Pleasants grabbed a chair, almost falling.

“Does he really need to be cuffed?” I said to the deputy. “He’s here for a traffic violation.”

“Ma’am, he’s out of the secure area. That’s why he’s cuffed. Be back in twenty minutes,” he said as he left.

“I’ve never been through anything like this before. You mind if I smoke?” Pleasants laughed with a nervousness that bordered on hysteria as he sat.

“Help yourself.”

His hands were shaking so badly, I had to light it for him.

“Doesn’t look like they got an ashtray. Maybe you’re not supposed to smoke up here.” He worried, eyes darting around. “They got me in this cell with this guy who’s a drug dealer? He’s got all these tattoos and won’t leave me alone? Picking on me, calling me sissy names?” He inhaled a lot of smoke and briefly shut his eyes. “I wasn’t eluding anybody.” He looked at me.

I spotted a Styrofoam coffee cup on the floor and retrieved it for him to use as an ashtray.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Keith, tell me what happened.”

“I was just driving home like I always do, from the landfill, and all of a sudden there’s this unmarked car behind me with sirens and lights on. So I pulled over right away. It was that asshole investigator who’s been driving me crazy.”

“Ring.” My fury began to pound.

Pleasants nodded. “Said he’d been following me for more than a mile and I wouldn’t heed to his lights. Well I’m telling you, that’s just a flat-out lie.” His eyes were bright. “He’s got me so jumpy these days there’s no way in hell I wouldn’t know if he was behind my car.”

“Did he say anything else to you when he pulled you?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am, he did. He said my troubles had just begun. His exact words.”

“Why did you want to see me?” I thought I knew, but I wanted to hear what he would say.

“I’m in a world of trouble, Dr. Scarpetta.” He teared up again. “My mama’s old and got no one to care for her but me, and there are people thinking I’m a murderer! I never killed anything in my life! Not even birds! People don’t want to be around me at work anymore.”

“Is your mother bedridden?” I asked.

“No, ma’am. But she’s almost seventy and has emphysema. From doing these things.” He sucked on the cigarette again. “She doesn’t drive anymore.”

“Who’s looking after her now?”

He shook his head and wiped his eyes. His legs were crossed, one foot jumping like it was about to take off.

“She has no one to bring her food?” I said.

“Just me.” He choked on the words.

I looked around again, this time for something to write with, and found a purple crayon and a brown paper towel.

“Give me her address and phone number,” I said. “And I promise someone will check in with her to make sure she’s all right.”