Page 3 of Watch Me Burn
Jones stomped over and snatched the tie from my grasp.
“Look up,” he ordered, knotting the damn thing in a matter of seconds. He stepped back and surveyed his handiwork, nodding in satisfaction.
“I look good?” I asked, holding my arms out.
“Like the Hulk squeezed into a sausage case.”
I gave him a quick nod, a smile tugging at my lips, and offered my wrists for the cuffs. The cold metal bit into my skin.
“You know, Wayne,” Jones began hesitantly, holding off on cuffing my other wrist. “You might not give a shit, but you seem like a decent guy, so can I give you a piece of advice for your hearing?”
I shrugged. “Sure. Don’t hold back.”
His eyes scanned my face, uncertainty flitting across his features. He sighed, resigning himself.
“Don’t try to convince them of your innocence.”
I jerked back. “What? But I am innocent.”
Jones rolled his eyes in a way that was almost childlike. “Even if you are one of the few guys who insists on their innocence and it’s not just a load of bullshit . . . who gives a fuck?”
“What?”
“I mean . . . the board sure as hell doesn’t. To them, you’re as guilty as the night is dark. So, you can either treat this like a trial, your lost cause of redemption, or you can tell these fuckers what they want to hear and get the hell out of here.”
I was floored. His words hit me like a slap in the face.
For the past five years, I’d painstakingly built a case for my innocence to present to the board. Sometimes they’d cut me off before I could even finish my introduction. Other times they’d humor me for a bit before dismissing me.
This year, I’d polished my argument, loaded it with facts and details I thought might finally prove my innocence. But now . . . Jones had just yanked the rug out from under me.
“Why would you help me?” I found myself asking.
In prison, the first rule is:
Trust no one.
Closely followed by the second rule:
Don’t fucking trust anyone.
Jones pierced me with a deep gaze. “That note . . . on the hallway floor, the one warning me about the planned gym attack . . . that was you, wasn’t it?”
I had written the note, but I remained silent, then shook my head. “Nuh-uh. Wasn’t me.”
Jones squinted, obviously unconvinced. “The duress alarm didn’t work in the gym that day. Whoever wrote that note saved my ass.”
A silence stretched between us.
“Like I told you, it wasn’t—”
“Whatever,” Jones cut me off. “Let’s go or you’ll be late.”
I moved past him, stepping out of my cell.
“Try to use your head for once,” he advised, tailing me. “Spin them a tale about a rough childhood, about how the guy you killed was a bad guy who deserved what was coming, then point out how remorseful you still are about all of it. Talk up your transformation. Tell them to check with me about your fine stitchwork and bible studies.”
I couldn’t help but grin at that. I know he was joking, but I’d actually taken a stitching class in here and, if I do say so myself, I was pretty damn good at it.
