First degree

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

My office these days is not exactly a beehive of activity. … My call-list consists of three charities and a wanna-be client, whom I've already turned down. … I sit at my desk for a while, moving the papers from the right side to the left. That makes the desk look left-heavy, so I move half the papers back to the right. The problem is, with papers now on each side there's no place for me to put my feet-up. So with my feet resting uncomfortably on the floor, I pick up the newspaper and read about the discovery of Alex Dorsey's headless body.

PRAISE FOR FIRST DEGREE,

Selected as one of the Best Mysteries of the Year by Publishers Weekly

"Rosenfelt's got it all--canny invention, snappy dialogue, deftly managed legal conflicts, startling surprises--and he displays it all with an economy that should make his courtroom brethren hang their heads in shame."

– -Kirkus Reviews (starred review) "Entertaining."

– -Cleveland Plain Dealer

"[FIRST DEGREE] confirms that Rosenfelt will be a force in the legal-thriller world for a long time to come."

– -Booklist

"Genuinely delightful. … Clever plot twists, deft legal maneuverings, and keen wit boost Rosenfelt's accomplished follow-up to his Edgar-nominated debut. … The author adroitly maintains a fast pace while switching gears effortlessly. … Rosenfelt should win a unanimous verdict: first-rate."

– -Publishers Weekly (starred review) "Engaging. … Rosenfelt has another winner."

– -Orlando Sentinel

"Rosenfelt keeps the plot roaring along … while keeping the reader chuckling and turning pages."

– -Library Journal

"A tremendous thriller … fast-paced … a winner."

– -Midwest Book Review

"The fun part about Rosenfelt's legal thrillers … is the dry wit and self-deprecating humor of his hero."

– -Star-Ledger (NJ)

… AND FOR OPEN AND SHUT

"A very assured first novel … packed with cleverly sarcastic wit."

– -New York Times

"Splendid … intricate plotting."

– -Cleveland Plain Dealer

"A great book … one part gripping legal thriller, one part smart-mouth wise-guy detective story, and all around terrific."

– -Harlan Coben, author of No Second Chance

"Rosenfelt has a knack for pacing, plotting, and narration. … This new guy just may have what it takes."

– -St. Petersburg Times

"Engaging and likable. … The action is brisk."

– -San Francisco Chronicle

"Written with the skill of a veteran, Rosenfelt's debut legal thriller boasts fresh characters, an engaging narrator, and a plot that forces readers to keep flipping the pages."

– -Booklist (starred review)

Books by David Rosenfelt

Dead Center

Sudden Death

Bury the Lead

First Degree

Open and Shut

To Doris and Obby Rosenfelt, Herb Jaffe, and David Laser.

If you knew them, your lives are better for it.

Acknowledgments

I would very much like to state that I had no help whatsoever in putting this book together, but too many people know better. So in no particular order, I grudgingly thank: All the great people at Warner, including but certainly not limited to Jamie Raab, Bob Castillo, Elizabeth Hickmann, and Kristen Weber. Very special thanks go to Sara Ann Freed, who is the only editor I ever want to have, and Susan Richman, a wonderful publicist who somehow finds the time to deal with my inane requests. Every inexperienced novelist should be lucky enough to be paired with people like this.

My outstanding agents, Robin Rue on the book side and Sandy Weinberg on the film side. Besides being a pleasure to deal with, they put up with my nonsense and still manage to do absolutely everything right.

George Kentris of Findlay, Ohio, a terrific criminal attorney and friend, who fills in my legal blanks. And believe me, I have plenty of legal blanks.

Ed and Pat Thomas of Book Carnival in Orange, California, who have been amazingly helpful and supportive, generously offering their knowledge and advice.

All of those who read the book in its early drafts. They include, and I hope I haven't forgotten anyone, Debbie Myers, Mike, Sandi, Rick, Lynn, Ross, Heidi, Adam, Eden, Todd and Bree Rosenfelt, Betsy Frank, Art Strauss, Emily Kim, Greg Creed, George Kentris, Joe Cugini, Amanda, Sharon and Mitchell Baron, Jerry Esbin, Norman Trell, Al and Nancy Sarnoff, James Patricof, Nancy Carter, Holly Sillau, and the entire terrific Heller family.

Debbie Myers, whom I could spend the next 200 pages thanking, and it wouldn't be enough. The knowledge that I am going to spend the rest of my life with her brightens every day.

I'm very grateful to all of you who e-mailed me feedback on Open and Shut. Please do so again through my Web site: www.davidrosenfelt.com

OPENING DAY.

Said separately, they're just two ordinary words.

"Opening" and "day." No big deal.

But put them together, liberally sprinkle some thirty-year-old memories, and they take on a meaning that can simultaneously bring a rush of excitement and a threat of tears. At least to me.

"Opening day." My mind's eye conjures up men in pinstripes racing onto a lush green field as the public address announcer booms, "Ladies and gentlemen, the New York Yankees!" That field is a clean spring slate; none of those players have yet made an error, or hit into a double play, or thrown a bat in disgust. Nor have they plans to.

The feeling I have on opening day is one I shared with my father and one he shared with his father before that. Today it takes on an added significance, because I'm going to continue that legacy. The experience won't be quite identical, but we in the Carpenter family are nothing if not adaptable.

I should mention the differences, subtle though they are. First of all, since I don't have any children, the offspring I am passing the sacred tradition on to is my golden retriever, Tara. Also, with the baseball season a good month away, we won't be going to Yankee Stadium, and we won't be seeing a baseball game. The particular opening that we are attending is that of Paterson, New Jersey's first-ever dog park.

I've never actually been to a dog park; I'm not even sure what one is. Tara hasn't been to one either, unless it was during the first two years of her life, before I knew her. If she has, I suspect the experience was less than thrilling, since I told her yesterday that we'd be going, and she was not awake all night in eager anticipation.

This dog park is supposed to be a pretty big deal. It was even a campaign issue in the recent election for mayor. Every candidate promised to have one, so I guess Paterson must have a lot of people like me, concerned citizens who vote the straight dog ticket.

As Tara and I drive over, I'm not getting the feeling that she's into the swing of things. She sits on the front seat, munches on a rawhide chewy, and doesn't show the least bit of interest in where we might be headed. Even when we get close, and we can hear the barking, she doesn't bother to look up and just keeps chomping away. Now I know why my father never gave me chewies on the way to Yankee games.

The park itself is nothing more than a very large dirt area, maybe the size of a football field, fenced on all sides. There must be a hundred dogs running around, getting to know each other, stopping to drink at numerous and well-positioned water fountains. Sort of a canine singles bar. There are maybe half as many humans, almost exclusively women, standing off to one side, talking and occasionally throwing a tennis ball, which sends the dogs into an absolute frenzy.

As we near the entrance gate, Tara seems to watch this scene with some measure of horror, much as I would approach a mosh pit. But she's a good sport; she checks her dignity at the door and enters with me. I walk toward the humans, and so does Tara. She'll do this for my sake, but she's not about to go fighting for a tennis ball like some animal.

The conversation, as might be expected, pretty much centers around all things canine. The dog park, the dogs, dog food, dog toys … it all seems fascinating, except as a male I'm not included. Tara keeps leaning against my leg, in a subtle suggestion that we bail out of here. I am preparing to do just that when a woman deigns to speak to me.

"Your dog seems a little antisocial." She's talking about Tara, and if she hadn't said it with a smile on her face, we'd be duking it out right now.

I decide to go with glib. "This isn't really her scene. She's an intellectual. Bring her to a poetry reading, and she's the life of the party."

The woman, nice-looking despite her "yuppie puppie" headband, for some reason decides this could be a conversation worth continuing. "I have a friend looking for a golden retriever puppy. What breeder did you get her from?"

I shake my head. "I didn't. She was in the animal shelter."

She is amazed by this, as I was, as would be any normal human being. "You mean somebody abandoned this dog? And she could have been …"

She doesn't want to say "killed" or "put to sleep," so I take her off the hook with a nod. "She was on her last day when I got her."

The horrified woman calls some of her friends over to tell them this story, and before I know it I'm holding court in the middle of maybe twenty women, all of them gushing over my sensitivity for having rescued this dog. The dog in question, Tara, stands dutifully by my side, enduring the embarrassment and apparently willing to let me take the credit, even though she was the one stuck in that shelter.

After a few minutes of embellishing the story about the animal shelter, which I am now referring to as "death row," I move smoothly into light banter. This is interrupted by a woman standing toward the back.

"Hey, aren't you that lawyer who won that big case? I saw you on television. Andy Carpenter, right?"

I nod as modestly as I can manage. She is talking about the Willie Miller case, in which I proved Willie's innocence in a retrial after he had spent seven years facing the death penalty. The women connect the dots and realize that I am that rare person who saves both dogs and people from death rows everywhere, and the group attitude quickly moves toward hero worship. It's daunting, but that's the price I pay for being heroic.

Suddenly, there is a sign of life and interest from Tara, as she moves quickly toward a woman approaching our group. The newcomer, to my surprise, is Laurie Collins, the chief (and only) investigator for my law practice, and the chief (and only) woman that I am in love with. She would not have been my first choice to interrupt this meeting of my all-female sensitivity class, but she looks so good that I don't really mind.

As Laurie comes closer, I can see that she doesn't only look good, she looks intense. She doesn't even lean over to pet Tara, an uncharacteristic oversight which surprises me and positively shocks Tara. Laurie comes right over to me, and my devoted fans part slightly and grudgingly to let her through.

"Alex Dorsey is dead," she says.

"What?" It's a reflex question. I wasn't asking it to get more information in the moment, but that's exactly what I get.

"Somebody decapitated him, then poured gasoline on his body and set it on fire."

If you ever want to get rid of twenty adoring women, I know a line you can use. My fans leave so fast you'd think there was a "70% off" sale at Petco. Based on the gleam in Laurie's eye, that's exactly what she expected. Within moments it is just Laurie, Tara, and myself.

"Sorry to interrupt, Andy," she says. "At first I wasn't sure it was you. I thought it might be a rock star."

I put on my most wistful look. "For a moment there, I was."

"You up for breakfast at Charlie's? Because I'd like to talk to you about Dorsey."

"Okay," I say. "I'll meet you there."

She nods and walks to her car. I'm going to drop Tara off at home and then go to Charlie's, which is just five minutes from my house.

On the way there, I reflect on Dorsey's death and what it might mean to me. The answer is that it means absolutely nothing at all to me, except for the impact it will have on Laurie. But that will be considerable.

Alex Dorsey was a lieutenant in the Paterson Police Department when Laurie was making detective, and she was assigned to his command at the time of her promotion. It didn't take long for her to realize that whatever he once had been, he had ceased to be a very good cop. If there was an easy way out, Dorsey would find an even easier one. He was a walking billboard for the twenty-year retirement rule, although obviously he had chosen to take his retirement while still on the job.

It took a while longer for Laurie to realize that laziness was not Alex Dorsey's biggest vice. Like most of her colleagues, she had heard the rumors that Dorsey was on the take, but she came to believe that the truth was something even worse. Dorsey was playing both sides; he was partners in business with the criminals he was supposed to be investigating. And he was such a tough, resourceful son of a bitch that he had been getting away with it for a long time.

Laurie agonized about what to do but emotionally didn't really have a choice. Her father and uncle had been cops, good cops, and she learned from a very early age that what Dorsey was doing was the worst kind of public betrayal.

Laurie developed some evidence against him, circumstantial but a compelling start, and presented it to Internal Affairs. It was not her job to prove the case, and besides, she knew that they could take it from there. Conclusive evidence would not be difficult to uncover, and it wouldn't belong before Dorsey paid for his sins.

But the first sign that Dorsey was not going down easily was the almost immediate public knowledge that Laurie was the person who had turned him in. That leak was a violation of department policy, which guarantees anonymity to those who turn over evidence implicating an officer in a crime. Laurie's action was also considered by some a violation by her of the ridiculous code of silence, which says that cops don't turn on other cops, no matter how slimy those other cops might be.

The controversy brought chaos and bitterness to the department. Dorsey had developed quite a power base over the years, and he was aware of skeletons in closets where most people didn't even know there were closets. The rank and file, and probably the department leadership, were drawn to one side or the other, and it became perceived as Alex Dorsey versus Laurie Collins. His supporters viewed her as the enemy, or worse, as a traitor.

It became apparent to Laurie that the investigation, mired in departmental and even mayoral politics, was going to be neither complete nor fruitful. So when the word finally came out that Dorsey was merely reprimanded for "improprieties," rather than dismissed and charged with felonies, Laurie's disenchantment and disgust were complete, and she left the department. She opened her own investigative agency, and I became one of her clients. Happily, I became much more later on.

A week ago, word got out that new information had surfaced and that Dorsey was facing imminent arrest. Unfortunately, that word must have also gotten to Dorsey, who proceeded to disappear. Laurie openly admitted to feeling vindicated by the turn of events, which was the last we had heard of Dorsey until today's grisly discovery.

I drop Tara off, give her a biscuit, and head over to Charlie's. It is basically a sports bar/restaurant, but it has recently added a terrific breakfast menu. One of the many things I love about Laurie is that she likes Charlie's as much as I do, which is about as much as is possible to like a restaurant. Even on Sunday mornings, when there are no games on the ten television screens, it's a great place to be.

I order some fresh fruit, hash browns, and black coffee, then sit back and prepare to listen. I know Laurie well enough to realize that in this case, when she says she needs to talk to me, that isn't exactly what she means. What she needs to do right now is talk period, and she feels a little silly if there's nobody around to hear it So I am the designated listener.

Laurie starts a five-minute soliloquy about Dorsey, rehashing some of their history together. It's nothing I don't already know, and nothing she doesn't know I already know. She wraps it up with, "He was a bad guy. A really bad guy. You know that."

Recognizing that it is my turn to speak, I nod. "Yes, I do. He was a bad guy. Absolutely. A bad guy."

Laurie is silent for a few moments, then says softly, "The thing that bothers me, Andy, is that I'm glad he's dead. When I heard about it, I was glad."

This is a major admission from someone who, when she catches a fly, takes it outside and turns it loose. "That's normal," I say.

She shakes her head, unwilling to be let off the hook. "Not for me."

"He was a dirty cop who had it coming." I twirl my imaginary mustache and inject some humor. "Said the liberal to the conservative."

She seems completely unamused, which I have to assume reflects her emotional state rather than the quality of the joke. I try again, continuing with the same theme. "At today's performance, the role of tough law-and-order advocate will be played by Andy Carpenter, and the role of defender of the indefensible will be played by Laurie Collins."

She ignores this one as well; I should be writing them down to use on more appreciative audiences. The fact is, I can't get that exercised about Dorsey's death; the planet is a healthier place for his being gone. He represented a terribly unpleasant chapter in Laurie's life, an emotional toothache, and I'm hoping she can now put it behind her.

But she's not letting it drop, so I decide to steer the conversation toward the nuts and bolts of today's news. "Do they have any suspects?" I ask.

"Doesn't seem like it. Pete's theory is that his mob friends turned on him once he was no longer of any value to them."

"Pete" is Lieutenant Pete Stanton, my closest, and only, friend on the police force, and one of the few officers who openly supported Laurie during the tough times. I'm not surprised that he would be the one to provide her with information about Dorsey's death.

"Where was he found?" I ask.

"In a warehouse on McLean Boulevard. Kids called in an alarm when they saw smoke. Turned out it was Dorsey that was on fire."

She takes a deep breath and continues. "They think his head was sliced off, maybe with a machete. Whoever did it must have kept it as a souvenir. And the body was burned beyond recognition. They only ID'd him based on some unusual kind of ring he was wearing."

My antennae go up. "That's all?"

She nods. "But they're running a DNA test to be sure."

I'm glad to hear that. I wouldn't put it past Dorsey to murder someone else and fake the whole thing. People on both sides of the law have a tendency to stop chasing you when they think you're dead.

We talk about the Dorsey situation some more, until there's nothing left to say about it.

"Are you going into the office tomorrow?" she asks.

I nod. "Probably late morning. I'm meeting with Holbrook on the Danny Rollins case at nine-thirty."

"Wow. Practice is really taking off, huh?"

Laurie is gently mocking both the fact that I'm representing Danny Rollins, who happens to be my bookmaker, and the fact that I've got absolutely nothing else to do. I haven't taken on a significant client in the six months since the Willie Miller case. And it's not that I haven't had the opportunities. The way the trial ended, with Willie getting off and the real killers exposed, I became a media darling and Paterson's answer to Perry Mason. I've been at the top of every felon's wish list ever since.

But I've rejected them all. Each turndown had its own rationale. Either the potential client seemed guilty and therefore unworthy, or the ease wasn't challenging, or interesting, or significant. Down deep it feels like I've been inventing reasons to decline these cases, but I truly don't know why I would.

I think I have lawyer's block.

WEALTH TAKES SOME GETTING USED TO.

When one suddenly becomes really rich, as I have, there's just nothing natural about how it feels. It's sort of like driving an old, beat-up Dodge Dart for a bunch of years, and then somebody gives you a Ferrari. You say you won't let it change your life, but you think twice before parking it at the 7-Eleven.

My father, Nelson Carpenter, left me twenty-two million dollars. It was money he received dishonorably, taking a payment in return for covering up a crime committed by his oldest friend, who eventually became my father-in-law. My father was a respected district attorney, and to my knowledge, this was the only dishonorable act he ever committed. It set off a chain reaction that left my now-ex-father-in-law in prison and me rolling in dough.

It could have been worse, of course. My father could have done something bad and then left me poor, but instead he shocked me by leaving me all this money that I didn't know he had and that he never touched, letting it accumulate interest for thirty-five years. So for the last six months I've been trying to figure out what to do with it.

I definitely intend to be a regular contributor to charily, and I've made sporadic efforts at that. But what I really want is to find a charity, a cause, that I can attach myself to and make my own. That sounds like it would be easy, but it's been anything but.

First of all, I talked too much about it, the word got around, and charities started coming after me like I was fresh meat. Which I was. Which I am.

The low point came a couple of days ago, when the president of the Committee to Save the Otters of Guatemala Bay came to see me. She was a nice enough woman, but it was probably the tenth solicitation of its kind I endured last week, and I'm afraid I was not on my best behavior.

"Who did you beat?" I asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"In the election, when you became president of the Committee to Save the Otters of Guatemala Bay … who did you run against?"

"We are not a political organization," she said defensively. "We are a cohesive, organized effort to right a terrible wrong. Guatemala Bay is being systematically contaminated, and the otters are left unprotected."

"So you ran unopposed?" I pressed.

"In a manner of speaking." Her annoyance with me was showing. "Mr. Carpenter, if we could get to the reason why I am here."

"I'm sorry, but until now, I didn't even know there was a Guatemala Bay. I thought Guantanamo was the only 'Gua' with a bay."

"If people like you don't intervene, it soon will be."

"How much of an intervention are you looking for?" I asked.

"Ten thousand dollars."

I intervened her a thousand. I'm hoping it'll be enough to get me a cute picture of the otter I've adopted, with maybe a letter or two.

