Page 26 of The Chain House

Feeling the heat from the lights, Sam nervously wiped at his brow and fidgeted in his seat. “Mr. Batise, my name is—”

“I know who you is, Sam Harper.” Sal had taken an IQ test in prison years ago and scored 150; he liked to play it off sometimes that he wasn’t intelligent. He’d also been on record referring to himself as an uneducated genius. He said, “But because I know who you is, that means I also know who you ain’t.”

Sam replied softly, “And who would that be, Mr. Batise?”

“Cal me Sal, please.” Sal clapped once, and then wiggled his fingers in Sam’s direction, like he’d put some kind of voodoo curse on him. His unpredictable movements and quirky mannerisms had often been compared to Charles Manson, who Sal admitted he admired. And when Chet Sage at ABC had brought it to his attention in an interview in the spring of 2015, that Batise seemed to be almost mimicking Manson’s crazy, off-the-wall mannerisms and inflections and reactions, Sal had said with joyful pride, Of course I do, Chet Sage. Because part of him is in me, you dig? And then he’d famously added, When Charlie died in prison at the ripe old age of eighty-three, his spirit came to me and we had ourselves an important convo, Chet Sage, like a passing of the torch, you might say. At which point Chet Sage reminded Sal that Charles Manson was still very much alive across the country. To which Sal, feigning surprise and placing a hand over his mouth for effect, said, Oopsie. The entire exchange was brought up again two years later, adding more fuel to the fire of “Just Ask Sal” when, in 2017, Charles Manson did die of natural causes in prison at the ripe old age of eighty-three.

“Now that’s better.” Sal leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs at the knees. “I need this last interview to be all casual like. Like a morning rainstorm, a calm and peaceful conversation and not some Nazi interrogation. And who you ain’t, Sam Harper, is all those big fancy TV networks out there watching. They envy you right now. They want to be you. Now tell me how does that feel?”

“I don’t know yet, Mr.… Sal.”

“Does it make your toes curl? Does it make you heart palpiTATE?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

Sal waved toward the camera and then focused again on Sam, but only briefly, because his eyes then moved to Jennifer, who stiffened in her seat.

It was the first sign of fear Sam had seen in Jennifer, but it was only momentary. She quickly regrouped and went on the offensive, first with her posture, leaning forward in her chair, elbows on her knees, and then with her abrupt question: “Did you have anything to do with yesterday morning’s disappearance of Bethany Hawthorne?”

“Well, hello to you, too, Miss …”

“Daley,” she said. “Jennifer Daley.”

“Don’t recall ever hearing your name in Sam Harper’s letter to me,” Sal said, leaning forward in his chair again, as if mirroring her aggressive pose.

“I was a late addition,” she said. “Can you please answer the question?”

The room went silent as Sal folded his arms and seemed to be pondering how best to respond. He smirked and said to Sam, “Have you fucked her yet, Sam Harper?”

The warden stood from his chair, motioned for the camera to be shut off, and told Sal, “We’re finished here. I warned you.”

But Sal wasn’t done. He quickly said to Sam, “How about a threesome? I used to love me some threesomes on the ranch, Sam Harper, but the only time I come close to a threesome anymore is when I get both of my hands involved.” He laughed. “You dig?”

The guards moved in.

The news crew acted like they didn’t know what they were supposed to do, sharing looks that said, This can’t be it. This can’t end before it barely started.

Sal locked eyes with the warden and shook his head, as if to say, Don’t even think about it. Don’t you dare take this interview from me.

And damn if Warden Wren didn’t stop the guards from removing Sal. Sam didn’t know what he’d just witnessed other than some apparent power Sal had not only inside the walls of the prison but over Warden Wren himself. Warden Wren leaned down and whispered into Sal’s ear and Sal nodded, grinning but nodding, perhaps even obediently, which wasn’t a facet of his personality he showed often, if ever. Sal then whispered something back to the warden and Warden Wren’s eyes grew large. Sam didn’t know what threat had been made or what kind of compromise they’d come to, but Warden Wren then motioned for the camera crew to ready themselves again, and said to the room, “I’m giving him ten minutes. Not one second longer.”

Sam didn’t think his anxiety level could go any higher; this wasn’t how things were supposed to go, this wasn’t what they’d practiced last night. They’d agreed to ease into the interview for Sam’s sake, to allow him stable footing and solid ground before he would then begin to ramp up the questions.

As if reading Sam’s mind, Jennifer whispered, “I’m sorry, Sam. He was staring right through me, and the question just came out.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “But ten minutes. What do we do now?”

“First we get him to answer my question, or we’ll look weak,” she said. “And then … I don’t know, skip right to the Kentucky Cannibal question.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

They both knew, as did most of the country, that that had been the last question ever publicly asked of Sal Batise, during the CNN interview, when he’d refused to answer and then abruptly asked to be escorted back to his cell. So this wouldn’t be the first Sal Batise interview with fireworks, and it wouldn’t be the first interview suddenly cut short.

But ten minutes, Sam thought. Why even allow him to continue at all, after what he’d just said to Jennifer?

As the camera crew readied themselves again and the makeup woman stepped up to dab at the sweat on Sam’s brow and re-powder a portion of his forehead, Jennifer leaned in again, even as they adjusted her hair. “What do you think they just discussed? The warden and Batise?”