Their clothes, mainly surplus Army khaki, are folded. The bedding is impeccable. The floor, here as elsewhere in the penitentiary, is so clean you could eat on it. The inmates are allowed to roam about within the thick concrete walls. Outside they are free to rest in the southern summer sun.
Some hair is plaited, some is in ponytails.
A few men have tattoos. The prisoners stand and stare in harrowing silence, as if you are an exotic creature from their former lives. Most of the time there is no tension. They chuckle and backbite through the high barbed-wire fence as you pass them. Clearly they are burning to talk to someone, anyone, from the outside world.