Today being Sunday, that letter won't be coming, so I'll have to content myself with sitting on the couch with Tara and watching basketball. I'm feeling very comfortable at home these days. A couple of months ago, I sold my house in the allegedly fashionable suburbs and moved into the one I grew up in. It is located in the decidedly less fashionable Paterson, but it is the only house to which I will ever feel a real attachment. When my father died, I had planned to sell it but couldn't get myself to do it. Laurie suggested I move in, and since I did, I know that I've come home.

The only addition I've made to the place is a large-screen TV, which I will put to great use today. The Knicks are on at one o'clock, then the Lakers are playing Utah at four, then Nets-Sacramento at six, overlapped by Marquette-Cincinnati at seven, and finishing up with UNLV-Utah at nine. If I plan it right, I can have the pizza arrive before the Laker tip-off, just about the time I'm having my third beer.

If this were a movie, it would be called The Perfect Day.

My first step is to call in a bet on the Knicks, minus three against Toronto. The bookmaker, Danny Rollins, wishes me luck both on the game and especially in my meeting tomorrow with the assistant DA, who has the nerve to be accusing Danny of bookmaking. Obviously a trumped-up charge against a law-abiding citizen.

Tara gets up on the couch and assumes her favorite position, lying on her side with her head resting just above my knee. It virtually forces me to pet her every time I reach for my beer, which works for me as well as her. If there's a better dog on this planet, if there's a better living creature on this planet, then this is a great planet, and that must be one amazing living creature.

The Knicks are up by four with a minute to play when I once again feel the reverse sting of great wealth. I bet two hundred on the game, and I realize the money has absolutely no significance to me. Betting is only fun when you're worried about losing. Absent the possibility of the agony of defeat, there can't be a thrill of victory. I'd better get another beer.

It's ten o'clock when the phone wakes me up during the UNLV game. I'm up three hundred bucks; I wish I could get excited about it.

"Hello?"

"Sorry to wake you, but you shouldn't be sleeping on the couch anyway," Laurie says. How does she know these things? Of course, she is a professional investigator; I have to remember to check the house for hidden cameras.

I stand up immediately. "I'm not on the couch."

"Yeah, right," she says in a voice that implies "You're full of shit, but who cares?" "Anyway, I just heard from Pete."

"And?"

"The preliminary report came in. The DNA matches. The body is definitely Dorsey."

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"I'm fine. I'm glad it's over;" she says. "Go back to sleep."

I stifle a yawn. "I'm not really tired. I think I'll check and see if there's a basketball game on."

"You mean like the UNLV game I hear in the background?"

"Well, what do you know?"

"Good night, Andy. I love you."

"Good night, Laurie." We've been using the l-word for a couple of months now, but we both agree that it loses some meaning when it always draws an automatic "I love you too" in response. So we're allowing ourselves to make the decision on an individual basis, as it comes up. We're doing groundbreaking things in this relationship.

I watch the game for another three or four seconds before failing back to sleep. Somewhere around three o'clock in the morning, I get up and head for the bedroom, not waking again until seven-thirty. I take Tara for a walk, then get dressed and head for John Holbrook's office.

Holbrook has been with the DA's office for about six years, which means he's probably getting ready to head for the money on the defense side of the table. He's conscientious, hardworking, and relatively fair, a good if unexceptional attorney. Even on cases like this one, which he and I both know is of no great consequence to society, he'll be thoroughly prepared.

Danny Rolling's only role in my life is that of bookmaker, but in the numerous phone calls we have shared, I've gotten to know a little about him. He's got a wife who works as a physical therapist and two kids in high school. He skis, votes straight Republican, tries every diet fad that comes along, and can be counted on to pay off on a bet as surely as he can be counted on to collect.

What Danny does for a living is considered illegal only because of the bizarre nature of our criminal code. It's legal to gamble on a horse race at the track or an off-track betting parlor, but not with a bookmaker. You can waste the family food budget on lottery tickets, but not on the Knicks. Fortunes can be made or lost buying Yahoo! or IBM, but take the Giants and lay the points and you can find yourself in court.

I know that Danny has some connections to northern New Jersey's version of organized crime, because that is how he gets assigned the territory that he can cover. Having said that, I find him to be decent and honorable, and certainly worth getting off this ridiculous legal hook.

Holbrook is finishing a meeting in the conference room when I arrive, and his secretary has me wait in his office. He comes in a couple of minutes later and seems surprised to see me.

"Andy, what are you doing here?"

"We have a meeting on me Danny Rollins matter."

He nods. "I know, but I didn't expect you to come personally. I mean, a rich guy like you?" He looks at his watch. "And with the stock market open? I would have thought you'd send one of your people."

If you're keeping a list at home, you can write down "envious taunting" as, another of the downsides of sudden wealth. "My people were busy. Besides, they don't like you. So drop the charges and let me get back to the stock market."

He laughs and opens the file. "Drop the charges? This is such a sure thing, your client wouldn't take a bet on it."

He proceeds to take me through the file, showing me the confiscated betting slips, the ledgers, and the phone records. His office has already sent all of this to me as part of discovery, and I've gone through it, but I don't tell him that.

He finishes, a satisfied smirk on his face. "What's your position on this, Counselor?"

"If you drop the charges at the end of this sentence, I believe I can convince my client not to sue for false arrest."

"Come on, Andy. I'm busy here, you know? You want to deal or not?"

I shake my head. "Not. We intend to mount a vigorous defense."

He laughs; it's quite possible he's familiar with some of my previous vigorous defenses. "Consisting of what?" he asks.

"Character witnesses."

"Excuse me?"

"Character witnesses," I repeat. "They're witnesses as to my client's character, which, by the way, is extraordinary."

"I'm sure it is. And who might these witnesses be?"

"Oh, you know, the usual well-respected, above-reproach, pillars-of-society types. Those kind of people. Would you like me to give you an example?"

He shrugs, which I take to be a yes. I open the file and take out the phone records.

I point to the first page of numbers. "Now, if I remember your stirring presentation correctly, these phone numbers allegedly represent the people who called my client to place illegal wagers. Of course, you offered no proof of this, but--"

He interrupts. "And your contention is that these fifty-seven hundred calls in one month were for what purpose exactly?"

"I can't speak for all of them, but I would suppose that they were mostly friends calling to discuss current events, exchange recipes, that kind of thing."

He's losing patience. "Come on, Andy, can we move this along?"

"Okay. Let's pick a number, any number." I point to a place on the sheet. "How about this one?"

Holbrook looks where I'm pointing. "What about it?"

"Dial it. On the speakerphone."

He starts to argue, then shrugs and goes over to the phone, no doubt figuring that it'll get me out of his office that much sooner. As he goes back to his desk, we can both hear the phone ringing through the speaker.

The female voice comes through the phone. "Carmichael residence."

A look, of concern flashes across Holbrook's face as I walk toward the phone. "Is the mayor home?" I ask.

"Who may I say is calling?"

I smile benignly at Holbrook and continue. "Just tell him it's Deputy District Attorney John--"

Displaying catlike quickness that I had no idea he possessed, Holbrook leaps from his chair, moves deftly around his desk, lunges, and cuts off the call before I can finish identifying him. If he does as well on the parallel bars and horse as he's just done on the floor exercise, he's got a shot at the individual all-around.

With the phone safely hung up, he turns to me. "Are you telling me the mayor bets with this guy? Is that what this little stunt was about?"

I shrug. "Unless he's into recipes. I'll ask my client when I get him on the stand."

Holbrook is indignant. "You think this'll stop me? I didn't even vote for the son of a bitch."

"On the other hand, he did appoint your boss." I point to the list. "Care to try another call?"

"Who else is on here? The pope?"

"My client is a really friendly guy who just loves to chitchat. You know the type?"

"Yeah, I know the type exactly," he says. "Now, get the hell out of my office."

So that's what I do. I get out of his office and go to my own. On the way I call Danny and tell him that justice is about to prevail. He's really happy and asks how much he owes me. I tell him five hundred and we let it ride on the 76ers tonight. Maybe I'll win, and maybe I won't. Whatever.

My office these days is not exactly a beehive of activity. Edna, my erstwhile secretary, doesn't even look up from the Times crossword puzzle when I walk in. Of course, Edna wouldn't look up if Abraham Lincoln walked in. Edna is the unchallenged crossword puzzle master of the Western world, and she attributes a great deal of that amazing ability to her powers of concentration. My entrance doesn't put a dent in them.

My call list consists of three charities and a wanna-be client, whom I've already turned down, but who is persistent. It's a DUI case, which resulted in a near-fatal injury to a pedestrian. The potential client, when he came to see me, had the smell of liquor on his breath. The decision to pass on the case was not a close call.

I sit at my desk for a while, moving the papers from the right side of the desk over to the left. That makes the desk look left-heavy, so I move half the papers-back to the right. The problem is, with papers now on each side, there's no place for me to put my feet up. So with my feet resting uncomfortably on the floor, I pick up the newspaper and read about the discovery of Alex Dorsey's headless body. In order to sell papers, the media usually try to make murders sound gory and disgusting. In this case, with those qualities preexisting, they are pretending to be embarrassed at having to participate in the revelations.

The meeting with Holbrook this morning, though it wasn't exactly arguing before the Supreme Court, has had an effect on me. I realize that I'm getting ready to get back in the action, that I want a case to sink my legal teeth into.

Since I don't happen to have one right now, and since Edna is paying no attention to me at all, I get up and wander down the hall to Sam Willis's office. Sam has been my accountant ever since I moved into this building.

Actually, Sam and I have exchanged professional services. Sam is nothing short of brilliant in two areas. On the one hand, he is as close as anyone I've met to being a financial genius. He knows everything there is to know about money and the rules that govern it. He also has an amazing and complementary expertise in computers, at least as it relates to financial matters. Sit him at a keyboard, and he is a true maestro.

Just a month or so after we met, Sam was accused of illegal hacking, a crime of which he was guilty. The mitigating circumstance, at least in my mind, was that he was retaliating on behalf of a client who was wronged by a large corporation. I got him off on a technicality, and we've been friends ever since.

The thing I find confusing about Sam is that, even though it must have taken a very significant amount of work and drive to learn all that he knows, he has never seen fit or been able to channel that drive into his own financial success. He should be financial guru to fee corporate stars, but instead his client list reads like a who's who of schleppers. As a former low-income nobody, I had fit right in. When I came into all this money, Sam got so excited I thought he was going to have a stroke.

Sam is in his office with Barry Leiter, a twenty-three-year-old whom Sam hired out of high school. Barry has been putting himself through night school at Rutgers in Newark by working for Sam, who claims that Barry is even better than he is on a computer. Sam clearly likes the idea of having a protege.

Sam and I have this ongoing contest that we call song-talking. The trick is to work song lyrics into a conversation. Just doing it is a plus; doing it without the other person realizing it is a total victory.

"Hey, Sam," I say, "what good is sitting alone in your room? Come hear the music play."

I expect him to ridicule my "Cabaret" opening as the feeble attempt that it is, but he doesn't seem to pay it any attention at all. The look on his face is of a man in real distress. "Hello, Andy," he says with no enthusiasm whatsoever. He then shoots a quick glance at Barry, who takes it as a sign he should leave, which he does.

"What's the matter?" I ask.

Sam sighs. "Everything."

"What does that mean?"

He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. "You ever meet my younger brother, Billy? When he came to visit?"

I nod. Billy lives in Pittsburgh, but he came to visit Sam last year and I met him then.

"He's been sick, you know?" I didn't know, but I nod, and Sam continues. "At first nobody noticed, not even him, but he started feeling a little weak, and it seemed like no matter how much he ate, he was losing weight."

"How much weight?" I ask.

"I thought just a few pounds, like five or ten. I've been talking to him on the phone, a few times a week, and he doesn't sound good, but he tells me he's just a little under the weather. That's how he puts it: a little under the weather." Sam shakes his head sadly. I think I see tears in his eyes. This can't be good.

He continues. "So I'm out there this weekend, for my mother's birthday, and I ask where's Billy, and Mom says, 'Up in his room. He's feeling under the weather.' All of a sudden I got a family full of meteorologists, you know? So I go up to his room … man, I'll never forget it as long as I live."

"What?" I prompt, although I dread hearing it.

He composes himself before continuing. "Billy … he … he's like wasting away, Andy. Right in front of me. He was this big guy, remember? Maybe a hundred and ninety pounds. You know what he weighs now? One fifteen. One fifteen! He's like skin and bones, just waiting to die."

I shake my head; there's not much to say.

"So I take one look at him, and I get mad, you know? All these months, he's been lying to me, not telling me how sick he really was. I was so pissed, I just wanted to walk out of there and never come back."

"So what did you do?"

He shrugs. "What could I do? I mean, Billy, all skin and bones like that … I figured, 'he ain't heavy, he's my brother.'"

Sam starts to cackle, recognizing full well that he has taken song-talking to a new level. The fact that he was willing to fake an agonizing, fatal disease for his own brother in the process does nothing to temper his glee.

I hang around for a little while, but nothing I say can take the satisfied smirk off his face, and it starts to get on my nerves. I head back to my office, preferring the company of the oblivious Edna.

Edna is not alone when I get back. Waiting with her is a tall man, maybe six foot two, with short black hair slicked back. He is wearing a leather jacket that without question cost more than it takes to adopt a family of Guatemalan otters. He is probably in his mid-forties and seems to work hard to make himself look more sophisticated than he naturally is. Fonzie joins the country club.

There's no doubt Edna thinks he's got something going for him. She has put down her crossword puzzle and has already gotten him a cup of coffee. For Edna that qualifies as undying devotion.

"Andrew, this is Geoffrey Stynes. Mr. Stynes, Andrew Carpenter." This brings to a total of one the number of occasions on which Edna has referred to me as "Andrew." Clearly, she is trying to match Stynes's sophistication.

Stynes smiles and holds out his hand. "Nice to meet you."

I take his hand and shake it. "Same here. What can I do for you?"

"You can be my lawyer," he says, the smile remaining intact.

"Come on in," I say, and move him toward my office. As he enters, I look back and see Edna giving me the thumbs-up, signifying her approval of him as a client. I close the door behind us, no doubt pissing Edna off, but that's "Andrew" for you.

Most people that come to see me take the chair across from my desk, but Stynes sits on the couch. I bring my chair over to be closer to him as we speak. He seems totally relaxed and at ease, not the demeanor that prospective clients usually display. People in need of a criminal attorney are by definition under pressure, but if Stynes is experiencing any stress at all, he is hiding it extraordinarily well.

"How did you get my name?" I ask.

"Come on, you're famous since the Miller case. Anyway, I've been watching your career for a long time," he says.

I'm puzzled and vaguely disconcerted. "Why have you been following my career?"

The confident smile returns. "For exactly the kind of situation I'm in today."

Before we discuss what situation he might be talking about, I explain some of the basics of hiring an attorney. Included in that is a standard retainer agreement, which Edna prepares and Stynes signs. Though it by no means guarantees that I will accept him as a client, the retainer establishes attorney-client privilege and allows Stynes to speak openly about his reasons for hiring me.

All of this takes about ten minutes, at the end of which Stynes is technically my client, though only for the purposes of this conversation. I will decide whether to take on his case when I hear what that case is.

"Now," I say, "tell me why you need my services."

"There's a slim but real chance I'll be charged with a crime," he says with absolutely no trace of concern.

"A specific crime?"

His smile comes back, now more condescending than before. "Yeah. Real specific."

"And what crime is that?"

"The murder of Alex Dorsey."

Since I am far from the most inscrutable person in this room, I'm sure my face reflects my surprise.

"Have the police contacted you?" I ask.

"No."

"DO you have information which leads you to believe they are going to?"

"No."

"Then why do you think you are currently a suspect?"

Another smile, smaller this time. "Right now I don't think I am. But when I killed him, I got some of his blood on my clothes. I threw them and the knife I used into some brush behind Hinchcliffe Stadium. I should have thrown them over the falls, but I was in a hurry, you understand."

Hinchcliffe Stadium is a large baseball field, a former minor league park, and it is right next to the Passaic Falls, one of the larger waterfalls in the country. Had Stynes thrown the material into the falls, that would have been the end of it.

"Dorsey wasn't killed behind Hinchcliffe Stadium," I point out.

He smiles. "Don't confuse where he was found with where he was killed. He was found in a warehouse on McLean Boulevard."

I've already pretty much decided I'm not going to take this case, but for some reason, maybe morbid curiosity, I keep probing. "Why don't you just go there and pick the stuff up?"

"Because if for some reason the police are watching me, they'd nail me to the wall. This way, even if they find it, there's a chance they won't tie me to it."

He's just confessed to a brutal murder with all the emotion that I show when I'm ordering a pizza. I am suddenly struck by a desire to pick up the intercom and say, "Edna, this is Andrew. Could you bring in a machete, a can of gasoline, and some matches? Mr. Thumbs-Up wants to show us how he decapitated and charcoal-broiled a cop last week."

"Why did you kill him?" I ask.

He laughs, permanently removing any chance I would reconsider and take the case. "If you knew Dorsey, the more logical question would be, Why didn't somebody kill him sooner?"

"What did you do with his head?"

He smiles, seems to consider answering, then makes his decision. "That's something I don't think I'll share with you. Nor is it relevant to your taking or not taking my case."

He seems to think I might be doubting his truthfulness, so without prodding, he goes on to tell me the mixture of gasoline and propane that he used on Dorsey's body. It is the same as Pete had mentioned to Laurie, but not reported in the newspapers.

I'd like to know more, but that desire soon gives way to another, even more intense one. I want to get this guy out of my office. Now.

I stand up. "Make sure you keep a copy of the retainer agreement. It is your protection against my revealing anything you've said today. I won't be representing you."

He stands. If he's disappointed, he's an outstanding actor. "You think just because I'm guilty I don't deserve a good defense?" he says with apparent amusement.

I shake my head. "I think everyone is entitled to the best defense possible. The guilty generally need it the most."

"Then why are you turning me down? I can afford whatever you charge."

I decide to be straightforward. "Mr. Stynes, when I represent a client, I do everything possible within the system to win. I don't want to be sorry if I succeed."

"You want me to go to jail?" he asks.

"Not as much as I want you to leave my office. I assure you, there are plenty of competent attorneys who will take your case, if it becomes a case."

"Okay," he says. "Whatever you say."

With that he walks out of my office, and I hear him saying a polite goodbye to Edna as he leaves. The meeting has left me a little shaken, which I can attribute to the casual, matter-of-fact manner in which he described committing such a horrible murder.

What I can't figure out is why I'm worried.

MONDAY NIGHT IS TIED FOR THE BEST NIGHT OF my week with Wednesday and Friday. Those are the nights that Laurie and I spend together. We don't often go out; in fact, more often than not we stay at one of our homes and either cook dinner or order in. We each have spare clothes in the other's house, though since Tara is at my house, that's almost always where we sleep.

I admit there is nothing spontaneous about this arrangement, but it works quite well for us. We are in a committed relationship, with all that entails, but we are not ready to live together. This way everything is out in the open, and there are no unmet expectations. We've chosen not to include Saturday night on our list because for some reason we both cherish Sunday morning solitude.

Tonight we're at my house, but it's Laurie's turn to provide dinner. While I can barely manage to order in, Laurie is an absolute master in the kitchen. Anything she finds in the refrigerator, anything at all, can become part of a terrific pasta dish.

