Prologue
Chunk. The sound of the heavy-duty metal lock disengaging echoed like a mortar shell off the concrete walls. Steel slid open, revealing a stern-faced guard who managed to crack a hint of a smile. “It’s a good day, Zaffino.”
Cruz walked through the open door and into the bleak hall. Every nerve sparked like the wires of the cars he used to boost thirteen years ago. This day was certainly a good one.
He was free.
Every step he took was different. Every smack of his standard-issue sneakers on the cement floor felt lighter. His orange uniform brushed against his skin for the last time as the guard escorted him past the endless rows of cells.
Some of the men inside shouted words of encouragement and congratulations as he passed. Over the years, they had rotated in an endless cycle of the downtrodden and hardened, the lost and angry. Many were repeat offenders. Many would be there for decades to come. Others glared as he strode down that corridor and yelled insults, cursing him and vowing to see him back here.
One cell’s resident prowled near the bars of his cell, a huge, smoldering presence. The daggers in his eyes followed Cruz with palpable menace. James Fellows, aka Big J, was a high-ranking member of a powerful Chicago gang known as Los Reyes. He maintained control and influence, even from inside this hell hole. A gravelly snarl tore from his throat as Cruz passed. “I’m gonna find out what you did. This ain’t over, pendejo.”
Visible on his neck was a crown done in black ink, a symbol of his gang. Scarred, tattooed fingers wrapped around the bars as he spat, narrowly missing Cruz. Big J had made it clear they were enemies from the first day he’d arrived. His subordinates had once smuggled in a knife. Rumor was, he intended to kill Cruz—but it had been discovered before he got that far.
Cruz wasn’t sure what event Big J was referring to today, but he blocked it out and focused on the steel door at the end of the hall. He hadn’t been through that door in years.
Ten years.
Somewhere just on the other side, his mother and sister waited. In ten years, he’d only been able to talk to them on a phone and press a palm to cold glass.
They reached the door. Through a small triple glass window, another guard nodded. Another lock clicked. Cruz’s guard opened the steel door. “Good luck out there, man.”
“Thanks.” Cruz walked into the next room, which was just a space with more locked doors. More security. He walked through one more similar room and then into a room that looked like an interrogation room. A steel table and one chair were the only furniture. His attorney, Martin O’Neill, stood with a guard.
Martin crossed the small room to clasp Cruz’s hand. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” Cruz shook his hand. After a string of crappy lawyers, finally, his sister had helped him get in contact with this man. He’d worked Cruz’s case like a pit bull.
“Let’s get you the hell out of here.” Martin nodded at the guards. “Gentlemen, thank you.”
One guard opened the door and Cruz found himself in a hallway with white floors and offices. Some were open, some had flimsy wooden doors. Wood, not steel. Martin led him to one closed door, knocked twice, and pushed it open.
“Christian!” His mom rushed to embrace him, tears in her eyes.
His sister Jenna flung her arms around both of them. “Oh my god, Cruz. Finally. Finally!”
He breathed in their warmth, their emotion, their familiar perfume smells that hadn’t changed. This decade hadn’t been easy for them, either. He closed his eyes for a second and just stood, their love as palpable as their arms holding him tightly. His mom’s fuzzy scarf tickled his chin.
“We brought you new clothes,” Jenna said. “God knows what they would give you to walk out of here.” She handed him a duffel bag.
“Thanks.” He took it, finding it heavier than he expected. “How much did you pack in here?”
“I wasn’t exactly sure of your sizes now,” she shrugged.
“Bathroom’s over there.” Martin gestured to a door at the back of the room.
Cruz headed for it and changed as quickly as he could. Jenna guessed well, choosing jeans that fit perfectly and a navy button down shirt. She’d packed deodorant and new shoes as well. He glanced at himself in the small mirror.
Not orange. He looked like a regular person. Not someone who’d lost ten years of his life. Not an inmate. He walked back into the room.
“Much better,” Jenna declared.
“We got you a new coat. It’s cold out there.” His mom held up a dark gray parka-type thing.
“Thanks, Mom.” He eased into it and took in the three people who’d never stopped believing in him. “We ready?”
“We’re good to go,” Martin said. “But there’s a horde of press outside. You’ve been in the headlines all week. Everyone wants to see you and get a sound bite. I’ll guide you to my car. We stick together. You don’t have to answer any questions. In fact, I recommend you don’t. Though if you want to make a statement, let’s get that figured out now.”
Cruz shook his head. “Nope.”
“Someone’s probably going to ask you a stupid question, like ‘how does it feel to be cleared of wrongdoing after all this time?’” Jenna frowned. “How do they think it feels?”
“I’m not interested in answering,” Cruz said. “I don’t owe them anything. Next week they’ll be on to fresh meat.”
“Okay then,” Martin said. “I’ll go first. You stay right behind me.”
They made their way to the front doors, bypassing the security ropes that visitors had to walk through upon entrance. From a window high above, bright sun blazed into the entryway. Martin squared his broad shoulders and shoved open the heavy front door.
For one second, Cruz just breathed. The sharp bite of winter air felt more vibrant than it ever had. He drew it deeply into his lungs, relishing his first breath outside these walls in a decade.
They walked down three cement steps and onto a concrete walk that stretched fifty feet toward a parking lot. Only a twelve-foot-high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire stood between him and complete freedom. That, and a massive crowd gathered on the other side of the fence.
“There he is!” A voice shouted from a pack.
Questions and calls volleyed toward them. Cameras, both photo and video, were raised to better vantage points as they neared.
“Mr. Zaffino! Will you give a statement?”
“Can you tell us how you feel about the reversal of your conviction?”
“Christian! What are you going to do now that you’re free?”
A guard opened a gate in the fence to let them pass. The crowd pushed in. Cruz held his mom under one arm and Jenna under the other, keeping them close as they followed Martin. God, these reporters were vultures.
“Do you have any words for the witness who recanted?”
“Christian, can we get a photo?”
“Almost there,” Jenna muttered. “The back windows are tinted. You and Mom get in there. I’ll ride in front. If anyone tries to take pictures they’ll only get me.”
Cruz could care less if anyone took his picture—hell, cameras were snapping away right and left. A half dozen vans emblazoned with local television channel logos were parked outside, and the chop-chop of a helicopter overhead added to the insanity. But he didn’t want to put his mother through any more. If Jenna coordinating their seating made it easier, that was fine.
They reached a black SUV. Martin unlocked the doors with a beep of his keys and Cruz and his mom hurried in. News hounds pressed against the car, still shouting. Martin got Jenna in front next, and fought through the throng to get into the driver’s seat. He got in, muttering curses, but started the car and laid on the horn. Slowly, they inched forward.
Reluctantly, the crowd parted. Martin steered the car away from the prison and onto a rural highway. Cruz had no desire for a final look back. He was done.
Liberated. Exonerated. Ready to take back his life.