Bad Behavior(75)

"So, um, I guess I should have asked earlier, but why is he in Angola instead of the county jail?" I began doodling and forced myself to stop.

"Good question, Ms. Montreat. I asked the same when I found out he'd already been shipped here. He'd been receiving more than a few threats at county, so the State wanted him somewhere safer. That was the story Matt gave me, anyway. I'm certain they just wanted to make it harder for us to get to him."



       
         
       
        

"The State plays dirty."

"You have no clue." He wrote the date and time in a slanting, stark hand, at the top of his notepad. My bubble writing could not compare to his elegant lines.

"So that Matt guy is on this case, too?"

"Yep. The second he sees I've been chosen as defense counsel, he signs right up to prosecute." He wrote our names on the right side of the page under the heading "Attending," mine on top of his and Rowan's at the bottom.

"Y'all got some sort of beef?"

He grimaced and stopped writing. "Something like that."

"What hap-"

The door creaked open and a man in orange (it's the new black) was led inside. I recognized him from his mug shot and multiple press photos. Tall and slender with a shaved head, his eyes were beady and shifted from Mr. Granade to me and back again. His hands were cuffed, with a length of chain extending from them down to the shackles on his ankles. He wasn't winning any footraces anytime soon.

Mr. Granade and I stood.

"Mr. Ellis." Confidence radiated from Mr. Granade. His charm switch was officially flipped.

"Hey." He shuffled to his chair, the chains jingling far too jauntily for the situation.

"I'm Washington Granade, but you can call me Wash, and this is my associate, Caroline Montreat. Please, have a seat."

I nodded at Rowan during my introduction. He focused on me as he dropped into his seat. The guard fastened Rowan's chains to something under the table and yanked to make sure it was solid. Once satisfied, the guard left and shut the door behind him. We were alone with a suspected serial killer, one who kept looking at me with too-wide pupils. I began to regret wearing my cobalt blue sexy top for Mr. Granade. I shifted in my seat, surreptitiously moving my lapels closed and blocking the view.

Rowan still watched me, his gaze catching mine and holding it.

"Mr. Ellis, let's get started." Mr. Granade clicked his pen.

"I ain't done nothing." The accent had a slight Cajun tinge. Rowan finally switched his gaze over to Mr. Granade.

I took a breath and tried to calm my rapid-fire heartbeat. He definitely gave me the creeps, but that didn't mean he was a killer.

"I understand. I do. But I'm going to need you to shoot straight with me. I need you to tell me everything. Every detail about how you wound up here. So start at the beginning."

"My mama send you two here?"

"Your mother is paying for your defense, yes. But we work for you. You're our client. We'll do everything we can to get you out of this."

"I shouldn't be here. I don't need your help. Well, maybe I need some of hers." He leered at me, his two bottom teeth absent from roll call. 

Mr. Granade slammed his fist down, the metallic clang jolting me. "Cut the shit, Rowan. You are a trial away from lethal injection. Seven women, seven bodies, seven death sentences. Either you cooperate and let us help you or we'll refund the retainer and let you hang. No skin off my back either way."

The guard peeked through the reinforced rectangle of glass in the door. Mr. Granade's other hand rested on my knee and gave me a reassuring squeeze. His skin was warm, his palm slightly calloused. I shook my head at the guard. We got this.

"Damn, boy. You ain't have to yell." Rowan flinched back in his seat.

"I do when you threaten my associate. Treat her with respect or we walk." Mr. Granade's tone was harder than the steel beneath his fist.

Rowan shrugged, seemingly conceding defeat. "Whatever, man. Just get me out of this shit. I didn't do nothing."

Mr. Granade took his hand away from my knee, but I wanted it back. I forced my slightly shaking hands to stay on the table, ready to write, instead of grabbing his and squeezing. This was the big leagues. I needed to adjust my game accordingly.

"Let's start with preschool. Give me your educational background, your life background. I want a full picture-parents, schools, friends, girlfriends, where you lived, who you lived with, your relationship with your parents, everything. I need to know you better than you know yourself by the time we're done. You follow?"