"What others?" Max finally asked, though he didn't want to know.

"Never mind," Barnett said as he spat out a piece of fingernail then crossed his arms, rucking his hands under his armpits. "You know I don't have a fucking dime to my name, man," he said, changing the subject. "I know you said I don't have to pay you anything, but I feel like I owe you."

Max almost let out a sigh of relief. This was a much safer topic. If there had been others, he didn't want to know about them. As far as Max was concerned there had been only one case, one eyewitness. And now there was no eyewitness and no case. If Barnett wanted to get something off his chest he could find a fucking priest. Yes, he preferred that Barnett worry, instead, about paying his debt.

Max knew Jared Barnett was the kind of man who wouldn't like feeling that he owed anyone. He also knew it was a big deal for Barnett to even admit that he might owe him. And that's what he wanted his client to focus on. Max had heard rumors that, after Barnett had been read his sentence of death by the electric chair, he turned to his court-appointed attorney, poor James Pritchard, and told him that it appeared he didn't owe him anything more for his help than a hole in the head. Max liked the idea that Barnett thought he might feel indebted to him. In fact, he was counting on it. "I think we can work something out," he said.

"Sure. Whatever you decide."

"But first I have to warn you. There's a media circus outside waiting for us."

"Cool," Barnett said, standing up. And that's exactly what he looked like-cool and collected, that same lack of emotion that had carried him through the trial and sentencing and every aspect of the appeal process. "So what's the going rate?"