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The absence of hope he'd expressed to his mother that morning had found a few live embers when he listened to Tom Clark's closing argument. The young lawyer gave an impassioned appeal. The evidence was grim, but there were unanswered questions and no direct eyewitnesses to the stabbings. Perhaps it was enough for what the judge had described to the jury as reasonable doubt.

"Have you reached a verdict?" the judge asked.

A man in the front row stood. "We have, Your Honor." 

"Please announce the verdict."

The foreman, a local building contractor, looked down at the indictment in his hand and cleared his throat. "On count one, we the jury find the defendant, Joseph Moore, guilty of murder in the first degree of Cheryl Drummond."

Joe heard his mother gasp and then groan. He clenched his hands tightly at his sides.

"On count two, we the jury find the defendant, Joseph Moore, guilty of murder in the first degree of Martin Brock."

"Was your decision unanimous?" the judge asked in a matter-of-fact voice. 

"Yes, Your Honor."

The judge looked toward the defense table. "Any exceptions to the verdict from the defendant?"

"We reserve those for a motion for a new trial and appeal," Tom Clark responded.

"The defendant will remain in custody pending sentence," the judge said, banging his gavel.

As he was led from the courtroom by two deputies, Joe knew he should look back at his mother, but he couldn't force himself to do so. His shame was too great; the agony he knew would be on her face too painful to see.

CHAPTER ONE

Joe rested his head on a smooth rock and dozed off. It was 12:30 p.m. at the Lower Piedmont Correctional Center. He'd stretched out on ground checkered by uneven patches of shade provided by a small stand of pine trees at the eastern edge of the vegetable garden. His best friend, a Black inmate named Ray Simpson, with whom Joe shared the same birthday, had selected a nearby spot for his midday siesta. The fourteen prisoners in the work detail had finished a lunch of bologna smeared with yellow mustard on white bread, dill pickles as thick as the end of a hoe handle, and potato chips from bags that expired months before they arrived at the prison. They washed down the meal with water from white plastic containers. When they left the main prison compound at 7:00 a.m., the containers held equal parts ice and water. By noon, the June sun in the sandhill region of North Carolina had turned the ice to liquid. But the water was still cool enough to refresh their parched throats and replenish some of the sweat lost during the morning's work.

After eating, the work crew was allowed thirty minutes to talk, rest, smoke, or chew. Joe no longer smoked or chewed. Because the crew worked within the confines of the medium-security-level facility, no guards accompanied them to the field. A hundred yards beyond the eastern edge of the garden was a ten-foot-tall chain-link fence topped with graceful coils of glistening razor wire. Twenty feet beyond that fence was another barrier just like it. Watchtowers manned by armed guards provided clear lines of sight from multiple angles. The men assigned to garden duty weren't flight risks. Working the four-acre plot of ground was a coveted assignment. Not only did the men perform productive work, but they also got to enjoy the first ripe strawberries and eat sun-warmed tomatoes. Even though he was incarcerated for murder, Joe had transitioned from a maximum-security facility after six years behind bars. He'd been a model prisoner. Good behavior brought benefits. A significant number of the men at LPCC had also been convicted of violent offenses, but when not under the influence of alcohol or drugs, they wouldn't necessarily stick out as potential convicts at a Sunday school picnic. Joe fell in that category.

When he lay down, Joe positioned his straw hat so that it provided an extra layer of protection from the sun. The battered hat covered his face all the way to his chin. He folded his hands neatly across his chest on top of the broad orange stripe that ran down the front of his dingy white overalls. An equally broad orange stripe ran down the back side of the overalls. Beneath the overalls, Joe wore a plain white T-shirt. His clothes were stained from reddish-brown clay mixed with sandy soil.