“Who?”
“How the fuck should I know?” he spits, already reaching for a set of chains to begin restraining me, you know, just in case I felt the overwhelming need to slaughter him where I stand. Which I could, by the way. These fucking chains aren’t going to stop me.But luckily for him, I don’t feel like having the rooftop sniper overlooking the yard put a bullet through my brain today.
A second guard, Rourke, comes to join us for transport, and the moment the chains are secured around my waist, ankles, and wrists, I’m shoved in the back. “Get moving,” Jensen says, always braver once the chains are in place. Though the second they come off, he’ll shrink away and have some reason to be somewhere else. I’ve never seen anybody so fucking terrified just to be in the same room as a prisoner. And it’s not just me, it’s everybody. It’s almost comical watching the way his sweaty little hands start to shake when one of us gets too close. Jensen talks a big game, but deep down, he’s not cut out for this. He should be working mall security, not as a prison guard at Hartley Creek Maximum Security Penitentiary for Men.
I’m pushed through the halls, past the main cell block and bathrooms, and two more guards flank us as we walk. Two in front, two behind, and honestly, I’m flattered they think I require this much security getting from the yard to the conference room.
I let out a sigh. Already bored.
There’s only one person who’s ever come to visit me over the past seven years, and it’s always my lawyer, Charles Wentworth. He’s nothing but an overpaid, overhyped, and undereducated dumbass. He took my case for the publicity, thinking he could win the public vote, but my reluctance to play along with his bullshit only made him look incompetent in front of the whole country, and since then, there’s been a mutual distaste.
I can’t fucking stand the guy, and it’s clear he doesn’t care for me either, but for whatever reason, I haven’t bothered to fire him yet. Probably because no other lawyer would be dumb enough to take me on. Not that I need one anymore. I’ll be locked up here until my dying days, and I really couldn’t give a fuck what happens to me until then.
I’m buzzed through doors and security checkpoints, and after what feels like a lifetime, I finally reach the conference room. I’m escorted right to my seat, and while I wait for the chains to be released from my ankles and wrists, I settle a hard stare on Charles Wentworth.
He looks smug as ever, sitting before me, and I’ve never wanted to knock the look off someone’s face so badly in my life. “The fuck do you want?” I question.
Charles lifts his gaze from mine, watching the guards as they file out of the room, waiting for the door to close, not that he actually gives a shit about protecting my privacy.
The moment the door closes behind the guards, he looks me up and down, his face a mask of indifference as he scans the tattoos winding up my neck and covering my arms. “You seem much . . . bigger than the last time I saw you.”
I clench my jaw, sure as fuck this asshole didn’t come here and disturb the only two hours I get outdoors to comment about my workout routine. “Why are you here, Charles? I haven’t seen or heard from you in almost two years. Why the fuck are you showing up now?”
“It’s always a pleasure, Mr. Blackthorne,” he says dryly before pausing a minute and holding my stare as though he could somehow intimidate me, but if that’s the outcome he’s looking for, he’s got the wrong guy. “Are you aware that you are the greatest mistake of my career? Representing you has been a nightmare. Every day, your name comes up, reporters looking for an inside scoop, lawyers representing other inmates, and the families of the victims you murdered, who are pushing for the death penalty.Iget death threats. My children are harassed at school. My wife—”
Charles pauses, needing a moment to compose himself as he continues staring, the hatred in his eyes burning brighter by the second.
“You have been a thorn in my side since the moment I took on your case, and I won’t put myself or my team through it any longer. Now, I believe I might have an edge. There were too many discrepancies in your case, enough that I believe we can have it re-tried. However, I am going to need your complete cooperation. Then, the moment you walk free, I will wipe my hands clean of you. I don’t ever want to hear your name again.”
“There’s no fucking way the courts will reopen my case. You’re wasting your time.”
“Perhaps,” he says. “But it’s worth giving it a crack, and if it means I can get rid of you with a clean conscience, then I am willing to take that bet.”
I let out a sigh as I drag my hands down my face. “Fuck.”
Reopening this case is going to be a waste of time, but what the hell do I know about the legal system? If Charles thinks it’s worth trying, then I’d be an idiot to deny him. One way or another, I’m getting out of this prison. Fuck the other hundred and eighty-five years left on my sentence. I have shit to deal with out in the real world, shit that has been eating at me since the moment the cops had me in cuffs. These fucking bars won’t stop me.
I have been waiting for the right time to plan my escape from this hellhole, and I am fully prepared to do it as one of America’s most wanted fugitives, but if Charles wants to get me out of here as a free man . . . That’s not an opportunity I can afford to pass up.
Even if reopening my case goes to hell, escaping out of a courthouse or during transportation is going to be a shitload easier than trying to break out of these walls, but I’m willing to give it a crack.
“I have already filed the motion to get the ball rolling. However, these things take time.”
“How much time?”
“There’s no telling. Could be months, could be years. It depends on whatever evidence we can produce to argue our case, but ultimately, it comes down to the court’s discretion. If they believe there’s enough new evidence to warrant opening the case, then it shall be.”
I almost laugh. New evidence? There is no fucking new evidence. I did it. I slaughtered every last one of those assholes. The only new evidence they’ll find will probably add another hundred years to my sentence. But sure, what the fuck do I have to lose?
“What kind of discrepancies are you talking about?”
“Just holes in the prosecution’s case. Some claims they made have never quite made sense. However, there was never enough information to argue.”
“And you think there is now?”
“Potentially. I need to look further into it. It would help if you actually cared to cooperate. There are still so many questions left unanswered. Why were you there? Who were the victims in relation to you and the girl? If I could prove self-defense, then perhaps you’ll have a chance. However, without your cooperation or input during the case, the victims were painted as innocent bystanders, and you were the vicious murderer acting on impulse and opportunity. Anybody with a brain could see that large parts of the story were intentionally left out. It’s time the truth was exposed, Stone. Your time for silence is up. I need to know what really went down that night.”
I clench my jaw, anger bubbling to the surface. “Find another way,” I grit through my teeth, not prepared to go into the ins and outs of that night. It’s nobody’s business, certainly not Charles Wentworth’s. It’s mine and mine alone, and I won’t allow them to exploit that in order to walk free. Like I said, I’ll be getting out of here with or without his help, and it won’t be by exploiting the one thing that has ever mattered to me.
