But, as his lawyer, Cantrell had a duty to look out for his best interests. In his experienced opinion, Noll was staring at a hopeless trial, followed by ten to twelve years of misery on death row, all to be ended by ten minutes in the gas chamber sniffing hydrogen cyanide. Cantrell wasn’t sure he could find a better ending, but it was his duty to try.
They met in a small room in the Forrest County jail, the same room as always. A year in jail had done little to improve Noll’s looks. He was only thirty-seven, but there were crow’s feet around his eyes and dark, puffy circles under them. His thick black hair was turning grayer by the month. He chain-smoked as if slowly committing suicide.
Cantrell said, “I’ll see the judge in a few days, another hearing. Sometime soon he’ll ask if there have been efforts to settle the case, any talk about a plea agreement. So you and I should at least discuss this.”
“You want me to plead guilty?”
“I don’t want you to do a damned thing, Nevin. My job is to present options. Option one is to go to trial. Option two is to avoid a trial by entering into a plea agreement. You admit you’re guilty, you agree to help the prosecution, and the judge cuts you some slack.”
Cantrell half-expected to get cursed for even suggesting cooperation with the State. A tough guy like Nevin Noll could take any punishment “them sumbitches” could dish out.
But when Noll asked, “How much slack?” Cantrell thought he had misunderstood his client.
“Don’t know. And we won’t know until we have a chat with the DA.”
Noll lit another cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling. The facade was gone, the bluster, the tough-guy routine, the perpetual smirk that looked down on everyone around him. In the first sincere question since they met, Noll asked, “What would you do?”
Cantrell arranged his thoughts and cautioned himself. This might be his only chance to save his client’s life. His words must be chosen carefully.
“Well, I would not go to trial.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll be found guilty, and given the max, and sent to Parchman to wither away on death row. The jury will eagerly convict you. The judge will throw the book at you. Nothing good will happen in trial.”
“So you won’t be there to protect me?”
“Of course I’ll be there, but there’s only so much I can do, Nevin. You beat one murder rap thirteen years ago with a lot of help from some friends. Won’t happen this time. There’s too much proof against you.”
“Go on.”
“I’d take a deal, cut my losses, try to leave a little room for hope down the road. You’re now thirty-seven years old, maybe you can get out when you’re sixty and still have a few good years left.”
“Sounds awful.”
“Not as awful as the gas chamber. At least you’ll be alive.”
Noll sucked hard on the filter, filled his lungs, then let the smoke drift out his nose. “And you think the State will cut me some slack?”
“I won’t know until I ask. And, Keith has a new member to his team, guy named Chuck McClure, probably the best prosecutor in the state. He’s sent more men to death row than anybody in history. A real badass in the courtroom, a legend actually, and now he’s got you in his sights.”
More smoke leaked from his nose and through his lips. Finally, “Okay, Millard, have the chat.”
* * *
Though officially recused, Keith was still the district attorney and as such would be involved in the prosecution. He would assist Chuck McClure in everything but the trial itself, during which he would sit near the State’s table, take notes, and watch the proceedings. He would not be introduced to the jurors and they would not know he was the son of the victim.