Ascension Day

8

Carmen Malastra was a Don from the old school: ‘Moustache Pete’s’, ‘Don Corleones’ and ‘Dinosaurs’ were amongst the many disparaging terms for them.

Malastra was keenly aware that, in order to survive, he should keep abreast of the times with at least one foot in the modern age: brutally wiping out anyone who got within a sniff of threatening his power base might not on its own be enough.

For years he’d resisted anything to do with modern electronics and computers: that was for his kids, correct that, grandkids, and whenever it played a part in his many business enterprises, well, that was what he employed geeks and nerds for.

Besides, at his age now, the wrong side of sixty, it wasn’t seemly, gentlemanly, to be seen playing around on a computer next to some kid with a nose ring and half his hair dyed flame-orange. He was of a different era, an age where suaveness and ‘style’ still had meaning.

But as soon as that thought hit him, he realized he’d found the key to keeping one foot in the modern age. He took three two-month night courses without saying a word to anyone; his Capos and staff thought that he must have a private lady friend. Very private.

And when he’d finished the courses, he could talk Java, HotMetal, firewalls and Macromedia with the best of them, his liver-spotted hands flying across the keyboard. But the rest of him still remained very much old school: formal evening suits for dinners and functions; black in winter, white in summer, often with a cummerbund, Aqua di Selva doused liberally on his neck and mixed with olive oil to coat his swept-back grey hair.

The scent of pine and olive trees: it reminded him of playing in the woodlands and farm-fields of his native Calabria when he was a little boy.

The first thing he’d done with his new computer knowledge was go through his accounts, see if he could siphon even more cash out of reach of the IRS. That was when he discovered that some siphoning was already taking place, but heading the other way from his Bay Tree Casino.

Nel-M phoned in the middle of this dilemma, claiming the hit on Ferrer and apologizing for same.

‘He was trying to stiff my Mr Roche outta some funds. Under normal circumstances, we’d of course have come to you first — let you deal with it your own way. But I got into an unfortunate argument with Ferrer, he went for his piece — and I was left with little choice.’

‘I see. Was unfortunate.’ Malastra’s attention was still mostly on his computer screen, trying to pick apart just how the scam had taken place and who was responsible.

‘But as a mark of respect, we felt we should make a contribution. The same amount that Ferrer was demanding — forty thousand — seemed right.’

That got Malastra’s attention. ‘That’s quite a sum Ferrer was after?’

‘Yeah, it was.’

Silence. Nel-M obviously wasn’t going to offer to explain, and Malastra wasn’t going to be clumsy enough to ask.

‘Thank you kindly for the offer — and I accept. It’ll help fill the hole in what Ferrer was pulling in.’ In reality, there’d be no hole; Ferrer had been replaced within two days. And Malastra was glad of the call: it got rid of the nagging worry that it might have been a rival and a turf war was looming. ‘Give my regards to your fine Mr Roche.’

Two more days on and off at the computer and Malastra had put all the pieces together. Originally set up to skim money away from the IRS, involving exchanging cash for dummy receipts between the bar and chip-cashing booth, it looked like the Bay Tree’s manager, George Jouliern, had been taking some off the top for himself.

Malastra picked up the phone and summoned one of his Capos, Tommy ‘Bye-bye’ Angellini.

Bye-bye eased his large frame into the proffered chair and waited patiently as Malastra went through his final deliberations on the computer.

Pushing fifty, Bye-bye’s hair was dyed jet black; partly to hide the grey, but mostly in homage to his two idols, Elvis and Johnny Cash. With his bulk, he looked more like Elvis in his final hamburger days.

Malastra looked up finally from his computer screen.

‘George Jouliern. And soon.’

That was all that was said between the two men. Bye-bye nodded and left.

‘I’m sorry if I startled you.’

‘No, that’s okay,’ Jac said. The girl from next door! He felt his face still flushed from the adrenalin rush, or maybe it was her proximity. Viewed from a corridor’s length away, she was a beauty, but up close she took his breath away. Her brown eyes seemed to sparkle and tease at the same time, and her body heat and perfume wrapped around him like a soft velvet shroud. His mouth was suddenly dry. ‘I… I was just reaching for the light switch on the way to my apartment.’ Jac pointed towards his door.

