Page 25 of The Devil's Advocate

The mattress stank. I tore some of the sheet, used it to staunch the cut on my scalp. It was in the hairline, thankfully. I lay down on the floor, put my back to the wall and waited.

An hour went by. I could hear the distant sounds of a busy office beyond the hallway, and I supposed that things had calmed down and gone back to normal. The man in the cell next to me started to make noise. I could hear the springs in his mattress protest as he tossed around.

I approached the cell bars, getting as close to his cell as possible and whispered.

‘Hey, buddy, want to make a hundred bucks?’

His name was Seamus Cohan. Second-generation Irish, originally from Boston. He was an alcoholic with a music problem. He needed to play his guitar on the street to get money for booze. But the more booze he had, the less he was inclined to play music. Seamus did want a hundred bucks.

I wasn’t sure if music was a good career move for Seamus. His voice sounded like a man hollering for help from the bottom of a mine. It didn’t seem to bother Seamus though. By the time Seamus had murdered ‘The Fields of Athenry’, the bulkheads of ‘The Irish Rover’ had turned right over, and Paddy Reilly had come back numerous times to Ballyjamesduff, the Sunville County Sheriff’s Department had just about reached their limit of musical appreciation.

‘Shut the hell up in there,’ called a voice, just before the steel door to the cells slammed shut.

‘Keep it up, Seamus. Louder this time,’ I said.

While Seamus finished ‘Dirty Old Town’, I went to the bunk and unfurled the blanket in which I’d hidden Butterball’s keys. I’d taken them from his belt just as he was about to push me into the cell. A bump lift. My body colliding with his masked the grab. Thankfully, I’d managed to turn around, and hide them in the bunk blanket before they saw what had happened. I found the key that looked like it fitted the lock on the cell door. It was tricky working through the cell bars, and my wrist was really burning with the strain. The lock clicked. I pulled my door open slowly, quietly, then went down the hallway and put the key in the lock of Andy’s cell.

He was lying on the bunk. A young man wearing a dirty white tee, jeans and plastic slippers. There was nothing in his cell. No books. No TV. No newspapers. No spare clothes. It looked like he’d just arrived in that cell ten minutes ago. He gazed up at me, and his eyes grew wide with fear. He scrambled to sit up in the bed as I turned the key in the lock. He drew the blanket up under his chin, and began to tremble, violently.

I stepped into his cell, turned and put the key in the lock on the outside, through the bars.

When I turned around, Andy was in the far corner of the cell. The floor was wet. A trail that led from the bed to the corner. Andy’s fear had gotten the better of him. He sat in the corner, with his left hand on his right shoulder. He was patting his shoulder, and rocking gently back and forth, rhythmically.

‘Andy, my name is Eddie Flynn. I’m an attorney from New York. Your lawyer, Cody Warren, has gone missing. I’m here to stand in for Cody until he gets back. Don’t be afraid, I’m here to help you.’

I stepped back from Andy, giving him space. I stood in the opposite corner, then slid down the wall, onto my knees. Then I sat down, stretching out my legs, and checked my head. I was bleeding again.

Andy’s legs were still shaking, and he maintained that rocking rhythm, patting his right shoulder to a beat I couldn’t hear.

‘I’m not going to hurt you. You’re not going to get in trouble for talking to me,’ I said.

‘I will,’ said Andy.

‘You will what?’

‘I’ll get in trouble for talking to you. The sheriff, he-he-he told me. He said, not to. I don’t want no trouble.’

I breathed out, long and slow. Kept doing it until Andy started to mimic the breathing exercise himself. Even through the blanket he’d wrapped around his midriff and torso, I could tell he was skinny. His right leg stretched out on the floor, his jeans riding up. I could put my whole hand around his calf muscle. Andy’s eyes were large, soft, and filled with fear. His lips were dry, a thin white film covering them, and the top one had split. I’d seen hostages on the news who had just been pulled out of war zones that looked better than Andy. After a few minutes, he’d calmed enough to get his breath back. He kept patting his shoulder, but the rocking stopped.

‘I had to get myself arrested, just to get in here to speak to you. The sheriff wouldn’t let me in otherwise.’

Andy said nothing. He was still terrified.

‘I don’t think you killed Skylar Edwards. The sheriff says you did, but I don’t believe it.’

‘I didn’t. I said goodbye to her that night, and I walked home. I never …’ he said, then caught himself, and clamped a hand over his mouth. His terror returning.

‘Andy, the sheriff wants you to be found guilty of murder, in a court, and then executed. The sheriff isnotyour friend.’

‘He said he wouldn’t,’ said Andy, talking his hand away just enough to spit out the sentence, then whipping it back.

I didn’t want to speak. I couldn’t risk interrupting any kind of exchange I could get going with this kid. He was smart. Great GPA, played chess and read everything in the school library. A smart young man on his way to college. Intelligence doesn’t really come into play when you’re locked up for a murder you didn’t commit. It wouldn’t matter if Andy was as smart as Albert Einstein – fear has a way of robbing you of your intellect.

He was struggling to talk. I inclined my head, knotted my eyebrows together and asked, ‘What did the sheriff say he wouldn’t do?’

Andy took the bait.

‘He said I’ll just go to jail for a while. I won’t get hurt anymore, and he’ll take care of my mother.’