After Dark

"I don't know. I should stay in town in case Matt needs me."

"Matt will survive without you for one day. Come on. There's a beautiful spot I want to show you a few miles from the cabin."

Barry held his hands out in front of him like a film director framing a shot.

"Picture this. We hike a mile or so through verdant woods and a field covered with wildflowers that create a riot of colors worthy of an artist's palette. Finally, weary, but at peace, we arrive at a rugged cliff overlooking a boiling ocean." Tracy laughed. "And then what?"

"We have a picnic lunch. I've got a terrific Merlot I've been saving for a special occasion. Whaddaya say?"

Tracy looked at the pile of work on her desk. Then she made some quick mental calculations.

"Okay, but I want to clear it with the boss."

"Tell him you're helping me investigate," Barry said. Then he was gone.

Tracy watched Barry walk away and smiled. He sure had a cute butt.

They'd run together a few times and it had been fun. So far Barry had been a perfect gentleman, which was fine, but Tracy had decided she liked him enough to take matters a little further herself, if he didn't make a move. A romantic picnic in a beautiful setting seemed an ideal time to get started.

Tracy knew she was going to enjoy the coast, no matter what happened between her and Barry. She tried to remember what fresh air and sunshine were like. She had not seen much of either since she started as Reynolds's associate. Not that she was complaining. Working for Matthew Reynolds was everything she thought it would be. Still, the coast would be a great change of scenery after being cooped up with law books all week.

There were two addresses listed in the file Reynolds had opened for Charlie Deems. The first was for the apartment where Deems lived when he was arrested for the Hollins murders. Deems never returned to it. He had been in the county jail or on death row until his conviction was reversed. The apartment was rented to someone else now and the landlord had no idea how to reach Deems.

The second address was in a run-down section of north Portland. Barry Frame peered out the passenger window into the fading daylight and tried to read the numbers on a bungalow that stood back from the street. A chain-link fence surrounded the bungalow. Its gray paint was peeling.

The yard had not been mown in weeks. One of the metal numbers on the front door was missing, but the other three numbers were right.

Barry opened the gate and walked up a slate path. Loud music blasted through the front door. Barry recognized grating guitars, rowdy drums and a sound that was closer to screaming than singing and quickly identified the group as another Pearl Jam knockoff. He rang the doorbell twice, then tried heavy pounding.

Someone turned down the volume and Barry knocked again.

"Stop that racket. I'm coming," a woman shouted.

The living-room curtains moved. Barry stepped away from the door and tried his best to look nonthreatening. A moment later, the front door was opened by a slender, barefoot blonde who was dressed in cutoffs and a bikini top. The shadows cast by the setting sun smoothed the lines hardship had etched into her features and for a moment Barry was fooled into thinking she was a teenager.

"Who are you?" the woman asked belligerently.

Barry held out his identification. "My name's Barry Frame.

I'm an investigator working with Matthew Reynolds. He's an attorney."

"So?"

"Are you Angela Quinn?"

"What's this about?" she asked, cocking her hip and leaning against the doorjamb. The pose was intended to distract him and it worked. Barry could not help noticing her long, smooth legs and the impression her nipples made on the fabric of the bikini top.

"We're trying to get in touch with Charlie Deems. Mr. Deems consulted with Mr. Reynolds a few years ago and he gave him this address and phone number for messages. Are you Angela?"

Barry saw fear flicker in Angela Quinn's blue eyes.

"I don't know where Charlie is," Angela said as she started to close the door.

"Wait. You were his girlfriend, right?"

"Look, mister, I'll make this simple. I dance at Jiggle's. Charlie used to hang out there and we were friends for a while. Then he killed that kid."

Angela shook her head, as if she still couldn't believe it.

"Charlie wrote me from death row. I'm a sucker. I wrote him back, once or twice, because the guy doesn't have anyone else and I never figured I'd see him again. My mistake. The first place he goes after they let him out is my house. I let him stay. But he's gone now, and I don't know where he is."

"If you dislike Deems so much, how come you let him stay?"

Angela laughed, but there was no humor in it.

"Mister, you must not know Charlie very well. You just don't say no to him." Angela shuddered. "The bastard stayed more than a month and that was a month too long. I hope I never see him again.

"Can you remember when Charlie left?"

"It was about two weeks ago."

"Do you remember hearing about a Supreme Court justice who was killed by a car bomb?"

Barry saw the fear again. "Why do you want to know?" Angela asked, suddenly suspicious.

"Mr. Reynolds, my boss, is representing the woman who's charged with killing the judge. Charlie is going to be a witness in the case and we want to talk to him about his testimony."

"I told you I don't know where he is."

"Did Charlie ever say anything about the judge's murder to you."

Angela looked like she was debating whether to talk to Barry.

"This is just between us," he said, giving her his most reassuring smile.

"Why should I believe that?"

Barry stopped smiling. "Look, Angela, I know how dangerous Deems is and I'm not going to put you in danger. I just want this as background. Did Charlie discuss Justice Griffen's murder with you?"

"No, he didn't say nothin' to me, but he was watching a story about it on the news when I was getting ready for work one night, and he seemed real interested. He even asked me if I had the paper, because he wanted to read about the killing. Now that I think about it, Charlie left right after that."

"And there hasn't been any contact since he left? He's never called?

You didn't have to send him any clothes? Stuff he left behind?"

"Nope. I have no idea where he is."

"Well, thanks. You've been a real help. Here's my card. If he does contact you, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know where I can find him."

"Yeah, sure," Angela said. The door closed and Barry wondered how long it would take for his business card to find its way into the trash.

Charlie Deems sat on the back porch of a farmhouse in Clackamas County smoking a cigarette and watching the grass sway back and forth. It was the most exciting thing that happened at the farm, but that was okay with Charlie. Two years of living in a cell the size of a broom closet, locked down twenty-three out of every twenty-four hours, had taught him how to deal with idle time.

Out past the high grass was a stand of cottonwoods. Past the cottonwoods were low rolling hills behind which the sun was starting to set. Charlie felt content. His plans were moving forward slowly, but steadily. He was living rent-free and, except for a steady diet of pizza and Big Macs, he didn't have much to complain about.

As soon as Charlie was released from the Oregon State Penitentiary, but before he contacted Raoul, he reestablished contact with people who worked for Otero. Raoul had changed some of his ways of doing business, but for the most part the cocaine flowed along the same river it was traveling when Deems was working the waterways. For instance, there was a certain rest stop on the interstate where trucks from Mexico stopped on their way to Seattle. While the drivers relieved themselves, shadowy figures relieved the drivers of a part of their cargo that never showed on the manifest, then faded into the night. This evening, one of his babysitters had told him that several arrests had been made at that rest stop and a large amount of cocaine had been confiscated. Charlie's steak dinner reflected the DA's appreciation.

Charlie took another drag on his cigarette. He smiled as he pictured the confusion Raoul would experience as each piece of his organization crumbled. Soon the cops would catch the fish who was more afraid of prison than Raoul. Someone would wear a wire and Raoul's own words would weave themselves into the rope that would hang him. Then the grand jury would start to meet. It would take a while, but Charlie could wait.

What he could not wait for was the day he would testify against Abigail Griffen. He wanted to look her in the eye as his testimony brought her down. For two years, the bitch had been at the center of every one of his sexual fantasies. If he had a dollar for every time he had raped or tortured her in his dreams, he would be living in a villa on the French Riviera. And while he would certainly enjoy a chance to visit with Ms.

Griffen personally, he felt greater satisfaction at the thought of Abbie pacing back and forth in the same concrete cell where he had spent interminable hours that crept by so slowly that sometimes he felt he could actually see the progress of each second.

Maybe Charlie would write to Abbie. He would send her postcards from faraway places to let her know that he was thinking of her always. He imagined Abbie's beauty fading, her dark skin turning pale from lack of sunlight, her body withering. But even more satisfying would be the destruction of the bitch's spirit. She, who was so proud, would weep interminably or stare with dead eyes at the never-changing scene outside her cell. The thought brought a smile to Charlie's lips.

He glanced at his watch and stood up. It was almost 7 P. M., time forJeopardy t, his favorite game show. He ground out his butt on the porch railing and flicked it into the grass. Free pizza, peace and quiet and all the games shows he could watch. Life was good.

Chapter EIGHTEEN

Tracy parked her car in front of the Griffen cabin shortly after ten on Sunday morning. She got out while Barry reached into the back seat to retrieve his camera. It was cool for early September and Tracy was glad she'd brought a sweatshirt.

"I'm going to have a look around," Barry said. "I've gone over the crime-scene photos the Seneca County deputies shot and I've read the police reports. I thought I'd retrace Mrs. Griffen's steps.

I doubt I'll find anything this long after the incident, but you never know."

"Go ahead. I'm going down to the beach."

Tracy saw the shed as soon as she rounded the corner of the cabin. It was tall and square and constructed from graying timber. The door was partly open. From where Tracy was standing, she could see a rake and a volleyball resting on a volleyball net, but no dynamite. She walked over and opened the door the whole way. There was an empty space that would have been big enough for a box of dynamite, but there was no box.

She saw some rusted gardening tools and a barbecue grill. Tracy repositioned the door as it had been. She put her hands in her pockets, hunched her shoulders against the bracing sea air and walked down the path.

A flight of wooden steps led from the top of the bluff to the beach.

Tracy sat down on the top step and let the wind play havoc with her long blond hair. High waves curled onto the beach, crashing against the sand with a sound that shut out the world.

Tracy scanned the beach slowly, focusing on the low dunes and the gulls cruising the blue-green water, and thought about Barry Frame.

It had been a while since she'd had anything that could be classified as a relationship, but it wasn't anything she regretted.

Tracy had decided long ago that being alone was preferable to being with someone she did not really care about. She missed sex sometimes, but having sex just to have sex never appealed to her.

Tracy wanted love, or at least affection, from a partner. What she really missed was intimacy. Of course, sex with the right guy could be pretty good, too.

Tracy liked Barry's openness, his casual independence and his easy humor. And she thought he enjoyed her company as much as she enjoyed his. She also thought he was damn good-looking.

Tracy had imagined what he would look like naked on more than one occasion. She also wondered what he would be like in bed and had a feeling she would enjoy finding out. "Look what I've got."

Tracy turned around. Barry was smiling and flipping the volleyball Tracy had seen in the shed from hand to hand.

"Are you finished?" she asked.

"All done."

"Find anything?"

"Except for a vial of exotic poison, a Chinese dagger and a series of hieroglyphics written in blood, I struck out. Let's go down to the beach."

Tracy stood up and they walked down the steps. When they reached the bottom, she ran ahead and Barry heaved the ball as if it was a football.

Tracy caught it easily and returned it with a fancy overhand spin serve.

"Whoa!" Barrysaid. "Very impressive. All you need are those weird shades and you're ready for ESPN."

"You can't grow up in California and not play beach volleyball."

"I love it here," Barry said, tossing the ball back to Tracy underhand.

"When I retire, I'm gonna get a house at the beach."

"If I had a beach house," Tracy said as she served the ball back to Barry, "I'd want it to be just like this place, so I could see the ocean. I'd have a huge picture window."

Barry tried an overhand serve but the ball sailed over Tracy's head and bounced toward the water. They both raced toward it.

"You know the best thing?" Barry asked as they met over the ball at the water's edge. Tracy shook her head.

"Storms." Barry bent down and picked up the volleyball.

"Have you ever watched a storm when the waves are monstrous and the rain comes down in sheets? It's incredible. When it's dark, you build yourself a fire and drink some wine and watch the whitecaps through the rain."

"I had no idea you were such a romantic," Tracy kidded.

Barry stopped smiling. "I can be under the right circumstances," he said softly.

Tracy looked at him, shielding her eyes because the sun was perched on his shoulder. Barry dropped the ball. Tracy was surprised, but pleased, when Barry took her in his arms and kissed her. His lips tasted salty and it felt good being held. She rested her head on his shoulder and he stroked her hair.

"Not a bad kiss for a lawyer," he murmured. "Of course, it could be beginner's luck."

"What makes you think I'm a beginner?" Tracy asked with a smile. Then she grabbed a handful of his hair, pulled Barry's head back, planted a wet kiss on his forehead and dumped him in the sand.

"That was just like a lawyer." Barry laughed as he pulled himself to his feet.

"Don't forget the volleyball."

Barry held it in one hand and draped his arm around Tracy's shoulder.

"You ready to visit one of the most beautiful spots on the planet?" he asked.

"Yup."

"Then let's go have our picnic. We'll hit the Overlook on the way back to Portland."

They climbed the stairs. Tracy liked the feel of his hip bumping against hers and the pressure of his arm across her shoulder.

Barry tossed the volleyball into the shed. Tracy saw it roll to a stop in the empty space as they headed for the car.

Barry's special place was everything he had promised and they had lazed around enjoying Barry's Merlot and each other's company until the setting sun reminded them that they still had work to do. Tracy drove fast along the winding mountain roads that traversed the Coast Range and they hit I-5 a little before six o'clock and started looking for the Overlook Motel.

