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  As Brandon was discovering, the social dynamics at Tassajara were fluid. The main reason was that Tassajara was a jail—not a prison—so none of the inmates were there for long. They were either serving short sentences or waiting for their trials. As a result, men were always coming and going, getting released or being transferred to the prisons where they would serve out their sentences.

  Mo’s little group had only been together for a week before Brandon arrived, so it had been easy for them to add him, as they were all getting to know each other at roughly the same time—except for Phil and Mo, who had been in Folsom Prison together a decade ago and had been friends there.

  The four of them usually sat together during pod time, sticking to the area that wasn’t the turf of one of the gangs. That’s where they were now, playing poker and talking. The stakes were sugar packets, which were valuable because they could be used to ferment alcohol. Mo mixed water, fruit juice, powdered fake Kool-Aid, some rancid orange slices, and lots of sugar in a plastic bag, which he hid under his bed. After a week or two, it turned into what he called “fruit wine.” Other prisoners made “tomato wine” and “potato wine.” Mo had once offered some to Brandon, who nearly gagged when he tasted it.

  Brandon was pretty good at poker and had amassed a pile of over thirty sugar packets, which he planned to use to make his next payment to Mo. That in turn would leave him enough to buy some Goldfish, which he hadn’t been able to afford since his run-in with Tony Cruz and Los Reyes.

  He glanced over at the Los Reyes section of the pod. Tony Cruz was holding court at a table in the corner, talking loudly while several of his lieutenants listened and laughed. None of them were paying any attention to Brandon. In fact, they had all basically ignored Brandon since the day of the incident. It was almost as if they didn’t really hold it against him—as if Brandon’s reaction to Cruz’s theft of the Goldfish was basically what was expected in jail. Brandon had begun to wonder whether Mo might have overstated the danger from Los Reyes in order to get some easy money out of Brandon. But he was a newbie. Would he really be able to tell whether they were watching him?

  Brandon leaned over to Bear, who was sitting beside him. “Are the Los Reyes guys watching us?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Not us,” Bear said in a basso-profundo rumble. “But they’re sure keeping an eye on you.”

  Cold fingers of fear stroked Brandon’s spine. He darted a quick look at Cruz and his toadies. They seemed to be focused on something Cruz was saying. None of them appeared to be paying any attention to Brandon.

  “What do you mean? They’re completely ignoring us,” Brandon said.

  “Guy in the corner,” Bear said laconically, not looking up from his cards. “Don’t stare.”

  Acting as casually as he could, Brandon pretended to stretch his neck, letting his eyes drift over the pod. There he was. A scrawny little man whose name Brandon didn’t know. He was sitting in a shadowy corner near the edge of Los Reyes territory, mostly obscured by the men at Cruz’s table. And he was staring intently at Brandon.

  “His job is to watch you,” Bear said, his voice low. “He reports everything you do.”

  “So they know when you’re alone and your guard is down,” Phil muttered to his cards. “If there’s a pattern, they’ll notice. Then one day, bam. They’ll hit you.”

  “Which is why you pay me to watch them,” Mo said, as if reading Brandon’s mind.

  Bear shrugged his massive shoulders. “If you’re lucky, Cruz will get transferred outta here before they get to you. Then they may not care so much.”

  “If I’m lucky,” Brandon echoed. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so lucky.

  CHAPTER 23

  Nate’s house was haunted. It was less than ten years old, no one had died in it, and it was not built on an old cemetery or tribal burial ground. And yet Nate could not set foot inside without meeting ghosts. Even driving up to it on a sunny morning sent a chill, dark wind blowing through his soul.

  It was a beautiful adobe mansion perched on a green hilltop in the middle of a rolling landscape covered in regimented rows of grapevines. Five acres of the vines were his, though he leased them to his winery neighbor, with the payments coming in money and several cases of excellent wine per year.

