as if that fact were somehow relevant

"Got a boy in Dallas," the trooper said, as if that fact were somehow relevant. He walked back to his car, got inside, slammed the door, and began his paperwork. His blue lights sparkled through the fading darkness. When the adrenaline settled down and Keith got bored with the waiting, he decided to make use of the time. He called Matthew Burns, who appeared to be holding his cell phone. Keith explained where he was and what was happening to him at the moment and had trouble convincing Matthew that it was nothing but a routine speeding ticket. They managed to work through Matthew's overreaction and agreed to start calling Robbie Flak's office immediately. The trooper eventually returned. Keith signed his ticket, retrieved his documents, apologized again, and after twenty-eight minutes they were back on the road. Boyette's presence was never acknowledged. Chapter 18 At one point in his blurred past, Donte knew the precise number of days he'd spent in cell number 22F, death row, at the Polunsky Unit. Most inmates kept such a tally. But he'd lost count, for the same reason he'd lost interest in reading, writing, exercising, eating, brushing his teeth, shaving, showering, trying to communicate with other inmates, and obeying the guards. He could sleep and dream and use the toilet when necessary; beyond that, he was unable or unwilling to try much else. "This is the big day, Donte," the guard said when he slid the breakfast tray into the cell. Pancakes and applesauce again. "How you doin'?" "Okay," Donte mumbled. They spoke through a narrow slit in the metal door. The guard was Mouse, a tiny black guy, one of the nicer ones. Mouse moved on, leaving Donte to stare at the food. He did not touch it. An hour later, Mouse was back. "Come on, Donte, you gotta eat." "Not hungry." "How 'bout your last meal? You thought about that? You gotta place your order in a few hours." "What's good?" Donte asked. "I'm not sure anything's good as a last meal, but they tell me most of the guys eat like a horse. Steak, potatoes, catfish, shrimp, pizza, anything you want." "How 'bout cold noodles and boiled leather, same as any other day?" "Whatever you want, Donte." Mouse leaned a few inches closer, lowered his voice, and said, "Donte, I'll be thinking about you, you hear?" "Thanks, Mouse." "I'll miss you, Donte. You're a good guy."