Jasmine's eyebrows rose. "I didn't know there were any."

"You bet," Blackburn said. "I haven't seen them myself, but I've read about them in the library. I recommend the Texas Prison Museum, featuring balls and chains, Bonnie and Clyde's rifles, and best of all, 'Old Sparky.' "

"What's that?" Jasmine asked.

"The Texas State Electric Chair, now retired in favor of a more energy-efficient method. But beloved nonetheless."

Jasmine looked down at the counter. "I don't want to talk about this."

"I'm not talking about it," Blackburn said.

Jasmine looked up. She was angry. "Yes, you are."

She was right. Blackburn didn't have any business bothering her with it. But on the other hand, he hadn't asked her to come.

"You had to know it'd be on my mind," he said.

Jasmine was quiet for a long moment. "Yes," she said then. "But there's nothing I can do. So I was hoping we could talk about other things."

"Like what?"

"Well, I thought you might want to hear about Mom. And Dad."

Blackburn supposed that made sense on her side of the wall. "Okay. How's Mom?"

"She got married at Thanksgiving. Her husband's name is Gary. He worked at a cannery for thirty years, but he's retired now."

"That's nice," Blackburn said. "How about you? Married?"

"No."

"Shacking up?"

Jasmine reddened.

"Take precautions," Blackburn said.

Jasmine laughed. Her eyes looked moist.

"I'm not kidding," Blackburn said.

Jasmine put a black purse on the counter and took a tissue from it. She wiped her eyes. "I know you're not," she said. "That's not why I'm laughing. I'm laughing so I don't cry."

"I don't get it."

"I wouldn't expect you to."

Blackburn decided he was glad she had come. He and Jasmine understood each other.

"All right," he said. "So what about the old man?"

Jasmine crumpled the tissue. "He passed away in September."

"He lasted that long?"

Jasmine nodded. "He got better for almost two years. Then he went downhill fast. I had him at my place in Spokane when it happened. He was watching the cable news, and they were talking about you pleading guilty, but I don't think that's what did it. He just sort of dozed off. He was on a lot of painkillers by then, so I don't think he hurt much."

Blackburn sighed. It figured. Those who caused the most pain almost never suffered any themselves. But maybe that meant Blackburn could hope for an easy death of his own. "What are you going to do with the homestead?"

"Sell it," Jasmine said. "I certainly don't want it, and you-" She cut herself off. She looked scared.

"It's okay," Blackburn said. "I don't mind. All I mind is that it's taking so long."

Jasmine shook her head. "I don't understand why you don't fight it," she said. Her voice quavered. "You're the last person I'd expect to give up."

"I'm not giving up," Blackburn said. "I'm accepting reality. It's going to happen, so it might as well be soon." He gestured at the walls. "This place is no fun. For example, I was converting all the work-capable Jesus freaks to Mortonism, so the chaplain had me reclassified. Now I only get three hours a day out of my cell, five days a week. And the cell's six by nine, most of which is bed and toilet." He stood. "I'm upsetting you. I should go."

"Don't," Jasmine said. "We have time left."

"You should spend yours in Spokane." Blackburn turned and nodded to the guard.

"I love you, Jimmy," Jasmine said.

Blackburn couldn't imagine how that could be true. But he had never known Jasmine to lie. He looked back at her and said, "Thanks." Then he returned to his cell.

A week later, an attorney he didn't know came to see him. The attorney sat in the same chair in which Jasmine had sat. He looked miserable.

Blackburn took that as a good sign. "What's the word?" he asked.

The attorney, a man only a few years older than Blackburn, adjusted his crooked wire-framed glasses, making them more crooked. "I have a ruling from the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals," he said. "They upheld your sentence. I'm afraid where the murder of a Texas peace officer is concerned, the court has little compassion for the accused."

"Well, after all," Blackburn said, "I did it."

"That doesn't matter. Your case was rushed to trial, and your counsel presented no defense. So regardless of what the Texas court says, we have constitutional grounds for a U.S. Supreme Court review, and then for habeas corpus appeals if that fails."

Blackburn didn't like what he was hearing. "Look," he said, "my lawyer accomplished the only thing I wanted him to accomplish. The state was saying that I raped and killed a woman, and he got them to admit it was a lie. Then they said that I shot and killed a DPS trooper, which was the truth. The guy had it coming, but apparently that isn't a legal consideration. So I pled guilty, and they sentenced me. Then my lawyer said he'd argue an appeal of the sentence, and I told him to get lost. I knew it'd be pointless."

"You didn't have a choice," the attorney said. "Texas law requires an automatic review by the Criminal Appeals court whenever capital punishment is imposed. So when your counsel resigned, I was appointed to your case. I sent you a letter informing you of that. Didn't you receive it?"

Blackburn shrugged. "Maybe. I get a lot of mail. Some of it's from people who want to preserve my life, and some of it's from people who want to see me fry, even though Texas doesn't do that anymore. But most of it's from lawyers who want to use me to get movie deals."

The attorney adjusted his glasses again, and they fell off his face and clattered on the counter. He picked them up and shoved them back on, then glared at Blackburn. "I took your case because a judge ordered me to," he said, "but that doesn't mean I'm not going to do my job. And my job is to keep you alive."

"Why?" Blackburn asked. "So I can spend my life here?"

"There's parole," the attorney said. "Sometimes even for cop killers."

"You think you can get me parole?"

"It wouldn't be for a long time, but it could happen."

"How long a time? Minimum."

The attorney grimaced. "Given the nature of your crime," he said, "and given that you have another murder trial pending in this state and have confessed to killings in other states, I would say that the soonest you would be eligible for parole would be in twenty years. Now, I know that sounds like forever. But it beats dying."

Blackburn stared at the attorney. The man looked sincere, but sincerity was irrelevant. Blackburn stood.

"I've seen enough death to know more about it than you do," he said. "And I've been in one cage or another for most of the past year, so I know more about incarceration than you do. I've also done extensive reading about the execution procedures in this state, and about the psychological effects of long prison terms. Therefore, given my superior knowledge of these matters, my decision is this: The only way I will stay in Huntsville for twenty years will be as a stuffed mummy in the Texas Prison Museum, perched on Old Sparky. So unless you're going to help make this thing quick and easy, you can take your habeas corpus and stick it."

The attorney stood as well. "Mr. Blackburn, I can understand that you're upset. But you have to realize that you have legal options that could save your life. If you refuse to take advantage of them, you'll be killing yourself." He fumbled with his glasses. "I'll try to come back tomorrow, so you'll have tonight to cool down and think. I might even be able to arrange a consultation without a wall between us, so we can talk more comfortably."

Blackburn fixed the attorney with a steady gaze. "Please do that," he said. "Then I can tear you open where you're soft, hang you up, and watch you drain."