The Kingmaker

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The prisoner was led through the doorway by a pair of burly MPs, who shoved him into a chair and immediately began shackling his handcuffs to the table. The table was bolted to the floor, which was bolted to the prison, and so on.

“Guys… no need for that,” I politely insisted. And was coldly ignored.

“Look, it’s ridiculous,” I said, with a touch more indignation. “How’s he going to break out of here, much less walk two inches from this prison without being instantly recognized?”

I was blowing hot air, actually to impress the prisoner more than the guards. I’m a lawyer. I’m not above such things.

The MP sergeant stuffed the shackle key in his pocket and replied, “Don’t give the prisoner nothing. No pens, no pencils, no sharp objects. Knock when you’re done.”

He stared at me longer than necessary-a gesture meant to convey that he didn’t think highly of me or what I came here to do. Well, neither did I-regarding the latter.

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