"Hello?"

Relief flooded Grissom when Sara finally picked up. "Honey, it's me," he almost shouted, pressing two fingers to the ear not stuck to the receiver to drown out the background noise.

"Gil!" she said in a gasp after what seemed like ages.

Her voice had never sounded so sweet as right then, and bowing his head away from the other inmates using the phones he closed his eyes to hide his tears.

"Oh, Gil, it's so good to hear your voice."

"It's good to hear yours too," he said in a quiet whisper.

"How are you?" she went on excitedly, but clearly choked up. "Where are you?"

"Well," he laughed, "would you believe it if I said I was in California?"

"What?"

The disbelief in her voice made him laugh harder. "I'm in the FCI just outside Taft, 45 miles from Bakersfield."

"Bakersfield?" she repeated, clearly incredulous. "But that's just…"

"Five hours away, I know," he said, smiling widely. "I couldn't believe it when I found out."

"Oh, my God, Gil, that's great. Wait till Betty finds out. She's going to be thrilled."

"I know."

"How are you?" she asked again, her tone earnest.

"I'm okay. I'm fine now. It was a long trip, but…I'm here now. How about you?"

"Me?" she croaked, and laughed. "I'm happy."

A smile broke across his tired face. "I'm happy too."

He looked over his shoulder at the wall clock to check the time; he was allowed 300 minutes' worth of phone calls every month and he'd worked out that if he limited each call to twenty-five minutes he would be able to call home on average three times a week.

"I'm sorry I couldn't warn you of the transfer," he went on. "My case officer at Beaumont was sick and I was only given a half-hour notice to pack my things before I had to report to the duty officer."

"It's okay," she cut in softly. "It's just…this may have been the longest two weeks of my life."

"For me too," he said, falling silent. He thought about telling her the details of the trip but they didn't have long and he didn't want to waste precious minutes repeating what he'd written in his letter. "I've been here five days already," he continued, "but because of the weekend I only got to meet with my new counsellor yesterday. Anyway, here am I now, able to call at last, all privileges fully reinstated. I'm headed to the computer room next and I'll email Mom. I've sent you both letters with visitation forms you'll need to fill in and send back to my counsellor ASAP."

"I'll text her. Tell her the good news and to check her email. We'll fill in the forms as soon as we get them. I'll let Brass know you resurfaced too."

Her turn of phrase made him smile. "Thank you."

"Your mother's desperate to come see you. And so am I."

"I know," he said, emotional at the thought. "I can't wait to see you both. Could be as early as the weekend after next provided the paperwork doesn't get delayed."

"I'll pencil it in then," she said, giggling.

Her good mood lifted his spirits. "How's my mother?" he asked, the happy smile lingering on his face.

Sara sighed. "She's doing okay. This flu thing really knocked her sideways, but she's getting there. She's been worried about the lack of news too, you know, but…overall I think she's doing okay. We spent Saturday afternoon together actually. My mother came too."

He registered a look of surprise. "Oh? And how did that go?"

"It was fine," she laughed. "I took them to the farmer's market at Floyd Lamb Park. Then we took a slow wander around the lake. Had ice cream."

A wistful smile formed on his lips at the image her words conjured. "That sounds nice."

"It was."

"And didn't your mother ask questions?" he asked warily. As far as he knew Laura didn't know where he was.

"She's far too self-involved. And it helped she doesn't sign. She thinks you're working away again and I didn't put her right." She paused. "I wish you could have been there with us. I know your mother did too."

"I wish I could have been there too," he said with a heavy heart, and found that it was true, which gave him pause.

"I'm sorry," she went on in a sigh when silence built between them. "I didn't mean to make you sad."

"You didn't," he said quickly, reassuringly.

"Anyways, Jim said you probably got stuck in Oklahoma City which is why the transfer took so long."

