It was ten in the morning, and the line for the visitor center at the Potosi Correctional Center already stretched outside the building. James “Sherlock” Holmes went to the prison dozens of times a year, and every time, he found it strange to see kids playing on the lawn while their moms visited inmates. It didn’t seem right. If he had kids and was in prison, he’d call them, but they’d never see him. No kid should see his father in chains.
Sherlock wore a pair of jeans and a blue shirt with the logo of a fruit delivery service stitched across the breast. Beside him in the pickup sat a man he had just met that morning, having been introduced by one of Sherlock’s long-term clients. Though he would enter the prison as a worker from the Franciscan Fruit and Vegetable Company, Sherlock carried a defense attorney’s burnished leather briefcase at his side.
On a routine visit, Sherlock would have walked through the main gate, signed the visitor log, and waited for a corrections officer to show him to his client. He couldn’t afford to have his name on a ledger or his face on a security camera’s feed this time, though. Sherlock had come to talk about a murder.
When the pickup reached the gate, a pair of guards sauntered toward the truck, laughing amongst themselves. For the convenience of a clandestine visit to the facility, Sherlock had paid three thousand dollars to a guard who worked for the Missouri Department of Corrections. With luck, that would become money well spent.
While one guard passed a sign-in sheet through the truck’s window, another reached beneath a pile of romaine lettuce in the back to remove a backpack. Sherlock wasn’t the only thing being smuggled in that morning. Not that he begrudged the Franciscan Fruit and Vegetable Company a little extra profit; he doubted there was much money in produce that most grocery stores would have discarded.
When a guard handed Sherlock the clipboard, he slid three hundred-dollar bills under the clip and handed it back without signing a thing. The guard smiled to himself and pretended to study the clipboard and Sherlock’s face before taking a step away from the truck and waving them through.
When they arrived at a loading dock, another guard opened the rear door and motioned them forward. Sherlock and the fruit delivery person stepped out.
“You’ve got fifteen minutes, buddy,” said the delivery man, already picking up a box of lettuce and carrying it to the dock. “Make them count.”
Sherlock hadn’t done this before, but his driver had briefed him on the procedure. There was only one rule: He could talk to one inmate unsupervised and bring in whatever drugs, food, cell phones, or cash he wanted, but if he brought a weapon, the guards would ban him permanently from the property.
If he followed that rule and paid the price, he’d have fifteen minutes of complete privacy with his client. Three grand was a lot of money for fifteen minutes, but Sherlock considered this an investment. If he could figure out how, he might even deduct it from his taxes.
As Sherlock approached the loading dock, a guard stepped to the edge and held out his hand to pull Sherlock up. Without saying a word, he led him inside to an office in the kitchen. Someone had taped shopping lists, inventories, and work schedules to the walls. The desk was a mess of papers. Inmate #453312, Christopher Hughes, sat in the only chair.
He stood when Sherlock entered. He had the clean and straight teeth of a man who had grown up with money, something few of his fellow inmates could boast. His eyes darted around the room—probably looking for threats—before settling on Sherlock. They looked cool at first, but then they warmed.
“It’s been a long time,” said Hughes.
“Sit down,” said Sherlock. “We’ve got a lot to talk about and little time.”
Christopher sat but didn’t take his eyes from Sherlock.
“When Catfish came to my cell and said I had a visitor, I expected to see somebody in the visitor center.”
“That is where most visitors go,” said Sherlock. “This visit is special.”
“I see,” said Christopher, nodding. “You’re not my lawyer. Why are you here?”
Sherlock pulled a pen and file folder from his briefcase. Inside the folder was a simple representation agreement that listed Sherlock’s hourly fees, his duties, and a brief summation of the attorney-client privilege.
“Knowing what I do, you’ll want me as your attorney of record,” he said. “Sign the paper, and then we’ll talk.”
Hughes scanned the document and then glanced up. “You think you’re worth five hundred an hour?”
