I live there. It is a place of mind-robbing sameness, where days are pale echoes of the day before. The jangle ceased. A moment of silence. A cleared throat.
Eyes meet, and in a flash, an odd admixture of sadness and duty reflect.
Mr. Jamal, your death warrant has just been signed. We're gonna handcuff you and strip you down. At least five guards, a sergeant and a lieutenant crowd the blue-tiled hallway, their nerves afire. I turn to the baldheaded Buddhist Swami, with whom I spent most of this morning's library period, and ask him to gather my legal material. My wrists are shackled.