I sat at a wooden table and waited. The two inmate families gave me a quick look, knew what I was at a glance, and further turned their backs to me. Then, Tru Hickman came into the room, escorted by a yard bull. I'd seen his booking photo, so I certainly wasn't expecting Jay Leno, but in person this guy was sad and pitiful. His walk was puppet gangly and loose-jointed, as if nothing really quite connected. Hips forward, elbows out, head bobbing, trailing a loser vibe. He was implausibly thin like a lot of tweakers, having spent years forgoing food in favor of meth. His jaw was undershot, his complexion pockmarked, with ears that stuck out. He had recently been beaten. There were bruises all over him and his left eye was swollen half-shut. His nose looked as if it had been broken and badly set. This kid was a target for aggression. He sat down and immediately looked down at his hands, then started to pull at a loose thread on one of his frayed cuffs, his eyes steadfastly refusing to look up at me.
