The hospital’s main-floor cafeteria was crowded, no privacy, so they met in the friends-and-relatives lounge on the ICU floor. It was a depressing room with one window, forest-green walls, and black pleather chairs. The darkness was by design, so that visitors on night watch for a loved one in the ICU could slip away every now and then and catch some sleep. Around midnight the couches and spare blankets would be in high demand, but for the moment, Jack and his client were alone. “A hundred thousand dollars does us no good,” said Laramore. He was seated on the edge of the couch, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “That’s what I told Ted Gaines,” said Jack. Laramore was staring at the floor, silent. Jack watched him in the dim glow of a small lamp on the end table. He’d known Ben Laramore for less than a week. Jack had seen him tired. He’d seen him sad. He had not yet seen him this way. He looked beaten.
