"Those bays are reserved for legal counsel and state inspectors," Vance snapped.
"There are no inspectors coming today, sir, and you know it," Miller pressed, pushing past the boundary of standard officer deference. "The man is sinking, Captain. I've watched inmates give up in Block D. You know the signs as well as I do. You give him thirty minutes with his kids today—just thirty minutes in a contact room—and he'll give you another eighteen months of flawless behavior. You deny him, and we might be carrying him out on a gurney before the month is up. It's not a charity favor, Vance. It's operational management."
Vance stared at Miller for a long, suffocating minute. The silence in the office was so heavy that the quiet hum of the air conditioner sounded like a jet engine. Vance's jaw tightened. He hated being cornered, especially by a subordinate who made an undeniable amount of sense.
"If a single rule is broken," Vance whispered, pointing a long, sharp finger at Miller, "if that inmate touches anything outside the designated room, or if his family stays one minute past thirty, I will personally file a disciplinary charge against you. Am I clear?"
Miller didn't hesitate. He snapped a rigid salute. "Clear as glass, Captain."
"Get them in through Gate 3," Vance grumbled, turning back to his computer keyboard. "And keep it off the general log. Use administrative discretion code 9."
"Thank you, sir."
Miller turned on his heel and marched out of the office. His heart was pounding against his ribs, but as he stepped back into the sterile hallway, he felt a spark of something he hadn't felt in a very long time in this job: hope.
Back in Block D, Arthur was still sitting at the metal table, staring down at his spotless, empty hands. The noise of the cafeteria—the clatter of plastic trays, the rough laughter, the scraping of heavy boots—filtered around him like background noise from a radio tuned to dead static.