José stood in the small, cinder-block consultation room, the illegal cell phone pressed to his ear. The guard outside the door was giving him a dirty look, but José ignored him. The tension in his shoulders finally eased as he heard the familiar, rough voice of his cousin.
"Santiago! Mi primo, how are you? I heard you were in the hospital, man, what the hell happened?" José asked, his usual hard prison exterior dissolving into genuine fraternal concern.
"José! Homie, I'm fine, don't worry about the gossip," Santiago's voice crackled through the cheap phone. "It's good to hear your voice, man. How's the inside treating you?"
"It's Lexington, primo. It's hell," José replied grimly. "But listen, there's a guy here—Ethan Blake. He's the reason I'm calling. Is it true what he says? About you guys, about the North End? It sounded like crazy talk, man."
