The stale smell of unwashed men, the unknown reddish-brown stains on the wall. A stainless steel toilet with no seat. These were familiar. But this was the first time that the door had been shut and locked behind him. He had never considered the room as particularly conducive of claustrophobia until that moment. To ease his mind, he began reading some of the graffiti. The dim light coupled with a night of terrible sleep in a similar cell forced him to lean close. F-bombs, misspelled racial epithets, a few swastikas and prayers to Jesus seemed to make up the majority of the scribbling. One phrase in particular caught his eye. “Who’s going to rep Big Lick?” the wall asked. “Who indeed?” questioned Larkin. He was wondering how the inmates had ever smuggled pens into the room when the door opened. The deputy led another man into the room and shut the door. “Mr. Monroe!” shouted Terry Woolwine. His piercing mountain twang echoed painfully off of the cinder block walls. “Jesus, save my soul,”
