Parlor A, Regional Reception Center / Special Detention Unit,

Sainte-Anne-des-Plaines
- Daddy! cries Alexandra Mongeau affectionately.
This is how she greets her father, whom the correctional officers have just escorted to one of the visiting rooms in the penitentiary where inmate visits take place. This is parlor A, since we are in sector A of the USD, which also includes sector B. A large sign on a black background with the capital letter A inscribed in white is clearly visible inside of the visiting room.
Maurice Boucher arrives smiling in the small cubicle, wearing a simple white t-shirt and a pair of jeans. He sits opposite his daughter, behind a plexiglass wall similar to the floor-to-ceiling windows of hockey rinks. It is 9.43 a.m. on a hot July morning in 2015.

Outside, it's a blazing sun. But of course, only his daughter was able to benefit from it.
- Did I wake you up? asks Alexandra, whose long hair is dyed platinum blonde.
- No why?
- Well ... I don't know. It's really rare that I come to visit you in the morning. I thought, "Maybe he's asleep."
- Well no. I get up at 6 o'clock.
- Ah! Like me, remarks her well-dressed daughter in a loose, pale blouse, white leggings and a pair of sandals.
- You've slimmed down, looks like. Eh ? Boucher asks, smiling, proud of his joke.
- Ha ha! I knew you were going to tell me that. I am on the eve of splitting. I gained ten pounds this month. Still.
- Get up then, see, that I see.
Alexandra immediately gets up from one of the two chairs which, placed next to each other, take up the entire width of the visitors' section of the parlor.
- Well, you look stable. Show me your belly. Put that up there, Boucher asks, pointing to the bottom of Alexandra's blouse.
- We're good with that. Maternity pants.
- It's done on purpose. Looks like you've lost some butt.
- I don't think so. It must be an optical illusion. I think the bigger the belly, the smaller the rest of it looks, she said humorously.
- But you look healthy.
- Yes. With my double chin.
- You have four, he laughs.

Three, let's say.
- Four, he repeats, continuing to laugh. I saw them quickly there. How are you, my baby?
- It's okay, but I can't stand it. Are you Hot?
It's so hot outside.
- It's not that bad. It’s tolerable. It seems to me that we got hotter than that last year.
- Tomorrow they announce like 30 degrees.
- Bah! It’s not hot. We had 35s last year.
- But you guys don't have air conditioning there?
- No. Here, if you want air, you have to run. Worse, it doesn't tempt me to run. Because it's hot when you stop, he laughs at his joke.
- What have you done to yourself here? she asks him, pointing a finger to his mouth. You look split.
- Ah, that's a sore spot.
- A cold sore?
- Well, it started with a bump on the inside. I think it's because I cut myself with the razor on the last stroke. There, I'm not shaving because I'm afraid to cut myself with the razor. Worse on top of that, I had lots of plaques here on my throat. Like some kind of eczema there, you know. They gave me antibiotics.
- But are you still spitting?
- I spit, but not like before, he said after having a hard cough.
- Is it less worse?
- Less worse than winter. Worse, have you been to see him? Boucher asks his daughter, touching her cheek.

- No, I'm trying, I'm kidding, I'm kidding, but there's no time. I tried to see it, but it’s quite steep.
- You know, in the mafia business here. Raynald ... The banks? Eh? says "Mom", which suddenly changes the subject.
- Banks? Alexandra repeats without really understanding.
- Desjardins banks! insists his father while whispering a name.
- Raymond? she whispers to him in turn, not sure she got it right.
- Not Raymond, Raynald! Boucher then said aloud, with a long, sonorous laugh, as he stood up and raised his chest.
- Ah, answers Alexandra simply while waiting for the continuation.
The ex-chief biker then stretches his arms outstretched. The parlor is so narrow that he presses the palms of his hands against the wall on either side. For a few seconds, he stares his daughter in the eye. Then, after pulling his jeans up higher on his waist, he breaks that short moment of silence he has knowingly caused, as if what he is going to say next matters a lot.
- OK. Because, in my opinion, he's going to come here. If he comes here, we will be able ... I know someone who can ..., he said whispering the last word, while making a repetitive gesture of the arm, as if pretending to stab someone. If he wants, he adds, while touching his cheek to signify that Woolley is the one to ask if he's okay.
- Cuddle, you tell me that worse ... It's crazy, there, I do not know. But whatever he is ..., his daughter stammers nervously, uncertainly.