"There it is," Barry said finally, pointing past the freeway exit.

Tracy took the off-ramp and drove down an access road for two hundred feet, then turned into the parking lot of the Overlook Motel. Sunset would save the Overlook's dignity by cloaking its shabby exterior in shadow, but by daylight it was a tired, fading, horseshoe-shaped failure with an empty pool and a courtyard of chipped concrete and peeling paint.

Tracy pulled up in front of the office. She took a close look at three bikers who were parking their Harleys in front of one of the rooms and locked her car. A heavyset woman in a flower-print muumuu was sitting behind the registration desk eating potato chips and watching a soap opera. She put down the chips and struggled to her feet when the office door opened.

"Hi," Tracy said as she took her business card out of her wallet and handed it across the counter. "I'm Tracy Cavanaugh.

I'm an attorney. This is Barry Frame, my investigator."

The woman read the card carefully, then studied Tracy through her thick-lensed glasses, as if she didn't believe Tracy could possibly be a lawyer. Tracy didn't blame her. She was wearing shades, her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was still dressed in the cutoffs and navy-blue tank top she had worn all day.

"We're working on a murder case and we'd like your help."

"What murder case?" the woman asked suspiciously.

"You may have seen it on TV, Mrs .... ?" Barry said.

"Hardesty. Annie Hardesty."

"... Mrs. Hardesty. It's the case where the judge was blown up in his car. We represent Abigail Griffen, his wife."

The woman's mouth opened. "You're kidding."

"No, ma'am."

"I've been following that case and I don't think she did it. A bomb isn't a woman's weapon."

"I wish you were on our jury," Tracy said with a smile.

"I was on jury duty once. The lawyers wouldn't let me sit on any of the cases, though."

Barry nodded sympathetically. "Isn't that the way it always goes. Mrs.

Hardesty, can you spare a few minutes to talk to us?"

"Sure."

"You're not too busy?" Tracy asked.

"No, it's slow on Sundays. What can I do for you, honey?"

"We'd like to see your guest register for May third of this year."

"I don't know if Mr. Boyle would like that."

"Well, we could subpoena it, but then Mr. Boyle would be the witness."

"You mean I might have to testify in court?" Mrs. Hardesty asked excitedly.

"If you're the one who shows us the register."

Mrs. Hardesty thought for a moment, then bent down behind the desk and came up with the register. Tracy opened the ledger to May and scanned the entries for May 3, the day Abigail Griffen said she had confronted Justice Griffen at the motel. Seven people had checked into the motel that day. She took out a pen and copied the names. Craig McGowan, Roberto Sanchez, Arthur Knowland, Henrietta Rainey, Louis Glass, Chester Walton and Mary Jane Simmons.

"If Justice Griffen checked into the Overlook, he didn't do it under his own name," she said.

"I wasn't expecting him to," Barry said, laying a brochure about the Supreme Court on the counter. There were pictures of all the justices in it.

"Does anyone look familiar to you, Mrs. Hardesty?" Barry asked. The woman studied the pictures intently. Then she put her finger on Justice Griffen's picture. "I've seen him a few times, but I can't say when. Is that the judge who was killed?"

"Yes, ma'am," Barry said as he started to pick up the brochure.

Mrs. Hardesty stopped him. Then she put her finger on the picture of Mary Kelly.

"Is that the wife?"

"No. Why?"

"She was with him one of the times he came here."

"Tracy," Mary Kelly said with surprise when she opened the door to her condominium. Even wearing reading glasses and without makeup, the judge was an impressive-looking woman, and Tracy could see why Justice Griffen would have been interested in her.

"I'm sorry to bother you so late, Justice Kelly. This is Barry Frame.

He's Matthew Reynolds's investigator."

The judge studied Barry for a moment, then invited the couple in. The condominium had a high ceiling and a view of the Willamette. Her taste was modern and there was a lot of glass and designer furniture in the living room. A cigarette was smoking in an ashtray that balanced on the arm of a deep alabaster armchair.

A biography of Louis Brandeis was open on the seat where Justice Kelly had left it when she answered the door.

"How's your new job?" Kelly asked. Tracy had the impression that the judge was asking the question to forestall her own.

"It's a lot of work, but it's exciting, most of the time. Sometimes, though, it's not so much fun."

Tracy paused. During her year at the court, she had come to respect Justice Kelly and she felt very uncomfortable about questioning her, especially about her private life.

"I've been following Abigail Griffen's case in the papers," Kelly said.

"How is it going?"

"We've just come from the Overlook Motel," Tracy answered, her voice catching slightly.

"I see," Kelly said, growing suddenly thoughtful.

"The desk clerk identified your picture and Justice Griffen's."

Justice Kelly took a moment to think about that. Then she said, "You two look too healthy to smoke. Do you want a drink?"

"No, thanks," they answered.

"Sit down." She placed the book on the floor, sat in the armchair and took a drag on her cigarette. "I was hoping to avoid talking about Robert and me, but it looks like the cat's out of the bag. What do you want to know, Tracy?"

"Were you having an affair with Justice Griffen?"

Kelly laughed self-consciously. "An affair sounds a little too formal for what we were doing."

Kelly suddenly sobered. She looked very tired.

"Poor Robert." She shook her head. "I just can't imagine him dying like that."

Kelly took a long drag on her cigarette and stared out the window. Tracy waited respectfully for the judge to continue. After a moment, Kelly looked up. Then she stubbed out her cigarette.

"Look, I'll make this simple," she told Tracy quietly. "My husband and I are separated. The whole thing is very amicable.

I'm going to file for divorce as soon as I'm certain I have no opposition in next year's election. If my relationship with Robert makes the papers, the bad publicity could give someone the courage to run against me. If possible, I would appreciate it if you didn't go public about us. I doubt it has anything to do with Robert's murder anyway."

"We have no interest in hurting you," Tracy said, "but I'll have to tell Mr. Reynolds. It's his decision."

"I guess I'll have to live with that."

"How did you two get together?" Barry asked.

"My problems at home were fairly obvious to an astute observer of human nature, like Robert. He was having his own problems with the ice princess. Since we had a problem in common, it was natural for us to talk. One thing led to another. Both of us were consenting adults.

Neither one of us took the sex that seriously."

"How long did it go on?"

"Two years, off and on. It wasn't a regular thing."

"Why the Overlook?" Barry asked.

Kelly chuckled. "Good question." She lit another cigarette. "It certainly wasn't the ambience."

Justice Kelly laughed nervously again, then took a drag.

"Robert and I are public figures. We needed an out-of-the-way place where we wouldn't be seen by anyone we knew. None of our friends would be caught dead at the Overlook."

"Did you meet Justice Griffen there on May third?"

'/Yes."

"Someone called Mrs. Griffen anonymously and told her Justice Griffen would be at the Overlook that day."

"Robert told me about that. I gather Little Miss Perfect was pissed.

She must have missed me by a minute or so. Robert, always the gentleman, assured me he didn't tellthe little woman who I was."

"You don't seem to like Mrs. Griffen," Barry said.

Kelly drew in some smoke. She looked thoughtful.

"I guess I'm not being fair, since I only met Abbie a few times.

I'm really echoing what Robert told me. Though Abbie did live up to her advance billing on the occasions we met." How so?"

"Have you ever tried talking to her? To say she was a bit chilly would be generous." Kelly laughed again. "I guess I shouldn't throw stones.

I've heard that I had a nasty reputation when I was practicing with my firm. It was just tough to get the time of day from her."

"Maybe she suspected you were sleeping with her husband,"

Tracy said, shifting uncomfortably when she realized that the statement, which she had not intended to be a reproach, could be interpreted as one.

Kelly stared at her for a second.

"That would explain it," she answered bluntly.

"What did Justice Griffen say about his relationship with Mrs. Griffen?"

Barry asked.

"He told me his wife was all work and no play, and barely tolerated sex.

That would be tough for someone like Robert."

"Who do you think tipped off Mrs. Griffen to your meeting at the Overlook on May third?" Barry asked.

"Probably someone he was sleeping with who was jealous."

"Was there someone else?"

"I always assumed so. Robert was a rabbit where women are concerned."

The statement shocked Tracy, but she concealed her surprise.

She found it hard to reconcile her image of Justice Griffen with the blatant womanizer Justice Kelly and Abbie Griffen believed him to be.

"Do you have any idea who the other woman is?" Barry asked.

"No."

"Do you have any idea who killed him?" Tracy asked.

Kelly crushed out her cigarette. Tracy thought she was debating whether to give her opinion. Then Kelly shrugged her shoulders and said, "Abbie, of course. She's the first person I thought of when I heard Robert had been murdered."

Chapter NINETEEN

Bob Packard did not look well. He seemed jittery. His complexion was pasty and his skin was slack, as if he'd lost weight rapidly.

Tracy wondered if Charlie Deems's lawyer had been ill recently.

"Thanks for seeing me," she said as she took a seat in his office.

"No problem. What can I do for you?"

"I'm an associate of Matthew Reynolds. Mr. Reynolds is representing Abigail Griffen, who has been accused of killing Oregon Supreme Court Justice Robert Griffen."

"Of course. I read about that in the paper. Boy, that was awful. You know, I won a case in the Supreme Court a few months ago and he wrote the opinion."

"That's why I wanted to see you. Mr. Reynolds would like to borrow the transcript in the Deems case."

Packard looked uncomfortable. He shifted nervously in his chair.

"If you don't mind my asking, why do you need the transcript?"

"Charlie Deems is the key witness against Abigail Griffen."

Packard's jaw dropped and he looked at Tracy as if he was waiting for a punch line. When none came, Packard said, "This is a joke, right?"

"Mr. Deems claims Mrs. Griffen hired him to murder her husband."

Packard remembered worrying that Deems might try to harm Abigail Griffen. He'd been thinking about violence, but framing Griffen for murder was diabolical.

"The DA is buying Charlie's story?" Packard asked incredulously.

"He seems to be."

"Well, if it was me, I'd be looking at Charlie long before I'd peg Abbie Griffen as a suspect."

"Do you have any specific reason for suspecting Deems?"

"Are you kidding? Blowing people up is Charlie's thing, and he has plenty of reason to frame Griffen. She made putting Charlie on death row a personal crusade."

"Mr. Reynolds thinks Deems is framing Mrs. Griffen, too.

We're going after Deems and he thought there might be something useful in the transcript. Especially the penalty-phase testimony."

"I'd be careful about going after Charlie if I were you."

"Why's that?"

Packard remembered playing The Price Is Right and his stomach turned. He had been off cocaine, cold turkey, since Deems's visit, but he wished he had some snow right now.

Packard was quiet for so long, Tracy wondered if he had heard the question. Finally he said, "If I tell you something, will you swear not to say where you heard it?"

"That depends. Our first loyalty is to our client."

"Yeah, well, I have to think of myself. I don't want it getting back to Charlie that I talked to anyone about this. I've got him out of my life now, and I don't want him back in."

Packard was fidgeting in his chair and Tracy noticed beads of sweat on his upper lip. She was surprised at how nervous he was.

"It isn't anything concrete anyway," Packard went on. "Not like a confession. It's just something you should know about Deems. I don't want to see anyone get hurt."

"Okay. Go ahead," Tracy said, curious to find out what Deems had done to scare Packard so much.

"Charlie Deems is crazy. I mean really crazy. He thinks he can do anything and nothing will happen to him. And the funny thing is, he's right. I mean, look at what happened with the case I handled. He tortures this guy Shoe, then he kills Hollins and his kid. The jury says death, but he walks away."

"Most criminals don't think they'll get caught."

"You don't understand. How do I say this?"

Tracy waited patiently while Packard searched for the words to explain why Charlie Deems terrified him.

"Charlie not only believes he can break the law with impunity, he believes he's impervious to any kind of harm."

"I'm not following you."

"He doesn't think he can be killed. He thinks he's immortal."

Tracy's mouth opened. Then she laughed out loud.

"It's not funny," Packard said.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I understand you. Are you saying that Deems thinks nothing would happen if I shot him?"

"That's exactly what I mean."

"Oh, come on."

"I visited Charlie at the penitentiary when I was handling his appeal.

At some point, we got to talking aboutwhat steps he should take if he lost in the Oregon Supreme Court. I noticed he wasn't paying attention, so I tried to shock him into listening by talking about his death sentence. Charlie just smiled. He told me he wasn't worried about dying because he has an angel who protects him."

"An angel?" Tracy asked, thinking she had not heard Packard correctly.

"That's right. An angel. At first I thought he was kidding. I told him that with the stuff he'd done, the last thing he had was an angel.

But he was dead serious. He said his angel is a dark angel. Then he told me this story.

"When Deems was in his late teens there was this woman he was screwing.

An older woman. Maybe thirty-five. She was the wife of Ray Weiss, who was doing time for murder. Weiss was paroled. When he got home he beat up his wife because he heard she was cheating on him. She named Charlie as the guy.

