Ascension Day

13

As they took up their seats in the canteen, BC nudged Rodriguez and looked towards the end of the table. ‘Hey, don’ forget. New kid on the block.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Rodriguez studied the boy. Barely in his twenties, brush-cut black hair, wide-eyed and bewildered from arriving at Libreville just the day before. Rodriguez hardly felt in the mood for it with everything with Larry still hanging by a thread; if McElroy got no joy over Josh’s e-mails to Larry, that was probably it: throw-in-the-towel time.

But it had become standard routine, his greeting of new inmates to the cell-block. His audience now expected it of him, looked forward to it. One of the high points to break the dour, stifling routine. Rodriguez headed towards the end of the table, Theo Mellor sitting next to the new inmate promptly getting up and swapping places with him. Everyone knew their part in playing it out.

‘Hey, howya doin’?’ Rodriguez held out a hand in greeting which the boy uncertainly took to shake. ‘Roddy… Roddy Rodriguez. I’m the communications guy here, yer know, for any letters and e-mails you wanna send to family and friends. An’ it also falls down to me to give you a quick introduction to who’s who here. An’ you are?’

‘Billy. Billy Hillier.’ Still uncertain, a faint smile threatening to break through.

‘Well, Billy, the first thing you’re gonna have to know is everyone’s names roun’ here. Get their names wrong, and they’ll likely slit your throat before you even started what you were gonna say to ‘em.’ Hillier went deathly white, and Rodriguez left it a few seconds before easing a smile and nudging him. ‘Just joshin’.’ Rodriguez glanced briefly back along the table, all eyes now on them expectantly, some already allowing themselves a small grin; they knew what was coming, and this one looked like he was going to make a good mark. ‘And to make it more confusin’, everyone round here’s got nicknames. So the trick is to fix somethin’ in your mind that’ll help you remember them. Now let’s start with a few easy ones: Sal Peretti along there, his first name’s Salvatore — and maybe you’ll remember Sal by the bit of salt in his hair. Well, more than a bit by now. And Gill Arneck up there, we just call him ‘Neck’ — though that’s as much ‘cause he ain’t got much neck, his fat head just sits straight on his shoulders.’ The smiles broadening along the table, a couple of chuckles. ‘And myself, Roddy…’ Rodriguez held one hand out for Hillier to fill the gap.

‘Uh… uh, short for Rodriguez?’

Rodriguez shook his head, knitting his brow. ‘Now, you see, that’s where you can easily go wrong here. Sometimes the nicknames are obvious, sometimes not so obvious. T’give you a clue, I used to be a pimp.’ Rodriguez raised an eyebrow, but Hillier remained blank, none the wiser. ‘…An’ a few of the girls used to pay me a compliment.’ Rodriguez glanced down so that there was no remaining doubt, but still it took a moment for Hillier to catch on.

‘Oh, right… right.’ Hillier smiled hesitantly.

‘Yeah.’ Rodriguez shrugged off the accolade with a coy smile. ‘It was either that or Woody. Or Stallion.’ More smiles and chuckles from around the table. ‘Now let’s get to the guys you gotta be real careful about gettin’ their nicknames right. You see that guy two tables away over there. Guy with a mean look, shoulders like a line-back and skin colour somewhere between coffee and death?’ Rodriguez nodded towards Tally Shavell rather than pointed. Then as Hillier looked over. ‘Hey, don’t look too hard. He might think you’re tryin’ to read the tattoos on his eyeballs. Gets him real upset.’

Hillier looked swiftly away, then, as around the table a few chuckles broke out, he smiled crookedly. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘Yeah, right.’ Deadpan, Rodriguez shaking his head in wonderment. ‘But let’s see how you do with his nickname. His name’s Shavell and he runs most of the rackets in here — and his nickname comes from the figures he’s always addin’ up to share out the take. Any ideas?’

‘I don’t know.’ Hillier shrugged. ‘Einstein.’

‘Einstein was a fuckin’ nuclear physicist, not a bean-countin’ prison-fixer.’ The chuckling heavier now, Peretti laughing so hard that he was holding his stomach. Rodriguez lifted his eyes heavenward for strength; though equally it was in thanks for sending him such a live one. ‘It’s “Tally”, from tallying up all those figures. And that guard up the end there wit’ the dark, lank hair, his name’s Sam Morovitz — but what’s your guess for his nickname?’

This time, though, Hillier just puckered his lips and shook his head.

