Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery R.M. Wild (inspirational books .txt) 📖

the prison has got a serious PR problem, just like we do. They can’t have all their inmates going up in smoke. It makes the state look bad, especially with so much competition from private prisons.”

“Private prisons?”

Mettle glanced over at me. “I thought you knew everything.”

“The last time I checked, the inner workings of the prison industrial complex wasn’t a topic on my American Literature syllabus.”

“Close to ten percent of the entire prison population is in private prisons. They’re publicly traded companies that take taxpayer money, but the state prisons have to cut costs to stay competitive. It’s a mess. Why do you think we have to write so many tickets?”

My eyes widened. “I thought that was an urban legend.”

Mettle twisted around as if to check his backseat to make sure no one was hiding there and secretly recording our conversation. “Nope. Quotas are very real. Unspoken, of course. We have a twenty-to-one ratio. The state expects twenty tickets and one arrest each month. I could save all the babies in the world, but what the bureaucrats really care about are all those tickets.”

“I hope you’re joking.”

“Sadly, I’m not. Now keep in mind, I’m only telling you this because I ain’t a cop right now. So don’t go blabbing this to the newspaper or nothing or my job is as good as gone.”

“You’re telling me the prisons have a vested interest in arresting people and locking them up? The more people they incarcerate, the more money they make?”

“Bingo.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “That’s horrible.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty bad. The whole point is, knowing how this swamp works might give us a little bit of leverage here. The warden can’t have these bureaucrats sending all our prisoners to the big Walmart prison down the road or he’ll be out of a job.”

I smiled. “So if the warden is worried about a PR problem, he might be willing to help us find out who is leaking the footage.”

“Exactly.”

I turned away so Mettle couldn’t see how impressed I was. I had to admit, it was a pretty sophisticated line of reasoning. Maybe there was more to Mettle than meets the eye.

He turned on the interior dome light so he could see my reflection in the window.

“I knew it!” he said. “You’re grinning right now. Earring hole to earring hole. Admit it, you’re amazed by my superior intellect. How’s that for going all chess-movey on you?”

And just like that, my lady-boner was gone. I pointed ahead. “Uhh, Matt, the road.”

He turned back to the highway. We had veered into the opposing lane.

“Right,” he said and yanked us back on track.

When we arrived somewhere in the middle of nowhere, the clock in the dashboard read 7:30. We pulled off the road, passed a white fence and a white mailbox, and drove up to an iron gate between two white-brick fence posts.

Mettle leaned out his window and pressed the button on the intercom. “This is Trooper Matt Mettle. I’m here to see Warden Mayweather. He invited me.”

A moment later, the intercom buzzed and the gate creaked open. We drove down a long, snaking driveway, all paved, where at the end, set back from the road about three hundred feet, a colossal white-brick house with stately columns sat against the hillside like a pale king on his throne.

The driveway turned into a roundabout in front of the portico where a giant outdoor chandelier on a ten-foot chain hung from the ceiling and twisted gently in the breeze.

Mettle whistled. “Somebody listened to his guidance counselor.”

“Maybe I need to get myself a government job,” I said.

“I hear it takes an act of Congress to fire you so they promote incompetence.”

“I’m not surprised.”

We parked and went up to the front door. Mettle eschewed the doorbell and knocked with his bare fist. Overhead, that giant chandelier twisted one way, then twisted the other, the chain creaking. I stepped a yard to the side so I wasn’t directly under it.

A woman opened the door. She was thin, mid-sixties, and wearing a large white bathrobe.

“I’m here to see the warden,” Mettle said.

Behind her, Mayweather descended a giant marble staircase. He too, was dressed in a robe, his black. He looked downright puritanical.

“Good evening, Trooper. Awfully late for a visit.”

“You said I could contact you at any time.”

“I didn’t mean in person.”

“It’s a sensitive matter,” Mettle said.

“Yes, of course,” Mayweather said, his eyes sliding over to me. “How can I help you?”

“I thought we might talk for a few minutes.”

“I see you brought the firebrand.”

I gave him a fake smile. “The name is Rosie.”

“Can we talk or what?”

“Yes, come in,” Mayweather said.

We followed the warden into the kitchen, a large open room with giant marble counters. The space was dimly lit, two pendant lights hanging over the sink. The woman, presumably his wife, was already in there, her back turned to us as she washed the dishes.

Mayweather motioned toward the large wooden chairs at the large wooden table. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything? Juice? Diet soda?”

“I’ll have a holy water,” I said.

Mettle shot me a look. “She’s joking.”

Mayweather gave a smile. “Yes, of course.”

“If I drink any more, I might have to use your golden toilets,” I said.

Mettle forced a smile. “Again, a joke. She’s trying out new material.”

“You’re a comedian?” the warden asked.

“Comedienne,” I corrected.

“What did I say?”

“Never mind.”

“Do you have any kids or is this colossal palace just for the two of you?”

“Rosie, stop it,” Mettle said out the side of his mouth.

“What? He was rude to me at the prison. I’m returning the favor.”

Mettle pulled out a chair and put a hand on my shoulder to make me sit. “Have a seat, will you?”

Across from us, the sound of the faucet against the stainless steel sink resonated like a hose in a tiny bucket as Mayweather’s wife scrubbed a glass pan.

“So what is this visit all about?” Mayweather asked.

“The video of today’s incident is all over Facebook,” Mettle said.

Mayweather lowered his head and I could see