and closing soundlessly. The realization hit him like a physical blow: the quiet man with the gray in his beard hadn’t backed down out of fear. He had backed down out of mercy.
”Lieutenant Harlan,” Captain Miller said, stepping to the door. “Surrender your badge and duty belt. You’re under arrest for trafficking, official misconduct, and filing false instrument reports.”
Two state troopers stepped in from the hall, clicking handcuffs onto Harlan’s wrists. The lieutenant kept his head down, refusing to look at anyone as they marched him away.
Miller turned to Voss. “Pack your bunk, Curtis. You’re on the four o’clock bus to the high-security unit at Florence. No yard privileges. No commissary. No phone.”
Voss looked at me one last time as the guards pulled his chair back. His eyes were wide, hollow, stripped of every ounce of the cheap bravado that had filled the chow hall forty-eight
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