Carson pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the table and lowered into it. “Rule number one,” he said, his tone nonnegotiable, “no games. I want straight answers or this interview is over.”
Stokes narrowed his gaze. “And what’s in it for me?”
Carson had anticipated that reaction. “Warden Fallon has agreed to allow you one hour each week in the recreational activity of your choice.”
The sick bastard’s suspicion visibly mounted. “Why would he do that? He’s sticking strictly to the agenda you sons of bitches requested. Complete isolation. One hour per day outside with no less than four guards shadowing my every step. I can’t even look at any of the other inmates.”
Carson barely restrained the need to smile. The piece of shit was already feeling the strain of perpetual isolation. According to the psychological profile on Stokes, he craved people. Needed social interaction to fuel his repulsive imagination. Isolation was the worst kind of punishment for him. It would slowly, surely push him over the edge into a place his contemptible ass wouldn’t be able to claw out of.
“Let’s not worry about the how or why,” Carson said. “You cooperate with me and I’ll see that you get what I promised.”
That sadistic grin appeared again. “You love the power, don’tcha? Feels good. Makes you hungry for more.”
Anger started to crowd in on Carson’s composure. He pushed it aside, but not without difficulty. “Is that a yes?”
“You want to know what really happened to that fancy family of yours, is that it?”
Carson resisted the impulse to jump at that line of discussion. He had a carefully laid-out agenda. He’d analyzed forward and backward how he should go about this on the way here. He couldn’t deviate. If he did, control would be up for grabs. He would not allow Stokes any measure of that control.
“District Attorney Wainwright visited you in Mobile once you were in custody. Do you remember the date?”
The suspicion was back. “I don’t know. Maybe. What difference does that make? You could just ask your boss the answer to that one.”
Carson ignored Stokes’s comments. “You were taken into custody on August twenty-first. Is that when Wainwright visited you?”
Stokes shrugged his hunched shoulders. “Sounds about right. All that should be in the file.”
“Are you afraid to answer the question?” Carson leaned forward. “Your deal can’t be revoked now. There’s nothing to fear.”
Stokes leaned back in his seat and eyed Carson. “You think I’m afraid? Fuck, I ain’t afraid of nothing.” His disgusting laugh reverberated in the room. “Well, maybe I don’t like the idea of dying, but you got no power over that. Like you said, the deal’s done. You can’t go changing your mind now.”
“Then tell me the truth, Joseph.” Carson swallowed back the bitter taste associated with calling the monster by his first name ... as if they were friends.
Stokes smirked. “Personally, I don’t think you really want to know the truth.”
Let the games begin. Carson mimicked his opponent’s posture, leaning back in his seat and pretending to be relaxed. Like two old buddies catching up. “If you don’t tell me, then there’s nothing I can do.”
That beady gaze narrowed again. “What would you do?”
Carson shrugged. “I can’t answer that without additional information.” He placed his palms flat on the table between them and stared long and hard at the other man. “What do you want me to do?”
One corner of Stokes’s mouth twitched. “Your big-shot boss is running for governor.”
Carson nodded. “That’s right.”
That disgusting twitch evolved into a curling of lips. “He wants it bad, don’t he?”
“He does.”
“What if I told you, he’s as crooked as a Georgia back road?”
“I wouldn’t believe you.” Carson paused. “Not without evidence,” he qualified, more to see where the bastard was going with this than because he put an ounce of weight in the suggestion. Or Annette Baxter’s. The fact that she had made statements word for word like those of Stokes told Carson the two had been in contact at some point since this nightmare started.
Stokes leaned forward another inch or two. “You want Wainwright’s job.”
Carson tensed. “I do.”
Strangely, that answer seemed to appease the bastard. “You don’t know for sure what happened that day, do you?”
