One Dog Night

“Get to the part that will make me give a shit,” he says. I don’t think I’ve cowed him yet.

“This is all going to come out in the trial; I have an obligation to do it on behalf of my client.” I pointedly add, “If I were suddenly unavailable, my associates would do it. But I can leave your name out of it; Loney will be my target. But I need you to call him off.”

He thinks for a moment. “So you’re threatening me that if I don’t call Loney off, assuming I know who the hell Loney is, that you’ll drag my name through the trial?”

“I wouldn’t call it a threat,” I say.

“What would you call it?’

I think for a moment, but come up with nothing. “I don’t really have a name for it,” I say. “But I definitely wouldn’t use ‘threat.’”

“If my name comes up in that trial, you are a dead man,” he says.

“Will you call Loney off?”

“If my name comes up in that trial, you are a dead man.”

The door opens, and the guy who led me in comes in to lead me out. I don’t know if Ricci pressed some kind of button or the guy was listening on an intercom, but he knew when to show up.

Thirty seconds later I’m in the hall with Marcus.

“Okay?” he says.

“I’m okay.”

He nods and says, “Sushi.”

Six hours later we board the redeye, and Marcus shows that the trip out was no fluke; he simply spends every moment he is on a plane asleep.

It gives me time to think about how the meeting with Ricci went. Other than the fact that he didn’t kill me, it’s hard to know if I accomplished anything. Certainly he didn’t say anything to make me think I had, but I wouldn’t have expected him to openly agree to anything. The real answer will come from his actions, from what he does with Loney.

Although the fact is that I may never find out what Ricci does. Loney and Ricci operate in the shadows, and I haven’t come close to penetrating their world. Ricci could have him killed, or appoint him Emperor of Crimedom, and I probably wouldn’t know it.

And whatever I don’t learn, the jury doesn’t learn.

Carmine Ricci got the phone call about an hour after his meeting with Carpenter.

He was having lunch, or maybe even breakfast, though it was four P.M. Carmine rarely slept, and when he did it was almost never at night, so assigning names to meals based on the time he ate them was not something he bothered to do.

It was a call he expected, and no time was wasted on chitchat. “It’s done,” Fowler said.

“Without incident?” Carmine asked.

“Without incident.”

The fact that Fowler was able to dispatch Loney so easily impressed Carmine, though he would never admit it. Loney had been tough and smart, not Carmine’s most talented employee, but right up there.

“This puts you out of it,” Fowler said. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

“Not quite,” Carmine said. “There is a large amount of money outstanding.”

“I understand. We’ve discussed and agreed to the timing of that. Thirty days from the conclusion of the operation.”

“Where does that stand?” Carmine asked.

“It will be very soon. I can’t say exactly.”

Carmine didn’t want to ask too many questions about the operation, but he was pretty sure that he knew the basic points. The firestorm that it would create would be too hot for anyone, even Carmine, so he wanted no connection to the actual events whatsoever.

Carmine had simply provided the muscle, and much of the financing. Substantial, secret collateral had been provided, but all parties knew that debts to Carmine were always paid in full, or the debtor did not live to borrow again.

“Carpenter was here to see me,” Carmine said. “He knew all about Loney.”

“That’s not a problem, seeing as how Loney no longer exists.”

“The next time I hear from you, you will be calling to arrange payment.”

Fowler smiled. “I look forward to it.”

Sam Willis finally got what he was after.

Actually, he didn’t personally get it; Hilda Mandlebaum once again had that honor. But they were a team, and their triumphs were joint ones.

The first step was getting Judge Holland’s phone records, supposedly safely tucked away in the phone company’s computer system. Once they had that to examine, Sam was sure that he identified the number that the judge called that belonged to Loney.

Andy Carpenter had provided the idea. He told Sam the date and time he had tried to reach the judge, mentioning Bauer’s name to the assistant. Andy figured that the judge might get worried and quickly call people related to the case, hopefully Loney.

Sure enough, a call was made from the judge to a cell phone just two minutes after Andy had called him. The call lasted four minutes. And when Sam obtained the phone records for that number, it was registered under a fake name.

It had to be Loney’s.

The next step was equally easy; they retrieved Loney’s phone records. But that was not the big prize, and they just printed out a copy of the records to show Andy. The big prize was delivering on Hike’s suggestion. Hilda, under Sam’s able direction, was able to use the phone company’s computers to track the GPS signal to learn where Loney was. They had the street address in Dover, Delaware. The significance of that was not lost on Sam. He knew that Judge Holland lived in the same city, and MapQuest quickly told him the two addresses were less than a mile away.

