Chapter 2: Welcome to Randolph County
The first thing I noticed about the Randolph County Detention Center was the smell.
Bleach.
Sweat.
Old cigarettes.
And something metallic that reminded me of the emergency rooms I had visited during my years as a federal prosecutor.
Deputy Bell opened the door.
"Out.""
I stepped onto the concrete.
Sheriff Voss walked ahead of me, swinging my identification card between two fingers.
"You're going to cooperate now, aren't you, Judge Whitlock?""
I stopped.
He turned around.
I hadn't told him my judicial title.
Not yet.
His smile widened.
"Surprised?""
"You read the card.""
"Didn't take long to figure out who you are.""
"Then you understand the seriousness of what you're doing.""
He laughed.
"Lady, this is Randolph County. We don't have a courthouse full of people telling us how to do our jobs.""
"That isn't how federal jurisdiction works.""
He stepped close enough for me to smell the tobacco on his breath.
"You're in my jail.""
He tapped the metal badge on his chest.
"And I'm the law here.""
Deputy Bell opened the entrance door.
Inside, a woman sat behind a thick glass partition. She appeared to be in her late fifties, with gray hair pulled into a tight bun.
Her nameplate read L. HASKINS.
Voss tossed my identification card onto the counter.
"Book her.""
Haskins picked it up.
Her eyes moved across the card.
Then she looked at me.
Then back at the card.
"Dalton?""
"What's the problem?""
"This says United States District Judge.""
"That's what she claims.""
Haskins swallowed.
"Sir, maybe we should verify—"
"Book her, Linda.""
"Under what charge?""
Voss slapped a folder onto the counter.
"Obstruction, disorderly conduct, resisting arrest.""
Haskins opened it.
I watched her expression change.
There were no witness statements.
No incident report.
No signed arrest affidavit.
The folder contained a single sheet of paper with three typed charges and Voss's signature.
"Where's the supporting affidavit?"" she asked.
"Write one.""
"Dalton, I can't—"
He leaned over the counter.
"Do you want to go back to working night intake?""
Haskins looked down.
"Understood.""
I spoke before she could continue.
"Ms. Haskins, please document that I requested legal counsel and that the arresting officer has not provided a lawful basis for my detention.""
Voss slapped the counter.
"She doesn't get to give you instructions.""
"She's requesting that the record accurately reflect what is happening.""
"She's a criminal suspect.""
"Then the record should be easy to complete.""
For the first time, Voss looked genuinely angry.
He pointed toward the fingerprinting station.
"Take her downstairs.""
A heavyset deputy named Curtis appeared from a side corridor.
"Where to?""
"Cell four.""
Curtis looked at my handcuffs.
"Four?""
"That's what I said.""
"That's the holding block with the men.""
Voss smiled.
"Then she better behave.""
Haskins stood.
"Dalton, that's not appropriate.""
He turned on her.
"Do you have a problem with my orders?""
She hesitated.
"No, Sheriff.""
"Good.""
Curtis took my arm.
As he led me through the security door, I saw a framed photograph hanging on the wall.
Sheriff Dalton Voss stood in the center.
Behind him were several deputies and a smiling county commissioner.
The caption read:
*PROTECTING RANDOLPH COUNTY SINCE 2009.*
Someone had scratched a line across the commissioner's face.
I wondered why.
The holding area was colder than the lobby.
A television mounted near the ceiling played a local news broadcast with the volume turned down.
Three men occupied the cells.
One was asleep on a metal bench.
Another sat with his head buried between his knees.
The third was the man I'd seen behind the fence.
His name was painted on a plastic wristband.
JAMAL PRICE.
He looked up when Curtis opened cell four.
"Another one?"" he asked.
"Keep your mouth shut," Curtis replied.
I stepped inside.
The cell door slammed.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Jamal moved closer.
"You're not from around here.""
"No.""
"Then you made a mistake.""
"What kind?""
"Coming through this county.""
I sat on the metal bench.
"My name is Amara.""
He studied my face.
"Jamal.""
"I saw you outside.""
He looked toward the narrow window.
"You saw my brother?""
"No. I saw you.""
His mouth tightened.
"That's because they won't let me leave.""
"Why?""
He laughed without humor.
"They say I assaulted a deputy.""
"Did you?""
"No.""
"What happened?""
Jamal rubbed his left shoulder.
"I recorded them taking money from my brother's car. They stopped him on the highway, said they smelled drugs, searched his trunk, and took twelve thousand dollars.""
"Was he arrested?""
"No. They let him go after taking everything.""
"And then?""
"Three days later, they came to our house.""
His eyes filled.
"My brother Marcus went outside to ask what they wanted. One deputy hit him with a flashlight. Another pushed him against the truck. He fell.""
Jamal swallowed.
"They said he had a heart attack.""
"Was there an autopsy?""
"They wouldn't give us the report.""
I leaned forward.
"When did he die?""
"October fourteenth.""
The date on Martha's note.
I felt my stomach tighten.
"Did you report it?""
"To who?""
He gestured toward the ceiling.
"The sheriff?""
A bitter smile crossed his face.
"His men killed my brother.""
A door slammed somewhere down the corridor.
Jamal immediately stopped talking.
Curtis appeared behind the bars.
"Price. Sheriff wants you.""
Jamal stood.
"No.""
Curtis unlocked the door.
"I wasn't asking.""
He grabbed Jamal's collar and dragged him into the corridor.
Jamal twisted around.
"Amara! Don't sign anything they give you!""
Then the door slammed.
I stood.
"Where are you taking him?""
Curtis didn't answer.
I stepped toward the bars.
"Deputy, I am requesting that his location be recorded.""
Curtis turned.
"You're making this harder than it needs to be.""
"Then follow procedure.""
He laughed.
"Procedure?""
He shook his head.
"That's cute.""
The lights flickered.
I sat back down.
A few minutes later, I heard shouting from the corridor.
Then a dull impact.
Then silence.
I stood again.
"Deputy Curtis!""
No answer.
I struck the bars with my cuffed hands.
"Deputy!""
A woman spoke from the cell opposite mine.
"Don't.""
I turned.
She was perhaps thirty years old, with a split lip and a dark bruise along her jaw.
"What's your name?"" I asked.
"Keisha.""
"How long have you been here?""
"Four days.""
"What's the charge?""
She gave a short laugh.
"Driving while Black, apparently.""
I studied her face.
"Who did that to you?""
"Voss.""
She looked toward the corridor.
"He does this when somebody asks for a lawyer.""
My stomach turned.
"Have you seen anyone die here?""
Keisha looked away.
Then she whispered:
"Not here.""
She reached beneath her mattress and pulled out a folded photograph.
It showed a young Black man standing beside an older woman in a hospital corridor.
The man was smiling.
The woman had one hand on his shoulder.
"That's Marcus Price," she said.
I recognized the name.
"Jamal's brother?""
She nodded.
"He wasn't the first.""
She unfolded another piece of paper.
It was a handwritten list.
Seven names.
Seven dates.
And next to each name, the same initials.
D.V.
I stared at the page.
"Where did you get this?""
"Marcus gave it to me before he died.""
"Why?""
"Because he said somebody had to remember.""
She pushed the paper through the narrow gap beneath the partition.
I picked it up.
At the bottom was a sentence.
*THE SHERIFF DOESN'T WORK ALONE.*
Before I could ask another question, the corridor door opened.
Voss appeared.
He held my federal identification card in one hand and a small black device in the other.
"Well, Judge Whitlock.""
May you like
He unlocked my cell.
"Looks like you and I need to have a private conversation.""
