That he turns his back on Benedict should be indication enough that Atticus is finished with him--in this moment, and perhaps permanently. Let him rot here; let him languish, let him suffer, let him wither away into irrelevance. If any miniscule part of Atticus cared for his well-being before, it's gone now.

He fixes Simon with a carefully schooled look of patience, somewhat offset by the persistent trickle of blood from his eyebrow. "You had better put me in a different cell far from his before you shackle me again, lest that idiot boy decides to finish the job."