Laurie has planted a vegetable garden in the rear corner of my backyard, a testimony to the differences between us. She finds it rewarding to spend her time growing things that the supermarket is already filled with. She seems to believe that if she can't make lettuce rise from the ground, then we'll have to go lettuce-deprived. She's even growing basil, and in a pathetic attempt to curry favor with her, I've forever sworn off store-bought basil.

We're having pasta tonight, some kind of red sauce with things in it. I don't ask what those things are for fear that they'll sound so healthful I won't want to eat them. It's delicious, and with the music and candles and Laurie as company, it should be perfect. It isn't, because I'm still thinking about Geoffrey Stynes and his chilling confession this afternoon.

I move it partially out of my mind, until Laurie mentions that she stopped into the office after I had left. "Edna told me somebody tried to hire you today, but you fought him off."

I try to smile and shrug it off. "You know Edna."

She does know Edna, but somehow that isn't enough to get her to drop it. "She said you seemed upset."

I decide to try honesty. Who knows? Maybe it'll work. "I didn't like him. I didn't like the case."

"Why?"

I shake my head. "It's privileged."

She nods, fully understanding and respecting the meaning of that. It bothers me, not being able to tell her something she would so desperately want to know, but I have no ethical choice.

There are few, if any, things more vital to a defendant's protection in our justice system than the attorney-client privilege. If an accused individual were unable to be honest with his attorney out of fear that his words would be revealed, it would cripple his chances of being adequately defended. I have never breached attorney-client privilege in my life, and I never will.

Ironically, had I accepted Stynes as a client, I could have assigned Laurie to the case as my investigator and told her everything Stynes said. Once I turned him down, I clearly lost the ethical justification to assign an investigator.

Besides, there really is no absolute guarantee that Stynes killed Dorsey. False confessions are amazingly commonplace. Of course, they're usually made to the police, not to lawyers. And the confessors are most often losers and/or lunatics. On the surface at least, Stynes doesn't fit the bill. Even more significant, the fact that he knew the composition of the flammable solution pretty much says it all.

The guy did it.

Laurie drops the issue, though she can tell that something is bothering me. Wild and crazy couple that we are, we decide to do what we often do after dinner: play Scrabble.

Playing Scrabble against Laurie is very difficult for me. We take our glasses of wine and sit on the floor, and I almost instantly find that I can't take my eyes off of her. She is beautiful in a casual, unassuming way, as if it takes no effort. And in her case it doesn't. I have seen her after an exhausting run, after a shower, after making love, after a night's sleep, after a tearful conversation, after a long day in the office, and even after a physical confrontation with a violent suspect. These observations have convinced me that they haven't invented the "after" that could make Laurie look anything but wonderful.

But if I'm looking at Laurie, then I can't be looking at my tiles. This is an effective part of her plan, but it's not nearly the most daunting part of her game. She is a woman with no Scrabble morals whatsoever; she'll do anything it takes to win, and the rules are for her opponents to worry about.

I usually lose by about fifty points, but tonight I'm actually ahead by seventeen. We're about three-quarters of the way into the game, which means she simply will not take her turn unless and until she comes up with a great word. She will ponder and agonize over her decision until August if necessary, but will under no circumstances make anything other than the perfect move.

About ten minutes have gone by, and I'm about to doze off, when she finally puts down her word. It lands on a triple word score, totals forty-eight points, and, if left unchallenged, will put her well into the lead.

The word is … "klept."

Now, there is no reason I should let her get away with this. Well, there's one. She gets really aggressive when I put up any resistance at all.

"Klept?" I say very gently. "I'm not sure that's a word, Laurie dear."

"Of course it's a word. Klept. It's what kleptomaniacs do."

"A kleptomaniac steals, sweetheart," I say.

Laurie sits up a little straighter, poised and ready to pounce. "No, the run-of-the-mill losers that you represent steal. The real sickos klept."

I look around for the dictionary that we keep in the box with the game. It's nowhere to be found.

"Do you know where the dictionary is, my little honeybunch?" I ask.

"I looked for it before, but it's gone," she says, a razor-sharp edge in her voice. "I guess somebody must have klepted it."

The game rapidly heads downhill after that. I start to make moves too quickly, she slows down even more, and she beats me by sixty-seven points.

That's the bad news. The good news is it means we can go to bed, and bed with Laurie is much better than Scrabble with Laurie. Bed with Laurie is better than Scrabble with anybody. Though I'm speaking from a rather limited database, I think it's very likely that bed with Laurie is better than bed with anybody.

I wake up at six-thirty in the morning and turn on the television to the local news. Laurie is still sleeping, but the sound doesn't wake her. The sound of an enormous asteroid hitting Hackensack wouldn't wake her.

There is almost nothing of consequence on the local news. It's traffic, weather, boring banter, light features, and then back to the traffic and weather. Today is no exception. It's raining, so they have the poor weather-man out on a street corner, giving his report from under an umbrella. He's predicting that it's going to rain. All that money spent on meteorology school obviously paid off.

Laurie wakes up at seven and says something that sends a bolt of agony through me. "Weren't you going to the gym this morning?"

I've gained a few pounds lately and noticed a slight gut. Even worse, Laurie has noticed it. I announced that I was going to start going to a gym, and she made no effort to talk me out of it. Today was to be the first day. I had genuinely forgotten about it, though I would certainly have faked forgetting about it if I thought I could get away with it.

I get up, walk Tara, then throw some things in a bag, and go. I'm not yet a member of a gym myself, so for this initial foray into future fitness, I've chosen to be a guest of Vince Sanders. If I can't keep up with Vince, I'm going to stop off at the embalmer on the way home and turn myself in.

Vince is the city desk editor of the Bergen Record; it was a young reporter working for him that Willie Miller was accused of murdering. He helped me on that case, and we've become pretty friendly since. Vince is the single largest consumer of jelly donuts in New Jersey, with the gut to prove it.

I'm ten minutes late getting to the gym; it would have been longer if not for the fact that there's valet parking. Vince is a little grouchy about my late arrival.

"You here to work out or you here to be late?" he snarls.

It's not the most coherent of questions, so I just shrug my apology, and he flashes his guest pass and gets me in. The place is a spectacular modern facility, with state-of-the-art exercise machines, a fashionable workout clothing boutique, a fancy hair salon, and a restaurant/snack bar area that could host a debutante ball.

It's the restaurant that's our first stop. Vince orders a large fruit smoothie, banana nut muffin, and fruit salad. I get an orange juice, and by the time I'm finished drinking it, he's already eaten his tray clean. He orders a raisin scone and another smoothie and takes it with him as we head for our workout.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"The treadmills. Best workout you can have."

"How come?"

He sighs, as if he can't believe he's been saddled with this fitness novice. "Because it's the closest to everyday life. I walk in life, so I walk on the treadmill."

I nod. "If the trick is to imitate life, how come you don't go to the jelly-donut-eating machine?"

He begins a snarl, but it turns into a laugh. "Believe me, if they had one, I would."

We get to the treadmill, where I soon find that preparation is the key. Vince prepares by attaching his stereo headphones to outlets allowing him to hear sound from the large-screen TVs. Then he adjusts those headphones so they won't fall off his head should he ever decide to actually exercise. Then he adjusts the treadmill to the proper speed and elevation, which can best be described as slow and none. Then he hangs his towel neatly on the side bar, in case he should happen to sweat, which I don't think is a serious possibility.

I start my machine at a quicker pace with higher elevation, not too strenuous but enough to be of some possible value. Five minutes later Vince gets off, explaining that "this aerobic shit is good, but you don't want to overdo it." Ever the accommodating guest, I follow him into the locker room, where we take a whirlpool bath, in order to soothe our exhausted muscles.

While Vince may not qualify as a gym rat, he's as good a newspaperman as there is. His most valuable asset is his amazing knowledge about what is going on in the communities he covers. When it comes to northern New Jersey, he knows what is happening, who is causing it to happen, and whom it's happening to.

"Do you know a guy named Geoffrey Stynes?" I ask.

Nothing registers on his face. "Nope," he says. "Who is he?"

I shrug. "Just a guy."

"Oh, just a guy? You sure? I figured he was just a fish, or just a tennis racket. You asked about him, now who the hell is he?"

I'm sorry I brought it up; but my curiosity got the better of me. "It's privileged," I say.

Vince is incredulous. "He's your client? He's your client and you're asking me who he is?"

"Forget I asked."

He nods and goes back to enjoying the water churning around his blubbery body. After a few minutes of silence, he asks, "You want me to check him out?"

"I do."

"What's in it for me?" he asks.

"I promise not to tell anyone that I get more exercise using the TV remote control than you get in your entire workout."

He thinks for a moment. "Deal," he says.

We head back to the locker room to shower and change. According to the mirrors, I haven't lost any weight as a result of the workout, even though I'm sure I burned off at least eight or nine calories.

The locker room is as fancy as the rest of the place, and there are three or four televisions positioned so they can be viewed from anywhere. They are tuned to a local news show, and as I walk by one, I hear Alex Dorsey's name mentioned.

I look up and see a newscaster sitting at a desk and speaking. Behind him is a photograph of a man, and the type legend below his face is, "Arrested in Dorsey Murder."

I don't know who the man is, but he sure as hell is not Geoffrey Stynes.

LAURIE IS WAITING FOR ME WHEN I ARRIVE AT the office. It is no surprise that she is fully briefed on the media's version of the arrest; when it comes to Alex Dorsey, she is command central.

The arrested man's name is Oscar Garcia, a twenty-seven-year-old Puerto Rican immigrant living in Passaic. He is described as a handyman by trade and is said to have a few drug arrests, though no convictions, in his apparently less-than-illustrious biography.

While Laurie's awareness of the news was to be expected, her take on it is not. "There's no way Garcia did it, Andy," she says. "I know this guy."

"You do?"

She nods. "He's a small-time dealer who hangs out in Pennington Park introducing kids to the glories of cocaine. I busted him once."

"The radio said he's been arrested but not convicted."

She nods, unhappy at the memory. "As moments go, that was one of my lowest."

"What happened?" I ask.

"A friend of mine, Nina Alvarez … I went to high school with her. Garcia got her fourteen-year-old daughter started on pot first, then a quick move to crack. Nina tried everything, even had her in a lockdown facility for a while. Finally, she decided to try and deal with the source, and she came to me."

"To get Garcia?"

She nods. "Right. It took a while … the creep was pretty careful. Then one day I was in court testifying on a case, and that's the day my partner caught him carrying. We booked him, and I thought that was the end of it."

"But it wasn't," I say, fulfilling my function to wander the earth, stating the obvious wherever I find it.

"He walked two days later. His lawyer convinced the judge there was no probable cause for the search."

"And you never got him again?"

"No," she says. "The Dorsey thing blew up, and I left the force."

"What about your friend's daughter?"

"She ran off a few months later and seems to have never looked back. No doubt learning the joys of life on the street. Fourteen years old …" She struggles to get the words out without crying, and the look of pain in her eyes is tangible. On some level she feels responsible for her friend's losing a child in this horrible manner.

This incident is obviously something that has incredibly strong emotional importance to her, yet I knew absolutely nothing about it. What else is there about her that I don't know, what deep personal pains that she hasn't seen fit to mention on Monday, Wednesday, or Friday nights? And how could I be feeling shut out for not having been told something that I've just been told?

I move the conversation back to the matter at hand. "Why can't you buy Garcia for the Dorsey killing?"

"Dorsey worked undercover for fifteen years, Andy. I was with him after that time, but I got to know him very well. He was a tough, dangerous guy who could see any kind of trouble a mile away. I can't picture anyone killing Dorsey, but there is no way a little twerp like Garcia could have done it. If you tied Dorsey to a tree and gave Garcia a bazooka and a tank, Dorsey would skin him alive in thirty seconds."

What I want to say is, "Congratulations, you're right again, Laurie! The guy who's really guilty sat in that chair yesterday! Show her what she's won, Johnny!" The fact that I can't say it is frustrating, but obviously something I'm going to have to get used to.

"I assume the cops know what you know," I say, "but they must have something on him, or he wouldn't have been charged. Maybe he's graduated to the big time since you were after him."

She shakes her head. "He hasn't."

The conviction in her voice surprises me. "You know that?"

She looks me in the eye and says quietly, "I know that."

There are implications here that I decide not to go near. Our conversation eventually expires from lack of new information, so Laurie goes off to gather some more. It leaves me alone to think, which in this situation is not a particularly good idea.

I must at least perceive a client as innocent in order to take on his defense. This rigid attitude tends to reduce my caseload, but I've accepted that reality. Of course, I almost never really know that a client is innocent. All I have is a distrust of the facts the prosecution presents, and a faith and belief that the client is telling me the truth. And, with the Willie Miller case as a notable exception, even in a best case I can't prove innocence; I simply hope to establish reasonable doubt of guilt.

This situation is far different. I can be positive that Garcia is innocent because I know who is guilty. Which leaves me with a lot to think about, and the way I best do that is by taking Tara to the duck pond. That is what I am about to do when Edna tells me that my eleven-fifteen meeting is here. Since I have no clients, her designating it as the "eleven-fifteen meeting" is overkill. Just "meeting" would suffice. In any event, I had no idea I had any meeting scheduled, never mind an eleven-fifteen one.

It turns out that my eleven-fifteen is with Edna's stock-broker cousin, Fred. Agreeing to meet with cousin Fred was one of those things that I say I will do, as long as it's in the future, and I somehow assume it will never come about. But here it is, and I'm trying to figure out if I can make it out the window when in comes Edna and the man she considers the perfect caretaker for my twenty-two million dollars: cousin Fred.

It's no surprise that Edna has a cousin up to this task. She seems to have the largest extended family in the Western Hemisphere; they cover every occupation ever invented, yet somehow have managed not to overlap jobs. Cousin Fred handles the financial markets.

Fred is about my age and decked out in a three-piece suit. He shakes my hand, and I have a vision of the scene from Woody Allen's Take the Money and Run, when Allen's convict character is caught attempting to escape. As punishment, he is locked in a cellar with an insurance salesman from Dayton, and they shake hands as they descend into the hole.

This meeting would be a form of torture in any event, but right now I want to get away and think this Dorsey thing through, and it's going to be tough doing that while talking puts and calls with cousin Fred.

Much to my surprise, Fred turns out to be a normal human being, and one who shares my general distrust of people who claim to understand the stock market. My view is that no one has any idea whether the market will go up or down. Commentators come up with coherent, logical reasons for the market's behavior at the end of the day; it's the morning's pre-opening predictions that are a tad less reliable.

Fred and I talk the same language. As much as I like to gamble on football and basketball, in the stock market I want to be careful, cushioning myself against disaster. Fred advocates the exact same strategy, and most important, he voices that opinion before I do. That is how I know he is not just telling me what he thinks I want to hear.

Even though I'm conservative on these financial decisions, I'm also quite impulsive. Fred seems as good as anybody I've met, so I agree to let him handle eleven million dollars of my money. I expect him to grab on to my leg and whimper his thanks, but he handles it as if it's good news but nothing he didn't expect. I tell him to coordinate everything with Sam Willis, then I call Sam and alert him that Fred is going to be stopping by. Moments after Fred leaves my office, I hear Edna shriek with glee; she's not quite as reserved as her cousin.

I am finally free to leave, so I pick up Tara and take her to the duck pond in Ridgewood. It is a wonderfully peaceful place, especially since it's still chilly, so parents and their screaming children aren't out in force. Tara is always mesmerized by the ducks; she can sit quietly and stare at them for hours. We bring a loaf of bread to feed them, and Tara knows it's theirs and doesn't compete for the food. Tara and I both do some of our best thinking here.

I feel like I am facing a dilemma, yet it is totally of my own creation. Ethically, there is nothing I need to do; in fact, there is little if anything I am allowed to do. The rules of my profession call for me to behave as if Stynes never sat in my office and confessed. All I should be doing is feeding the ducks, petting Tara, and trying to come up with a charity to support, just in case cousin Fred doesn't lose all my money.

Garcia is a slime. Laurie said so, and I totally trust her judgment. The problem is that our system doesn't and shouldn't convict an innocent suspect of a crime just because he must have committed other crimes, which couldn't be proved. Make-up calls are for NBA refs, not our courts.

So an injustice may be committed. So what? I'm aware of injustices all the time, which I can't do anything about. The world is full of them; putting away Garcia is a fairly mild example.

And who said he'll be put away? If he didn't do it, which he didn't, then how strong can the evidence be? The prosecution won't be able to prove its case, he'll walk, they'll catch the real murderer, and all will be right with the world. My job is to feed a couple of dozen ducks and have a nice afternoon with Tara.

I've just got to drop this Garcia thing. Wipe it from my mind.

I can't.

I leave Tara back home and go down to the courthouse. The court clerk, Rita Golden, is on a lunch break that her secretary tells me should be over in ten minutes. I position myself in the hallway outside her door, and she comes back two minutes ahead of schedule.

I like Rita. She lets you know exactly where you stand, all the while doing her job with total efficiency. That job is to keep the court schedule running smoothly and protect the judges from pain-in-the-ass lawyers like me.

Rita talks about two things: the court and sex. She does this simultaneously and creatively and lets me participate. For instance, when she sees me standing by her door, she says, "Andy, is that a gavel in your pants, or are you happy to see me?"

"I'm always happy to see you, you hot little clerk you." She's clearly better at this than I am.

"Then why don't you come into my office, and I'll conduct a direct examination?" she says. "I'll be the aggressive lawyer, you can be the hostile witness. There won't be anyone around to object."

"Alas, my heart belongs to another. But you can have everything else."

She laughs, then gets down to business. "What's up?"

"I want to know if Garcia has representation," I say.

She enters the office and I follow her in, talking as we go.

"That would depend on who Garcia is," she logically points out.

"The guy they arrested for Dorsey," I say.

"Oh, right, another of the wrongly accused." She reaches her desk and looks for the information on the list. "PD," she says, which means the case has been assigned to the public defender.

"Thanks, Rita," I say, and turn to leave.

"Don't tell me you're scrounging around for clients," she says. "Not with your money."

"Money isn't everything."

She nods. "You're right. Sex is everything. And if the money's right, I'll prove it to you."

I barely get out of there with my male dignity intact, and I head down to the public defender's office. Movies generally portray public defenders in one of two ways. One version has them as courageous defenders of our precious rights, fighting on despite a horrible work over-load, a woefully inadequate budget, and working conditions straight out of Oliver Twist. The other view has them as incompetent hacks who couldn't make it anywhere else and who guarantee their poor clients a life in prison due to miserable representation.

In this jurisdiction, neither portrayal is accurate. For the most part, PDs are tough, competent lawyers who do a damn good job. They are in fact overworked, but the system provides them with an adequate budget to represent their clients. It wouldn't fund the dream team, but if an expert witness is needed, it gets paid for. As far as office space goes, it's a hell of a lot nicer than mine. Of course, as Edna would point out, that ain't saying much.

The head of the Public Defender Division is Billy Cameron, nicknamed Bulldog, not because of his considerable tenacity on behalf of his clients but because he played wide receiver for the University of Georgia. Legend has it that he caught eleven passes for four touch-downs to beat Auburn. I would have been about five years old at the time, so of course, I don't remember the game, but I probably bet on Auburn.

"So, Andy," he says when I walk in, "I hear you've got three dollars more than God."

"Only because he's made some bad investments lately."