‘Oh, right. You live there. We’re neighbours and didn’t even know it.’ She smiled broadly and reached out a delicate hand. ‘Alaysha Reyner. Pleased to meet you.’

Jac took the proffered hand and shook it lightly. ‘Jac McElroy. Jack with no “k”. Pleased to meet you too.’

They stood silently, awkwardly for a second, not sure who might speak next, if there was anything else to say — then she reached down to the bag she’d left on the floor as she’d pushed the light switch. But as she straightened, she looked at Jac again, as if as an afterthought.

‘By the way — was that you I saw coming along the corridor the other day?’ she asked. ‘Then suddenly disappeared from view.’

‘Yes, I….’ Jac was distracted as a door opened on the other side of the corridor, and Alaysha turned too: Mrs Orwin, pushing eighty and half-toothless, who made it her business to check any noise close by her door and strike up a conversation with the passer-by if she saw fit, appraised them briefly, forced a closed-mouth grimace so that she didn’t frighten them too much, then as quickly closed the door back the few inches she’d opened it. The flushing in Jac’s face had subsided slightly with the pause. ‘I… I got a call on my cell-phone and had to head back to the apartment.’

‘Oh, okay.’ Alaysha appraised him with a wry smile. ‘And here was me thinking that you were hiding from me.’

‘As if,’ Jac said, hoping that, despite his obvious embarrassment, she might take it as a compliment.

She studied him a second longer, as if unsure how to read his reaction. ‘Well, must go now. Again, nice to meet you.’

‘Yes, you too…’ Then, as with a smile she turned away, Jac panicked that this might be the last time he’d see her for a while. He might not get this opportunity again. ‘I was wondering if you might like to go…’ But as she looked back, he felt himself melt again, along with any resolve, and thought better of it. ‘No, it’s okay… I… it doesn’t matter.’

Alaysha studied him more intently this time, her eyes scanning from his shoes then back up to his face. Quite tall, light-brown hair, fairly handsome, though not pretty-boy so. But he had the most incredible blue-grey eyes, which somehow seemed sad, lost — she couldn’t work out why she found them so appealing. And his accent: a faint hint of French along with something else? A coy smile tilted one side of her mouth. ‘Were you just about to ask me out on a date?’

‘No, I…I…’ But under the intensity of her gaze, her coy smile becoming questioning, challenging, the pretence felt foolish. ‘Well, yes… but I realize it could be awkward for you. You probably still have a boyfriend.’

Her mouth curled into a grimace, as if she’d encountered a bad taste. ‘I haven’t, as it turns out. He’s history — even though very recent history.’ Her face quickly brightened again as she gave him another once-over with her eyes. ‘So, if you’re asking — the answer is yes.’

‘That’s great.’ Jac mellowed his rapidly rising smile so that he didn’t come across as over-eager. ‘Maybe we could go to Arnaud’s… or Begue’s.’

She seemed to only half take in the possible venues. ‘But not tomorrow night, I’m working; and the same too most Fridays and Saturdays. Sundays or Mondays are the best… oh, except this Sunday I’m due to go to my mom’s.’

Jac didn’t want to leave it until the following weekend. ‘This coming Monday, then. What, say, eight o’clock — give me time to get all the way over to your place.’

‘Okay. You’ve got a date.’ She smiled and nodded, putting one hand lightly on his shoulder in acknowledgement. Shaking hands suddenly seemed too formal, now that they were going on a date. Then her expression became slightly quizzical as what he’d said earlier suddenly dawned on her. ‘You said still have a boyfriend. Have you maybe seen me coming in with Gerry sometime before, then?’

Again, with the steadiness of her gaze, any pretence felt out of place. Jac swallowed.