‘“More-zits”,’ Rodriguez said after a moment, holding out one hand. ‘Sorta subtle word-play to fit his tenderized-hamburger face. Or maybe not so subtle: more “in your face”.’ Rodriguez eased a brief, sly smile. ‘He’s jus’ one of many lapdogs of head-guard Bateson — the main guy you gotta keep clear of here. “Bate-Boy”. I’ll point him out later. And the guard we call “The Dark One”, Torvald Engelson — he’s actually one o’ the good guys.’ Rodriguez shrugged. ‘Like I said, sometimes it’s confusin’.’

Rodriguez took a fresh breath and nodded along the table. ‘Now our good friend here that looks like Tyson’s mentally-challenged brother. Let’s do it the other way roun’. I’ll give you his nickname — BC, letter B, letter C — then by lookin’ at him see if you can work out how he got it?’

Hillier pulled a face, shaking his head after a second. ‘ Uh… it’s difficult.’

‘Look at the flat shape o’ the head… that Neanderthal look.’

‘That what?’

The smiles and chuckles rising as much in anticipation this time. It was going even better than usual.

‘You know… as in prehistoric. Like a cave man.’

Hillier chewed his bottom lip for a second. ‘I know,’ he said, stabbing a finger at Rodriguez. He thought he’d nailed it this time. ‘BC. Like in that film… Million Years BC.’

‘No, that’s not it.’ Rodriguez shook his head. ‘But to give you another clue — his surname’s Crosby.’

Hillier pondered for a moment, studying the table for inspiration before looking up again hopefully. ‘Okay. It’s his initials. He’s a Bob… or a Billy, like me.’

‘No, not it either. Though again, not a bad guess.’ Rodriguez left another pause, relishing along with everyone else Hillier’s bafflement before giving the final clue. ‘You don’t see it on him now, but when BC showed us some of his ol’ photos, he had more chains roun’ his neck and rings on his fingers than Mr T.’ Hillier’s eyebrows still furrowed, the chuckles starting to rise again around the table. ‘You know, bling. Bling Crosby. Then it became just BC.’

The group around the table had heard the punchline a score of times, but still it sent them into raptures of laughter, becoming heavier as Hillier’s expression remained puzzled and Rodriguez had to prompt.

‘Bling Crosby… you know, as in Bing Crosby.’

But Hillier’s eyebrows just knitted heavier, and as he said, ‘Who?’ the laughter became thunderous, Peretti bent over double as if he was in pain.

Rodriguez fired his audience a deadpan Jack Benny look. He should have realized that Bing Crosby to the rap generation was like Paul Robeson to his. Long-gone, no longer relevant.

Rodriguez was glad he’d done the routine, despite his concerns about the timing. It had certainly gone down well with his audience, and maybe at a time like this, with the shadow of Larry’s death edging closer, they needed their spirits lifting all the more. Even Larry was appreciative, nodding his way with a smile, eyes bright and the shadows that haunted them gone for a moment, as if to say, ‘Thanks. That might be the last time I’ll be able to enjoy that.’

Roddy, prison clown. That’s what he did best, Rodriguez thought wistfully, sneak-thieved some smiles and laughter from the doom and gloom where he could. And if he couldn’t do that, then he wasn’t good for much else. But as the laughter died, the grey walls and the dour routine settled back around them like a cloak, with only the faint clatter of their cutlery to punctuate the silence.

Jac had just come out of the shower and had started to get dressed when the phone rang. He thought for a minute it might be Alaysha asking him to bring something over, such as oregano, if he had any, or that dinner was taking longer to prepare than she’d anticipated, or, more worrying, cancelling completely. But it was Jennifer Bromwell.

‘You know I said I didn’t think we should date again… or, rather, we both more or less came to that conclusion. Well, I’ve been thinking… and maybe it is a good idea if we did.’

Jac paused halfway through buttoning his shirt. ‘But I thought you had a boyfriend. The rock musician that your father wasn’t keen on.’

‘What, Kelvin? Oh sure, I’m still with him.’ Jennifer chuckled lightly as she realized he’d grabbed the wrong end of the stick. ‘I didn’t mean date, date. I meant pretend to continue seeing each other as if we were dating.’

‘Oh, right. I see.’ Although he still had little idea.

‘The way I see it — my dad and mom don’t want me to continue seeing Kelvin, so every time I go out with him, I get grief. And they’re already pressing for when I’m next meant to be seeing you — because when they asked how our date went, I said great, fine. Not only because that’s what they wanted to hear, but because — the love and romance bit aside — that’s exactly how I think the date went: great! And I thought that was pretty much how you felt about it, too.’

