Free Red Highway by Loren D. Estleman Page B

wept.
    â€œBallard?” The warden looked up at Hazel, taking in her yellow silk turban, narrow skirt, high-heeled pumps, and, because he was human, lingered a moment on her shapely legs, then brought his gaze back up to fix her large green eyes. “You’re his wife?”
    â€œHis fiancee,” lied Hazel. She had heard that the Oklahoma State Prison at McAlester only allowed inmates to be visited by their attorneys and members of their families. While the authorities’ records would show that Virgil had no wife, she hoped they would make an exception for his “future intended.” She looked at the warden hopefully.
    The gleam of admiration vanished from the middle-aged official’s eyes, to be replaced by a paternal sobriety in his heavy knitted brows and downturned mouth. “I’d advise you to forget him, miss. It will be a very long time before he sees the light of day, if ever. He’s in for life, you know.”
    â€œYes, I know. Could I see him?”
    â€œThat would be highly irregular. The regulations of this penitentiary specifically state that a prisoner may only receive visits, as well as correspondence, from the members of his immediate family. And, of course, from his attorney. I seldom make exceptions in this regard.”
    Hazel was growing impatient. “The only reason that I am not a member of Virgil Ballard’s family is because he was arrested before we could be married. Are you going to forbid me to see the man I love on such a technicality?” She stared down at him from above the desk, her eyes flashing hostility.
    â€œAs I said, it would be highly irregular.” The white-haired official lapsed into silence for a long moment, during which he appeared to be battling with himself. Finally his face cleared and he looked up at Hazel. “Very well, miss. I’ll let you talk to him. But only for a few minutes.” With that, he rose from his seat, crossed to the connecting door between his office and the adjoining one, and opened it. “Would you come in here, Rodriguez?”
    A moment later, a tall, dark-complexioned guard, whom Hazel had seen earlier in the outer office, came in, wearing a well-pressed gray uniform that looked new. He closed the door behind him and glanced expectantly from Hazel to the warden.
    â€œShow this lady into the receiving room,” the warden directed him, “and have inmate Ballard sent there too.”
    â€œYes, sir.” The young guard held open the door and made a polite gesture that meant Hazel should go first. Then he followed her out of the room.
    The receiving room, at the end of a dingy green corridor several floors below the warden’s office, was a large, high-ceilinged room, divided by a long table that stretched from one side of the room to the other. A wire grid ran down the center of this table, and a row of straight-backed wooden chairs were drawn up on each side, some of them occupied. The guard led her to one of these and she sat down. “He’ll be here in a moment, miss,” he said quietly, and left.
    The room buzzed with voices. Convicts in somber gray work clothes engaged in low conversations with their wives and lawyers, obviously attempting to keep beyond earshot of the placid-faced guards who stood nearby, listening. The electric lights were off, so that the only illumination came from the gray, diffused sunlight that filtered in soft beams through the barred windows near the lofty ceiling. The effect was depressing, the drab forms of caged men huddling in half shadow and attempting to establish some link with the lighted world beyond the walls sparking a sobering reaction in Hazel.
    She rummaged through her purse, located her compact, and began repairing her make-up. The face in the tiny mirror looked about the same as it had when Virgil had last seen it, the night he had taken her to the theater in Oklahoma City, but she wasn’t sure. Would he like the paler