"The wife had kept Weiss's handgun and ammunition in the house all those years. As soon as Weiss got the name, he loaded the gun and went looking for Charlie. He found him sitting on his front stoop. Weiss pulled the gun and accused Charlie of fucking his wife. Charlie denied everything. Weiss called Charlie a liar.

Then he shot him. Charlie told me he was sure he was a dead man. The bullet hit him right in the chest. But the thing is, it bounced off."

"It what?"

"The bullet bounced off Charlie's chest, just like in the Superman comics."

"But how . . . ?"

"I asked a ballistics expert about the story. He said it was possible.

The bullets had been sitting around all that time. Ten years. The powder could have gotten damp or oil might have seeped into it. Whatever the reason, Weiss was in shock. He fired again and the same thing happened. Charlie said Weiss's eyes bugged out of his head. Then he threw the gun at Charlie and took off running.

"Now, here's the scary part. Charlie told me that when the first bullet hit him, he saw the dark angel. She was dressed in a black gown that went from her neck to her feet. She was wearing sandals. He remembered that. And she had wings. Beautiful wings, like the wings of a dove, only huge and black. The angel loomed over Charlie with her wings spread out. When the bullet struck him, he saw a flash of light and the angel said, 'I'll protect you, Charlie."

"From that minute on, Charlie Deems has believed that he can do anything he wants and nothing can hurt him. That means he can't be scared off and he can't be stopped, once he sets his mind to something."

The story was so bizarre that Tracy didn't know what to say.

How did you deal with someone who thought he was immortal?

"Tell Reynolds to tread very carefully where Charlie Deems is concerned," Packard warned her.

"I will."

"Good. Now, I'll get you those transcripts."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me. I'm all too glad to get rid of anything that reminds me of Charlie Deems."

Matthew Reynolds watched the light blinking on his personal phone line.

All calls to the office were handled by an answering service after the receptionist left, but the personal line bypassed the service. Few people knew his private number, but he had given it to Abbie.

Matthew picked up the receiver, hoping it was Abbie. He had not seen her for two days, but she had never left his thoughts.

"Matt?"

"Yes."

Matthew's heart raced.

"I remembered something. I don't know if it will help."

"Tell me."

"I shot a roll of film the day I was attacked at the coast. I forgot all about it in the excitement. When Jack drove me back to Portland, he packed up the car. He must have put my camera in the trunk. Then he brought my things in when we got to the rental house in Meadowbrook.

Your investigator must have brought the camera when he moved my belongings here. I just found it. The film is in the camera. I think I took some shots behind the cabin. There might be a shot of the shed where the dynamite was stored."

"Barry was at the cabin on Sunday. He looked in the shed and there was no dynamite. If we had an earlier picture of the shed . . ."

Matthew thought for a moment. "What make is the camera?"

"It's a Pentax 105-R."

"That could be a break. The Pentax date-stamps the negatives. That will prove the date the pictures were taken. If there is something useful on the film, Geddes won't be able to argue that the pictures were taken at a later date."

"What should I do?"

"Don't do anything. Leave the film in the camera. I'm going to send Tracy Cavanaugh to pick it up. I'll want the camera, too."

"Couldn't you come?" Abbie asked.

"I can't tonight."

"Oh."

Matthew could hear the disappointment in her voice and could not help smiling.

"I'm sorry. I'm handling an appeal in Texas. The man is on death row.

The brief is due in two days."

"You don't have to explain, Matt. I know you have other people who depend on you. It's just that . . ."

"Yes."

"Oh, I was feeling sorry for myself. You cheer me up, that's all."

"Good. That's the part of my job I like the best."

Abbie laughed. "Will I see you soon? I'm getting a little stir crazy."

"I promise. As soon as this brief is done."

Tracy brought the transcripts and a takeout order of kung pao chicken to the office as soon as she left Bob Packard. Deems's trial had lasted several weeks, so the transcript was twenty-nine volumes long. She was reading Volume III when Matthew Reynolds said, "I'm glad you're still here."

Tracy looked up from the transcript and saw Reynolds and the time simultaneously. It was 8:15. How had that happened? She was certain she had started reading at 5:30. Where had the hours gone?

"Mrs. Griffen just phoned me. We could be in luck. She shot a roll of film at the coast the day she was attacked. In the excitement, she forgot about it. I want you to drive to her home and get the camera and the film. Bring the film to a commercial developer first thing in the morning. I want a receipt showing the date the film was delivered for processing. Then bring me the camera."

"I'll go right now."

Reynolds turned to leave.

"Mr. Reynolds."

Matthew paused.

"These are the transcripts from Deems's trial."

"Ah. Good. I want a synopsis of everything you think will be of use.

Make certain you give me cites to the pages in the transcript, so I can find the information quickly."

"I'm working on it now," Tracy said, holding up a yellow pad to show Reynolds her notes. "Oh, and there's something Bob Packard thought you should know."

Tracy told Reynolds about Charlie Deems's dark angel. As she talked, she watched Reynolds's face show surprise, disbelief and, finally, a look of amused satisfaction. She expected him to ask her questions about Packard or Deems when she was done, but all he said was "That's very interesting, Tracy. Excellent work."

When Reynolds was gone, Tracy shook her head. She could never tell what her boss was thinking and he rarely expressed his thoughts. He acted like an all-wise and all-knowing Buddha who silently weighed the worth of what he heard but never let on what he was thinking until it was absolutely necessary.

During the pretrial motion to suppress evidence in the Livingstone case in Atlanta, Tracy was unaware of the direction his cross-examination was taking until the moment before Reynolds sprang his trap. Tracy had been very impressed by Reynolds's technique, but she had also been a little upset that he had not confided to her what he was planning.

When Tracy clerked for Justice Sherzer there were never any secrets between them and she felt as if she was part of a team.

Reynolds worked alone and at times made her feel like a piece of office equipment. Still, the opportunity to work with a genius like Reynolds was adequate compensation for her bruised feelings.

As she drove along the dark highway toward the Griffen place, Tracy realized that her feelings about Abigail and Robert Griffen had changed since her talk with Justice Kelly. The judge had cheated on his wife and to Tracy that was indefensible. She was also upset with herself for being so quick to conclude that Abigail was lying about her husband simply because she liked the judge.

On the other hand, Tracy had been around Mrs. Griffen enough to concur in Mary Kelly's opinion that Griffen was a cold, calculating woman who could easily have been frigid enough to drive Justice Griffen into the arms of other women. And the fact that the judge had been cheating gave Abigail Griffen a powerful motive for murder.

The Griffens' driveway had been resurfaced as soon as the police removed the crime-scene tapes, but here and there, on the edges, Tracy's headlight beams picked out burn marks and scarred asphalt. When she parked, Tracy saw Abigail Griffen standing in the doorway. Abbie was smiling, but the smile looked forced. Tracy wondered how long Mrs.

Griffen had been waiting for her near the front door. "It's Tracy, right?"

Tracy nodded. "Mr. Reynolds sent me for the film and the camera."

Tracy expected Abbie to be holding them, but her hands were empty. She did not see the camera on the hall table.

"Come in," Abbie said. "They're upstairs. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"No, thanks. It's a little late."

The smile left Abbie's lips for a moment. "Oh, come on. I was going to pour myself a cup when you drove up."

Tracy was going to decline again, but Mrs. Griffen sounded a little desperate.

"Okay. Sure."

There were two settings on the kitchen table. Tracy realized that Abbie had been counting on her to stay. Tracy sat down. She felt uncomfortable. Abbie carried over the coffeepot.

"Do you take milk or sugar?"

"Black is fine."

Abbie filled Tracy's cup. "How long have you worked for Matt?" she asked nervously, like a blind date fishing for a way to start a conversation. Tracy got the feeling that making small talk was not one of Abbie's strengths.

"Not long," Tracy answered tersely, unwilling to have their relationship be anything more than a professional one while she still harbored doubts about Abbie.

"You clerked for Alice Sherzer, didn't you?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

Abbie smiled. "You looked familiar. I visited Robert at the court occasionally. He may have pointed you out. Did you enjoy your clerkship?"

"Yes. Justice Sherzer is a remarkable woman."

Abbie sipped at her coffee. Tracy sipped at hers. The silence grew.

Tracy shifted in her seat.

"Are you working with Matt on my case?"

"I'm reviewing the evidence to see if we've got any good legal motions."

"And what have you concluded?"

Tracy hesitated. She wasn't sure that Reynolds would want her to answer the question, but Abigail Griffen was no ordinary client. She was also a brilliant attorney. And Tracy was relieved to be freed from making small talk.

"I haven't reached a final decision, but I don't think we're going to win this case on a legal technicality. Do you have any ideas for a pretrial motion?"

Abbie shook her head. "I've thought about it, but I don't see anything either. What's it like working for Matt?"

"I like it," Tracy answered guardedly, not willing to discuss her boss with Griffen.

"He seems like such a strange man," Abbie said. When Tracy didn't respond, she asked, "Is he as passionate about all his cases as he is about mine?"

"He's very dedicated to his clients," Tracy answered in a neutral tone.

Abbie's eyes lost focus for a moment. Tracy waited uncomfortably for the conversation to resume.

"He used to watch my trials. Did you know that?"

There was no rhythm to their discussion and the statement fell into the conversation like a heavy object. Tracy remembered seeing Reynolds at the Marie Harwood trial, but she wasn't certain where Mrs. Griffen was going, so she didn't respond. Abbie went on as if she had not expected a response.

"I saw him more than once in the back of the courtroom, watching me. He would sit for a while, then leave. I don't think he realized that I'd seen him."

Abbie looked directly at Tracy when she said this. Tracy felt compelled to say something.

"What do you think he was doing there?"

Abbie warmed her hands on her cup. Instead of answering Tracy's question, she changed the subject.

"Does Matt like me?"

"What?" , The question made Tracy very uncomfortable.

"Has he said anything . . . ?" She paused and looked across the table at Tracy. "Do you think he likes me?"

All of a sudden, Abigail Griffen seemed terribly vulnerable to Tracy.

"I think he believes you," she replied, warming to Abbie a little.

"Yes. He does," Abbie said, more to herself than to Tracy.

Tracy was surprised to find herself feeling sorry for Abbie. She had thought a lot about her as a defendant, but she suddenly saw her as a person and she wondered what it must be like to be confined, even if the prison was as luxurious as the Griffen house. Mary Kelly had portrayed Abbie as an ice princess, but she did not seem very tough now.

Tracy suddenly realized how sad it was that Mrs. Griffen had looked forward to her visit and she reevaluated her earlier opinion that Abbie was coming on to Reynolds to blind him to her possible guilt. Abbie was totally alone and Matthew was one of her few links to the outside world.

Tracy had read about hostages in the Middle East and kidnap victims, like Patty Hearst, who became dependent on their kidnappers and developed a bond with them.

The condition even had a name, the Stockholm syndrome. Maybe Abbie's enforced isolation was making her dependent on Reynolds and that was why she appeared to be playing up to him.

"Are you getting along okay?" Tracy asked.

"I'm lonely. I'm also bored to death. I tried to convince myself that this would be like a vacation, but it's not. I read a lot, but you can't read all day. I even tried daytime television." Abbie laughed.

"I'll know I'm completely desperate when I start following the soaps."

"The trial will start soon. Mr. Reynolds will win and your life will go back to normal."

"I'd like to think that, but I doubt my life will ever be normal again, even if Matt wins." Abbie stood up. "I'll get you the camera."

When Abbie went upstairs, Tracy waited in the entryway.

Abbie returned with a camera case. She handed it to Tracy.

"Thank you for having the cup of coffee. I know you didn't want to."

"No, I . . ."

"It's okay. I was hungry for company. Thanks for putting up with me."

They shook hands and Tracy took the camera. As she pulled out of the driveway, she glanced back at the house. Mrs. Griffen was watching her from the front door.

2313 Lee Terrace was a single-story brown ranch-style house with a well-tended yard in a pleasant middle-class neighborhood.

A nondescript light blue Chevy and an equally nondescript maroon Ford were parked in the driveway. As the officers assigned to raid the house drew closer to it, they could hear the muted sounds of music.

Inside the living room of the house, three young women sat in front of a low coffee table talking and laughing while they worked. In the center of the table was a large plate piled high with cocaine. The woman on the end of the couch closest to the front door picked up a small plastic bag from a pile and filled the bag with cocaine. The next woman folded over the Baggie, then used a Bic lighter to seal it. The third put the sealed Baggie in a cooking pot that was close to overflowing with packaged dreams.

Two men in sleeveless tee shirts lounged in chairs, smoking and watching MTV. One man cradled an Uzi. A MAC-10 submachine gun was lying next to the second man's chair within easy reach. Two other men with automatic weapons were in the kitchen playing cards and guarding the back of the house.

Bobby Cruz watched the women work. He was doing his job, which was to protect Raoul Otero's product. From his position he would see if one Of the women tried to slip a Baggie down her blouse or up her skirt. Cruz knew that the women were too frightened of him to steal, but he hoped they would anyway, because Raoul permitted him to personally punish the offender.

"Julio," Cruz said. One of the men watching TV turned around. "I'm going to pee."

