Page 17 of The Picasso Heist

WAKE UP, HALSTON.

My alarm goes off Sunday morning and the routine begins.

I shower, put my hair in a ponytail, dress in baggy clothes, and apply absolutely zero makeup.

I grab a coffee and a buttered roll from the Peruvian deli on the corner, then walk the four blocks west to the Budget car rental despite the fact that I have a perfectly good, albeit old, Jeep Cherokee in a nearby parking garage.

More often than not, I’m offered a complimentary upgrade to a full-size rental but I always stick with the midsize that I reserved.

I’m never picky about the model either, and any color will do.

Well, except white. White cars are boring.

Not that there’s anything exciting about this weekly trip.

I mean, I look forward to it, and when I’m traveling or unable to make it there for some reason, I miss it.

But the trip itself—the drive upstate, passing the same signs, getting off at the same exit—is always this strange combination of solace and sadness.

It’s completely my choice, something I want to do.

And yet I absolutely hate why I’m doing it.

“Your pockets… empty your pockets… make sure everything’s out of your pockets,” says the guard in a robotic monotone, striding up and down the long line of visitors waiting to walk through the metal detector. He’s talking to everyone but makes eye contact with no one.

My driver’s license and my rental-car key. That’s all I bring inside. When it’s my turn, I place both in the chipped plastic bowl, and even though I’ve taken the next five steps countless times, when I pass through that machine I feel like I’m entering another world. Maybe that’s because I am.

First comes the smell. It hits me after I turn the corner beyond the check-in desk.

Whatever bleach cleanser they’re using, it’s not coming out of a spray nozzle; more like a fire hose.

I breathe it in, this antiseptic stench, and it stings my nostrils, then my throat, then settles into my lungs like a cactus. Nasty.

Next comes the sound. It’s actually a lot of sounds but I hear it as one noise.

The clanking of sliding metal doors, the drumming of heels against the poured-concrete floors, the murmur of voices, the hushed conversations—all of it combines into a singular pounding against my ears.

It took me about six months to learn how to block it out.

I know the noise is still there but now I can barely hear it.

Fred, however, comes in crystal clear. He’s the one guard who talks to me beyond simply telling me where to walk or stand or when I need to leave.

That’s how much I get from the other guards.

But Fred’s different. He’s been here since I first started coming, which is why he calls me kid.

Fred looks a bit like Kenan Thompson from Saturday Night Live (well, if Kenan were a former offensive lineman for Fordham University), and he talks with this deep, halting baritone that seems to have its own echo.

“Any change?” I ask before entering the visitation room.

“None that I can see,” says Fred.

“For real?”

“See for yourself. But…” His voice trails off.

“But what?”

“I was only going to say—” He stops, thinking of the right words. “He missed you over the summer. This helps, your being back. It makes a difference. You probably know that already, but just in case you don’t.”

“Thank you, and I do know… and I really appreciate your saying that.”

“I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true.” Fred points toward the back of the room. “Go ahead, kid. Third from the end.”

I take my seat in front of the far wall at a small table that’s bolted to the floor. Prisoners enter one at a time through a door, each flanked by two guards. Finally the one I come to see each week sits down in front of me.

“Hi, Daddy.”