"I was there for a couple of days. Then I spent three days in The Metropolitan Detention Centre in LA before they moved me here. I tried several times but they wouldn't allow me to call, and I didn't have any of my stuff to write."

"It doesn't matter now," she said. "All that matters is that you made it safely." She paused in her tracks suddenly, and he frowned. "You're not…are you worried you might, you know—"

"Get recognised?"

"Yeah."

"I am. I was, especially in LA, but…" he sighed, "There isn't much I can do about it. And to be honest I'm happy to be so close to you and Mom." He cast his eyes down. He was about to say that he worried that Betty's health would take a turn for the worst and she might die before his release but thought better of it. "Besides," he went on instead, "The majority of men here are here for immigration issues, or drugs, fraud and other white-collar crimes. Very few inmates are here for violent crimes, which was my bread and butter, and if they are they're at the end of a long sentence." An officer's loud shout came from behind him, and he turned.

"What's the place like?" she asked, refocusing him.

He leaned a little closer to the handset. "It's—It's very different. Well, not the food – that's bad everywhere – or the barren landscape. But it's a lot more relaxed than Beaumont was with a lot more freedom of movement. The facilities aren't bad either. We wear T-shirts and sweat pants, shorts in our downtime or at night if we want." Looking down at himself, he chuckled uneasily; he looked like he was dressed for the gym. "It's cleaner too, with air-conditioning everywhere."

"No more need for the fan then."

He winced. "About that. I had to leave it behind when I left Beaumont. I didn't have enough space to take everything. Call it a leaving present for Fairfax – if they allowed him to keep it, of course."

"What's your new cellmate like then?"

He chuckled. "Cellmates, you mean, in the plural. I'm in a dorm with seventy-nine other men, Sara. I almost miss my old two-man cell."

"How come?"

"It's open-plan and noisy all the time. A good noisy, I guess, not shouts and arguments like before, well not generally, just people talking loudly over everyone else just to get heard. We bunk in twos and each pair gets a low-walled cubicle with built-in desks and lockers, which allows a little privacy. Each dorm has their own showers and bathrooms too."

"Sounds just like college," she said, her voice muffled.

He laughed. "I'm going to buy myself a radio and some headphones. Everyone's got them. Seems the only way to get any peace."

"There should be plenty of money in your account."

He paused. He didn't like not earning his own money and having to solely depend on Sara, but hopefully it wouldn't be for much longer. "Thanks."

"What about work?" she asked, seemingly reading his mind.

He sighed. "I haven't got an assignment yet. That's going to take a little time. I asked my counsellor for something outdoors but, you know, I'll take what they give me."

"You checked out the library yet?"

"Been there once. Got a couple of books out. They already got their quotas of volunteers. Don't need any teachers either. There don't seem to be a shortage of educated inmates here." He sighed. Even in his lowest times, he'd always had some purpose in Beaumont, a status of sort, as a teacher and librarian, or helping other inmates with their schoolwork and legal paperwork. He had a feeling that things would be different here. "I just need to…get busy again. Do something worthwhile with my time." He laughed sadly at the irony of his words.

"Something'll come up," she said cheerfully.

"Yeah." He gave his head a shake to dispel the melancholy. "But enough talking about me, what else have you been up to?"

"Work mainly. I went out to breakfast with Greg this morning actually. We went to Jamms on South Rainbow. You remember it? I hadn't been there in years."

He smiled; he remembered it well. As one of the restaurants they'd felt relatively safe frequenting when their relationship had still been a secret from everyone, Jamms held happy memories. "That's a little off the beaten path, isn't it?"

There was a pause. "We―we wanted to go somewhere quiet. Somewhere we could talk," Sara went on hesitantly.

He frowned. "Everything alright with Greg?"

"Oh, he's fine. He's fine." She let out a long breath."He was just…being a good friend, that's all."

Her words gave him pause, and he understood all that she'd left unsaid. "He knows, doesn't he," he said, finding that actually he didn't mind as much as he thought he would. He knew how worried she would have been at the lack of news; how her friends' support was vital to her wellbeing, and truth be told he was glad she had it.