Julio picked up the MAC-10 and took Cruz's post against the wall. Cruz knew that Julio would not be tempted to look the other way by a glimpse of breast or thigh and a promise of future delights. Once upon a time, Cruz had forced Julio to assist him while he interrogated a street dealer Raoul suspected of being a police informant. Ever since, Julio had been as frightened of Cruz as the women were.

As Cruz walked down the hall toward the bathroom, the front and back doors exploded.

"Police! Freeze!" echoed through the house. Cruz heard the women scream. One of them burst down the hall behind him as he ducked into the bedroom. There were more screams in the front room and shots from the kitchen. Someone was shrieking in Spanish. An Anglo was bellowing that he'd been hit. Cruz calmly ran through his possible courses of action.

"Put 'em down," someone yelled in the living room. Cruz opened the clothes closet and moved behind the clothes hangers.

The closet was crowded with dresses because two of the women who were packaging the cocaine lived here. Cruz pressed himself into a corner of the closet and waited. The odds were that someone would search the closet. If it was his fate to be arrested, he would go peacefully and let Raoul fix things later. But he would try to cheat fate if that was at all possible.

There were heavy footfalls in the bedroom. He heard the voices of two men. The closet door opened. Cruz could see a man in a baseball cap and a blue jacket through a break in the dresses.

He knew these jackets. They were worn on raids, and POLICE was stenciled on the back in bold yellow letters.

"Sanchez, get in here," someone called from the hall. "This asshole claims he doesn't habla inglds."

The man at the closet door turned his head to watch Sanchez leave. When he turned back, Bobby Cruz stepped through the curtain of dresses and calmly stuck his knife through the officer's voice box. The policeman's eyes widened in shock. His hands flew to his throat. He tried to speak, but he could only gurgle as blood and spittle dripped out of his mouth. Cruz pulled the policeman through the dresses and laid his body on the floor. He was still twitching when Cruz worked off his jacket, but he was dead by the time Cruz adjusted the baseball cap and slipped out of the bedroom into the hall.

A policeman rushed by Cruz without seeing him. Cruz followed the man into the kitchen. Two men lay on the floor, their hands cuffed behind them. They were surrounded by police. A wounded officer was moaning near the sink and several men huddled around him. A medic rushed through the back door into the kitchen. Cruz stepped aside to let him in, then drifted into the backyard and faded into the night.

Two houses down, Cruz cut through the backyard, dropping the police jacket and cap. Then he headed toward a bar that he knew had a phone.

In the three years Raoul had been using 2313 Lee Terrace they had never had any problems. The people at the house were all family or trusted employees and they were all extremely well paid. They might cop some cocaine, but they would never go to the police. But someone had, and whoever it was knew a lot about Raoul's operation if he knew about Lee Terrace.

Chapter TWENTY

Matthew Reynolds chose five o'clock on the Friday before the trial to review the questions he would ask during jury selection.

Tracy knew better than to complain. With the trial so close, all hours were working hours.

Reynolds was explaining his system for questioning jurors about their views on the death penalty when his secretary buzzed to tell him that Dennis Haggard was in the reception area. "Do you want me to leave?"

Tracy asked.

"No. I definitely want you to stay. This could be very interesting."

Dennis Haggard was balding, overweight and unintimidating.

He was also Jack Stamm's chief criminal deputy and an excellent trial attorney. Reynolds walked over to Haggard as soon as the secretary showed him in.

"Don't you ever quit?" Haggard asked as he looked at the files, charts and police reports strewn around Matthew's office.

Matthew smiled and pointed to his associate. "Do you know Tracy Cavanaugh?"

"I don't think we've met."

"She just started with me. Before that, she clerked for Justice Sherzer."

As Haggard and Tracy shook hands, Haggard said, "The Department of Labor takes complaints. If he works you more than seventy-six hours straight, there's a grievance procedure."

Tracy laughed. "I'm afraid we're way past seventy-six hours, Mr.

Haggard."

Reynolds seated himself behind his desk. Tracy took a stack of files off the other client chair so Haggard could sit on it.

"What brings you here, Dennis?" Reynolds asked.

"I've come because Chuck Geddes wouldn't."

"Oh?"

"He's still mad about the bail decision and this put him through the roof."

"And 'this' is?"

"A plea offer, Matt. Geddes wouldn't consider it, but the AG insisted.

Then Geddes said he'd quit rather than make the offer, so everyone agreed I would carry it over."

"I see. And what is the offer?"

"We drop the aggravated-murder charge. There's no death penalty and no thirty-year minimum. Abbie pleads to regular murder with a ten-year minimum sentence. It's the best we can do, Matt. No one wants to see Abbie on death row or in prison for life. Christ, I can't even believe we're having this conversation.

But we wanted to give her the chance. If she's guilty, it's a very good offer."

Reynolds leaned back and clasped his hands under his chin.

"Yes, it is. If Mrs. Griffen is guilty. But she's not, Dennis."

"Can I take it that you're rejecting the offer?"

"You know I can't do that without talking to Mrs. Griffen."

Haggard handed Matthew a business card. "My home number is on the back.

Call me as soon as you talk to Abbie. The offer is only good for forty-eight hours. If we don't hear by Sunday, Geddes takes the case to trial."

Haggard let himself out. Reynolds turned back to his notes on jury selection. When he looked up, Tracy was staring at him.

"What's wrong?"

Tracy shook her head.

"If you're concerned about something, I want to know."

"You're going to advise Mrs. Griffen to reject the offer, aren't you?"

"Of course."

Tracy frowned.

"Say what's on your mind, Tracy."

"I'm just . . . That was a good offer."

Reynolds cocked his head to one side and studied his associate like a professor conducting an oral examination.

"You think I should advise Mrs. Griffen to accept it?"

"I don't think you should reject it out of hand. I can't help remembering what you told me in Atlanta."

"And what was that?"

"When I asked you why you accepted the plea bargain for Joel Livingstone, you said that the objective in every death penalty case was to save our client's life, not to get a not-guilty verdict."

Reynolds smiled. "I'm pleased to see you've learned that lesson."

"Then why won't you advise Mrs. Griffen to take this offer?"

"That's simple. Joel Livingstone murdered Mary Harding.

There was no question of his guilt. Abigail Griffen is innocent of the murder of Robert Griffen. I have never advised an innocent person to plead guilty."

"How can you know she's innocent?"

"She's told me she's innocent and until she tells me otherwise, I will continue to believe in her innocence."

Tracy took a deep breath. She was afraid to ask the next question and afraid not to.

"Mr. Reynolds, please don't take offense at what I'm going to say. I respect your opinion and I respect you very much, but I'm concerned that we're making a mistake in not recommending this plea."

Tracy paused. Reynolds watched her with icy detachment.

"Go ahead," Reynolds said, and Tracy noticed all the warmth was gone from his voice.

"I can't think of another way to put this. Do you think it's possible that you're being influenced by your personal feelings toward Mrs.

Griffen?"

Reynolds colored angrily. Tracy wondered if she had overstepped her bounds. Then Reynolds regained his composure and looked down at the jury selection questions.

"No, Tracy," he said, his calm restored. "I am not being influenced by personal feelings. And while I appreciate your concern, I think we've spent too much time on this matter. Let's get back to work."

The days and nights were endless. Minutes seemed like hours.

Abbie never expected it to be this way. She prided herself on being able to live alone. When she lost her parents, she built a shell around herself to keep out the horror of loneliness. Then she survived the death of her lover, Larry Ross. When her aunt passed on, she pulled inside the shell once more and she had been able to walk out on Robert Griffen without a backward glance, because she needed no one but herself. But now, trapped in the house, virtually helpless and almost totally deprived of human contact, her shell was cracking.

Even the weather was conspiring against her. The sunny days of summer had given way to the chill of fall and it was often too cool to sit outdoors. She would have given anything to take a walk, but the bracelet on her wrist was a constant reminder that even such simple pleasures were forbidden to her.

On Friday night, the weather was balmy. A last-gasp attempt by nature to fight off the cruel and depressing rains that were sure to come.

Abbie sat on the patio, close to her invisible electronic wall, and watched the sunset. A large glass of scotch rested on the table at her elbow. She was drinking more than she wanted to, but liquor helped her sleep without dreams.

A flock of birds broke free from the trees at the edge of her property and soared into the dying light in a black and noisy cloud. Abbie envied them. Her spirit was weighted down by the gravity of her situation and confined to a narrow, airless place in her breast. Even Matthew's boundless confidence could not give it wings.

The sound of tires on gravel made Abbie's heart race, as it did whenever there was any break in the monotony of her routine.

She left the glass of scotch on the table and hurried to the front door.

She smiled when she saw that it was Matthew. He had been so good to her, visiting almost every day on the pretext that he was working on her case, when she knew that most of what they discussed could have been covered in a short phone call.

"How are you?" Matthew asked, as he always did.

"I was on the patio, enjoying the weather."

"May I join you?"

"Of course. A drink?"

"No, thanks."

They walked through the living room in silence, then stood side by side on the patio for a moment without speaking.

"Are you ready for trial?" Matthew asked.

"I should be asking you that."

Matthew smiled. Abbie was pleased to see that he was not as stiff around her as he had been when they first met.

"Actually," she said, "I can't wait. I would endure anything to get out of here."

"I can't imagine how hard it's been for you."

Abbie turned toward Matthew. She felt she could say anything to him.

"It hasn't been hard, Matt, it's been hell. Do you know what the worst part is? The absence of phone calls. Except for you and the electronic surveillance monitors, my phone never rings. Before the indictment, I had my work to occupy me. I guess it kept me from realizing how alone I've been. I think you may be the last person left who cares about me."

"The people who have deserted you aren't worthy of your friendship,"

Matthew said. "Don't waste your time worrying about them."

Abbie took his hand. "You've been more than my attorney, Matt. You've been my friend and I'll never forget that."

Matthew needed all of his courtroom skills to keep from showing how happy her simple words had made him.

"I'm glad you think of me that way," he said as calmly as he could.

Abbie squeezed his hand, then let it go. "Why did you come out?"

"Business. Dennis Haggard visited me. He made a plea offer . . .

"No," Abbie said firmly.

"I have an ethical obligation to communicate the offer.

They'll take a plea to murder. Life with a ten-year minimum sentence.

There would be no possibility of a death sentence."

"I'm innocent. I will not plead guilty to a crime I did not commit."

Matthew smiled. "Good. That's what I hoped you'd say."

"You're that certain you'll win?"

"I'm positive."

"I'm scared, Matt. I keep thinking about what will happen if we lose. I used to think I could take anything, but I can't. If I have to go to jail . . ."

Abbie looked as frightened and vulnerable as a child. Matthew hesitated for a second, then put his arms around her. Abbie collapsed into him, letting go completely. Matthew wished he could make time stop, so he would never have to let her go.

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

Matthew Reynolds was right. While working on State of Oregon v. Abigail Griffen, Tracy did not have time to run or rock-climb or eat right, and she sure wasn't sleeping right. But she didn't care.

Trying a death penalty case was more exhilarating than anything she had ever done.

All her life Tracy had been fiercely competitive. That was why she had turned down jobs at several corporate law firms, which offered more money, to work for Matthew Reynolds. Criminal law provided the biggest challenge. There were no higher stakes than life or death. She played for those stakes occasionally when she climbed, but the life that was at risk was her own. It surprised her how much more difficult it was when the life in the balance was someone else's and that person was totally helpless and dependent on her skills.

When Reynolds spoke about the lawyers who visited their clients after dark during her interview, Tracy felt an electric current passing through her. Reynolds had never faced the ultimate failure of watching a client die, and she vowed that it would never happen to her.

Matthew had put her in charge of the legal research so he could concentrate on the facts of the case. This was tremendously flattering because Reynolds was known nationally for his innovative legal thinking.

But it also meant working in the library from morning to night, learning everything there was to know about the specialized area of death penalty law, as well as the legal issues that were specific to Abbie's case.

Tracy's head was so crammed with information that she was waking up at odd hours with ideas that had to be jotted down. When the alarm startled her out of bed each morning, she was groggy, but an adrenaline high kicked in and carried her through days that passed in a flash.

Once the trial started, Tracy set her alarm even earlier so she could meet Reynolds at the office at six-thirty for the day's pretrial briefing. At eight-thirty, Barry Frame would arrive with Abigail Griffen and they would drive to the Multnomah County Courthouse, where they would fight their way through the crowd of reporters and spectators who mobbed the fifth-floor corridor outside the courtroom.

Their judge, the Honorable Jack Baldwin, was a gaunt, diminutive man with curly gray hair and a pencil-thin mustache. His complexion was unnaturally pale. When they were introduced, Tracy noticed liver spots on the back of the judge's hand and felt a slight tremor when they shook. Lines on his face showed Baldwin's seventy-four years. The Oregon constitution made it mandatory that judges retire at seventy-five.

Although Baldwin was dwarfed by Geddes and Reynolds, he carried himself with an easy authority that commanded respect and made him seem equal in stature to the attorneys. Baldwin had a reputation for being fair and his intelligence was unquestioned. The judge let the parties know that his last major trial was going to be a model for death penalty litigation.