Andy was in Vegas, and when Sam tried to call him it went straight to voice mail. Marcus was with him, so he wasn’t an option. Sam considered calling Laurie, but she would just tell him to wait until Andy got back.

Sam didn’t want to wait.

Leaving his elderly crew behind to continue work on the list of missing persons from the time of the fire, Sam made the three-hour drive to Delaware. It was Hilda’s responsibility to keep track of Loney’s GPS signal, in case Loney was on the move. She would be able to redirect Sam to where Loney had moved to.

But Hilda kept reporting in that the signal had not changed, which Sam was pleased about. He used the drive to figure out what he would do when he got there.

He had no intention of being a hero; he was not going to go in, guns blazing. He had brought his gun, but only for protection, in case things were to go wrong. His goals were modest. He would confirm that Loney was there, and perhaps follow him if necessary to learn where he lived.

Perhaps more importantly, he would try and get a look at Loney. Loney was a mystery man so far, and Sam was sure that Andy would appreciate his getting a cell phone picture of him.

When Sam arrived at the GPS address, he was surprised to see that it was an abandoned warehouse. He had expected it to be a hotel or apartment building, and the fact that it was not caused him to rethink his plan. There was no real way to approach the building without being seen, and Sam had no desire at all to be seen.

So he sat in his car for two hours, a half block from the warehouse. It was a fairly deserted area, so there was a danger that Sam could be noticed by anyone inclined to care, but no one around seemed to pay any attention. And no one went anywhere near the warehouse; the abandoned building certainly seemed abandoned.

But Hilda was certain that the GPS signal still showed that the phone was in there, which meant that Loney very well might be in there as well.

It was not in Sam’s DNA to turn around and go home, so he got out of his car and walked down the street, toward the warehouse. He did so nonchalantly, as if he had not a care in the world, but his hand was in his jacket pocket, clutching his gun.

When he neared the warehouse, Sam walked around to the back and looked in the window. It was dusty and hard to see through, but Sam saw no signs of life. He checked some other windows to give himself a different vantage point, but again, there was no apparent activity at all.

Feeling more emboldened but fearing that this entire episode was a waste of time, Sam checked each window until he found one that was unlocked. He climbed through the window, not the easiest maneuver in the world for the unathletic accountant.

But before long he found himself in the very large warehouse, and he certainly seemed to be alone. Sam took out his own cell phone, and dialed Loney’s number. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard it ring; the GPS signal was right after all. The phone was there.

Sam headed for the sound, but it stopped ringing before he could find it. He had to call it twice more before he had enough time to locate it, but eventually did so.

What attracted his attention, more than the cell phone itself, were the obvious bloodstains just a few feet away. And it didn’t take a forensic scientist to follow the smeared blood to the large drum lying on its side.

Sam was scared to death, but determined to take the top off the drum and see what was inside. It came off easily, and Sam realized it had only recently been placed there.

There was no reason to empty or explore the drum, the body was obvious as soon as the top came off. And Sam was not about to examine it, or stick around; he made a beeline for the same window he came in, and ran to the street.

Sam had no idea what to do, but he knew who to ask. He called Laurie and told her the entire story. He had to stop a few times to catch his breath; he was that scared.

“Laurie, I’m sure I left my prints all over the place… on the window, the drum, I don’t know where else.”

“That’s okay, Sam, because you’re not going to deny you were in there. You’re going to report what you found to the police, and answer any questions they have.”

“They’ll ask me why I was in there in the first place.”

“Right. And you’ll tell them the truth; you are there because it’s part of an investigation being run by Andy for the Galloway trial. You were looking for Loney, but you really don’t know anything more specific than that. They really need to ask Andy why he sent you there.”

“Okay. Should I just call 911?”

The question made Laurie think of another way. “No. Just stay where you are; I’ll take care of it. Give me the exact address.”

He did so, and Laurie got off the phone and called Cindy Spodek. This had been an FBI investigation from the start, and she would rather Cindy take the lead, at least for the moment. Cindy knew Sam, and the people she was directing would therefore be less inclined to think Sam committed the murder.

So Laurie called Cindy, explained the situation, and Cindy promised to get agents there immediately.

Laurie hung up and waited for Andy’s plane to land. She would have quite a story for him.

Laurie calls me five minutes after I get off the plane.

I can’t talk to her, because I’m on the phone with Cindy Spodek, who called me one minute after I got off the plane. It would have been four minutes after I got off, but I spent three minutes waking up Marcus.

