"It's very simple: he's still not convinced that I had to shoot Clarens."
Mosby grunted deep disgust, looked over his shoulder toward the hot seat, looked again at Bennington. "You should have shaved.
"No, wait a minute, I guess not. Just go the way you are and give 'em hell."
Bennington rubbed his chin and the bristle of his late-night, early-morning beard crackled crisply.
The problem he had anticipated was now here, as he had known it would be. And the answer was nowhere, which equally had been a matter of foreknowledge.
"What will I say, General Mosby?" Bennington murmured. "Cue me in. You were always the best public relations officer either of us ever had."
"Jim, from anyone else—" Mosby started, stopped, grinned. "The trouble is, you're right.
"But this time we don't need any style, this time all we need is the truth.
"Tell them why the prison wasn't running right, how the riot happened and why you are where you are tonight, and what the prisons need to make them run better...."