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too, before very long. They gave me two consecutive life sentences, but I’m going to fool the bastards. I’m only going to serve one.”
    Mitch laughed at that. One of the things he had always enjoyed was Andy’s black humor.
    “As for leaving me alone,” Andy added cheerfully, “I spend so much time in the infirmary anymore that it hardly matters. Besides, the sooner I go, the sooner you’ll be able to get our little job done and get on with your own life.”
    They were both quiet for a long time after that. Mitch was thinking about Andy’s veiled reference to his trust fund monies. Maybe Andy was, too. Andrew Carlisle was the one who broke the silence.
    “You will keep your end of the bargain, won’t you, Mitch?” The voice was soft and pleading. The two men had lived side by side, sharing the same cell, for seven and a half years. In all that time, through years of terrible illness and unremitting pain, Mitch Johnson had never heard the man beg.
    “Yes, Andy,” Mitch answered quietly. “I gave you my word, and I intend to keep it.”
    “Thank you,” Andrew Carlisle said. “So will I.”
    Mitch Johnson had known from the beginning that Andrew Carlisle was HIV positive, since that day in 1988 when Warden Clint Howell had called him into his office, sat him down in a chair, and offered him a cup of coffee. Inmates didn’t usually merit that kind of hospitality, but Johnson had brains enough not to question it aloud.
    “We’ve got a little problem here,” Howell said, leaning back in his chair.
    More than one, Mitch thought, but again he said nothing. “It’s one I think maybe you can help us with,” Howell continued.
    The indiscriminate use of the words “we” and “us” reminded Mitch of his first grade teacher, Mrs. Wiggins, back home in El Paso, Texas.
    “What’s that?” Mitch asked, keeping his tone interested but properly deferential.
    “One of our inmates has just been diagnosed HIV positive,” Howell told him. “He wants you to be his cellmate.”
    “Like hell he does!” Mitch returned. “I’m not going anywhere near him.”
    “Please, Johnson,” Howell pleaded. “Hear me out. He’s specifically asked for you, but only if you’re willing.”
    “Well, I’m not. Can I go now?”
    “No, you can’t. We’re too overcrowded here for him to be left in a cell by himself, and if I put more than one HIV-positive prisoner in the same cell, then those damned bleeding-heart lawyers will be all over me like flies on shit. Cruel and unusual punishment and all that crap.”
    “What about cruel and unusual punishment for me?” Johnson asked.
    “Do me a favor,” Howell said. “Talk to him here in my office. I’ll have him brought in, and the two of you can discuss the situation. After that, you decide. Wait right here.”
    Moments later, a guard led Andrew Carlisle into the room. Johnson had never met him before, but as soon as he saw the blind man with his one bad arm in a permanent sling, he knew who it was. Andrew Carlisle was legendary in Florence for being the best jailhouse lawyer in the joint. Other people had to look up the points of law and read them to him aloud, but when it came to writing up paperwork, no one could top him.
    “Hello, Mr. Johnson,” Carlisle said, as the door closed behind the departing guard.
    “I won’t do it,” Mitch said. “Go fuck yourself.”
    “We’re not here to discuss sexual gratification, Mr. Johnson. I asked for you specifically because I have a business proposition which I believe will be of some interest to you. I believe I can offer you something that you want.”
    “What’s that?” Mitch Johnson asked.
    “An education, for one thing,” Andrew Carlisle answered calmly. “And revenge, for another.”
    “Revenge?”
    “Against Sheriff Brandon Walker and his wife, Diana.”
    A brief silence followed that statement. Mitch was taken aback. He hadn’t made a secret of his long-simmering hatred of Brandon Walker. The case against