"You lie. It's a damned, rotten, filthy lie." He was yelling, shaking, rattling the door; pushing at the door.
"Easy, boy," said Mr. Boswell, "easy now. If you say so ... perhaps you are right after all. So. We adjust, eh? See you Sunday. There are some details, questions of improper punctuation in the transcript of your involuntary confession we must go over; something we can use in the next preliminary hearing. Eh? Good night, boy." Mr. Boswell rolled off, smoothly as always, down the corridor.
Jay 7 quit pushing then, all at once and completely, and hung limply, two hands circling two solid bars, leaning heavily against the cell door. He sobbed once and then sniffed. He felt thirsty. So ... well, he had his cup, his own faucet. He could get a nice, cold drink of water any time he wanted it. He sniffed again and turned away from the barred door.
THE END