"Not really. Some of her relatives."

"Really? Would they speak to me? We're doing a lot of interviews before we start."

"No," I said. "I don't think so. They're pretty private."

"Well, let me know if you think they would. These stories need to be told."

"I will."

"It was nice to see you again," said Jane.

"Wait," I said.

"Yeah?"

Here was my moment to ask about that night, the party. I didn't want the knife back. I just wanted to know if she remembered, to understand how one event could mean so little and so much.

"No, I just was going to ask…"

"Yes?"

"I have an idea for a TV show."

"That's nice."

"Well, it's really my friend Nick's idea, but we're collaborating."

"Nick?"

"Nick Papadopoulos."

"I don't know his work."

"You might. You might have sat on his work. Though probably not."

"I'm not sure where you're going with this."

"He's a builder. A contractor. Builds decks."

"Is it some kind of home repair thing? I don't really do that sort of-"

"No, no," I said. "It's a cooking show."

"Cooking? I think we're full up on those. See that guy in there?"

"Right. So, take that guy in there, Mr. Kitchen Badass. Now put him on death row."

"Pardon?"

"I mean not him. I mean he's there, but he's not on death row. But he's going to cook a last meal for somebody about to die. Dead Man Dining. You know why those last meals are so crappy?"

"Because they all eat crappy food in those parts of the country."

"Yes, bingo. Now bring on the Kobe beef."

"Excuse me?"

"I mean… wow, Nick is much better at this. It sounded different when… oh, forget it."

"No," said Jane. "I'm intrigued. Let me see if I've got you right. America's best chefs come to America's worst prisons to cook lavish last meals for condemned convicts."

"Yes. That's what I was trying to say. Perfectly put."

"I can see it," said Jane, snatched another drink from a passing tray. "First we film the chef on the way to the airport, nervous but excited, and also moved by the gravity of the event. He reflects on crime and fate and society, how lucky his own life has been. Then he arrives at the prison and meets with the warden, who explains in somewhat disturbing detail what the condemned man did. Whether you agree with capital punishment or not, there's no getting around the fact that a court of law found this hick guilty of hacking the girl up in the forest, or mowing down the returns line at the shoe outlet. A sober few minutes. Then the fun. Our chef sits down with the maniac. They talk about food. While the unschooled but unquestionably bright killer talks about the staples he was raised on-chicken fingers, hamburgers, onion rings, cola, processed bread, and peanut butter laced with rat shit, we start to feel for him, his crime recedes, and what we are watching is a boy who never had a chance to taste the better things, to know possibility, to see a way out. It's sad, but a quick cut to the warden will remind us that we should be careful about where our sympathies lie. And what are the families of the victims eating tonight? Commercial."

"Holy shit," I said. "That's it. You're good."

"When we return from the break," said Jane, "we're with our celebrity chef in the prison kitchen. The prison cooks watch with bemusement as the chef's shock at the meagerness of utensils mounts. Don't they even have a paring knife? A goddamn strainer? Yuckety-yuck. So now the chef speaks to the camera about his philosophy of food. Food doesn't need to be fancy. It just needs to taste good. Especially in bad times. It's all about simplicity. Fresh fruit, fresh vegetables, good bread, cruelty-free meats. It's sad how out of reach these things are for so many Americans. As to the prisoner's last meal, well, the chef has been doing a lot of soul-searching. The worst thing would be to take too big a gamble, to prepare something wonderful but too foreign to his taste. Those of us not about to be executed can afford an adventurous though vaguely disappointing dining experience, the ostrich steaks and persimmon spaetzle not nearly as scrumptious as advertised. But this one has to be right on the money. So, we will work with all the tastes and textures that Clarence-Clarence, right?-already craves. The only purpose of this meal is to take him back to maybe the one brief moment in his sorry life he felt loved. We may have a little fun with presentation, but the grub will be solid, familiar, though much fresher, juicier, more savory, than this food-court castoff could ever have imagined. Now come the snafus. The hurdles, the drama. What do you mean we have to go all the way to Lubbock for thyme? I said Syrah, not Shiraz! No, they're not the same! The usual diva hilarity, but with this incredibly compelling undertone of impending death. We intercut the chef in the kitchen with the prisoner penning his final thoughts in his diary, or kneeling with his prayer group. The executioners test the straps on the gurney. The warden stares out his office window at the new moon, ponders the price of justice. And then the moment we've been waiting for. The prisoner sits at a cute little table set up in, no, not his cell, but in a little conference room near the warden's office. White tablecloth. A rose in a vase. Our chef brings out the meal, explains what he's prepared and why. The prisoner takes a bite, begins to cry. He had a mommy once. The chef begins to cry. He still has a mommy, but he's so busy chasing those Michelin stars he doesn't get to visit her enough. The warden stares. His mommy used to lock him in a manure bin. We cut away. We'll let the man eat his last meal in peace. Commercial. Come back to final thoughts from the chef, back in his restaurant now. The whole experience has changed him. But he hasn't forgotten the victim or the families. He thinks about them, too. He thinks about the whole sad tragedy of it all. Maybe if everybody could eat well there wouldn't be so much hate in the world. But he will keep doing what he's doing, cooking meals with love, doing his little part to bring peace to the planet, dish by dish. Fade out to words on the screen: Clarence Howard O'Grady was executed on blah blah for the murder of blah blah and blah blah. His last words were these: 'I am sorry for what I did and the pain I caused. I wish I'd had Jesus in my life sooner, and more omega-3s. In my next life I'll wash dishes in Chef Gary's fancy restaurant in New York, so I can have artisanal baloney every day. Sleep tight, you world, you motherfucker."

Jane smiled, drained the rest of her Bellini.

"Is that basically it?" she said.

"That's it exactly."

"Thought so."

"That was amazing."

"Thank you."

"So… do you think… I mean, could you be interested in something like that?"

"If my name were attached to something like that I would commit suicide."

"Oh."

"But here's my card."

"Oh, okay."

"Please pass it along to your friend. The deck builder. A documentary about how reality television has warped the fantasy life of everyday Americans, that could be interesting."

"Very," I said.

"Case studies."

"Yes, right."

"So, did Purdy put you up to this?"

"Purdy?"

"Pretty funny. He's a sick puppy."

"Well, if you need any help with your documentary. You know, legwork."

"Legwork."

"Right."

"Take care, Milo. Nice to see you."

Jane turned, moved off into the crowd.

"Where's my fucking knife?" I said, but she was already gone.

I went back to the bar for another round.

"The same?" said the barman.

"Yes," I said. "A double."

The kid filled my tumbler to the rim.

"Oh, damn," he said. "I forgot the ice. Now there's no room. I'm really sorry."

"How are you going learn if you don't make mistakes?"

"But I'm in the field. This is live liquor."