The first week and a half in court was taken up with jury selection and opening statements. On Thursday of the second week, Geddes called his first witness, the attorney who represented Justice Griffen in his divorce. When he was through testifying on direct examination, the jury was fully aware that Abigail Griffen stood to lose a lot of money if the divorce became final.

Tracy was worried about the damage the testimony had caused, but Matthew's cross-examination left everyone in the courtroom convinced that two million dollars was chump change for a woman like Abbie Griffen.

Next Geddes called Jack Stamm, who reluctantly told the jury about Abbie's angry reaction when she learned that Justice Griffen had authored the opinion that reversed the conviction of Charlie Deems.

Stamm's testimony was no surprise to the defense. He believed in Abbie's innocence and had spoken freely with Matthew and Barry Frame before the trial.

"Mr. Stamm," Matthew asked the district attorney when it was his turn to cross-examine, "are your deputies usually overjoyed when the case of a convicted criminal is overturned on appeal?"

"No, sir."

"Have you heard deputy district attorneys other than Mrs. Griffen curse a particular judge because that judge wrote an opinion reversing a conviction?"

"Yes."

"So Mrs. Griffen's reaction was not unusual?"

"No, Mr. Reynolds. She reacted the way a lot of my deputies react when a case is reversed."

Reynolds smiled at Stamm. "I suspect even you have taken the name of a few appellate judges in vain?"

"Can I take the Fifth on that?" Stamm answered with a grin.

Everyone in the courtroom laughed, except Chuck Geddes.

"I'm going to let him exercise his rights here, Mr. Reynolds," Judge Baldwin said with a smile.

"Very well, your honor. I'll withdraw the question. But I do have another for you, Mr. Stamm. How seriously does Mrs. Griffen take her cases?"

Stamm turned to the jury.

"Abigail Griffen is one of the most dedicated prosecutors I have ever met. She is brilliant, thorough and scrupulously fair."

"Thank you, sir. No further questions."

"Mr. Geddes?" Judge Baldwin asked. Geddes thought about going after Stamm, but he knew Stamm would try to help Griffen if given the chance.

"No further questions, your honor. The state calls Anthony Rose."

Tony Rose entered the courtroom looking impressive in his police uniform. He would not look at Abbie. When he took the witness stand, he sat with his shoulders hunched and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Geddes established that Rose was a police officer who had testified in several cases which Abigail Griffen had prosecuted. Then he stood up and walked over to the end of the jury box farthest from the witness.

"Officer Rose, when did you learn that the Supreme Court had reversed the conviction of Charlie Deems?"

"The day it happened. It was all over the station house."

"At some point after you learned of the reversal, did you have an opportunity to talk about it with the defendant?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell the jury about that conversation."

"There's an Italian place, Caruso's. It's downtown on Second and Pine.

I eat there every once in a while. One night I saw Mrs. Griffen, the defendant, as I was leaving. She was by herself, so I went over to say hello. While we were talking, I told her I was sorry the case was reversed."

"What was her reaction?"

"She was furious."

"Did she mention her husband, Justice Griffen?"

"Yeah, and, uh, she wasn't too complimentary."

"What did she say about him?"

"She called him a son of a bitch and she said he reversed the case to get her. I guess she was going through a divorce and figured he was trying to make her look bad."

Geddes paused long enough to get the jurors' attention. Then he asked, "Officer Rose, did Mrs. Griffen tell you about something she wished Charlie Deems would do to Justice Griffen?"

"Yes, sir. She did."

"Tell the jury what she said."

"Right after she said she thought the judge had reversed the case to make her look bad, she said she hoped Deems would blow Justice Griffen to kingdom come."

Geddes nodded. "Blow him to kingdom come. Those were her words?"

"Yes, sir. They were."

Geddes turned toward Matthew Reynolds. "Your witness, Counselor."

Rose turned toward the defense counsel table, but he still refused to look Abigail Griffen in the eye. Matthew Reynolds stood and walked slowly toward the witness stand.

"You don't like Mrs. Griffen, do you?" Matthew asked, after taking a position that would not block the jurors' view of the witness.

Rose shrugged nervously. "I've got nothing against her."

"Do you respect her, Officer Rose?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is she a woman you treat with respect?"

"Well . . . Yeah. Sure. I respect her."

"Did you treat her with respect on the evening you have spoken about?"

Rose shifted nervously in his seat.

"Your Honor, will you instruct Officer Rose to answer."

"You must answer the question," Judge Baldwin Said.

"Look, that was a misunderstanding."

"I don't believe we were discussing a misunderstanding, Officer. We were discussing the concept of respect in the context of the respect a gentleman should have for a lady. Did you treat Mrs. Griffen with respect that evening?"

"I thought she was sending signals. I was wrong."

"Signals that indicated she wished to be raped?"

"Objection," Geddes shouted.

"This goes to bias, Your Honor."

"Overruled," Judge Baldwin said. "Answer the question, Officer."

"I didn't try to rape the defendant."

"Then why did she have to slap you to make you leave her house?"

"She . . . Like I said, there was a misunderstanding."

"That reached the point where she had to use physical force to make you leave her home?"

"That wasn't necessary. If she'd asked I would have left."

"At the time Mrs. Griffen slapped you, was she pinned to the wall?"

"I . . . I'm not certain."

"Was your hand up her dress."

"Look, everything happened very fast. I already said it was a mistake."

"This was not the first time Mrs. Griffen had rebuffed you, was it?"

"What do you mean?"

"On two occasions, when she was trying to prepare your testimony for trial, did you make sexual advances to her?"

"It wasn't like that."

"How was it, Officer Rose?"

"She's a good-looking woman."

"So you suggested a date?"

"I'm only human."

"And she was married. You knew that when you propositioned her, did you not?"

Rose looked toward Chuck Geddes for help, but the prosecutor was stone-faced.

"Did you know she was married when you propositioned her the first time?"

"Yes."

"And the second time? You were still aware that she was a married woman?"

"Yes."

"Nothing further, Officer Rose."

"You were fantastic," Abbie said as soon as her front door closed.

"You crucified Rose."

"Yes, but the jury heard that you wished Deems would blow up Justice Griffen."

"It doesn't matter. Rose's credibility was destroyed. You weren't watching the jurors. You should have seen the way they were looking at him. They were disgusted. If that statement's all they've got . . ."

"But we know it isn't. There has to be something more."

"Well, I don't want to think about it now. I want to relax. Can I get you a drink?"

"I have to work tonight. Geddes is calling several important witnesses tomorrow."

"Oh," Abbie said, disappointed.

"You know I want to stay."

"No, you're right. It's just . . . I don't know. I'm so happy.

Things went well for once. I want to celebrate."

"We'll celebrate when you're acquitted."

"You believe I will be, don't you?"

"I know you'll never go to prison."

Abbie was standing inches from Matthew. She reached out and took his hand. The touch paralyzed him. Abbie moved into his arms and pressed her head against his chest. She could hear his heart beating like a trip-hammer. Then she looked up and kissed him. Matthew had imagined this moment a thousand times, but never believed it would really happen.

He felt Abbie's breasts press against his chest. He let his body fit into hers.

Abbie's head sank against his chest.

"When this is over, we'll get away from here," Abbie said.

"We'll go to a quiet place where no one knows us."

"Abbie . . ."

She placed her fingertips against Matthew's lips.

"No. This is enough for now. Knowing you care for me."

"I do care," Matthew said, very quietly. "You know I care."

"Yes," Abbie said. "And I know you'll win. I know you'll make me free."

Chapter TWENTY-TWO

"The state calls Seth Dillard," Chuck Geddes said. Tracy checked off Dillard's name on the defense witness list. Dillard followed Mrs.

Wallace, who told the jury about Abbie's hysterical appearance at her door on the evening of the attack at the coast.

"What is your profession?" Geddes asked.

"I'm the sheriff of Seneca County, Oregon."

"Sheriff, if I wanted to buy some dynamite to clear stumps on property in Seneca County, what would I have to do?"

"You'd have to come to my office and fill out an application for a permit to purchase explosives. There's a fifteen-dollar fee. We'd take a mug shot and print you to make certain you weren't a felon. If everything checked out, you'd go to the fire marshal, who'd issue you a permit. Once you had the permit, you'd take it to someone who sells explosives."

"Did Justice Griffen secure a permit from your office for dynamite to clear stumps on his property?"

"Yes."

"When did he do that?"

"Middle of the summer. July third."

"Now, Sheriff, a week or so before Justice Griffen was killed did you investigate a complaint by the defendant that she had been attacked by an intruder in her cabin?"

"I did."

"Can you tell the jury what the defendant told you about the alleged attack?"

"Early Saturday morning, August thirteenth, I interviewed Mrs. Griffen at a neighbor's house. She claimed that a man broke into her cabin close to midnight on the twelfth and she escaped by jumping from her second-story deck. According to Mrs. Griffen, the man chased her and she hid in the woods until she thought he was gone. About three-thirty A. M., she woke up the neighbor, Mrs. Wallace, by pounding on the door."

"Did the defendant see the face of this alleged intruder?"

"Mrs. Griffen said the man wore something over his face."

"I see. Now, Sheriff, did the defendant tell you about another alleged attack that occurred two weeks before this alleged attack at the coast?"

"Yes, sir. She said she thought the same person tried to break into her house in Portland."

"Did she report this alleged break-in to the police?"

"Mrs. Griffen said she didn't."

"Did she see who attempted this alleged break-in in Portland?"

"She told me that the man also wore a mask in Portland, so she didn't see his face."

"Now, Sheriff, despite the fact that Mrs. Griffen never saw this person's face, did she suggest a person for investigation?"

"Yes. She said she thought her attacker might be a man she put on death row a year or so ago, who just got out of prison."

"Charlie Deems?"

"Right, but it wasn't much of an ID. More like a guess."

"She was the one who brought up the name?"

"Yes."

"Sheriff Dillard, did you find anything at the crime scene linking Charlie Deems to the alleged attack?"

No.

"What did your investigation turn up?"

Dillard weighed his answer carefully. Then he told the jurors, "Truthfully, we haven't found much of anything."

"I don't follow you."

"We don't have any evidence that anyone besides Mrs. Griffen was there.

We did not find Mr. Deems's prints in the cabin. There was no sign of forced entry and nothing was taken. Mrs. Griffen says that she and the intruder jumped from the deck. Well, someone did jump from the deck, but the ground was so churned up we can't say if it was one person or two. When it got light I walked the trail along the bluff where she said she was chased by this fella and I searched the woods. I didn't find anything to support her story. Neither did my men."

"Thank you, Sheriff. No further questions."

Matthew Reynolds reviewed his notes. The jurors shifted in their seats.

A spectator coughed. Reynolds looked up at the sheriff.

"How did Mrs. Griffen seem to you when you questioned her?" Matthew asked.

"She was shaken up."

"Would you say her behavior was similar to other assault victims you've interviewed?"

"Oh, yeah. She definitely acted like someone who'd been through an ordeal. Of course, I wasn't looking for deception.

After all, she's a district attorney. I naturally assumed she'd be telling the truth and she didn't do anything that raised my antennas.

"You've testified that you haven't found any evidence to corroborate Mrs. Griffen's story. If the intruder wore gloves, you wouldn't find fingerprints, would you?"

"That's right. And I don't want to be misunderstood here. I'm not saying Mrs. Griffen wasn't attacked. I'm just saying we haven't found any evidence that there was an intruder. There could have been. She sure seemed like someone who'd been attacked. I just can't prove it."

"One thing further, Sheriff. About a week or so after Justice Griffen was killed, did you receive a call from Mr. Geddes's investigator, Neil Christenson?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did he ask you to go to the Griffen cabin and check in a shed behind it to see if there was a box of dynamite in the shed?"

"Yes, ' " sir.

"Did you find any dynamite?"

"Well, there was a cleared space on the floor of the shed big enough for the kind of box that holds it, but there wasn't any dynamite there."

"Nothing further."

"I have a few questions on redirect, Your Honor."

"Go ahead, Mr. Geddes," Judge Baldwin said.

"Did you or your men look in the shed on the day Mrs. Griffen reported the attack?"

"No sir. There wasn't any reason to."

"Did you post a guard at the Griffen cabin?"

"No reason to do that either."

"So there was plenty of time and plenty of opportunity between the day of the alleged attack and the day you searched the shed for someone to remove the dynamite, if there was some in the shed on the day of the attack?"

"Yes, sir."

Barry Frame was waiting in the courtroom when Matthew Reynolds returned from lunch. As soon as Reynolds walked through the door, Frame broke into a grin.

"Bingo," he said, handing Reynolds a thick manila envelope.

"What's this?"

"Charlie Deems's bank records."

"You found an account?" Reynolds asked excitedly.

"Washington Mutual. The branch across from Pioneer Square."

"Have you reviewed the records?"

"You bet."

"And?"

"See for yourself."