‘Yes, I did,’ Jac said automatically. He still wasn’t fully up to speed on where she was heading, and he had half an eye on the clock. He’d left it tight as it was to get dressed on time, and, as if to remind him, next door he could hear the soft clatter of pans and opening and shutting of kitchen cupboard doors. The final minutes of preparation and setting the table.

‘So, the thing is, I can see that I’m going to continue to get grief from my parents every time I date Kelvin… and you’ve got a similar problem with your Aunt Camille.’

‘True,’ Jac agreed. He’d only had one call so far from Camille asking how it went, but since he’d said much the same as Jennifer — ‘Great, fine, nice girl’ — no doubt the enquiries would soon increase in intensity. His excuse that they hadn’t yet set the next date because of his heavy workload was only going to buy him so much time.

‘And if it wasn’t me, she’d only try to set you up with someone else that she considered “suitable”. So I thought… if we made out that we were continuing to date, that would take all the pressure off — for both of us. I could keep seeing Kelvin whenever I was meant to be seeing you, and you, well… at least you wouldn’t have Camille pushing every buck-toothed rich-kid in the state in front of you.’

‘That’d be fine, I can see the sense in that,’ Jac said, sighing gently as he prepared to let her down. ‘Only problem is, I’m starting to see someone else.’

‘My, my, Jac McElroy, you don’t waste much time. We only just started courtin’, and already you’re cheatin’ on me.’ Jennifer feigned a heavy Southern Belle accent which lapsed into a chuckle.

‘I know, I know. Just came up, out of the blue.’ But with the thought of Alaysha so close to that of Aunt Camille, his mind fast-forwarded to the possible nightmare conversation: ‘Thanks for the offer of Louisiana’s finest and most eligible, but I’ve decided in the end to date a lap-dancer. Family? Struggling down-at-heel immigrants originally from Port-of-Spain. Father a wife-beater, deserted the family early, mother on welfare. Oh, and she’s already got a child by another man who didn’t have the courtesy to marry her and headed down the same route as her father: lashing out and leaving early. That’s why she’s lap-dancing — to support the child.’ That would go down with Camille like an Islamic terrorist at a Bar-Mitzvah. She’d probably oust his mother and sister from her house that same night. ‘Though… wait a minute. Perhaps this could work out — as you say, to both our advantages.’ If Camille thought that he was going out with Jennifer Bromwell, at least she wouldn’t ask any awkward questions. ‘But I don’t have the time right now to go through all the details… I’m already running late for a dinner appointment. So can I phone you when I get in from work tomorrow and we’ll work out the timing for the first date? Make sure we get our respective stories straight.’

‘Great. Look forward to it, Jac.’

And having just agreed to dating another woman, he finished getting ready for dinner with Alaysha Reyner.

Dinner was typical Creole: shrimp remoulade, chicken and smoked sausage jambalaya and catfish etouffee.

Alaysha was wearing jeans with a black semi-transparent gauze top that showed her bra. But it was an elaborate dress bra — black with silver stitching and studs — that was meant to be seen. Molly was staying with her grandmother that night, Alaysha explained as they sat down, noticing Jac’s eyes stray and take in the room for a second. Almost a mirror image of his apartment, except that the decor was ten steps above: a lot of salmon and soft pastels, it somehow seemed larger yet at the same time warmer, more inviting.

With the way that her wavy dark hair tilted and swayed as they ate, her smiles and laughter at intervals as the small talk gathered pace, her lip-gloss making her lips look moist, inviting, and those warm brown eyes with green flecks that seemed to make him melt every time they settled on him — the effect was dazzling. As before, Jac found her beauty intimidating, his mouth suddenly dry with nervous anticipation of what might happen between them.

And on top of that he had the tension — a writhing, tightening ball in the pit of his stomach — of what he now had to broach with Alaysha.

After the let-down with the video tape, Haveling’s call the day before had given him fresh hope that he might be on a roll again. Good news on two fronts: Dennis Marmont had finally come to in hospital, and while Haveling had decided not to fully accept one account over the other, guards’ or prisoners’, that mid-ground stance had at least meant that nothing would go on Durrant’s file about an attempted prison break, and he’d overall provide a ‘fair and sturdy reference to support his clemency petition.’

