Jane’s lips thinned, but to her credit, she didn’t react in any other way.
Jessup leaned back in the chair and lifted his chin, putting on a fuck you front.
Byron didn’t buy the sudden burst of bravado, but he understood it. Men like Jessup were prey for bigger, badder motherfuckers in prison. Byron wished he hadn’t promised Jane to be on his best behavior.
“Tell me about your case. I’ve been looking at your file, and I’ve found some anomalies.” She pulled out her tablet and flicked open an email from Georgia.
“I already got me a passel of eggheads lookin’ at my situation. I don’t need another lawyer.”
“And have you apprised them of all the facts?”
“Enough.” Jessup shrugged as though he didn’t give a damn.
“Can you quantify your answer, please?”
“Told ’em all they need to know.”
Byron could see the terror in his eyes anyway—and Byron couldn’t blame him one bit. Dying here, strapped down to a chair, while crowds of assholes cheered on your death from outside the prison walls would be a horrific way to die.
“Maybe I’d be more helpful if you were my lawyer.” Jessup scratched his chin. “Least it’d give me somethin’ pretty to look at for a couple of hours. I could think about you later when I’m in my bunk.”
Byron fisted his hands. He squinted at the guards once again through the plate glass window, and they had an eagle eye on his ass. The dickheads were probably looking for an excuse to give Byron a beat-down too.
Jane spoke up first. “Your masturbatory fantasies are none of my business. I’m here to save your life, if you’ll let me.”
“Sweetheart, dreamin’ about you would be a real lifesaver, believe me.”
Byron pasted a big old country smile on so the guards wouldn’t think anything of it. “Talk to Jane that way again, and you won’t need a lethal injection.”
The color drained from Jessup’s face.
“Byron….”
Ignoring her, Byron leaned over the table. “I got lots of friends in this place, real good friends who’d do anything I asked.” He still kept his features calm and relaxed, as though they were yammering on about something pleasant. “There ain’t no place you can run or hide from me, so spare me the tough guy routine. We both know you’re somebody’s bitch in here.”
Jessup shut his eyes, and his chin trembled a bit.
“Look, just cooperate. Jane wants to save your sorry ass for some reason.” Byron had a slightly kinder tone this time. “Be a gentleman, answer my lady’s questions respectfully, and don’t even think about lyin’.”
“No disrespect intended, but I ain’t got nothin’ to say.” He held up his chained hands in a placating gesture.
Jane withdrew a file from her satchel. “Fine, I’ll talk, and you can listen. Tell me if I get anything wrong.” She pulled out news clippings and police reports, along with bank statements. “In my professional opinion, your case is a disaster. You didn’t even have a public defender. After a sixteen-hour interrogation, you signed a confession.”
“Yeah, so what?”
“Holy fuck,” Byron blurted out. “You never confess to a damn thing. Leave it up to the lawmen to prove what you did.”
“Byron’s right.” Jane’s lips twitched. “I advise all my clients to do exactly two things when they’re brought in for questioning—shut up and call me.”
Jessup stared at the wall, shaking his head.
“According to your arrest report, you were high when the officers brought you in, and they left you in lock-up for eight hours until you sobered up enough to be questioned. According to the tox screen, you tested positive for heroin.”
“Yeah, so what? I was a junkie.”
“Yet the physician who drew the blood sample noted you didn’t have any track marks. Your medical records don’t show any telltale signs of chronic drug use.”
“All hardcore junkies got track marks.” Byron had dealt with users before. He toked a little every so often, but he left the hard stuff alone.
“I bet by the time they spoke with you, you were jonesing for another hit and you would’ve said anything to get out of there. Right?”
“I reckon.” Jessup tapped one of his feet on the concrete floor. Somehow, he looked even twitchier than before.
“There’s something else strange. Your home life was also uneventful. You had a wife and a child, lived in a suburban neighborhood. There were no signs of abuse or neglect. And you had a good-paying job as a landscaper. According to the police interviews with your employer, you only used one sick day in three years, and you were never late to work.”