I tell Laurie I’ll call her back and that I’m on with Cindy. Based on the start of the conversation, I’d rather talk to Laurie.

“Andy, what the hell was Sam Willis doing in a Delaware warehouse with a dead body?” Cindy asks.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I say.

“You don’t know anything about this?”

“I know Sam Willis, but that’s it.”

“He found the dead body of one Alan Loney in a drum in a Delaware warehouse. He claims that you sent him there as part of an investigation.”

“Oh, that Delaware warehouse. I wasn’t sure which one you meant. The state is full of them.”

“Andy, unless you want to spend eight hours in a room with four agents who have no sense of humor and look exactly alike, tell me what you know about this.”

She doesn’t sound in a bantering mood. I’m not either, but I don’t know what the hell is going on, and I don’t want to say anything stupid. “Cindy, Sam is working on the investigation. We are trying to find Loney, and I gave him some leads to follow, all of which are protected by attorney-client privilege. I assume one of them took him to this warehouse, but it sounds like he got there too late.”

She asks me a bunch of additional questions, some of which I evade because I really don’t know the answers, and the others I evade because I want to evade them. The entire time we’re talking, I’m wondering if crazy Sam actually shot the guy.

“Do you know the time of death?” I ask.

“Why? You trying to come up with an alibi?”

“No, I’m covered on that score. I was with Marcus in Vegas; believe me, people noticed us.”

“You saw Ricci?” she asks.

“I did. Charming gentleman.”

“Let’s see how charming he is when he finds out that his top man was stuffed in a drum in Delaware.”

“You were about to tell me the time of death,” I say.

She tells me the coroner’s estimate, which is soon after my meeting with Ricci. Could he have reacted to our talk by immediately having Loney killed?

I promise Cindy I’ll fill her in as I get more details, which we both know is an out-and-out lie. As soon as she lets me off the phone, I call Laurie, who gives me the version of events according to Sam.

“Do you think Ricci could have had Loney hit because of my threat?” I ask.

“I don’t think so,” she says.

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, you’re not really that intimidating. For another, I can’t believe that what you said was news to Ricci. Loney couldn’t have been doing all this behind his boss’s back; so if Ricci wanted him to stop, he wouldn’t have had to kill him to do it.”

Neither of us has any other explanation for Loney’s murder; we can just add it to the list of things we are bewildered by.

“How is Sam doing?” I ask.

“He’s on cloud nine,” she says. “Except for a high-noon shootout, this is the most fun thing that could have happened to him.”

When I get home we talk some more about it, and I call Sam to hear it fresh from his perspective. It’s a rather lengthy perspective, and he so obviously relishes the telling that I think the recounting takes longer than the actual event. For example, it takes a good five minutes for him to describe how he followed the bloodstains to the drum; unless the trail was half a mile long, that seems like a bit much.

I admonish Sam for doing what he did; it was dangerous and not an area he should be involving himself in. My gentle reprimand clearly has no effect; Sam has now tasted the “action” and will want nothing more than to jump back in the fray.

I call Hike and ask him to come over. We have developed quite a bit of evidence in our investigation, though it’s hard to be sure just what it is evidence of.

The problem is that the jury knows nothing about it. We’ve got to get it in front of them, which is not going to be an easy thing to do. Dylan will say that it’s not relevant, and Judge De Luca will be hard-pressed not to agree with him.

The problem is that Dylan can argue that none of the material we have is necessarily related to the Galloway trial. It all began, for instance, with someone following Laurie and me. We assumed that it was related to this case, but we have no proof of that.

If we can’t convince De Luca that Camby was following me because I was representing Noah, then everything that followed is legally meaningless, and certainly inadmissible.

The reasoning that we will have to employ is something Hike is particularly good at, and he helps me focus in on the key points to present to De Luca. If the judge doesn’t buy them, we are nowhere.

I contact the court clerk, who is available even on weekends, and tell her that I need a special session in chambers before court on Monday. I describe it as urgent, and I have no doubt that it will be granted.

I then call and leave a message for Dylan, telling him what I’ve requested of the court. I say that I’m doing it as a courtesy, but I’m not. What I’m really doing is giving Dylan something to worry about.

Alex Bauer saw the story about Loney’s murder in the newspaper.

It was buried on page six, and he almost didn’t notice it. There was nothing that significant about it to warrant more attention; no connection was known between Loney and the Galloway case.

But for Bauer, it just about jumped off the page, and he quickly went online to see if he could find more coverage. A couple of outlets mentioned Loney’s suspected mob ties, but that was basically it.

