon, while trapped in a hotel room with the cable television temporarily out, he was forced into watching network television, punishment fit for the most heinous of criminals. While watching a television hostess make a fool of herself by running from one pushy inquisitor to another, something inexplicable grabbed his attention. He turned up the sound and listened intently.

The talk show hostess was interviewing men who had married women in prison. What struck him as most unusual was that all the men were older and rather nondescript, some even bordering on ugly. Then the hostess began to show film clips and photos of their wives, who were all in prison. Many of the women were rather attractive. The hostess pressed the attack, trying to intimidate the men by suggesting they had married the imprisoned women merely because they were younger and vulnerable. The men, to a man, denied such base motives and avowed they had married strictly for love. Much of the questioning and subsequent interviews centered on their conjugal visits.

Rather than watch the remaining drivel, Dalton turned off the television. But he could not turn off the dangerous germ of an idea that the talk show had planted deep in his brain. There were apparently wild and exotic women in prison who were more than willing to marry men on the outside. Their sordid reasons notwithstanding, the thought intrigued him. One of the men on the show, an older man who was balding, stated he had found his prison wife by answering an advertisement in a publication of questionable repute.

The exciting thought tugged at Dalton like an irresistible black hole. Finally he was overcome by curiosity and he left the hotel, in search of a publication that might contain advertisements from women in prison. At the time he was in San Francisco, where those types of periodicals abound. He felt uncomfortable in the adult bookstore and even queasier when he purchased three different publications that contained the kind of advertisements he sought.

Once back at his hotel he became a man entranced as he read through the ads. Every age, color, race, and culture seemed to be represented. Just reading the ads spiced up his life. He became so engrossed that he almost missed his 7:00 p.m. appointment with the Indonesian Counsel General.

Chapter Three

During the next few days Dalton circled those ads that caught his eye. By Friday he had gained enough courage to answer five of the ads. For the next seven days he was like a young boy waiting anxiously for a bite at a fishing hole. He began to wonder if possibly he had misinterpreted both the program and the ads. Maybe the television show was just entertainment, not reality. Perhaps the personal ads had been the bait and, like a hungry bass, he had taken the hook. Maybe the ads were financial scams. To his pleasant surprise, all five women answered his letters. Photos accompanied three of the letters, with all of the respondents requesting a recent picture of him.

Even though what he was doing was obviously immoral for a married man, he still felt pangs of guilt about deceiving five woman, all at the same time; six, if he included his wife. To salve his conscience he picked only one of the five letters to answer. The writer described herself as five feet, five inches tall, a thirty-year-old Black woman. The rest she left to the photo. Even in prison garb she was very attractive. So he continued down this bizarre path to insanity by sending her his photo and an accurate description of himself, leaving out only the fact that he was married, the most important detail of all.

He mailed the letter on Monday from his office in Los Angeles and was stunned when he received a return letter by Friday. This new missive contained yet another photo, even more appealing than the first, and a request that he come to visit at his earliest convenience. Her name was Lanetta Robinson and she was incarcerated at the women’s prison in Chowchilla. He did not know much about the prison system in California, but he did know that particular prison held some of the more dangerous female prisoners in the state.

He answered Lanetta’s second letter with another photo of himself. He explained that he would attempt to arrange his schedule so he could meet with her on one of her normal visiting days. What he was actually doing was buying time, hoping to build up his courage. He made a few phone calls to other prisons, attempting to find out what was necessary to visit a prisoner. What he learned was exactly what Lanetta had told him in her letters. She had already placed him on her visitor list and mailing list. All he really needed to do was to show up and identify himself.

Originally he feared he would be required to give a DNA sample, be checked out by the FBI, approved by the Pope, and then get the okay from the President. But his fears were unfounded. All that was required was a rather simplistic check of his social security number and his driver license number, and filling out the visitation form. Since he had never been arrested for anything, much less a major crime, he was readily approved.

His fortitude increased with each new letter. Finally in early June he told Lanetta he would be able to visit her the following Saturday. This would work out well because he was scheduled to meet with a Thai general in San Francisco on Sunday. Being Buddhist, Sunday held no special meaning for the general.

He would drive north to Chowchilla, visit Lanetta, and then proceed on to San Francisco that evening. He had originally planned on driving a company vehicle, but at the last minute decided to take his Porsche 911 Carrera instead. The nagging twinges of guilt were dampened by the exhilarating thought of meeting a woman in prison. Forbidden fruit grows in a dangerous orchard and is often addicting. Dalton was about to enter that hazardous orchard.

His contrition was born of culture, not love. He had no emotions whatsoever concerning his wife. Not good, not bad, just no emotions of any kind. But his lifestyle was such that he felt he could neither leave her nor have a clandestine affair. Too much church and PTA, too many social constraints, too many business pressures. Plus his overriding concern, his young son. His son meant more to him than anything on earth. Ridiculous as it sounded, he was basically a one-woman man. Unfortunately for Dalton, he was married to the wrong woman.

Visiting hours at the prison would begin at 10 a.m. He concocted a believable story about meeting with the Thai general on both Saturday and Sunday, giving him an excuse to be away both days. He had to leave at 6 a.m. if he was going to be in Chowchilla by ten. The women’s prison was located in a rural farming area in the fertile San Joaquin Valley, far from prying city eyes. Only small towns with poor economies want a prison in their backyard: Chowchilla qualified.

The sun was just rising as Dalton started over the Grapevine, the picturesque name bestowed upon Highway #5 as it snakes through the mountains of the Angeles National Forest. The powerful Porsche ate up the early-morning miles, past Magic Mountain and on through the sprawling Tejon Ranch. By the time he reached Bakersfield, at the extreme southern end of the San Joaquin Valley, the temperature was already rising. He pushed on and stopped for gas in Fresno, just south of Chowchilla. He wondered if he had also stopped to refill his flagging courage.

Once fortified with full tanks of fuel and resolve, he drove on to Chowchilla. The prison was pretty much what he expected. Tall chain link fences, topped with razor wire, with everyone on the inside of the fence watched from ominous-looking guard towers. Surveillance cameras scanned slowly back and forth, recording everything that went on in the parking area. He parked on the main lot, as far away as possible from other cars to protect the doors on his Porsche. The visitors ran the gamut from large Mexican families, chattering in Spanish, to uneasy, solitary visitors like himself, and everything in between. Tall, short, old, young, fat, skinny, they