After a butchered hostage operation, former detective Katarina Lago handed in her resignation and transferred to Whitegate Penitentiary, expecting her new life as a correctional officer to be smooth and simple...at least that's what she tells people...
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Katarina Lago's voice echoed down the East Wing of Whitegate Correctional Complex, overpowering the muted footfalls of her leather clad feet. In the dim gray of the lift one of 600 cameras across the facility recorded her every movement. Their purpose was to monitor the inmates but Katarina's uniform didn't make the sensation of being watched go away. Neither did it stop her from looking over her shoulder as the doors squeaked open and her supervising officer gestured her toward the first cell block. It was a rather paranoid mannerism she picked up as a child and still couldn't get rid of.
"I've never heard the word Mija used so much in a TV show...or daddy for that matter. I don't know how you watch it." Katarina said to the older man as she brought the trolley to a standstill.
She grimaced at the row of trays on top before peeling back the sheer plastic cover and tucking it onto the bottom shelf. Since the cafeteria burnt down with most of the West Wing and half of Administration, the inmates had been taking meals in their cells which meant more work for her and everyone else involved. They still hadn't found a cause for the fire and with half the complex closed off, all the prisoners were serving 23 and 1. 23 hours confined to their cells and 1 in the courtyard. If the facility didn't house the worst of the worst, she would feel sorry for them but as it so happened, their suffering wasn't at the top of her worries.
"It's my daughters' favourite show and I'd do anything for them, which includes sitting through hours of shitty TV." Matthew said, unloading the trays and handing them out with her. Tonight's dinner consisted of a slab of dry pita topped with sour-smelling cheese, some chunks of brown meat she couldn't quite identify and (barely) a handful of squished cherry tomatoes on the side. Katarina thought it could contend with the Fyre Festival's luxury cheese sandwich.
"Mija, huh? You Spanish?" An inmate asked as she passed him his tray.
Although born American, Katarina was proficient in her native tongue and wasn't too surprised someone noticed it in her accent. As she glanced his way she recognised the guy as Frank Román, serving time for an arson case. He was one of the top suspects for the fires earlier that month but the, cough, underfunded investigative team was yet to find any evidence. So, naturally, they were scapegoating anyone they could.
"My dad taught me." Katarina said.
"He still around?" Frank continued and she hesitated, handing his cellmate the next tray.
"No. No, he passed away a few months ago. In February, actually, so not a few but that's what it feels like," She replied, lingering, "You look like you already knew?"
"From the way you talked about him, I had a feeling. What did he do?"
"He was a psychiatrist, never said much about his work."
The truth was Katarina knew what her father did about as much as Frank or anyone else. He was a private man, not unloving, but closed off when it came to his work and she was never particularly interested either.