‘No, it’s not that. I heard him shouting at you a few nights back, and there was some banging and thudding that worried me. I’m sorry.’ Jac wasn’t sure whether he was apologizing for her having a boyfriend that shouted at her, or for listening in. ‘That’s why I tried to see you on the corridor the other day. To see whether he might have hurt you.’

Her eyes flickered as she took in what he said, rolling through varying emotions: pain of the memory, embarrassment that anyone had heard — but as her face softened and her eyes became slightly moist, it was clear the emotion that had finally won through.

She brought one hand up and lightly touched one of Jac’s cheeks with the back of her fingertips. ‘You’re a sweet guy. Thanks. It’s nice to know that you took the trouble to care.’ She could have added: it was nice to know that anyone still cared.

But there was no point in burdening this Jac McElroy with the darker shades of her life. Frightening him off before they’d even started to get to know each other.

Jac’s step was light as they said their goodbyes, ‘Until Monday night,’ and he walked into his apartment. No love-life to speak of since Madeleine, and suddenly he had two dates in as many days.

It looked like being a pivotal weekend for his career too; if he got nothing worthwhile from Rodriguez, he’d have little choice but to walk away from the Durrant case.

‘So, they took you down to the boiler room,’ Jac confirmed. ‘Did you make any noise that might alert anyone? Did anyone else see you on the way down?’

‘I made some noise at first when I realized what was goin’ down — but one of ‘em got a hand quickly over my mouth. And wit’ the route they took, cutting down past the restrooms and laundry and only passin’ a handful of cells with open fronts — I’m not sure just who mighta heard or saw me.’ Rodriguez looked down thoughtfully for a second. ‘Though, of course, with who showed up later — obviously one person did hear me.’

The tension mounted steadily in the small interview room as Rodriguez described the events on the night he was taken from his cell. Haveling, his assistant Pete Folley and a guard were ensconced behind the one-way glass screen, the red light on the base of the table microphone indicating that sound was going through to them.

When Rodriguez had entered the interview room, Jac saw that he carried three books: The Catcher in the Rye, Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath and Dostoyevski’s Crime and Punishment. And beneath them, a hand-written letter and two editions of Libreville’s quarterly magazine, Libre-Voice.

‘I brought these,’ Rodriguez offered, ‘‘cause you said on the phone that you wanted support for why Larry, “Thes”, should continue living.’

‘That’s true… I did.’ Jac nodded towards the microphone. The red-light wasn’t on at that stage, Haveling and Folley were just getting settled behind the screen. ‘But that’s going to be for the second part of the interview. This first part, which will be monitored and recorded, is to establish what happened on the night of October twenty-fourth. The night you received your injuries.’ The last thing Jac wanted to do was go into detail about Durrant’s death-wish with Haveling listening in.

Rodriguez wasn’t tall, no more than five-five, and was slightly built. Jac could see that he might have problems in Libreville without someone like Durrant to watch his back. And the evidence of that was strongly etched on his face with the welts and bruises still there, one of them a golf-ball-sized lump that half closed one eye. The sight of Rodriguez’ injuries weren’t helped by the freckles across his nose and cheeks, some of them so large they looked almost like blotches, as if his Latino blood had had problems dispersing evenly through his skin.

But his liveliness of spirit was evident in his eyes: coal-black, constantly darting, assessing, sparkling with verve and cloaked humour — or, if you caught him on a bad day, malice. His only warning-off device. Jac leant closer to the mike. ‘And when they grabbed you in your cell, did you recognize them?’

‘Not at first — it was too dark. But as they took me out into the corridor, I gotta better look.’ Rodriguez glanced towards the mirrored-glass screen, as if appreciating that the information would have most impact to those behind it. ‘The guard was Dennis Marmont. And the other two were inmates — Silass and Jay-T.’

‘I see. And was there another guard with them at any time? A certain Glenn Bateson?’

‘No… no, there wasn’t. He only appeared at the last minute with ‘nother two guards to break everything up. In fact, only one other person was present — Tally Shavell. He was already waitin’ for me down in the boiler room. King Shit.’ Rodriguez shook his head. ‘Sorry, that’s our other nickname for him.’

