After Dark

*

Chapter ONE

The Multnomah County Courthouse occupied the entire block opposite Lownsdale Park. When it was completed in 1914, it had been the largest courthouse on the West Coast, as well as Portland, Oregon's largest building. There were no Art Deco frills or spectacular walls of glass decorating its exterior. Those who were summoned to face their fate here entered a solemn, brutish building of riveted structural steel and forbidding gray concrete.

Tracy Cavanaugh was too excited to be intimidated by the somber exterior of the courthouse. Her job interview at the public defender's office had ended at two-thirty, leaving her with a free afternoon. It would have been tempting to wander around Portland enjoying the balmy May weather, but Abigail Griffen was prosecuting a murder case and Tracy simply could not pass up an opportunity to watch one of the best trial lawyers in the state in action.

Potential employers had trouble taking Tracy seriously when they saw her for the first time. Today, for instance, she was wearing a lightweight navy-blue business suit that should have made her look like a young executive, but the suit highlighted a deep tan that conspired with Tracy's lean, athletic figure, bright blue eyes and straight blond hair to make her look much more like a college cheerleader than a law clerk to an Oregon Supreme Court justice.

Tracy never worried about those first impressions. It never took the interviewers long to conclude that they were dealing with a very smart cheerleader. Degrees with honors from Yale and Stanford Law, and the clerkship, made Tracy a prime candidate for any legal position and, at the conclusion of today's interview, she had been offered a job. Now Tracy faced the pleasant predicament of deciding which of several excellent offers to accept.

When Tracy got out of the elevator on the fifth floor, the spectators were drifting back into the courtroom, where a young woman named Marie Harwood was being tried for murder. The courtroom was majestic with a high ceiling, marble Corinthian columns and ornate molding. Tracy found a seat seconds before the bailiff smacked down his gavel. A door opened at the side of the dais. Everyorie in the courtroom stood. Judge Francine Dial, a slender woman with thick tortoiseshell glasses, took the bench.

Most of the court watchers focused on her, but Tracy studied the deputy district attorney.

Abigail Griffen's long legs, full figure and classic Mediterranean features made her stand out in the most elegant surroundings. In Judge Dial's drab courtroom, her beauty was almost startling. The prosecutor was dressed in a black linen designer suit with a long, softly draped jacket and a straight skirt that stopped just below her knees. When Griffen turned toward the judge, her long black hair swept across olive-colored skin and her high cheekbones.

"Any more witnesses, Mr. Knapp?" Judge Dial asked Marie Harwood's lawyer.

Carl Knapp uncoiled dramatically from his chair and cast a disdainful look at Griffen. Then he said, "We call the defendant, Miss Marie Harwood."

The slender waif seated beside Knapp at the defense table was barely over five feet tall. Her pale, freckled face and loose blond hair made her look childlike, and the ill-fitting dress made her look pathetic.

She struck Tracy as being the type of person a jury would have a hard time convicting of murder. Harwood trembled when she took the witness stand, and Tracy could barely hear her name when Harwood stated it for the record. The judge urged the witness to use the microphone.

"Miss Harwood," Knapp asked, "how old are you?"

"Nineteen."

"How much do you weigh?"

"Ninety-eight pounds, Mr. Knapp."

"Now, the deceased, Vince Phillips, how much did he weigh?"

"Vince was big. Real big. I think around two-seventy."

"Did he wrestle professionally at one time?"

"Yes, sir."

"And how old was he?"

Thirty-six."

"Was Mr. Phillips a cocaine dealer?"

"When I was living with him, he always had a lot around."

Harwood paused and looked down at her lap.

"Would you like some water, Miss Harwood?" Knapp asked with fawning concern.

"No, sir. I'm okay now. It's just . . . Well, it's hard for me to talk about cocaine."

"Were you addicted to cocaine when you met Mr. Phillips?"

"No, sir."

"Did you become addicted while you lived with Mr. Phillips?"

"Yeah. He hooked me."

"How bad?"

"Real bad. Cocaine was all I thought about."

"Did you enjoy being an addict?"

Harwood looked up at Knapp wide-eyed. "Oh no, sir. I hated it. What it made me become and . . . and the things I had to do for Vince to get it."

"What things?"

Harwood shivered. "Sex things," she said quietly.

"Did you ever try to resist Mr. Phillips's sexual demands?"

"Yes, sir, I did. I didn't want to do those things."

"What happened when you protested?"

"He..." She stopped, looked down again, then dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. This time, Harwood accepted a glass of water.

"Go ahead, Miss Harwood," Knapp said.

"He beat me up."

Harwood's head hung down, her shoulders hunched and she folded her hands in her lap. "How badly?"

"He broke my ribs once, and he closed... closed my eye.

Sometimes he beat me so hard I passed out."

Harwood's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Did you go to the hospital after one of these beatings?"

Knapp asked.

"Yes, sir. That's where I escaped."

"You ran away from the hospital?"

"They wouldn't let him take me home. So I knew it was my only chance, 'cause he kept me a prisoner when I was with him."

"Where did you go from the hospital?"

"Back to John John's."

"Who is John John?"

"John LeVeque."

"Now, Mr. LeVeque is also a drug dealer, is he not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why did you run to him?"

"Protection. He was who I was stayin' with before I took up with Vince.

He don't... didn't like Vince, and Vince was scared of John John."

"Did John John take you in?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let's move to the day that you killed Mr. Phillips. Can you tell the jury what happened around four-thirty in the afternoon?"

"Yes, sir. I'd been at John John's for about two weeks and I guess I was starting to feel safe, so I went out for a walk. The next thing I knew, Vince's car screeched up beside me and he jumped out and yanked me in it by my hair."

"Did you resist?"

Harwood shook her head slowly. She looked ashamed.

"It happened too quick. One second I was on the street, then I was on the floor of the car. Every time I tried to get up he'd pull my hair or hit me. Finally, I just stayed still."

"What happened when you got to his house?"

"He drug me into the bedroom."

"Please describe Mr. Phillips's bedroom."

"It's real big with this king-size water bed in the middle and mirrors on the ceiling. There's a stereo and big-screen TV. And its weird.

Vince painted it black and there are these black curtains around the bed."

"What happened in the bedroom?"

"He . . . He ripped off all my clothes. Just ripped them."

Harwood started to cry. "I fought, but I couldn't do nothin'. He was too big. After a while I just gave up. Then . . . then, he . . ."

"It's okay Marie," Knapp said. "Just take your time."

Harwood took two deep breaths. Then, in a trembling voice, she said, "Vince made me get down on my knees. Then he put cocaine on his . . . his thing. I begged him. I didn't want to do it, but Vince just laughed. He grabbed me by the hair and made me... I... I had to suck it .. ."

Harwood broke down again. Her testimony was getting to Tracy and she wondered how the jurors were handling it. While the defendant regained her composure, Tracy glanced toward the jury box. The jurors were pale and tight-lipped. Tracy looked over at Abbie Griffen and was surprised to see the deputy district attorney sitting quietly, and apparently unconcerned, while Harwood stole her jury.

"What happened next?" Knapp asked when Harwood stopped crying.

"Vince raped me," she answered quietly. "He done it a couple of times.

In between, he'd beat me. And . . . and all the time he was screamin' at me on how he was gonna kill me and cut me up."

"Did he tell you what he would use?"

"Yes, sir. He had a straight razor and he brung it out and held it to my face. I squeezed my eyes tight, 'cause I didn't want to see it, but he slapped me in the face till I opened them."

"After he raped you the last time, what happened?"

"Vince fell asleep."

"How did you finally escape?"

"It was the razor," Harwood said, shuddering. "He left it on the bed and forgot. And . . . and I took it, and I . . ."

Harwood's eyes lost focus. She ran a hand along her cheek.

"I didn't mean to kill him. I just didn't want him to hurt me anymore."

She turned pleading eyes toward the jury. "It was almost an accident. I didn't even know the razor was there until I touched it. When I picked it up off of the bed Vince's eyes opened and I was so scared, I just did it. Right under his chin is all I remember."

Harwood started to gulp air.

"Do you need a break, Miss Harwood?" Judge Dial asked, afraid Harwood might faint or hyperventilate.

The witness shook her head. Tears coursed down her cheeks.

"Marie," Knapp asked gently, "you've seen the autopsy photos. Mr.

Phillips was cut many times on his body. Do you remember doing that?"

"No, sir. I just remember the first one, then it's a blank. But . . . but I probably done that. I just can't picture it."

"And why did you kill Mr. Phillips?"

"To get away. Just to get away, so he wouldn't hurt me no more. And .

. . and the cocaine. I didn't want to be a slave to the cocaine no more. That's all. But I didn't mean to kill him."

Harwood buried her head in her hands and sobbed. Knapp looked at Griffen with contempt. In a tone that suggested a dare, he said, "Your witness, Counselor."

Just before Griffen rose to begin her cross-examination, the courtroom door opened. Tracy looked over her shoulder and saw Matthew Reynolds slip into a vacant seat in the rear of the court next to a prim gray-haired woman. As he sat down, the woman glanced toward him, then flushed and snapped her head back toward the front of the courtroom.

Tracy could understand the woman's reaction, but it angered her. She supposed that Reynolds was used to those shocked first impressions and had conditioned himself to ignore them. Tracy's own reaction to seeing Reynolds was not one of shock or disgust, but of awe. If she could pick any job in the country, it would be as Matthew Reynolds's associate, but Reynolds had responded to her employment inquiry with a tersely worded letter that informed her that his firm was not hiring.

Reynolds was America's most famous criminal defense attorney and his specialty was defending against death penalty prosecutions. He was a strange-looking man who had been battling the grim reaper in courtrooms across America for so long that he was starting to resemble his adversary. Six-five and gaunt to the point of caricature, Reynolds seemed always on the verge of collapsing from the weight he bore on his frail shoulders. Though he was only forty-five, his hair was ash gray and had receded well back from his high forehead. His paper-thin skin stretched taut across sunken cheeks and a narrow, aquiline nose. The skin was as pale as bleached bone, except for an area that was covered by a broad hemangioma, a wine-red birthmark that started at the hairline above Reynolds's left eye, extended downward over his cheek and faded out above his upper lip. You would have thought that jurors would be put off by Reynolds's odd looks, but by trial's end they usually forgot them. His sincerity had been known to move jurors to tears. No one he represented had ever been executed.

Griffen started her cross-examination and Tracy turned back to the front of the courtroom.

"Do you feel up to continuing, Miss Harwood?" Griffen asked solicitously.

"I'm . . . I'm okay," Harwood answered softly.

"Then let me start with some simple questions while you regain your composure. And anytime you want me to stop, just say so. Or if you don't understand a question, just tell me, because I don't want to trick you. Okay?"

Harwood nodded.

"When you were living with Mr. Phillips, it wasn't all bad times, was it?"

"I guess not. I mean, sometimes he could be sweet to me."

"When he was being sweet, what did you do together?"

"Drugs. We did a lot of drugs. We partied."

"Did you go out together?"

"Not a lot."

"When you did, what did you do?":

"Vince liked movies. We'd see lots of movies."

"What kind did Vince like?"

"Uh, karate movies. Action movies."

"Did you like them?"

"No, ma'am. I like comedy movies and romantic ones."

"You mentioned a stereo and a big-screen TV in the bedroom.

Did you guys listen to music or watch TV?"

"Well, sure."

"You didn't go to the police after you killed Mr. Phillips, did you?"

Griffen asked, quickly shifting the subject.

"No, I was too scared."

"Where did you go?"

"I went back to John John."

"And that's the gentleman you were staying with when we arrested you, a week and a half after you killed Mr. Phillips?"

"Yes."

"You were John John's girlfriend before you took up with Mr. Phillips, weren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And he was a rival of Mr. Phillips in the drug trade?"

"Yes."

"When did you take the money, Miss Harwood?" Griffen asked without missing a beat. "What?"

"The thirty thousand dollars."

"What are you talking about?"

"Do you know Roy Saylor?"

"Sure. He was Vince's friend."

"His crime associate."

"Whatever."

"Roy's going to testify that Vince was planning to buy two kilos of cocaine from his connection that evening for fifteen a kilo."

"He never mentioned that. He was too busy beating and raping me to mention business," Harwood answered bitterly.

"Roy will also testify that Vince went to the bank at four to take the money out of a safety-deposit box."

"That could be, too. I just never seen it."

"That's fair. But if you took it, we'd understand. You're terrified.

He's dead. You know you might have to run, so you take the money with you."

"Man, I wasn't thinking about money. I just wanted out of there. If I wanted money, I'd've stayed. Vince was always generous with money. It just wasn't worth it to me."

"He really scared you?"

"You bet he did."

"In fact, as I recall your testimony, Mr. Phillips abducted you, dragged you inside his house, stripped you right away and forced you to perform oral sex."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then he raped and beat you repeatedly and fell asleep?"

Harwood nodded.

"This was one right after the other? He was either beating you or raping you?"

Harwood's eyes were on the rail in front of her. Her nod was barely perceptible.

In her trial practice classes in law school, Tracy had been taught that you never gave an opposing witness a chance to repeat her testimony during cross-examination because it reinforced the story in the jurors' minds. Tracy could not understand why Griffen had just repeated Harwood's pathetic tale three times. She glanced over at Reynolds to catch his reaction. The defense attorney was leaning forward and his eyes were riveted on Griffen.

"There wasn't a moment when you weren't scared silly from the time he abducted you until you escaped, was there?" Griffen asked, giving Harwood yet another chance to tell her story.

"That's true."

"Either he was raping you or beating you or sleeping. How long do you figure this went on?"

"I don't know. I wasn't watching a clock."

"Well, there was a clock on the VCR on the big TV."

"Yeah, but I didn't look at it."

"That's a cable hookup Vince had, wasn't it?"

"I guess."

"HBO, Pay-per-View, Showtime?"

Harwood looked uncomfortable. Tracy caught Reynolds out of the corner of her eye. He was frowning.

"You've watched that big TV with Vince, haven't you?" Griffen asked.

"I told you he was beating me up."

"I'm sorry. I meant on other occasions."

"Yeah. He had all those movie channels."

"What's your favorite movie, Miss Harwood?"

"Your Honor," Knapp said, playing to the jury, "I fail to see the relevance of this question."

"Miss Harwood does," Griffen answered.

Tracy studied the witness. Harwood looked upset. When Tracy looked over at Reynolds, he was smiling, as if he had just figured out an in joke that only he and Griffen understood.

"This is cross-examination, Mr. Knapp," Judge Dial said. "I'm going to give Ms. Griffen some latitude."

