Deadline (Sandra Brown)

trying to save his life would be expected to have a change of heart and become more humble, but I don’t think the jury bought Willard’s sincerity.”
    “You can’t influence the jurors’ perception of him. They won’t have access to anything you write.”
    “True.”
    “Then—”
    “I can possibly change the course of the trial. But first you must let me talk to him. Only then can I help Willard help himself.”
    “Helping him is my job.”
    “With all due respect, you’re failing.”
    Again, the ego reared. “The jury’s not in yet, Mr. Scott.”
    “The odds for an acquittal are slim to none. Admit it.”
    He admitted nothing, but he said, “Give me another reason why this is a good idea.”
    “Unless there’s a major upset, something like a mistrial, he’ll be convicted.”
    “I’m not conceding the point. But if he is convicted, I’ll immediately file for an appeal.”
    “Your appeal could coincide with a national magazine story slanted in Willard’s favor.”
    “You’d do that? You’d write it that way?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I’d stake my career on his innocence.”
    “Are you yanking my chain?”
    “No.”
    That seemed to impress him, but he still wasn’t ready to concede. “I looked you up on the Internet. You’ve written your share of smear stories.”
    “About people who deserved to be smeared.”
    “So, how do I know that isn’t what you plan for my client?”
    “You don’t.”
    “How do I know you aren’t bullshitting me when you say you think he’s innocent?”
    “You don’t.” After a second, he added, “I know you’re taking a leap of faith here, but it will pay off.”
    The lawyer chewed on that, literally. The inside of his cheek was being brutalized by his molars. At last, he said, “Let me sleep on it.”
    “Nope. This is a onetime offer.”
    “But I need time to—”
    “No time. Tell me now. Yes or no?”
    “You’re working under a deadline?”
    He’d posed the question tongue-in-cheek, but Dawson answered solemnly. “You have no idea.”
    Dawson could tell that the attorney’s pride struggled with the concept of surrender and that it got the better of him. “Sorry, Mr. Scott. No soap. At least not until I’ve considered it, consulted my client, and weighed our options.”
    Dawson wanted to grab him by his well-tailored lapels and shake him. He didn’t, but he leaned forward and spoke rapidly, aggressively. “What options? What options? You have two. Twelve people are ready, even eager, to have a needle shoved into Willard’s vein. He dies an innocent man and you chalk up a big ugly black mark in your loss column. That’s one option.”
    He leaned even closer. “And then there’s me, the town crier on Willard’s behalf. He goes free, you’re hailed a hero, you go on TV to talk about it, and every felon in the South is begging you to be his defender.”
    Dawson could tell he liked the sound of that, but still he was wrestling with it. “That all sounds good, but—”
    “What?”
    “It might not work out that way.”
    “It for damn sure won’t if you turn me down.”
    “I’m not turning you down flat. But caution is called for here.”
    “No time for caution. You’ve got to decide.”
    “But—”
    “You gotta say yes and say it now.”
    “You—”
    “I’m the only hope for your client.”
    “He—”
    “Hasn’t got a prayer and you know it.”
    “I—”
    “ Grant me the goddamn interview. ”
    Dawson’s imperious shout took him aback, but it also worked. He unfolded his arms. He licked his lips. “It’ll be like a webcam.”
    “Fine.”
    “I’ll be right there the whole time.”
    “Fine.”
    “I’ll record the entire interview and have it transcripted afterward.”
    “Fine.”
    “If you slander him, I’ll sue you and your magazine.”
    Dawson stood up. “Deal.”
    The short-notice meeting with the prisoner took time to arrange. It seemed interminably long to Dawson, who paced while Gleason dealt with staff who seemed to have nothing but time on their hands. Eventually, they were situated in a room that allowed them a video interview with Willard Strong.
    In another part of the jail, Strong was led into a room, manacled and shackled. Radiating hostility, he slumped down into the chair in front of the monitor through which he could communicate. He regarded his lawyer with patent contempt. Then his belligerent gaze shifted to Dawson. “Who the fuck are you?”
    Dawson gave him a lazy