Geddes's next witness was the neighbor who called 911 to report the explosion that killed Justice Griffen. He was followed by the first officers at the crime scene. Then Geddes called Paul Torino to the stand.

"Officer Torino, how long have you been a Portland police officer?"

"Twenty years."

"Do you have a special job on the force?"

"Yes, sir. I'm assigned to the bomb squad."

"What is your official title?"

"Explosive Disposal Unit Team Leader."

"Officer Torino, will you tell the jury about your background and training in police work with an emphasis on your training in dealing with explosive devices?"

"Yes," Torino said, turning toward the jury. "I enlisted in the Army immediately after high school and was assigned to an Explosive Ordnance Disposal Unit. I received training in dealing with explosive devices at the United States Navy Explosive Ordnance Disposal training center at Indian Head, Maryland. Then," Torino said with a grin, "I served four years in Vietnam and received more practical experience in dealing with explosive devices than I really wanted."

Two male jurors chuckled. Tracy noted that they were both veterans.

"What did you do after the Army?"

"I went to college and received an AA from Portland Community College in police science. Then I joined the force. After three years, which is the minimum experience you need, I qualified for the monthlong course run by the FBI at the Hazardous Device Division of Redstone Arsenal in Huntsville, Alabama."

"Did you graduate from that course?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you have any more formal training in dealing with explosive devices?"

"I'm a graduate of a two-week post-blast investigative school run by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. I'd estimate that I have a total of more than fourteen hundred hours of formal education in bomb disposal through the military and the government."

"How long have you been doing post-blast investigation for the Portland police?"

"Around twelve years."

"Did you go to the home of Oregon Supreme Court Justice Robert Griffen in your capacity as Team Leader of the Explosive Disposal Unit?"

"Yes."

"Were you the first unit to arrive at the scene?"

"No, sir. A Fire Rescue Unit and uniformed officers were the first to respond. As soon as it was determined that an explosive device had been detonated, they secured the scene, notified us, the medical examiner and the homicide detectives, then backed off until we checked the scene to make certain there were no more unexploded bombs.

"We made a determination that it was safe to proceed with the investigation. Before the victim was removed from the car, my people photographed the area to make a record of the scene."

"What did you do then?"

"A bomb breaks up when it explodes and parts of the bomb are propelled to different areas of the crime scene. My people have a routine we follow. We roped off the area around the car and divided it into search areas. I had two men working at the seat of the blast, the place where the bomb was located. They examined the radius around the car to pick up pieces of the car and the bomb that were thrown off by the blast. I had other men working in other sections of the roped-off area. Whenever a piece of the bomb, or other relevant evidence, was found, an officer recorded where on the grid it was located and another officer took possession of the item and logged it in."

"Officer Torino, can you tell the jury a little about how this bomb was constructed?"

"Certainly. All bombs have four things in common: explosives, an initiator, a power source and a switch or delay. When you look for a bomb, you see if you can find these components.

This bomb consisted of a piece of pipe two inches in diameter and ten inches long that was filled with smokeless powder. A nine-volt battery was the power source. End caps sealed in the powder. These end caps flew off like they'd been shot from a rifle when the bomb exploded. The back end cap was found in the trunk, lodged in the frame of the car. The front end cap went through the garage door and was found embedded in the door of a refrigerator that was in the garage.

"The metal tube that made up the body of the bomb shattered into three pieces. One large part was found in the interior of the car lodged in the rear seat. Two other parts went through the roof of the car and were found on the lawn."

"What set the bomb off?."

"A flashlight bulb was placed inside the body of the bomb in contact with the powder. The glass of the bulb was shattered.

Wires from the bulb were threaded through one of the end caps and attached to a nine-volt battery. The wires were peeled back and the copper ends were wrapped around the teeth of a clothespin. Then a strip of plastic from a Clorox bottle was placed between the teeth of the clothespin, preventing the teeth from closing. The bomber attached a lead sinker to the strip of plastic.

When Justice Griffen moved the car, the sinker held down the plastic strip and the strip was pulled out from between the teeth of the clothespin. That permitted the copper wires to touch, completing the circuit. A spark from the exposed wires in the lightbulb ignited the powder and caused the explosion."

"How do you know all this about the bomb?"

"We located two short pieces of copper wire and the remains of the lightbulb embedded in the end cap we removed from the refrigerator door in the garage. A wooden clothespin was found in the front yard on the south side of the car. The plastic strip, monofilament fishing line and a lead sinker were found on the ground near the right front wheel. We also found a shattered battery, mostly intact."

"Officer Torino, how was the bomb attached to the car?"

"We found chunks of magnets and nuts and bolts that had been bent and twisted from the blast. These did not match anything in the car, but I was familiar with them already, so I knew they were part of the bomb."

"We'll get to that in a moment. Would you explain to the jury how the magnets were used?"

"Yes. A strip of metal eight inches long and two inches wide and a quarter inch thick was used. Holes were drilled in it and four magnets were affixed to the strip with nuts and bolts. Black electrical tape was then used to tape the strip to the bomb. When the bomb was ready to be used, it was pressed against the undercarriage of the car and the magnets held it in place."

"Officer Torino, you mentioned that you were familiar with this bomb.

Explain that statement to the jury."

"A bomb of almost identical construction was the murder weapon in a case tried approximately two years ago."

"Who was the defendant in that case?"

"Charles Deems."

Geddes paused for effect, then faced the jury.

"Who was the prosecutor?"

"Abigail Griffen."

"The defendant in this case?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did the defendant know how to construct the bomb that killed her husband?"

"Yes."

"How do you know that?"

"I showed her how to make one. We went into great detail so she could examine me about the construction of the bomb on direct examination.

Then I told the jury the same information in court. It's in the record of the case."

Geddes walked back to his table and picked up several plastic evidence bags. He returned to the witness stand and handed one of the plastic bags to Torino.

"This has been marked as State's Exhibit 3 5. Can you tell the jury what it is?"

Torino opened the plastic bag and took out a charred and twisted strip of metal approximately six inches long, one and a half inches wide and a quarter inch thick.

"Yes, sir. I personally took this from the Portland Police Bureau evidence room. This is the strip to which the magnets were attached by the bomber in the case Mrs. Griffen prosecuted against Mr. Deems."

"Is there anything unusual about it?"

Torino held out one end of the strip to the jury. "You can see that this end is flat and looks like it was shaped by a machine."

Torino turned the other end toward the jury. "But this end is uneven and there is a notch that forms a jagged vee in the middle.

That's because this strip came from a longer strip. Someone sawed it off of the large strip to shorten it so it would fit onto the top of the pipe bomb."

"Is it unusual to find a notch like this in the strip that secures the magnets?"

"Yes, sir. With one exception, I've never seen a notch like this on another pipe bomb."

"Was the defendant aware of the unique nature of the notch?"

"Oh yes. I told her that several times. She knew it was like a fingerprint."

"So," Geddes asked with heavy emphasis after turning toward the jury, "the defendant was also aware that a Portland police explosives expert who found a strip of metal like this one with such a notch at the site of a bombing would immediately think that Mr. Deems was responsible for making the bomb?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you. I now hand you State's Exhibit 36. What is it?"

Torino held up another strip of charred and twisted metal that was eight inches long, two inches wide and a quarter inch thick and very similar in appearance to State's Exhibit 35.

"This is the strip of metal to which the magnets were attached in the bomb that killed Justice Griffen. When the bomb exploded, it was blown through the bottom of the car into the judge. The medical examiner found it during the autopsy."

"Is it similar to the strip used by the killer in the case which the defendant prosecuted against Mr. Deems?"

"Yes. One end is flat and the other has an almost identical notch."

"How was that notch formed?"

"By putting the strip in a vise and using a hacksaw to cut it from the larger strip. The person who used the hacksaw cut from two directions and that's why the notch overlaps here," Torino said, pointing to the center of the vee.

"And you say you've only seen one other magnet strip with a similar notch?"

"Yes, sir. The only other time I've seen one like it was in the case Mrs. Griffen prosecuted against Mr. Deems."

"As an expert in the area of explosive devices, what conclusion do you draw from the similarity in appearance of these two strips?"

"Either the same person cut them or someone intentionally tried to make the second strip look like the first."

"Why would someone intentionally do that?"

"One reason would be to frame Mr. Deems."

"Objection," Reynolds said, standing. "That is pure speculation."

"Sustained," Judge Baldwin said, turning toward the jury.

"You jurors will disregard that last remark."

"Officer Torino, you did say that the defendant knew about the unusual notch in the end of Exhibit 357"

"Yes, sir. I pointed it out to her during the investigation of the Hollins murders."

"Thank you. Now, Officer Torino, on the evening that Justice Griffen was killed, were you called to another location to search for explosive devices?"

"I was."

"Where did you go?"

"To a home the defendant was renting. District Attorney Stamm was concerned that the same person who killed the judge might have rigged a bomb at Mrs. Griffen's house."

"In the course of your search did you look in Mrs. Griffen's garage?"

"Yes, sir."

"Describe it."

"It was a typical two-car garage with a work area in one corner. The work area consisted of a workbench and table with a vise. Tools were hanging from hooks on the wall."

Geddes handed Torino a photograph. "Can you identify State's Exhibit 52 for the jury?"

"That's a shot of the garage." Torino held up the photograph so the jury could see it and pointed to the left side of the picture.

"You can see the workbench over here."

Geddes took the photograph and handed Torino the last plastic bag. It contained a clean strip of metal. It was not charred or twisted. One end was flat and obviously shaped by a machine.

The other end came to a point. The point was jagged and appeared to have been cut by hand.

"This is State's Exhibit 37. Can you tell the jury what it is?"

Torino took Exhibit 36 in one hand and Exhibit 37 in the other and fit the jagged point from Exhibit 37 into the notch at the end of Exhibit "Exhibit 37 appears to be the other part of the longer strip from which Exhibit 36 was cut. They don't fit exactly because Exhibit 36 was mangled in the explosion."

Geddes paused and turned toward Abigail Griffen.

"Did you find Exhibit 37, Officer Torino?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where did you find it?"

"Under the workbench in Abigail Griffen's garage. You can see the strip in the bottom right corner of Exhibit 52. We also have a close-up in another photo."

Tracy suddenly felt sick. Torino's testimony was devastating.

She glanced quickly at the jurors. Every one of them was leaning forward and several were writing furiously on their notepads.

Then she looked at Matthew. If he was feeling any stress as a result of Torino's testimony, Tracy could not see it.

"Officer Torino, there are what appear to be metal shavings in the plastic bag that we've been using to hold Exhibit 37. Where did they come from?"

"They were found on the floor under the vise."

Geddes went back to counsel table and pulled a plastic Clorox bottle from a shopping bag.

"Can you tell the jury where State's Exhibit 42 was found?"

"It was also found in Mrs. Griffen's garage."

Tracy glanced at Reynolds. He still appeared to be unconcerned.

"Your Honor, at this time I move to introduce State's Exhibits 35, 36, 37, 42 and 52," Geddes said. "Any objection, Mr. Reynolds?"

"May I see 42, please," Reynolds said calmly as he climbed to his feet.

Tracy could not believe how well he concealed the shock he had to be experiencing. Geddes handed Reynolds the Clorox bottle.

"May I ask a question in aid of objection, Your Honor?"

"Go ahead."

"Officer Torino, this Clorox bottle is in one piece, is it not?"

"Yes."

"Then it could not be the bottle from which was cut the plastic strip used in the detonating device?"

"That's true."

Matthew turned toward the bench. "I object to the admission of State's Exhibit 42. It has no relevance."

"Mr. Geddes?" the judge said.

"It is relevant," Geddes answered. "This is obviously not the bottle from which the strip was cut, but it proves that the defendant uses the brand."

"I'll let it in. It has limited relevance, but as long as it has some, it meets the evidentiary threshold for admissibility."

"I have no further questions of this witness, Your Honor. Mr. Reynolds may examine."

"Mr. Reynolds?" Judge Baldwin asked.

"May I have a moment, Your Honor?"

Baldwin nodded. Matthew turned to Abbie. His features were composed, but Tracy could tell that he was very upset.

"What was that metal strip doing in your garage?" he asked in a tone low enough to keep the jurors or Geddes from hearing what was said.

"I swear, I don't know," Abbie answered in a whisper. "My God, Matthew, if I made that bomb in the garage, don't you think I'd have the brains to get rid of anything that could connect me to it?"

"Yes, I do. But we're stuck with the fact that the strip was found in the garage of the house you were renting together with metal shavings that would be created when it was sawed off the rest of the strip. When was the last time you remember being around the worktable?"

"I put the car in the garage every evening. The people I'm renting from own the workshop furniture and the tools. I've never used them. Deems planted the strip and the shavings. Don't you see that? I'm being framed."

"This is very bad," Matthew said. "Now I understand why Stamm felt he had to get off the case."

Reynolds turned to Tracy. "Do you remember seeing the three strips when we examined the physical evidence?"

"Of course, but I didn't think anything about them. They weren't together, I'm sure of that. If I recall, they were scattered among the other pieces of metal from the bomb and there were a lot of metal chunks on the table."