He nods, having reached his rather low banter tolerance already. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I've come to offer my humble services as a barrister," I explain.

He's immediately distrustful. "Why?"

"Why? Doesn't the word 'civic responsibility' mean anything to you?"

"That's two words," he points out.

"All the more reason for you to accept my gracious offer." He looks dubious, so I push on. "Come on, Billy, the big firms send you their inexperienced losers for pro bono work, and you lick their faces. I'm giving you a chance to get the one and only Andy Carpenter. So what's your problem?"

"Because they're doing it to look good in the community by impersonating decent human beings. Your motive isn't quite as clear."

"You've got a client I think is innocent," I say, "and I thought it would be nice for all concerned if I proved it."

"And this client is … ?"

"Oscar Garcia."

He looks up sharply. "Oscar Garcia?"

"The very one." I can see Billy's mind working. Oscar is someone no lawyer in his right mind would want as a client, yet here I am applying for the job. Billy knows I can get as many clients as I want. So if I want Garcia, he's thinking, then he should want him as well, but he has no idea why.

"And you think he's innocent?" he asks. "How did you come up with that theory?"

"Somebody told me there's no way he could have done it," I say. "That he never could have gone up against Dorsey."

Billy laughs a short, put-down laugh. "That's it? That's your evidence? Who told you that?"

"Laurie Collins."

Billy stops laughing. He knows Laurie very well and is fully aware that her opinions about matters like this are to be taken very seriously. But he has to stand his ground. "I don't think the 'Laurie defense' will hold up in court."

"I'll try and come up with something else just in case," I say.

I can see that he is weakening, so I up the pressure a little. "Come on, Billy, you know every lawyer you have is hiding in the closet when you walk by so you can't dump this on them. And I won't use your resources. Everything comes out of my office."

He can't think of a reason to say no, so he doesn't. "And you'll keep me informed?"

"Every step of the way," I say.

"Andy, you know how many of these cases I've seen? Don't count on this being another Willie Miller."

"I won't," I say. "It's Oscar Garcia all the way."

He reaches down and picks up a file off his desk. He hands it to me. "Here's all we know so far. Read it and then go see your client."

I take the file back to my office and read what Billy found in the police reports. They had received an anonymous tip phoned in to 911 by a woman claiming that Garcia was involved. They were then able to match his fingerprints to those found on the door to the warehouse where Dorsey's body was found. Witnesses also claimed to have seen Garcia near that warehouse on a number of occasions, including the morning of the murder.

I'm sure the case is stronger than this, and I'll have to direct my efforts toward finding out what more they have. The 911 call is intriguing, since the information given was wrong. It could simply be a mistake, but it more likely seems to be an indication that someone, most likely Stynes, is trying to frame Garcia.

I'm about to go visit with my potential client when Laurie comes in. She is obviously upset, and it takes about a fraction of a second for me to find out why.

"Is it true you're taking on Oscar Garcia as a client?" It's a question, dressed up like a demand.

"I haven't met with him yet," I reply rather lamely.

"So you are meeting with him? You want to take his case?"

I nod. "I'm on the way over there now."

"Incredulous" doesn't quite go far enough to describe her reaction. "Let me see if I understand this," she says. "You were turning down every client in town for six months so you could hold out for Oscar Garcia?"

"Laurie, I'm late. Can we talk about this if and when he hires me? He might want a different lawyer." The fact is, I'm hoping he turns me down. My conscience will be clear.

She laughs derisively. "Yeah, he's a real prize. There'll be a roomful of lawyers trying to win him over. Andy, how the hell could you do this to me?"

"I'm not doing anything to you, Laurie."

"You know how I feel about him, you know what he's done to my friend, yet of all the people you could represent you pick him."

"Laurie, I know how this might seem. But believe me, it's not about you. It has nothing whatsoever to do with you."

It's clear that she isn't close to being convinced. "Then why are you doing this? Just tell me why."

"There are reasons that I can't go into, I truly can't go into."

"Yeah, right."

I try a different approach, because this one obviously isn't working at all. "Okay, you tell me why I would be taking on a client to get back at you. I love you, I care about you, but I would do this to punish you? To hurt you? Does that make sense? Did we have a fight I forgot about?"

She takes a moment to weigh my argument, and I think I have a chance until I can see the reject button go off in her brain.

"Don't do it, Andy." It's a combination plea and command.

"I'm sorry, but I have to."

She shakes her head. "No, you want to."

She turns and leaves. I feel bad that she is hurt, but I feel much worse that she believes I would intentionally hurt her.

BEING PUT IN COUNTY JAIL IS LIKE SIGNING A FIRST baseball contract and reporting to the low minor league team they assign you to. You're in professional baseball, and while you know you might someday find yourself in the big leagues, for right now this seems pretty significant. Of course, if someday you do make it to the majors, you realize just how small the minors were.

County jail is the flip side of that. When you're sent there, you know you might find yourself in state prison if you get convicted, but for right now this seems pretty awful. Of course, if you do wind up there, or in a federal prison, you realize just how easy you had it back in County.

The thing is, when you're in County, at least things are happening. You're getting the lay of the land, seeing your lawyer, preparing for trial … it's a new experience. When you're convicted and sent to State, it feels like the system has forgotten about you, and in fact it has. Your life is not only miserable, it's also boring, and there is no end in sight.

I guess my point is that, all in all, county jail is a pretty super-duper place to live. But for some reason, Oscar Garcia doesn't see it that way. Oscar thinks it's an outrage--a "motherfucking joke" is the homespun way he puts it--that he should be in this position.

He rants and raves for two or three minutes, then finally realizes that, since I am sitting there, I just might have a role to play in all this. "Who the hell are you?" he asks.

"My name is Andy Carpenter. I'm an attorney working for the public defender's office on your case."

He stares at me for a few moments, as if trying to remember something. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

I shrug. "Maybe. I went to NYU. What fraternity were you in?"

Oscar's sense of irony doesn't seem that well developed, and I've got a hunch he's not going to be a master of self-deprecating humor either. He ignores my comment, mainly because he's just remembered where he's seen me.

"You're that lawyer, right?" He points at me, no doubt to make sure I know he's not talking to the table.

"That's what I just finished telling you."

He shakes his head. "No, I mean the guy that was on TV."

I nod. "That's me. The TV lawyer."

He sort of squints at me, checking me out. "What do you want with me?"

He's suspicious, the first sign of intelligence I've seen. I decide to tell the partial truth, which seems to be the most I can manage these days. "I thought you might need my help."

"I don't need nobody's help."

"Then I'll find someone who does." I stand up to leave. "See ya around the campus."

I reach the door and I'm halfway out when I hear, "Wait a minute, man." I can pretend I don't hear it and keep walking, or I can turn around and continue with this self-destructive insanity. I turn.

"What is it, Oscar?"

"I didn't do it, man. I've done some pretty bad shit, but this ain't me."

"Did you know Dorsey?" I ask.

"A little bit, no big deal. He hassled me a few times. Nothing I couldn't handle."

"How did you handle it?" I ask.

"I just let it slide, went about my business."

"And just what is your business?" I ask.

"What the hell is the difference? This ain't about my business. My business is my business."

I pull up a chair and sit down less than a foot away from him. "Listen to me, Oscar, because I'm only going to say this once. Your business is my business. Everything about you is my business. And every question I ask you, every single one, is one you are going to answer as best you can."

He can tell I'm pissed, and he's afraid I'm going to walk away. "Okay, man," he says. "But you can't tell nobody, right? It stays between us?"

I nod. "It's called attorney-client privilege, and you can't imagine the shit I go through to maintain it."

He proceeds to tell me about his drug dealing and prostitution activities. It's fairly small-time, but like Danny Rollins, his small territory has been bestowed upon him, and he pays a substantial portion of his earnings to his patrons. The days of Al Capone are over, but the mob influence, at least in this area, is surprisingly substantial.

Oscar adamantly refuses to talk about the mob people that he deals with. He pathetically considers himself "connected," even though the truth is that the only people below him on the mob food chain are the victims. I don't press him on it, since there is little possibility his connections had anything to do with his facing these charges.

I move the conversation to the specifics of the case. I don't want to ask too many questions at this point; I'll save that for when I know more about the police's evidence. I concentrate on the warehouse where the body was found.

"Of course my prints were there," he admits. "That's where I operate out of."

He goes on to explain that because the warehouse was adjacent to the park, he would occasionally hide merchandise in there and have certain customers meet him inside when the police were in the area. He considered the warehouse his corporate headquarters.

And besides that, as he so eloquently puts it, "Prints don't mean no damn shit anyway."

"Write that line down. I'll want to use it in my closing argument."

He doesn't respond; there may be no bigger waste of time than using sarcasm on someone who has absolutely no understanding of it. "Now, this is important," I continue. "Someone called the police, a woman, and told them that you killed Dorsey. Do you have any idea who that could have been?"

"Shit no, man."

"What about one of your girls on the street?"

He shakes his head vigorously. This he is sure of. "No way. No fucking way. They know what would happen."

Every time he opens his mouth I dislike him more. "There's no one you can think of who might want to frame you?" I ask. "No one who has it in for you?"

"I got some enemies, my competitors, you know? It's part of business."

We clearly have a Macy's/Bloomingdale's situation here. "Make a list of everyone who dislikes you," I say.

He nods. "Okay."

"How many reams of paper will you need?"

"The guard'll get me paper."

What I think, but don't say, is, "Oscar, I'm insulting you. I'm your lawyer and I'm insulting you! Fire me!" Instead, I mentally vow to swear off sarcasm for the duration of this case. I'm not sure if I can do it; my addiction goes way back. I wonder if they make a sarcasm patch that I can wear to wean me off it.

For now I confirm that Oscar wants to plead not guilty, and I tell him that I'll see him again tomorrow at the initial court appearance.

I turn and leave. The only thing I've learned in this visit is that Oscar is a really easy guy to leave.

As I walk to my car, I reflect on how depressing this situation is. A lawyer-client relationship, particularly in a murder trial, is close and often intense. Unfortunately, I would rather have warts surgically implanted all over my body than be close and intense with Oscar Garcia. But he's been wrongly charged, and since I'm not willing to risk my legal career by breaking Stynes's privilege, the only way I can right that wrong is by defending him.

When I get in the car, I make a couple of phone calls to determine where my next stop should be. In that regard, I come up with two significant pieces of information. First, I learn that the dry cleaner closes at six. This is good news because I have only three suits and they've all been sitting there, no doubt hanging in plastic and feeling abandoned, for weeks. Getting there by six will be no problem, which means I won't have to wear sweatpants to the hearing tomorrow.

The next thing I find out is that the assistant DA assigned to the Dorsey case is Dylan Campbell. This takes me out of the good mood that the dry cleaner news had put me in. Dylan would have been my last choice as an adversary on this case, which may well be why they don't let the defense attorneys choose the prosecutor.

I know every assistant DA in the county; in fact, more than half had been chosen by my father when he ran the office. To generalize, they are tough, hard-nosed prosecutors whom I can't stand in a courtroom but like drinking beer with afterward.

Dylan Campbell does not fall into this category. While his colleagues and I will bend the legal rules and watch the other side bend them back, Dylan bends them until they break and then throws them in your face. He's smart but unpleasant, and I would much prefer to go up against dumb and affable.

I call Dylan, and he agrees to see me right away, which means he probably wants to make a deal. I find that plea bargains are most likely to be made either at the beginning of a case or just before trial. Early on, the accused is often scared and shaken, while the prosecutor is standing at the foot of the enormous mountain of work that preparing a case represents. It's a likely time for compromise.

Just before trial, the possibility of a bargain being struck again increases, mainly because both sides know that soon it is going to be out of their hands and into a jury's. That threat of imminent repudiation of one's position is a major motivating factor toward dealing.

When I reach Dylan's office, he catapults himself out of his chair and rushes over to greet me, hand extended. This uncharacteristic and transparent graciousness is another sign he wants to deal. "Andy, good to see you. Good to see you. Here, sit down. Sit down."

I'm not sure why he is saying everything twice, but it's probably to show me how sincere he is. "Thanks, Dylan. Thanks, Dylan."

I sit down, and Dylan's next act as the perfect host is to go to his little refrigerator and ask me what I would like to drink. He's something of a health nut, so it basically comes down to whether I want American, Swedish, or Belgian mineral water. I shrug, and wind up with Swedish.

He sits back behind his desk and smiles. "I've got to ask you a question," he says. "Everybody in the office is wondering--I mean, no offense--but how in God's name did you wind up with a loser slimeball like Oscar Garcia? Did you lose a bet or something?"

"Oscar Garcia is godfather to my children." I say this quietly, with as straight a face as I can manage, and I see a quick flash of fear in Dylan's eyes, as his mind processes the possibilities. It takes three or four long seconds for his look to switch to nervous relief, as he realizes it just couldn't be.

"Hey, buddy, you had me going there for a second. But only for a second."

I grin. "Can't fool you, you old rapscallion you."

He's a little uncomfortable with this, so he decides to get back on firm ground, which unfortunately for me is his case. "So I assume you're here to do a little business?" he asks.

"Well, I was hoping you could bring me up to date. I just officially took the case a few minutes ago."

"You want me to do your homework for you?"

"You don't have to. I can just ask the judge for a delay." A delay is something he most certainly does not want. The court system is like a conveyor belt in an assembly plant, and the prosecutor is the foreman, charged with keeping it moving. Delays are like coffee breaks: The belt stops and the system grinds to a halt.

Dylan pauses for a moment, considering his options. "You looking to deal?"

I'm not, of course, but I don't want him to know that. "I sometimes find it helpful to know what my client is up against before I advise him on what to do."

He sighs; there's no way around this. "Okay. I'll have the file copied and sent over to you with the police reports."

"Good. I'd like it today. Can you also give me the shorthand version?" I ask.

"What do you know so far?"

"About the 911 call and the fingerprints at the warehouse. Unless that's all you have …"

"Come on, Andy, if that was all we had, your boy Oscar would be out in the park peddling dope, and you wouldn't be sitting here. Dorsey's gun was found in Garcia's house."

I'm surprised by this, but only because I know Oscar is innocent. "You think Garcia murdered Dorsey, then took his gun and left it in his house?" I ask, trying to exaggerate my incredulity at the stupidity of such a move.

He shrugs. "You visited with Garcia, right?" he asks. "You see any diplomas hanging in his cell?"

I ignore that. "What about motive? That seems to be in short supply."

"We're not there yet. Dorsey was into some bad things, maybe Garcia was a partner, or a competitor. We'll get to motive, but if not?" He throws up his hands. "So what? We don't have to prove motive. Even you public defenders know that."

Dylan has opened up an area I had planned to get into: Dorsey's illegal activities. I nod and say as casually as I can, "I also should look at what the department had on Dorsey."

The fake affability immediately vanishes. He shakes his head firmly. "No can do."

"Why not?" I ask.

"I don't have it myself," he says. "They tell me it doesn't relate in any way to this case."

"Let me see if I understand this," I say. "Dorsey takes off and goes into hiding because the department had something on him, he gets murdered a week later, and what they had isn't relevant? Earth to prosecutor, come in please, come in please."

His look turns cold as he changes the subject. "It's time to make this case go away, Andy. Twenty-five to life, Garcia can be out in ten."

"He can also be in for fifty." I shake my head. "I'll talk to my client, Dylan, but the answer is going to be no."

"I might be able to do better," he says, then sees my look of surprise. He explains, "Dorsey is not a person the department brass wants to read about every day."

Warning bells are going off in my head. The offer of twenty-five to life was actually very generous on his part for the brutal murder of a cop. If he's going to try to better that, it's more than just a desire to get the conveyor moving, or to appease the higher-ups in the police department. There's something here that's interesting and waiting to be discovered.

"Do the best you can," I say. "But my guess is that the day Garcia gets out is the day the jury comes back."

He shrugs his disappointment. "Then I guess we're finished here."

"Not according to the Seventh Circuit Court of Appeals," I say.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asks.

The fact is that it doesn't mean anything; it's simply a significant-sounding non sequitur of the kind I occasionally drop to get the other side curious and thinking unproductively.

"You want me to do your homework for you?" I ask, and then turn and walk to the door. He doesn't stand up as I leave. I guess pretending to be pleasant can really tire a person out.

On the way home I call Edna, who is still in a state of shock that I would turn down a prize like Stynes and take on a loser like Garcia. I tell her to call Kevin Randall, who was my second chair on the Willie Miller case, and ask him to meet me in the office first thing in the morning. I ask Edna if Laurie has called, and the answer is no. It wasn't the answer I was hoping for.

Then I call Lieutenant Pete Stanton and ask if I can buy him dinner tonight. He says that's fine, as long as he can pick the restaurant. When I say it's okay with me, he tells me he'll leave the choice on my machine, after he prices a few out and comes up with the most expensive one.

By the time I get home, he has already left the name of a French restaurant which, in his tortured attempt to pronounce it, sounds like La Douche-Face. There is no message from Laurie. I call her, but she's either out or screening my call, so I leave word on her voice mail that I'd like to talk to her. Our last conversation has left me with a sort of throbbing emotional ache, which my work-related activities haven't been able to mask.

The restaurant Pete has chosen looks like a French villa, and when I arrive, he is at the bar drinking from an old and no doubt very expensive bottle of wine. Pete is generally a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy, unassuming and easily able to get by on a lieutenant's salary. Imported beer is usually too fancy for Pete's taste, so it's obvious that his intent is to reduce my financial level to his own.

Pete and I have gotten to be pretty good friends. The relationship began when I helped get his brother out of a legal situation brought on by drug use, and his brother has since turned his life around. Pete and I started playing an occasional game of racquetball, though we haven't played in a while. We still refer to ourselves as racquetball partners, but that's only to maintain the guise of exercise.

Our friendship takes occasional hits, most notably when we're on the opposite sides of a case, but we seem to get through it. The Garcia case presents no such danger, because Pete is not directly involved in the investigation.

We get the menus, and after a quick glance I assume the prices are not just for the food but also for a down payment on the property itself. Or maybe they charge so much because they have to pay for the twelve different forks that are provided for each of us.

The menu is in French, but that doesn't really concern Pete, since he's only interested in the numbers on the right. Pete points to what he wants, and when he gets to the chateaubriand, the waiter explains that it is for two. Pete shrugs and says, "That's no problem, I'll bring what I don't eat home for my dog."

Once the waiter has left, I waste my time by pointing out, "You don't have a dog."

He nods, acknowledging that truth. "It'll give me incentive to get one." He looks around. "I think we need another bottle of wine."

"I can get information cheaper from paid informants," I complain.

He looks up, surprised. "You're looking for information?"

"I agreed to come here, didn't I?" I ask. "What did you think I was going to do, propose marriage?"

"Information about what?"

"Alex Dorsey."

He laughs. "I'm not on the case, asshole. You could have found that out at Burger King."

"I'm not talking about the Garcia case. I'm talking about Alex Dorsey. I'm talking about whatever he was doing, and why he wasn't busted for it back when Laurie turned him in. And why he was going to be busted now."

"I don't know," he says.

"What do you mean you don't know? You're a hot shit lieutenant, plus you're a nosy son of a bitch. You know everything that goes on down there."

He shakes his head. "Not this. This is buried deep." Then he adds, "Besides, 'down there' may not be where you think it is, or want it to be."

