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said Isabella. “That’s why we want you to read the file.”
    I persisted. “I mean, why did you and Eleanor give each other the big look a minute ago?”
    Isabella shook her head. “Read the file. There is another possibility…”
    â€œThis mysterious possibility—is it the reason you’re convinced Travis Gifford is innocent?”
    The room grew uncomfortably quiet. “Maggie,” said Eleanor gently. “Isabella may not want to discuss some things with you until she knows you’re committed to helping.”
    Isabella gave me a barely perceptible nod. And I walked out the door thinking that I might be turning into a real journalist after all. The possibility of access to inside information was fueling a suddenly ungovernable hunger to be on a “need-to-know” basis with the Gasworks Gang.

CHAPTER 5
    T ake a breath, Maggie,” said Isabella, as she paid the toll at the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge.
    She gunned the motor and zipped up the slow rise to the bridge. I looked out over the edge, into the cold, blue-gray waters. “Have I been talking too much? I guess I’m a little nervous.”
    Isabella took her hand off the polished burl of the gearshift and patted vaguely in the direction of my knee.
    â€œDon’t worry, chica . Everyone gets a little nervous on the way to Death Row. Even if you’re just visiting.”
    â€œHey,” I said, “can I ask you a personal question?”
    Isabella glanced my way. “Isn’t that what you do for a living?”
    â€œYou speak Spanish, right?”
    â€œI grew up speaking Spanish. I still leak the stuff, and it comes in handy once in a while.”
    â€œBut you don’t look…”
    Isabella laughed. “Latina? I am, though. Mom was Vietnamese, Dad’s family came on the run from some horrible regime or other in Nicaragua. My brother always described us as Latisians. I loved that, made it sound as if we came from somewhere else in the solar system. Instead of just being another brown-skinned, weird immigrant mix. When we were kids and went to Hawaii on vacation, I always felt it was the only place on earth people didn’t stare at us and wonder, ‘Where’d you come from?’”
    â€œWhy Hawaii?”
    â€œOh, because in Hawaii, everybody’s a mix of something or other, so nobody wonders about your ethnicity. Everybody looks like some variation of me.”
    â€œThanks,” I said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
    Isabella laughed. “Oh, right. Now, I’ve got a question for you. What made you decide to come with me today?”
    â€œThe photos,” I said. “They were haunting me.”
    After several sleepless nights when the Hollywood Confidential –style, brutal black-and-white police photos kept swimming to the surface every time I dropped off, I knew the only way to get them out of my head was to visit Travis Gifford.
    â€œI don’t get it,” said Michael, over breakfast. “If this thing is creeping you out enough to keep you up at night, why do you even want to go meet this guy?” Without missing a beat, he added, “Hey, Josh, what’s the rule? Drink the last of the orange juice, you’ve got to mix up another batch.”
    Josh looked guilty. “How’d you know I was drinking the end of the pitcher?”
    â€œYour father has eyes in the back of his head,” I said. “All parents do. You might as well learn it now.”
    Josh rolled his eyes. He was leggy and mouthy, two inches taller than me, and a poster kid for irritating adolescence. I scrutinized Josh as he hauled another can of orange juice out of the freezer with a martyred sigh. My sweet-tempered first-born was morphing into some wiseass, moody teenager. Some days, I felt as if I’d retrieved the wrong kid at school, like turning in a plaid wool skirt at the dry cleaners and coming home with a leather mini.