ran over your legs with a
lawnmower.' She was clearly exasperated. 'Don't
you see, Martin? Can't you understand that this
way is better, because we both get a second
chance out of it?'
Martin threw his hands into the air. 'I give up.
I really give up.'
'What is your problem?' she whispered, her
voice hoarse. 'Why can't you grasp this basic
thing?'
'What basic thing?'
'Is it so wrong to want to be around people?
To be cared about? Isn't that why you keep
making all those false confessions, so An keeps
coming back to interview you?'
Martin crossed his arms over his chest, turning
his head to look out the window.
'You've got it pretty sweet in here, Martin.
You get to read all day. You work in the
warden's office doing the books. The other boys
respect you, for once in your life.'
She had a point on that last one, he had
to admit. Martin was on death row. People
didn't mess with him nearly as much anymore
(unsurprisingly, no one wanted to have sex with
him in prison, either).
Evie pressed, 'You've carved out a nice little
niche for yourself. It's much more than you
would have if you were still living with me.'
He shook his head, coming to his senses. 'I
think it's pretty obvious who's really benefiting.
We have televisions here, Mother. I saw you on Entertainment Tonight drinking champagne at
George Clooney's villa.'
She smoothed down her skirt, picking an
invisible piece of fluff off the cashmere. 'Don't sit
there and pretend you're not exploiting your own
situation.'
'I'm at least doing some good,' Martin insisted.
Some of the crimes he had taken credit for had
been unsolved for years. He had read in People magazine that the mother of one of his 'victims'
had actually said, on her death bed, 'At least now
I know.' Was Martin to be blamed for not killing
and raping the woman's daughter? Was it his fault that he hadn't committed the crime? Was it
his fault that he would say anything to keep his
beloved Anther coming to see him?
Aye, there's the rub.
'Martin?' Evie snapped her fingers in front of
his face. She had packed up her legal pad and
pen. 'I have to go. I'm meeting with the producers
about your movie.'
Martin scowled. He had not approved of
casting Philip Seymour Hoffman in the lead.
'Oh, knock that look off your face. Phil's a
lovely boy.' She stood up, pronouncing loudly,
'Now, give your mother a kiss goodbye.'
He puckered up and she put first one cheek,
then the other, near enough to his lips to pass for
affection.
'I'll see you next month.' She wagged her
finger at him. 'And you'd better have some good
stories for me. Dark fantasies. Uncontrollable
thoughts. Seething hatred. You get the idea.'
Martin rolled his eyes. Bob, one of his favorite
guards, came over. Martin held out his hands for
cuffing, but the man told him, 'You've got a
private visitor.'
'An's here?' Martin felt his heart flutter in his
chest. 'She didn't tell me she was coming.'
'They've found another body,' Bob said.
'Thirty-year-old prostitute with a meth habit.'
'Oh, I see,' Martin murmured. He specialized
in confessing to prostitute deaths – he'd found
early on that this particular type of victim tended
to have had very little recent contact with their
families, which made it easier for Martin to
fabricate a nice backstory. He asked, 'Was this
on Madola Road?'
'Abernathy,' Bob provided. 'What were you
thinking, man?'
Martin shook his head. 'I just can't help
myself, Bob. I get these urges.'
'Why the rope?'
Martin struggled for an explanation. 'My
father liked to tie knots.'
Bob sighed at the depravity. Martin knew he
was working on his own book deal (it was
amazing how many people wanted to be writers).
The relationship was not altogether one-sided,
though. Bob owned a police scanner and was
somewhat of a gossip. Most of the details Martin
used in his confessions came from the man.
'Let's go.' Bob took Martin's arm and led him
out of the room. As they walked down the
corridor toward the private rooms used for
interviews
lawnmower.' She was clearly exasperated. 'Don't
you see, Martin? Can't you understand that this
way is better, because we both get a second
chance out of it?'
Martin threw his hands into the air. 'I give up.
I really give up.'
'What is your problem?' she whispered, her
voice hoarse. 'Why can't you grasp this basic
thing?'
'What basic thing?'
'Is it so wrong to want to be around people?
To be cared about? Isn't that why you keep
making all those false confessions, so An keeps
coming back to interview you?'
Martin crossed his arms over his chest, turning
his head to look out the window.
'You've got it pretty sweet in here, Martin.
You get to read all day. You work in the
warden's office doing the books. The other boys
respect you, for once in your life.'
She had a point on that last one, he had
to admit. Martin was on death row. People
didn't mess with him nearly as much anymore
(unsurprisingly, no one wanted to have sex with
him in prison, either).
Evie pressed, 'You've carved out a nice little
niche for yourself. It's much more than you
would have if you were still living with me.'
He shook his head, coming to his senses. 'I
think it's pretty obvious who's really benefiting.
We have televisions here, Mother. I saw you on Entertainment Tonight drinking champagne at
George Clooney's villa.'
She smoothed down her skirt, picking an
invisible piece of fluff off the cashmere. 'Don't sit
there and pretend you're not exploiting your own
situation.'
'I'm at least doing some good,' Martin insisted.
Some of the crimes he had taken credit for had
been unsolved for years. He had read in People magazine that the mother of one of his 'victims'
had actually said, on her death bed, 'At least now
I know.' Was Martin to be blamed for not killing
and raping the woman's daughter? Was it his fault that he hadn't committed the crime? Was it
his fault that he would say anything to keep his
beloved Anther coming to see him?
Aye, there's the rub.
'Martin?' Evie snapped her fingers in front of
his face. She had packed up her legal pad and
pen. 'I have to go. I'm meeting with the producers
about your movie.'
Martin scowled. He had not approved of
casting Philip Seymour Hoffman in the lead.
'Oh, knock that look off your face. Phil's a
lovely boy.' She stood up, pronouncing loudly,
'Now, give your mother a kiss goodbye.'
He puckered up and she put first one cheek,
then the other, near enough to his lips to pass for
affection.
'I'll see you next month.' She wagged her
finger at him. 'And you'd better have some good
stories for me. Dark fantasies. Uncontrollable
thoughts. Seething hatred. You get the idea.'
Martin rolled his eyes. Bob, one of his favorite
guards, came over. Martin held out his hands for
cuffing, but the man told him, 'You've got a
private visitor.'
'An's here?' Martin felt his heart flutter in his
chest. 'She didn't tell me she was coming.'
'They've found another body,' Bob said.
'Thirty-year-old prostitute with a meth habit.'
'Oh, I see,' Martin murmured. He specialized
in confessing to prostitute deaths – he'd found
early on that this particular type of victim tended
to have had very little recent contact with their
families, which made it easier for Martin to
fabricate a nice backstory. He asked, 'Was this
on Madola Road?'
'Abernathy,' Bob provided. 'What were you
thinking, man?'
Martin shook his head. 'I just can't help
myself, Bob. I get these urges.'
'Why the rope?'
Martin struggled for an explanation. 'My
father liked to tie knots.'
Bob sighed at the depravity. Martin knew he
was working on his own book deal (it was
amazing how many people wanted to be writers).
The relationship was not altogether one-sided,
though. Bob owned a police scanner and was
somewhat of a gossip. Most of the details Martin
used in his confessions came from the man.
'Let's go.' Bob took Martin's arm and led him
out of the room. As they walked down the
corridor toward the private rooms used for
interviews
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