“Come on, Doctor. You can’t be harboring any serious doubt about competence. You might want to know that I’m having my own expert conduct a full psychometric battery. Herbert Davidson, endowed professor from Stanford, acknowledged authority in the field.”

“Read his textbook in grad school,” I said.

“Be a shame if your results run far afield from his.”

“Be a damn shame,” I said.

“So when do I get your report?”

“When Judge Laskin sends it to you.”

“Sure,” he said. “Following orders. God forbid anyone should think independently.”

* * *

Troy Turner was housed as far from Rand as possible, in a corner cell past a dark twist of corridor. The deputy who walked me over said, “You’re gonna love this one.”

He was an iron-pumper named Sherrill with a shaved head and a massive, straw-colored mustache. Usually, he projected the confidence of a strong man. Today he looked distracted.

“Tough kid?” I said.

He slowed his pace. “I got kids. Four of my own plus a stepkid. On top of that, I spent three years working juvey crime, so I understand kids. Unlike some of the other guys, I know punks can start off as victims. But this one . . .” he shook his head.

“He do something in here?” I said.

“Naw, it’s just the way he is.” He stopped. Behind us were empty cells. “Doc, if anything I’m telling you gets out, we’re never going to have any trust between us.”

“This is off the record.”

“I mean it,” he said. “I’m talking to you because word is you’re straight and you’re doing your best for Judge Laskin and we all respect Judge Laskin, ’cause he knows the way the real world is.”

I waited.

He looked over his shoulder, stopped again. Silence all around; only on High Power could a jail be this quiet. Up a few feet was an occupied cell and I could see the inmate checking us out. Well-groomed, gray-haired, middle-aged. Copy of Time magazine in one hand.