"What the hell does that mean?"

He puts down one of his forks, I think the third-smallest one, and stares at me. It is the kind of stare that has made felons confess for the last twenty years. "I'm going to tell you something, but if anyone ever learns that it came from me, I'm going to beat you to death with your wallet."

"Trust me, if there's one thing I've learned this week, it's that I can keep a secret."

Pete nods. The truth is, he knows this without my having to say it. "The Bureau is involved."

This surprises me. "The FBI?"

"No, the bureau in my bedroom, bozo."

I ignore the insult; this is too significant a development. "What about Dorsey makes this federal?"

"I have no idea," he claims, and I'm sure he doesn't. "All I know is that there was talk that the feds got the department to lay off. I assume they were covering the same turf with an investigation of their own."

"Then why would that have changed? Why would Dorsey have had to run?"

Pete doesn't know the answer to that, so I ask him if he's ever heard of Geoffrey Stynes. He hasn't, but agrees to check him out. I haven't heard back from Vince yet, so it makes sense to put Pete on the case as well.

I'm ready to leave, but Pete makes me wait while he tries both the creme brulee and the cherries jubilee. Both meet with his approval, though he considers the creme brulee "a tad lumpy." I tell him that if he ever picks a restaurant like this again, I'm going to introduce him to a different kind of "lumpy."

I start planning some strategy on the way home. What I need to do is try the case as if I wasn't aware of Garcia's innocence, and that means learning everything I can about the victim, Dorsey. If Pete is right about the FBI's involvement, and he is rarely wrong about such things, then there's a great deal to learn, and most likely great benefit in learning it.

When I get home, I am treated to as nice a sight as I can remember in a very long time. Laurie is sitting on the porch with Tara, with Laurie in the role of petter and Tara in the role of pettee. I park and walk toward them, just as they come off the porch and walk toward me.

Laurie hugs me as Tara sits by, waiting her turn. The hug lasts a while, which is good. I'm in no rush. Finally, she breaks it off and looks in my eyes.

"I know you wouldn't take this case to hurt me," she says.

"I wouldn't."

"I know you have a good reason for taking it," she says.

"I do."

"I know you can't tell me what that reason is," she says.

"I can't."

"I know that you love me," she says.

"I do."

"I know you're thinking you want me to stay with you tonight, even though it's not Monday, Wednesday, or Friday," she says.

"I am."

"I know that if you give another two-word answer, I'm going home, and you will have missed out on a warm, loving, wildly exciting sexual experience," she says.

"I understand that completely and I guarantee you I have absolutely no intention of ever giving a two-word answer again. I know long answers are important to you, and since I adore and worship you, I will keep speaking until you tell me to shut up."

"Shut up," she says.

I ARRIVE AT COURT WELL BEFORE THE PRELIMINARY hearing is scheduled to begin. I'm simultaneously feeling dread at having to handle this case and excitement about being back handling any case at all. The excitement must be winning out, because I usually barely make it to court on time, and today I'm so early I could tailgate in the parking lot.

Oscar isn't here yet, so I call Kevin Randall at the office and apologize for not being able to meet him there. I quickly bring Kevin up to date on the situation, and he has the decency not to verbalize his surprise that I took this case at all. I give him the task of going to see the coroner who handled Dorsey's body and to find out whatever relevant details there are, including the estimated time of death.

Kevin has a whole bunch of positive qualities, but the one I appreciate most is his total reliability. When he takes on an assignment, I can check it off my list; he will get it done and done well.

Kevin is a topflight attorney with loads of experience on both the defense and prosecution sides. Unfortunately, both caused him conscience problems. As a prosecutor, he was afraid his considerable talents might cause an innocent person to go to prison. As a defense attorney, he feared he might be helping dangerous criminals return to the streets.

He finally resolved this by quitting the law and opening the "Lawdromat," where customers can wash their clothes and get free legal advice. Laurie knows Kevin well, and on her advice I took him on as second chair on the Willie Miller case. He's been coming in a couple of days a week ever since, with the understanding that he'll help me on future cases, providing there's no fabric softener crisis that demands his time.

I meet with Oscar in an anteroom for a few minutes to explain the procedures. He has some experience in this field, so he catches on pretty quickly. This appearance is basically a formality, strictly done to inform him of the charges, register his plea, and consider bail. Dylan has already impaneled a grand jury to formally charge Oscar, and as always, the grand jury will do the prosecutor's bidding. Oscar's sole responsibility for this appearance is to sit up straight, look respectable, and say firmly and clearly, "Not guilty," when called upon to give his plea.

When the guards come to escort Oscar into the courtroom, I walk with him. We are almost at the defense table when he says--to himself, I think--"What the hell is that bitch doing here?"

I look in the direction that Oscar is looking, and he seems to be staring toward Laurie, who is standing in the back of the room. "Who are you talking about?" I ask as we continue walking.

"The bitch in the blue dress." There is no question he is talking about Laurie.

"Watch your mouth when you're talking about her," I say. It is a silly, unnecessary, but involuntary act of verbal chivalry.

We reach the defense table and sit down. "You mean you know her?" he asks.

"I do."

"Well, let me tell you something, man. You know that list you wanted from me, of my enemies? People who would frame me? Well, she's number one, right on top."

"You're dreaming, Oscar."

"Yeah, well, she's been following me, watching me all the time. Like I can't get rid of her. And a friend of mine said she was hanging near my apartment the other day when I was out."

I trust Oscar about as far as I can throw Mount Rushmore, but I instinctively know that he is telling the truth about this. He has no real reason to lie, and it fits in with Laurie's cryptic comment about having knowledge of Oscar's criminal progress since she left the force.

I don't have time to reflect on the possible implications of Oscar's comment, because I find myself staring at the sweaty hand of Dylan Campbell, who, for the benefit of the assembled media, has come over to wish me luck.

I wouldn't describe today's event as a media circus; there is much more press here than usual, but the crush is far from overwhelming. The reason for whatever news-worthiness the hearing has rests in the victim's being a cop, however discredited, and the brutal nature of the crime.

The judge, Susan Timmerman, enters, and the bailiff calls the proceedings to order. Judge Timmerman will be handling only this hearing; the case hasn't yet been assigned. It's unfortunate, because she is a fair judge who doesn't show any bias toward the prosecution, and we have gotten along fairly well in the past.

The charges contained in the case of New Jersey v. Oscar Garcia are read, and counsel are identified. Oscar is asked how he pleads and he performs his part correctly, saying, "Not guilty," with conviction and a trace of indignation. In Oscar's case, a trace is all the indignation one can stomach.

The not guilty plea creates the need for trial, and that is what the court must consider next. Timmerman does not have all the judges' schedules, and doesn't know who the judge will be anyway, but she can at least tentatively set a date. We agree on July 14, about four months from now, and Judge Timmerman asks if there is anything else she must consider.

I jump up. "Discovery, Your Honor."

"What about it?" she asks.

"I've discovered that opposing counsel doesn't seem to believe in it. I've requested reports that have not been turned over."

Dylan looks mortally wounded. "Your Honor," he complains, "the request was made just yesterday."

I'm having none of this. "I'm sorry, Your Honor, but we are talking about the copying of reports. That takes minutes, not days. I would be happy to walk with Mr. Campbell to his office and do it myself. Secondly, the timing of the request is not important; it's not even necessary at all. The prosecution should be aware of their discovery obligations with or without a specific request. Documents should be copied and turned over as they are received, without editing."

The judge nods and issues the order. "The state will turn over copies of whatever reports it has in its possession by close of business today."

She slams her gavel, effectively adjourning the proceedings. The courtroom empties quickly, and with the press having dispersed, Dylan forgets to exchange parting pleasantries.

I arrange to meet with Oscar later to discuss the case in detail for the first time. I'm particularly interested in his whereabouts on the night of the murder. I'm hoping he was having dinner with the secretary of state or being interviewed by Ted Koppel on Nightline.

Laurie is waiting for me in the back of the courtroom, and Oscar doesn't take his eyes off her the entire time he is being led off. Those eyes are not ogling; they are hating and fearing.

Once Oscar is out of sight, I go back and meet Laurie.

"You pissed Dylan off," she points out.

I nod. "Had to happen sooner or later."

"This is sooner. Listen, Andy, I want to work on this case."

This surprises me. "You don't have to do that. I know how you feel about Oscar."

"That doesn't matter. I'm a professional and I have to act like it," she says.

I find myself thinking, "I'm not so sure this is a great idea." I find myself saying, "Great."

"We starting right now?" she asks.

"Nope. Tomorrow." I look at my watch. "I'm due back in high school in twenty minutes."

Paterson Eastside is the high school from which I graduated. The school's claim to fame is that it was the subject and setting of the movie Lean on Me, starring Morgan Freeman. It told the story of the then principal, Joe Clark, and his heavy-handed method of getting the chaotic inner-city school under control.

My high school career could best be described as undistinguished, at least in the things important to me: girls and sports. My sports mediocrity was the more painful of the two, because at least with girls I had the good sense to give up trying early on. In sports I had perseverance, a trait that is not all it's cracked up to be.

Eastside's football field, adjacent to the school, was actually placed on an old cemetery, after the graves had allegedly been moved. Thus the school had two nicknames, the Ghosts and the Undertakers. It was on that field that I suffered my greatest indignity. As I sat on the bench, the starters were out on the field making awful play after awful play. The coach turned to me and said, "Can you imagine how bad you are if you're playing behind them?"

But I've returned to Eastside today in triumph. I'm endowing the school with a yearly scholarship, given in the name of my father. An assembly has been called to commemorate the occasion, and the principal tells me that my recent media exposure has actually created some student interest in the event.

My speech is a combination of self-deprecating humor and sincere exhortation to the students to make their lives productive. I don't build myself up too much, because even though I'm a pretty good lawyer, the truth is that the only reason I'm standing here today is that my father died and left me a truckload of money.

When I mention my father's nonfinancial influence on me, I get a little choked up. It's been happening a lot lately. I've noticed that as I get older, I get more and more, sentimental. I also notice some other things as I age, like a couple of hairs growing on each of my ears. Now that I think about it, there could be a cause-and-effect relationship at work here. Maybe I should fund some medical research into studying the effect of ear hair on human emotional response.

The question-and-answer session afterward is surprisingly lively. Most of the students want to know about the Willie Miller case, though their interest seems centered on what it was like to visit Willie on death row.

The Garcia case is of less interest. Some of them know Oscar or know of him from the neighborhood, and to know Oscar is to be unconcerned about his fate.

But a decent round of applause sends me off, and I head down to the jail to meet with my client. He's agitated and somewhat scared; for some reason his appearance in court this morning provided a sense of reality to his situation that the arrest and incarceration did not.

Oscar is not the type you make small talk with, so I ask him if he has any questions about, what took place in court today.

"That guy Campbell, he seemed out to get me."

It wasn't a question, but it's close enough. "He wants to send you to prison for the rest of your life."

"Son of a bitch …"

"You've obviously met him before," I say. "Now, tell me everything you did the night of the murder, minute by minute, as best as you can remember. Don't leave out a thing, no matter how small or unimportant it might seem."

The sullen Oscar becomes even more so. "I hung out," he mutters.

"That's not quite the detail I need."

"Hey, what do you want me to say, man?" he asks, clearly annoyed with my persistence.

"I want you to tell me where you were that night. Because if you don't cooperate with me, I can tell you where you're going to spend every night for the rest of your life."

"I was doing business," he mutters.

"Where? In the park?"

"No."

It's my turn to get annoyed. "Dammit, Oscar, where the hell were you?"

He proceeds to tell me a rather uneventful tale of retail drug peddling in and around the park, with a little pimping thrown in. All of this took place until about one A.M., and he claims that some of the people he mentions would testify if called upon, but even without meeting them I can safely assume that none would have any credibility before a jury.

After one A.M. the rendition gets fuzzy. Only through repeated questioning am I able to piece together that he went to make a payment to the entity that grants him permission to function. In other words, he had to pay his mob bosses their standard piece of the action, and he was doing just that after one A.M.

"I need names, Oscar. Of the people you saw while you were making this payment."

Oscar actually laughs at the absurdity of the request. "Forget it. No fucking way. I give you those names, and you're defending a dead man."

I could give him another lecture on attorney-client privilege, and how the information would be safe with me, but I know it won't help. So I try to get at it a different way. I ask him to tell me the neighborhood, the street, that he was on during this business transaction. Eventually, he does, though he doesn't want to take any chances, so he narrows it to within a two-block radius. The area is a neighborhood that even I am aware is considered by organized crime to be home base.

"How long were you there?" I ask.

"'Bout three hours."

"To make a payment?" It seems like an inordinately long time.

"They were busy," he explains. "They kept me waiting."

"Is that unusual?"

"Usually, it don't take as long," he says, then qualifies it with, "When I go to them."

"You mean there are times they come to you?"

I can see him regain a measure of pride. "Sure. Most of the time."

I take him through the three hours he spent in the neighborhood in question. Basically, he hung out in the cellar of the house he was visiting, except for about a half hour when he went out to get something to eat.

"Did you eat at a restaurant?" I ask.

"Nah, I went to one of those big supermarkets--Food Fair, I think it's called. They make these really good sandwiches."

"Did you pay with a credit card?"

"A credit card?" he asks, indicating how absurd the question is. I might as well have asked if he had paid with a walrus.

He doesn't think anybody in the store would remember him, and the truth is, it's not as if Brad Pitt had come in that night for the sandwich. Oscar is a number of things, but memorable is not one of them. I let him off the hook with no more questions for now and tell him we'll be meeting again in a day or two.

As I'm leaving, he asks, "Man, I got things to work on. Am I gonna be stuck in here long?"

"I think it makes sense to go ahead and order furniture and drapes, if that's what you're asking."

It turns out that wasn't what he was asking.

GEOFFREY STYNES IS NOWHERE TO BE FOUND.

Not that I'm spending a lot of time looking for him. But I've more than half expected him to look me up, to complain about my taking on Garcia as a form of breaking privilege, or at least a conflict of interest. I don't think such claims would have merit, but I did expect him to make them.

These kinds of thoughts are running through my mind as Laurie and I are having dinner at my house. She mentions that I'm being quiet, but doesn't push to find out what's on my mind.

We are just finishing dinner when Vince Sanders calls. "I checked out Geoffrey Stynes," he says.

"And?" I ask.

"And I also checked out the tooth fairy, Rumpelstiltskin, and Tinker Bell. They don't really exist either."

"You're losing me."

"That must happen to you a lot," he says. "Maybe you should wear a bell around your neck."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Vince can be somewhat difficult to chat with.

"There are two registered Geoffrey Stynes with that spelling," he says. "One was born four months ago Wednesday, and the other is ninety-two and in a rest home. In addition to that, none of the sources I checked, and I checked a shitload of sources, have heard of him. Which causes me to wonder why the hell you're wasting my time."

I can't say too much, because Laurie is sitting right near me and I don't want to answer a lot of questions. "Interesting" is all I can muse out loud.

"You sure you want to share a major piece of news like that?" Vince asks. "What if I got captured and tortured? They might force out of me the fact that Andy Carpenter thought it was interesting."

"Hold out as long as you can. Your country needs you."

"Don't forget," he says, "if there's a story here, it's mine."

"You know, for some people, doing a favor for a friend is payment enough."

"Then you should have asked them," he snarls, just before he hangs up.

The rest of the evening is quiet. Laurie reads, and I pretend to read while all the time thinking about the case. It's uncomfortable for me that there is a great deal I can't share with her, it's the first time I've had this experience. My sense is also that there are things she isn't sharing with me, most of them centering around Oscar Garcia.

In fact, for all I know, she might also be pretending to read. If she is, then she's more intellectual than I am; she fake-reads higher-quality stuff. Tara is more honest than either of us; she doesn't just pretend to chew on a toy, she actually chews on it.

It's about eleven o'clock when I get tired of fake-reading and Laurie and I go to bed. Once we get into bed, we go to sleep. We have passed the point in our relationship where we have sex at every opportunity. We're still up in the eighty percent range, but sometimes I find myself longing for the good old days.

I get up earlier than Laurie, because I had arranged to meet with Kevin at eight in the office. When I arrive, he is polishing off his standard breakfast: one bagel, toasted, with cream cheese, one bagel, not toasted, with butter. There are people who can stuff their faces and not gain a pound; Kevin is most definitely not one of those people. The main eating difference between Kevin and Vince Sanders is that Vince overeats only fattening, unhealthful foods. Kevin will eat anything: put a barrel of wheat germ in front of him and he'll inhale it.

Kevin and I are alone; Edna isn't in yet. We could have met at ten and we'd still be alone. Since Edna doesn't do any actual work, she doesn't see the need to put in long hours. There's an irrefutable logic to that which I have given up trying to refute.

Kevin met with the coroner yesterday, and even though there isn't much information of value, he is confident that he got all there was to get. The condition of the body makes it impossible to be definitive in the findings, but it appears that the cause of death was the decapitation, that Dorsey was alive when it was done. The lividity, and the resulting effects of the fire, make the coroner quite confident that death came within an hour before the fire. This fits in neatly with my knowledge that the murder took place behind Hinchcliffe Stadium, which is about forty-five minutes from the warehouse.

Since the police know when the fire was set, they can make their estimate of the time of death unusually precise: Dorsey was murdered between two-thirty and three A.M. Right in the middle of the time Oscar says he was all the way on the other side of town, making his weekly payment to the mob.

It is there that Laurie and I meet to begin the process. I am the attorney and Laurie is the investigator; I have no illusions about our roles and no desire to reverse them. But I like to be present at the scene at the beginning of each investigation; it connects me to the case in a way that feels helpful.

The area itself is reminiscent of an earlier Paterson. The houses are modest and very well kept, and the streets have maintained their neighborhood feel. Kids play on the street in a carefree fashion; any criminal who would ply his trade by victimizing the people on these streets would have a built-in insanity defense.

The head of northern New Jersey's version of what may or may not still be called the family is Dominic Petrone. I've met Petrone at various boring city functions which I've been coerced into attending. He's a gray-haired, well-mannered, obviously intelligent man who looks like a typical corporate CEO, which is exactly what he is. His corporation's products and services include drugs, prostitution, loan-sharking, money laundering, and an occasional murder or two. It's not easy work, but hell, somebody's got to do it.

I've brought along a picture of Oscar, and I show it to some people on the street, asking if they recognize him. It's counterproductive; it makes them think we're part of law enforcement, which means we're anti-Petrone, which means we're the enemy. These people have no need or use for the police; all the protection they need lives right in their neighborhood. They would sooner rat out God than Dominic Petrone, and asking them questions only causes them to view us with suspicion.

Of course, there is no chance that the person Oscar came to see was Petrone. Petrone is far too high on the totem pole for that; he would have people who would have people who would have people who would have people to deal with a roach like Oscar. And even they wouldn't be thrilled about it.

Since we don't know which house Oscar came to, and we can't find anybody who remembers seeing him, what we basically do is wander aimlessly about, accomplishing nothing. The investigation is really heating up.

We're about to leave when we see the Food Fair supermarket that Oscar said he had visited. The first thing we do is confirm that a different shift of employees would have been on that night, so there's no chance any of these people would remember him. Laurie will have to come back during the night and cover that base.

