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TWENTY-EIGHT

“A FRESH START,” SILAS Renfrow said to me through his bionic voice, his blue eyes visible through the slot of the holding cell. “You don’t ever think about that? Fresh starts?”

It was the fourth time I’d met with Silas over the course of three weeks, while the partner from my firm, Howard Shimkus, was on a trial downstate. It was the second Monday of October, Columbus Day, a day when all the courts were closed, so I had time freed up to make the trek here with my federal escort.

Ostensibly, Silas and I were still debating whether to accept the plea deal the government had offered him. We could also make a counteroffer or reject the deal and prepare for trial. But Silas was always changing the subject, always turning it away from the case and on to me — or even to current events, as best he could follow them from this solitary lockup. I had the real sense that Silas was lonely.

“Oh, what am I saying — you’re so young,” he said, correcting himself. “Your life right now is a fresh start. You haven’t lived long enough to have regrets yet.”

That wasn’t entirely true. There was Kyle, my boyfriend through high school and college and most of law school. I wasn’t sure I would’ve logged our breakup under the category of regret, because my diagnosis was correct — Kyle was born and raised in Hemingway Grove and wanted to live his whole life there. Me, I wanted out. I wanted Chicago or some other big city — or some adventure at least. So I was confident I’d made the right decision in breaking things off. But that didn’t make it sting any less.

“Maybe I should just pull a heron, say goodbye to this place,” Silas said. “But I’d hate to deprive you of my company.”

Whimsy and sarcasm did not translate well when delivered through a voice-altering microphone — human feelings expressed in a robot’s voice. Nor did I understand what Silas meant by a “heron,” which as far as I knew was a long-necked bird. But it sure seemed like he was talking about suicide.

“We should get back to the plea offer,” I said, lifting a packet of papers from my lap as I sat in the chair outside his cell. “Or decide whether we should take our chances at trial.”

“Trial,” he said, in apparent mockery — again, hard to discern in his altered voice. “Do you really think Mickey Two Guns will stand trial for what he’s done?”

Mickey Two Guns, one of the many nicknames for Michael Cagnina, apparently the one Silas favored.

“Why wouldn’t he?” I asked. “You think he’ll take a plea?”

He laughed, or at least it sounded like a laugh. “No, Marcie, I do not think he will take a plea. Not in a million years.”

As best as I could discern with that voice, he was talking down to me, stating the obvious. I didn’t understand what was so obvious.

“You really are young,” he said.

“Then explain, please.” I didn’t hide my irritation. Condescension was my Achilles’ heel — I’d rather someone spit in my face than patronize me.

“I have a better chance of becoming pope,” Silas said, “than surviving in here long enough to testify against Michael Cagnina.”