“You mean if I’m too crazy to be found guilty.”
He nodded. He seemed relieved that I got it. “Yes! Something along those lines.”
“And what if the judge decides I’m crazy? I spend the rest of my life in an asylum?”
He didn’t answer for a few minutes. “I told you not to say anything to them, Alfred.”
“And if he decides I’m not crazy, there’s a trial and I go to prison for twenty years.”
“Only if the jury finds you guilty.”
I thought about it. “So what’s the strategy?”
“Strategy?”
“You do have a strategy for getting me out of this, right?”
“Well, the very first thing I’m going to do is find you a good attorney.”
I stared at him. “I thought you were my attorney.”
“Technically, I’m the attorney for your father’s estate. And you wouldn’t want me for an attorney, Alfred.”
“Why? Do you suck?”
r /> “Oh, no, I don’t suck. I’m quite good at what I do, but unfortunately, I don’t do criminal law.”
He patted my knee.
“Don’t pat my knee,” I said.
He stopped patting my knee. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Like crap. My nose is broke. I’ve got fifty-nine million stitches in my arm and four thousand bruises all over my body and they think my butt might be cracked.”
He frowned. “Aren’t all butts?”
“I’m not kidding. I need you to call Abigail Smith for me. I used up my phone call on you.”
“Who is Abigail Smith?”
“The director of OIPEP.” I handed him her card.
“OIPEP,” he murmured, staring at the card.
“You remember.”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
“Tell her I want a meeting. Today. Even if that means she meets me in the psycho ward.”
“Do you think her agency had something to do with this?”
“Oh, you bet they’re near the top of my list.”
I pushed the ring into his pudgy hand.
“And I want you to keep this.”