The Secret Hour by Luanne Rice

needed someone to love. Everyone: without exception. The Judge thought of John, of what he’d gone through with Theresa, and his heart ached. John had been devastated by her betrayal. He wouldn’t even consider dating, and the Judge doubted he ever would again. Like everyone, he needed love, but he wouldn’t let himself go looking.
      Some things just cut too deep.
     
      John O’Rourke walked into Winterham, the state’s only super-max prison, where death row was located. Greeted by some guards, ignored by others, he made his way past the razor-wire-topped walls, through a series of metal detectors and automatic-lock doors.
      “Here to see Greg Merrill,” he said to Rick Carmody, a burly, steroid-ridden guard he saw frequently, who pretended not to know why John was there.
      “You gotta wait,” the guard said without looking up from his magazine.
      John didn’t reply, but he felt his blood pressure skyrocketing. As defense counsel for a death row inmate, he got about ten degrees of respect less than a thief; experience had taught him that making waves would just slow everything down more.
      Sitting down in the hard brown vinyl chair, he opened his briefcase and began to read his brief. He pictured Kate Harris, thought of what she’d told him about her sister and her husband. He hadn’t slept last night. The feelings had kept him up—chills, as if from a fever, racing through his body. Betrayed by two people close to her—how had she gotten through it? Thinking of Theresa and Barkley, John shivered now. When he glanced up, he saw the guard smirking.
      “Hey, Counsel,” Carmody said, gesturing at John’s bandaged head. “You get that in a barroom brawl?”
      “You should see the other guy,” John said, taking a deep breath to dispel the memories of Theresa.
      “Huh, I bet.” The guard chuckled, cracking his fat knuckles one by one. When he had finished, he yawned and gestured for John to step forward. With outward patience, John allowed the guard to wave the metal-detector wand up and down his arms and legs. Inwardly, he longed to clock the keghead: not simply for the ignominy of being so blatantly disrespected, but for the gall with which Carmody leaned forward, examining John’s head wound.
      “They really got you,” the guard said.
      “‘They’?” John asked. “You know something about it?”
      “No, Counselor, not me,” Carmody said, hands up in mock innocence.
      “That’s good,” John said, breathing raggedly, “because my kids were there. You understand? My kids could have gotten hurt by the brick, by the broken glass. They saw it happen, violence in their own home!”
      “Hey, whoa! Watch your mouth—you go making accusations you can’t back up, I’ll get you ejected so fast—”
      “My client has the right to counsel.”
      “And I have discretion over everything goes on in here. Back off from that garbage about the brick and the window, you hear me?”
      “Whoever did it…” John began, hardly caring whether he got himself chucked from the room. Until he had come face-to-face with someone who would probably cheer the brick thrower, John hadn’t known the full depth of his own rage. His home had been ripped apart once—he wasn’t going to let it happen again.”…Could have hurt my kids. Hear me? My kids . So forgive me if I’m short on good humor right now.”
      “I don’t want trouble here—let’s forget it. Your kids okay?”
      “Yes.”
      “That’s what matters.”
      “You’re right. Can I see my client?”
      Carmody threw the bolt, letting John pass into death row. John’s heart was beating fast; from how Kate Harris had stirred up old deadly pain, from Carmody—could he have had something to do with the brick? And from the normal human response of entering death row.
      The inmates lived in seven-by-twelve-foot cells, each containing a metal bunk, desk, and combination toilet-sink. Twenty-two hours each day were