Goody's frown deepens. He shifts awkwardly. He still tries to breathe, in through the nose, out through his mouth. He hopes it'll calm him. He doesn't enjoy talk of murder. He doesn't like to think of the killing. He grits his teeth so hard that his jaw hurts. "I would think there are better ways to overcome such obstacles." He's been robbed of his best method for the time being though.

"Atticus." He repeats, to anchor the name in his mind. And because he's polite and can't shake that lesson that high society taught him long long ago, he shifts his glass to his other hand to that he can extend his towards the man for a handshake. "Goodnight."