"Geddes did that on purpose," Matthew muttered. "He set us up."

"What are we going to do?"

Reynolds thought for a moment, then addressed the judge.

"Before I cross-examine, I have a matter I would like to take up with the court."

Judge Baldwin looked up at the clock. Then he turned to the jurors.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is a good time to take our morning recess.

Let's reconvene at ten forty-five."

As the jurors filed out, Barry came through the bar of the court and stood next to Tracy.

"As soon as we break for the day," Reynolds told them, "I want you two to look at all of the physical evidence again, to make certain there aren't any more surprises."

The door to the jury room closed and Judge Baldwin said, "Mr. Reynolds?"

"Your Honor, I would like to reserve my cross-examination of Officer Torino. His testimony, and this exhibit, are a complete surprise to the defense."

"Will you explain that to me? Didn't Mr. Geddes let you know that he was introducing it?"

"There are no written reports about the metal strips that were used in the bombs and the strip found in Mrs. Griffen's garage . . ."

Chuck Geddes leaped to his feet. He was fighting hard to suppress a smile of satisfaction.

"Exhibits 35, 36 and 37 were listed on evidence reports supplied to the defense, Your Honor. We also made all of the physical evidence available to the defense for viewing."

"Is that so, Mr. Reynolds?"

Matthew cast a withering glance at Geddes, whose lips twisted into a smirk.

"Mr. Geddes may have listed the exhibits, Your Honor, but no report furnished to the defense explained the significance of the items. If I remember correctly, the strips Were noted on the evidence list simply as pieces of metal and the three metal strips were scattered among the remnants of the bomb that killed Justice Griffen, giving the impression that all three strips were unconnected and found at the crime scene."

"What do you have to say about that, Mr. Geddes?"

"The discovery rules require me to list all the witnesses and exhibits I intend to introduce at trial. They do not require me to explain what I intend to do with the exhibits or what my witnesses have to say about them. I did what was required by law. If Mr. Reynolds was unable to understand the significance of the exhibits, that's his problem."

"Your Honor, there is no way any reasonable person could have understood the significance of this evidence," Matthew answered angrily. "Mr.

Geddes made certain of that by scattering them among the other exhibits.

Ask him why he did that and ask him why he didn't have Officer Torino write a report about them."

"If you're implying that I did anything unethical . . ." Geddes started.

"Gentlemen," Judge Baldwin interrupted, "let's keep this civilized. Mr.

Reynolds, if Mr. Geddes gave you notice that Officer Torino was testifying and he listed the strips as exhibits, he complied with the law. However, I want you to have a fair opportunity to cross-examine on this matter, which is of obvious importance.

What do you suggest we do?"

"Your Honor, I would like to have custody of the three strips so I can have them examined by a defense expert. I have someone in mind."

"How long will you need the evidence, Mr. Reynolds?"

"I won't know until I talk to my expert. He may be able to accomplish what I want this weekend."

"I object, Your Honor," Geddes said. "We're in the middle of trial. Mr.

Reynolds had ample opportunity to examine and test the evidence."

"And I'm sure he would have if you'd given him some notice of the use to which you were putting it," Judge Baldwin said sternly. "Quite frankly, Mr. Geddes, while you're within the letter of the law on this, I don't think you're within its spirit."

"Your Honor . . ." Geddes began, but Judge Baldwin held up his hand.

"Mr. Geddes, this could have been avoided if you had informed Mr.

Reynolds about Officer Torino's testimony in advance of trial. I'm going to let Mr. Reynolds have the metal strips, if he can find an expert to examine them."

The rest of the afternoon was taken up with the testimony of several bomb squad members, who identified evidence taken from the crime scene and explained where each item was found.

Outside, a gentle rain was falling, but the heat was on in the courthouse and the drone of the witnesses was putting Tracy to sleep.

She sighed with relief when the judge called the weekend recess.

As soon as court was out, Matthew took custody of the three metal strips and left with Abigail Griffen. Tracy and Barry Frame looked over all of the evidence that was in the courtroom. When they were through, Neil Christenson escorted them to a conference room in the district attorney's office that was being used to store the physical evidence that had not been introduced. Some of the evidence was spread over the top of a long conference table. Other evidence was in cardboard boxes on the floor of the conference room. Christenson parked himself in a chair at the far end of the room.

"How about some privacy?" Barry asked.

"Sorry," Christenson replied. "If it was up to me, I'd be home with a cold beer, but Chuck told me to keep an eye on you."

"Suit yourself."

Tracy started with the items on the table, conferring with Barry in whispers if she saw anything that might be significant and making notes on a legal pad. When they were done with the items on top of the table, Barry cleared a space at one end and emptied the contents of the first cardboard carton, which contained items taken from Abbie's rented house.

Tracy's stomach was starting to growl by the time they finished with the evidence from the rented house and Barry emptied the first box of items from Justice Griffen's den. The box contained personal papers, household receipts, bills and other documents of this type. Tracy emptied a second box that contained papers found in the bottom right drawer of Justice Griffen's desk.

At first glance, the papers looked like they would be similar to the papers in the other box. Then Tracy spotted something that was out of place. At the bottom of the pile was a volume from a trial transcript.

A sheet from a yellow legal pad was jutting out from between two of the transcript pages. Tracy thought that Barry must have gone through this box when they looked through the evidence the first time, because she did not remember seeing the transcript before.

When Tracy saw the cover page of the transcript, she concealed her surprise. She was looking at Volume XI of State of Oregon, Plaintiff-Respondent v. Charles Darren Deems, Defeno dant-Appellant, the transcript Laura Rizzatti had been reading the day Matthew Reynolds and Abigail Griffen argued at the Supreme Court. Tracy remembered how nervous Laura had seemed when she found her reading it.

Tracy glanced over at Christenson. He was reading the sports section of The Oregonian and looked bored stiff. Tracy shifted her body to block Christenson's view, then opened the transcript enough to see what was written on the sheet from the legal pad.

The sheet was wedged between pages 1289 and 1290 of the transcript. It was a sheet from the legal pad on which Laura was writing in the library'on the day Justice Pope accosted her. The names of three criminal cases were written on the page. Tracy remembered how quickly Laura had turned over the yellow pad to prevent Tracy from seeing what was on it. Tracy wrote down the names of the cases and the volume numbers of the Oregon reporters in which they were published.

What was so special about the transcript and these cases, and what were this transcript and Laura's notes doing in Justice Griffen's den? The transcript was part of the official record of the Deems case and should be with the rest of the transcripts in the case in the file room of the Supreme Court.

Twenty minutes later, Barry stretched and announced, "That's the lot."

Christenson showed them out, then returned to the conference room. Barry pressed the down button on the elevator. As they waited for it to arrive, he asked, "Any brilliant insights?"

Tracy was tempted to tell him about the transcript, but there was nothing to tell. She had no idea what was in Volume XI.

Whatever was there wouldn't have anything to do with Abbie's case anyway.

"I didn't see anything I didn't spot the first time we went through this stuff. If there are any more surprises, Geddes slipped them past me."

"I agree. Are you up for dinner?"

Tracy wanted to get to the office so she could read Volume XI in the set of transcripts she'd taken from Bob Packard.

"I'll pass. I'm going to grab some takeout and head for the office.

There are a few things I have to go over tonight."

"Hey, it's the weekend. Casablanca is on. I thought we'd whip up some gourmet popcorn, crack open a bottle of wine and watch Bogie. You don't want to pass that up, do you?"

Barry sounded disappointed. The elevator doors opened. They stepped into the empty car. Tracy touched him on the arm.

"I'll tell you what. I'm big on Bogie myself. When's the movie start?"

"Nine."

"Save me a seat. I should be able to finish by then."

Barry grinned. "I'll be waiting. Do you like red or white wine with your popcorn?"

"Beer, actually."

"A woman after my own heart. I'll even spring for imported."

Neil Christenson showed Barry Frame and Tracy Cavanaugh out of the district attorney's office, then he returned to the conference room and emptied the box with the evidence that had been found in the bottom right drawer of Justice Griffen's desk onto the conference table.

Christenson had only been pretending to read the paper while Barry and Tracy went through the evidence and he noticed that Tracy was intentionally blocking his view when she went through this box.

Christenson was determined to discover the piece of evidence that had created so much interest.

The transcript and yellow paper attracted his attention immediately because they were out of place. Christenson frowned when he saw that the transcript was from the Deems case. Then he remembered that Justice Griffen had written the opinion that reversed Deems's conviction. How ironic, he thought, that the person Justice Griffen had freed from prison was going to help convict the judge's killer.

Christenson flipped through the transcript, but found nothing that looked important. He put it down on the table and started on the other documents. There were miscellaneous papers, a file filled with correspondence between Justice Griffen and his stockbroker, another file with paperwork about his beach property and an envelope stuffed with credit card receipts. Christenson went through the receipts. Several were from a restaurant in Salem that was close to the court, a few were from stores in Salem and Portland, three were from a motel called the Overlook and a number of receipts were from gas stations. Nothing relevant to the case.

Christenson went through the contents of the box once more, then gave up. It was late and he was tired. If Tracy Cavanaugh had spotted something important, it had gone right by him.

Christenson yawned, closed the door to the conference room and headed home.*

As soon as she was alone in the office, Tracy found Volume XI.

To her great disappointment, it was incredibly dull. It contained the testimony of the police officers who searched Charlie Deems's apartment after his arrest. They told about items they had discovered during the search. Tracy could not imagine why Laura Rizzatti would have been interested in anything she read.

The sheet from Laura's yellow legal pad had been stuck between pages 1289 and 1290. Tracy wondered if that meant those pages contained something important or if the yellow sheet with the list of cases had ended up there by chance. When she reached pages 1289 and 1290, she found nothing that helped clear up the mystery.

Portland police detective Mark Simon's testimony started on 7 and continued past the two pages. He was the detective in charge of the search of Deems's apartment. In the early part of his testimony, he outlined the assignments of the officers who searched the apartment.

Then he talked about various items found during the search and their significance to the homicide investigation. Deems had been arrested at a nightclub. Several people had phoned him while he was out. The direct examination by Abigail Griffen on pages 1289 and 1290 concerned messages found on Deems's answering machine.

"GRIFFE: So these were messages that were waiting for the defendant, which he was unable to return because he was arrested?"

SIMON: Yes ma'am.

"Q: The jury has heard the message tape. I'd like to go through the messages with you and ask you to comment on their significance, if you can."

"A: All right.

"Q' The first message is from 'Jack." He leaves a number.

What significance do you attach to that call?"

"A: I don't have enough information to comment on that call.

The number was for a pay phone. We did send someone to the phone, but there was no one there when the officers arrived."

"Q: Okay. Message number two was from Raoul. He leaves a pager number and asks the defendant to call him when he gets in.

What is the significance of that call?"

"A: Okay. Well, with this one, I can comment. Subsequent investigation revealed that the pager was rented from Continental Communications by Ram6n Prez, a known associate of Raoul Otero. Mr. Otero is reputed to be one of the major players in an organization that distributes cocaine in Oregon, Washington, Texas and Louisiana. I believe this call indicates a connection between the defendant and this organization."

"Q: Thank you. Now, the next call was from Arthur Knowland. He did not leave a phone number. He did say that he needed some 'shirts' and wanted the defendant to call him as soon as possible."

"A: Okay. I believe this call is from someone who wants to buy drugs from the defendant. We see this all the time when we have electronic surveillance on individuals who are talking about drug deals. They rarely use the names of narcotics in their discussions.

They will call heroin or cocaine 'tires' or 'shirts' or whatever they have agreed on in the belief that this will somehow protect them if the person they are dealing with is an undercover officer or a recording is being made of their conversation."

"Q: The last message is from Alice. She leaves a message and a phone number."

"A: We contacted the person who subscribes to the phone number. Her name was Alice Trapp. She admitted that her call was an attempt to purchase cocaine."

The examination continued on the next page, but it changed to a discussion of the contents of a notebook that had been found in Deems's bedroom. Tracy reread the two pages, but had no idea why they might be significant. Then she glanced at her watch. It was eight-thirty. Tracy put Volume XI back with the other transcripts and turned out the lights.

The idea of watching Casablanca with Barry Frame seemed like heaven compared to reading another page of boring transcript. In fact, spending the evening with Barry was preferable to anything else she could imagine.

The trial was leaving Tracy so exhausted that sex had been completely banished from her thoughts. Until now. She and Barry had not made love yet, but the way they felt about each other meant it was only a matter of time and the right setting.

Chapter TWENTY-THREE

"You know the drill. Keep your head up, keep moving and let me do the talking," Matthew told Abbie when Barry Frame stopped his car in front of the Multnomah County Courthouse on Monday morning. A torrential rain cascaded off the car as Matthew opened the back door on the driver's side. Huge drops bounced off of the hood and windshield. Matthew held up a large black umbrella to shield Abbie from the downpour. Tracy grabbed the huge leather sample case with the trial files, smiled quickly and shyly at Barry, then ran around the car to help screen Abbie from the crowd that blocked the courthouse entrance. She was soaking wet by the time they fought their way through the reporters and into the elevator.