Jac headed to Libreville to see Rodriguez straight after, because it wasn’t the sort of thing they could discuss on the phone — faking the e-mails from Josh Durrant — but Rodriguez wasn’t able to help, communications were monitored too closely. ‘Monitorin’ guard would pick up straight-off that the message came from inside.’ The only thing he could help with was to smooth the way for it incoming, if someone else was able to send it from the outside. ‘I could also send the last few e-mails from Josh t’make sure the flavour was got right.’

But as Rodriguez looked across sharply with an arched eyebrow, and Jac realized that Rodriguez was suggesting that he send it — Jac explained that he couldn’t. He felt uncomfortable enough even being involved with it, let alone actually sending himself. ‘If something like this was traced back directly to me, I’d be struck off the bar before I could draw breath. I’d never be able to practice law again.’

They’d sat in awkward silence for a moment before Rodriguez commented with a shrug. ‘Somehow don’t sit right us all givin’ up for no other reason than all our hands are tied. Mine, ‘cause I can’t send the message, yours ‘cause o’ your career… and Franny Durrant ‘cause she’s afraid of losin’ her new partner. And meanwhile we all just sit back and let Larry die.’

Jac had nodded numbly, eyes closing for a second as he felt Rodriguez’s words settle like a ten-ton weight on his shoulders, why couldn’t Rodriguez just stick to comedy? — when it suddenly struck him who might be able to send it. ‘The person, in fact, who first suggested the idea.’

‘What? Some lawyer buddy who, unlike you, don’ mind playin’ dirty?’

‘No. It’s a lap-dancer I just met.’

Rodriguez beamed widely. ‘Now you’re talkin’. Slip a C-note into their G-strings and those girls will do just ‘bout anything. No, seriously. If you jus’ met her — d’yer think she’ll play ball on this?’

‘Only one way to find out.’

‘Yeah.’ Rodriguez nodded with wry smile. ‘But one word of advice, if I may. You’re meant to fuck ‘em before you let them too much into your private life. Otherwise you risk fallin’ into that awkward mid-territory of “just-friends”.’

Just friends. Jac had immediately discounted Langfranc or his sister, too close, and while Alaysha would keep it at arm’s length from himself, and yes, it had been her suggestion — it was still a hell of a favour to ask of someone you’d just met.

Jac swallowed hard as he looked across the table at Alaysha. And the last impression he wanted to give now was that that favour was even close to the main purpose of the date — so he’d decided to wait before broaching the subject. Besides, from the way that at moments her eyes clouded and she’d look to one side, he got the feeling that she too had something on her mind. He decided to let her go first — but equally she was slow getting round to whatever was troubling her, as if it was awkward or she feared it was too sensitive for an early date.

‘It’s amazing we’ve lived next door to each other all this time without ever seeing each other,’ she commented.

‘Yeah.’ Jac shrugged. ‘I’ve had a hectic time the last year or so with fresh bar exams. And a lot of weekends I head out to see my mum and sister in Hammond.’

Alaysha nodded thoughtfully. ‘And is it your mom that’s originally French?’

‘Yes. My dad’s Scottish.’ Jac explained that his mother’s parents hailed from near Bordeaux, but because of their anti-Vichy stance they left France during the Second World War and settled in Scotland — which is where she had met Adam, Jac’s father. ‘That’s why when my father hankered after opening an artists’ retreat, he chose the Bordeaux area. It would be like a return to roots for my mum. And that’s where we lived from when I was eight years old up until just three years ago, when my father…’ Jac’s voice trailed off. Enough death hanging over him with Durrant.

Alaysha smiled tightly, as if in understanding, but the silence settled deeper as the seconds passed, a faint tension creeping into it.

‘How’s the Jambalaya?’ Alaysha asked, breaking it.

‘Just how I like it.’ He held up a forefinger and thumb pinched together in an O. ‘Even though I’ve only had it a couple of times before.’

‘Give you some grits and gumbos, and you’ll almost be a native.’ She smiled again, and Jac raised his wine glass in acknowledgment, returning her smile.

The small talk was running thin — but still she looked briefly again to one side before making the final resolve to say something.

‘This “prisoner” you mentioned the problems with? Is it by any chance Lawrence Durrant?’

She held her gaze on him unflinchingly, and he had the same feeling as when he’d first met her. As if she could somehow see through to his very soul. And lying to her at this stage wouldn’t exactly help him when he got around to asking his favour.

‘Yes… yes it is,’ he said on the back of a resigned exhalation. ‘What made you suspicious — think that it might be him?’

