Hunter: A Thriller by Robert James Bidinotto

sun at his temples.
    “Anyway, some DOC muckamucks are waiting for you. Because of the bad press, they seem anxious to make you happy.”
    “You mean because of your article. Well, if that’s the case, then maybe I can change their minds about keeping you out.” Susie turned and marched through the automatic doors.
    He looked at Annie, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “After you,” he said, sweeping his open palm toward the entrance.
    She smiled and went in ahead of him.
    Felt his eyes on her as she walked.
    *
    For the next ten minutes, they argued it out in the lobby with the warden, his deputy superintendent, and the security staff’s shift supervisor. It took an ultimatum from Susie—a threat to leave and go to the news media—before the warden relented and a compromise was reached. Hunter would not be allowed to interview Adrian Wulfe or to remain in the same room with Annie and Susie during their meeting; however, he would be permitted to watch the proceedings from behind the glass wall of a side observation room, take notes, and then write about their meeting, if he wished.
    After being signed in and issued badges, they passed through the metal detector, underwent a pat-down from corrections officers, then were led through a maze of security checkpoints. Every time they reached a door, their escort signaled a guard who buzzed them into a waiting chamber; the door behind them locked shut; then another door was unlocked in front of them, allowing them to proceed.
    Hunter had been through this drill two months ago, at a prison in another state, while researching a story about frivolous inmate lawsuits. “Nothing cheap here,” his young guide had boasted then, eager to show off the lavish array of inmate amenities. Well-stocked law libraries. A modern gym loaded with expensive workout machines. Infirmaries providing free medical and dental care. A building housing inmate organizations, including a drama club that toured local colleges. A music room crammed with electric guitars, keyboards, drums, and amplifiers. In-cell TVs with access to premium cable channels, for inmates willing to pay for them. Classrooms where thugs could take college courses from teachers moonlighting from local campuses.
    “What does this prison offer by way of punishment?” he had asked the guide.
    The kid frowned and replied: “People are sent here as punishment. They’re not sent here for punishment.”
    So, some predator rapes a woman. His taxpaying victim then pays to house him where he can build his body to be even stronger and more intimidating. Where he can fuel his fantasies with cable-TV porn. Where he learns how to file lawsuits against the very system that’s pampering him....
    Today’s escort stopped outside a final door. As they were waiting to be buzzed through, Hunter noticed a memo on a nearby bulletin board. It was signed by Claibourne’s policy coordinator:
A third softball field will be made in the West Field in order to allow more inmates to play softball. The horseshoe pits will be temporarily relocated near the miniature golf course. The bocce area will be relocated at the site of the new gym. And the soccer field will be relocated to the East Field behind the softball field.
    The escort directed Hunter into a narrow, sterile cinderblock room. It was painted cold white and lit by fluorescent tubes in the ceiling. A row of blue plastic chairs lined one wall. They faced a tinted observation window that ran the full length of the room, made of one-way shatterproof glass. It allowed him to see into the next room without being seen.
    The adjoining room was divided into two facing cubicles by a waist-high cinderblock wall, topped by its own thick window. It was the kind of window you see at the teller counters in banks—laminated glass, embedded with a circular speaking grill. On either side of the window, stainless-steel surfaces served as desktops; beneath them twin metal chairs were bolted to the floor. This