PROMPTLY AT 3 P.M, Helen and I are sitting behind the glass in the viewing room, waiting to watch Dan interrogate Grisham Clay.
There are a number of things that strike me as odd from the very moment Clay enters the room. For one thing, he doesn’t look like a bookie. Now, I know that you cannot trust a book—or in this case, a bookie—by its cover, but I expected someone who was either overly gregarious or ominously taciturn. Clay is neither. Nor is he dressed in the cheap suit, probably some variety of plaid, that I would associate with a bookie. Instead, he appears to be about my age, with slightly graying hair, obviously well cut and maintained. His suit is not extremely high end, but neither is it cheap. He has a friendly face that reveals no sort of discomfort with his surroundings, a
