He continues to look at me over the keys. 'With a silver crucifix soldered to the side.' 'One whistle,' I say, pulling the chain over my head. He gives me an unwavering stare through the mesh as he takes a triplicate form from a waiting stack and rolls it into the typewriter. 'Make me out a complete property slip, then.'
We don't want you blowing your whistle at midnight.' 'Everything?' Usually they let the Honor Camp prisoners check through, trust them to give up their watches, pocketknives, etc. Gerder looks up from his typewriter sees my outfit and his already stone-cold face freezes even harder. The bulls here at County Slam hate the policy. They allow you to wear street business up at camp. I check in at the SM County facilities dressed in my usual leather jacket, striped pants and shoes, silver whistle hanging around my neck.
