When you visit our website, if you give your consent, we will use cookies to allow us to collect data for aggregated statistics to improve our service and remember your choice for future visits. Cookie Policy & Privacy Policy
Dear Reader, we use the permissions associated with cookies to keep our website running smoothly and to provide you with personalized content that better meets your needs and ensure the best reading experience. At any time, you can change your permissions for the cookie settings below.
If you would like to learn more about our Cookie, you can click on Privacy Policy.
Dante A few days after dropping Eleni off upstate, I sit in the cheap, plastic chair of the Sing Sing Correctional private visitation room and eye the guard standing in the corner. He’s not our usual guy, but Hank promised this guy would be just as good. “I’m Dante,” I say to fill the silence before my prisoner arrives. He grunts. “You bring the s**t?” Certainly not the conversationalist Hank is. I pull the plastic-wrapped Cubans out of my inside jacket pocket and slide them across the table. The new guy picks them up, sniffs them, and they disappear in a crease in his uniform, in the way every prison guard I’ve ever met seems to have mastered. I’ve never been inside myself, and I’m not looking forward to that day, if it ever comes. I knock surreptitiously on the engineered-wood table