the window were the words
DOROTHY STIEGLITZ
ASSISTANT TO THE ADMINISTRATOR
I knocked.
“Come in,” a friendly female voice said.
I opened the door onto one of the smallest offices I had ever been in. No more than seven feet deep and a little less than twice that in width, there was only room for the assistant to the administrator, a slender desk constructed from a plank of wood held up by two metal filing cabinets, and a visitor’s chair.
She stood up straight, looking quite nice in her gray pantsuit and red-rimmed glasses. Ms. Stieglitz was near my age with a Dorothy Lamour figure and graying black hair that made her look striking rather than old.
I suppose my eyes said what I was thinking, because the hint of an inviting sneer crossed her lips. For a man in my emotional state that smile was a boon.
“Yes?” Ms. Stieglitz said. “May I help you?”
“My name is Ezekiel Rawlins and I’m here to see Rufus Tyler,” I replied, instead of giving her the answer on my tongue.
“Have a seat,” she said.
I accepted the offer. It was a small, metal, institutional chair not made for form or comfort.
Sitting, I appreciated her again. She sneered nicely.
“Do you have the proper documentation?” she asked.
“The man at the front door asked me that,” I said. “I told him that Mr. Tyler’s lawyer hadn’t apprised me of that necessity.”
I thought she’d like fancy words. I was right.
Dorothy gave me a broad grin and said, conspiratorially, “We cannot allow visitation without documentation.”
“If that’s so, I’ve come a long way for nothing,” I lamented.
“What is your business with Mr. Tyler, Mr. Rawlins?”
“That’s between him and his lawyer.”
“What’s the lawyer’s name?”
“Milo Sweet.”
“Do you have his number?”
I did.
—
I waited patiently while the handsome assistant to the administrator dialed, listened, and then said, “Yes, may I speak to Mr. Sweet?…Dorothy Stieglitz from the administrator’s office at Avett Detainment Facility.” A moment passed while, in some distant part of town, Loretta Kuroko called into the open door behind her, and Milo got on the phone.
“Yes, Mr. Sweet, I have an Ezekiel Rawlins here saying that you have directed him to meet with inmate Rufus Tyler….You are Mr. Tyler’s lawyer?…But we don’t have any record of that request….I see. Yes, Central Records is notorious for dropping the ball. You should have contacted us directly….I understand….Yes, yes.”
She hung up the phone and smiled at me.
“Everything seems to be in order, Mr. Rawlins,” she said. “Mr. Sweet made his request through Central Records, and even though that is perfectly acceptable the people there aren’t always running on a cogent time schedule. His request was probably lost between offices. But even though I believe you, I don’t have the authority to let you in to see Mr. Tyler. You’ll have to talk to the administrator—Mr. Bell.”
She stood again and said, “Let me show you.”
I shifted to the side, letting her go past. When she drew close I caught a whiff of the perfume
Tabac
. The tight scent fit her look.
Following her into the empty hallway, I felt an urge to ask a question.
“At the end of the hall,” she said. “The last door.”
I wanted to ask for her home phone number. I thought that she might want to give it to me. But I was on the job and any disruption could cause serious problems.
So instead I shook her hand and said, “It was really very nice meeting you, Ms. Stieglitz.”
“You too, Mr. Rawlins,” she said with emphasis.
—
“Who is it?” a masculine voice said to my knock on the glass and wood door of Administrator Desmond Bell.
Instead of answering the question I opened the door, entering the anteroom of the man in charge.
The uniformed male receptionist looked up at me and then stood.
“Yes?” he said.
He was wearing the gold and brown costume that all the guards had. He was white and tall
DOROTHY STIEGLITZ
ASSISTANT TO THE ADMINISTRATOR
I knocked.
“Come in,” a friendly female voice said.
I opened the door onto one of the smallest offices I had ever been in. No more than seven feet deep and a little less than twice that in width, there was only room for the assistant to the administrator, a slender desk constructed from a plank of wood held up by two metal filing cabinets, and a visitor’s chair.
She stood up straight, looking quite nice in her gray pantsuit and red-rimmed glasses. Ms. Stieglitz was near my age with a Dorothy Lamour figure and graying black hair that made her look striking rather than old.
I suppose my eyes said what I was thinking, because the hint of an inviting sneer crossed her lips. For a man in my emotional state that smile was a boon.
“Yes?” Ms. Stieglitz said. “May I help you?”
“My name is Ezekiel Rawlins and I’m here to see Rufus Tyler,” I replied, instead of giving her the answer on my tongue.
“Have a seat,” she said.
I accepted the offer. It was a small, metal, institutional chair not made for form or comfort.
Sitting, I appreciated her again. She sneered nicely.
“Do you have the proper documentation?” she asked.
“The man at the front door asked me that,” I said. “I told him that Mr. Tyler’s lawyer hadn’t apprised me of that necessity.”
I thought she’d like fancy words. I was right.
Dorothy gave me a broad grin and said, conspiratorially, “We cannot allow visitation without documentation.”
“If that’s so, I’ve come a long way for nothing,” I lamented.
“What is your business with Mr. Tyler, Mr. Rawlins?”
“That’s between him and his lawyer.”
“What’s the lawyer’s name?”
“Milo Sweet.”
“Do you have his number?”
I did.
—
I waited patiently while the handsome assistant to the administrator dialed, listened, and then said, “Yes, may I speak to Mr. Sweet?…Dorothy Stieglitz from the administrator’s office at Avett Detainment Facility.” A moment passed while, in some distant part of town, Loretta Kuroko called into the open door behind her, and Milo got on the phone.
“Yes, Mr. Sweet, I have an Ezekiel Rawlins here saying that you have directed him to meet with inmate Rufus Tyler….You are Mr. Tyler’s lawyer?…But we don’t have any record of that request….I see. Yes, Central Records is notorious for dropping the ball. You should have contacted us directly….I understand….Yes, yes.”
She hung up the phone and smiled at me.
“Everything seems to be in order, Mr. Rawlins,” she said. “Mr. Sweet made his request through Central Records, and even though that is perfectly acceptable the people there aren’t always running on a cogent time schedule. His request was probably lost between offices. But even though I believe you, I don’t have the authority to let you in to see Mr. Tyler. You’ll have to talk to the administrator—Mr. Bell.”
She stood again and said, “Let me show you.”
I shifted to the side, letting her go past. When she drew close I caught a whiff of the perfume
Tabac
. The tight scent fit her look.
Following her into the empty hallway, I felt an urge to ask a question.
“At the end of the hall,” she said. “The last door.”
I wanted to ask for her home phone number. I thought that she might want to give it to me. But I was on the job and any disruption could cause serious problems.
So instead I shook her hand and said, “It was really very nice meeting you, Ms. Stieglitz.”
“You too, Mr. Rawlins,” she said with emphasis.
—
“Who is it?” a masculine voice said to my knock on the glass and wood door of Administrator Desmond Bell.
Instead of answering the question I opened the door, entering the anteroom of the man in charge.
The uniformed male receptionist looked up at me and then stood.
“Yes?” he said.
He was wearing the gold and brown costume that all the guards had. He was white and tall
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