Page 213 of The Archer Brothers

CHAPTER8

CARA

The one part of my job that I hate the most is traveling to prisons. It’s not fun. It’s nerve-wracking and uncomfortable. I also don’t trust the prisoners, and I definitely don’t trust the guards. You never know who is on the take, and believe me, there are some shady-ass people out there who will do anything for money in my line of work. I made the decision to fly to Colorado to talk to Lawson. This wasn’t an easy choice to make. The guy gives me the creeps. I don’t care that he’s in the Alcatraz of the Rockies; if he’s given an iota of a chance to hurt someone involved in his case or a chance to cry wolf, he’ll take it. Surprisingly, his father, Jonah Ingram, still hasn’t had his trial yet. I’m unsure of what the holdup is, especially since his son pled guilty. More so, it makes me wonder what Ingram knows and if the Department of Justice is covering it up or cleaning it up.

The drive from the airport to Florence is about two miserable hours. Not only do I not feel the best, but the anxiety of going into the supermax prison is unsettling. I could’ve sent a team member to conduct this interview, but they’re not as up to date on the case as I am. However, thinking back to this decision—one I didn’t share with Nate before I left—I wish I had at least brought Turner or Granger. Having a male presence is never a bad thing when dealing with a pedophile like Ted Lawson.

Florence, Colorado, is a cute little town and one I’d probably love to visit if it weren’t for the prison. I commend the people who live here, and while most work for the prison system, it takes a lot of courage to live in a town where the country’s most notorious criminals are housed. I’m not sure I could do it, but then again, it’s probably safer than any other place in the United States.

On the outskirts of town, when the land turns to dirt, the supermax prison sits ominously with the Rockies in the background. The view would be astonishing if it weren’t for the residents behind the concrete walls. I hand over my credentials at the first checkpoint while a guard searches my rental car. I drive forward and wait for the gate to open, unwilling to look at the guards who are on the roof with their guns in their hands. They’re definitely working with the shoot first and ask questions later mentality. I park, shut off my car and rest my head against the steering wheel. I don’t know why I have so much anxiety about this visit, but I do. I’m hoping to learn things from Lawson, but I suspect he will not be forthcoming unless I give him something in return, and I don’t have anything to offer him.

As I walk toward the building, I fall in line behind others. While this may be a high-security prison, the inmates receive visitors, and not just from their lawyers. Family members can visit, which in a way seems odd to me. For some reason, I can’t imagine the Unabomber’s brother coming to visit him. Something tells me they’re not on speaking terms.

People stare at me and each other, likely wondering who we are visiting. I’m thankful my visit will be behind closed doors. I’m here on official FBI business, which affords me privacy and seclusion. When it’s my turn, I follow a guard through a series of doors, each one locking behind us, until we come to an empty room.

“Lawson will be here in a second.”

Great, I can’t wait.

The room is yellow, not dingy white or gray like I suspected. I wonder if yellow makes the inmate feel more comfortable and gets them talking more, or if the government got the color on a discount and wanted to save as much money as possible.

I’m standing when the door opens, and Lawson walks in with his hands cuffed and his feet shackled. The sight of him like this almost brings a smile to my face until I remember why he’s in here, and then my stomach drops to my knees. I’m tempted to place my hand over my stomach, but the sick bastard will suspect that I’m pregnant, and I can’t have that.

“Hello, pretty FBI lady.”

“Agent Hughes,” I say, correcting him. “I hope you’re being treated as poorly as possible.” The guard at the door chuckles and hides his grin behind his hand. “Sit down, Ted.” It dawns on me that his name is synonymous with criminals. It’s like he was doomed from the beginning.

Ted makes a tsking sound, and it sets me on edge. It creeps me out, and while I know or suspect I’m protected, I don’t feel safe. He sits slowly and methodically and never takes his eyes off mine. I divert my attention to the folder I brought in and open it. The first photo is of Constantin Samson. I set it on the table and watch while Ted looks at it.

“Do you know Samson?”

He shrugs.

“When did you meet him?”

He shrugs.

“When were you on his yacht?”

He shrugs.

“Did you pay him money?”

He shrugs.

I slam my hand down on the table, startling him. He smiles. “What’s your deal, Lawson?”

He leans back in his chair. “As I see it, you need me. I’m here for the rest of my life along with my secrets. My friends,” he pauses and looks at the picture of Samson. “They trust me to keep those secrets to myself.”

I knew this was the stance he would take. “I see. So, what do you want?”

“What do you mean, pretty FBI lady?”

His lack of respect for me is maddening. I clear my throat. “Clearly, you’re waiting for an offer. I need information that I know you have, and in exchange, you want something. So, what do you want?”

Lawson’s eyes widen. “I do love to negotiate.”

I highly doubt it. I nod and motion for him to continue.

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