"Can you please answer the question?" Griffen asked the witness. "What is your favorite movie?"

"I . . . I don't know."

The prosecutor took a letter-size sheet of paper out of a file.

"How about Honeymoon Beach? Have you seen that one?"

"Yeah," Harwood answered cautiously.

"Tell the jury what it's about."

"Your Honor, this has gone too far," Knapp shouted as his client shifted nervously in the witness box. "This is not the Siskel and Ebert show."

"I promise I will show relevance," Griffen told the judge, her eyes never leaving Marie Harwood.

"Overruled. You may continue, Ms. Griffen."

"Is Honeymoon Beach a comedy?" Griffen asked.

"Yeah."

"About two honeymoon couples who swap mates at a resort?"

"Yeah."

"Where did you see it, Miss Harwood?"

"In the movies.

Griffen walked over to Harwood. "Then you saw it twice," she said, handing the paper she was holding to the witness.

"What's this?" Harwood asked.

"It's a billing record of all the movies ordered on Pay-per-View from Vince Phillips's phone. Honeymoon Beach showed from five-thirty to seven on the day you killed him. Someone ordered it at four-fifty using Mr. Phillips's phone. Did you watch the movie before or after you slit his throat?"

"I didn't watch any movie," Harwood insisted.

Reynolds stood up quietly and slipped out of the courtroom just as Griffen said, "Someone watched Honeymoon Beach, Ms. Harwood. According to your testimony, only you and Vince were in the house and the only Pay-per-View converter is in the bedroom. Did Vince order the movie while he was raping you or while he was beating you?"

"Never," Harwood shouted. "I told you we didn't watch that movie."

"Or was it you who watched it while John John was torturing Mr. Phillips to find out where he hid the money?" Harwood glared at Griffen.

"Did you arrange to meet Vince after John John found out about the money? Did you get him in bed and slash his throat while he was watching Honeymoon Beach?"

"That's a lie!" Harwood shouted, her face scarlet with rage. "I never watched no movie."

"Someone did, Marie, and someone ordered it by phone. Who do you think that was?"

The day after Marie Harwood's conviction, Abbie Griffen Was looking through a stack of police reports when Multnomah County district attorney Jack Stamm stepped into her office. The weather had unexpectedly turned from mild to torrid in twenty-four hours and the courthouse air conditioner was on the fritz.

Stamm had taken off the jacket of his tan tropical-weight suit, pulled down his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves, but he still looked damp and uncomfortable.

The district attorney was five feet eleven, rail thin and a bachelor, whose only passions were the law and distance running.

Stamm's wavy brown hair was starting to thin on the top, but his kind blue eyes and ready smile made him look younger than thirty-eight. '

"Congratulations on nailing Harwood," Stamm said. "That was good work."

"Why, thank you," Abbie answered with a big smile.

"I hear Knapp is making noises about reporting you to the Bar."

"Oh?"

"He says you didn't tell him about the Pay-per-View bill before trial."

Abbie grinned at her boss. "I sent that arrogant creep a copy of the bill in discovery. He was just too stupid to understand its significance, assuming he even read it. I don't know what I enjoyed more, convicting Knapp's client or humiliating him in public."

"Well, you did both and you deserve to enjoy your triumph.

That's why I'm sorry to be the bearer of sad tidings."

"What's up?"

"I just got this."

Stamm handed Abbie the Oregon Supreme Court's slip-sheet opinion in State of Oregon v. Charles Darren Deems. Almost two years ago, Abbie had convicted Deems, an especially violent psychopath, for the pipe-bomb murder of a witness and his nine year-old daughter. The Supreme Court had taken the case on automatic review because Deems had been sentenced to death.

The slip sheet was the copy of the opinion that was sent to the attorneys in the case as soon as the Supreme Court issued its ruling.

Later, the opinion would be published in the bound volumes of the official reporter that were sent to law libraries.

Abbie looked down the cover sheet past the caption of the case and the names of the attorneys until she found the line she was looking for. "Oh no!"

"It's worse than that," Stamm said. "They threw out his statements to Rice."

"That was my whole case," Abbie said incredulously. "I won't be able to retry him."

"You got it," Stamm agreed grimly.

"Which judge wrote this piece of shit?" Abbie asked, her rage barely contained as she scanned the cover sheet to find the name of the justice who had authored the opinion. Stamm could not meet her eye.

"That son of a bitch," she said, so softly that Stamm barely heard her.

Abbie crumpled the opinion in her fist. "I can't believe he would stoop this low. He did this to make me look bad."

"I don't know, Abbie," Stamm said halfheartedly. "He had to convince three other judges to go along with him."

Abbie stared at Stamm. Her rage, disappointment and frustration were so intense, he looked away. She dropped the opinion on the floor and walked out of her office. Stamm bent down to retrieve the document.

When he smoothed it out, the name of the opinion's author could be seen clearly. It was the Honorable Robert Hunter Griffen, justice of the Oregon Supreme Court and Abbie's estranged husband.

Chapter TWO

Bob Packard, attorney-at-law, was a large man going to seed. His belt cut into his waist, because he stubbornly insisted on keeping it a notch too tight. There were fat rolls on his neck and a puffiness in his cheeks. At the moment, Packard was not feeling well.

His trust and general account ledgers were open on his desk. He had checked them twice and the totals had not changed. Packard unconsciously ran a hand across his dry lips. He was certain there was more money in both accounts. His billings were up, clients were paying.

Where had the money gone? His office overhead had not changed and his household expenses had not increased.

Of course, there was the money he was spending for cocaine.

That seemed to be increasing recently.

Packard took a deep breath and tried to calm down. He rotated his neck and shrugged his shoulders to work out the tension. If the white lady was the problem, he would just have to stop. It was that simple.

Cocaine was not a necessity. He could take it or leave it and he would just have to leave it. Once his current supply ran out, there would be no more.

Packard felt better now that his problem was solved. He put away the ledgers and picked up a case he needed to read in order to prepare a pretrial motion that was due in two days. It was imperative that he win the motion. If his client went to trial he was doomed. This motion had to be an A number one, slam-bang winner.

Packard started to read the case, but it was hard to concentrate. He was still thinking about his money problems and still worried about that other problem. His supplier. The one who had been arrested two days ago, just before Packard was going to pick up a little something to augment his dwindling supply.

Of course, he was going to stop, so there was no problem. But what if, just for the sake of argument, he needed some coke and couldn't get any.

It made him jittery just thinking about it and he needed to keep calm and focused so he could write the motion.

Packard thought about the zip-lock bag in his bottom drawer.

If he took a hit, he could whiz through the research on the motion and get it written. And there would be that much less cocaine to worry about. After all, he was quitting, and getting rid of his stash was an important first step.

Packard was working on his final rationalization for doing a line when his receptionist buzzed him on the intercom. "Mr. Packard, a Mr. Deems is here to see you."

Packard suddenly felt an urgent need to go to the men's room.

"Mr. Packard?" the receptionist repeated.

"Uh, yes, Shannon. I'll be right there."

Bob Packard had never felt comfortable in Charlie Deems's presence, even when the two men were separated by the bulletproof glass through which they had been forced to communicate while the former drug dealer was on death row. The facts underlying Deems's conviction were enough to unsettle anyone. A man named Harold Shoe was trying to cut into Deems's territory. Two boys found Shoe's mutilated body in a Dumpster.

According to the medical examiner, Shoe had died slowly over a long period of time. Packard had looked at the autopsy photos when he was reviewing the trial evidence and had not been able to eat for the rest of the day.

Larry Hollins, twenty-eight, married, a union man who worked the swing shift, just happened to be driving by the Dumpster when Deems was depositing his bloody package. Hollins thought he'd seen a body, then convinced himself he was imagining things, until he read about the discovery of Shoe's corpse.

Hollins could not make a positive ID from Deems's mug shot, but he was pretty sure he could identify the man he saw if he was in a lineup.

Someone leaked Hollins's identity to the press and Deems disappeared for a few days. On one of those days, Hollins decided to drive his nine-year-old daughter to school so he could talk to her teacher. A pipe bomb attached to the underside of the car killed both of them.

Packard looked longingly toward the bottom drawer, but decided it was better to face Deems with all his wits about him.

Besides, Charlie would be in a good mood. Packard had just won his appeal for him. He was probably in the office to show his appreciation.

When Packard walked into the reception area, Deems was reading a copy of Newsweek.

"Charlie!" Packard said heartily, extending a hand. "It's great to see you."

Charlie Deems looked up from the magazine. He was a man of average height, but thick through the chest and shoulders. A handsome man with dark, curly hair who reminded Packard a little of Warren Beatty. Deems's most engaging feature was his toothy grin, which was a bit goofy and put you at ease. Unless, that is, you had read the psychological profile in Deems's presentence report.

"You're looking good, Bob," Deems said enthusiastically when they were seated in Packard's office.

"Thanks, Charlie. You're looking pretty good yourself."

"I should. There's plenty of time to work out in the joint. You can't imagine how many sit-ups and push-ups you can do when you're locked down for twenty-three hours a day."

Deems was wearing a short-sleeve maroon shirt. He flexed his left biceps and winked.

"Looking' good," Packard agreed. "So, what's up?"

"Nothing much. I just wanted to drop by to thank you for winning my case."

Packard shrugged modestly. "That's what you paid me for."

"Well, you did great. I bet that cunt Griffen is pissed," Deems said with a laugh. "You seen her since the decision came down?"

"Once, over at the courthouse, but I didn't bring up the case.

No sense gloating."

"Ah, Bob, you're too big hearted. Me, I'd love to have seen her face, because I know this case was personal for her. I mean, she wanted me dead. Now she ain't got nothin'."

"Oh, I don't think it was personal, Charlie."

"You don't?" Deems asked with a look of boyish curiosity.

"No. I just think she was doing her job. Fortunately, I did mine better."

"Yeah, well, you might be right, but I don't think so. I mulled this thing over while I was on the row. I had lots of time to think about her there. I'm convinced that bitch had it in for me, Bob."

Deems had an odd look on his face that worried Packard.

"You should let it rest, Charlie. The cops are going to be on your butt, night and day. You don't want to do anything even slightly suspicious."

"Oh, right. I agree with that," Deems said reasonably. "Water under the bridge. No, Bob, I just want to get on with my life.

Which brings me to the other reason for my visit."

"What's that?" Packard asked uneasily.

"I wanted to ask you for a little favor."

"What favor?"

"Well, it seems to me that you won my appeal pretty easily. I mean, they're not even gonna retry me, so the judge must have really fucked up, right?"

"Well, he did make a mistake," Packard answered cautiously, "but it wasn't that easy to win the case."

Deems shook his head. "That's not the way I see it. And that's not just my opinion. There's a lot of guys in the joint that know their law. I asked 'em about the appeal. They all knew you'd win.

Said it was a cake-walk. So, seeing how easy it was, I was thinking that I'd like a little refund on my fee."

"That's not how it works, Charlie," Packard said, trying to convince himself that this would be like any business discussion between two civilized and rational men. "The fee is nonrefundable and its not dependent on results. Remember we discussed that?"

"I remember," Deems answered with a shake of his head.

"But you know, Bob, I'm thinking PR here. Your reputation is what brings in the clients. Am I right? And happy clients talk you up.

That's free advertising. I'd be real happy if you refunded half the fee."

Packard blanched. "That's fifteen thousand dollars, Charlie. I can't do that."

"Sure you can. And if I remember right, that was only the cash half.

The kilo of cocaine I gave you was probably worth a lot more than fifteen after you resold it. Am I right? But I don't want any blow back. And I don't care what your profit was. You did a great job for me. I'd just really appreciate the cash back."

A thin line of sweat formed on Packard's upper lip. He forced a smile.

"I know you've been inside and can use some dough, so why don't I loan you a grand? Will that help?"

"Sure, but fifteen grand would help even more," Deems said.

This time there was no smile.

"Not possible, Charlie," Packard said stubbornly. "A deal's a deal. You were convicted of murder and now you're a free man.

I'd say I earned my fee."

"Oh, you did. No question. And I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do. If you give me back the money, I want it to be of your own free will. A good deed you can be proud of."

Deems stopped talking and leaned back in his chair. Packard's heart was beating overtime and he strongly regretted not taking that hit of cocaine.

"Hey, you look upset, Bob," Deems said suddenly. "Look, let's forget about this. Okay? I'm sorry I even brought it up. Let's talk about something else. Say, do you like TV game shows?"

"Game shows?" Packard repeated, puzzled by the transition, but relieved that Deems had let him off the hook so easily.

"Yeah, like Jeopardy! or Let's Make a Deal. You know."

"I work during the day, so I rarely get a chance to watch them."

"I didn't watch them either until they put me on the row. We had a set outside the bars. One of our few luxuries. The guards let us watch the game shows. I really got hooked on them. At first I thought they were kind of stupid, but the more I watched, the more I realized that you can learn as much from game shows as you can at school. For instance, have you ever seen The Price Is Right?"

"Isn't that the one where the contestants have to guess the price of a refrigerator or a set of dishes?"

"Right!" Deems said, snapping upright in his chair and grinning broadly.

Then, in an imitation of a game-show host, he said.

"Bob Packard of Portland, Oregon, come on down! You can play The Price Is Right!" Then you run up from the audience. Have you seen it?"

"A few times."

"Well, that's a great show," Deems said animatedly, "because it teaches you about the value of things. For instance, if I put two rocks on your desk and asked you to guess at their value, you'd say they weren't worth much, am I right? I mean, we're talking about two rocks. But what if one was a chunk of common granite and the other was a diamond? You see?

Two rocks, both the same size, but your judgment of their value would be really different."

Packard nodded automatically to avoid insulting Deems and cast a quick glance at his watch.

"That's interesting, Charlie, and I'd like to talk about it some more, but I have a motion I need to write. It's due in two days and it's rather complicated."

"I'm sure it is," Deems said, "but I think it's more important for you, in the long run, to discuss values."

The fear Packard felt initially had faded as he grew annoyed and he missed the menace in Deems's tone.

"What are you getting at, Charlie? Come to the point."

"Sure. You're a busy man. I don't want to waste your time. But I do think this little talk will help you put things in perspective.

For instance, what's worth more, a good night's sleep or the shoddy legal services of a coked-up junkie lawyer."

Packard flushed. "That's not fair, Charlie. If it wasn't for me, you'd be dead."

"Maybe, maybe not. As I said, more than one person I talked to was of the opinion that this was a pretty easy win. That would make the value of your services a lot less than thirty thousand dollars. See what I mean? But putting a price on abstractions, like the value of legal services, is a lot tougher than dealing with diamonds and granite, Bob.

