Fifteen minutes after I sat down in the attorneys’

room, Johnny Wayne, in a sharply creased, unwrinkled orange jumpsuit, was escorted in. He was handcuffed, waist chained, and shackled around the ankles.

”I wanted to make sure you’re still willing to take this deal before we go to court,” I said as soon as the uniformed escort stepped out and Johnny Wayne awkwardly made his way into the chair. ”Once you enter the plea, there’s no turning back.”

Johnny Wayne stared at the tabletop. His short hair was the color of baled straw, wispy and perfectly combed. He was much smaller than me, well under six feet, thin and pale. His face and arms were covered with tiny pinkish freckles. He started tapping his fingers on the table, and I noticed that his nails looked recently manicured. He smelled of shampoo.

”How do you manage to stay so well groomed in this place?” I said. ”Every time I see you, you look like you just came out of a salon.”

He rolled his eyes. They were a pale green, sometimes flecked with red, depending on angle and light.

They were closely set and the left eye had a tendency to wander. It made looking him in the eye uncomfortable. I never quite knew where to focus.

”The fact that I’m incarcerated doesn’t require me to live like an animal,” he said. ”I’m able to procure certain services.”

”You mean a barber?”

”I have a barber-one of the inmates, who comes to my cell once a week. He trims my beard and shampoos and cuts my hair.”

”Does he give you a manicure, too?” I glanced at his fingernails.

”I do that myself.”

”Who does your laundry? All my other clients look like they sleep in their jail uniforms.”

”My laundry is done along with everyone else’s,”

he said. ”I simply purchase commissary products for an individual who treats my laundry with special care.” His speech was a tinny, nasal tenor, his diction perfect. I imagined shoving a turd into his mouth, just so he’d mispronounce a word.