  Nate steeled himself as he drove up the entrance road and parked in front. He hadn’t been to the house in over a month. He lived almost entirely out of a two-bedroom apartment three blocks from his office. At first, he’d told himself that he preferred the apartment because it was so close to the office. That was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Nate couldn’t sleep out here anymore. When he tried, he stared into the peaceful darkness for long hours, alone and yet not alone.

  Kevin’s question about whether his house made him happy had gotten Nate thinking. Since it didn’t make him happy, why did he still own it? It cost him money to have landscapers and housekeepers maintain it, and the property taxes weren’t cheap either. Plus, he could probably net at least two million by selling it, and he knew of plenty of better ways to invest that money than tying it up in a single unoccupied home.

  He had come out here to take some pictures of the house, to show to friends in the real-estate business. Now that he was here, all he wanted to do was turn around and drive back into the city.

  But he had come out here for a purpose, and he might as well get to it. He sighed and got out of the car. He took a picture from the end of the driveway, then hiked up the stone path to the front door. He put the key in the lock, turned it, and walked in. And there she was.

  Sarah.

  She beamed at him from the wedding picture on the foyer table, happy and hopeful. Blonde curls framed her beautiful heart-shaped face. The white lace of her dress set off her deep tan, earned through years of being outdoors whenever possible.

  A younger version of himself stood by Sarah, holding her hand to show off the sapphire-and-diamond ring he had given her. It had taken him nearly a month of working with a jeweler to make sure the shade of the sapphires perfectly matched her eyes. It had been worth it.

  He also looked happy in the picture. More than happy. His face held the kind of deep joy that comes when a man’s heart overflows with blessings. Which was exactly how he had felt on that day.

  He turned away from the picture and walked into the living room, where he took another photo. Sarah was here too. Her touch was everywhere. The way the furniture was set up to be open and welcoming to arriving guests. The handmade pillows on the sofa and love seat, purchased from a shelter in Mexico City that cared for the widows and orphans created by the drug wars. He had bought the brass andirons by the massive stone fireplace, but everything else had been at least partially her idea.

  If he closed his eyes, he could picture her perched on the ledge by the fireplace, talking excitedly with family members who were in town for the holidays. Or members of B&B’s complex-litigation group, who had come for the Christmas party they threw. It was supposed to be an annual party, but they had only held it twice.

  He turned and looked out through the picture window that took up most of one wall. The cleaning service had kept the house spotless, but the window washers hadn’t been here recently and dirty streaks marred the excellent view of the wine-country landscape. The sunsets in particular were spectacular. When they had guests over in the evening, the conversation would slow for a few minutes as people turned to watch the sun slip below the horizon.

  For two years, the house had been full of life and energy. Then, for one agonizing year, it had been full of sickness and impending death.

  And now it was full of ghosts. Sarah haunted the entire house, not with her presence but with her absence. There were others—especially the children they had planned to adopt but couldn’t once she got sick. What had been a home had become a mausoleum that entombed their dreams for the future.

  He had buried part of himself with her. They used to do charity work on weekends and during vacations. They went to church together, and S
arah was very involved. He gradually withdrew from all of that during her illness and never started again after she died. It wasn’t really a decision—he just threw himself into his work and tried to shut out anything that reminded him of her death.

  The air felt stale and dusty, and the weight of the place pressed on his soul. He snapped a couple more photos, then opened the sliding-glass doors in the living room and walked out onto the wide, tiled patio. Another large stone fireplace stood on the far side of the patio. This one had lots of flat surfaces for drinks or hors d’oeuvre plates. A matching stone bar with black iron stools was built at a right angle to the fireplace, looking out over the vineyard. He and Sarah used to sit at the bar on summer evenings, enjoying a glass of wine or iced tea as they talked and watched the shadows lengthen.

  A brisk breeze blew over him, carrying the fresh scent of growing things. He took a deep breath and let it out. He wished he could stay out here, but he wasn’t done inside yet. He filled his lungs again with the living air, then turned and went back in.

