Criss Cross

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It was a miserable mid-March afternoon, chill and sleeting, as John Sampson and I ran to the main gate of the Greensville Correctional Center, a hexagon-shaped high-security prison in the rural, southern part of the Commonwealth of Virginia.

We ducked inside the security shack, showed our badges and identifications, and surrendered our service weapons. A gate rolled back, and we walked through.

As a homicide detective with the DC Metropolitan Police and as a behavioral specialist with the FBI, I have been to many jails, prisons, and penitentiaries over the years, but I am still unnerved by the sound of steel-barred gates slamming shut behind me. We passed through seven such gates, following Warden Adrian Yates and several reporters who’d arrived before us.

One of them, a journalist named Juanita Flake, said, “Is it true, he chose?”

The warden kept walking.

“Can you—”

Warden Yates spun in his tracks and glared at her, looking barely in control. “I don’t wish to talk any further, Ms. Flake. I’m not in favor of this, but it is my job to see it done. You want it different? Call the governor.”

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