Bauer immediately picked up the phone and called Andy’s office. Andy was in court, but Laurie took the call, and she could tell immediately that he sounded scared.

“Loney is dead,” Bauer said. “He was murdered.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Was it Ricci? Did he have it done?”

“I don’t think the police have any leads yet, but we’re not privy to their investigation.”

Bauer yelled at her. “I don’t care what the police think!” Then he lowered his voice, trying to remain calm. “I want to know what you think.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But it’s certainly possible.”

“Does Ricci know that I talked about Loney? Could that be why he was killed? Because his involvement in all this was revealed by me?”

“I have no reason to believe he knows about anything you said. If he does, he didn’t learn it from us.”

He was trying to read between her words, to pick up any information he could. “Did you talk to Ricci? Did Carpenter?”

Laurie was not having any of it. “Mr. Bauer, we really can’t talk about what is going on in our investigation. But believe me, your name has never been mentioned by Andy or me, in any context. That I can guarantee.”

“All right,” he said, calming somewhat. “It’s just that soon after we spoke, I saw this about Loney.”

“I understand your concern, and you were right to call,” she said. “Have you been approached by anyone else? Anyone stepping in for Loney?”

“No. You think I will?”

“Yes, you need to expect that.” For a CEO and no doubt an educated, sophisticated man, he wasn’t thinking very clearly. Fear will do that to you. “Whatever Loney had on you, whatever he wanted, he was just the front man.”

“God, I wish this were over,” he said.

“Please let me know when you are contacted,” she said. “I’ll try to help and-”

She didn’t finish the sentence, because she realized he had already hung up.

Less than an hour later, Bauer received a call, and the caller ID showed the number was blocked.

“Hello, Alex,” said Brett Fowler, a smile on his face as he talked. “This is your new contact.”

“Your Honor, next he’ll be talking about Colombian death squads.”

Dylan is referring to the attempt by the original Simpson lawyers to claim that Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman were killed by mysterious, vicious Colombians in some kind of drug vendetta.

They had absolutely no evidence to support their theory, and Dylan is saying that my presentation regarding Loney et al. is similarly without relevance to this trial. If I were in his shoes, I’d be saying the same things, and I’d be confident in my position.

“These people make the Colombian death squads look like Donny and Marie,” I say. “People are dying all over the place, and my client is sitting in jail. The jury has a right to know that.”

Dylan thinks he’s playing a winning hand here, and he will not let anything go unanswered. “The fact that there are murders being committed in large metropolitan areas is not exactly unusual,” he says. “If that were simply the standard for admission, trials would never end. Mr. Carpenter has to establish a connection, and he has not come close to doing that.”

It’s my serve. “Your Honor, Mr. Camby was following me, and was killed before I could question him. I firmly believe that his interest in me related to this case, since Mr. Galloway is my only client at the moment. However, the fact that we have phone records connecting Mr. Camby to Mr. Butler would push the possibility of coincidence way beyond logical.”

“Camby never called Butler,” Dylan points out.

De Luca is sitting back and letting us fight this out. “Loney is the connection,” I say. “Camby called Loney repeatedly, and Loney called Butler. And now Loney is dead as well.”

“The phone calls could have had nothing whatsoever to do with this case.”

I see an opening, and I try to pounce on it. “You know what, Your Honor? Mr. Campbell is right. The phone calls could somehow be unrelated to this case, and just an extraordinarily bizarre coincidence. And maybe the jury would decide that’s exactly what it is. But we gain nothing except a few days by not giving them that chance.”

Dylan is vigorously shaking his head. “That could be said about anything. Why not let the jury hear it and decide? But that is why we have standards of admissibility, and why it is clearly within the province of Your Honor to rule it out.”

Dylan also raises the issue of the accuracy of the phone records, and questions where they came from. I don’t answer that directly, but instead I ask Judge De Luca to allow us to issue a subpoena for the same records, so that there will be no question of their authenticity should they ultimately be ruled admissible. He agrees, which gives me some confidence in what his ruling will be.

I have one significant advantage over Dylan in this situation, and that advantage could be called unfair. Most judges, when faced with a decision like this, are more inclined to side with the defense than the prosecution.

The reason for that bias is that if the defendant is convicted, the defense can appeal the verdict. If the verdict is for acquittal, the case is over with no appeal possible. That would be double jeopardy, and is absolutely prohibited.

So to side with the prosecution is to invite a future appeal, and if there is anything a judge hates more than annoying lawyers like me, it is being overturned on appeal. Siding with the defense, at least on matters that could go either way, is a way to avoid that embarrassment. No judge would ever admit that this is a factor, and no lawyer would ever doubt that it’s often the determining one.