Before the meeting, Jac had spent twenty minutes in the annexe to Haveling’s office going through Rodriguez’ file. In Libreville for murdering a rival pimp for the heavy beating of one of his stable of girls, Rodriguez had taken a basic paralegal course, which had led to him being one of two inmates entrusted to help run the prison’s ‘communication and advice’ centre, since a significant part of that would entail contact between inmates and their legal representatives. Jac could see Rodriguez’ formal legalese phrasing take over as he explained events, but his more familiar prison jibe-talk wasn’t far beneath the surface.

‘Once you were down in the boiler room, what happened then?’ Jac wanted more detail on the assault, not only for the impact of what they’d done to Rodriguez to sink home with Haveling — but because it was something difficult to lie about in minute, graphic detail.

As Rodriguez related the events, Jac could practically see him wince with the memory of each blow landing, the shadows in his eyes mirroring his fear in those desperate moments.

‘And if Lawrence Durrant hadn’t arrived when he did, what do you believe would have happened to you?’ Jac asked.

‘I believe they’da killed me — in fact, I’m sure that was their aim all along.’

Jac purposely left silence as breathing space to Rodriguez’ closing comment, then leant closer to the microphone. ‘Thank you, Mr Rodriguez. That concludes this part of the interview.’ He fired a tight grimace towards the glass screen as he flicked off the red light. Hopefully it was enough to convince Haveling — especially with the coded note intended for Marmont that Jac had shown him.

The atmosphere in the interview room immediately eased with the red light off, both of them knowing that they were no longer being monitored, and as Jac’s eyes fell again to the books, Rodriguez was there before him, explaining.

‘If you look at the letter at the front, written by Larry eight years ago at the time of his appeal, then at the margin notes made in the books — you’ll see what I’m gettin’ at.’

Jac scanned the letter, then started flicking through the first pages of The Catcher in the Rye. It took a moment for Jac to realize what the notes were before confirming with Rodriguez.

‘These are Larry Durrant’s notes in the margin?’ Jac rapidly flicked through the rest of the book. Some pages had no margin notes at all, some only one or two small entries — but in almost half the book the notes were extensive, often almost filling the available margin space. ‘All of these suggested changes and corrections?’

‘Yeah, that’s right. He’s been editin’ Catcher in the Rye, for Christ’s sake. A fuckin’ ‘merican classic.’ Rodriguez picked up the other two books and quickly fanned their pages towards Jac. ‘And the same with Steinbeck and Dostoyevski. And going from that…’ Rodriguez tapped the letter, then pointed back to the books… ‘to that — you’ll get some handle on just how much Larry Durrant has progressed while he’s been in here. And on top we got all his good work an’ contributions with the prison magazine.’ Rodriguez pulled out one of the magazines and held it up. ‘That’s why he’s worthwhile fightin’ for. Why he’s now a worthwhile citizen that shouldn’t be allowed to die.’ Rodriguez shook his head. ‘He just ain’t the same Larry Durrant he was when he first came in here.’

Jac looked again at the letter. Even though it was fairly basic and simple, with two or three spelling errors, it didn’t smack of total illiteracy — although Jac took Rodriguez’ point. There was a Grand Canyon gap between the letter and Durrant’s editing notes and articles. A remarkable journey that could hopefully impress the State Governor as to Durrant’s worthiness — if they got that far.

‘Thanks for this. And believe me I’ll put it all to good use to try and tip Governor Candaret’s hand — but right now that’s not the problem.’ Jac grimaced tightly. ‘The immediate hurdle is not whether we can convince the State not to execute Durrant — but whether or not he wants to live. Because he tells me flat out that he doesn’t want to. He’s tired, had enough, and doesn’t even want me to put in a clemency plea on his behalf. He wants to die. His “Ascension Day”, he calls it.’

‘Oh, that.’ From Rodriguez’ tone, it wasn’t clear whether ‘that’ referred to Durrant’s admission of wanting to die, or his religion.

‘He’s shared this with you before? His wanting to die?’