We ask to speak to the manager, so that we can see if there are security camera tapes that covered the evening in question. If Oscar was here that night, he could have been part of a taped record.

The manager is on a coffee break, so while we wait, Laurie decides to do a little food shopping. She goes off to get some things, while I walk over to the cash machine so I can at least offer to pay for it. They actually have a small bank branch right there within the supermarket, with three machines for additional service.

I know from a similar situation on another case that our chances of finding anything on the store taping system are slim. Most stores simply run the tapes on a twenty-four- or forty-eight-hour cycle and then tape over them. But it's worth a try, and when the manager, Wally, comes back, we ask him about it. I know his name is Wally, and I know he's the manager, because above the pocket of his shirt it says, "Wally," and just below that it says, "Manager." These are the kinds of tricks I've picked up by accompanying Laurie on these investigations.

"How long do you keep the security tapes after they're used?" I ask.

"You cops?" Wally asks.

His response isn't exactly on point, and he says "cops" in such a way that, if we were in fact cops, he would try to lead us to our demise in the pesticide department. My sense is that somebody got the word to him that we've been snooping around, asking questions.

"No," I say.

"Then what?"

"Then what what?" I counter. This repartee is on a very sophisticated level; I hope Laurie can follow it. A cashier within earshot is yawning; it's obviously over her head.

"What are you?" he demands.

"Tired of this conversation," I answer, just before Laurie sighs loudly and intervenes.

"He's a lawyer and I'm a private investigator. We can get a subpoena and you can spend an entire day being deposed, or you can answer a couple of easy questions and then go back to stacking cans in aisle seven. Your choice."

"Yeah," I say to add emphasis, but I refrain from sticking my tongue out at him.

He's annoyed, but recognizes the futility of resisting a force as powerful as mine. "We run the tapes for twenty-four hours, then tape over them."

I show him a picture of Oscar. "Have you ever seen him?"

"No," he says immediately. He's not giving anything at all. Had I shown him pictures of Michael Jordan, George Bush, and Heather Locklear, his "no" would have been just as quick.

"Do you wish you could be more helpful, because as a good citizen it's important to you that justice be done?" I counter.

Laurie drags me off before he can answer, which is a shame, because I could tell he was just about to crack.

On the way out, I keep in charitable practice by dropping a twenty-dollar bill in the March of Dimes canister, and then Laurie and I go our separate ways. She is going to snoop around Oscar's neighborhood, while I'm going back to my office for a meeting. Laurie doesn't ask for Oscar's address, which means she knows where he lives. This is curious, since I know from the police reports that he's only lived there two months. This means that Laurie's knowledge can't come from when she was on the force. Oscar had mentioned in court that she had been near his apartment, watching him. I don't ask her about any of this, and I don't ask myself why I don't ask her about any of this.

The meeting scheduled in my office is one I'm actually looking forward to. It's with Willie Miller, and we are going to discuss the lawsuit I have filed on his behalf against my former father-in-law, Philip Gant, and the estate of Victor Markham.

Victor and Philip committed a murder thirty-five years ago, and then committed another long after to cover it up. They arranged to frame Willie for the second murder, and he spent seven years on death row before he was cleared in the retrial. Philip wound up in jail and Victor took his own life. It was a terrible tragedy for all concerned, especially Willie, but there is one ray of sunshine: Both Philip and Victor were incredibly wealthy.

There is no suspense attached to the winning or losing of this lawsuit, we are going to win. It's a slam dunk, and both sides know it. The only question is how much money Willie will get, and the other side is very concerned about a jury's actions in this regard, since they have asked for settlement discussions. Today Willie and I are going to talk about our position in advance of those discussions.

In the months since his trial, and especially in the first few weeks, Willie became something of a media celebrity. He made the talk show circuit and brought a new twist to it. A street-smart kid who never left the inner city, Willie had no occasion to develop that filter through which most people talk to the media. So in these sessions he was just Willie Miller, and he spoke to interviewers in exactly the same fashion he spoke to friends on the street.

The results were both refreshing and hilarious. Willie interrupted one interview to ask, "Hey, am I getting paid for this?" He asked another questioner about a female camera operator, and when told she was single, he asked her out on the air. She declined, but changed her mind and accepted after the show.

There were embarrassing moments as well, though Willie never seemed to notice. When asked to compare the current world to the one he left seven years ago, he bemoaned the inflated prices of "gas and hookers."

When I get to the office, I walk in on a priceless conversation between Willie and Edna. I pick it up in the middle, but it's immediately clear that Willie has shocked Edna by declaring that he has never seen or even heard of crossword puzzles. She had supposed that there were people in far-off lands, living in caves or trees, who were this deprived. But here, sitting in our office? Impossible.

Willie does not seem the least bit defensive about his admission, probably because Willie is not the least bit defensive about anything. He grudgingly agrees to let Edna attempt to teach him the basics, which only compounds the obvious cultural gap.

"Indeterminate," she says, looking at the newspaper. "Seven letters."

Willie is offended. "I know how many letters 'inde-' whatever has."

Edna shakes her head. "I'm looking for another word for 'indeterminate.' It has seven letters and the third letter is 'u.'"

"Why the hell are you looking for it?" he asks. "You already got that 'inde-' word. Look for one you don't have."

"The word is 'neutral.'"

"I thought you said it had seven letters." Willie starts counting on his fingers, softly mouthing the letters as he counts. When he finishes, his look is triumphant. "No way."

I get a momentary nightmare flash of Willie playing Scrabble with Laurie, and then I break up this conference and bring Willie into my office. Willie is a black belt in karate, but I believe that if I hadn't shown up, Edna would have killed him.

Just before Willie and I start talking, Pete Stanton calls. He has come up as dry as Vince Sanders did in the search for Geoffrey Stynes. He assures me that he's checked everywhere there is to check, which leads to the inescapable conclusion that Stynes was in my office under an assumed name.

This complicates the situation considerably. If he signed the retainer agreement using a false identity, then that agreement has no legal standing. The murkier question is whether this relieves me of the constraints of the privilege. I could research this, but I don't, since right now murky works fine while I figure out what I want to do about maintaining Stynes's privilege.

I decide to split the difference. Without revealing what little I know about Stynes's identity, I will utilize some of the information that I learned from him to help my client. I'm on shaky legal ground, but it's ground I'm prepared to defend if I have to.

I call Laurie and carefully tell her that I have received information about some possible evidence in the Dorsey murder. I describe the area behind Hinchcliffe Stadium in the same fashion Stynes described it to me, and ask Laurie if she could check it out. I further tell her that if she finds anything, she should leave it untouched and call the police.

My feeling is that the evidence may be helpful in demonstrating Oscar's innocence. I will not help the authorities by pointing them to Stynes, but if they get there on their own, I can live with it.

Turning back to Willie, I briefly bring him up to date on the progress of the lawsuit. I tell him that both of the other parties have agreed to be represented by the same attorney, and we are to meet with him later in the week. I also reemphasize that which I've told him at least five times before: Any money that he gets from Philip Gant will in effect ultimately reduce the inheritance of my ex-wife, Nicole. Nicole and I have not spoken since her father's arrest, but it still represents a conflict of sorts for me. It is a conflict about which Willie continues to be unconcerned.

I haven't yet discussed the possible award Willie might get, and a jury decision in this area is particularly hard to predict. Based on my initial settlement discussions, however, I think we could be looking at a five-million-dollar offer, and this is the number I tell Willie.

Willie starts to make a noise that is somewhere between gurgling and blubbering. Whatever he is doing, it is not compatible with breathing, and for a moment I consider whether to call 911. Eventually, he recovers enough to commence gasping.

"Five million dollars?" are the first words he can manage.

I nod. "But I recommend that you reject it."

"I should reject it?" He's having trouble processing the words. "You mean turn it down? Turn down five million dollars?"

"Yes. I think you should hold out for in excess of ten, after my commission."

"Ten what? Million?" he asks.

I nod. "Million. We're talking about almost seven years. Isn't your life worth at least a million five per year?"

He slows down, trying to gather his thoughts to deal with what he is hearing. "Damn straight," he finally says. "This is my life we're talking about." Willie is a really good "thought gatherer."

"So we're agreed?" I ask.

"Definitely. We are standing on the same corner, man. Singin' the same tune. Walking the same walk. All the way."

"Good," I say. "One for all and all for one."

He nods in agreement, then: "But what if they don't give us the ten?"

"Then we'll get a jury to give us fifteen."

"My man!" he enthuses, and actually slaps me five twice, so that it will total ten. A while later he gets up to leave, but stops at the door and turns to me. "You're not bullshitting me, right? I mean, no way you are bullshitting me?"

"No way." I smile, and then he smiles a hell of a lot wider than I do.

Minutes after Willie leaves, I get a phone call from Dylan Campbell's assistant asking me to meet Dylan in his office as soon as possible. I can only assume that the police have uncovered more evidence damaging to Oscar, but there's no sense asking the assistant. Dylan takes center stage whenever he can; if there's a bomb to drop on me, he will drop it personally.

I'm ushered into Dylan's office as soon as I arrive, another sign that he's got something to use on me. It's more often his style to make visitors stew in the reception area, but this time he can't wait to get right to it.

Also in Dylan's office waiting for me is Lieutenant Nick Sabonis, the lead detective on Oscar's case. If he shares Dylan's glee at what is about to be said, he hides it well. Nick's a career cop nearing the day when his biggest concern will be what fishing rod to use. He doesn't get into personal stuff with lawyers; he just wants to lock up the bad guys and move on to the next case.

"Thanks for coming down so quickly, Andy," Dylan says. "New evidence has turned up concerning your client."

I just wait for him to continue; coaxing him to hurry up would give him a satisfaction I don't want to provide.

"We got a call from a Wallace Ferro, the manager at the Food Fair supermarket on Riverside. It turns out that there's a tape of Garcia in the store at the exact time that the coroner says the murder was committed."

I'm pleased but puzzled. "I asked him about the tapes."

Dylan nods, a slight smirk on his face. "According to him, you didn't ask too hard. This was a tape above the cash machines at the bank branch in the market. It's a different system, and they don't tape over them for months. For some reason he thought we'd be more interested in it than you would."

Little of what Dylan is saying makes sense, but I'm not really concerned. No matter what Wally the grocery manager thinks of my investigative techniques, my client is about to be freed and so am I. I'm out of the case and clear of conscience. I can go back to saving otters.

"Does Oscar know about this?" I ask.

"He does. He's been released, and he's agreed to voluntarily answer some questions."

Alarm bells go off in my head. "What kind of questions? Why wasn't I informed?"

"Don't worry, Andy, Oscar waived his right to counsel." He smiles. "Especially your counsel."

"What the hell is going on, Dylan? What are you questioning Oscar about?"

My sense of foreboding increases when Nick, not having said a word, walks out of the office. My sense is that while he may be on the same side as Dylan, he doesn't want to associate himself with this performance.

Dylan doesn't even seem to notice him leave. He is taking his time, savoring the moment. "We've made another arrest in the case, Andy. We believe Oscar has information to provide in connection with that arrest."

"Who did you arrest?" I ask, knowing that this is the reason Dylan called me here, and knowing with even greater certainty that I'm going to hate the answer.

"I'm sorry I have to be the one to tell you this," he lies, "but we've arrested and charged Laurie Collins with the murder of Alex Dorsey."

THE PRESS IS OUT IN FORCE BY THE TIME I GET TO the jail. When it was Oscar Garcia that stood accused, it was a marginal story. When it's Laurie Collins, ex-cop and sworn enemy of the deceased, it's page one all the way.

I work my way through the reporters and camera crews, making comments as I go. I don't usually like to speak to the press until I know the facts, so I say only what I know to be true.

"What's your reaction to the arrest?" I'm asked.

"It's beyond idiotic," I respond.

"Are you going to defend her?"

"The facts will defend her," I say. "I'll just make sure everybody knows them."

I get inside the jail and ask to see Laurie. The bozo at the front desk tells me that she's being "processed." I know she's smart enough not to talk to anyone without me present, but I don't like the fact that she's alone. After five minutes of waiting, I tell him I'm going to go outside and tell the press I'm being denied access to my client. Coincidentally, at that very moment he receives a telepathic communication informing him that the processing just ended.

I'm led back to an anteroom where I wait for another five minutes, until Laurie is brought in. Her hands are cuffed in front of her, and she is already dressed in jail clothing. I expect to see fear in her eyes, but that's not what is there. What I see is anger. Which is good, because I've got enough fear for both of us.

"Andy, what the hell is going on?"

"I don't know," I say. "I haven't tried to press anyone for information yet. I wanted to talk to you first."

"They've charged me with Dorsey's murder," she says, total disbelief in her voice.

I nod. "Tell me what happened. Don't leave out a thing."

She sits down, resting her cuffed hands uncomfortably on the table. The cuffs are so offensive to me, I want to bite them off with my teeth.

"There isn't that much to tell," she says. "I went out to the stadium, like you said. It took a little while, but I finally noticed something in the shrubbery. I went over and looked at it, but I didn't touch it. It looked like clothing with blood on it. Then I saw the handle of a large knife, as if somebody had tried to cover it with the shrubs."

"What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything. Ten seconds after I saw the stuff, officers seemed to come from everywhere. There must have been seven or eight of them, guns drawn. They read me my rights and brought me down here."

"Do you think they had been following you, or waiting at the site?"

She shakes her head. "I don't know, maybe both. There were a lot of them." She shakes her head again, this time with more sadness. "It was weird; I helped train two or three of them."

I'm silent for a few moments, trying to figure this out. None of these pieces fit together.

"Andy, why did you send me out there?" It's not an accusation, just a need to know.

"I had information that the killer's clothes might be there. I figured that if they were, it would get Oscar off the hook. It should do the same for you."

Laurie speaks quietly, and for the first time I can hear the fear overtaking the anger. "Andy, they were my clothes."

She can't have said what I think she said. "What?"

"The clothes with blood on them … they were mine. I don't know how they got there … I never even noticed them missing from my closet."

In a flash that feels exactly like panic, I realize that this is the worst of both worlds. We are facing a situation that makes absolutely no sense, yet clearly has been planned and executed with precision.

"Laurie, we will get through this."

"And where will I be while we're doing that?" she asks.

She's talking about the possibility of bail, which I started thinking about on the way over here. It's very problematic. Oscar was charged with first-degree murder, and there's no doubt that the same will be the case with Laurie. It's very difficult to get bail in that circumstance, and I can certainly count on Dylan to oppose it.

"Bail's going to be tough," I tell her. I don't lie to clients, and I'm certainly not going to start with Laurie.

She nods, knowing very well how the system works. "If we don't get it, and even if we do, we need to get to trial as quickly as possible."

"It's way too early to be talking about a trial. We're going to try and end this before we even get there."

"I can't sit in a cage, Andy."

I would love to tell her she won't have to, but it's not within my power. This point is driven home all too clearly when the guard comes into the room to take her back to that cage.

I tell Laurie that I'll be back to see her tomorrow, at which time I'll have learned much more about the situation, and we can talk about it in detail. I tell her again that we'll get through this, that everything is going to be fine. I tell her that I love her and that she needs to keep her spirits up.

Which brings me to the things I don't tell her. I don't tell her that they couldn't have had time to test the blood on the clothing yet, so they can't be sure it's Dorsey's blood. I don't tell her that that means there is other evidence against her, evidence that the police feel independently justifies the arrest. I don't tell her that I know in my gut there are other shoes to drop, that things are going to get worse before they can get better.

I don't tell her that every single cell in my body is scared shitless.

Once Laurie has been led away, I go downstairs to see Sergeant Luther Dandridge, head of the detail that deals with the prisoners. I know him, but not well, and there's no real reason he would do me any favors. I take a shot anyway and ask him to make things as comfortable as possible for Laurie.

It turns out that he knows and likes Laurie, and he tells me he's already arranged for her to be kept away from the rest of the population and treated as well as possible. When I hear him say it, I want to kiss and hug him and maybe give him the eleven million I didn't give cousin Fred.

I've got to get my emotions in check.

It's almost eight P.M. when I leave the jail, and I call Dylan's office. No one answers, which means I'm going to have to wait until tomorrow to get any information. I call my office machine, and there are a bunch of messages, mostly from friends of Laurie's and mine expressing their support. Kevin has also called to tell me he's ready to go to work tonight.

The last call is from Dylan, alerting me to the initial court appearance tomorrow morning at eleven. They are moving quickly, confidently. We have got to do the same, but it's hard to move quickly and confidently when you don't know where you're going.

I call Kevin at his house and he answers at the beginning of the first ring. The conversation is exactly what I expect. Even though I know he is outraged and upset, he doesn't voice either of those emotions. Those would be wasted, unproductive words; what we need to do is spend every moment of our time and thoughts on helping Laurie, not bemoaning the unfairness of her fate. I ask him to come right over so we can get started.

I get home and take Tara for a short walk, and by the time we get back Kevin has arrived. I make some coffee and we get down to making whatever plans and decisions we can, given our current limited access to information.

Our first priority is getting that information, and since I will have to prepare for tomorrow's court hearing, I give that task to Kevin. He will be waiting at Dylan's office before it even opens in the morning, and if he gets any resistance at all to our demand for immediate production of discovery material, he will notify me before the hearing. I will then once again embarrass Dylan about it before the judge. I doubt Dylan will want that to happen, so I suspect he'll be generally, and grudgingly, cooperative with Kevin.

We discuss how we will frame our request for bail, and prepare a motion utilizing what favorable case law there is. Kevin thinks we have a better chance than I think we have, which is encouraging, since he's a terrific attorney who has worked both sides of the system.

I tell Kevin about Stynes; my reservations about breaking that privilege have long since disappeared. Since Stynes had to know that they were not his clothes behind the stadium, he was clearly in my office for the purpose of framing Laurie. He played me like an accordion, and paying him back will be a key component of Laurie's defense.

Kevin leaves and I sit up another couple of hours, thinking about the case. I instinctively know that the victim is going to be the key, that understanding the last two years of Alex Dorsey's life is the only way to reveal the truth about his death.

One thing I know for sure: Laurie did not kill him. Stynes's involvement proves that, at least to me, but I would be sure of her innocence even without it. She hated Dorsey, and she could well have wished him dead. Under certain extreme circumstances, I could even imagine her killing him, be it to protect herself or others. But the brutality of the murder, the total disregard for the dignity of human life, clears Laurie beyond any doubt.

I get into bed, but barely sleep at all. I keep thinking of Laurie in that cell, and on some level it feels as if falling asleep in the comfort of the bed we share would be like abandoning her.

I'm up watching the news by five-thirty in the morning, but it isn't until an hour later that I discover the "sunrise scam." The weather guy has proclaimed that six-thirty-one is the moment of sunrise, yet I can now bear witness to the fact that at that exact time it is already light out, and has been light for fifteen minutes.

Does no one check these things out? Do they think the light is coming from another source, perhaps helping our eyes adjust to the upcoming sudden onset of sunlight? Or are we being deceived by someone, maybe the tanning or suntan lotion industrial complex?

And no matter what the reason for the deception, what is the value of knowing when sunrise is? Wouldn't we be better served by knowing when "lightrise" is? And are there any other idiots like me, up at this hour and paying attention to this nonsense, so as to take their minds off of something important, something that's gnawing at their insides?

How the hell am I going to help Laurie? And what if I can't?