So why don't you start by guessing the price of a common, everyday item."

"Look," Packard said angrily, "I just told you. I don't have time for this nonsense."

Deems ignored Packard and pulled a pair of soiled woman's underpants from his pocket, then laid them on Packard's desk.

Packard leaned forward and stared. The cotton panties looked familiar, but he could not remember where he had seen them.

"What's the value of these panties, Bob?"

"Where did you get those?" Packard asked.

"Let's see if you can guess. I'll give you a hint."

Deems leaned forward and grinned in anticipation of Packard's reaction to his clue. He pitched his voice high and, in a falsetto, said, "'Get off of me, now! If you can't get it up at least let me get some sleep.""

Packard turned white. His wife, Dana, had said that to him last night after a failed attempt at sex with the same tone of disgust Deems had so adequately imitated.

"You know, Bob," Deems said with an air of feigned concern, "your technique leaves a lot to be desired. You completely ignored Dana's nipples. They're yummy. Fiddle with them a while tonight. They're like the knobs on a radio. If you twirl them the right way, you can find a mighty nice station."

Packard suddenly recognized the panties as the ones Dana had taken off just before they got in bed. Dana had dropped them next to the bed before they started to have sex. That meant that Deems had been in their room while they were sleeping.

"You were in my house?"

"That's right, Bob."

Packard bolted to his feet and shouted, "Listen, you prick . . ."

"Prick?" Deems interrupted in a bemused tone. "That's a fighting word.

Now, a fight between the two of us might be interesting. Speed and youth against size and power. But I want to give you a word of advice, Bob. If you start a fight with me, you better be prepared to kill me.

If you leave me alive, I'll come for you when you least expect it and you'll die like Harold Shoe."

Packard remembered Shoe's autopsy photographs. It was the medical examiner's opinion that Shoe's hands and feet had been removed with a chain saw while he was still alive. All the fight went out of Packard and he collapsed in his chair. He tried to compose himself. Deems watched patiently while Packard took several deep breaths.

"What do you want from me, Charlie?"

"I want you to play the game," he said grimly. "You don't really have a choice. Now, what is the value of these panties?"

"Three-fifty? Four dollars?" Packard guessed, on the verge of tears. "I don't know."

"You're too literal, Bob. Think about how I got these undies and you'll know their true value. I'd put it at about the same price as a lifetime of good sleep. Wouldn't that be worth fifteen thousand dollars? I'd say a lifetime of sound sleep is cheap at that price."

Packard's jaw trembled. "Charlie, you have to be reasonable," he begged. "I don't have fifteen thousand extra dollars. You paid that retainer over a year ago. It's gone now. How about something less?

What about three? Three thousand? I might be able to manage that."

"Well, Bob, to me three thousand sounds like a kiss-off."

Packard knew he could not afford to pay the money. His rent was due, there were car payments. Then he thought about the price he would pay if he could be assured that Charlie Deems would never slip into his room at night and spirit him away to a twisted world of torture and pain.

Packard took his checkbook out of his drawer. His hand was shaking so badly that his signature was barely legible. Packard gave the check for fifteen thousand dollars to Deems. Deems inspected it, thanked Packard and opened the door. Then he turned, winked and said, "Sleep tight and don't let the bedbugs bite."

Chapter THREE

Salem, Oregon's capital, was a sleepy little city surrounded by farmland and located about fifty miles south of Portland on the I-5 freeway. The Oregon Supreme Court had been in its present location on State Street since 1914. The square four-story building was faced with terra cotta and surrounded on three sides by a narrow lawn. In the rear was a parking lot that separated the court from the back of another building that housed the Department of Justice and the offices of the Court of Appeals.

There were vans with network logos parked in front of the court when Tracy Cavanaugh arrived for work at 8 A. M. She glanced at them curiously as she strolled down the side street that divided the court from the grounds of the State Capitol. A radiant July sun made the gold statue of the pioneer on top of the Capitol building shine and gave the grass in the small park that bordered the Capitol the brilliance of a highly polished emerald. In keeping with the spirit of the day, Tracy wore a bright yellow dress and wraparound shades.

Tracy was at the tail end of a year serving as Oregon Supreme Court Justice Alice Sherzer's law clerk. Judicial clerkships were plums that fell to top law school graduates. Each justice had a clerk who researched complex legal issues, drafted memos about other justices' positions and checked opinion drafts to catch errors before the opinion was published. A judicial clerkship was a demanding, but exciting job that lasted one to two years. Most clerks moved on to good positions with top law firms, which coveted these bright young men and women for their skills as well as their intimate knowledge of the way the justices thought.

Laura Rizzatti was as pale as Tracy was tan and possessed the delicate features and soft, rounded figure of a Botticelli model.

When Laura was deep in thought, she played with her long black hair. She had several strands wrapped tightly around her left index finger when Tracy poked her head into Laura's closet-sized office.

"Why are the TV reporters waiting outside?"

Laura dropped the transcript she was reading and rose halfway out of her chair. "Don't do that!"

"Sorry." Tracy laughed, tilting her head sideways to see what had occupied Laura's attention so completely. She saw the title of the case and "Vol. XI" before Laura turned the transcript over so Tracy could no longer read the cover.

"The Deems case?" Tracy said. "I thought we reversed that a month ago."

"We did. What did you just ask me?"

Tracy looked up from the transcript and noticed the dark circles under Laura's eyes. Laura's clothes were disheveled and she looked like she'd been up all night.

"The TV people. What are they doing here?"

"Matthew Reynolds is arguing Franklin v. Pogue at nine."

"Reynolds! Let me know when you go up to court."

"I'm not going."

"How come?"

"Justice Griffen took himself off the case, so there's no reason to sit in on the argument."

"Why'd he recuse himself?."

"His wife is arguing for the state."

"No shit." Tracy laughed.

"No shit," Laura answered bitterly.

"She is one smart cookie."

"She's a bitch. She could have asked another DA to argue the state's position."

"Then Justice Griffen would have sat on the case. Now he can't sit because the state is represented by a member of his family. So she gets rid of the most liberal justice on the court and ups her chance of winning. I call that smart lawyering."

"I think it's unethical."

"Don't take this so personally."

"I'm not," Laura said angrily. "But the judge is such a nice guy. The divorce is eating him up. Pulling a stunt like this is just pouring salt in his wounds."

"Yeah, well, if she's as big a bitch as you say, he's better off without her. And you should see Reynolds argue anyway. He's amazing. Do you know he's been defending death penalty cases all over the United States for twenty years and he's never had a client executed?"

"Reynolds is just another hired gun."

"That's where you're wrong, Laura. These cases are like a mission for him. And he's a genius. Did you read his brief in State v. Aurelio?

His Fifth Amendment argument was absolutely brilliant."

"He's smart, and he might be dedicated, but it's to the wrong cause."

"Don't be so uptight. Listen to the argument. Reynolds is really worth seeing. I'll check with you before I go up." i iiiiiiiiiiiiiii The most conspicuous feature of the Oregon Supreme Court is a stained-glass skylight in the courtroom ceiling that displays the state seal. The stained glass is protected by a second, clear skylight above it. On this sunny day, the light filtering through the two sets of glass cast a soft yellow glow over six justices of the seven-member court as they assembled to hear argument in State ex rel.

Franklin v. Pogue.

Tracy found a seat on a couch against the rear wall of the courtroom just after the justices took their places. The judges sat on an elevated dais that stretched across the courtroom in a gentle curve.

Directly in front of Chief Justice Stuart Forbes was the wooden podium on which Abbie Griffen calmly arranged her papers. When the Chief Justice told her to commence her argument, Abbie said, "If it please the court, my name is Abigail Griffen and I represent the Multnomah County district attorney's office and the interests of Denise Franin. We are asking this court to order trial judge David Pogue to withdraw an order commanding Mrs. Franklin to open her home to forensic experts employed by the defense."

"Judge Pogue was acting on a motion for discovery filed by the defendant, Jeffrey Coulter, wasn't he, Ms. Griffen?" asked Justice Mary Kelly, an attractive woman in her mid-forties who was appointed to the bench after a stellar career in corporate law.

"Yes, Your Honor."

"What was the basis for the discovery motion?"

"According to the affidavit of Mr. Reynolds, the defendant's attorney, Denise Franklin's son, Roger, pi'omised to sell Jeffrey Coulter stolen jewelry. Coulter went to Franklin's house, but Franklin had no jewelry and tried to rob Coulter. Mr. Coulter claims he shot Roger Franklin in self-defense after Franklin shot at him."

"And the defense wants to examine Mrs. Franklin's house for evidence that will corroborate the defendant's story?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"That seems pretty reasonable to me. What's wrong with Judge Pogue's order?"

"Mrs. Franklin is in mourning, Your Honor. She doesn't want agents of the man who killed her son traipsing through her home."

"We're sympathetic to Mrs. Franklin, Counselor, but it's not unusual for witnesses to also be relatives of a murder victim.

They're inconvenienced all the time by police interviews, the press.

Your people went through the house, didn't they?"

"With Mrs. Franklin's consent and while the house was a crime scene.

It's no longer a crime scene. The state has returned the house to its owner, Mrs. Franklin, who is not a party to the criminal case between the state and Mr. Coulter. A judge doesn't have the power to order a nonparty to let the defense in her house."

"Do you have legal authority for that contention, Counselor?"

Griffen smiled with the confidence of an attorney who has anticipated a question. While she told Justice Kelly about several Oregon cases that supported her position, Tracy looked across the courtroom at Griffen's opponent. The contrast between the two attorneys was stark. Abigail Griffen in her black tailored jacket, black pleated skirt, ivory silk blouse and pearls looked like a fashion model, while Matthew Reynolds in his plain, ill-fitting black suit, white shirt and narrow tie seemed more like a country preacher or an undertaker than America's premier criminal defense attorney.

A question by Justice Arnold Pope pulled Tracy's attention back to the legal argument.

"Mrs. Griffen, when Mr. Coulter was arrested did he claim he acted in self-defense?"

"No, Your Honor."

"Did the police find the gun the defendant's counsel alleges was fired by the deceased?"

"No weapon was found at the scene."

Pope, a barrel-chested ex-DA with a Marine crew cut, furrowed his brow, giving the impression that he was deep in thought. Justice Kelly rolled her eyes. Pope was a mental lightweight who tried to compensate for his lack of intelligence by being arrogant and opinionated. He was on the court because he had defeated a well-respected incumbent in one of the dirtiest judicial races in Oregon history.

"Could this self-defense business be hokum?" Pope asked.

"Yes, Your Honor. We believe Mr. Coulter manufactured the self-defense scenario."

"Perhaps with the assistance of Mr. Reynolds?" Pope asked.

Tracy was shocked by Pope's suggestion that Matthew Reynolds had sworn falsely in his affidavit. Reynolds was rigid, his face flushed.

"There is no evidence that Mr. Reynolds has been less than honorable in this case, Justice Pope," Abbie answered firmly.

"Besides," Justice Kelly interjected to shift the discussion from this unpleasant topic, "that issue isn't before us, is it, Counselor?"

"No, Your Honor."

"As I understand it," Kelly continued, "your position is that we must set aside the order of Judge Pogue, regardless of the truthfulness of the affidavit, because he had no power to order a nonparty to a criminal case to do anything."

"Exactly."

A tiny lightbulb at the front of the podium flashed red, indicating that Griffen's time was up.

"If the court has no further questions, I have nothing more to add."

Chief Justice Forbes nodded to Griffen, then said, "Mr. Reynolds?"

Matthew Reynolds uncoiled slowly, as if it took a great effort to stand, and walked to the podium. He was determined not to let his anger at Arnold Pope interfere with his duty to his client.

Reynolds took his time arranging his papers and put the insult behind him. As soon as he looked up, Justice Frank Arriaga, a cherubic little man with an easy smile, asked, "What about Mrs. Griffen's argument, Mr.

Reynolds? I've read her cases and they seem to support the state's position."

There was a hint of the Deep South when Reynolds spoke.

His words rolled along softly and slowly, like small boats riding a gentle sea.

"Those cases should not control this court's decision, Justice Arriaga.

The facts in the case at bar are substantially different.

Mrs. Franklin is far more than a grieving mother. We believe she may be covering up her son's criminal involvement in an attempted robbery.

Every moment we are barred from the Franklin home presents another chance for Mrs. Franklin to destroy evidence.

"And that leads me to my main legal point. The Due Process Clause of the United States Constitution imposes a duty on a prosecutor to preserve evidence in her possession that is favorable to an accused on either the issue of guilt or the issue of punishment. When we filed our motion with Judge Pogue, the Franklin home was still sealed as an official crime scene. Our affidavit put the state on notice that we believed the Franklin home contained evidence that would clear Mr.

Coulter and it also put the state on notice that we believed that Mrs.

Franklin might destroy that evidence. Soon after we filed our motion, the police unsealed the crime scene and returned the home to Mrs.

Franklin. We consider that a violation of the state's duty to preserve evidence favorable to an accused."

"Can we approve an order issued by a judge who lacks the authority to make it?" Justice Arriaga asked.

"No, but we believe the court should address this issue as if the house was still under seal and an official crime scene. Otherwise, the state can frustrate legitimate motions of this sort by simply unsealing the scene before the court has the opportunity to act.

"The Due Process Clause codifies the concept of fundamental fairness into our law. It's a wonderful thing to have a jurisprudence based on fairness rather than power. You can see the tension between these two ideas in this case. The state symbolizes power. It used that power to take over the home of a private citizen so it could investigate a crime.

Once the state was satisfied that it had identified the criminal, it used its power to arrest my client and deprive him of his liberty.

"These were proper uses of power, Your Honors. Fair uses.

But the state's final use of its power was unfair. As soon as my client stood up to the state and requested an opportunity to examine the crime scene for evidence that would clear his name, the state exercised its power unjustly.

"Legal motions should be decided by unbiased judges, not unilaterally by zealous advocates. When the police released the crime scene to thwart our motion, they acted in violation of the concept of fundamental fairness that is the foundation of the Due Process Clause. All Mr.

Coulter is asking for, Your Honors, is a chance to examine the crime scene. The same thing the state was able to do through the exercise of its power. All he is asking for is a fair shake. Judge Pogue understood that and we ask you to be fair and permit his order to stand."

Court recessed when the argument ended. Matthew Reynolds watched Abigail Griffen collect her papers and close her attach( case. In a moment, she would be fighting her way through the reporters who were waiting for them outside the courtroom on the third-floor landing. If he was going to talk to her, Reynolds knew it had to be now. Abbie started toward the door. "Mrs. Griffen."

