Alcatraz, January 23rd, 1936.

The clang of iron echoed like a death knell as the steel door to Cell 132 slammed shut. Cold Pacific winds slipped through the narrow barred window high on the cell’s back wall, swirling damp air that clung to his skin like mildew.

He sat hunched on a metal stool bolted to the wall, his elbows on the edge of a narrow cot draped with a wool blanket that smelled perpetually of rust. The cell measured five feet wide by nine feet long—barely large enough for a man to stretch his arms. He was nearly drifting into cold slumber, when a guard, barking orders, bangs his baton on the cell bars.

“You’ve gotta be kidding, it’s nearly midnight!” He snaps at the guard. The rattle of keys sound like chains dragged across the concrete.