"He does," she confirmed after a beat in silence. "I told him everything this morning. He thought I was sick and I couldn't lie to him." She paused again, and he could imagine she was waiting for him to react, maybe even bracing herself for his anger.

He hated that she had to lie in order to keep the truth from everyone; her mother first, now one of her closest friend. He hated that she couldn't be open and let everyone know that they were a couple again without betraying his whereabouts and what he had done. He knew his darkest secret wouldn't remain secret for ever, that it was only a matter of time before he was found out, but for everyone's sake he hoped that that would happen after his release. He figured it would be easier to tell people then, certainly easier for Sara to cope if he was there to support her. And if he was totally honest with himself, it would be much easier for him too if he had her support.

"Gil, you still there?" she asked when he kept silent. "Are you angry?"

"No," he said finally. "I'm not angry. I was just thinking. Greg's your friend, and I'm glad you've got his support. Nick's too." He took in and let out a long breath. "How―How did he take it?"

"He surprised me actually," she said musingly, and went on to tell him how intuitive and non-judgmental Greg had been.

All too soon, the twenty-five minutes were up and he explained to Sara the new phone rules and that he'd have to be disciplined if they wanted to be able to chat regularly. "I'll call again in a couple of days," he finally promised, once again filled with sadness.

"Okay."

"What are you doing now?"

"I'm headed to the shower," she said matter-of-factly. "You want to come?"

He laughed. "Next time."

"It's a date."

"I love you."

"I love you too," she said. "Oh, and Gil? Look after yourself, alright? You're on the home stretch now."

"You look after yourself too."

And as slowly he pressed his fingers to the hook, disconnecting the call, Grissom let out a long breath. He thought about her words, about being on the home stretch. He had about ten months left, hopefully less with parole, and he hoped those ten months would go quickly. He lowered the receiver from his ear and looked at it, almost as if he could see Sara going about her business at home through it, before hanging it up and turning away.

After emailing both Brass and his mother, he took a wander to the recreation yard, headed toward the open space and started walking around the softball field. At that time of day, most inmates were at work and he almost had the place to himself. It promised to be a particularly hot day, but he could stand the heat better here. It wasn't hot and humid like in Texas, but more like back home. After all this time travelling, cooped up in buses, bull pens and detention centres, it was nice to be outdoors again and free to move about without restraints. It was nice too not to have to look over his shoulder anymore, checking for Armstrong or his cronies.

And as he walked and walked and walked round in diamond-shaped circles, he looked all around him, familiarising himself with the layout of the place, the new landscape and what he could see of the dry grassy hills over the double-fence. He looked skyward and used the sun to orientate himself so he faced east and Las Vegas. Thinking he was almost within walking distance from home, he chuckled and shook his head. He'd heard of inmates walking out of minimum-security camps, but the double-fence around the perimeter would make that hard.

Ten months, he thought again, the home stretch. Ten months and he would be let out into the world again. He didn't know how he'd got to that point in time already and he wasn't sure how he felt about it either, but there it was. Being in prison meant that he was being punished for what he'd done, but would another ten months be enough punishment? Would a life sentence be enough punishment, he wondered then? He felt so far removed from Texas here, as if by leaving he'd turned a corner. He could look back, but whether he wanted to or not he was moving on. Would the physical distance between him and his crime make it easier for him to cope with his guilt and shame, he wondered then? Was that what he wanted?

After lunch, when it was too hot to be outside, he took the books he'd borrowed and already read back to the library. He waited in line and returned the books to the inmate who was in essence doing his old job, then headed for the open stacks. The library, although smaller, was a lot busier that the one in Beaumont ever got, with inmates milling about near the shelves or sitting at the few tables clustered in the middle of the room, reading, working or talking quietly.