  He mechanically photographed the rest of the downstairs rooms, trying not to think about the memories they held. Then he trudged upstairs. He held his phone up like a talisman, warding off the past. The home office at the top of the stairs—click, it was stored in the phone’s memory. He snapped quick shots of the hall bathroom and guest bedrooms, then he braced himself and walked into the master bedroom. The oxygen tank and rows of pill bottles were long gone, of course, but he saw them in his mind, as much as he tried not to. And he saw Sarah on the bed, struggling to breathe and hardly able to move after the ravages of ALS, but still smiling at him whenever he came into the room.

  He tried to take a picture, but his eyes blurred and he could no longer hold the phone steady.

  CHAPTER 24

  Jessica sat on a bench by the hostess desk in Oasis, a restaurant in downtown Pleasanton. She was waiting for Sofia and Nate.

  Jessica was looking forward to the lunch meeting with Nate, but the thought of talking to Sofia was a little unnerving. Sofia had seemed nice enough when they met briefly in the courtroom after the preliminary examination—but that was before Nate got into Brandon’s case. Sofia was likely perceptive enough to realize that Jessica had asked him to get involved, and she probably resented that.

  Making matters more awkward, last week Nate had surprised Jessica by saying that he didn’t plan to replace Sofia after all, at least not right away. It turned out Sofia might be a decent lawyer, and Nate now wanted to work with her. They would be a team—him, Sofia, and Jessica. Jessica supposed that was good news. Brandon would now have two good lawyers fighting for him, not just one. Still, she wasn’t entirely looking forward to their first team meeting—even if it was taking place at one of her favorite restaurants.

  She looked up and saw Nate and Sofia walking up the steps. Sofia was talking animatedly and he was listening and nodding, a subdued look on his face.

  Jessica got up and met them at the door. Nate smiled. “Great to see you, Jess,” he said warmly, taking her hand in both of his.

  “Likewise,” Jessica said. She turned to Sofia with a friendly smile. “And thanks for coming all the way out to Pleasanton for this. I’m happy to meet in San Francisco or Oakland in the future so that it’s less of an inconvenience for the two of you.”

  “No problem,” Sofia said. “It’s nice to get a change of scenery.” She didn’t quite return Jessica’s smile, but she didn’t seem hostile.

  “This is no inconvenience at all for me,” Nate said. “I spent the morning out at my house in the wine country, taking pictures. I’m thinking of putting it on the market.”

  Maybe that was why he had seemed a little subdued. As Jessica knew too well, it was painful to sell the house you’d shared with a spouse who had died. “I’d be happy to help you get it ready,” she said. “I’ve done that sort of thing dozens of times, and I enjoy it.”

  He smiled. “I’d appreciate that. I’ll send you the pictures I took this morning.” He turned to the hostess. “We have a reservation for three in the name of Daniels.”

  The restaurant wasn’t busy, so they had a fairly secluded table where they didn’t have to worry about being overheard. When they were seated, Nate asked Sofia, “Is there any news from the front?”

  Sofia nodded. “The DA’s Office agreed to our request for a DNA expert. I’ll send you a draft stipulation when I get back to the office. If the stip looks good to you, we can get it to the DA today and file it tomorrow morning. I can start the contract paperwork while we’re waiting for the court to sign the order.”

  “Thanks. What’s the bottom line?” Nate asked. “When can we expect to have our expert on board and ready to get started?”

  “A couple of weeks,” she replied. “And we should have their analysis back a couple of weeks after that.”

  “That’s faster than I expected,” he replied. “Good news. Anything else?”

  “Yeah, though this isn’t quite as good,” Sofia said. “My investigator went to the Captain’s Lounge and got them to give him access to footage from their security cameras. He found good images of Lincoln Thomas with some of his dates. A couple of them have been picked up for prostitution. Our office represented one of them.”