Abbie turned to find Reynolds following her. With his suit jacket flapping behind him like the wings of an ungainly crow, Reynolds looked like Ichabod Crane in flight from the headless horseman.

"Thank you for telling the court that you didn't believe I would falsify my affidavit," Reynolds said with a tremor Abbie had not heard when he was arguing. "My reputation means so much to me."

"No need to thank me, Mr. Reynolds. But I'm curious. That was such an odd accusation to make. Is there bad blood between you and Justice Pope?"

Reynolds nodded sadly. "I tried a murder case against Arnold Pope when he was the district attorney for Walker County. It was poorly investigated and an innocent man was arrested. Justice Pope had a penchant for trying his cases in the press when he was a prosecutor and he promised a swift conviction."

"I take it he didn't deliver."

"No. After the trial, he threatened to indict me for jury tampering."

"What happened?"

"The judge told Pope he lost because he should have, and promised to dismiss any jury-tampering indictment Pope obtained. That was the end of it as far as I was concerned, but I guess he still harbors a grudge."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"That's gracious of you, considering that Pope's animosity guarantees you his vote."

"On the other hand, some of the judges will side with you simply to be on the other side of Pope's position."

"I hope you're right, Mrs. Griffen," Reynolds answered solemnly, the joke going right by him.

"Why don't you call me Abbie. We're going to see too much of each other during this case to stay on formal terms."

"Abbie, then."

"See you in court, Matt."

Reynolds hugged his briefcase to his chest like a shield and watched Abigail Griffen glide through the courtroom doors.

The reporters converged on Matthew Reynolds as soon as he walked into the hall, and Abbie was able to escape down the marble stairway and leave the courthouse through the rear door.

Her car was parked around the block from the court because she'd expected the press. Reynolds could go nowhere without them. When she rounded the corner, she saw Robert Griffen sitting in the passenger seat of her car.

Justice Griffen looked like a golf pro in tan slacks, a navy-blue Izod shirt and loafers. His long brown hair fell casually across his forehead. When she opened the rear door and tossed her attach case in the back seat, he smiled. Abbie saw the sparkle in his clear blue eyes and almost forgot why she had walked out on him.

"How'd the argument go?" Griffen asked.

"What are you doing in my car?" Abbie answered sharply as she slid behind the wheel. His smile wavered.

"I missed you. I thought we could talk."

"You thought wrong, Robert. Maybe one of the women you were fucking behind my back has time for a chat." Griffen flinched. "Can't you spare a minute?"

"I have a meeting in Portland and I don't want to be late," Abbie said as she turned on the engine. "Besides, Robert, I know what you want and the bank is closed. I suggest you either find a rich mistress or change your lifestyle."

"You don't know what you're saying. I was never interested in your money, and those other women ... God, I don't know what got into me.

But that's all behind me. I swear. It's you I love, Abbie."

"Was reversing the Deems case the way you show your love?"

Griffen paled. "What are you talking about?"

"You reversed Deems to embarrass me."

"That's nonsense. I decided that case on the law. So did the justices who joined the majority. Even Arnold Pope voted with me, for Christ's sake."

"I'm not stupid, Robert. You adopted a rule that only three other states follow to reverse the conviction of a dangerous psychopath."

"The rule made sense. We felt . . ." Griffen paused. "This is ridiculous. I'm not going to sit here and justify my decision in Deems."

"That's right, Robert. You're not going to sit here. You're going to get out of my car."

"Abbie . . ."

Abigail Griffen turned in her seat and stared directly at her estranged husband. "If you're not out of my car in ten seconds, I'm going to call the police."

Griffen flushed with anger. He started to say something, then he just shook his head, opened the door and got out.

"I should have known I couldn't reason with you."

"Please shut the door."

Griffen slammed the car door and Abbie peeled out of the parking space.

When Griffen walked back toward the court he was so angry that he did not notice Matthew Reynolds watching from the doorway of the Justice building.

In 1845, two Yankee settlers staked a claim to a spot on the Willamette River in the Oregon Territory and flipped a coin to decide if their proposed town would be called Portland or Boston.

Portland was established in the most idyllic setting imaginable.

Forest stood all around, backing up onto two high hills on the west side of the river. From the west bank you could look across the Willamette past the faraway foothills of the Cascade mountain range and see snow-covered Mount Hood, Mount Adams and Mount St. Helens pointing toward heaven.

The town had started on the water's edge at Front Street and slowly moved away from the river as it became a city. Old buildings were torn down and replaced by steel and glass. But just below Washington Park, on the outskirts of downtown Portland, there were still beautiful Victorian mansions that now served as office space for architects, doctors and attorneys.

At 10 P. M. on the day he argued before the Oregon Supreme Court, the lights were off in the law offices and library on the first two floors of Matthew Reynolds's spacious Victorian home, but they still shone in the living quarters on the third floor. The argument had been hard on Reynolds. So much time had passed since the shooting that Reynolds's experts were no longer sure of the value of examining the Franklin home.

No matter what the Supreme Court decided, Abigail Griffen's legal ploy might have cost his client the evidence that could win his case.

But that was not the only thing disturbing Reynolds. He was still shaken by his meeting with Abbie Griffen. Reynolds was captivated by Griffen's intellect. He considered her to be one of the few people who were his equal in the courtroom. But more than that, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Though he had spoken to her before in court as an adversary, it had taken all his nerve to approach Abbie in the Supreme Court chambers to thank her for standing up to Justice Pope, but her defense of his honor thrilled him and had given him the courage to speak.

Reynolds was dressed for bed, but he was not tired. On his dresser were two photographs of his father and a framed newspaper article that showed his father outside a county courthouse in South Carolina. The article was old and the paper was starting to yellow. Matthew looked at the article briefly, then stared lovingly at the photographs.

Over the dresser was a mirror. Reynolds stared at himself.

There was no way of getting around the way he looked. Time had been charitable when the magazine described him as homely. As a boy, he had been the object of a million taunts. How many times had he returned home from school in tears? How many times had he hidden in his room because of the cruelty of the children in his neighborhood?

Matthew wondered what Abigail Griffen saw when she looked at him. Could she see past his looks? Did she have any idea how often he thought of her? Did she ever think of him? He shook his head at the temerity of this last idea. A man who looked like he did in the thoughts of someone like Abigail Griffen? The notion was ridiculous.

Matthew left his bedroom and walked down the hall. The law offices and his quarters were decorated with antiques. The rolltop desk in Matthew's study once belonged to a railroad lawyer who passed on in 1897. A nineteenth-century judge famous for handing down death sentences used to sit on Matthew's slat-back wooden chair. Reynolds took a perverse pleasure in crafting his arguments against death while ensconced in it.

Next to the rolltop was a chess table composed of green and white marble squares supported by a white marble base. Reynolds had no social life.

Chess had been a refuge for Reynolds as a child and he continued to play it as an adult. He was involved in ten correspondence games with opponents in the United States and overseas. The pieces on the chessboard represented the position in his game with a Norwegian professor he had met when he spoke at an international symposium on the death penalty. The position was complicated and it was the only one of his games in which Reynolds did not have a superior position.

Reynolds bent over the board. His move could be crucial, but he was too on edge to concentrate. After a few minutes he turned off the ceiling light and seated himself at the rolltop desk. The only light in the study now came from a Tiffany lamp perched on a corner of the rolltop.

Reynolds opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a large manila envelope. Not another soul knew it existed. Inside the envelope were several newspaper articles and many photographs. He took the articles and photographs out of the envelope and laid them on the desk.

The first article was a profile of Abigail Griffen that was featured in The Oregonian after her victory in State v. Deems. Reynolds had read the article so often, he knew it word for word. A black-and-white picture of Abbie took up a third of the first page of the profile. On the inside page, there was a picture of Abbie and Justice Griffen. The judge had his arm around her shoulder.

Abbie, her silken hair held back by a headband, snuggled against her husband as if she did not have a care in the world.

The other articles were about other cases Abbie had won.

They all contained pictures of the deputy district attorney. Reynolds pushed the articles aside and spread the photographs before him. He studied them. Then he reached forward and picked up one of his favorites, a black-and-white shot of Abbie in the park across from the courthouse, resting on a bench, her head back, face to the sun.

Chapter FOUR

When Alice Sherzer graduated from law school in 1958, she was one of three women in her class. Her job search in Portland consisted of interviews with one befuddled male after another, none of whom knew what to make of this lean, rawboned woman who insisted she wanted to be a trial lawyer. When one large firm offered her a position in its probate department, she politely declined. It was the courtroom or nothing. The partners explained that their clients would never accept a woman trial lawyer, not to mention the reactions they anticipated from judges and jurors.

Alice Sherzer would not bend. She wanted to try cases. If that meant going into practice for herself, so be it. Alice hung out her shingle.

Four years later, a Greyhound bus totaled a decrepit Chevy driven by one of Alice's clients, a father of three who had lost his job in a sawmill.

Now he was a quadriplegic. Alice sued Greyhound, which happened to be represented by the law firm that had offered her the position in probate.

Greyhound's lawyers would probably have advised the company to make a reasonable settlement offer if Alice's client was not represented by a woman, but the boys at the firm figured being represented by Alice was like not being represented at all.

In court they ignored her, and when they spoke among themselves they made fun of her. The case was one big lark until the jury awarded four million dollars to the plaintiff, an award which stood up in the Supreme Court because the trial judge had ruled for his male buddies whenever he had the chance, leaving them nothing to appeal.

Money talks and four million dollars was a great deal of money in 1962.

Alice was no longer a cute curiosity. Several firms, including the firm she had vanquished, made her offers.

No, thank you, Alice answered politely. With her fee, which was a percentage of the verdict, and the new clients the verdict attracted, she did not need an associate's salary. She needed associates.

By 1975, Sherzer, Randolph and Picard was one of the top law firms in the state, Alice was married and the mother of two, and a seat opened on the Oregon Court of Appeals. In a private meeting, Alice told the governor that no woman had ever been appointed to an Oregon appellate court. When the governor explained the political problems inherent in making such an appointment, Alice reminded him of the large campaign contributions he had been willing to accept from a woman and the larger sums she had at her disposal for the campaign she would definitely run against any male he appointed. Seven years after her appointment to the Court of Appeals, Alice Sherzer became Oregon's first woman Supreme Court justice. She was now sixty-five.

Every year brought new rumors of her retirement, but Alice Sherzer's mind was still in overdrive and she never gave a thought to leaving the bench.

Justice Sherzer had a corner office with a view of the Capitol and the red-brick buildings and rolling lawns of Willamette University. When Tracy knocked on her doorjamb on the day after Matthew Reynolds's argument at the court, the judge was sitting at a large desk that once belonged to Charles L. McNary, one of the first justices to sit in the Supreme Court building and the running mate of Wendell Willkie in the Republican's unsuccessful 1940 bid to unseat Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

The antique desk contrasted sharply with the abstract sculpture and paintings Justice Sherzer used to decorate her chambers.

"Your clerkship is almost over, isn't it?" the judge asked when Tracy was seated in a chair across the desk from her. "Yes."

"Do you have a job lined up?"

"I have several offers, but I'm not certain which one I'm taking."

"Justice Forbes asked me to find out if you're interested in something that's opened up."

"What is it?"

"Matthew Reynolds is looking for an associate."

"You're kidding!"

"One of his associates just went to the Parish firm and he needs someone right away."

"I don't believe this. Working with Matthew Reynolds is my dream job."

"It won't be easy, Tracy. Reynolds works his associates like dogs."

"You know I don't mind hard work."

"That's true, but with Reynolds we're talking slave labor. Most of his associates quit in less than two years."

"Thanks for the warning, but nothing can stop me from giving it a try, if Reynolds takes me on."

"I just want you to know what you're getting into. Reynolds lives at his law office. All he does is try cases and prepare for trial.

He works fourteen-hour days, seven days a week. I know that sounds improbable, but I'm not exaggerating. Reynolds has no social life. He doesn't even understand the concept. He'll expect you to be at his beck and call and that can be at any hour of the night and weekends. I've been told Matt can exist on four hours' sleep and they say you can cruise by his office at almost any hour and see a light burning."

"I'm still interested."

"There's another thing. He's never had a woman associate.

Quite frankly," the judge said with a bemused grin, "I'm not certain he knows what a woman is."

"Pardon?"

"I don't know why, but he seems to shun women as if they were carrying the plague."

"If he's never had a woman associate, why is he interested in me?"

The judge laughed. "He's not. Reynolds has hired several clerks from our court because he went to school with Justice Forbes and trusts his recommendations. Reynolds called Stuart in a dither when he heard we wanted to send him a woman, but Stuart assured him you wouldn't bite. So he's willing to talk to you. This is his office number. His secretary will set up the interview."

Tracy took the slip of paper. "This is fantastic. I don't know how to thank you."

"If it works out you can thank me by doing such a good job that Reynolds will hire another woman."

The library occupied most of the second floor of the Supreme Court building. The entrance was across from the marble staircase. A small glassed-in area with the checkout desk and an office for the librarians was directly in front of the doors. There were carrels on either side of the office. Behind the carrels, the stacks holding the law books stood two deep. A balcony overhung the stacks, casting shadows over the rows of bound volumes.

Laura Rizzatti was seated at a carrel surrounded by law books and writing feverishly on a yellow pad. When Tracy touched her on the shoulder, Laura jumped.

"You up for a coffee break?" Tracy asked. "I've got something fantastic to tell you."

"I can't now," Laura said, quickly turning over the pad so Tracy could not see what she was writing.

"Come on. A fifteen-minute break won't kill you."

"I really can't. The judge needs this right away."

"What are you working on?"

"Nothing exciting," Laura answered, trying to appear casual, but sounding ill at ease. "What did you want to tell me?"

"I've got an interview with Matthew Reynolds. He needs an associate and Justice Forbes recommended me."

"That's great," Laura said, but the enthusiasm seemed forced.

"I'd give my right arm to work with Reynolds. I just hope I make a good impression. Justice Sherzer says he's never had a woman associate and it sounds like he doesn't have much use for females."

"He hasn't met you yet." Laura smiled. "I'm sure you'll knock him dead."

"I hope so. If you change your mind about coffee, I'm going in about twenty minutes. I'll even buy."

"I really can't. And congratulations."

Tracy walked across the library and located the volume of the New York University Law Review she needed. She took it to her carrel and started making notes. Half an hour later, she walked over to Laura's carrel to try to convince her to go for coffee. She was really excited about the job interview and wanted to talk about it.

Laura wasn't at her desk. Tracy noticed the yellow pad on which Laura had been writing. There was a list of three criminal cases on it. Tracy studied the list, but could see nothing unusual about the cases. She wondered why Laura had turned over the pad to hide the list, then shrugged and went to look for her friend.

