HIDE AND SEEK FEATURED EXCERPT:  Making the Cut

HIDE AND SEEK FEATURED EXCERPT: Making the Cut

Image of suspense author Mary Burton

 

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

It was the sound of fingers clawing against the dirt, and it had echoed through Special Agent Macy Crow’s dreams last night. She was accustomed to nightmares, which had plagued her since she was a small child. But this one had been agonizingly real.

Still unsettled, Macy opened the driver’s side door of her four-door Toyota. She tossed a worn black backpack into the passenger seat, slid behind the wheel, and shifted the pressure off her right side and away from the annoying pain. The discomfort had been a daily part of her life since a hit-and-run five months ago in Texas.

The attack had broken her right leg, cracked her skull, and flatlined her heart for nearly a minute. By rights, she should be dead. She shouldn’t have walked again. She shouldn’t have returned to work.

But here she was, ignoring not only the lingering discomfort but also the crazy dreams that had followed her back from the other side of the rainbow.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

She started her engine, slid on her sunglasses, and drove out of the apartment building lot onto Seminary Road. She followed side streets to the I-95 south entrance. The morning traffic was already heavy and, like always, pissed her off.

Following a familiar route to the FBI complex, she was more anxious than most days. She juggled jolts of worry and excitement as she visualized her upcoming interview with Special Agent Jerrod Ramsey.

Ramsey headed up a small team that tackled violent crimes. His group had cracked several high-profile cases in the last year. Details about their deeds were scant, but their results made them legendary.

After cutting through the traffic sludge, she took her exit and slowed as she approached the guard station at Quantico. She reached for her badge, flipped the leather case open, and handed it to the marine on duty. “Morning, Corporal.”

The marine looked at her picture and then at her, frowning as he’d done almost every day since her return three weeks ago. He handed back her identification and waved her through. She drove to the main FBI building, parked, and presented her badge to the familiar FBI security guard while her backpack was x-rayed.

“Crow, what you call a pen with no hair?” he asked with a straight face.

Every day it was a new joke about her short hair.

“Shoot me now, Ralph, and just get it over with.”

A neurosurgeon had shaved her head minutes before he had cracked open her skull and relieved pressure on her brain. Yes, she currently looked like a cross between Twiggy and a bristle brush. Desperate hunts for hair ties were gone for the near future, but she was aboveground.

“Come on, Special Agent, I bet you know,” he gently coaxed with a shit-eating grin.

“What?” She carefully tucked her badge in her jacket breast pocket.

“A bald point.”

Despite herself, she laughed. “Jesus, Ralph, you need help.”

“Who loves ya?”

Ignoring the Kojak reference, she took the elevator up to the third floor, where Special Agent Jerrod Ramsey worked. She made her way to his corner office and knocked.

“Enter.”

She pushed open the door as a leather chair swiveled toward her, offering her first up close look at Jerrod Ramsey.

Thick brown hair was cut short and swept off a striking face that conjured images of East Coast prep schools, old money, and the Hamptons. He wasn’t classically handsome, but the sharp green eyes and olive skin coupled with tailored suits had to be kryptonite to the ladies.

Ramsey rose and adjusted his blue tie before he crossed the room to her.

“Special Agent Macy Crow,” she said.

A faint smile hinted of a welcome. “Good to meet you, Agent Crow,” he said, extending his hand.

She accepted his strong grip, clasping his hand firmly. “And you as well, sir.”

When Macy had declared her intentions to return to the bureau, she had been temporarily assigned to the ViCAP computer section because her former position had been filled. If she wanted back in the field, she would have to apply for another position.

When she had heard Jerrod Ramsey’s profiling team had an opening, she had thrown her name into the hat. She had expected a quick no to her request but instead had received what amounted to a “Let’s talk.”

Either returning from the dead had earned her points, or someone with juice was pulling strings. Whatever the reason, she hadn’t looked a gift horse in the mouth and had agreed to the meeting. Last night a courier had delivered a file from Ramsey. He’d instructed her to review the case and be prepared to discuss.

Ramsey offered her one of the two seats in front of his desk. When she sat, he took the remaining one.

“How do you like being back at work? Working with tech in the ViCAP unit must be a change,” he said.

“It’s been great.” In truth, staring at the four walls of a cubicle and a computer screen sucked. But it was the price of readmission.

