On Monday the men with money in their accounts could draw out $20. For a day or two there were more gamblers than there were seats. By now, however, the game was down to the usual four, plus one newcomer. Max Black was one of the four. Just nineteen, he was a good poker player. He’d been playing with grown men since he was fifteen. He’d lied about his age so he would be put in an adult tank. Juveniles stayed locked in their cells twenty-four hours a day. This was better. Indeed, he managed to support himself in the jailhouse economy by playing poker. He’d been in this tank for eleven months awaiting trial and disposition, and he played poker every day, all day and evening, too, except when he went to court. He had honed his skill against tough poker players. Today, however, he was losing. He’d lost in court, too, but was expecting that. He was getting mediocre hands, not really bad hands, which wouldn’t have been a disaster, for he would have simply thrown bad hands away. He was getting second best hands and was playing them poorly, pushing too hard when caution was the right move.