Tracy searched the long rows of books until she came to the section that held the Oregon Court of Appeals reporters. Laura was at the far end of the stacks near the wall and Tracy was surprised to see that she was talking with Justice Pope. She and Laura had discussed Pope on several occasions and Tracy knew that Laura despised him. Tracy's initial impulse was to walk up to her friend and the judge, but there was something about the attitude of their bodies that stopped her.

The space between the stacks was narrow and Laura and Pope were almost chest to chest. Laura looked upset. She moved her hands in an agitated manner when she spoke. Pope flushed and said something. Tracy could not hear what he said, because they were whispering, but the angry tone carried. Tracy saw Laura move away from the stocky judge until her back was against a bookshelf. Pope said something else. Laura shook her head. Then Pope reached up and touched Laura's shoulder. She tried to push his hand away, but the judge held her firmly. Tracy stepped into the aisle so Pope could see her. "Ready for coffee?" Tracy asked loudly.

Pope looked startled and dropped his hand from Laura's shoulder.

"Laura and I have to discuss a case. I hope you don't mind, Judge,"

Tracy said, in a tone that let Pope know she had seen everything. Pope flushed. His eyes darted to Laura, then back to Tracy.

"That's the," he said, stepping around Tracy.

"Are you okay?" Tracy asked, as soon as Pope was out of sight.

"What did you hear.>" Laura asked anxiously.

"I didn't hear anything," Tracy answered, confused by the question. "It looked like Pope was coming on to you. Is he giving you a hard time?"

"No," Laura said nervously. "He was just trying to find out how Bob . .

. Justice Griffen was going to vote on a case."

"Are you being straight with me.> Because you look pretty upset."

"I'm okay, Tracy, really. Let's drop it."

"Come on, Laura. I can help you, if you'll tell me what's bothering you."

"How could you possibly help me.>" Laura exploded. "You have no idea what I'm going through."

"Laura, I . . ."

"Please, I'm sorry, but you'd never understand," Laura said.

Then she edged away from Tracy and bolted out of the stacks.

Tracy watched Laura go, stunned by her friend's reaction.

"Laura wants to see you, Judge," Justice Griffen's secretary announced over the intercom. "Send her in."

The judge was preparing for the noon conference and hoped that Laura had finished her research in a tax case the justices would be discussing.

The door opened as Griffen finished signing a letter. He looked up when the door closed and started to smile.

But the smile disappeared when he saw his law clerk's face. She appeared to be on the verge of tears.

"We have to talk," Laura said with a trembling voice.

Griffen stood up and walked around the desk. "What's wrong?"

"Everything," Laura answered. "Everything."

Then she started to cry.

The conference room of the Oregon Supreme Court was spacious, with few furnishings aside from a large conference table and some ancient glass-front bookshelves. Four former justices glowered down on their modern counterparts from portraits on the walls. Chief Justice Forbes sat at the head Of the conference table with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up and his tie loosened. Alice Sherzer put down her coffee cup and briefs at her place on Forbes's right. Vincent Lefcourt, snowy-haired and dignified, sat on Forbes's left.

Robert Griffen pushed through the door and almost ran into Mary Kelly, who was working on her first cigarette of the conference.

"Sorry," Griffen apologized.

Kelly was wearing a loose, sleeveless, forest-green dress. She brushed her honey-colored hair off her forehead and gave Griffen a casual smile.

"No damage done," Kelly said. Then she noticed Griffen's face and her smile faded. Kelly touched Griffen lightly on his forearm. He stopped.

"What's wrong?" Kelly asked in a low voice.

Griffen shook his head. "It's nothing."

Kelly shifted so her back screened their conversation from the other justices.

"Tell me what happened," she demanded.

Griffen looked away. Kelly's grip tightened. When Griffen looked at her, his face reflected his confusion. He was about to reply when Arnold Pope entered the room.

"Your wife looked terrific, Bob," he said maliciously. "Too bad you had to miss her argument."

Griffen paled, and Kelly looked at Pope as if he was an insect she'd found in her salad. At that moment, Frank Arriaga rushed in. He held up a sack from the deli across the street.

"Sorry, guys. My clerk was late with my fuel. Did I miss anything?"

"Relax, Frank." Forbes smiled. Arriaga sat next to Vincent Lefcourt, who looked on with amusement as Arriaga pulled a huge glazed jelly doughnut out of his brown paper bag.

"We're all here, so let's get started," Justice Forbes said.

"We can talk later," Mary Kelly assured Griffen.

Forbes squared the stack of briefs in front of him.

"I was going to begin with you, Frank, but you've got that monstrosity stuffed in your mouth, so how about it, Vincent?

What's your take on the State ex rel. Franklin?"

Justice Sherzer needed a memo in the morning on a probate issue, but Tracy was so upset by what had happened in the library that she had trouble concentrating. At five o'clock, she decided to take a break and finish the memo after dinner.

Tracy's garden apartment was on the second floor of a two story complex half a mile from the court. She had been a top student in college and law school, but she would have failed housekeeping. The front door opened into a living room that had not been cleaned in a week.

Newspapers and mail were strewn across the sofa. Tracy rarely watched television, and her small black-and-white set was gathering dust in a corner. Tracy's rockclimbing equipment was well cared for, but it was piled high next to the television.

The apartment came furnished. The only marks Tracy had made on the personality of the place were several photographs detailing her athletic feats. One photo in the living room showed Tracy standing on a track in front of a grandstand with her hand gently touching the shoulder of a girl who was bent over from the waist. The two women were wearing Yale track uniforms. They had finished one-two in the 1,500 meters to clinch the Ivy League title and looked exhausted but triumphant.

Another photo showed Tracy climbing a snowcapped mountain. She was wearing a parka with the hood thrown back and was brandishing an ice ax over her head. A photo in the bedroom showed Tracy hanging upside down from a rockface on one of the more difficult ascents at Smith Rocks in eastern Oregon.

As soon as she arrived at her apartment, Tracy dumped her clothes on the bedroom floor and changed into her running gear.

Then she set off along a seven-mile loop she had mapped out when she moved to Salem.

As Tracy ran, she thought about the incident in the library.

She could not understand Laura's reaction. Laura disliked Justice Pope, so why would she protect him if he had made a pass at her?

Maybe there was some other explanation for what she had seen, but Tracy could not think of one that made sense. Something was definitely going on in Laura's life. Tracy remembered how drawn and pale Laura looked when she surprised Laura reading the Deems transcript. Laura's angry outburst in the library was in keeping with the agitated state in which Tracy had observed her during the past few days, but what was causing Laura's anxiety?

After her run, Tracy showered, then ate a Caesar salad with baby shrimp and two slices of a thick-crusted sourdough bread.

She threw the dirty dishes in the sink, then walked back to the courthouse across the Willamette University campus. In the daytime, the rolling lawns and old shade trees made Willamette a pleasant place to stroll. But at dusk, during summer break, the university was deserted.

Streetlights illuminated the walking paths, and Tracy stayed on them when she could. The temperature had dropped and a cool breeze chilled her. Halfway across campus, Tracy thought she saw someone move in the shadow of a building. She froze and stared into the dying light. The wind rustled the leaves. Tracy waited a moment, then walked on, feeling silly for being so skittish.

The Supreme Court was deserted when Tracy let herself in at seven-thirty. It was eerie being alone in the empty building, but Tracy had worked at night before. The clerks' offices ran along the side of the Supreme Court building that faced the Capitol. An open area dominated by a conference table stood between their offices and the mail room. The top of the conference table was littered with staplers, plastic cups, paper plates and law books.

No two chairs around the table were of the same type and none were in good repair. Behind the table was an alcove with a computer and the only printer. Scattered around the area were bookshelves, filing cabinets and a sagging couch. Tracy walked past the open area and down a short hall to her office. She found the notes she needed for the memo on the probate issue, turned off the lights in the clerks' area, and walked upstairs to the library.

A footnote in a law review article mentioned some interesting cases.

Tracy wandered around the stacks and found them. They led her to other cases and she became so absorbed in her work that she was surprised to discover it was almost ten o'clock when she was ready to write the memo.

Tracy gathered up her notes and turned off the library lights. Her footsteps echoed on the marble staircase, creating the illusion that someone else was in the building. Tracy laughed at herself. She remembered how jittery she'd been earlier in the evening when she walked across the Willamette campus. What had gotten into her?

Tracy opened the door to the clerks' area and stopped. She was certain all the lights had been off when she went up to the library, but there was a light on in Laura Rizzatti's office. Someone must have come into the building while she was upstairs.

"Laura?" Tracy called out. There was no answer. Tracy strained to hear any sound that would tell her she was not alone.

When she heard nothing, she looked in Laura's office. The drawers of Laura's filing cabinet were open and files were all over the floor.

Transcripts were scattered around. Someone had ransacked the office while Tracy was upstairs in the library.

Tracy reached for the phone to call Laura. The door to the clerks' area closed. Tracy froze for a moment, then darted to the door and pulled it open. There was no one in the hallway. She ran to the back door and looked through the glass. No one was in the parking lot. Tracy tried to calm down. She thought about reporting what had happened to the police. But what had happened?

Laura might have caused the mess in her office. That was not unreasonable, given the state Laura had been in recently. And she might have imagined hearing the door close. After all, she had not seen anyone in the building or the parking lot.

Tracy was too nervous to stay in the deserted courthouse. She decided to leave her notes and write the memo early in the morning. Tracy turned on the lights in the clerks' area and headed for her office. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something under the conference table.

Tracy stopped. A woman's leg stretched out into the light. The rest of the body was hidden in shadow. Tracy knelt down. The body was twisted as if the woman had tried to crawl away from her attacker. Blood ran through the curly black hair. The head was turned so that the dead eyes stared at Tracy.

Tracy choked back a sob and lurched to her feet. She knew she should feel for a pulse, but she could not bring herself to touch Laura Rizzatti's slender wrist. She also knew instinctively that it would make no difference.

The first officers on the scene told Tracy to wait in her office. It was so narrow she could almost touch both walls if she stood sideways.

Above her desk was a bulletin board with a chart of her cases. Next to the desk, on the window side, an old fan perched on top of a metal filing cabinet. Several briefs and some transcripts were stacked neatly on the desk next to a computer.

A slim woman in a powder-blue shirt, tan slacks and a light blue windbreaker walked into the office and held up a badge. She looked like she had been awakened from a deep sleep. Her blue eyes were bloodshot and her shaggy blond hair had an uncombed look.

"I'm Heidi Bricker, a detective with Salem PD."

In Bricker's other hand was a container of hot coffee with a McDonald's logo. She offered it to Tracy. "Can you use this?"

"Thanks," Tracy answered wearily.

Bricker sat down beside Tracy. "Was she a friend."

Tracy nodded.

"It must have been some shock finding the body."

Tracy sipped from the cardboard cup. The coffee was hot and burned the roof of her mouth, but she didn't care. The physical pain was a welcome distraction.

"What were you doing here so late?"

"I clerk for Justice Sherzer. She's working on a case with a complex probate issue and she needed a memo from me on a point of law, first thing in the morning."

"What time did you start working?"

"Around seven-thirty."

"Where were you working?"

"Upstairs in the library."

"Did you hear or see anything out of the ordinary?"

"No. You can't hear anything that's said in the clerks' offices when you're upstairs in the library."

Detective Bricker made some notes in a small spiral notebook, then asked, "Was Laura a clerk?"

Tracy nodded. "For Justice Griffen."

"What did Laura do for Justice Griffen?"

"She researched legal issues being argued before the court, drafted opinions and read Petitions for Review filed by parties who've lost in the Court of Appeals."

"Could she have been murdered because of something she was working on?"

"I can't imagine what. There isn't anything we know that isn't public record."

"Why don't you explain that to me."

"Okay. Let's say you were convicted of a crime or you lost a lawsuit and you didn't think you received a fair trial. Maybe you thought the judge let in evidence she shouldn't have or gave a jury instruction that didn't accurately explain the law. You can appeal. In an appeal, you ask the appellate court to decide if the trial judge screwed up. If the trial judge did make a mistake and it was serious enough to affect the verdict, the appellate court sends the case back for a new trial.

"A court reporter takes down everything that's said in the trial. If you appeal, the court reporter prepares a transcript of the trial that is a word-for-word record of everything that was said. An appeal must be from the record. If someone confesses to a crime after the trial, the confession can't be considered on appeal, because it's not in the record."

"So there's nothing an appellate judge considers that's secret?" Bricker said., "Well, sometimes there are sealed portions of the record, but that's rare. And no one is allowed to tell the public which justice is assigned to write the opinion in a case or what views the justices express in conference. But that wouldn't have anything to do with Laura."

"Then why would someone ransack Laura's office?"

"I don't know. A burglar wouldn't be interested in legal briefs and transcripts. No one except the lawyers and judges involved in a particular case would be interested in them."

"What about jewelry, cash?"

"Laura didn't have much money and I never saw her with any jewelry worth killing for."

"Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt her? Did she have a boyfriend, an ex-husband with a grudge?"

"Laura was single. As far as I know, she didn't have a boyfriend. She kept to herself, so there might have been someone I didn't know about, but . . ." Tracy paused.

"Yes?" Bricker asked.

"I feel odd about this."

"About what?"

"Is what I tell you confidential?"

"Our reports have to be revealed to the defense in certain cases, if there's an arrest, but we try to keep confidences."

"I don't know if I . . ."

"Tracy, your friend was murdered. If you know something that could help us catch the killer . . ."

Tracy told Detective Bricker how Laura had been acting and about the incident between Justice Pope and Laura in the library.

"It may have been nothing," Tracy concluded. "Laura never said Pope tried anything, but it was obvious to me he'd made a pass at her."

"Okay. Thanks. If I talk to Justice Pope about this, I won't tell him my source. Can you think of anything else that might help?"

Tracy shook her head wearily.

"Okay. You've been a big help, but you look like you're at the end of your rope. I'm going to have someone drive you home. I may want to speak to you again," Bricker said, handing Tracy her business card, "and if anything else comes to you . . ."

"I'll definitely call, only I don't think I know anything I haven't told you. I can't imagine why anyone would want to kill Laura."

Tracy waited on the landing while an officer checked her apartment. She was exhausted and had to lean against the railing to keep herself erect.

It was hard to believe that Laura, to whom she'd spoken only hours before, was no longer alive.

"Everything's okay, miss," the policeman said. Tracy hadn't heard him step out of the apartment and she jumped slightly. "I checked the rooms, but you make certain you lock up tight. I'll cruise by every hour, just in case."