He allowed the pause to linger, expecting her to fill in the silence with nervous chatter. It was a good trick. And one she used when she interviewed suspects.

When she didn’t speak, he said, “I heard you’ve set a few recovery records.”

“Queen of rehab,” she said with a smile. No agent wanted a weak partner. “Ready to rumble.”

His eyes narrowed. Either he had decided she was too flippant, or he liked her moxie. Or maybe the pointed stare was supposed to make her second-guess and worry while he figured her out.

She again absorbed the silence. What the hell. She was her own person and wouldn’t tone herself down for him or anyone else. Near death had a way of cutting through petty worries cluttering everyday life.

He reached across his desk and retrieved a file. Her name was marked on the tab in precise block letters. She imagined he already knew her professional credentials and her Texas origin story. Reading the file now was for show.

“Ten years with the bureau,” Ramsey said. “You worked in Denver, Kansas City, Seattle, and Quantico. Human trafficking is your specialty. You led several successful undercover operations.”

“Blessed with a slight frame, and in the right light, I pass for a teenager.”

He closed the file. “Why not go back to that?”

“The miniskirts and halter tops don’t fit as well as they used to,” she quipped.

“They’d also showcase your scars.”

“Honestly, the scars would have added to my mystique on the streets. But with or without the red racing stripe running up my leg, my days of passing as a teenager are over.” Climbing back-alley fences was also no longer in the cards for her. “Time for a new challenge.”

“I’ve heard good things about you,” Ramsey said. “Texas Rangers said you cracked a big case for them. ViCAP also likes having you.”

“The Rangers solved the case in Texas. I just gave them the crowbar to pry open the cracks.”

“Tell me about Texas.” Ramsey wasn’t going to make her return easy. No slam dunks in this room.

Reciting the story wasn’t easy, despite lots of practice. “You have a reputation for being prepared. You must know as much as I do.”

“I’m not interested in the facts in a report. I want to hear your version.”

She shifted in her seat. “I returned to Texas when my father was murdered. Pop left a message for me. Basically, he said there was a grave in the desert. The grave belonged to my birth mother. Turns out there were three graves. All girls who’d been kidnapped, raped, and murdered after they gave birth.”

“Did you know you were adopted?”

“Hard to hide it. When both parents have black hair and brown skin, it’s difficult to pass a pale blond kid off as their own.” She shrugged. “They were always up front about the adoption. But they left out the part about my birth mother being murdered.”

“That must have been a gut punch.”

“Learning I’m a child of rape and that I’m half-monster wasn’t pleasant. Gut punch sums it up.”

Her adoptive mother had once whispered that Macy had bad blood. When a girl in her third-grade class had been kidnapped and murdered, the other children had been afraid. Macy hadn’t. She had been fascinated by the cops, the cadaver-sniffing dogs, and the blue wave of law enforcement sweeping over their community.

“No one but Macy dare goes near that alley,” her mother had whispered to her father. “It’s not normal.” Her mother hadn’t relaxed until the fourteen-year-old murderer had been arrested.

The Texas trip had driven home the true meaning of bad blood. Since then, its full weight had rested heavily on Macy’s shoulders.

“Violence is forged in my DNA,” Macy said. “Maybe it explains why I’m good at hunting monsters.” Modesty didn’t become her, so she didn’t bother with it. “I’m good at what I do, or I wouldn’t be here now.”

“Do you think you’d have been injured in Texas if you’d had backup?” Ramsey asked.

Macy refused to apologize or backpedal. “I take risks. It’s the secret sauce behind my high-profile arrests, and yes, it set me up for the HNR.”

“HNR?”

“Sorry, shorthand for hit-and-run. The incident has come up a few times, so I abbreviate it. Federal employees love acronyms.”

Ramsey wasn’t amused. “Did your injury teach you any lessons?”

“To be more careful. But I can’t promise. No agent really knows what they’ll encounter in the field or how they’ll react.”

A muscle pulsed in his jaw. “How are you physically?”

“Solid and better every day.” She could lie without blinking, thanks to the undercover work.

If he didn’t buy her assessment, he didn’t give any hint. “Technically, you’re to remain on desk duty for another month.”

She decoded the thoughts lurking behind his dark eyes. Instead of wondering, she asked, “Are you saying you want me on your team?”

A smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “Do you want to be on it?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

More silence settled between them as they played an invisible game of chicken. Would she stay silent? Or would she admit that catching monsters was how she justified her existence and eased her crushing sorrow for the brutalized girl who’d died giving birth to her in the desert?

“All I can say is that I love the work,” she said.

“Working on my team isn’t easy, Agent Crow.”

Membership on his team meant long hours and unearthing evidence in horrific cases. Ramsey’s agents had a front-row seat to a brand of darkness that most law enforcement officers never saw.

“No one outworks me,” she said. “I settled so many cases in Kansas City, Seattle, and Denver because I took risks and didn’t give up. I’m here now because I don’t give up. I’m the proverbial dog with a bone when I get my hooks into a case.”

He didn’t speak for a moment. “In the weeks you’ve been with ViCAP, you’ve picked up on several patterns in cases around the country.”

She wasn’t here for a pat on the back. “Are you going to ask me about the case file you sent me? The one I studied last night until one a.m.?”

Intrigued, he sat back in his chair. “Tell me about the case.”

She was relieved. They were sailing into the safe waters of murder. “Last week, the skeletal remains of Tobi Turner were discovered in a Shenandoah Valley barn. The teenage girl went missing fifteen years ago. Sheriff Mike Nevada, the new county sheriff and a former member of your team, requested the FBI’s assistance after DNA found on the girl’s backpack matched the DNA of an unknown serial rapist active in the summer of 2004, three months before Tobi vanished.”

Ramsey didn’t look impressed. “Continue.”

Macy carefully crossed and uncrossed her legs. “Unfortunately, this offender isn’t in the CODIS system.” CODIS, the Combined DNA Identification System, was a database of DNA collected from prisoners and arrestees. “Tobi Turner and the rape victims all had a similar look. Slender, dark hair, and petite.”

“Anything else?”

“I did a data search of the Deep Run area in 2004. There was another girl who also vanished two weeks after Tobi. Her name was Cindy Shaw. She was mentioned in a two-paragraph article. The headline read ‘Second Girl Missing?’ There were no follow-ups to that article.”

He frowned. “Cindy Shaw was not in the file I gave you.”

“I always dig deeper than the file.”

“Why is Cindy Shaw significant?”

“Ms. Shaw may not be, but she attended Valley High School with Tobi Turner, she had long dark hair, and she vanished. No missing person report was filed on her behalf. Her last known address was a low-income trailer park. I suspect she was an at-risk kid, and when she disappeared, no one cared.”

“Not all poor girls who go missing are kidnapped, raped, and murdered.”

The reference alluded to her birth mother. And if it was meant to sting, it did. But a little more pain in an overflowing bucket didn’t really matter. “Every case surrounding the time period of Tobi Turner’s disappearance has to be questioned and examined.”

Ramsey looked almost impressed. “What do you suggest I do?”

So there it was. Her shot.

Discipline kept her from scooting to the edge of her seat. “I’d like to go to Deep Run and look into all these cases. I’m a fresh set of eyes, and as you’ve already suggested, I have a knack for detail and pattern.”

Ramsey regarded her for several beats before he said, “I’ll send you to Deep Run for five days. I want to see what you come up with.”

The green light warranted a fist pump, but she resisted. This was a test. Ramsey didn’t care about a personnel manual’s BS question or boxes that needed checking. The field would tell him.

“Should I check in with my superior downstairs?” she asked.

“No. I’ll clear it with him,” Ramsey said.

“You won’t be disappointed,” she said.

He raised an index finger. “I’m not looking for a cowgirl who’s going to ride into town, shoot it up, or get herself killed. I want you to dig up solid intel, and then you’ll debrief the team at Quantico next Monday. I still don’t know if you’ll make the cut,” Ramsey warned.

She hadn’t scored, but she had the ball. Time to take her best shot. “Like I said, you won’t be disappointed.”

“I saw just the slightest limp as you crossed the parking lot. You do a hell of a job hiding it.”

She glanced out his window, which overlooked the lot. “I qualified for the mile run time and retained my expert status at the shooting range.”

“Both scores have dropped since the attack.”

“I can hold my own.” She would not apologize or make excuses. She was done talking.

He studied her. “Hell, I can’t think of many people who would come back after what happened to you.”

“That’s ancient history. All that matters now is this case and me proving I belong on your team.”

“Glad you feel that way, because I can’t cut you any slack. Five days, Special Agent Crow. We’ll both know if you make the grade.”

