After passing through the metal detector, there was no pat-down. Instead, a guard marked my wrist with ultraviolet ink that glowed under blacklight. Since I had cleared the background check, my books served as my identification.
The inmates sat in the bleachers of the large gymnasium, where the sultry air smelled of perspiration and weights. After I read each poem, they snapped their fingers to encourage me to keep going. A few licked ice cream cones.
Wearing clean khaki uniforms, they raised their hands politely to pose rather personal questions before forming a line, like ambassadors, to shake my hand.
A famous economist had argued with them about capitalism, they reported, which they believed was based on lies, not trust. ‘If you lie, they said, you become the president.’