The room smells strongly of piss and disinfectant. Larry shifts again and takes another deep breath.
“One day in ’14 I got a call from a guy I’d represented several times on possession charges. He’d never had more than a few grams and they never managed to make it stick . . . thought I was a f*****g genius. But this time he wasn’t calling for himself. He had a cousin who’d gotten pinched down in Dryden on a murder rap. I tried to put him off. I didn’t want to bother driving four-hundred miles to pick up a case for the scumbag relative of a small-time dealer.”
A tall dark-skinned woman carrying a clipboard and tray strides into the room and, without comment, lowers the rail. She eyes me like I’m a disobedient kindergartner. She lifts Larry by his good arm and pushes him back onto the bed.
