The foghorns of San Francisco Bay filled the room. The camera panned over the rocky island, the icy water, the prison walls. Eastwood’s face was a granite mask. Arjun leaned closer.
He unplugged the laptop, carried it to his cramped bedroom, and pulled the blinds. The room went dark, save for the pale blue glow of the screen. He clicked play.
He paused the film. Frank Morris was just sliding a dummy head into his bunk.