From New York Alejo 4506 was held in La Palma Jail, close to Mexico City. Alejo didn't try to check the gatekeeper's face out of the little window in the entryway.
Five years of living in this hellhole didn't set one feeling accommodating. Alejo's framework went on alert when the gatekeeper opened an entryway and motioned for him to step inside. He was unable to recall the last time he'd been out of his cellblock.
The cemented yard was the only spot open to the sun, and, surprisingly, its opening was covered by razor-wire. Detainees weren't precisely permitted to uninhibitedly wander, not since the tactical crackdown on the high-profile penitentiaries due to debasement, carried weaponry, and quarrel killings that had made it seem as if they were going through the supernatural. Alejo de la Cruz: What is it that the Federal authorities need with me now? Having second-considerations about renouncing my application to Quantico? Alejo asks in great, unaccented English, with a hint of obtrusive hatred.
DEA agent: You stink of U.S. Government pomposity. You seem to be a second, perhaps third-era cop.