She resisted the urge to uncross her legs and relieve the pressure on her nerves. Instead, she grinned. “I’m up to the challenge.”

“You’ll be working with Sheriff Mike Nevada.”

“I assumed as much.”

“Didn’t you work with Nevada when he was with the bureau?”

“Our paths crossed in Kansas City. He was searching for a serial killer who preyed on prostitutes trafficked along I-35. I was trying to catch the man pimping the girls. Turned out we were hunting the same guy.”

Crossing paths with Nevada. It was a nice euphuism for sex between two commitment-phobic agents. They had ended whatever it was they’d had on good terms, but walking away from him had been the only time she’d resented the job. “Nevada was a first-rate FBI agent, and I imagine he’s just as good a sheriff.”

“I’ll let him know you’re on your way. Stay in contact,” Ramsey said.

She rubbed her hand over her right thigh. “When do I leave?”

“Today. Pack your bag and hit the road.”

She checked her watch. “Will do.”

Ramsey’s smile was polite, but he clearly had his doubts.

©2019 Mary Burton

 

 

 

 

339 Days Until Audiobook Month 2017

Evidence bagTime’s running out for another Grab the Evidence Bag Giveaway of audio editions for some of my books, so jump on board now for a chance to be the final winner in my Audiobook Month Celebration. I hope you’ll enter below for a chance to win.

 

Audiobook MonthWhile Audiobook Month may be ending, it means the beginning of July and the publication of a brand new month’s worth of reading and listening pleasure. What are you reading next? Here are just a few out in July that have caught my attention.  So many books.  So little time.

 

Sandra Brown’s The Sting

Ruth Ware’s The Woman in Cabin Ten

Marie Force’s Fatal Identity

Wendy Corsi Staub’s Blue Moon

 

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Forensic Friday: Sleep of the Dead

forensics

Propofol took center stage in the news several years ago when Michael Jackson died following an injection of it from physician Conrad Murray. Murray was later convicted of involuntary manslaughter. Nonetheless, propofol is rarely an instrument of death, let alone murder, though several cases have been brought to trial.

 

Anesthesia Medications Propofol is at top.

Anesthesia Medications Propofol is at top.

While abuse of the drug is spreading, propofol itself is not easily accessible to the general public as its primary use is with anesthesia. A respiratory depressant, it can affect both respiration and the heart. Since an overdose can cause death, it is also a weapon.

 

Used without intent to kill, effects last only a short time and the last evidence of it leaves deep tissue in about six days.  It’s not illegal.  It’s felt by users in just seconds and is somewhat easily obtainable by many in the medical community.

 

TheSharkHere’s a scene from THE SHARK  in which Dr. Kincaid, the Medical Examiner, Joshua Shield, head of Shield Security, former FBI agent Clay Bowman and Virginia state trooper Riley Tatum  look for leads in a murder—and suspect propofol as the means.

 

He released the button and the elevator descended, the doors opening to the cool antiseptic air of the medical examiner’s offices and Joshua Shield.

 

Shield was dressed in his trademark dark suit with his shock of white hair combed off his angled face. He strode straight to them, his attention riveted on Riley. Dark eyes collected and inventoried details quickly. “Trooper Tatum. I’m Joshua Shield.”

 

“I recognize you from your press pictures.”

 

Bowman noticed that most people were intimidated by Shield. They dropped gazes, shuffled feet, or fidgeted in some way. Not Riley. She glared at him as if he were a rookie intern late for his first briefing.

 

Shield extended his hand to her. “Nice to finally meet you,” he said. “Mr. Bowman speaks well of you.”

 

Clasping hard, she held his gaze.

 

“Solving this case is a team effort,” Shield said.

 

Smiling, she shook her head. “We’ll see.”

 

Bowman gave her props for not pulling punches.

 

“Consider the advantages of my expertise,” Shield said. “My company resources helped you in the past.”

 

“You were an uninvited guest that I could have managed without.”

 

He grinned as if enjoying the sparring.

 

Before he could respond, Dr. Kincaid appeared. She wore a lab coat and glasses that covered slightly bloodshot eyes.

 

“Dr. Kincaid,” Bowman said. “We appreciate you meeting us. Sorry to get you out of bed so early on a Saturday morning.”