“Oh, I’m worth far more than that to you,” he said. “I can get you out of here.”
“My last attorney said the same thing.”
“I guarantee it,” said Sherlock, holding out his pen. “Sign this paper, and I’ll have you out of here within a week.”
Hughes took the pen and signed his name. “All right. You’re my attorney now. Not that I can pay you.”
“I know your monetary situation better than you realize,” he said, countersigning the agreement and then closing the folder. “That’s why I’m here. How much is your freedom worth to you?”
Hughes crossed his arms. “A man who could get me out of here could name his figure.”
“Half a million cash,” said Sherlock. “I know you’ve got it because I know what you did for a living. This is above the hourly fee you pay me. I will also ask for a third of any fees I can recover from the city and county on your behalf. That five hundred grand isn’t in the contract, so we’ll call it a gentleman’s agreement.”
“A half-mil is a lot of money,” said Hughes, cocking his head to the side. “If you think you can get me out, though, you’re welcome to it.”
Hughes reached into his bag for a second folder. It held a single picture he had printed at his office computer that morning.
“That is a picture of Ms. Kiera Williams, but you know her as Megan Young. An associate of mine shot her last night in St. Augustine.”
Hughes picked up the picture. His hands trembled, and his breath was shallow.
“No shit?”
“No shit,” said Sherlock. “Even in St. Augustine, it won’t take the police long to see through the Kiera Williams identity. Once they find out the victim is Megan Young, I’ll file the paperwork to get you out of here. I’ll also work with the media—they love stories like this. You pled guilty to murdering Megan, but you didn’t do it. I think we’ll have a lot of support.”
“You did this for me,” he said, his voice low and incredulous. “You found her and took care of her for me.”
“Yeah,” said Sherlock. “That’s what friends do. I know you didn’t kill her, so I’ve had a private detective on my staff looking for her for twelve years.”
Hughes put the picture down. “How’d he find her?”
“We tracked down her sister and paid her a visit. Emily gave us everything we needed.”
Hughes nodded and then reached across the table to shake Sherlock’s hand.
“You’re a friend. I won’t forget this. My wife persuaded me to hire that schmuck lawyer, but I should have gone with you.”
Sherlock squeezed the convict’s hand before dropping it. Then he looked around.
“If you had, I sure as hell wouldn’t have advised you to confess.”
“They had my balls in a vise,” he said. “I told my lawyer it was all bullshit, but he didn’t care. He told me a plea deal was the only way to save my life. I didn’t know what I was doing. I trusted him, but once I signed the papers, he disappeared.”
“It will cheer you to know he’s dead now.”
Hughes raised his eyebrows. “You do that, too?”
Sherlock chuckled and shook his head. “That was all God and grease. He had a massive heart attack while giving the closing arguments in a negligent homicide case.”
“Fucker deserved it,” said Hughes, sitting straighter. He shook his head and looked at the picture in front of him. “I’ve sat in chains for twelve years because of this bitch.”
“It won’t be too much longer.”
“If you’re right, it won’t,” he said, leaning forward again. He exhaled a slow breath. “Megan’s not the only one who screwed me. I’ve got a list of names if you’re willing to work. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Sherlock crossed his arms. “How worth my while?”
Hughes thought for a moment. “Fifty each, starting with my wife. The money’s in my house. A quarter-million cash. It’s inside the wall in my master closet.”
“That’s a big thing to ask of your attorney.”
“You’re not just a lawyer,” said Hughes, grinning. “If it’s not enough money, you can fuck my wife before you kill her. That was about the only thing she did right. Either way, I want her to die screaming. She’s the reason I’m here.”
Sherlock snorted as he gathered his files and put them in his briefcase.
“For fifty a head, I’d take out my mom. Consider it done. Get your bags together and make your goodbyes, Mr. Hughes, because you’re going home. Nobody in the world can stop that now.”