"You divorced her in the quickest way you could think of, didn't you? You divorced her with a.38 revolver wrapped in dishtowels, didn't you?"

"No sir, I did not," Andy said calmly.

"No, I did not," Andy answered. By midnight, he said, he was sobering up. He was also feeling the first signs of a bad hangover. He decided to go home and sleep it off and think about the whole thing in a more adult fashion the next day. "At that time, as I drove home, I was beginning to think that the wisest course would be to simply let her go to Reno and get her divorce."

"Thank you, Mr Dufresne." The DA popped up.

"You told the jury that between 24 August and 10 September, you were feeling suicidal."

"Would it bother you overmuch, Mr Dufresne, if I told you that you do not seem to me to be the suicidal type?"

"I mean I didn't shoot either one of them. I drank two quarts of beer and smoked however many cigarettes that the police found at the turnout. Then I drove home and went to bed."

"And then you shot her lover."

"Yes, sir."

"Suicidal enough to buy a revolver."

"No, sir."

"Yes."

"You mean you shot Quentin first?"

"It's neither convenient nor inconvenient. Only the truth."

"No," Andy said, "but you don't impress me as being terribly sensitive, and I doubt very much that, if I were feeling suicidal, I would take my problem to you."

"Did you take your.38 with you on the night of September?"

"That's convenient, isn't it?"

There was a slight tense titter in the courtroom at this, but it won him no points with the jury.

"Yes, sir."

"Then you heard him testify that they found no gun, although they dragged for three days. That was rather convenient, too, wasn't it?"

"Oh, yes!" The DA smiled sarcastically. "You threw it into the river, didn't you? The Royal River. On the afternoon of 9 September."

"No; as I've already testified --"

"Yes, sir."

"I believe you heard Lieutenant Mincher's testimony?" Mincher had been in charge of the party which had dragged the stretch of the Royal near Pond Bridge, from which Andy had testified he had thrown the gun. The police had not found it.

"Yes, sir. You know I heard it."

"One day before the murders."

"And so no comparison can be made between the riflings on the bullets taken from the bloodstained corpses of your wife and Mr Glenn Quentin and the riflings on the barrel of your gun. That's correct, isn't it, Mr Dufresne?"

"Yes."

The DA hammered at him for two days. He re-read the Handy-Pik clerk's testimony about the dishtowels to Andy. Andy repeated that he could not recall buying them, but admitted that he also couldn't remember not buying them.

"Convenience aside, it's a fact that they didn't find the gun," Andy responded calmly. "But I should like to point out to both you and the jury that the Pond Road Bridge is very close to where the Royal River empties into the Bay of Yarmouth. The current is strong. The gun may have been carried out into the bay itself."

At that, according to the papers, Andy displayed one of the few slight emotional reactions he allowed himself during the entire six-week period of the trial. A slight, bitter smile crossed his face.

"That's also rather convenient, isn't it?"

"Since I am innocent of this crime, sir, and since I am telling the truth about throwing my gun into the river the day before the crime took place, then it seems to me decidedly inconvenient that the gun was never found."

Was it true that Andy and Linda Dufresne had taken out a joint insurance policy in early 1947? Yes, that was true. And if acquitted, wasn't it true that Andy stood to gain $50,000 in benefits? True. And wasn't it true that he had gone up to Glenn Quentin's house with murder in his heart, and wasn't it also true that he had indeed committed murder twice over? No, it was not true. Then what did he think had happened, since there had been no signs of robbery?

"I have no way of knowing that, sir," Andy said quietly.

The case went to the jury at one p. m. on a snowy Wednesday afternoon. The twelve jurymen and women came back at three-thirty. The bailiff said they would have been back earlier, but they had held off in order to enjoy a nice chicken dinner from Bentley's Restaurant at the county's expense. They found him guilty, and brother, if Maine had the death penalty, he would have done the airdance before that spring's crocuses poked their heads out of the dirt.

The DA had asked him what he thought had happened, and Andy slipped the question -- but he did have an idea, and I got it out of him late one evening in 1955. It had taken those seven years for us to progress from nodding acquaintances to fairly close friends -- but I never felt really close to Andy until 1960 or so, and I believe I was the only one who ever did get really close to him. Both being long-timers, we were in the same cellblock from beginning to end, although I was halfway down the corridor from him.

"What do I think?" He laughed -- but there was no humour in the sound. "I think there was a lot of bad luck floating around that night. More than could ever get together in the same short span of time again. I think it must have been some stranger, just passing through. Maybe someone who had a flat tyre on that road after I went home. Maybe a burglar. Maybe a psychopath. He killed them, that's all. And I'm here."

As simple as that. And he was condemned to spend the rest of his life in Shawshank or the part of it that mattered. Five years later he began to have parole hearings, and he was turned down just as regular as clockwork in spite of being a model prisoner. Getting a pass out of Shawshank when you've got murder stamped on your admittance-slip is slow work, as slow as a river eroding a rock. Seven men sit on the board, two more than at most state prisons, and every one of those seven has an ass as hard as the water drawn up from a mineral-spring well. You can't buy those guys, you can't no, you can't cry for them.

As far as the board concerned, money don't talk, and nobody walks. Pc other reasons in Andy's case as well… but that belongs a little further along in my story.