Maria stood outside the Metropolitan Detention Center in Sunset Park, Brooklyn, on a recent evening, looking up. The jail loomed above, a concrete bulwark more than a dozen stories high and lined in narrow windows. Behind one of them was her husband.

Maria, who wished to be identified only by her first name because of her husband’s notoriety, had been standing there for hours. She had flown in from Bogotá, Colombia, for the weekend, only to learn she would not be allowed inside.

The sun was going down and it was time to go; she had a flight to catch. But first, she went to her rental car and pulled out what looked like a rolled-up poster and some packing tape. “A little message for my husband,” said Maria, 33, in Spanish, walking over to a warehouse across the street from the jail.

A section of the wall had been covered in signs. “Happy Father’s Day Chris B.” “Happy Thanksgiving Luchie.” “I Love You Payroll.” “Stay Strong Hubberz. We Got This.” There were signs in Spanish, posters in Hebrew. Some were handwritten and covered in tape to protect them from the elements. Others were printed on durable plastic. They hung amid scraps of tape, deflated balloons and the tattered remnants of even older signs.