Play Dirty

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“That’s it.” Griff Burkett tossed a small duffel bag onto the backseat of the car, then got into the front passenger seat. “I didn’t bring much with me. I’m sure as hell not taking souvenirs.” He wanted no memorabilia from his stint in BIG-official code name for the Federal Correctional Institute in Big Spring, Texas.

He made himself comfortable on the plush leather, adjusted the air-conditioning vent to blow straight at him, then, realizing they weren’t moving, looked over at the driver.

“Seat belt.”

“Oh. Right.” Griff stretched the belt across his chest and latched it. Tongue in cheek, he said, “Wouldn’t want to break the law.”

As lawyers went, Wyatt Turner was okay. But if he possessed a sense of humor, he kept it under lock and key. He didn’t crack a smile at Griff’s wry remark.

“Come on, Turner, lighten up,” Griff said. “This is a special day.”

“Unfortunately, we’re not the only ones commemorating it.”

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