Irish Lady by Jeanette Baker Page B

self-proclaimed member of the Irish Republican Army. Who else would have done such a thing?”
    Just in time, Meghann realized where she was. Her eyes widened and the corners of her mouth tilted in a smile intended to charm. “Who indeed?” she asked demurely.
    Collectively, the men laughed and the tension lifted.
    ***
    â€œBloody Prov. Have it your own way.” The guard backed out of Michael’s cell, leaving the chamber pot unemptied.
    Michael tucked the thin blanket around his legs and lowered himself back down on the concrete floor. The cell was completely barren, stripped of furniture, books, clothing, everything except a chamber pot. The inmates had been on the blanket protest for six weeks now and the no-wash for two. Rather than wear prison issue that labeled them common criminals, they wore nothing at all except blankets. They would have washed, but the guards refused them new towels and they refused to wrap themselves in wet ones on their way back from the showers. Michael no longer smelled his own filth, but he could tell from the strained looks on the guards’ faces that he stank like a pig. He grinned. It amused him to think he offended Protestant noses.
    His cell wasn’t as bad as some whose slop pots had overflowed. Some of the more outrageous had smeared fecal matter on the walls beside their mattresses, risking disease and body orifices filled with maggots. Cardinal Tomás Ó Fiaich, who on his last visit barely managed to avoid vomiting, had compared prison conditions in the Maze to those of refugees living in the sewer pipes of Calcutta.
    His grin faded. It was bloody cold here on the concrete. Soon Miles French was coming to go over his defense. Swearing under his breath, he consigned the young lawyer and his endless patience to a swift and merciful end. How often did he have to tell them, he wanted no English lawyer?
    Flanked by two screws, Michael made his way down the hall to the visitation room. Miles French, briefcase in hand, waited for him. He stood when Michael entered and held out his hand. Michael stared at it pointedly but did not take it. For a long moment the two men stared at each other, one nattily dressed in tweeds and smelling of cologne, the other unshaven, filthy, and naked except for a gray wool blanket wrapped around his waist and another across his shoulders.
    The barrister cleared his throat. “I’ve arranged for a court date on the seventeenth of June,” he began. “You’ll be asked for your plea. I don’t think there is any point to pleading guilty in the hopes of commuting your sentence. The press has already crucified you. The defense is asking for the maximum. They want to make an example of you.”
    Michael continued to stand, saying nothing.
    The lawyer balled his fists and shoved them deep into his pockets. “Does any of this matter to you, Mr. Devlin? Do you understand that unless you can come up with a reasonable suspicion of evidence that someone else was responsible for this act, your life as you know it will effectively be over?”
    â€œI understand.”
    â€œThen why won’t you cooperate?”
    Michael frowned, narrowing his eyes until the brilliant color appeared as a glittering turquoise line. “How long have y’ been practicing law, Mr. French?”
    The barrister flushed. “Four years.”
    â€œIs this your first murder case?”
    The flush deepened. “Yes.”
    Michael laughed, pulled out a chair and sat down, motioning for the younger man to sit opposite him. “I’d like a smoke, if y’ don’t mind?” he said when they were settled.
    French reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of American Camels, offering one to Michael.
    After several satisfying drags, Michael blew out a ring and considered the glowing tip as he spoke. “Don’t lose sleep over this one, lad,” he advised. “There isn’t anything anyone can