WHEN JOHN WHITLEY WANDERS INTO the courtyard of Camp H, he is not just any visitor. He is the warden. The Man. Yet his presence stirs hardly a ripple. He inspects a flower bed, points to some asbestos dangling from a pipe. Mostly he just loiters, signaling that he is open for business. Slowly, as if they have all the time in the world (which, of course, many of them do), half a dozen inmates drift his way. One complains about missing laundry; another asks that recreational time be extended. All are polite, but none display the eagerness of someone anxious...
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