After putting his glasses on, he walked along the rows, scanning the shelves until he reached the newspaper section. There he hesitated briefly before picking up the top one of the first pile. It was a two-week old copy of a local paper, hardly fresh news, but the front headline caught his eye nevertheless. The newsprint felt foreign in his hands and he realised he hadn't touched a newspaper – notwithstanding the articles Sara sent him – or read the news at all in the long months since his arrest. Cutting himself off from the outside world, and what went on there, had been part of his penance too – until Sara.

Without thinking, he took the newspaper to a nearby table, sat down on the only free seat around it and began to read about how a white police officer in Ferguson, Missouri, had fatally shot an unarmed black teenager, triggering riots and looting across the St. Louis suburbs. He was half-way through the article when the man next to him spoke.

"Do I know you from somewhere?"

Frowning, Grissom glanced up from the paper. "I don't think so," he said somewhat dismissively.

"We haven't met before?" the man insisted, when Grissom turned his attention back to the article.

Wary, Grissom looked up again and this time took a moment to study the man that was openly watching him. Of a similar age to Grissom, he wore the same prison uniform and a pair of round glasses that looked too small for his face but gave him a curiously innocent expression. His large brown eyes sparkled with intelligence and something else Grissom couldn't quite define. He didn't think he'd ever met the guy before, but that didn't necessarily mean that the man didn't know him.

Was it the moment when his identity got exposed, he wondered suddenly? Grissom contemplated getting up and walking away, but what would that achieve? Where could he hide? If anything, it would raise suspicion and more interest. When he glanced at the work in front of the man, he saw law books and official prison documents. A lawyer, he thought, or someone who knew enough of the law to qualify as a jailhouse lawyer. Could their path have crossed after all?

A friendly smile breaking across his face, the man stuck out his hand. "I'm Mitch. Mitchell Baumstein."

Hesitantly raising his, Grissom shook Mitch's hand while he racked his brain, repeating the guy's name in his mind as if trying to locate a distant memory. "Gil," he finally said, coming up blank, "Gil Grissom."

"The name doesn't ring a bell," Mitch said, "but you look ever so familiar."

The corner of Grissom's lip lifted wryly. "I guess I have a common face."

Mitch gave an easy shrug, then pushed his glasses up his nose. "Anyways, I haven't seen you here before so you must be new."

"Got shipped five days ago," Grissom said quietly so as not to be overheard.

"Been here ten months. It's not Club Fed as they like to call it on the outside, but it could be worse. Relatively safe too, provided you stay away from the female COs. A lot of competition in a place like this." Mitch waggled his brow suggestively. "If you know what I mean."

"Okay," Grissom said, slightly bemused. Did he look the type of man that would enter into an illegal tryst with a female officer? And for what? A few favours?

"You play chess?" Mitch asked before Grissom could turn back to his article.

Grissom frowned. "I do," he replied a little hesitantly, surprised by the sudden change of tack.

"I thought you might. There's a tournament this coming Saturday after lunch in the dayroom. There's a sign-up sheet on the notice board, if you're interested."

Grissom pondered his reply before he finally nodded his head. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. They'd had basketball and softball matches at Beaumont, but he'd never taken part. But chess? "Why not?" he said, voicing his thought.

Mitch smiled widely. "That's the spirit. If you got a chessboard, bring it. We're always short."

Grissom registered a look of surprise. How big could the tournament be, he wondered? "Sure," he said, and then as an afterthought, "Thanks." Thinking the conversation over, he turned back to his article, only for Mitch to speak again.

"So," he said, "How long you got left?"

Mitch's forthright, rather intrusive nature instead of grating as it normally would, amused him. Maybe it was because, aside from his conversation with Sara that morning and the one with his new counsellor the previous day, he hadn't had any meaningful interaction with anyone in two weeks. "Ten months," he said. "Give or take." He was going to leave it at that when curiosity got the better of him. "You?"

"Three years, but at the rate I'm going it'll be longer than that."