 

“Mr. Bowman, Mr. Shield, you gentlemen have friends in powerful places.” Calm and unruffled, she extended her hand to both.

 

Shield shook her hand. “We help each other out when we can.”

 

Dr. Kincaid glanced at Riley. “I’m assuming Agent Sharp called you.”

 

“No, it was Mr. Bowman. But I contacted Agent Sharp.”

 

“Good,” Dr. Kincaid said. “Follow me.” She led them down the long hallway and pushed through a set of double doors. “I understand you also want to see Vicky Gilbert’s body.”

 

“Correct,” Shield said.

 

“Your timing is fortuitous. The funeral home is picking up her remains in a couple of hours. Her mother opted for cremation.”

 

“And you’ve done a complete exam?” Shield asked.

 

“I have. I’ve collected enough samples so that we can run any kind of test conceivable in the future if necessary. The Gilbert family is anxious to have a memorial service.”

 

“Their daughter ran away from home over a month ago and they didn’t call the police or try to find her,” Riley said. “What’s the big rush now?”

 

A slight shift in Riley’s tone could have made her sound bitter. But she kept her voice monotone, effectively hiding any potential anger or resentment.

 

Bowman reached in his breast pocket and removed a slip of paper. “Dr. Kincaid, I’d like you to test for this sedative.”

 

“Propofol? That’s a very powerful narcotic and I don’t see it often.”

 

“If we’re dealing with the man we suspect is the killer, this is likely the drug he used on his first four victims. This killer is a creature of habit. The sedative is one of his signatures.”

 

 

Staging the Scene

forensic_facts

We’ve all heard talk about CSI Effect—people watch crime shows and movies and read mystery and suspense novels and start expecting all sorts of cutting edge forensic technology is available at crime scenes and to analyze evidence. Some think that test results can happen in hours or days, instead of weeks. When a case goes to trial, it may be that some jurors are anticipating lots more forensic evidence than is possible or they’re putting less emphasis on circumstantial evidence.

 

Also discussed is another element of CSI Effect—criminals knowing more than ever before about police and forensic procedure and behaving accordingly.

 

Practical Homicide InvestigationsVernon J. Geberth is the Former Commander of Bronx Homicide, New York City Police Department and author of Practical Homicide Investigation: Tactics, Procedures, and Forensic Techniques, which is used by the FBI, homicide departments, lawyers and investigators across the country. He addresses the criminal side of C.S.I. Effect in his article for PI Magazine: Journal of Professional Investigators in which he refers to “staging” the scene of a crime.  

 

He defines the process saying “staging a scene occurs when the perpetrator purposely alters the crime scene to mislead the authorities and/or redirect the investigation. Staging is a conscious criminal action on the part of an offender to thwart an investigation.

 

He also points out the perpetrator’s side of C.S.I. Effect. “The problem is that criminals read the same books and watch the same TV shows as everybody else, so they are gaining insight into the investigative process as well as the value of trace evidence and have become more savvy. These ‘CSI Criminals’ attempt to prevent leaving evidence at crime scenes. Offenders are now ultra-careful not to leave any blood, fingerprints, body hair or anything else that may identify them in the crime scene.”

 

Vulnerable High Res CoverHere’s an excerpt from VULNERABLE showing just that—names and some narrative have been changed to avoid spoilers.

 

“He pressed his finger on the back doorbell. As bell chimes echoed in the house, he pulled a clean handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped the doorbell button clean. Lights clicked on inside.  Fast, determined footsteps approached. By the sound of it, the old man wasn’t happy about the interruption . . . the door jerked open to Jim Simmons’s frowning face. An instant passed as the old man stood and stared . . .

 

Ken grinned. “Mr. S. How’s it going?”

 

Mr. Simmons blinked. The anger that always buzzed behind his gaze softened. “Ken. What are you doing here?”

 

He removed a silver flask from his pocket. “I thought we could drink a toast . . .”

 

They moved down a carpeted hallway into the brightly lit kitchen . . . “Can I get you something to eat? . . . Let me make you a sandwich.”

 

“I’d like that.”

 

Ken took another drink from the flask, replaced the cap, and stuck it back in his pocket. He settled on a bar stool . . . Mr. Simmons carefully made the sandwich, set it on a plate, and pushed it toward him before turning back to the refrigerator to dig out a couple of beers . . .

 

The old man twisted the top off his beer and carefully set the top on the counter . . . “You spent time in Texas, didn’t you?”

