One of Us Read Free Page B

intelligent, personable, compact, fastidious about his appearance and almost prim in his outlook on life; the kind of man the neighbors will defend on the six o’clock news even after the facts begin to come to light.
    A pained expression passes over his face and he leans toward me across the table. His eyes darken and he lowers his voice to a lewd whisper that makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
    “Everything bad that happens in this world is the fault of someone’s mother,” he says.
    “Time’s up, Doc,” the guard announces, entering the room along with an almost identical version of himself. “He’s gotta go.”
    I stand and so does Carson, who waits patiently while they unfasten his handcuffs from the table and his ankle chains from the floor. His lips begin their nervous puckering again. Perspiring scalp glimmers beneath the thinning hair on top of a head that looks too heavy for the thin neck straining forward from a pair of soft, hunched shoulders in a flesh-colored prison jumpsuit he somehow remarkably manages to keep spotless and wrinkle-free. Beneath the harsh glare of the fluorescent overhead light, he casts the pitiable shadow of a turtle outside his shell.
    I stop in front of him. He bobs his head toward me. Before the guard intervenes and jerks him backward he’s able to blow on my shoulder.
    “Lint,” he says.
    “Thank you,” I reply, brushing at the sleeve of my navy Ralph Lauren suit jacket, originally worn years ago during my first appearance on Larry King Live at the height of the Wishbone Killer trial. It’ssince been relegated to prison visits and weddings of people I barely know.
    “You’re the only one out there who doesn’t think I’m crazy,” he adds. “I appreciate that.”
    One of the guards glances in my direction with a smirk on his face.
    I realize this is a seemingly bizarre comment considering my testimony at his trial and ongoing expert insistence that this man is in complete control of his mental faculties is leading directly to his death.
    His lawyers mounted a vigorous insanity defense, but his heart was never in it. If they had been able to successfully convince a jury he was out of his mind, he would have been allowed to remain alive in a secured psychiatric facility, but it was obvious to me he’d rather die than have his sanity doubted.
    I know why he feels this way. I have a crazy mother, too.
    One of the officers escorts Carson back to his cell. The other walks me out.
    I watch Carson go and I’m hit with a wave of loneliness. I admit I’ve come to depend on him. I find it easier to talk to him than to anyone else I know, and his suggestions for dealing with my problems have proven to be remarkably insightful. Still, I’m not sure I could ever be comfortable having a serial killer for a life coach.
    “You coming for the big day?” the guard at my side asks me.
    I glance at his name tag: Pulanski. I remember him. The last time I was here he wanted my opinion on the legitimacy of type 2 bipolar syndrome. His wife had suddenly become afflicted with it in the middle of their divorce and was using it as the reason she couldn’t hold down a job and required substantial spousal support. He wanted to know if it was similar to type 2 diabetes and would go away if she lost weight.
    “I don’t know,” I answer him.
    “You ever seen one?”
    “An execution? No.”
    “You ever been responsible for one before?”
    “If you mean is this the first case I’ve worked on where someone hasbeen sentenced to death and exhausted his appeals, the answer is yes,” I reply. “But I’m not responsible.”
    “The guys say you’re gonna write another book. That’s why you’ve been spending so much time with Shupe.”
    “I have no plans to write a book about him. His mother already did that.”
    “Yeah, I know. Did you read it?”
    “Yes.”
    “What was it she called you?”
    His eyes dart in my direction. I can tell by the barely suppressed mirth in the