I get up and take Tara for a two-hour walk. As always, she can sense my mood and mirrors it. She doesn't do anything to distract me from my thoughts; even when a squirrel passes, she doesn't try to go after it. I'm able to focus on the job ahead, and by the time we get home, I'm ready.

I shower and get to the courthouse at ten-thirty. As I did with Oscar, I meet with Laurie in an anteroom and prep her for the hearing. I tell her basically the same things, but I hug her considerably more than I recall hugging Oscar.

We are led into the courtroom on time, and Kevin is waiting at the defense table. Dylan and his colleagues are already in place, though this time he forgets to wish me good luck. The courtroom is packed with perhaps twice as many people and press as when Oscar was playing the lead.

Judge Timmerman once again handles the hearing. She asks if there is anything to be discussed before we begin, and Dylan immediately demonstrates just how contentious this is going to be.

"Yes, Your Honor," he says, "we believe that it is a conflict for Mr. Carpenter to be representing this defendant, and we ask that he be removed as counsel."

"On what grounds?" she asks.

"As you know, he represented Oscar Garcia when Mr. Garcia was charged with the same crime. Mr. Garcia may well be a witness in this case, which would be a clear conflict of interest for Mr. Carpenter."

As Dylan is speaking, I can feel Laurie tense up next to me, fearful that she will lose me as her lawyer. Kevin slips me a piece of paper, but I don't look at it, since I'm too intent on what Dylan is saying. There is no way I'm being taken off this case.

The judge turns to me. "Mr. Carpenter?"

I stand up. "Your Honor, just three days ago, Mr. Campbell stood before you and told you Oscar Garcia was guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. We told you he was wrong, and he now admits that he was. Now Mr. Campbell is telling you that it is Laurie Collins that is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. He is wrong again. I don't know what the indoor record is for bizarre and false accusations in connection with a single crime, but he certainly is on a pace to break it.

"Since it is clearly his intention to keep charging people until he finally blunders onto the guilty party, and since there are more citizens in this community than lawyers, eventually some of us are going to be called on for representation more than once. We might as well start now."

"Your Honor," Dylan says, "I object to the frivolous nature of the response. This is a serious matter." As Dylan speaks, I take the time to look at the paper Kevin has given me.

"It is very serious," I agree, "and it was equally serious in New Jersey v. Clampett, which is directly on point and favors the defense position." Kevin had amazingly anticipated this possibility and found case law last night.

"But far more serious," I continue, "is the fact that this prosecutor has accused two innocent people of a brutal crime in one week. He has demonstrated a disturbing willingness to rush to judgment without the benefit of facts, and here he is doing it again." I'm being extra tough on Dylan not only because this motion is a cheap, unprofessional shot but especially because the press will lap it up. I can see the smoke coming out of Dylan's ears as I go on.

"Additionally, I am no longer representing Oscar Garcia and I am unaware of any connection he continues to have to this case. Should this ever reach trial, and should he testify, my co-counsel, Kevin Randall, will cross-examine him."

Judge Timmerman thinks for a few moments, then says, "Since the Garcia matter was of such short duration, I see no clear conflict. Therefore, I am inclined to side with the defense and allow Mr. Carpenter to remain as counsel to Ms. Collins. Mr. Campbell, if you choose to, you can take up the matter again with the trial judge."

Dylan nods his resignation that he has lost this motion, at least for the time being. I can feel Laurie sigh with relief.

That relief is short-lived, as Dylan reveals that the State of New Jersey is charging Laurie with murder in the first degree. When it comes to burns, first degree is not that big a deal. Among murder charges, it's real bad. Simply put, if Laurie is convicted, she will never experience another day of freedom.

It would shake up anyone, but when called upon to give her plea, Laurie says, "Absolutely not guilty, Your Honor." She says it with conviction and power and confidence. It's another reminder that she is one tough lady.

The judge then brings up the matter of bail, which Dylan vigorously opposes. "The defendant is financially self-sufficient, and as a former police officer, is familiar with types and means of flight. Additionally, and even more significantly, the brutal nature of the crime is such that freeing the defendant would represent a serious risk to the community. Setting bail in this circumstance would be a substantial departure from precedent, and the facts simply do not support such a finding."

"Mr. Carpenter?"

I stand. "Thank you, Your Honor. Laurie Collins was a decorated police officer who left the department voluntarily when she felt that it was not adhering to sufficiently high moral and ethical standards. She has since distinguished herself as a self-employed private investigator, and I can personally vouch for her continued impeccable ethics and actions.

"Her entire life to this point has been dedicated to serving this community. She has never been charged with jaywalking, no less a major felony. Simply because she is the latest unwilling contestant in Mr. Campbell's prosecutorial game show, Suspect for a Day, that is no reason to deprive her of her liberty."

Dylan is back on his feet. "I object to these personal attacks, Your Honor."

"Sustained. Let's tone it down a bit, Mr. Carpenter," the judge says.

"Sorry, Your Honor. But to call Laurie Collins a flight risk is particularly absurd. People with her courage and character don't run from unfounded charges such as these; they stay and fight them."

The judge does not look convinced. "Bail in these situations is very unusual, Mr. Carpenter."

I'm afraid I'm losing her. Kevin nods slightly in my direction; we have an alternative plan if things look like they're going badly, which they do.

"Your Honor," I say, "we would propose a significant bail and house arrest. Ms. Collins could be electronically monitored if necessary. And if you feel that is insufficient, a police guard could be posted outside the house, which if you so ordered, the defense would pay for."

The judge seems intrigued by this, and I can see her tentatively pulling back from the brink of ruling against us. "Mr. Campbell," she says, "what's your response to that? It would seem to eliminate both the risk of flight and any danger to the community."

It is no surprise that Dylan disagrees completely. "Your Honor, we are talking about a vicious and premeditated crime against a police officer. House arrest is simply not a substitute for prison. This is what prisons are for."

I stand again. "Your Honor, I arrived in court a few minutes after Mr. Campbell today. Was there a trial and conviction that I missed? Prisons are for criminals. Mr. Campbell still must prove Laurie Collins is a criminal, and he will not come close."

The judge nods and makes her ruling. "Bail will be set at five hundred thousand dollars. The accused will be subject to house arrest and electronically monitored. If the state wants to post a guard outside the house, it will be at their own expense."

I lean over to Laurie and whisper. "You okay if it's my house?"

She smiles slightly. "Only on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays."

I fight the urge to return the smile, then ask the judge to allow her house arrest to take place at my house, explaining that it will considerably increase her ability to aid in her own defense, and that as a law enforcement officer and investigator, that help is particularly valuable. The judge agrees, and Dylan doesn't bother to fight it.

"You can arrange bail with the court clerk," the judge says, and then adjourns the hearing.

I immediately walk toward the clerk, passing right by Dylan as I do. "Dylan," I say, "you're an expert on this stuff. You think they want cash or a check?"

He doesn't answer, so I guess I'll just have to ask the clerk.

LAURIE ISN'T RELEASED FROM THE JAIL UNTIL three hours after the hearing. They blame processing delays, and I'm just about ready to burn the place down when I finally see her. A guard is assigned to drive her to my house so he can make sure that she is within the house when he fastens her electronic ankle bracelet.

Kevin wants to come over with the discovery material he got from Dylan's office, but I tell him that we'll start in the morning. Today was a very intense day for all of us, and we could use a breather before jumping into this. Once it starts, there won't be anything else going on in our world.

I ask Kevin to start the process of transferring the office to the house; I want the phones switched over and all the files moved. Even Edna should be alerted to change her late morning destination, mainly because if we didn't tell her, she might continue in the other office for months before noticing we were gone.

Laurie and I have a quiet, early dinner. She's a tough woman, but I can tell that she's shaken by the experience. I can see her gathering her strength, girding for the ordeal that is to follow.

We are in bed by ten, and I hold her until she falls asleep. I confess that I would be willing to do more than hold her, but my sense is that it is a sign of insensitivity to attempt to make love to somebody on the same night they have been charged with a decapitation-murder. I fall asleep moments after Laurie does; today was an exhausting day for both of us.

We're still sleeping at eight o'clock the next morning when the doorbell rings and I stagger down to answer it. It is then that I see one of those sights that make you rub your eyes and wonder if you're seeing a mirage, or perhaps still dreaming.

Edna.

Up and awake and raring to go to work, at eight o'clock in the morning. Edna! The mind boggles.

"We've got work to do, Andy," she says, then brushes past me and enters the house. I can see that out on the street the press has already started to assemble; I would be surprised if they're not a constant presence, which is fine with me. Laurie will be inside anyway, and in a case like this manipulation of the press is a necessary part of a defense attorney's job. Having them on hand will make it more convenient.

Edna immediately starts to set up a makeshift office in my den. She pauses only to go to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Edna making coffee! With my camera upstairs, I'm missing out on a once-in-a-lifetime shot.

Edna tries to explain to me her level of outrage that Laurie has been placed in this situation. She makes me swear that we will all do whatever is necessary to exonerate her, an easy promise for me to make. Laurie comes downstairs, wearing pants to cover her ankle bracelet. Edna rushes to hug her, offering kind words and renewing her vow to do everything she can. I am actually touched by Edna's response to this crisis, and I can tell that Laurie is as well.

Kevin shows up a few minutes later and informs us that the movers will have the office files and equipment here by eleven o'clock. He has the discovery files with him, and we set up in the den to start going through them.

Laurie volunteers to make breakfast for us, and when I mention that there's really nothing in the house to make it out of, she casually says she'll go to the market. Before I can respond, she realizes that she misspoke, that she must remain in the house at all times. It's a small thing, but a sobering reminder of her situation.

Edna goes to the market, and I can hear her loudly berating the media "leeches" as she leaves. I make a note to explain to her the importance of maintaining good press relations, but it is pretty far down on my list of notes.

Based on my skimming the morning paper and watching some TV news coverage, the press is giving us the upper hand in yesterday's hearing. There is substantial mention of the ridicule I subjected Dylan to, and while I would ordinarily not view this as a positive, in this case I feel otherwise. Dylan will not willingly give an inch anyway, and I think that getting him angry might cause him to make a mistake. I also think it might make him come across as overly aggressive, never a good thing for a prosecutor.

Kevin and I start to plow through the discovery material, though in this case a plow would be substantial overkill. The file is very skimpy, confirming my belief that extracting material from an uncooperative Dylan is going to be a constant fight. Of course, to let anything slip by us is to invite a disaster in court.

Basically, the case against Laurie as outlined in the material has two powerful linchpins. First is her presence at what has now been identified as the murder scene behind Hinchcliffe Stadium, and what the police see as her attempt to retrieve the evidence. Obviously, the most incriminating part of that evidence is her bloody clothing, and I have no doubt that DNA will reveal it to be Alex Dorsey's blood on both that clothing and the knife.

The second very damaging piece of evidence has been found as the result of a search warrant, executed on Laurie's house. In her garage was an empty can with the residue of a fluid that appeared to be gasoline, and which when tested was the exact same mixture as that used to set Dorsey's body on fire. Laurie is stunned when she hears this, and swears that she has never seen that can in her life.

The remainder of the file consists of witness statements. It's very early in the process, but the police are already making headway in this regard. Oscar and others in his neighborhood claim that Laurie was there frequently, apparently following Oscar. There is also a witness who puts Laurie in the area of the warehouse the day of the murder.

A major piece missing from the discovery documents is any reference to the victim's actions, record, and history. Dorsey must have a file the size of South Dakota, but despite our request, nothing has been included. Only by getting those records will we know why they don't want us to have them.

"Pancakes?" It's Laurie, standing at the door, the smell of her prepared breakfast wafting into the room.

A prime factor that the NFL uses for talent evaluation is the player's speed in the forty-yard dash. If instead they measured the time from den to kitchen, Kevin would be All-Pro and a future Hall of Famer.

Edna and I eat one pancake each, and Laurie has two, so including Kevin we eat a total of sixteen. When we're done, we go back into the den, and we plot our initial moves. Kevin will work on getting access to Dorsey's police records, initially by renewing our request for voluntary discovery. We expect Dylan to again reject it, so Kevin will simultaneously prepare a motion to convince the court to compel him to comply.

The other assignment I give Kevin is to find an investigator to work with us on this case. I'm afraid that Laurie will feel as if she is being replaced, and might get frustrated and upset. I'm wrong again, and she jumps in with ideas for people that we might hire.

When Kevin leaves, Laurie leads me into the bedroom, out of earshot of Edna. Once we're there, she says, "Andy, we need to talk about money."

"What about it?" I ask.

"I've got twelve thousand dollars in the bank," she says.

"That's all? I've got twenty-two million."

"Andy, I've always been self-sufficient. It's how I've defined myself. But right now I can't come close to paying for my own defense, and I don't know what to do about it."

"There's nothing for you to do. I'll pay for it, but first I'll negotiate with myself to cut my hourly rate."

"This case will cost a fortune."

"Then we're really lucky, because I happen to have a fortune," I say. "Look, we bring different things to our relationship, to our friendship. One of the things I bring is money. It's never been that important to either of us, but right now we need it, and there it is. If we spend every penny of it, that's fine."

"Andy--" she starts, but I cut her off.

"I know how you feel, Laurie, but every minute we spend thinking about this is a minute we're not thinking about what's really important. And that is winning this case."

"So this is something I'm going to have to deal with?" she asks.

I nod, and even though she still seems uncertain about her ability to do that, she hugs me. "I love you," she says.

"I love you too." As I said, it's not a response we consider automatic, and there's no obligation to say it, but sometimes it feels right.

I head back into the den, and by that time Edna has worked out phone arrangements. The phone company will be there within the hour to install our office line separate from my home line. Laurie wants to take personal calls on her cell phone, so as not to interfere with our activities. Edna is by now already on another project, though I have no idea what she could be working on. It's possible that some body-snatching work-pod took over Edna's body while she slept last night. Not wanting to disrupt whatever the Edna-pod is doing, and even though I'm still picking pieces of pancake out of my teeth, I go to lunch.

This lunch is with FBI Special Agent Robert Hastings. Pete Stanton, who set it up, told me that Hastings's friends call him Robbie, but that since I'm a defense attorney, I should call him Special Agent Hastings. Pete knows him from a few cases where their paths intersected, and he describes him as a stand-up guy.

The stand-up guy is already sitting at a table when I get there. At least I think he's sitting. Right now he's about half a foot taller than I am when I'm standing. I had asked Pete how I'd recognize him, and he described Hastings as dressing conservatively and balding slightly. Apparently, Pete considered these more distinctive features than the fact that Hastings is in the neighborhood of six foot nine, three hundred pounds.

Hastings is looking at his watch when I arrive. The lunch was called for noon, and a quick check of my own watch shows it to be one minute after.

I reach the table and introduce myself, and then say, "I'm not late, am I?" I say this with the full knowledge that I'm not.

"Yeah, you are," he says.

"Didn't we say twelve o'clock?" I ask.

A slight nod of his massive head. "Yeah."

I decide not to pursue the time issue any further, and I quietly let him take the lead in the conversation. It turns out that conversation-leading is not a specialty of his.

After about five silent and excruciatingly uncomfortable minutes, he says, "Pete tells me you're a pain in the ass."

I smile. "I've been called worse."

"Yeah," he says. "I'm sure."

Hastings goes on to tell me that Pete also said that even though I'm a little runt, there's not a lunch check ever made that's too heavy for me to pick up. He picked this really expensive restaurant to test out that theory.

He's in the middle of ordering enough food to feed the Green Bay Packers when it hits me. "Hey, you're not Dead End Hastings, are you?"

It turns out that he is, in fact, Dead End Hastings, who spent two years playing for the Denver Broncos and who was so named because when running backs came into his area, they were entering a dead end with no way out. An untimely knee injury cut a very promising career short.

The transformation is immediate. He goes from quiet and surly to affable and gregarious. Fortunately, his mouth is large enough that simultaneous talking and eating presents no difficulty for him at all. He regales me with stories of his playing days and is impressed with my knowledge of rather arcane pieces of football trivia. I always knew that all those Sunday afternoons in front of the television set would turn out to be worthwhile.

We're having dessert when I bring up the reason I wanted to have this lunch in the first place. "I need to know everything there is to know about Alex Dorsey. I'm representing the person accused in his murder."

His nod confirms my expectation that Pete had alerted him to at least this general subject matter. "And why exactly did you come to me?" he asks.

"Because I know the Bureau conducted an investigation that somehow involved Dorsey and that it got him at least temporarily off the hook when Internal Affairs was coming after him. That's all part of the public record."

I'm stretching the truth some: FBI involvement with Dorsey was never publicly confirmed. Hastings doesn't seem to care one way or the other. "It's not my case," he says, "so all I can do is tell you whose case it is."

"That's a start," I say.

"Darrin Hobbs. He's number two man in the eastern region, heading for number one."

"Thanks," I say. "Any chance you can set up a meeting for me with him?"

He shrugs. "I can tell him you want to talk to him. I wouldn't count on it, though. He's a busy guy."

"I understand," I say. "By the way, you said 'is.'"

"What's that?"

"You said it is his case. I thought the federal investigation involving Dorsey ended a long time ago. Did you just make a bad choice of words?"

He looks across the table at me with a stare that makes me glad I was never an offensive lineman. "I'm even better at choosing words than I am at eating." That is a significant statement, because based on the size of the check when I get it, Winston Churchill wasn't better at choosing words than Hastings is at eating.

Driving home, I try to focus on that which makes this case unique. In most cases, my view is that my client is wrongly accused and that the real criminal is out there. While that is certainly true here as well, the twist is that Laurie's arrest is not just the result of police error. Stynes's involvement makes it crystal clear that she was set up from the very beginning. It is likely, but not absolutely definite, that the person behind the setup and the murderer are one and the same.

I find it very helpful to sit down with Kevin to just bounce ideas off each other. He has a sharp mind, and while he's emotionally involved in this case, he's far more dispassionate than I am.

We have one of those talks this afternoon, though it's a little hard to hear because Edna is typing like a maniac in the background. Kevin points out that my instinct about Stynes not being disappointed when I turned down his case was right on target. He wasn't in my office for the purpose of hiring an attorney; he was there to plant information in my head. He was betting that my belief in his guilt would cause me to defend Garcia.

"So two people got framed," I say. "First Garcia and then Laurie. But Garcia was always meant to be temporary; he was never meant to take the ultimate fall. He was just there to get me into the case."

Kevin shakes his head. "I don't think so. I think he was there to get Laurie into the case. She works for you, so they had to bring you in first."

In an instant I realize that he is right and that what he is saying has a logical extension. "Which means Garcia was not picked at random; he was chosen because Laurie had a long-standing grudge against him. And now Dylan will use that to say she murdered Dorsey and framed Garcia, thereby removing two people she hated."

He nods. "We're up against somebody pretty smart."

"Lucky we've got Edna the dynamo on our side."

After a while Kevin is about to leave, and together we persuade Edna to leave with him. She vows to be back early in the morning, and I tell her that I'll set the alarm.

Laurie and I have a quiet dinner, trying our best not to talk about the case, while knowing we're each thinking about nothing else. We haven't really had a full-blown attorney-client discussion yet, and I ask her if it's okay if we start the process tonight. She agrees, and we sit on the couch in the den, soft music in the background, sharing a bottle of wine. In terms of the atmosphere for attorney-client conferences, I've experienced a hell of a lot worse.

