James Keeney entered the six foot by nine foot, white-walled room wearing the traditional khaki attire. His lanky frame didn't fill out his state-issued shirt, and the extra fabric of his pants gathered around his ankles. I waited near a rectangular, wood table with four chairs, two on each side. Keeney's crooked smile revealed the yellowed teeth of a long-time smoker. The door made a noticeable click when it shut behind him. That was always unnerving. Being locked inside the Nebraska State Penitentiary in Lincoln, NE, even if it's as a visitor, has never been on my bucket list. I could see the back of the officer's head through the small window in the door as he moved away. Keeney pulled out one of the chairs, his back to the door, and sat. I took the seat opposite his, opened a small notebook, and waited for him to start talking. It was Wednesday morning, and to be honest, I wasn't in the mood to talk with Keeney, but I felt sorry for him.
"Thanks for meetin' me. I didn't think ya would." His Southern drawl was more pronounced than I remembered.
"What's this about, Keeney?"
He took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, propping his left arm on the back of it, and smoothed his goatee. His hair had whitened since I last saw him. He leaned forward, resting his right hand on top of the table.
"Seriously, Keeney, I don't have all day."
"They wanna string me up for a murder."
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