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to see the warden?” he asks, still trying to read the rather simple request.
    My business with the warden is of no concern to the CO, or anyone else, but to remind Darrel of this would only causetrouble. “My grandmother is almost dead, and I would like to go to her funeral. It’s only sixty miles away.”
    “When do you think she might die?” he asks, such a clever smart-ass.
    “Soon. Please, Officer Marvin, I have not seen her in years.”
    “The warden does not approve crap like this, Bannister. You should know this by now.”
    “I know, but the warden owes me a favor. I gave him some legal advice a few months ago. Please, just pass it along.”
    He folds the sheet of paper and stuffs it into a pocket. “All right, but it’s a waste of time.”
    “Thanks.”
    Both of my grandmothers died years ago.

    Nothing in prison is designed for the convenience of the prisoner. The granting or denying of a simple request should take a few hours, but that would be too easy. Four days pass before Darrel informs me that I am to report to the warden’s office at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow, February 18. Another fake smile, and I say, “Thanks.”
    The warden is the king of this little empire, with the expected ego of one who rules by edict or thinks he should. These guys come and go and it’s impossible to understand the purpose of all the transfers. Again, it’s not my job to reform our prison system, so I don’t worry about what happens in the administration building.
    The current one is Mr. Robert Earl Wade, a career corrections man who’s all business. He’s fresh off his second divorce, and I did indeed explain to him some of the basics regarding Maryland alimony law. I enter his office; he does not stand or offer a hand or extend any courtesy that might indicate respect. He says, “Hello, Bannister,” as he waves at an empty chair.
    “Hello, Warden Wade. How have you been?” I ease into the chair.
    “I’m a free man, Bannister. Number two is history and I’ll never marry again.”
    “Nice to hear and glad to help.”
    With the warm-up quickly over, he shoves a notepad and says, “I can’t let you guys go home for every funeral, Bannister, you gotta understand this.”
    “This is not about a funeral,” I say. “I have no grandmother.”
    “What the hell?”
    “Are you keeping up with the murder investigation of Judge Fawcett, down in Roanoke?” He frowns and jerks his head back as if he’s been insulted. I’m here under false pretenses, and somewhere deep in one of the countless federal manuals there must be a violation for this. As he tries to react, he shakes his head and repeats himself. “What the hell?”
    “The murder of the federal judge. It’s all over the press.” It’s hard to believe he could have missed the story of the murder, but it’s also entirely possible. Just because I read several newspapers a day doesn’t mean everyone does.
    “The federal judge?” he asks.
    “That’s him. They found him with his girlfriend in a lake cabin in southwest Virginia, both shot—”
    “Sure, sure. I’ve seen the stories. What’s this got to do with you?” He’s ticked off because I’ve lied to him, and he’s trying to think of the appropriate punishment. A supreme and mighty man like a warden cannot get himself used by an inmate. Robert Earl’s eyes are darting around as he decides how to react to my trickery.
    I need to sound as dramatic as possible because Wade will probably laugh when I answer his question. Inmates have far too much spare time to develop intricate claims of their innocence, or to cook up conspiracy theories involving unsolved crimes, or to gather secrets that might be swapped for a sudden parole. In short,inmates are always scheming ways to get out, and I’m sure Robert Earl has seen and heard it all.
    “I know who killed the judge,” I say as seriously as possible.
    Much to my relief, he does not crack a smile. He rocks back in his chair, pulls at his chin, and