‘Oh. Intuition. Clemency appeal and “wanting to die” all but narrowed it down to a possibility of one.’

‘Yeah, but how did you work it out from there?’ He ducked as she smiled and threw her balled-up paper napkin at him, his brow creasing as he straightened. ‘Really — was it that transparent?’

‘Pretty much. There hasn’t been an execution in Louisiana for over a year, and the only one I can see scheduled any time soon is that of Lawrence Durrant. At least from what I see in the news.’

‘I’ll have to be more careful in future not to mention death or clemency. Just saying “the prisoner” obviously isn’t enough to protect my client’s identity.’

‘Looks like it.’ She mirrored his thoughtfulness for a second before introducing a more upbeat tone. ‘But, hey, one hell of a case to land. You must be excited?’

It would have been so easy to play the big shot and score points by saying that he’d got the case because he was such a high-flyer at Payne, Beaton and Sawyer. But, as with everything else so far with her, he had the feeling she’d see straight through it. It wouldn’t get him anywhere.

‘Not really.’ Jac shrugged. ‘The firm only gave me the case rather than keeping it for one of the senior partners because it’s such a no-hoper. All the juicy stuff was apparently exhausted at appeal. All I’m left with is sweeping up the dust — but looks like I’ve broken my broom after the first couple of strokes. I’m striking out before I’ve hardly started.’

Alaysha’s eyebrows knitted. ‘But that suggestion I made the other day — I thought that was meant to have helped shift the deadlock?’

Jac nodded. ‘It would have, except that Durrant’s prison buddy, Rodriguez, can’t do it. Everything in and out of the communication room is strictly monitored — so there’d be no way of him getting away with it.’

‘Oh, I see.’

As Alaysha’s eyes settled back on him, Jac felt a stab of conscience. Still it felt wrong asking her to do it. Too early. ‘You’re meant to fuck ‘em before you let them too much into your private life.’ Maybe that was the trade-off: any chance of a relationship with Alaysha gone to save Larry Durrant’s life.

Jac swallowed, shook his head. ‘I can’t do it, either… it breaks every possible rule of lawyer-client trust.’ Jac repeated much the same he had to Rodriguez about being struck off the bar in a heartbeat if he was found out. ‘The only possibility I hit upon while with Rodriguez was that someone else do it. Someone not directly linked with Durrant…’

Jac was watching Alaysha’s expression closely throughout, but it took her a second to realize that he was asking her if she could do it. The faint jolt to her body and clouding in her eyes was late in registering. She looked down fleetingly before looking back at him directly.

‘That’s a pretty big favour to ask?’

‘I know. And I’d understand if you felt you couldn’t help.’

‘No… I didn’t mean it like that. Okay, yeah, it was my idea — but asking me to be hands-on and actually do it. That’s another level entirely. It means that… that you must trust me.’

In turn, it took Jac a second to realize that she felt strangely flattered rather than outraged. He smiled tightly and cast his eyes down, as if in coy acceptance. He didn’t want to dilute the sentiment by saying he couldn’t think of anyone else because in his few years in New Orleans he hadn’t made that many close friends; or, as Roddy had put it, ‘crooked lawyer buddies’.

‘And is this your last hope of getting Durrant to want to live, as you see it?’ she asked.

‘Pretty much. If this doesn’t work, I’d have to admit to being stuck for what next to do.’

She looked down briefly again, as if searching for invisible inspiration in her Jambalaya.

‘Okay, okay. I’ll do it,’ she said finally, exhaling as if she was easing a weight off her chest.

Jac eyed her cautiously. ‘Are you sure you’re okay with this?’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’ Her initially hesitant smile became fuller, more confident. ‘In fact I’m glad to be able to help.’

Jac nodded gently as he saw Alaysha’s last reservations slip away. He wondered whether to tell her about his mystery e-mailer — reciprocation for helping out with something so momentous, showing her even more trust — but in the end decided against it. There probably wasn’t much advice she could offer and, besides, he’d already over-stretched client confidentiality.

They were silent for a moment, only the clinking of their cutlery and a Clara Moreno album playing softly in the background.

Jac saw something in Alaysha’s eyes then, a warmth and soulfulness that went deeper, hit another level he hadn’t been aware of before, as if she’d purposely shielded it from him till that moment. Though he had no idea what it meant until almost an hour later, as she was clearing away and leant in towards him and started kissing him.