‘Yeah, a couple of times.’ Rodriguez shrugged. ‘But yer know — we all go through that in here from time to time. So down and weary of it all that we just want “out”. And if we can’t actually get out — then that becomes the alternative.’ Rodriguez shook his head. ‘But when it came t’ the crunch — possible clemency on one hand and execution the other — I didn’t think he’d actually go t’rough with it. That’s sad to know. Sad and bad.’ Rodriguez looked down morosely for a second, all the verve suddenly gone from his eyes. ‘You tried pushin’ him? Didn’t just take it first-off that’s what he wanted?’

‘Yes, tried everything. Even that he needed to hang around to watch your back. That you wouldn’t last long in here without him.’

‘Nice to know that tactic was so effective.’ Rodriguez smiled briefly. ‘You know, on occasion when he got down and brought this subject up ‘bout wantin’ to die — I’d josh him, how could he? And miss out on all my good jokes over the next ten years? Even jus’ making fun of Tally Shavell and takin’ him down a notch or two was surely worth the ticket price of those extra years. And after that sly laugh of his, he’d pat me on the shoulder and say that I’d already brightened his days ‘nough for a hundred years. He’d never forget me.’ Rodriguez shook his head. ‘Never forget me. I should have caught on then that he was more serious ‘bout it than I thought.’

Jac realized then that the association between them, at least from Rodriguez to Durrant, had been mostly jocular and bantering, with Rodriguez constantly trying to lift Durrant’s mood whenever he was gloomy or down. It might have felt out of place for Rodriguez to suddenly step out of that mould and get serious, start probing Durrant whether he really wanted to die, or what had made him feel that way? Perhaps Rodriguez too, to keep his own psyche upbeat, wouldn’t have wanted to hear the answers.

‘That’s the main reason I’m here now, Mr Rodriguez — apart from hearing your account of what happened that night in the boiler room with Shavell. To find out if there’s anything you can think of that might convince Larry Durrant to want to continue living. Anything?’

Rodriguez looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know. Dealin’ out his innermost thoughts and secrets where he might not want it — that’s not what me and him are all ‘bout. He’s a very private guy. And, I mean, if he’s already made his mind up — maybe we should respect that.’ Rodriguez met Jac’s eyes steadily for a second before casting them to one side, some darker shadows settling into them. ‘Larry was in here five years ‘fore I even got here, you know. And if things ain’t bad ‘nough here now — Libreville was a much more brutal, unforgivin’ place then. The highest inmate murder rate of any prison nationwide. God knows what those years might have done to him — in here, man, yer know.’ Rodriguez tapped his chest with his fist, then pointed to the books, forcing a smile. ‘Also, it ain’t as if he’s the easiest guy to sway. Now he’s got to the point of thinkin’ he knows better than Salinger and Steinbeck — what the hell difference do you think you or I are gonna make?’

Jac looked down, conceding the point. He’d found much the same with Durrant, defiant and immovable. In their last meeting, he’d seen only one small chink of possible weakness.

‘Durrant’s son, Joshua?’ Jac asked. ‘What can you tell me about their association? When I mentioned the boy — it seemed to be the only thing to create some doubt in Durrant’s mind. If only for a moment.’

Rodriguez looked even more uneasy. He raised a sharp eyebrow. ‘Larry’s family? Oooooh no. Definite no-go area. Larry guards them more jealously than any other secrets he might hold. I wouldn’ dream of — ’

‘Look, Mr Rodriguez,’ Jac cut in impatiently, looking at his watch. He’d done nothing but bash his head against a brick wall so far with Durrant, he was damned if he was going to do the same with Rodriguez. ‘In forty-one days, Larry Durrant is going to die — if anyone in the state of Louisiana in fact needed reminding. And at that point, what his family means to him, or in turn him to them, is going to have little relevance — except in memory. So you’ll perhaps excuse me if I appear not to have much time for your tip-toeing around prison protocol and what might or might not seem right between you and Larry Durrant.’

