Believe me, if I thought that out-of-shape detective was as competent as he was, I would have covered my tracks better than I did. 32 years later, and I'm still kicking myself! I guess there was something to those cigar ashes. Maybe I should start smoking them and figure out a way out of my cell! I'm going crazy in this place. Buddy Castle never calls me, I never got those champagne stains out of my suit from when Ruth Stafford emptied her glass on me (not that it matters now), and I haven't had a glass of carrot juice in decades!

Anybody need a pen pal?