They were tentative at first, as if she was testing the water before diving fully in. But after that, it was almost two minutes before she pulled back for air again, looking at him thoughtfully as she traced the moistness she’d left on his top lip with one fingertip.

‘Now that I’ve agreed to do a big favour for you… well, looks like I might need one in return. It involves my boyfriend…’

Jac was quick to give his agreement to what she asked, probably far quicker than he’d have been without the heat of her closeness firing him on — because much of what she was suggesting helped close the door on the chapter with her boyfriend and left the way clear for himself.

And as he nodded and their bond of clandestine mutual favours was sealed with more rapid, fervent kisses and Alaysha started unbuttoning his shirt before leaning back to slide her own top over her head — that look returned again to her eyes, and Jac knew then what it was.

It signalled the moment that she’d first decided she was going to sleep with him, straight after she’d agreed to help him with his last-ditch duplicitous bid to try and save Larry Durrant’s life.

Their lovemaking felt like a dream, happening so quickly, fervently, breathlessly, that the images were little different when they replayed in Jac’s dream later that same night; tinged with the same hazy glow of the streetlight filtering into Alaysha’s bedroom.

Her coffee-cream skin, bathed in orange light, her hazel-brown eyes drawing him in like a welcoming blanket of autumn leaves, the beads of sweat massing on her top lip and, when he looked down, spread across her entire body like fine raindrops; and her breath, hot and urgent in his ear, urging him on.

‘Oh, fuck me… fuck me, Jac. Fuck me!’

But beyond her body heat and him frantically keeping rhythm with her, he started to hear the bed banging — though he could never remember that at the time. And he realized it was someone knocking at her apartment door, her boyfriend’s voice.

‘Who have you got with you? What are you doing in there?’

Then suddenly there was the banging of a door behind him, then another — the same banging he’d heard on that first night through the apartment wall — successive doors slamming like pistol shots as her boyfriend moved inexorably towards them.

But as the bedroom door burst open it was Larry Durrant standing there, gun in hand, as in his previous dream; yet this time, as the bullet hit and suddenly it was Jessica Roche beneath him, he didn’t pull back, repulsed, but clung on, eyes searching for clues he might have missed last time… something… something… her blood hot and clammy against his skin, mingling with his sweat.

‘No, no, no…. No!

Larry shouting from the doorway was little more than a silhouette, the stark light behind that of the corridor at Libreville, his desperate cries echoing through its cavernous grey depths. His face, fearful and beaded with sweat, became suddenly quizzical, pleading.

‘Don’t tell anyone what just happened here… please, Mr McElroy. Perhaps we can hide the body somewhere so that nobody will know. Maybe then I’ll get to hear from my little boy again… I haven’t heard from him in a while…’

Jac awoke with a jolt as the thunder crashed only a second after the lightning flash. His heart was beating wildly and his body was bathed in sweat, as if he had only seconds ago been making love to Alaysha.

Jac swallowed, trying to get his heartbeat settled again. He wondered if he was getting into a repetitive dream-cycle again, as in the year after his father died: the settings were usually familiar, their farmhouse, Isle de Rey beaches, but in many of them he was having fresh conversations with his father, as if he was still alive; and he’d start to panic that if he said the wrong thing, his father would then realize he was dead.

The storm outside growled and rumbled. It had been hot with the humidity sky-high before Jac went to sleep, pressure-cooking its way steadily upward through much of the day. The sort of weather that made you sweat just buttering toast, let alone making love. If it was uncomfortable here, it would be unbearable at Libreville, hot and foetid at the best of times. And for a second he had a mental snapshot of Durrant laying on his prison bed listening to the same storm, thinking about the days ahead until his execution and the many things he’d now never get to do… like holding his son in his arms again. Or maybe he was sleeping easy, like a baby. After all, he was finally going where he wanted. His Ascension Day.

He was still uneasy about misleading Durrant over his son’s e-mails; though at least he was able to console himself that the end — keeping Durrant alive — justified the means. But what was starting to unsettle him more was misleading Durrant that his clemency would buy time to prove his innocence and finally gain him freedom. Jac hadn’t even given a second thought to that, because, from what he’d seen in the police and trial files, such a quest seemed hopeless, impossible.

So while he might hopefully get Durrant clemency now, at best it would be a commute to life imprisonment. In the end all he’d be doing was sentencing Larry Durrant to another ten to fifteen in that foetid, oppressive hell-hole. And, thinking about that now, maybe Durrant had been right all along. Given that choice, maybe death would be preferable.