The warden sat behind a wide metal desk smothered in paper. His large gut expanded as he leaned back in his chair. He was pale and sweaty; strands of greasy hair scraped across his bald head; a crumpled orange Homeland Security overall stretched over a worn white T-Shirt. The far wall held a TV showing silent images, the volume off. Alice jolted as she saw FBI Director Barragan marching down a cold street surrounded by journalists. The chyron at the bottom of the screen read: Six-Thirty—do the feds have the answers?