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split off from the main prison. He could see twelve-foot-high double rows of chain link fence topped with curled strands of barbed wire. The wire gleamed in the morning sun. He got out and stood by the car. A stand of pine trees rose up straight and green on the edge of the roadway, as if pointing in accusation at the crystal blue sky. A cool breeze rustled through the branches, then slid over Cowart's forehead amidst the building humidity.
    He had had no difficulty persuading Will Martin and the other members of the editorial board to cut him loose to pursue the circumstances surrounding the conviction of Robert Earl Ferguson, though Martin had expressed some snorting skepticism which Cowart had ignored.
    'Don't you remember Pitts and Lee?' Cowart had replied. Freddie Pitts and Wilbert Lee had been sentenced to die for the murder of a gas-station attendant in North Florida. Both men had confessed to a crime they hadn't done. It had taken years of reporting by one of the Journal's most famous reporters to set them free. He'd won a Pulitzer. In the Journal newsroom, it was the first story any new reporter was told.
    'That was different.'
    'Why?'
    That was in 1963. Might as well have been in 1863. Things have changed.'
    'Really? How about that guy in Texas, the one the documentary film-maker got off Death Row there?'
    'That was different.'
    'How much?'
    Martin had laughed. 'That's a good question. Go. With my blessing. Answer that question. And remember, when you're all finished playing reporter again, you can always come home to the ivory tower.' He'd shooed Cowart on his way.
    The city desk had been informed and promised assistance should he need any. He had detected a note of jealousy that the story had landed in his lap. He recognized the advantage that he had over the cityside staff. First, he was going to be able to work alone; the city desk would have assigned a team to the story. The Journal, like so. many newspapers and television stations, had a full-time investigative squad with a snappy title like 'The Spotlight Team' or The I-team.' They would have approached the story with the subtlety of an invading force. And, Cowart realized, unlike the regular reporters on the staff, he would have no deadline, no assistant city editor breathing down his neck, wondering every day where the story was. He could find out what he could, structure as he saw fit, write it as he wanted. Or discard it if it wasn't true.
    He tried to hold on to this last thought, to armor himself against disappointment, but as he headed down the road and pulled into the prison, he sensed his pulse quickening. A series of warning signs was posted on the access road, informing passersby that by entering the area they were consenting to a search, that any firearms and narcotics violations would be punished by a term of prison. He passed through a gate where a gray-jacketed guard checked his identification against a list and sullenly waved him through, then parked in an area designated VISITORS and entered the administration building.
    There was some confusion when he checked with a secretary. She had apparently lost his entrance request. He waited patiently by her desk while she shuffled through papers, apologizing rapidly, until she found it. He was then asked to wait in an adjacent office until an officer could escort him to where he was to meet Robert Earl Ferguson.
    After a few minutes, an older man with a gray-tinged Marine Corps haircut and bearing entered the room. The man had a huge, gnarled hand, which he shot forward at Cowart. 'Sergeant Rogers. I'm day officer on the Row today.'
    'Glad to meet you.'
    'There are a few formalities, Mr. Cowart, sir, if you don't mind.'
    'Like?'
    I need to frisk you and search your tape recorder and briefcase. I have a statement you need to sign about being taken hostage…'
    'What's that?'
    'It's just a statement saying you're entering the Florida State Prison of your own wish and that, if taken hostage during your