the United States, where it was examined by his own
doctor, who was concerned about the arm because the
site of the infection was where his office had taken a
blood sample in a routine checkup just days before.’’ ‘‘Naturally, he didn’t want liability,’’ said Rivers. ‘‘Naturally,’’ repeated Diane.
Clymene had gotten to Rev. Rivers. Diane could see
it in his face—the way he blushed at leaping to her
defense. She guessed that he hadn’t realized it himself
until now—until he felt called upon to defend her. Diane imagined that it had been easy for Clymene O’Riley’s to win Rivers over, even though he was resistant to prisoners trying to pull the wool over his eyes. He was a man with meager resources, dedicated to making a difference among the prisoners. Successes were probably few and far between. Clymene hadn’t told him what he wanted to hear, like so many prisoners do. She told him what he hadn’t expected to hear. Making a promise, small though it was, and keeping it set her apart from the prisoners who made pledges he knew they couldn’t keep. By his account, Clymene listened, asked questions, and participated in a meaningful way in his classes—actions above and beyond her simple pledge to keep an open mind. A small thing, but an important thing to Rivers. Clymene was good at calcu
lating what was important to people.
Saying she was afraid and wanted a safe place to
work was probably true. What was it Frank, her whitecollar-crime detective-friend, said? Truth makes the lie
believable in a con. Clymene was undoubtably good at
using truth to her advantage—just as good as she was
at making fiction seem true.
Diane saw now what Clymene was doing—why she
hadn’t filed an appeal yet. She was gathering her supporters first. The DA said she had a following on the
outside consisting of a few friends and people she
went to church with. Having the prison chaplain on
her side would be a PR coup for her.
‘‘The health department investigated the doctor’s
office,’’ said Diane. ‘‘They found nothing that would
account for the infection.’’
He again shifted uncomfortably in the small chair,
putting further strain on his buttons. She could see
the white T-shirt underneath. ‘‘Would they find anything? I mean’’—Rivers shrugged his shoulders—‘‘if it
was just that one contaminated needle.’’
‘‘Of course,’’ agreed Diane—just to be agreeable,
‘‘that was a possibility. But the investigation didn’t
stop there.’’
‘‘Let’s move over here to the table,’’ he said, pointing to a honey-colored maple table with a vase of red
silk roses. ‘‘Either the chairs are getting smaller or I’m
getting bigger.’’ He gave a small self-conscious laugh
and squirmed out.
They moved to two straight-backed wooden chairs
with vinyl-covered padded seats. They were better
than the desk chairs, thought Diane, but not by much. ‘‘I’m sure the prison saves a lot of money on furniture,’’ said Rivers.
‘‘And paint,’’ said Diane because she knew it would
make him laugh.
Rivers’ laugh was a little more hearty. ‘‘Yes, defi
nitely on paint.’’ He sighed. ‘‘I’d like to understand
this,’’ he said, resting an arm on the table.
Diane nodded. By ‘‘this’’ she understood him to
mean the evidence against Clymene.
‘‘Archer O’Riley was old Rosewood—old money.