Rodriguez fired Jac a similar sly, challenging smile to Durrant’s when he’d finally conceded the other day, ‘You’re good.’ But then his expression quickly sank back into doubt as he weighed up his position.

‘Look, there was somethin’ that happened recently with Larry’s son, Joshua,’ he said finally, looking up. He bit lightly at his bottom lip, as if still uncertain he was doing the right thing. ‘But if I say anythin’ — it wasn’t from me, okay? I got ‘nough injuries already, without having to put up with a neck brace for a few months.’

Jac smiled and nodded his assent.

‘And I say that not just because of breakin’ protocols between myself and Larry,’ Rodriguez continued, ‘but ‘cause of the confidences I should keep as one of the main men in the communication room. On both counts I shouldn’t be saying anythin’ about this.’

Jac met the concern in Rodriguez’ eyes with a more solemn gaze, and nodded again. ‘I understand.’

Rodriguez shuffled slightly in his seat, as if he was still getting comfortable with what he was about to say. ‘I don’t know whether Larry has told you or not — but he’s had very little contact with his son over the years. The first five years in here, Francine didn’t visit, so no contact at all. Then when she did start finally visitin’, at most once or twice a year — she only brought Joshua occasionally, maybe one in every three visits. So, eighteen months or two whole years would roll by without him seein’ his son. As a result, he’s only seen Josh a handful of times in all the years he’s been in here. And when Francine did bring him, she’d make sure to keep the boy in the background. “Say hello to your pa. Good. Now you sit back there like a good boy while we talk.” Maybe only a handful of sentences, too, have therefore passed ‘tween him and the boy.’ Rodriguez shook his head. ‘It’s been one of Larry’s greatest sources of guilt and regret, that boy.

‘In particular because of the promise he made to Francine at the time.’ Rodriguez paused as he levelled his gaze at Jac. ‘When Josh was born, he promised Francine: “That’s it! No more robberies”. Then just three months down the line he’s in the Roche home — which lands him in here. So, you see, he feels guilty for havin’ broken that promise and deserted the boy through all these years. In fact, he sees most of this in here as punishment fo’ that. Retribution and all that Bible stuff he got into later on. Maybe that was some kinda penance. Asking God’s forgiveness not jus’ for being a bad man and a murderer — but for being a bad father and lettin’ his family down.’ Rodriguez took a fresh breath. ‘But when Larry did have contact with Josh, I’d see the change in him. That weight o’ guilt would lift from his shoulders and there was a fresh light in his eyes; as if, finally, he saw some hope. Hope, maybe, that with fresh contact, he could make good on havin’ let the boy down and deserted him.’ Rodriguez shrugged and gestured with one hand. ‘But, like I say, his meetings with Joshua were rare, and so the same went for his hopes of makin’ good — until just under a year ago.’ This time Rodriguez’ pause was heavier, as if purposely adding significance or waiting for the prompt.

‘What happened then?’ Jac asked.

‘Well, yer know, I’d been handlin’ things in the communication room for over eighteen months by then — so I was first to see them come through: e-mails from Joshua.’ Rodriguez paused briefly again to let the information settle with Jac. ‘The first month there were just two. Then they increased to once or sometimes twice a week, with Larry always makin’ sure to answer ‘em by the next day.’ Rodriguez smiled. ‘Man, Larry was alive through that period like I never saw him before. Then, suddenly, about seven weeks back, without warnin’ they stopped. Nothin’. Nada.’ Rodriguez’ smile faded just as quickly. ‘And Larry sank back into his gloomy pit. But probably even worse than before. Because now he’d been given a taste o’ what things could be like with his son, only fo’ it to be yanked away again. No more contact — and, as Larry sees it, no hope again.’

Jac rubbed his forehead as he considered the information. He could see now why Rodriguez was cautious about sharing it. It cut deep to the roots of Durrant’s family and personal psyche.

‘Any indication as to why the e-mails might have stopped?’ Jac asked.