Tracy thanked the policeman. She locked up, as he'd advised.

Tracy wanted nothing more than to sleep, but she wondered if she could.

The first thing she noticed when she entered her bedroom was the flashing light on her answering machine. Tracy collapsed on her bed and played back her only message. Laura's voice made her gasp.

"Tracy, I'm in trouble. I have to talk to you. It's nine-oh-five.

Please call me as soon as you get in, no matter how late it is. I have to . . ."

Tracy heard a doorbell ringing in the background just before Laura stopped speaking. There was a pause, then Laura finished the message.

"Please call me. I don't know what to do. Please."

Chapter FIVE in the days following Laura's death, everyone at the court tiptoed around Tracy as if she had some rare disease, except for Justice Sherzer, who invited Tracy to move in with her. She declined, insisting on staying alone in her apartment and facing her fears.

Friday was oppressively humid. The portable fan barely stirred the air in Tracy's tiny office. The workmen's compensation case she was working on was as dry as dust and the heat made it hard to concentrate. Tracy was taking a sip from a diet Coke she had purchased more for the ice than the drink when Arnold Pope stormed in. His face was florid and he glowered at Tracy. With his bristly flattop and heavy jowls, he reminded her of a maddened bulldog.

"Did you talk to a woman named Bricker about me?" Pope demanded.

Tracy was frightened by the sudden verbal assault, but she refused to show it.

"I don't appreciate your yelling at me, Justice Pope," she said firmly as she stood to confront the judge.

"And I don't appreciate a clerk talking about me behind my back, young lady."

"What is this about?" Tracy asked, fighting to keep her tone even.

"I just had a visit from Detective Heidi Bricker of Salem PD.

She said someone accused me of making a pass at Laura Rizzatti in the library. She wouldn't tell me who'd made the accusation, but only three of us were there. Did you think I wouldn't figure out who was slandering me?"

"I told Detective Bricker what I saw."

"You never saw me make a pass at Laura Rizzatti, because that never happened. Now, I want you to call her and tell her you lied."

"I'll do no such thing," Tracy answered angrily.

"Listen, young lady, you're just starting your legal career. You don't want to make enemies. Either you call that detective OF . . .

"Is something wrong?" Justice Griffen asked from the doorway. He was wearing a short-sleeve white shirt. His top button was open and his red-and-yellow paisley-print tie was loosened.

The heat had dampened his hair and it fell across his forehead.

From a distance, he could have been mistaken for one of the clerks.

Pope whirled around. "This is between Miss Cavanaugh and me, he said.

"Oh? I thought I heard you threatening her."

"I don't care what you think, Griffen. I'm not going to stand still while this girl makes false accusations about me behind my back."

"Calm down, Arnold. Whatever happened between you and Ms. Cavanaugh, this is no way to deal with it. All the clerks can hear you yelling at her."

Pope's shoulders hunched. He looked like he was going to say something to Griffen, then he changed his mind and turned back to Tracy.

"I expect you to make that call. Then I'll expect an apology."

Pope pushed past Griffen and stormed down the hall and out of the clerks' area. As soon as the door slammed, Griffen asked, "Are you okay?"

Tracy nodded, afraid that the judge would see how frightened she was if she spoke.

"What was that about?"

Tracy hesitated.

"Please," Griffen said. "I want to help."

"I told something to the police. Something about Justice Pope and Laura. That's why he was upset."

"What happened between them?"

"I . . . I really shouldn't say. I don't have anything more than suspicions. Maybe I was wrong to tell the police in the first place."

"Tracy, I feel terrible about what happened to Laura. If you know something, you have to tell me."

Tracy hesitated, not certain if she should go on.

"What is it, Tracy?"

"I think Justice Pope was bothering Laura."

"In what way?"

"Sexually. I... There was an incident in the library. I couldn't hear what Justice Pope said but it looked like he was making a pass at her.

When I asked Laura what happened, she wouldn't come out and accuse him, but she was very upset. Laura was disturbed a lot recently. She looked like she wasn't sleeping and she was very jumpy."

"And you think that was because Arnold was bothering her?"

"I don't know."

Griffen considered what Tracy had told him. Then he closed the door to her office and sat down.

"I'm going to tell you something in confidence. You'll have to promise never to discuss this with anyone."

"Of course."

"We've had trouble with Arnold Pope since he came on the court. Justice Kamsky was highly respected. He was not only brilliant, he was very practical. I can't tell you how many times he was able to break a deadlock among the justices with his insights.

"When Pope beat Ted in the election we were crushed. Ted was not only the court's finest justice but a dear friend to us all.

Still, we tried to treat Pope as a colleague. We bent over backward to be fair to him. But the man's been a disaster. And one of the worst problems we've had has been his relations with women.

"Stuart had a long talk with Pope about his conduct after we received complaints from a secretary and a woman clerk. We all hoped he learned his lesson, but it appears he hasn't."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'll discuss what you've told me with Stuart, but I don't think there's anything we can do. You're our only witness and you can't say what really happened. But it helps us to know that there's still a problem.

"I hope you understand why you can't talk about this. The image of the court is very important. People have to believe that they are receiving justice when we decide matters. It's the public's acceptance of our decision-making authority that maintains the rule of the law. Any scandal weakens the public's image of what we do."

"I've already told the police."

"Of course. You had to. And I appreciate your candor with me."

Now it was Griffen's turn to pause. He looked uncomfortable.

"You were Laura's friend, weren't you?"

"I'd like to think that, but Laura was tough to get to know."

"Oh?" Griffen said, surprised. "I had the impression you two were close."

"Not really. We were the only woman clerks, so we gravitated toward each other, but Laura didn't make friends easily. She came over to my house a few times for dinner and I was at her place once, but she never let her hair down with me." Tracy paused, remembering Laura's last message.

"I think she wanted to that night. I think she was desperate for a friend. I wish . . ."

Tracy let the thought trail off. Griffen leaned forward.

"Alice told me about the call. Don't blame yourself. There's nothing you could have done."

"I know that, but it doesn't make me feel any better."

"Laura was a tough person to befriend. I try to get to know my clerks.

We go fishing or hiking a few times during the year. You know, do something that has nothing to do with law. Laura always had some excuse. I tried to draw her out, but our relationship stayed strictly professional. Still, recently I also had the feeling that something was troubling her. She seemed on the verge of confiding in me a few times, then she would back off. When I heard she'd been killed . . . I don't know . . . I guess I felt I'd failed her in some way. I was hoping she'd told you what was troubling her."

"You should take your own advice. If I'm not allowed to blame myself, how can you feel guilty?"

Griffen smiled. He looked tired. "It's always easier to give advice than to take it. I liked Laura. She seemed to be very decent. I wish she trusted me more. Maybe she would have told me what was bothering her and I could have helped."

"She trusted you a lot, Judge. She was your biggest fan. She looked up to 'you."

"That's nice to know."

Justice Griffen stood up. Before he left, he said, "You should know that your reputation among the justices is excellent. You aren't only the best clerk we've had this term but one of the finest lawyers I've worked with since I started on the court. I'm sure you'll make an excellent attorney." Tracy blushed.

"Thanks for talking to me," Griffen continued. "I know this has been hard for you. If there's ever anything I can do for you, I'd be pleased if you would consider me a friend."

Raoul Otero was wearing a custom-tailored gray suit with a fine blue weave, a white silk shirt and a yellow-and-blue Hermes tie.

In the subdued lighting of Casa Maria, he could easily be mistaken for a successful executive, but a brighter light would have revealed the pockmarked face and wary eyes of a child of Mexico City's most dangerous slum.

"You're looking good for a dead man, amigo," Otero said as he threw his arms around Charlie Deems. Otero was putting on weight, but Deems could still feel muscle as the big man smothered him.

"I'm feeling good," Deems said when Otero let him go.

"You know Bobby Cruz?" Otero asked. A thin man with a sallow complexion and a pencil-thin mustache was sitting quietly in the center of the booth. He had not risen when Otero greeted Deems, but his pale eyes never left Charlie.

"Sure. I know Bobby," Deems said. Neither seemed pleased to see the other. Cruz was wearing an open-necked white shirt and a sports jacket.

Deems knew Cruz was armed, but he was not concerned about Otero's bodyguard.

"So," Otero said, sliding back into the booth, "how does it feel to be out?"

"Better than being in," Deems cracked. Otero laughed.

"That's what I like about you, amigo. You got a sense of humor. Most guys, they'd come off the row all bitter. You, you're making jokes."

Deems shrugged.

"We already ate," Otero said, gesturing apologetically at the remains of his meal. "You want a beer, some coffee?"

"That's okay, Baoul. I'd rather get down to business. I've got fifteen and I want a key."

Otero looked uncomfortable. "That may be a problem, Charlie."

"Oh? That's not the price?"

"The price is right, but I can't deal with you right now."

"I know one key ain't much, Raoul, but this is just the beginning. I'm going to be into some big money soon and I just need the key to help me reestablish myself."

"I can't do it."

Deems cocked his head to one side and studied Otero.

"My money was always good before. What's the problem?"

"You're hot. You start dealing and the cops gonna be all over you and everyone you're seen with. There's plenty people still pretty mad about you takin' out that kid. It caused trouble. We couldn't push shit for three months. The operation was almost shut down. I wish you'd talked to me before you done it, amigo."

"Hey," Deems asked, "what was I supposed to do? Stand in a lineup and hope Mr. Citizen didn't pick me? The fuck should have minded his own business."

Otero shook his head. "If you'd come to me, I could have worked it out.

Taking out that little girl was bad for business, Charlie."

Deems leaned across the table. Cruz tensed. Deems ignored Cruz and looked directly into Otero's eyes.

"Was it bad for business when I took care of Harold Shoe?"

Deems asked. "Was it bad for business when I didn't tell the cops the name of the person who thought it would be neato if someone performed unnecessary surgery on Mr. Shoe while he was wide awake?"

Otero held up a hand. "I never said you wasn't a stand-up guy, Charlie.

This is business. I bet the cops been following you since you got out.

Any business we do is gonna be on videotape. Things are back to normal and I want to keep it that way."

Charlie smiled coldly and shook his head.

"This is bullshit, Raoul. You owe me."

Otero flushed. "I'm tryin' to say this politely, Charlie, 'cause I don't want to hurt your feelings, okay? I ain't gonna do business with you. It's too risky. Maybe, in the future, when things quiet down, but not now. I can't make it any clearer."

"It might be worse for business to fuck with me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're a smart guy. Figure it out." Charlie stood up. "I'm gonna be in a position to move a lot more than a key pretty soon.

When I'm ready, I'll be back to see you. That will give you time to think about how intelligent it is to stiff a guy who went to the row instead of trading your fat ass for a life sentence. A person like that isn't afraid of death, Raoul. Are you?"

Cruz started to bring his right hand out from under the table, but Otero clamped a hand on Cruz's forearm.

"I'll think about what you said, amigo."

"It's always better to think than to act rashly, Raoul. See you soon."

Deems walked out of the restaurant.

"Charlie Deems has been too long on this earth, Raoul," Cruz told Otero in Spanish, still watching the front of the restaurant.

"Charlie's just upset," Raoul answered in a tone that made it clear he was not certain about what he was saying. "He's just being the man.

When he calms down, he'll do what he told me to do. Think. Then he'll see things my way."

"I don' know. Charlie, he ain't like other guys. He don' think like other guys. He's fucked up in the head. Better I take him out, Raoul.

That way we don' take no chances."

Otero looked troubled. Killing people was bad for business, but Bobby Cruz was right when he said Charlie Deems didn't think like other people. Charlie Deems was different from any man Raoul Otero had ever met and he had met some bad hombres in his time.

Charlie Deems sat in his car behind the restaurant. Anger was flowing through him like a red tide. The anger was directed at Raoul, whom he'd gone to death row to protect and who now turned his back on him. It was also directed at Abigail Griffen, the bitch who was responsible for all his troubles. If she hadn't made prosecuting him a personal crusade, he would not have lost almost two years of his life.

Charlie let his imagination run wild. In his fantasy, Deems saw himself gut-shooting Raoul, then sitting in a chair with a beer as he watched him die slowly and in excruciating pain. His fantasy about Abigail Griffen was quite different.

Caruso's did not have the best Italian food in Portland or great atmosphere, but it did have subdued lighting, stiff drinks and the privacy Abigail Griffen needed to brood about her bastard husband, who was in her thoughts because she had just come from a two-hour conference with the attorney who was handling her divorce.

At thirty-three, Abbie felt she had lived long enough to have some idea of what life was supposed to be about, but she was still in a state of tortured confusion when the subject was love. Abbie's parents were killed in a car accident when she was three and she grew up believing that she was missing a special kind of love that all the children with mothers and fathers received.

Abbie was afraid to form relationships with men, because she was afraid that the love she shared would disappear like the love that had been snatched away when her parents were taken from her. It wasn't until her sophomore year at the University of Wisconsin that she fell in love for the first time.

Abbie sipped from her wineglass and thought about Larry Ross, a sure sign that she was courting severe depression. When she married Robert, Abbie had been so happy that she stopped thinking about Larry, but she found herself clinging to his memory with increasing urgency as her marriage soured.

The alcohol Abbie had consumed since entering Caruso's was beginning to make her woozy. She tried to remember what Larry looked like, but his image was blurred and insubstantial. What if Larry's memory slipped away forever?

Larry Ross was a quiet, considerate pre-med student who was a friend for a year before he became Abbie's first lover. When Larry started medical school at Columbia University, Abbie sent out applications to every law school within commuting distance of New York. They both felt that they would be together forever.

She was accepted at New York University exactly one week before Larry was fatally stabbed during a mugging. Abbie fled home to the aunt who had raised her.

After Larry's death, Abbie ran away from every man who tried to form a relationship with her, because she was certain she could never survive love's loss a second time. Then she met Robert Griffen, who made her love him and then betrayed her.

Abbie had downed several Jack Daniel's in rapid succession soon after sliding into a deep leather booth well away from the front door of the restaurant. She was through most of a bottle of Chianti and a dinner of linguine con vongole when Tony Rose blocked what little light there was in the booth.

Tony was a cop who had testified in a few of Abbie's cases when she was in the drug unit. He was handsome, well built, and had the testosterone level of a teenager. After two cases, Abbie stopped prepping him for his testimony unless someone else was present. Putting together a good direct examination while trying to fend off a horny cop was too exhausting.

"Hi," Rose said, flashing a wide smile. "I thought that was you."

Alcohol had dulled Abbie's reactions and Rose was sitting across from her before she could tell him to buzz off.

"How you doin'?" Rose asked cheerily.