The court guards recognized the defense team and waved them around the metal detector that stood between the courtroom door and the long line of spectators. Matthew led the way through the low gate that separated the spectators from the court. He set his briefcase next to the counsel table and shook the water off the umbrella. When he turned around, Abbie was staring at Charlie Deems, who was lounging on a bench behind Chuck Geddes inside the bar of the court. Deems looked surprisingly handsome in a blue pinstripe suit, freshly pressed white shirt and wine-red tie that Geddes had purchased for his court appearance. His shoes were polished and his hair had been cut.

"Howdy, Mrs. Prosecutor," Deems said, flashing his toothy grin. "You learnin' what it feels like to be in the frying pan?"

Before Abbie could respond, Matthew stepped in front of her.

He stared down at Deems. Deems stopped grinning. Reynolds held him with his eyes a moment more. Then he spoke in a voice so low that only Charlie Deems heard him.

"You are a hollow man, Mr. Deems. There is no goodness in you. If you tell lies about Mrs. Griffen in this courtroom, not even a dark angel will protect you."

Charlie Deems turned pale. Reynolds turned his back to Deems. Deems leaped to his feet.

"Hey," Deems shouted, "look at me, you freak."

Reynolds sat down and opened his briefcase. Deems took a step toward Matthew, his face tight with rage.

"What did you just say?" Geddes demanded of Reynolds as he and Christenson restrained Deems. Matthew ignored Geddes and calmly arranged his notes while the prosecutor tried to calm his star witness.

"Mr. Deems," Chuck Geddes asked, "are you acquainted with the defendant?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Please explain how you two first met."

"She prosecuted me for murder."

"Had you ever met the defendant before she prosecuted you?"

"No, sir."

"What was the result of your case?"

"I was convicted and sentenced to death."

"Where did you spend the next two years?"

"On death row at the Oregon State Penitentiary."

"Why aren't you still on death row?"

"The Oregon Supreme Court threw out my case."

"It reversed your conviction?"

"Right."

"And the Multnomah County district attorney's office elected not to retry you?"

"Yes."

"Shortly after your release from prison, did the defendant contact you?"

Geddes asked.

"Yes, sir. She sure did."

"Did that surprise you?"

Deems laughed and shook his head in wonder. "I would have been less surprised if it was the President." The jury laughed.

"Why were you surprised?" Geddes asked.

"When a woman spends a year of her life trying to get you executed, you start to think she might not like you."

Deems smiled at the jury and a few jurors smiled back.

"Tell the jury about the conversation."

"Okay. As I recollect, she asked me how it felt to be off death row. I said it felt just fine. Then she asked how I was fixed for money. I asked her why she wanted to know. That's when she said she had a business proposition for me."

"What did you think she had in mind?"

"I knew she didn't want me to mow her lawn."

The jurors and spectators laughed again. Tracy could see them warming to Charlie Deems and it worried her. She glanced at Reynolds, but he seemed completely unperturbed by Deems's testimony. Tracy marveled at the way he kept his cool.

"Did you ask the defendant what she wanted?" Geddes continued.

"I did, but she said she didn't want to discuss it over the phone."

"Did you agree to meet the defendant?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why?"

"Curiosity. And, of course, money. I was dead broke when I got off the row and she implied there was a lot of money to be made."

"Where did you meet?"

"She wanted me to come to a cabin on the coast. She gave me directions."

"Do you remember the date?"

"I believe it was Friday, August twelfth."

Abbie leaned toward Reynolds. She was upset and Tracy heard her whisper, "These are all lies. I never called him and we never met at the cabin."

"Don't worry," Tracy heard Reynolds say. "Let him hang himself."

"What happened when you arrived at the cabin?" Geddes asked.

"Mrs. Griffen was waiting for me. There were some chairs on the porch, but she wanted to sit inside, so no one would see us.

"At first she just made small talk. How was I getting by, did I have any jobs lined up? She seemed real nervous, so I just went along with her, even though it didn't make any sense."

"What do you mean?"

"I knew damn well she wasn't concerned about my welfare.

Hell, the woman tried to get me lethally injected. But I figured she'd get to it soon enough."

"And did she?"

"Yes, sir. After we'd been talking a while, Mrs. Griffen told me she was real unhappy with her husband and wanted a divorce.

But there was a problem. She was very rich. Justice Griffen's divorce lawyer was asking for a lot of money and she was afraid the court would give it to him. I asked her what that had to do with me. That's when she led me out back of the cabin and showed me the dynamite."

"Where was this dynamite?"

"In a toolshed behind the house."

"Describe the shed and its contents."

"It's been a while and I only looked in a minute, but it seems like the shed was made out of weathered gray timber. The dynamite was in a box on the floor. I know there were some gardening tools in the shed, but I can't remember what kind."

"What did Mrs. Griffen say to you when she showed you the dynamite?"

"She said she knew I was good with explosives and wanted to know if I could use the dynamite to kill her husband. She told me she had a workshop in her garage and I could make the bomb there. She also said no one would suspect us of working together since she was the one who prosecuted me."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her she'd made a big mistake. I said I didn't know anything about making bombs and that I hadn't killed any of the people she thought I'd killed. But even if I had, I wasn't going to kill the guy who was responsible for taking me off death row.

Especially when that guy was a justice of the Oregon Supreme Court.

You'd have to be an idiot. I mean, every cop in the state would be hunting you down if you killed someone important like that and they'd never give up."

"What did the defendant say to that?"

"She offered me fifty thousand dollars. She told me I was smart and could figure out how to do it without being caught."

"How did you respond?"

"I said I wasn't going to do it."

"What did the defendant say then?"

"She got real quiet. I'd seen her in court like that. It made me a little nervous. Then she said she was sorry she'd troubled me. I didn't want to hang around any more than I had to, so I took off."

"Did you go to the police after you left?"

"Are you kidding? She warned me about that. She said no one would believe me if I accused her, because the cops still thought I killed that kid and her father. She also said she'd have dope planted on me and send me away forever if she even heard I was in spitting distance of a police station or the DA's office."

"Was that the last time you had any contact with Mrs. Griffen?"

"Yes, sir."

"Despite her warning, you did come to the district attorney and explain what happened."

"Yes, sir."

"Why did you come forward?"

"Self-preservation. As soon as the judge was blown up, I knew she was trying to frame me. Hell, she did it once with that phony confession, and the newspapers said the bomb was similar to the one that killed Hollins and his kid. Then I heard the cops were looking for me. I figured my only chance was to go to the DA and hope he'd believe me."

"No further questions."

Deems had stared at Reynolds frequently during his testimony, growing frustrated when Matthew refused to pay any attention to him. The slight had been intentional. Matthew wanted Deems angry and combative.

"Did you know a man named Harold Shoe, Mr. Deems?"

Matthew asked.

"Yeah, I knew Shoe."

"Was he a drug dealer?"

"So they said."

"Did 'they' also say he was a rival of yours in the drug trade?"

"I don't know everything people said about Shoe."

"Did you know that Mr. Shoe was tortured to death?"

"I heard that."

"Did you also hear that Larry Hollins was prepared to identify you as the man he saw putting Mr. Shoe's body in a Dumpster?"

"My lawyer told me that after Hollins was killed. That's the first I knew of it."

"While you were awaiting trial for the murder of Larry Hollins and Jessica Hollins, his nine-year-old daughter, did you have a cellmate named Benjamin Rice?"

"Yeah. The cops planted him in my cell."

"Did you tell Benjamin Rice that Shoe was 'a worthless piece of shit who couldn't even die like a man'?"

"I never said that. Rice made that up."

"Did you tell Mr. Rice that it was 'tough that the kid had to die, but that's the risk a snitch takes'?"

"I never said that either."

Tracy cast a quick look at the jurors. They no longer looked amused by Charlie Deems.

"What time of day did you meet with Mrs. Griffen at the coast?"

"Late afternoon."

"Can you be more specific?"

"She said to come out around four."

"The sun was still shining?"

"Right."

"And this meeting was arranged during the phone call you received from Mrs. Griffen?"

"Right."

"Where were you when you received the call?"

"A friend's."

"What friend?"

"Her name is Angela Quinn."

"Did you go to Ms. Quinn's as soon as you were released from prison?"

"Yeah."

"And you were in prison for two years?"

"Two years, two months and eight days."

"And before that, you were in jail, awaiting trial?"

"Yes."

"And before that, you lived in an apartment?"

"Right."

"Not with Ms. Quinn?"

"No."

"How did Mrs. Griffen know where to call you?"

"What?"

"You testified that you were living in an apartment when you were arrested, then jail, then prison. You've also testified that the first conversation you ever had with Mrs. Griffen was the phone call you received at Angela Quinn's residence. How would Mrs. Griffen know where to contact you? How would she know Angela Quinn's phone number?"

Deems looked confused and glanced at Chuck Geddes for help.

"While you're trying to think up an answer to that question, why don't you tell the jury what Mrs. Griffen was wearing when you met at the cabin."

"Uh, let's see. Jeans, I think, and a tee shirt."

"What color tee shirt?"

"Uh, blue, I think."

"How long were you with Mrs. Griffen?"

"Forty-five minutes. An hour."

"Face to face?"

"Yeah."

"And you can't recall what she was wearing?"

"I wasn't paying attention," Deems snapped angrily. "I'm not a fashion expert."

Deems sounded flustered and Geddes leaned over to confer with Neil Christenson.

"You talked inside the cabin, did you not?"

"Right."

"Maybe you'll have better luck describing the furnishings of the cabin to the jury."

"What do you mean?"

"Tell the jury what the inside of the cabin looked like. You should have no trouble if you were inside it for forty-five minutes to an hour."

Several of the jurors leaned forward.

"Uh, there's a kitchen and a living room."

"When you spoke with Mrs. Griffen, where did you sit?"

"In the living room."

"Where in the living room?"

"Uh, on the couch."

"What color is the couch?"

Deems paused for a moment. Then he shook his head. "I don't really remember. Look, I told you, the woman wanted me to murder her husband.

I wasn't paying attention to the furniture."

"How about the living-room rug, Mr. Deems?" Reynolds asked, ignoring Deems's discomfort.

"I don't remember. Brown. Maybe, it was brown."

"Can you tell the jury the color of anything in the Griffen cabin?

Deems was upset. He shifted in his seat.

"Do you want to know why you can't recall the colors, Mr. Deems?" Deems just stared at Reynolds. "It's because you were in the Griffen cabin but not when you claim you were there. You entered the cabin at night, after sunset, when you tried to kill Mrs. Griffen. In the absence of light, the human eye cannot distinguish colors."

Deems flushed. He shook his head and glared at Reynolds.

"That's not it. I wasn't paying attention to colors. I was nervous. I mean, this woman prosecuted me for a murder I didn't commit. Then she turns around and asks me to kill her husband.

Colors were the last thing on my mind."

Reynolds picked up a stack of photographs and crossed the courtroom to the witness box. Then he smiled at Deems, but there was no warmth in it.

"By the way," Matthew said, handing Deems one of the pictures, "there is no rug in the living room. It's hardwood."

"What are those photographs?" Geddes asked as he leaped to his feet.

"They are pictures of the cabin taken on August twelfth, the day Mr.

Deems claims he visited Mrs. Griffen. The pictures were mentioned in discovery."

"Objection," Geddes said desperately. "There's no foundation for them."

"All of these photographs were taken by Mrs. Griffen. The camera she used date-stamped the negatives. I'll lay the foundation later,"

Reynolds said.

"With that assurance, I'll permit you to use them," Judge Baldwin ruled.

Deems examined the picture quickly. While the attorneys argued, he looked over at Abigail Griffen. She was smiling a hard, cold smile at him. Deems flushed with rage. He wanted Abbie to suffer, but she looked triumphant.

"Well?" Matthew asked. "Is there a rug?"

"No," Deems answered grudgingly. "At least not in these pictures."

"Do you have other photographs showing a rug in the Griffen cabin, Mr.

Deems?" Reynolds snapped.

Suddenly, it appeared to Tracy that Charlie Deems had thrown a switch and cut off all of his emotions. The anger disappeared to be replaced by a deadly calm. The witness relaxed visibly and leaned back in his chair. Then he grinned at Matthew and answered, "No, sir. These are the only photos I know about."

Tracy was suddenly frightened for Matthew and glad that he was not alone with Charlie Deems.

"Thank you, Mr. Deems. Now, you've explained that Mrs. Griffen wanted you to use dynamite that was in a shed behind the house?"

"Right," Deems replied evenly.

"You remember the dynamite because she showed it to you?"

"Definitely."

Matthew Reynolds handed another picture to Deems. "I remind you that the negative of this picture of the shed is date-stamped. Where is the dynamite?"

In the photograph, the shed door was ajar enough to show the interior.

Deems saw gardening tools, a volleyball net and an empty space with a volleyball resting dead center. What he did not see was a box of dynamite.