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shooting or snorting whatever he laid his hands on. Then he spent time in the hole. Apparently, enough time to find Jesus. Preacher Man had figured his way out and now he helped others to do the same, mostly by telling stories that Ray had never heard from any church he’d been in, stories with lots of bad brothers and big-breasted women needing comfort. 
    Preacher Man stood quietly next to Ray, bobbing his head. He began to sing, “Jesus loves me, yes he do.”
    Ray listened for a minute then patted the old man on the back and walked to the law clinic. He had clients to see.
    Most of the cases that came into the paraprofessional clinic dealt with pleading out inmate disciplinary charges. Crimes against a person, failure to immediately obey a CO, or failing a urine test. Sometimes it was a matter of explaining complicated words to an uneducated man. As a paralegal, Ray did most of the grunt work. When the attorneys showed up, they did the rest.
    This month’s most interesting case was Munroe v. Graterford. Bull Munroe headed a group of die-hard power lifters. They wanted more weights and longer hours in the tiny gym. The men needed this outlet, and Bull was going to make sure they got it. 
    The COs thought the small room was dangerous. Last month a man was found dead, pinned underneath an overloaded bar, his neck broken and an X drawn on his chest. But more than the safety issues of the room, the officers resented the convicts growing stronger and hated to see them draw pleasure from lifting, pressing and sweating. The prison way wasn’t about health and fitness. It was about starch and poor ventilation, antiquated facilities and removal from society. It was about control.
    If a con did make parole, he never really fit in on the outside. Even when a rehabilitated man was released into society, no one guaranteed his success. One thing was for certain, he was branded no matter how little time he’d served. Maybe it was the look in his eye, or a smell that followed him. Whatever it was, that feeling made most ex-cons seek a lifestyle in the free world that guaranteed them another stay at The Gray Bar Hotel. 
    Getting locked up was like coming home. Their homeboys, their dawgs, even their “old ladies” would be waiting for them with open arms. 
    There comes a time when a convict is a convict, guilty or innocent.

CHAPTER 4
All in a Day’s Work

    MIMI BALDWIN leaned her head into the office, calling, “Mr. Deluca, sir? Mr. Montgomery is on line one. Hearing no reply, she stepped into the room. “Mr. Deluca?”

    “One hundred!” Fast Eddie Deluca popped up behind his massive desk, barefoot and bare-chested. “I’ve still got it. One hundred real sit-ups, not those wimpy crunches, for God’s sake! Nothing like a little exercise to get the blood flowing, right, Mimi?”
    Deluca was like a rooster in a barnyard. Part rooster, part peacock. Tiny barnyard.
    “Yes, that’s right, sir.” She turned to the door. “Montgomery’s on one...when you get a chance.”
    “Super. Put him through. Oh, Mimi?”
    She glanced over her shoulder at Deluca. He took a swig from a bottle of water and winked. “You look particularly fetching this morning.” 
    “Thank you, sir.” 
    Mimi pulled the door shut. “Particularly fetching, my ass,” she mumbled.
    Deluca punched the speakerphone button, then pulled a fresh t-shirt from his bottom drawer. “Ted! How was Switzerland? Did Alice make you play tourist again?”
    “Ha! You know I wouldn’t stand for that crap, Eddie! Goddamn tourists are ruining that beautiful country. Backpackers camping out in train stations, undisciplined ass-wipes trying to discover themselves on cheap wine and marijuana. Listen, don’t get me started. I just called to wish you luck today.”
    Deluca paused, one arm in a crisp Robert Talbott blue and white striped shirt. “Today? Why do I need luck today? Personally, I think I could have used some luck last weekend, when I had the face-to-face