I start off by telling her that it is important for us to put our personal relationship aside in working her case; that is how we can be most objective and effective. She has to be prepared for me to treat her like any other client. She nods. "So we won't be sleeping together?"

"Sure we will," I say. "I sleep with all my clients."

That dispensed with, we get down to business. Laurie knows the importance of total honesty in speaking to one's lawyer, but since knowing it in the abstract and living it are two different things, I take pains to remind her.

Laurie tells me that she doesn't know any more about Dorsey's disappearance and murder than I do. Accepting that at face value, I try to focus in on her relationship with Oscar Garcia.

Laurie begins by once again reciting the story of her friend's teenage daughter, who became a drug customer of Garcia's before running away from home. I've heard it all, but I let her go on. I often find it's better to let a client talk uninterrupted as much as possible; I get more information that way. It's strange to be thinking of Laurie as a client, but I'm getting used to it.

"You made a comment to me the other day," I say. "Something about knowing what Oscar's been up to recently."

She nods. "I've kept my eye on him from time to time."

"What exactly does that mean?"

"It means that when I've had time I've watched him, hoping he would make a mistake. Something that could get him sent away."

"You're not a cop anymore, Laurie."

"No, but I know a few." She can see I'm a little worried about this. "Andy, the guy is a slime. I have the right to watch him."

"Did you catch him doing anything?" I ask.

"Not that I could prove."

"What about personal contact? Did you have any?"

"No."

I feel like she's holding back, although she must know that wouldn't make any sense. The rest of the conversation consists more of her trying to get information from me than the other way around. She wants to know how the case is going, and even though it hasn't had time to go anywhere, I make myself sound upbeat. My goal is to be honest but not depressing. In this case, at least for now, that's not easy.

I'M UP AND SHOWERED BY SEVEN O'CLOCK THE NEXT morning, which is exactly the time that Edna shows up. I see her through the window; she has brought donuts and coffee for the early assembled press and is outside divvying it up. Obviously, there was no need for press-relations coaching from me; Wonder Woman picked it up on her own.

At nine o'clock I get a phone call from the court clerk informing me that the grand jury has handed down an indictment against Laurie. Dylan has been working fast. She also informs me that a trial judge has been assigned, and I am wanted at a meeting in one hour in his chambers. I start to argue about the inconvenience of this hastily called meeting when she tells me that the trial judge is Walter "Hatchet" Henderson.

I stop arguing. Hatchet could just as easily have given me ten minutes to get there, and held me in contempt if I was late. He is autocratic, obnoxious, and legendarily difficult for all lawyers, though I'm sure he scares Dylan more than me. Hatchet was the judge on the Miller case, and I was pleased--make that stunned--by the competence and fairness he demonstrated while conducting that trial.

Before I leave, Laurie reminds me of her one demand: that the trial begin as soon as possible. It's a very common feeling among the accused, especially the wrongly accused. This experience is so trying, so frightening, so humiliating, that the need to have it over as quickly as possible is overwhelming.

By the time I get to Hatchet's office Dylan is already there, kissing the judge's ass by marveling about how much weight Hatchet has lost on some diet. Lawyers instinctively try to kiss Hatchet's ass, but even though that ass has in fact gotten smaller during this diet, the tactic doesn't work. Hatchet does not respect ass-kissing attorneys. He also does not respect prosecuting attorneys, defense attorneys, outstanding attorneys, mediocre attorneys, or any attorneys.

"Good morning, Judge," I say.

"Let's do without the small talk, gentlemen. We've got a trial to conduct."

"Oh," I say, "I assumed we were changing defendants again."

"No," Dylan responds, "we're going to put this one away for a long time."

I laugh. "Dylan, I'm going to clean your clock."

Hatchet interrupts and berates us for our unprofessional conduct. He then takes out his calendar and opens the floor to discussion of a start date for the trial.

"I would suggest July fourteenth, Your Honor," Dylan says.

"That is unacceptable to the defense, Your Honor. We wish to invoke our right to a speedy trial. We would be looking at the middle of May."

Dylan is clearly surprised, mainly because he knows rushing is not in our best interest; it's an accepted truth that time is always on the defense's side. And besides, I had already agreed to the July 14 date when the defendant was Oscar. Dylan has no choice but to accede to our demand, however, since we are simply exercising our constitutional rights.

Dylan estimates that the prosecution case might take two weeks, and I say that I doubt we'll even need to mount a defense, but if we do, a week should do it.

Hatchet looks intently at the calendar, then stares at us. "My vacation begins on June twenty-eight."

I nod. "And I hope Your Honor has a wonderful time."

Dylan revisits the issue of bail, as I knew he would. I'm very concerned that Hatchet might revoke the bail and put Laurie in jail.

"I would not have ruled as Judge Timmerman did," Hatchet says. "It is a decision that makes me uncomfortable."

"The decision is wrong," Dylan agrees. "Almost without precedent in this county."

I won't get anywhere by arguing with Hatchet; all I can do is give him another point of view to consider. "I'm not going to defend Judge Timmerman's ruling, though it obviously is one I was pleased with. But there are new circumstances to consider."

He peers at me from behind his glasses. "And they are?"

"Her order has been followed, and there have been no negative consequences. Ms. Collins is safely contained, electronically monitored, and guarded by the police. The community is safe, and will remain so, and there is no risk of flight. Respectfully, sir, altering Judge Timmerman's order provides no benefit to anyone, while hampering Ms. Collins's considerable ability to aid in her own defense."

Dylan starts to argue some more, but Hatchet isn't listening. He is turning the issue over in his mind. My heart is pounding so hard I'm afraid Hatchet won't be able to hear over it.

Finally, after what seems like a couple of months, he nods. "Without a change in circumstances, I'm inclined to let Judge Timmerman's ruling stand." Then he looks at me. "Make sure there is no change in circumstances."

Hatchet dismisses us, and I permit myself a condescending smile at Dylan as I leave. I'm on a winning streak which won't last, but I might as well let Dylan know that I'm enjoying it.

As we had planned, Kevin is waiting for me at the bottom of the courthouse steps. He takes me over to a nearby coffee shop, where I am to meet Marcus Clark. I had asked Laurie and Kevin to each come up with a list of investigators to join our team for this case, and Marcus's name was the only one on both lists.

Marcus is late arriving, so Kevin uses the time to brief me on his background. Soon after Marcus had become an investigator, Kevin represented him on an assault charge: Marcus had broken a guy's nose in a bar fight. Kevin won the case with a claim of self-defense, which he has always considered one of his greatest victories. He tells me that I'll understand why when I see Marcus.

Marcus comes in moments later, and it's immediately obvious what Kevin was talking about. It is hard to imagine that Marcus could have acted in self-defense, because it's hard to imagine anyone being dumb enough to have attacked him.

Marcus is a thirty-year-old African-American, about five foot ten, with a bald head so shiny you could guide planes to a runway with it. His body is so sculpted, his muscles so perfectly formed, that the clothes he is wearing don't seem to impede a view of his body.

But Marcus's most distinguishing physical feature is his menacing facial expression. Fighters like Mike Tyson and Marvin Hagler were noted for cowing their opponents during the pre-fight instructions with the power and anger in their stares. Marcus makes Tyson and Hagler look like Kermit and Miss Piggy.

Marcus nods a couple of times as Kevin makes the introductions, but it's a few minutes before he says his momentous first words.

"Rye toast."

The waitress says, "Yes, sir," which seems to be the appropriate response to Marcus, no matter what he requests. My guess is that if the coffee shop didn't have any, the waitress would have gone outside, captured a rye, and slaughtered it herself.

I explain Laurie's basic situation to him, and when I finish, he simply says, "She is a good person."

I nod vigorously in agreement, which I would have done had he said the earth was an isosceles triangle. "Yes, she is. A really good person."

"I'll take the job," he says, despite my not having offered it. "A hundred an hour, plus expenses."

"Great," I say. "But just so we're on the same page, tell me how you operate."

He doesn't seem to know what I mean. "My style?" he asks.

"Right, that's right. Your style."

Marcus turns to Kevin. "He serious?"

Kevin, who hasn't said two words during this entire meeting, is surprised to be called in at this point. Marcus and I have to wait until Kevin chews the pound and a half of hamburger in his mouth. I think Kevin actually stores food in his mouth, just in case he should get hungry.

"I suppose," Kevin says with a shrug, a stunning statement clearly worth waiting for.

Marcus matches the shrug and turns back to me. "My style is, you tell me what you want to know, and I find out."

"How?" His stare gets a little meaner, so I soften the question. "I mean, generally …"

"I ask people questions," he says, "and they answer them. I'm real easy to talk to."

I accept his explanation, even though I personally would rather be questioned by the SS. I decide to hire him, but I don't have to announce it, since he did so earlier. I have reservations, but Kevin and Laurie recommended him highly, and they know as much about this stuff as I do, in Laurie's case even more.

We bid Marcus a warm and poignant goodbye, then Kevin and I drive to my house. We pull up in front, and Edna comes rushing out to meet us.

"Have you noticed Edna is a little high-energy these days?" I ask.

Before Kevin can answer, Edna reaches the car. "Come inside, quick."

The look on her face says that she's not calling us in for calisthenics, that something is wrong.

"What is it?" I ask, already on my way inside.

"Laurie should be the one to tell you."

Kevin and I break into a run, and Laurie is at the front door when we open it. Her cell phone is in her hand, which seems to be shaking.

"I just got a phone call," she says in a nervous voice.

"From who?"

"Alex Dorsey."

I try not to overreact to this announcement, and Kevin and I take Laurie into the den to talk. There are no rules for situations like this, but I instinctively feel that phone calls from headless murder victims should be viewed calmly and rationally.

Laurie explains that she had answered her cell phone and immediately heard a voice she recognized as Dorsey's say, "Hello, Laurie, it's Alex."

Laurie says she was momentarily too stunned to respond, and Dorsey went on to say that it was payback time, that she'd be sorry for what she did to him, and now was the time.

"Can you tell us his exact words?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "No, I don't know what his exact words were. I was pretty shocked that he was calling. But that's definitely close to what he said."

"What did you say?"

"That it wouldn't work, that somebody would find him, that he should give it up now."

"And his response?"

"All he said was, 'So long, rookie,' and hung up."

"But you're positive it was him?" I ask.

She nods. "As positive as I can be. It sounded just like him, and he used to call me 'rookie' because he knew it irritated me. Andy, I don't understand this. They said they ran a DNA test. The body was definitely Dorsey."

We spend the next hour kicking around how we should handle this. Laurie's testimony as to the facts would have no practical significance. For the accused to announce that she and she alone knows that the victim is really alive would obviously be recognized as self-serving and suspect. Nor does she have an obligation to report what has happened; it is not up to the defense to provide the prosecution with information of any kind.

But it is obviously in our interest to bring this to the attention of the authorities. The phone call opens up questions that must be investigated. For example, can the call be traced? How could the DNA test have gone wrong? Whose body was burned in that warehouse? Where is Dorsey, and how can we get the police to try to find someone they believe to be dead?

Kevin believes that we should call Dylan immediately and make the judge aware of the development as well. I disagree; Dylan will ridicule our claims and not act on them at all. For me the issue is whether to bring this to the police or the press. At this point Lieutenant Sabonis has not given me reason to mistrust him, so I decide to start with the police. The press will be backup if Sabonis doesn't take action.

Most important is what we have learned from this. Obviously, and most significant, we have learned that Dorsey is alive. And while we have always known that someone was framing Laurie for Dorsey's murder, now we know it is Dorsey himself doing the framing. Dorsey must have sent Stynes.

Making the phone call, though, was a brazen and overly self-confident act on Dorsey's part. It also reveals the depth of his hatred for Laurie. It is not triumph enough for him to ruin her life; he wants her to know that it is he himself who is ruining it.

I call Sabonis and ask to meet with him as soon as possible on a new development. He is surprised and a little uncomfortable with the request, since normal protocol would be for me to go through Dylan.

"This information is too important to get buried," I say. "Obviously, you can discuss it with whoever you want once I tell you, but it's important to me that you hear it directly."

He agrees, and I ask if he can come to us, since Laurie can answer any related questions he might have. He says that he'll be over in twenty minutes.

I use the time to brief Laurie on how to answer his questions. She has been the questioner, but never the accused, and I tell her that she is to pause before answering anything, so that if I want to intervene, I'll have the time to do so. Having a client answer police questions is uncomfortable for a defense attorney, but in this case it is necessary, as long as those questions relate to the Dorsey phone call.

Sabonis arrives five minutes early. I thank him for coming and bring him into the den, where Laurie proceeds to describe the phone call. He listens quietly and respectfully, not saying anything at all until she's finished.

"I assume you didn't tape the call?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "No, it was on my cell phone."

"Who has that number?"

"A lot of people, mostly my friends. But calls to my home are being routed to it."

"Did you have that phone number when you were on the force? Would it have been in your file?"

She nods. "I think so."

"What do you think, Nick?" I ask.

He pauses a moment, then, "I think you were right in not bringing this to Dylan; he'd throw you out of his office and laugh in your face while he was doing it. My reaction would be the same with typical murder suspects, but Laurie is not your typical murder suspect."

"So," I ask, "will you treat it as a reliable piece of information and keep me posted on what you learn?"

"I'll treat it as information to be investigated. Whether it's reliable or not is still to be determined. As far as keeping you posted, you know that's Dylan's responsibility."

"He'll shut the door on us," I say. "I'll have to go to the judge."

"No skin off my ass." My sense is that he'd be fine if I did that; it might lessen the hassles he has in dealing with Dylan.

Sabonis tries to take advantage of the proximity to ask Laurie some case-related questions, but since they are not about the phone call, I don't let her answer them. He leaves, and Kevin goes off to amend our motion for discovery on Dorsey's department file to include this latest development in the investigation.

I had planned to think about what would be best for Marcus to work on, but this turns that decision into a nobrainer. I call him and tell him that his time should be devoted to finding out whatever there is to find out about Alex Dorsey.

"I want you to find his head and tell me if there's a body attached to it," I say. He grunts, but I think it's an agreeable grunt. And I leave it at that.

Laurie is freaking out, but not from fear. It's only been a few days, but the inactivity and feelings of frustration are really getting to her. Now that she knows Dorsey is out there directing this torture, the desire to get out and find him is overwhelming. I've had to devote more and more time to either calming her down or easing her fears.

I receive a pleasant surprise when I get a call from FBI agent Cindy Spodek, who identifies herself as assigned to Darrin Hobbs's command at the Bureau. Agent Dead End Hastings has been true to his word and told Hobbs, the agent in charge of the Dorsey-related investigation, that I wanted to meet with him, and Agent Spodek is calling to say that Hobbs will be at his Manhattan office that afternoon. I expected to have to wait weeks for this meeting, and there is no way I will not fit this in.

Traffic into the city is light, and I'm there a half hour before the two-thirty meeting. I go in anyway and am greeted by Agent Spodek, a tall, attractive brunet in her early thirties. She very crisply informs me that Special Agent Hobbs is in a meeting, and we can wait in Hobbs's small conference room just outside his office.

Looking around, I have to assume we visitors are often deposited in here first to impress us, as the room is a shrine to Special Agent Hobbs. Hastings had told me that Hobbs was a star within the Bureau, and the decor drives that point home. Hobbs's commendations and newspaper clippings detailing his heroics cover most of the walls and almost obscure the top of every piece of furniture in the room. The only remaining spaces are taken by similar tributes to his exploits in Vietnam. Based on all these chronicled heroic triumphs, it's amazing we didn't win.

"Very humble," I say.

"He's earned it" is Agent Spodek's response.

It seems like my time with her is heading for a conversational wasteland, so I immediately trot out the line guaranteed to turn that around. "By the way, I saved a golden retriever from death row at an animal shelter."

"How nice for you," she says with no enthusiasm, leaving me to wonder where I went wrong. Maybe the line requires Tara to be standing next to me, or maybe it only works outdoors. It's certainly going to require further study, but for now I just nod and look around the room.

I'm holding one of the photos from Vietnam in my hand when the door opens and Hobbs walks in. He's probably fifty years old, not that imposing in size but energetic and fit, the type who hasn't found a room he can't dominate. He sees me holding the photograph.

"Those were dangerous but exciting times," he says. "Were you over there?"

I was a good fifteen years too young for that, but I don't mention this. "No, I missed it," I say, ruing that fact by snapping my fingers. "Just my luck."

"It was no fun, believe me."

I already knew that, so this is not a revelation that throws me off my stride. At least not as much as his handshake, which reminds me of Superman squeezing a lump of coal so hard it turns into a diamond. "Darrin Hobbs." He smiles. "Good to meet you."

I could wait to speak until the circulation returns to my hand, but I don't think he invited me here for a sleep-over. "Andy Carpenter. Thanks for seeing me so quickly."

"No problem." He looks at his watch. "Although I don't have a hell of a lot of time. Hastings said it was important."

"It is. I'm representing a woman charged with the murder of Alex Dorsey."

Hobbs looks over to Agent Spodek, as if realizing for the first time that she is even there. "We'll be fine, Spodek" is how he dismisses her.

Once Spodek has left the room, Hobbs picks up the conversation as if she had never been there. He shakes his head, as if remembering past times. "Dorsey was always a murder waiting to happen."

I nod. "But my client didn't make it happen." I decide not to share with him the fact that Dorsey is still alive and making phone calls. That has nothing to do with what I'm trying to learn.

He smiles. "Another innocent client … so what is it you want from me?"

"I know you were familiar with Dorsey's actions a couple of years ago, when he was almost nailed by Internal Affairs. I know you, or at least the Bureau, intervened."

"You know that?" He smiles, apparently amused.

"Are you telling me otherwise?"

He seems about to say that he is, but then shrugs with some resignation. "What the hell, sure. Inside these four walls … that's basically what happened."

"Was Dorsey the target of the investigation?"

"No way. We had bigger fish to fry."

"And they were?"

"They were none of your business. Next question."

"Is the investigation ongoing?"

His smile is a sad one. "No, I wish it were. The Dorsey stuff killed it--too much publicity."

Dead End Hastings had indicated the investigation was in fact ongoing, but Hobbs is denying it. Could it be that Hobbs doesn't trust Andy Carpenter, defense attorney?

I continue asking questions, and he continues smiling and answering them, all the while providing me with absolutely no useful information. He may have such information, but I'm sure not getting it out of him. Or he may not.

I leave after about a half hour, with Hobbs wishing me luck and offering to be available should I need more help in the future. I make a note to myself that if I ever want to have another completely unproductive meeting that is a total waste of time, I will give him a call.

I meet Kevin back at the house, and he tells me that Dylan has turned over some information from Dorsey's file, though not anything relating to Laurie's accusation against him or anything about the Internal Affairs investigation.

Before we get started going through it, we eat the dinner Laurie has prepared for us. Since she has little else to do besides worry, she's been spending a lot of time in the kitchen, and the results have been extraordinary. Tonight is a crabmeat salad, followed by fusilli amatriciana, followed by freshly baked brownies. It is absolutely delicious, and I match Kevin chomp for chomp. It's lucky we've pressed for a speedy trial, or I would have "Goodyear" painted on my ass by the time we reach opening statements.