"Not so good, Tony."

"What's the problem?" Rose asked with phony concern.

"My son-of-a-bitch husband, the Honorable Robert Hunter Griffen," Abbie answered with a candor she would never have offered if she was sober.

"Hey, that's right. I forgot. You're married to a Supreme Court justice, aren't you?"

"Not for long."

"Oh?"

"I walked out on the bastard," Abbie said, slurring her words.

Rose noticed the half-empty Chianti bottle and the melting ice cubes in Abbie's last glass of Jack Daniel's. He was an old hand at bedding inebriated women and he guessed that Abbie's inhibitions were way out of town by now.

"Hey! Isn't Griffen the judge who let out Charlie Deems?"

"He certainly is. The next time Deems kills somebody, they can thank good old Robert. And I'll tell you something else. I think he reversed the case just to embarrass me. Maybe next time Deems will do us all a favor and blow my asshole soon-to-be-ex to kingdom come."

Abbie reached for her wineglass and knocked it over. A river of ruby-red Chianti flowed over the edge of the table. Abbie tried to slide away from it, but she was too slow.

"Ah, shit," she said, dabbing at her lap with a napkin.

"Are you okay?"

"No, Tony. I'm fucked up," Abbie answered distractedly.

"Look, I was on the way out. Can you use a lift home?"

"i've got a car."

"You've got to be kidding." Rose laughed. "If I saw you driving tonight, I'd have to bust you."

Abbie slumped down on a dry section of the booth and put her head back.

"What a terrific way to end a rotten day."

"Leave your car and take a taxi in the morning. Come on. I'll get the check and you can pay me back."

Abbie was too tired to fight Rose and too drunk to care. She let him take her arm.

"What?" Abbie mumbled.

"I said, watch your head."

Abbie opened her eyes. She was staring at Tony Rose's chest and she had no idea where she was. Then Rose shifted and she could see her house through the car door.

"Come on," Rose said, easing her out of the car. Abbie stood unsteadily. Rose wrapped an arm around her waist. Abbie tried to stand up. Her head swam and her vision blurred. She leaned back against Rose's shoulder. He smiled.

"Take it easy. We're almost there. Where's your key?"

Abbie realized she was holding her purse. She fumbled with the clasp and finally got it open, but missed the keyhole on the first try.

"Here," Rose said, taking the key from her.

Rose helped Abbie into the house and switched on the light.

Abbie shut her eyes against the glare and leaned on the wall. She heard the door close and felt Rose near her. Then she felt Rose's lips. His breath smelled minty. His kiss was gentle. So was his touch when he slipped his arm around Abbie's waist.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"What you want me to do," Rose answered confidently.

"Don't," Abbie said, pushing against Rose. The cop's muscular arm tightened around her and she was crushed against his chest. Abbie strained against Rose's grip, but he was very strong.

She felt his hands on her buttocks. Fear suddenly coursed through her, cutting through her haze. She pulled her head away and Rose pressed his lips against her neck while his right hand groped under her skirt. Abbie shifted until she could get her teeth around Rose's ear, then she bit down hard.

"Hey," Rose yelped, jumping back and holding a hand to his ear.

Abbie slapped Rose as hard as she could. The policeman looked stunned.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked in a shocked tone.

"Get out, you son of a bitch," Abbie yelled.

"What's going on here? I was just trying to help you out."

"Was that what you were doing just now?"

"Look, I thought . . ."

"You thought I'd fall into bed with you because I'm smashed."

"No. It's not like that. You looked like you needed a friend."

"And that's what you were doing? Being my friend?"

"Hey," Rose said angrily, "when I kissed you, you didn't exactly faint."

"You bastard. I'm drunk."

"Man, you are one cold bitch."

"Cut the shit, Tony. You wanted to get me into bed. Well, it didn't work out."

Rose looked hurt, like a little boy.

"It could," he said. "I mean, we got off on the wrong foot here, but that's not my fault. You're the one who was giving off signals."

"Tony, haven't you been listening... ?" Abbie started.

Then she stopped herself. Whatever had happened had happened. She just wanted Rose out of her house.

"Look, Tony, this was a major mistake. Let's just forget it.

Okay?"

Rose took his hand away from his ear. It was covered with blood.

"Jesus," he said. "You really hurt me."

"I'm sorry," Abbie answered, too exhausted to be angry anymore. "Can you please leave? I want to go to bed."

"I guess you are as frigid as everyone says," he snapped, getting in the last word. Abbie let him save face. It was worth it to get him out of her house. He slammed the door and she locked it immediately. The engine of Rose's car started and she heard him drive away.

Abbie turned away from the door. She saw herself in the hall mirror.

Her lipstick was smeared and her hair looked like it had been permed in a washing machine.

"Jesus," Abbie muttered. She imagined herself in court looking like this. She started to laugh. That would be something. She laughed hirder and could not stop. What a fool she was. How had she let herself get into this situation?

Abbie slumped down on the carpet. When she stopped laughing, depression flooded over her. She leaned against the wall and started to cry. It was Robert's fault she was falling apart. She had loved him without reservation and he had deceived her. She hated him more than she ever thought possible.

Abbie closed her eyes. She was so tired. She started to fade out, then jerked herself awake and struggled to her feet. She was going to sleep, but not on the floor in the entryway.

Abbie's bedroom was at the end of a short hall. She staggered inside.

The shades in the bedroom were open and the backyard looked like a black-on-black still life. The only light came from the window of the house next door. Abbie reached for the light switch. In the moment before the bedroom light went on, a shape erased the glow from the next-door window. Abbie stiffened.

Someone was in the yard. She switched off the light so she could see outside, but she had been blinded momentarily when the bedroom light flashed on.

Abbie pressed her face against the windowpane, trying to see as much of the backyard as possible. There was no one there. She must have imagined the figure. She sagged down on the bed and Closed her eyes. A doorknob rattled in the kitchen. Abbie's eyes flew open. She strained to hear, but her heart was beating loudly in her ears.

Abbie had received a number of threats over the years from people she had prosecuted. She had taken a few of them seriously enough to learn how to shoot a semiautomatic 9mm Beretta that she kept in her end table.

Abbie took out the gun. Then she kicked off her shoes and walked on stocking feet down the dark hall to the kitchen. Abbie heard the doorknob rattle again. Someone was trying to break in. Was it Rose?

Had he parked his car and returned on foot?

Abbie crouched down and peered into the darkened kitchen.

There was a man on the deck outside the kitchen bent over the lock on the back door. Abbie could not see his face because he was wearing a ski mask. Without thinking, she ran to the door and aimed her gun, screaming "Freeze!" as she pressed the muzzle to the glass. The man did freeze for a second. Then he straightened up very slowly and raised his arms until they were stretched out from his sides like the wings of a giant bird. The man was clothed in black from head to foot and wore black gloves, but Abbie had the strange feeling that she knew him.

Their eyes met through the glass. No one moved for a moment.

The man took one backward step, then another. Then he turned slowly, loped across the yard, vaulted the fence and disappeared.

It never occurred to Abbie to pursue him. She was just glad he was gone. The adrenaline began to wear off and Abbie started to shake. She dropped onto one of her kitchen chairs and put the Beretta on the kitchen table. Suddenly she noticed that the safety was on. She felt sick for a moment, then felt relieved that she was safe.

Abbie contemplated reporting the attempted break-in, but decided against it. She was so tired that she only wanted to sleep, and she could not describe the man anyway. If she called the police, she would be up all night. Worse, she would have to tell the officers about Tony Rose, even though she was certain he wasn't the intruder, and there was no way she was going to do that.

Abbie rested for a few moments more, then dragged herself back to the bedroom after checking to make sure that all the doors and windows were locked. She put the Beretta on the end table and stripped off her clothes. She was certain she would drop off to sleep immediately because she was so exhausted, but every sound primed the pump of her overwrought imagination and she did not slip into sleep until an hour before dawn.

Chapter SIX

The intense leather, glass and stainless-steel decor of the big law firms was nowhere to be found in Matthew Reynolds's reception area. The hand-knit antimacassar draped over the back of the country sofa, the Tiffany lamps and the deep old armchairs had a calming effect that was equally appreciated by clients facing prison or a nervous young woman waiting for a job interview.

Masterful black-and-white photographs of jagged mountain peaks, pristine lakes and shadowy timberland trails graced the walls. One picture in particular caught Tracy's eye. A doe and her fawn were standing in a clearing nibbling on a bush, apparently oblivious to the presence of the photographer. A wide ray of sunlight shone down through the trees and bathed the bush in light. The picture had a quiet, almost religious feel to it that touched something in Tracy. She was admiring the photograph when the receptionist beckoned her down a corridor on whose walls hung more of the exceptional wilderness photography.

"Mr. Reynolds took those," the receptionist proudly told Tracy as she stepped aside to admit her to Matthew Reynolds's office.

"They're terrific," Tracy answered, genuinely impressed by the use of light and the unique perspectives. "Has Mr. Reynolds ever shown them in a gallery?"

"Not that I know of," the receptionist answered with a smile.

"Why don't you have a seat. Mr. Reynolds will be with you shortly."

The receptionist left Tracy alone in the large corner room.

Law books and legal papers were arranged in neat piles on the oak desk that dominated it. Two high-backed, dark leather client chairs stood before the desk. Through the windows Tracy could see sections of a flower garden and the cheerful green of a wellmanicured lawn.

Tracy wandered over to the near wall, which was covered with memorabilia from Reynolds's cases. There were framed newspaper clippingsand the originals of courtroom sketches that had appeared in newspapers around the country. Tracy stopped in front of a frame in which was displayed the cover of a brief that had been filed in the United States Supreme Court. Above the cover, in a narrow recess, was a white quill pen.

"Those pens are specially crafted for the Court," Matthew Reynolds said from the doorway. "If you ever argue there you'll find them at counsel table. You're expected to take one as evidence that you have appeared before the highest court in the land. I've argued seven cases in the United States Supreme Court, but that pen means the most to me."

Reynolds paused and Tracy was transfixed, the way she imagined his juries were, as his homely features were transformed by his quiet passion.

"I won that case on an insignificant technicality. A procedural point.

Saved Lloyd Garth's life, though. Took him off death row as surely as any great legal point would have." A gentle smile played on Reynolds's lips.

"Two weeks before the retrial, another man confessed to the murder.

Lloyd always swore he was innocent, but few people believed him. Sit down, Ms. Cavanaugh. Sit down."

Tracy had been caught up in Reynolds's tale and it took her a moment to respond. While she took her seat, Reynolds studied her r(sum(. Tracy was rarely at a disadvantage, but she felt that Reynolds had already begun to dominate the interview. To regain the initiative, Tracy asked, "Are all the wilderness photographs yours?"

"Why, yes," Reynolds responded with a proud smile.

"They're incredible. Have you had formal training?"

Reynolds's smile vanished. A look of sadness passed over him.

"No formal training with a camera, but my father was a hunter--a great hunter--and he taught me all about the woods.

He could stay with an animal for days in the forest. The sheriff asked him to track men on occasion. Lost hunters, once an escaped convict. He found a little boy alive after everyone else had given up hope.

"He taught me to hunt. I was good at it, too. Eventually, I lost heart in the killing, but I still loved the woods. Photography is my way of getting out of myself when life gets too ponderous."

"I know what you mean. I rock-climb. When you're on a cliff face, and the difference between life and death is the strength in your hands, you pull into yourself. You forget everything else except the rock."

Tracy realized how pretentious she sounded as soon as she spoke.

Reynolds seemed to close off a little. When he addressed her, there was less warmth.

"You're from California?"

Tracy nodded.

"What do your parents do?"

"My father works in motion pictures. He's a producer."

Successful?

Tracy smiled. "Very."

"And your mother?"

"She doesn't work, but she's involved with charities. She devotes a lot of her time to volunteer work."

Tracy hoped this would sound good, but she was afraid her background would be anathema to someone like Reynolds.

"Yale," Reynolds went on, his voice giving away nothing of how he felt about her or her background, "math major, Stanford Law Review."

Tracy shrugged, wondering if she'd already blown the interview.

"And you placed fifth in the NCAA cross-country championships. You appear to have been successful at everything you've tried."

Tracy considered a modest answer, then decided against it. If she got this job, it would not be by being a phony.

"I've been lucky. I'm very smart and I'm a natural athlete," Tracy said. "But I also work my butt off."

Reynolds nodded. Then he asked, "Why did you choose the law as a profession?"

Tracy thought about the question, as she had many times before.

"When I was young, I couldn't understand the world. It made no sense that the earth and sun didn't collide. Why didn't we fly off into space? How could a chair be made of tiny, unconnected atoms, yet be solid enough to prevent me from putting my hand through it? Mathematics imposes order on the sciences. Its rules helped me to make sense out of insanity.

"Human beings like to think of themselves as rational and civilized, but I think we are constantly on the brink of chaos.

Look at the madness in Africa or the carnage in Eastern Europe. I was attracted to the law for the same reason I was fascinated by mathematics. Law imposes order on society and keeps the barbarians in check. When the rule of law breaks down, civilization falls apart.

"America is a nation of laws. I've always marveled that a country with so much power shows such restraint in the way it treats its citizens.

Not that I think the country is perfect. Not by a long shot. We've condoned countless injustices. Slavery is the most obvious example. But that's because human beings are so fallible.

Then I think of what the President could do if he wanted to.

Especially with today's technology. Why don't we live in a dictatorship? Why did Nixon resign, instead of trying a coup d'etat? I think it's because we are a nation of laws in the truest sense and lawyers are the guardians of the law. I really believe that."

Tracy felt she was running on. She stopped talking and studied Matthew Reynolds, but his face revealed nothing and she could not tell if her speech had impressed him or made him think she was a fool.

"I understand that the young woman who was murdered at the court was a friend of yours."

Reynolds's statement shook her and all Tracy could do was nod. An image of Laura, strands of curly black hair wrapped around her fingers as she worked through a legal problem, flashed into her mind. Then anotherimage of Laura, dead, her curly black hair matted with blood, superimposed itself on the first image.

"What punishment should your friend's killer receive if he's caught?"

Tracy knew Reynolds would ask about her views on the death penalty, but she never expected him to come at her in this way.

She had spent several hours reading articles about the death penalty, including some by Reynolds, to prepare herself for the interview, but dealing with punishment in the abstract and asking her to decide the fate of Laura's murderer were two different things.

"That's not a fair question," Tracy said.

"Why not?"

"She was my friend. I found the body."

Reynolds nodded sympathetically.

"There's always a body. There's always a victim. There's always someone left alive to mourn. Don't you want revenge for your friend?"

