The Secret Hour by Luanne Rice Page A

spent in solitude; from six to eight each night, they were permitted to mingle in the common room—only with each other, never with other prison inmates.
      Merrill lived in the “Death Cell.” Adjacent to the execution chamber, it faced a desk continuously manned by a guard and afforded no privacy. The guard observed everything Merrill did, from washing his face to going to the bathroom. All activity was logged. Although John had filed briefs citing the inhumanness of the treatment, Merrill remained in the Death Cell. And he’d stay there, John knew, until someone worse came along.
      “Hi, John,” came Merrill’s soft voice, the instant John walked into the consultation room.
      “Hi, Greg.”
      Unrestrained, Merrill sat at a wooden conference table in his orange jumpsuit. He clutched a Bible; he was never without it. A closed-circuit television system monitored the room, allowing guards to observe.
      “What happened to your head?”
      “Just a bump.” John opened his briefcase, removed papers. Was he holding back the truth so Greg wouldn’t feel bad about being the proximate cause of his injury? Or because of an atavistic fear of letting the killer anywhere close to the details of his home?
      “God bless you, John,” Greg said quietly, fingers steepled and head bowed. “I pray for you, you know. That no harm ever befalls you.”
      “Thanks, Greg,” John said, brushing it all off. Finding religion was standard practice in prison; over the years, John had learned not to put too much stock in it. “Okay—here’s what we have…”
      John outlined his brief to the court and his latest motion to have Greg moved to a more private cell.
      “It’s horrible,” Greg said, his voice breaking. “The guards jeer when I go to the toilet. They laugh at me.”
      “I know. I’m sorry, and I’m working on it.”
      “You know, John…I’m not afraid to die. I have the Lord with me; I know my loving God won’t send me to Hell. I know that, John. Does it sound crazy when I tell you that I know for sure?”
      “I know you believe it, Greg,” John said steadily. He looked into his client’s cloudy brown eyes. The man had the urge to hurt. It was part of his makeup, just like his brown eyes and curly hair. Merrill had confessed to having murdered seven women, having assaulted, stalked, and frightened many more.
      “ This is my hell,” Greg whispered, his voice becoming a hiss. “This prison—manned by the worst of the worst. At least I admitted what I did. These men lord it over me with such unbelievable hatred, John. I want death to come; it’s life that’s so unbearable.”
      John nodded. Greg talked this way, but he was fighting with all he had for the right to live. And it was John’s sworn duty to help him.
      “Listen,” John said, pulling out another sheaf of documents. “I’ve reviewed Dr. Beckwith’s reports.”
      “You have?” Greg asked, his eyes a little brighter.
      “Yes.” John had used Beckwith before—sometimes to testify, sometimes just to examine his client. From simple cases such as the one where his testimony had been invaluable in supporting a medication level-imbalance defense (“My client had been prescribed insufficient medication, became emotionally overloaded, and committed the theft…”) to determining the state of mind of a real estate lawyer who had killed his unfaithful wife.
      “Does he think we have a chance, John?”
      “It’s possible. He’d like to meet with you again,” John said, glancing at the file. Beckwith had interviewed Merrill once a week since joining John’s defense team at the beginning.
      “I like him, John. He understands me…says my paraphilia is like a cancer of the mind. Can people help themselves from having breast cancer, brain cancer? No, they can’t. Dr. Beckwith knows it’s like that for me…”
      John nodded, watching his client’s eyes. Merrill never got emotional—even now, with his