 

“Sure.” Ken balled up his napkin and tossed it on his plate.

 

“The cops showed me a picture of a guy in Austin. I didn’t recognize him at first.”

 

“Really?”

 

Simmons looked at him, his gaze hardening as if pieces of a puzzle clicked into place.

 

Ken smiled and reached in his pocket for latex gloves . . . He tugged on the gloves . . . “She told me what you made her do . . . if the cops find out what you did . . . you’ll be ruined.”

 

“You wouldn’t do that.”

 

“I would.”

 

“I can crush you without breaking a sweat, kid. Don’t ever think you can threaten me.”

 

Ken shifted his grip around the neck of the beer bottle as if it were a club. Moving with swiftness he’d learned on the football field, he raised the bottle and lunged across the kitchen island, cracking the glass against the side of the old man’s skull . . .

 

Ken’s brain morphed from thinking to primal as he moved fast, scrambling around the island and landing hard blows with the bottle on the old man’s face. Simmons staggered and fell back to the floor. A look of panic and disbelief swept over the old man’s gray eyes.

 

Ken reached in his pocket and pulled out a clear plastic bag. With a snap he opened it and straddled Mr. Simmons. He pulled it over the man’s head and twisted the ends shut, cutting off his air flow. Ken settled his weight on Simmons’s chest and held the bag in place as his victim struggled for air. Several minutes passed until finally, Simmons’s eyes rolled back in his head and Ken was certain he was dead.

 

Ken removed the bag and checked for a pulse. There was none. Satisfied, he poured out the remaining beer in the sink. He dumped both bottles in his plastic bag as well as the remains of the sandwich. He turned on the hot water tap and when steam rose from the now hot water, he washed the plate and dried it with a paper towel, which he used to wipe down the counter.

 

As he backed away, his heart still thundered in his chest.

Forensic Friday—Set the Stage: Wednesday I Went to Jail

forensic_factsForensic science and details of how law enforcement operates play key roles in my police procedurals, and I’ve always believed that actually experiencing much of it, as I have at Writers Police Academy and elsewhere, has enhanced my writing.

 

I find the same to be true of setting.   It helps me tremendously to have walked around a city or to have visited the types of locales I’m planning to include in a story, even when I’m going to be making them up.  Getting the setting right is very important.  Whether I’m describing the inside of a  courthouse, a squad car or a jail, I try to be as accurate as possible.

 

Jail-MB in Jail with Sinc 4-20-16 ThreeWhich is why I went to jail the other day. The visit was courtesy of the Richmond City Justice Center, which gave Sisters in Crime Central Virginia the opportunity to tour and learn more about the facility and its people, including  a rundown of the procedures prisoners go through when they first arrive.

 

The gang from SINC Central Virginia happy to know we can leave at any time.

The gang from SINC Central Virginia happy to know we can leave at any time.

 

Worth pointing out is that some of us confuse the terms jail and prison.  Jail is a short-term incarceration—less than three years.  Inmates stay in jail while awaiting their trial and sentencing and then after that, they are transferred to a prison for the term of their incarceration.

 

The Richmond facility is new and houses up to 1000 male and female inmates, called “residents” by the staff. These individuals have been arrested in Richmond by law enforcement authorities including the Richmond City Police, FBI, Virginia Commonwealth University Police and J. Sergeant Community College Police.

 

Residents at a prayer meeting. (Image taken from the Richmond City's Sheriff Office Facebook page.)

Residents at a prayer meeting. (Image taken from the Richmond City’s Sheriff Office Facebook page.)

When prisoners arrive, they’re searched, given a Breathalyzer, their money is loaded into an account and a nurse medically assesses them.  If the magistrate does not set bond or if it isn’t paid, an individual’s threat level is then determined and he/she is assigned a uniform based on that threat level.  They are then assigned a spot among the thirty-two housing units, a.k.a. pods, which hold from twelve to seventy-two people.

 

While there, we also learned about the Center’s program, REAL (Recovering from Everyday Addictive Lifestyles), created by Director of Internal Programs Sarah Scarborough. Residents admitted to the 40-hour a week program complete classes such as remedial math, anger management and creative writing, taught by volunteers and staff.

 

Thanks to all at the City of Richmond Justice Center, in particular, Sarah  who showed us around and shared background and insights along with facts and figures.