CHARLOTTE
I sit at the table, a screen dividing the room, separating us, as Klempner seats himself at the other side. His body language is all arrogance, insolence and ´Why am I bothering with this?´
Two guards are here, one on either side of the screen, impassive but alert.
Michael stays in the background, leaning against the wall, silent, purse-lipped, arms folded, watching.
Klempner glances across at him, dismissively, then back at me. “That´d be Michael then? Where´s the other one? James, is it?”
Michael tilts his head, but impassive, doesn´t speak.
“Yes, this is Michael,” I say. “And James isn´t here because he´s recovering in hospital from when your friend Corby shot him.”
Klempner´s eyes widen.
Surprised?
“You didn´t know about that?”
He sniffs. “No, they´d not told me that.” He hesitates...
So, what do you think of that then?
“... What´s his condition?”
“He´ll live, but it was touch and go for a while.”
“And Corby?”
“Dead. The police took him down.”