Fifty-three. Jude

'Mr McGregor, I'm on your side – you have to believe that,' said Mr Clooney.

'I don't have to believe a damn thing you tell me,' I said icily. God knows where they dug up the fossil in front of me. He must've been pushing sixty-odd and marking time until retirement. And the man didn't have a clue. He was a doddering old fart of a Cross with short-cut, white-silver hair and a thin salt-and-pepper moustache. We were in one of the three private visitors' rooms in the prison, strictly reserved for prisoners' interviews with their lawyers, conjugal visits and imparting bad news.

'I'm trying to give you the benefit of my experience,' the dagger said as he struggled for patience. 'This is a serious charge.'

'Don't patronize me,' I said. 'I know it's a serious charge. I'm the one with my head in a noose, not you.'

'Then will you let me advise you?'

'Let's hear your advice first.' I sat back in my chair, not expecting much. And that was exactly what I got.

'I think you should plead guilty and throw yourself on the mercy of the court,' said the bloody idiot before me.

'And that's the best you can do?' I said with contempt.

'It's your only chance to escape the death penalty. If you plead innocent and you're found guilty, you'll automatically receive the death penalty,' said Mr Clooney.

Like I didn't already know that.

'And if I plead guilty?'

'You'll get out in twenty-five to thirty years but you'll still be able to have some kind of life.'

Twenty-five to thirty years? Could he hear himself? He might as well have said twenty-five to thirty centuries. I wasn't going to grow old that way, rotting away slowly but surely like some of them I'd seen in this prison. I'd rather hang – and that was the truth.

'And if I say yes?'

Clooney's face lit up like a Crossmas tree. 'I can submit your new plea for the court's inspection and we could have the whole matter sorted out inside of a fortnight.'

'And if I say no?'

Clooney's smile faded. 'Then the trial will probably drag on for months and you'll more than likely be found guilty anyway.'

'Your faith in me just moves me to tears,' I said with disdain. 'I'm all moist!'

Jude's law number two was ringing in my head, with a bit of Jude's law number nine – The only person you can ever rely on is yourself – chucked in for good measure.

'I'm trying to be realistic,' Clooney told me.

'You're trying my patience is what you're doing,' I replied. 'And if you're the best I've got in my corner, then I'm in deep crap.'

'I am on your side,' Clooney began.

'Not any more. You're fired.'

'Pardon?'

'Turn up your hearing aid, granddad. You're fired. Your services will no longer be required. You can take a hike.'

'You need someone to defend you,' said Clooney.

'I'll do it myself,' I informed him.

'I really wouldn't advise that.'

'I don't give a rat's fart about your advice,' I said. 'Hit the road.'

Clooney got to his feet and gathered up his papers, putting them in his briefcase.

'You're making a serious mistake,' he said.

'Maybe, but at least it's my mistake not yours,' I replied.

Clooney looked down at me and shook his head. I stood up.

'You know what I'm looking at?' Clooney asked quietly.

'No. What?'

'A dead man walking.'

And if the guard hadn't stepped forward at that point, I'd've smacked Clooney down for sure. Pompous arse. One thing was certain. Defending myself, I couldn't do any worse.