‘No, only guesswork. Larry sent another half-dozen e-mails askin’ for a reply or explanation before his pride — foolish or otherwise — made him give up. Got to the point where he felt he was beggin’.’ Rodriguez shrugged. ‘Maybe his mom or new stepfather cut in, stopped him sendin’ more e-mails; or Joshua himself decided to stop — feared he was gettin’ too close, ‘specially when his father likely wouldn’t be around much longer. Lot easier to take the loss of someone you’re not that close to. Or his computer has broken down or his AOL account has been cancelled. In the end, we’re fishin’.’ Rodriguez grimaced. ‘That’s why things were planned earlier with the prison break. Larry didn’t rate the chances of Candaret givin’ him clemency, and, if he got out there — he could find out what’d happened with Joshua.’

‘Right.’ Jac nodded, glancing towards the glass screen. Even with the red light off, he felt uneasy at the mention of ‘prison break’. It wasn’t the best thread on which to hang Larry Durrant’s life, he thought: the wants and reasoning of a twelve-year-old boy. But at this stage he was glad of any small mercies. ‘So you think that if there was e-mail contact again from Joshua, or at least some reasonable explanation that would give him hope of future contact — that might make Durrant feel differently?’

Rodriguez shrugged. ‘Again, only guesswork. But it’s the best chance I can think of to raise Larry’s spirits. Maybe make him wanna start livin’ again.’

Asking a twelve-year-old boy to go through the emotional trauma of contact with his father while the shadow of execution hung over him, and no doubt with his mother and new partner strongly opposed to it for those same reasons — it wasn’t going to be easy. But it looked like the best he was going to get.

Jac pushed a tight smile and nodded. ‘Thanks for that… and for those, too.’ He gestured towards the books. ‘If we can convince Larry Durrant that there’s still something worth living for, they might come in useful in convincing others he’s worthwhile keeping alive.’

‘S’okay.’ Rodriguez nodded back with a light snort. ‘Except that down here in the South, could be dangerous ground. Black man daring t’fool around with the classics — could send him for the chop straight-off for that alone.’ Rodriguez smiled slyly. ‘And thank God Larry never got ‘round to editing the Bible. If he had, and Havelin’ got wind of it — he’d make sure to switch on the poison-feed himself.’

Early the next morning, while sipping at coffee, Jac took the folded paper from his jacket pocket and spread it out on his dining table.

He’d looked at the printed e-mail and his reply already countless times, had unfolded and folded it back more often than he cared think about; but perhaps without the noise of the office buzzing around him, something might leap out that he hadn’t picked up on before:

I hear you’re representing Larry Durrant. I know that he didn’t do it. It wasn’t him. I know, because I was there at the time. Don’t let him die.

No name, initials or sign-off; just the e-mail address, durransave4 @hotmail.com, and the time and date. Jac’s eyes shifted to his reply:

I need to know more to be able to do anything with this. Who you are? Or at least how and why you were there at the time? Also, why haven’t you come forward before? I need to know more to help save Larry.

Only four lines, but Jac worried that already he’d said too much, frightened the sender off. Yet what else could he have said? He was just telling it how it was. On its own, the message meant nothing: he couldn’t help Durrant with it unless he had more information.

But the other reason he was looking at it again now was because of something John Langfranc had said the other day. With still no reply, he’d finally told Langfranc about the e-mail and they’d brainstormed just who might have sent it — friend of Durrant’s, relative, hoaxer, any of the new supporters he’d found since hitting the press again recently, or capital punishment opponents keen to throw a spanner in the works at the last moment — when Langfranc arched one eyebrow.

‘Of course, one other possibility we haven’t thought of: the murderer himself. That need to confess that criminologists are always talking about. Not to mention guilt — with Durrant getting close now to his final day.’

‘No, surely not. I mean why would he — ’ Then suddenly Jac stopped himself as he thought about the e-mail’s wording: I was there at the time. If it was just a hoaxer, then why not say simply that he knew or could tell them? Why be so bold and say that he was there at the time?

Those same words leapt out at Jac now, until everything else on the page evaporated and that was all that seemed to be there… I was there at the time.