“I shoulda hired that radical Jew lawyer, what’s his name, Lowenstein?”

“Maybe, but you didn’t. He’s had three clients executed in the past four years.”

Marc Lowenstein is an acquaintance of mine and a fine lawyer. Between the two of us, we handle most of the untouchable cases in our end of the state. My cell phone vibrates. It’s a text message—the Fifteenth Circuit has just denied.

I say, “Bad news, Link, the Fifteenth just turned us down.”

He says nothing but reaches over and turns on the television. I turn the switch for more lighting and ask, “Is your son stopping by tonight?”

He grunts, “No.”

He has one child, a son who just got out of federal prison. Extortion. He grew up in the family business and loves his old man, but no one can blame him for avoiding a prison, if only for a visit. Link says, “We’ve said good-bye already.”

“So no guests tonight?”

He grunts, says nothing. No, no visitors for the last hug. Link was married twice but hates both ex-wives. He hasn’t spoken to his mother in twenty years. His only brother mysteriously disappeared after a bad business deal. Link reaches into his pocket, produces a cell phone, and makes a call. Inmate cell phones are violently forbidden, and they’ve caught Link with a dozen over the years. The guards sneak them in; one who got caught said he was paid $1,000 in cash by a stranger in a Burger King parking lot, after lunch.

It’s a quick call—I can’t understand a word—and Link returns the phone to his pocket. Using the remote, he changes channels and we watch a local cable news show. There’s a lot of interest in his execution. A reporter does a nice job of recapping the Nagy murders. They flash photos of the judge and his wife, a pretty lady.

I knew the judge well and appeared several times in his courtroom. He was a hard-ass but fair and smart. We were shocked when he was murdered, but not too surprised when the trail led to Link Scanlon. They run a clip of Knuckles, the gunman, as he’s leaving court in handcuffs. What a nasty one.

I say, “You know you’re entitled to the counsel of a spiritual adviser?”

He grunts. No.

“The prison has a chaplain, if you’d like a word with him.”

“What’s a chaplain?”

“A man of God.”

“And what might he say to me?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Link. I’m told that some folks, right before they pass, like to get things right with God. Confess their sins, stuff like that.”

“That might take some time.”

Contrition would be an inexcusable act of weakness for a mobster like Link. He has absolutely no remorse, for the Nagy murders or for all those before them. He glares at me and says, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m your lawyer. It’s my job to be here, to make sure the final appeals run their course. To give advice.”

“And your advice is to talk to a chaplain?”

We’re startled by a loud knock on the door. It opens immediately and a man in a cheap suit strolls in, with two guards as escorts. He says, “Mr. Scanlon, I’m Jess Foreman, assistant warden.”

“A real pleasure,” Link says without taking his eyes off the television.

Foreman ignores me and says, “I have a list of all those who will witness the execution. There’s nobody on your list, right?”

“Right.”

“Are you sure?”

Link ignores this. Foreman waits, then says, “What about your lawyer?” He looks at me.

“I’ll be there,” I say. The lawyer is always invited to watch.

“Anybody from Judge Nagy’s family?” I ask.

“Yep, all three of his children.” Foreman places the list on the desk and leaves. As the door slams behind him, Link says, “Here it is.” He lifts the remote, increases the volume.

It’s a breaking story—a bomb just exploded in the stately courthouse where the Fifteenth Circuit does its work. The scene outside is frantic as police and firemen scurry about. Smoke boils from a second-floor window. A breathless reporter is moving along the street with his cameraman in tow, looking for a better angle and gushing on about what’s happening.

Link’s eyes glow as he watches. I say, “Wow, another coincidence.” But Link does not hear me. I try to act cool, calm, as if this is no big deal. A bomb here, a bomb there. Couple of phone calls from death row and the fuses get lit. But I am astonished.

Who might be next? Another judge, perhaps the one who presided over his trial and sentenced him to death? That was Judge Cone, since retired, and for about two years, during and after the trial, he had armed protection. Perhaps the jurors? They lived cautiously thereafter with the cops close by. No one was hurt or threatened.

Link grunts, “Where does the appeal go now?”

I guess he plans to bomb every courthouse from here to Washington. He knows the answer to his question; we’ve discussed it enough. I reply, “The Supremes, in D.C. Why do you ask?”

He ignores this. We watch the television for a while. CNN picks up the story and in its usual, hysterical fashion soon has us on red alert, as if jihadists were invading.

Link is smiling.

Half an hour later, the warden is back, fidgeting more than ever. He pulls me out of the room and hisses, “You’ve heard about the Fifteenth Circuit?”

“We’re watching it.”

“You gotta stop him.”

“Who?”

“Don’t ‘Who’ me, dammit! You know what I’m talking about.”

“We’re not in control here, Warden. The courts run their own schedules. Link’s boys have their orders, evidently. Besides, the bombings might be coincidental.”

“Yeah, right. The FBI is on the way here right now.”

“Oh, that’s real good, real smart. My client gets the needle in exactly three hours and fourteen minutes, yet the FBI wants to grill him about these bombings. He’s a seasoned thug, Warden, a gangster from the old school. Battle hardened. He’ll spit on any FBI agent within twenty feet.”

He looks like he’s about to faint. “We gotta do something,” he says, wild-eyed. “The governor’s yelling at me. Everybody’s yelling at me.”

“Well, it’s up to the gov, if you ask me. He grants the reprieve, and I suppose Link stops the bombing campaign. Not sure, though, because he’s not listening to me.”

“Can you ask him?”

I laugh out loud. “Sure, Warden, I’ll just have a little heart-to-heart with my client, get him to confess, and convince him to stop whatever he’ll admit to doing. No problem.”

He’s too ashen to strike back, so he leaves, shaking his head, chewing his nails, another bureaucrat thoroughly overwhelmed with decision making. I step back into the room and take a chair. Link is glued to the television.

“That was the warden,” I say. “And they’d really appreciate it if you’d call off the dogs.”

No response. No acknowledgment.

CNN finally connects the dots, and suddenly my client is the hour’s hottest story. They flash a mug shot of Link, a much younger version, as they interview the prosecutor who sent him away. From across the desk, Link curses under his breath, though he’s still smiling. None of my business, but if I were inclined to plant bombs, this guy’s office would be at the top of my list.

His name is Max Mancini, the City’s chief prosecutor and a true legend in his own mind. He’s been popping off in the press all week as the countdown grew louder. Link will be his first execution, and he wouldn’t miss it for anything. Frankly, I’ve never understood why Link chose to rub out his own defense lawyer instead of going after Mancini. But I won’t ask.

Evidently, Link and I are on the same page. Just as the reporter is wrapping up the interview, there is a loud noise somewhere in the background, behind Mancini. The camera pulls back and it’s clear to me that they’re standing on the sidewalk outside his downtown office.

Another explosion.