Prisons in the Commonwealth are obviously not as comfortable as the private ones in the United States.
The buildings were old and damp; whether it was the activity areas or residential areas, they all seemed very cramped and oppressive. The dim lighting cast an orange-yellow shadow, making one feel as if they had arrived at a medieval religious inquisition.
As a death row inmate, Xiami had his own private cell—an enclosure that was barely three square meters. There were iron bars on the outside, the bed was next to the bars, and at the foot of the bed was a wooden fence, about twenty centimeters wide, hiding a sit-down flush toilet. It offered a way for inmates to deceive themselves into feeling a sense of privacy while relieving themselves.
When the guard was leading Dean over, the guy was standing at the toilet, aiming at several newspaper portraits pasted on the wall, engaging in an ancient exercise.
Dean, through the bars, sized up the man inside who was jerking off.
