He walks out of the elevator

with a satisfied smirk on his face like a kid who's just pulled a prank on his neighbour girl. A few calm steps further and the lobby's cleared. "Hello Mr. doorman!" Says his nod to the red-tuxedo wearing gentleman holding the door open for him. Wearing what he's wearing, no one would ever think him any less than a sucessful Wall Street broker, a lawyer or even, God forbid, one of those fucking spoiled kids who just like to prance around in their new Armanis. But he's none of the above.

Out on the street. People rushing from side to side, stepping on his brand new, recently polished shoes. Damn. A yellow cab is slugging through traffic and he can't believe it, it's free!

"Where to?"
"Take me to the Penitentiary."

The cabby nods, and starts driving. On the passenger's lap sits a laptop. He opens it, and starts browsing through files. "Who do we have today?" he thinks, as a list of a few dozen names go by the screen. Out of his pocket comes a cellphone, and he dials a number, say 555-3564.

"Hey Old Man.."
"Who's the job today?"
"It's our Mr. 43."
"Good. Check back with me when you're done."
clink. The phone goes back to the pocket, the laptop gets closed, and he sits his head on the headrest. "Oh, this one is going to give me some good money."

The door opens. "Hey, mister! That'll be 10 bucks."
"Oh yes, yes good friend. Keep the change."
A twenty dollar bill comes out of his other pocket (Armanis tend to have lots of pockets) and slides over to Cabby's hand. He's walking now, his stepped-on shoes making little pleck pleck noises as he climbs the marble stairway leading to the main entrance of the place. What's up with this pseudo Roman arquitecture anyway?
"Hey. Hold it mister."
The guards. He comes here all the time, and he always has to show something. ID's, money or guns, always something. This time it was a Visiting Pass.
"Ok, this seems to be in order. Please pass through the scanner in an orderly fashion, sir."
Oh yes, like I'm really going to march into one of the safest places in this country waving guns all around. It might get my shoes dirty.
Inside the reception, he quiclky talks to and dismisses the clerks and after that gets on to the visiting rooms. He sits down, and on the other side of the bulletproof glass sits an Ukranian man, about 50 years old. The man reaches for the little phone, and so does he. It's still warm from the last one who's been here chit chatting with your average convict.
"Guess what. I got you out."
"Indeed... Finally my money paying off. You're good, you know?"
"Yeah.. So they say."
So they say...