Grissom's brow rose in surprise.

"I got anger management issues," Mitch explained. "They keep adding to my sentence. Got me here from the camp too."

Grissom regarded Mitch with newfound interest. The man didn't look like he could hurt or overpower anyone. "Should I be worried?" he asked, his lip curling in a smile.

Mitch laughed. "I tend to take my frustrations out on the fittings and furnishings rather than the people. They don't hit back."

Grissom couldn't help chuckle at Mitch's words. Again, he returned his attention to the article.

"Your wife stuck by you then?" Mitch went on, his voice losing all trace of levity.

Grissom turned toward Mitch just as the latter looked up from staring at Grissom's left hand. "Yeah. She did," he replied quietly, his gaze instinctively dropping to his wedding band.

Mitch nodded his head knowingly. "Mine didn't. First chance she got, she filed for divorce. That was ten years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Grissom said, suddenly uncomfortable by the change of mood and topic.

Mitch nodded again. His mood was much darker suddenly. "I don't mind so much, you know, losing the wife. But the kids? The kids I miss. You got kids?"

Grissom shook his head.

"I got two." Mitch gave a sad smile, then once again pushed his glasses up his nose. "A boy and a girl, 17 and 14 now, they never come to see me."

"Maybe it's too far for them to travel."

Mitch scoffed. "Is it too far to write too?"

Grissom didn't have an answer to that, so he kept silent. His eyes unwittingly flicked back to his article but Mitch wasn't finished.

"They're ashamed. A father in prison. A failure." He gave a mirthless laugh. "They don't know me anymore, and truth be told I don't think I know them either. Hell, I'd probably wouldn't recognise them if we passed each other in the street. I got no one but myself to blame reall—" An inmate walked over to the pair and stopping dead in his tracks Mitch turned to him. "Hey, Carver," he said, his easy smile returning just like that, "meet Gil Grissom. He's new here." And then turning to Grissom, "Gil. This is Jim Carver."

Carver gave Grissom a cursory nod but before Grissom could nod back he'd turned back to Mitch. "I finally got the paperwork back," Carver said. "I think I've filled it in correctly, but can you take a look at it for me, make sure everything is alright?"

Mitch winced. "I'm a little busy at the moment," he said, indicating the documents and books spread out in front of him on the table. "Why don't you ask Polowski?" He turned to Grissom, explaining, "Polowski's another jailhouse lawyer."

Grissom's brow rose at this titbit of information.

"He says he can't do it before next week," Carver said, "that he's got his own appeal to prepare. And by then it'll be too late. Please, Mitch."

Mitch made a face.

"Maybe I can help," Grissom said, before he could think of the consequences.

Carver turned toward him with hope. "You're a lawyer?"

"No. But I know the law." That had come out automatically, causing Mitch to frown with interest.

Carver didn't miss a beat and smiling he held out an official looking envelope, which Grissom gingerly accepted. "I'll pay you the current rate."

"I don't want payment," Grissom said.

"Wow," Mitch interjected, waving his hands in the negative, "Slow down. Of course you're going to take payment." And then to carver, "He's going to take payment."

Carver thrust out his hand at Grissom and they shook on the deal.

"There's plenty enough work for all of us," Mitch said when Carver left. "But the system only works if we're consistent. Everyone operates the same rate – or they'd better had. That way there's no arguments."

New facility, new rules he'd have to get used too, he thought. He also got the feeling that Mitch was trying a little too hard to make an impression, and he suspected that the guy's outwardly affable nature hid a darker side that he had yet to witness, one that had probably landed him in prison in the first place. "So what's the currency here? Macks? Stamps?"

Mitch laughed. "Ramen noodles."

"Ramen," he repeated, scoffing in disbelief. Well, that explained why Mitch looked like he never went hungry. "Are there a lot of…lawyers locked up here then?"

"More than your fair share. And not all as crooked as me."