Chapter 15 - Shadows in the YardFar away from the bright lights and lake breezes of Chicago, Stateville Correctional Center loomed under a gray, miserable afternoon sky.
In the high-security federal wing, Cell Block B was dead quiet except for the distant clatter of lunch trays.
Preston Whitmore sat on the edge of his steel cot, staring at his reflection in a small, cracked piece of plastic mirror he had smuggled into his cell.
His custom Tom Ford suits were replaced by coarse orange cotton. His hair was shaved close to his scalp. The arrogant, triumphant smirk that had defined his thirty years of unearned privilege was entirely gone, replaced by hollow, haunted eyes and a slack, defeated jaw.
His cell door buzzed.
A prison guard walked up, tapping a heavy nightstick against the bars. Kneeling down, the guard slid a small, gray plastic tray across the concrete floor.
"Mail call, Whitmore," the guard muttered coldly. "Though you don't get much these days."
Preston didn't move for a long moment. Then, slowly, he crawled across the floor and picked up the single, plain white envelope resting beside his tray.
There was no return address. Just his inmate number written in shaky, unfamiliar handwriting.
With trembling fingers, Preston tore open the flap and pulled out a single sheet of cheap lined paper.
Inside was a short, devastating note from our father:
Preston, Your mother and I moved into a small room in Cicero yesterday. We sold our wedding rings to pay for groceries. We realized too late what we created, and what we destroyed. Do not write to us again. We no longer have a son. — Arthur.
Preston stared at the words until the ink began to blur behind a wall of hot, stinging tears. He opened his mouth to scream, to demand someone's attention, to threaten them with his lawyers, his money, his name—
But the words caught in his throat.
May you like
There were no lawyers. There was no money. There was only the cold concrete, the iron bars, and the crushing weight of a lifetime of malice coming home to roost.
He slumped against the wall, clutching the paper to his chest, weeping in the dark where no cameras could see him, and no one cared to listen.
