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head.
    “You need to respond verbally,” Sam told him. For a moment, Danni thought Sam might just kick Felton in the head. He was positioned
     perfectly and Felton’s head just hung out there like a soccer ball.
    Come on, answer! Danni said to herself. Just answer the damn question before he loses it and kills you right here and now!
    “I understand what you said to me but I’m innocent,” Felton replied. “I didn’t kill anybody. You’ve got the wrong man.”
    “We’ll see about that, dickhead,” Sam answered. “You’re going down. And don’t be fooled: that cocktail they give you up in
     Raiford—it may be quick but it’s awful painful. They just paralyze you so nobody can tell.”
    Danni looked at the officer holding the camera. Unfortunately, he’d caught it all on tape, including Sam’s diatribe. They’d
     have to explain that away down the road. She slipped her arm around Sam’s as the SWAT guys started to move Felton to a police
     vehicle.
    “Come on, Sam. It’s all over,” she said.
    “It won’t be over until that son of a bitch is dead. And it won’t even be over then,” Sam said. “It won’t be over till I’m
     dead and my kids are dead and all those other kids’ families are dead. Then it will be over.”

Eight Years Later
October 2001
Bass Creek, Florida

Chapter Fourteen
    J ack, will you get me a beer while you’re down there?” Henry Wilson asked his friend Jack Tobin as he sat in one of the captain’s
     chairs at the stern of the thirty-two-foot Sea Ray with a fishing pole in his hand. It was a calm, sunny day on Lake Okeechobee.
     The fish were jumping but they weren’t biting.
    Jack was in the galley frying hamburgers for lunch. It was just the two of them, as usual on a Saturday afternoon.
    “Sure, Henry. Can I get you anything else, like an extra cushion for your chair or a frosty mug for your beer?”
    “Just the bottle will do, Jack, but hurry up, will you?”
    “You’d better be careful. You don’t want to mess with the cook,” Jack said as he handed Henry his beer.
    “I forgot about that rule. Don’t spit on my burger. By the way, Bobby Flay, when are we eating?”
    “Why? Do you have something important to do out here on the lake that I don’t know about?”
    The lake was empty. There wasn’t a boat in sight.
    Henry took a sip of his beer.
    “You never know. It’s kinda like these fish. One of them is going to show up in this boat sooner or later.”
    The banter went on like that all day. They were an odd couple, to say the least, and the origin of their friendship was even
     more unusual. Henry had been a prisoner on death row with eight weeks to live when Jack became his lawyer. Eight weeks later
     he was a free man. Jack’s wife, Pat, was sick at the time, and she eventually died. Henry had helped Jack through those bad
     times, and they’d been close friends ever since.
    Henry lived in Miami and Jack in a small town called Bass Creek that bordered the lake. Henry came up most weekends and they
     usually went fishing. It was a good-sized boat, but there was barely room for both of them. Henry was a six-foot-five bear
     of a man and Jack was six-foot-two although he was much thinner.
    “You need to put some meat on those bones,” Henry told him when the burgers were cooked and Jack was sitting next to him.
     “Maybe you need to add fries and onion rings and some ribs to these meals.”
    Jack laughed. He had a good appetite but he worked out almost every day and stayed slim. Besides, nobody could eat like Henry.
    “The women like me just the way I am, Henry.”
    “What women? I haven’t seen you with a woman in ages. Probably ’cause they think you’re too skinny. I don’t know about your
     white women, but black women don’t like skinny men. Won’t even look at you twice.”
    Henry had unknowingly hit on a sore spot. Jack had been feeling a bit lonely lately and thinking that perhaps it was time
     for him to find a companion to share his