It was a good question that forced Tracy to decide what she really thought about the death penalty. She looked across the desk at Matthew Reynolds. He was watching her closely.

"If I found the man who murdered Laura, I would want to kill him with my bare hands, but I would hope that the sober people around me would stop me. A civilized society should aspire to higher ideals. It should be above legalized killing for revenge."

"Would you be in favor of the death penalty if it deterred crime?"

"Maybe, but it doesn't. I don't have to tell you that there's no statistical evidence that the penalty deters killing. Oregon had a record murder rate a few years after the penalty was reinstated.

"And then there's the mistake factor. I read recently that four hundred and sixteen innocent Americans were convicted of capital crimes between 1900 and 1991 and twenty-three were actually executed. Every other sentence can be corrected if the authorities realize they've made a mistake, except for a sentence of death."

"Why do you want to work for me, Ms. Cavanaugh?"

"I want to work for you because you're the best and because everything in my life has been easy. I don't regret that, but I'd like to give something back to people who haven't been as fortunate."

"That's very noble, but our clients are not the 'less fortunate." They are sociopaths, misfits, psychotics. They are men who torture women and murder children. Not the type of people you associated with in Beverly Hills or at Yale."

"I'm aware of that."

"Are you also aware that we work very long hours? Evenings and weekends are the norm. How do you feel about that?"

"Justice Sherzer warned me about your version of a workweek and I still called for this interview."

"Tell me, Ms. Cavanaugh," Reynolds asked in a neutral tone, "have you ever been to Stark, Florida, to the prison, after dark?"

"No, sir," Tracy answered, completely stumped by the question.

"And I suppose you have never been to Columbia, South Carolina, to visit after dark?"

Tracy shook her head. Reynolds watched her carefully, then continued.

"Several attorneys of my acquaintance have visited their clients in prison after dark. These attorneys have a number of things in common.

They are brilliant, extremely skilled legal practitioners. They are what you would call the top of the bar in morality, ethics and commitment. They are people we can admire very much for what their lives are about and what their commitment to the criminal justice system is.

"These people have something else in common. They all visited these prisons after dark and left before sunrise with their clients dead."

A chill ran up Tracy's spine.

"There is something else they have in common, Ms. Cavanaugh. They all left before dawn with their clients dead because of some act of another lawyer in not preserving an issue, in failing to investigate competently, in not seeing that that client was represented in the way that a codefendant was. And the fact is that these codefendants are on the street today, alive, just because of the quality of the words written or spoken in some court or some act by some lawyer."

Reynolds paused. He leaned back in his chair and formed a steeple with his slender fingers.

"Ms. Cavanaugh, I've been a lawyer for more than twenty years and neither I nor any associate of mine has ever visited a prison in this country after dark. Not once. I take no pride in that fact, because pride has no place in the work we do. It is backbreaking, mind-numbing work. If you work for me, you won't sleep right, you won't eat right, and you certainly won't have time to climb or run. This work tears the soul out of you. It requires dedication to men and women who are pariahs in our society. It is work that will earn you no praise but will often earn you the hatred and ill will of decent citizens."

Tracy's throat felt tight. There was a band around her heart.

She knew she had never wanted anything more in life than to work for this man.

"Mr. Reynolds, if you give me this chance I won't let you down."

Reynolds watched Tracy over his steepled fingers. Then he sat up in his chair.

"You know I've never worked with a woman?"

"Justice Sherzer told me."

"What special gifts do you think you'll bring to this job as a woman?"

"None, Mr. Reynolds. But I'll bring several as a lawyer. I'll bring an exceptional ability to analyze legal issues and total dedication to my work. Justice Forbes knows my work. He wouldn't have told you to talk to me if he didn't think I could cut it. If you hire me, you won't have to worry about the quality of the words I write or speak."

"We'll see," Reynolds said. He sat up. "When can you start?"

Chapter SEVEN

Tracy Cavanaugh was sitting on the floor in jeans and a faded Yale Athletic Department tee shirt taking law books out of a carton and putting them on bookshelves when she heard someone behind her. Standing in the doorway of her new office was a lean man with a dark complexion, curly black hair and a wide grin. To her surprise, Tracy felt an immediate attraction to him, and she hoped her deep tan was hiding the blush that warmed her cheeks.

"You must be the new associate. I'm Barry Frame, Matt's investigator."

Frame was a little over six feet with wide shoulders and a tapered waist. He was wearing a blue work shirt and khaki slacks.

The sleeves of his shirt were rolled back to the elbow, revealing hairy forearms that were corded with muscle. Tracy stood up and wiped her hand on her jeans before offering it to Frame. His grip was gentle.

"Getting settled in okay?" Frame asked, looking at the cardboard cartons.

"Oh, sure."

"Can I help?"

"Thanks, but I don't have that much stuff."

"Have you found a place to stay?"

"Yeah. I've got a nice apartment down by the river. I found it just before I moved up."

"You were living in Salem, right?"

Tracy nodded. "I was clerking for the Supreme Court."

"Which justice?"

"Alice Sherzer."

"I clerked for Justice Lefcourt five years ago."

Tracy was confused. She was certain Frame had said he was an investigator. Frame laughed.

"You're wondering why I'm not practicing, right?"

"Well, I . . ." Tracy started, embarrassed that she was so transparent.

"It's okay. I'm used to getting that look from lawyers. And no, I didn't flunk the bar exam. After the clerkship with Justice Lefcourt, Matt hired me as an attorney, but I liked being a detective more than I liked practicing law. When his investigator quit, I asked for the job.

I don't get paid as much, but I'm not stuck behind a desk and I don't have to wear a tie."

"Does Mr. Reynolds have you do any legal work?"

"Not if I can help it, although I did fill in while we were waiting for you to come on board. The last associate left precipitously."

"Why did he go?"

"Burnout. Matt expects a lot from people and some of his requests are above and beyond the call of duty."

"For instance . . . ?" Tracy asked, hoping Frame would tell her examples of the horror stories others had hinted at when talking about the demands Reynolds put on his associates, so she could prepare herself for the worst.

"Well, Matt handles cases all over the country. Sometimes he'll expect an associate to become an expert on another state's law."

"That doesn't sound unreasonable."

"I've seen him give that type of assignment to some poor slob a week before trial."

"You're kidding?"

"Absolutely not."

"Boy, that would be tough," Tracy answered, a bit worried.

The work at the Supreme Court was demanding, but Justice Sherzer always emphasized that good scholarship was more important than speed. Tracy hoped she wasn't in over her head.

"Do you think you could do it?" Frame asked.

"I'm a quick study, but that's asking a lot. I guess I could in a pinch, if the area was narrow enough."

"Good," Frame said, grinning broadly, "because you leave for Atlanta next Monday."

"What!"

"Did I mention that Matt also uses me to bear grim tidings?

No? Well, I'm frequently the messenger that everyone wants to kill."

"What am I supposed to do in Atlanta?" Tracy asked incredulously. "I'm not even unpacked."

"You'll be second-chairing the Livingstone case. The file is in the library. You'll want to get to it as soon as you get your stuff put away. It's pretty thick."

"What kind of case is it?"

"A death penalty case. Matt rarely handles any other kind.

The legal issues are tricky, but you can get up to speed if you work all week. There's a good place for Chinese takeout a few blocks from here.

They stay open late."

"Mr. Reynolds wants me to become an expert on Georgia law and learn everything I can about this case in five days?" Tracy asked with an expression that said she was certain this was some bizarre practical joke.

Frame threw his head back and laughed. "There's nothing I enjoy more than that look. But cheer up. I hear Atlanta is lovely in August. A hundred twenty in the shade with one hundred percent humidity."

Frame cracked up again. Tracy could hear him laughing long after he was out of sight. She sat back down on the floor and stared at the boxes that still had to be unpacked. She had planned on running after squaring away her office, but that was not possible now. It looked like the only exercise she would get in the near future would be from lifting law books.

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," MatthewReynolds said as Abigail Griffen ushered him into her office, three weeks after their argument at the Supreme Court.

"I don't have much choice," Abbie answered, flicking her hand toward the slip-sheet opinion in the State ex rel. Franklin case. "The court bought your due process argument. When can your people go into Mrs.

Franklin's house?"

"I phoned California. The criminologist I'm working with can be here Tuesday. My Portland people are on call."

"I'll tell Mrs. Franklin you'll be there sometime Tuesday. She doesn't want to see you. There'll be a policeman at the house with a key to let you in."

"I'll be in Atlanta for a few weeks trying a case. Barry Frame, my investigator, will work with the forensic experts."

"I'll be out of the office myself."

"Oh?"

"Nothing as exotic as Atlanta. I'm taking a week of R. and R. at my cabin on the coast. Dennis Haggard can handle any problems while I'm away. I'll brief him."

"Can we have a set of the crime-scene photographs and the diagrams your forensic people drew?" "Of course.

Abbie buzzed her trial assistant on the intercom and asked her to bring what Reynolds had requested. While she talked, Reynolds took in the line of Abbie's chin and her smooth skin.

She was wearing a black pantsuit and a yellow shirt that highlighted her tan. A narrow gold necklace circled her slender neck.

A diamond in the center of the necklace matched her diamond earrings.

Abbie turned and caught Reynolds staring. He blushed and looked away.

"It's going to be a few minutes," Abbie said, as if she had not noticed.

"Do you want some coffee?"

"Thank you."

Abbie left, giving Matthew a chance to compose himself. He stood up and looked around her office. He had expected to see pictures of Abbie and her husband and was surprised to find the office devoid of personal items. Abbie's desk was covered with police reports and case files. One wall was decorated by her diplomas and several civic awards. Framed newspaper clippings of some of her cases hung on another. They were a testimonial to Abbie's trial skills and her tenacity. Death sentences in almost every case where she had asked for one. Lengthy sentences for Oregon's most wanted criminals. Abigail Griffen never gave the opposition an inch or a break.

Matthew noticed a blank spot on the wall. The framed article that had been hanging there lay facedown on top of a filing cabinet. Matthew turned it over. The headline read: BOMBER CONVICTED. There was a picture of Charlie Deems in handcuffs being led out of the courthouse by three burly guards.

"I forgot to ask if you take cream or sugar," Abbie said as she reentered the office with two mugs of coffee.

Reynolds had not heard her come in. "Black is fine," he answered nervously, sounding like a small boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Abbie held out his coffee, then noticed what Reynolds was looking at.

"I'm sorry about Deems," Reynolds told her.

"I never thought I'd hear Matthew Reynolds bemoaning the reversal of a death sentence."

"I see nothing inconsistent in opposing the death penalty and being sorry that a man like Deems is not in prison."

"You know him?"

"He tried to hire me, but I declined the case."

"Why?"

"There was something about Deems I didn't like. Will you retry him?"

"I can't. The court suppressed statements Deems made to a police informant. Without the confession we don't have a case.

He's already out of prison."

"Are you concerned for your safety?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Deems struck me as someone who would hold a grudge."

Abbie hesitated. She had forgotten about the man who tried to invade her home, assuming he was simply a burglar. Reynolds's question raised another possibility.

"Deems is probably so happy to be off death row that he's forgotten all about me," Abbie answered, forcing a smile.

The trial assistant entered with a manila envelope. Abbie checked the contents, then handed it to Matthew.

"I'd like to set a trial date," she said. "After your forensic people are through, you should have an idea of what you want to do. Get in touch with me."

"Thank you for your cooperation," Reynolds said, as if he was ending a business letter. "I'll have the photos returned when my people are done."

What a peculiar man, Griffen thought, after Reynolds was gone. So serious, so stiff. Not someone you'd go out with for a beer. And he was so awkward around her, blushing all the time, like one of those stiff-necked South Seas missionaries who didn't know how to deal with the naked Tahitian women. If she didn't know better, she'd guess he had a crush on her.

Abbie thought about that for a moment. It wouldn't hurt if Beynolds was a little bit in love with her. It might make him sloppy in trial. She could use any edge she Could get. Reynolds might be an odd duck, but he was the best damn lawyer she'd ever gone up against.

Chapter EIGHT

Joel Livingstone was a handsome, broad-shouldered eighteenyear-old with soft blue eyes and wavy blond hair. On the most important day of his life, Joel wore a white shirt, a navy-blue blazer, gray slacks with a knife-sharp crease and his Wheatley Academy tie. This outfit was similar to the one he was wearing when he raped Mary Harding in the woods behind the elite private school before beating her to death with a jagged log.

Outside the office of Matthew Reynolds's Atlanta co-counsel, a torrid sun was shining down on Peachtree Street, but inside the office the mood was dark. Joel sprawled in a chair and regarded Reynolds with a smirk.

An observer might have concluded that Joel was contemptuous of anything Matthew had to say, but the rapid tapping of Joel's right foot betrayed his fear. Reynolds imagined the tapping foot was asking the same question the boy had asked him over and over during the year they had spent as lawyer and client: "Will I die? Will I die? Will I die?" It was a question Reynolds was uniquely qualified to answer. "Are we going to the courthouse?"

"Not yet, Joel. There's been a development."

"What kind of development?" the boy asked nervously.

"Last night, when I returned to my hotel, there was a message from the prosecutor, Mr. Folger."

"What did he want?"

"He wanted to resolve your case without going to trial. We conferred in my hotel room until midnight."

Matthew looked directly at his client. Joel fidgeted.

"Mary Harding was very popular, Joel. Her murder has outraged many people in Atlanta. On the other hand, your parents are prominent people in this community. They are well liked and respected. Many people are sympathetic to them. Some of these people are in positions of power.

They don't want your mother and father to suffer the loss of their only son."

Joel looked at Reynolds expectantly.

"Mr. Folger has made a plea offer. It must be accepted before the judge makes his ruling on our motions."

"What's the offer?"

"A guilty plea to murder in exchange for his promise to not ask for a death sentence."

"What . . . what would happen then?"

"You would be sentenced to life in prison with a ten-year minimum sentence."

"Oh no. I'm not doing that. I'm not going to jail for life."

"It's the best I can do for you."

"My father paid you a quarter of a million dollars. You're supposed to get me off."

Matthew shook his head wearily. "I was hired to save your life, Joel.

No one can get you off. You killed Mary and you confessed to the police. The evidence is overwhelming. It was never a question of getting you off. We talked about that a lot, remember?"

"But if we went to trial . . ."

"You would be convicted and you might very well die."

Matthew held up a photograph of Mary Harding at her junior prom next to a full-face autopsy photograph of the girl.

"That's what the jury will see every minute of their deliberations. What do you think your sentence will be?"

Joel's lip quivered. His teenage bravado had disappeared.