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himself into a hulking specimen. He boasted of becoming a professional bodybuilder, but eventually grew tired of the work. He married a local girl, divorced her, moved to Dallas, and then drifted to Houston. According to the high school yearbook,Class of 1999, he planned to own a cattle ranch if the NFL thing didn’t work out.
    It did not, nor did the ranch, and Joey was holding a clipboard and frowning at a display of windshield wipers when the investigator made his move. The long aisle was empty. It was almost noon, a Monday, and the store was practically empty.
    “Are you Joey?” the investigator asked with a tight smile just under a thick mustache.
    Joey glanced down at the plastic name badge pinned above his shirt pocket. “That’s me.” He tried to return the smile. This was, after all, retail, and the customer must be adored. However, this guy did not appear to be a customer.
    “My name’s Fred Pryor.” The right hand shot out like a boxing punch bound for the gut. “I’m a private investigator.” Joey grabbed it, almost in self-defense, and they shook hands for a few awkward seconds. “Nice to meet you.”
    “A pleasure,” Joey said, his radar at full alert. Mr. Pryor was about fifty years old, thick in the chest, with a round tough face topped with gray hair that required work each morning. He wore a standard navy blazer, tan polyester slacks that were straining at the waist, and, of course, a pair of well-shined, pointed-toe boots.
    “What kind of investigator?” Joey asked.
    “I’m not a cop, Joey. I’m a private investigator, duly licensed by the State of Texas.”
    “You got a gun?”
    “Yep.” Pryor flung open his blazer to reveal a 9-millimeter Glock strapped under his left armpit. “You wanna see the permit?” he asked.
    “No. Who are you working for?”
    “Donté Drumm’s defense team.”
    The shoulders sagged a bit, the eyes rolled, the air escaped in one quick sigh of frustration, as if to say, “Not that again.” But Pryor expected this and moved in quickly. “I’ll buy you lunch, Joey. We can’t talk here. There’s a Mexican place around the corner. Meet me there. Give methirty minutes, okay? That’s all I ask. You get lunch. I get some face time. Then maybe you’ll never see me again.”
    The Monday special was quesadillas, all you can eat for $6.50. The doctor told him to lose some weight, but he craved Mexican food, especially the greased-up, flash-fried, American version.
    “What do you want?” he asked.
    Pryor glanced around as if others were listening. “Thirty minutes. Look, Joey, I’m not a cop. I have no authority, no warrant, no right to ask for anything. But you know the history better than me.”
    Pryor would later report to Robbie Flak that at that point the kid lost his edge, stopped smiling, and his eyes half closed in a look of submission and sadness. It was as if he knew this day would eventually arrive. At that moment, Pryor was certain they would catch a break.
    Joey glanced at his watch and said, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Order me one of their house margaritas.”
    “You got it.” Pryor thought that drinking at lunch could be problematic, at least for Joey. But then, the alcohol might help.
    The house margarita was served in a clear, bowl-shaped pitcher of some sort and was enough of a beverage for several thirsty men. As the minutes passed, condensation formed on the glass and the ice began to melt. Pryor sipped iced tea with lemon and sent a message to Flak: “Meeting JG for lunch now. Later.”
    Joey arrived on time and managed to squeeze his sizable frame into the booth. He slid the glass over, took the straw, and inhaled an impressive quantity of the booze. Pryor made some small talk until the waiter took their orders and disappeared, then he moved in closer and got to the point.
    “Donté will be executed Thursday. Did you know that?”
    Joey nodded slowly. Affirmative. “I saw it in the paper. Plus, I talked to my mother