"Good."
"The AG called, too."
Bennington found himself companioning Mosby's faint smile. "You had a cigarette in your ashtray?"
"I did, and he's got six good precedents to back us up, Jim. But the next time he wants us to call him first: my men aren't the only ones who need practical training."
Bennington did not hold back his laugh and he stretched out his hand. "Thanks, Mossback."
"Hell, Jim, I owe you the thanks. That was the best training problem my men ever had, taught 'em more in one night that they can ever learn until the real stuff starts whistling around."
Bennington glanced over Mosby's shoulder at the place he was heading for: the hot seat, Chief Scott's desk chair, bright under the TV spotlights, the center of every camera focus.
"You've got work to do, I know, so where's that Thornberry?" Mosby growled. "He should be with you."
"Upstairs, asleep. He said that he was only the assistant warden, then asked Chief Scott for an empty cell and left me."
"Why?"