“I’m not making excuses. Why would I want to work for these boys?”
“To avoid thirty years in prison. You really have no choice.”
Stofer ran his fingers through his thick, shoulder-length hair. “Can I have that cigarette?”
Jesse handed him one and lit it.
Stofer said, “Seems like my lawyer should be in on this.”
“Fire your lawyer. I can’t trust him. Nobody knows about this deal, Stofer. Only the two of us. Get rid of your lawyer or he’ll just screw things up.”
Blue smoke boiled from both nostrils as the defendant emptied his lungs. He blew the remnants and said, “I really don’t like him either.”
“He’s a crook.”
“I gotta think about this, Mr. Rudy. It’s pretty overwhelming.”
“You got twenty-four hours. I’ll be back tomorrow and we’ll read the indictment together, though you probably know what’s coming.”
“Yes sir.”
The next day, at the same table, Jesse handed Stofer his indictment. He read it slowly, the pain obvious in his face. Thirty years was inconceivable. No one could survive three decades at Parchman.
When he finished, he laid it on the table and asked, “Got a cigarette?”
Both lit up. Jesse glanced at his watch as if he had better things to do. “Yes or no?”
“I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“Not really. Fire your lawyer and we’ll get down to business.”
“I’ve already fired him.”
Jesse smiled and said, “Smart move. I’ll take this indictment and hide it in a drawer. Maybe we’ll never see it again. You screw up or double-cross me, and off you go. If you get real smart and run away, there’s an eighty percent chance you’ll eventually get caught. I’ll add ten years and I’ll guarantee you right now that you’ll serve every minute of a forty-year sentence, with hard labor.”
“I ain’t running.”
“Good boy.” Jesse reached down, picked up a small grocery sack, and placed it on the table. “Your stuff. Car keys, wallet, wristwatch, almost two hundred bucks in cash. Go to Biloxi, settle in, hang around two joints, Red Velvet and Foxy’s, get a job.”
“Doing what?”
“Washing dishes, sweeping floors, making up the beds, I don’t care. Work hard, listen even harder, and watch what you say. Try to get a promotion to bartender. Those guys see and hear it all.”
“What’s my cover?”
“Don’t need one. You’re Haley Stofer, age twenty-seven, from Gretna, Louisiana. New Orleans kid. Looking for work. Got a criminal record, something they’ll admire. Don’t mind getting your hands dirty.”
“And what am I looking for?”
“Nothing but a job. Once inside, you keep your head low and your ears open. You’re a criminal, Stofer, you figure it out.”
“How do I report to you?”
“My office is in the Harrison County Courthouse in Biloxi, second floor. Be there at eight a.m. sharp on the first and third Mondays of every month. Don’t call ahead. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Don’t introduce yourself to anybody in the office. I’ll be waiting and we’ll have a cup of coffee.”
“And the sheriff here?”
“Drive off and don’t look back. I’ve fed him a line. He’s good for now.”