  “Nice work—so why isn’t that good news?” Nate asked.

  “Because they wouldn’t talk to him,” Sofia replied.

  “Not even the one your office represented?” Nate asked.

  Sofia shook her head. “Nope. We managed to get her off. We even found her a spot in a shelter out in the Tri-Valley because she was afraid her pimp would beat her up for getting busted by the cops.”

  “Sounds like a very good result,” Nate said. “You’d think she’d be grateful.”

  Sofia sighed. “She said she was. But according to my investigator, her English suddenly got very bad and she claimed she couldn’t understand any of his questions.”

  Frustration welled up in Jessica. “Can she do that? Isn’t that obstruction of justice or something?”

  “No.” Sofia shook her head. “We can subpoena trial testimony, but we can’t force someone to talk to us before trial. Neither can the DA, fortunately. All either side can do is try to persuade witnesses to cooperate. And my guy tried to be persuasive. He volunteered to get her an interpreter, but she said she had to go. And when he tried to follow up with her later, she ignored him.”

  “How about the others?” Nate asked.

  “Same story, except they stonewalled him from the start,” Sofia said.

  “Did he have any idea why they wouldn’t cooperate?” Nate asked.

  “He thought they seemed scared,” Sofia said. “Nothing specific, but he thought talking to him made them nervous.”

  “Could it have been him?” Jessica asked.

  Sofia gave her a thoughtful look. “Now that you mention it, yeah. He’s a really nice guy, but he’s a former cop, and he still kind of gives off the cop vibe. He’s a sixty-year-old man with a buzz cut. He spent twenty-five years on the force and still carries himself like a cop. They might have thought he was a plainclothes vice-squad detective.”

  “Not all of Linc’s dates seem to have been born in the country,” Nate observed. “It’s possible that their immigration papers were not entirely in order. Someone in their position might be uncomfortable talking to a gentleman who seemed likely to be a law-enforcement officer.”

  “Good point,” Sofia said.

  “Do you think it would help to have someone who didn’t have a ‘cop vibe’ try to talk to them?” Jessica asked.

  “It might,” Sofia said slowly. “Why? Who do you have in mind?”

  The server arrived just then and took their orders. As soon as they were alone again, Jessica replied, “You said your office found one of these women a spot in a women’s shelter out here. Which one was it?”

  “I’m not sure,” Sofia said. “But I can check the file. Why do you want to know?”

  “One of my friends volunte
ers at women’s shelters in Oakland and Hayward,” Jessica said. “Maybe she met this woman. I can ask. Even if we can’t find a direct connection to this woman, we’ll find someone who knows how to talk to immigrant prostitutes without seeming like a cop.”

  Sofia thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “You know, that might actually work.”

  CHAPTER 25

  January

  Brandon’s life in jail fell into a steady, monotonous rhythm. Cell time, pod time, yard time, and meal time followed each other in a never-ending cycle. He was rarely alone, but he was mostly in the company of men he could tolerate and who didn’t seem to be threats. He read a lot, played cards and board games a lot, and thought about the future as little as possible.

  He paid less and less attention to the outside world—and it was mutual. At first, he heard from his friends and Monica almost daily. Then it was once or twice a week. Then less.

  In some ways, it was a relief. Their visits and letters only reminded him of what he was missing. Plus, he was going to be in jail until after graduation, so he was unlikely to ever see most of them again. It was probably for the best to just let those relationships fade away and focus himself on the here and now.

  He also worked out a lot, particularly when he was in the yard. He didn’t use the weights or run, because those activities would have brought him into Los Reyes territory, but there were plenty of calisthenics, stretches, and other exercises he could do. He could have done most of them in his cell, but he enjoyed working out in the fresh air. Plus, he was being watched when he was outside. And as Mo noted, it couldn’t hurt for his Los Reyes watcher to see Brandon practicing martial-arts kicks or doing two hundred push-ups without stopping.