There was a 'pop' in the cell next to mine. The new guy was disgustingly pleased with himself - I joined the chorus asking him to knock off that annoying cackle. He wasn't paying attention.
"Much better," he added when he'd had his fill. "Caught for something I didn't do... how ironic, how tragic. The brutality of the system. And the policemen... caught my false trail, obviously. I do hope they get the real murderer."
My eyes roll toward my cellmate. "Artists. He thinks he's the Shakespeare of his own timeline."
The artist stutters. Pop!
"Editors," my cellmate opines, and grins.