The metallic clang of the cafeteria doors echoed as inmates of the prison shuffled in line for food with their trays held in their hands.

Mr. Kingston picked up his food from the cook, a young, blonde girl, who left him a smile, but he didn't return it.

He took his food away, grey mashed potatoes, a slab of meatloaf that looked days old, and a cup of watery juice. He didn’t flinch; prison food had long stopped surprising him.

After all, in his teenage days, he spent a full year in prison for ...