There is also the more human side. To send someone away for the rest of his life is a very serious matter, and compassionate judges would certainly try to avoid doing that unjustly. It just seems easier and more decent to let the jury decide what they believe, rather than preventing them from hearing it at all.

But even with all this on our side, I am still very concerned about our ability to prevail in this argument. The link between our evidence and the case is tenuous at best, and De Luca must know that it would lead the jury down a convoluted and lengthy road. He would not want to do that; I’m just hoping he feels he has to.

“I need to consider these facts,” De Luca says, then to me specifically, “Call your witnesses unrelated to these matters today, and I will rule before court convenes tomorrow morning.”

It’s a victory of sorts for our side that De Luca didn’t rule against us out of hand, but I suppose Dylan might feel the same way. All we can do now is wait.

Once we move back into court, I call Tony Cotner as my first witness. Now in his mid-sixties, Cotner has run a homeless shelter in Clifton, for the last thirty years. The major difference between Tony and me is that he has spent his life helping people, while I have spent mine hanging out with them.

Tony’s shelter is the one at which Danny Butler claims Noah made the confession to him about starting the fire. Reading about it in the paper prompted Tony to call me and offer his help.

“You must have a lot of people go through there over the years,” I say, after we set the scene for the jury.

He nods. “Too many; there is simply not a sufficient safety net for the most unfortunate in our society. When economic times are bad, the people on the bottom of the ladder suffer the most.”

“Yet with all those people, you remember Mr. Galloway?”

“Very well,” he says. “I was impressed with him, and considered him a friend.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, he was obviously well educated, and his decency shined through in the way he dealt with others.”

“Yet he had a drug problem in those days?” I ask.

“Most definitely. It was very sad to see, but not unusual. Addiction can strike all kinds of people at all different times for all different reasons.”

“But you and Mr. Galloway talked frequently?”

“Yes, we did.”

“Did he ever talk about the fire at Hamilton Village?”

“Not that I can recall,” he says.

“If he had told you he set it, would you be likely to recall that?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you monitor conversations that your visitors have, but that you are not a party to?”

“In a way, yes.”

I ask him what he means, and he tells me that he encourages people to come forward if they are aware of drugs being used on the premises, or if they become aware of criminal conduct. Certainly, he says, any confessions about setting a fire that killed twenty-six people would have been reported to him.

“So you feel confident that Mr. Galloway did not make such a confession?” I ask.

“You mean beyond the fact that I would never consider Noah capable of such an act?” he asks, a response that I am delighted with.

“Yes, beyond that.”

“I believe I would have heard about it, especially if it was said to more than one person.”

“Do you remember Mr. Butler?” I ask.

“I do not. He could not have been there very often.”

“So you would be surprised to hear that he and Mr. Galloway had a significant friendship with your facility as their home base?”

He nods. “I would be shocked by that.”

I turn him over to Dylan, who makes it clear he considers the testimony to be of little significance. After having Cotner admit that there are usually between seventy and a hundred people in the shelter for every meal, he asks if he is privy to every conversation that goes on there.

“Of course not,” Cotner says. “That would be impossible.”

“How many conversations that took place there yesterday, that you were not directly involved in, can you relate to us today?”

“None.”

“Thank you.”

I usually have lunch at a coffee shop near the courthouse.

I often take Hike with me, more for self-discipline than anything else. His conversation makes me not want to linger over lunch, and gets me back to our courthouse office to bone up on the next witnesses.

This time Hike is talking about the local rodent population, and how they have infiltrated every restaurant in the area, including and especially the one we’re in.

“They’re out of control,” he says. “Fortunately they’re not very bright as far as animals go. There are so many of them that if they ever organized and got their act together, we’d be on the menu instead of them.”

I try not to respond to his ramblings, but this time I can’t help it. “What the hell does that mean? I don’t see any ‘rodent’ on the menu.”

“Just don’t ask the waiter what today’s specials really are.”

“So you think they serve baked rat?” I ask.

“I can’t prove anything, but did you notice I only order salads?”

I decide to drop it, mainly because the hamburger I’m eating is growing “chewier” by the moment. But I would have dropped it anyway, because just then Sam walks in the door. He never comes to court, so this must be something pretty important.

It is.

“Morris Fishman found something,” he says. “I figured you’d want to hear it right away.”

“What is it?”

“There’s a guy on the missing persons report, the one from your friend at the FBI, named Steven Lockman. Young guy, thirty-four years old… married… his wife was five months pregnant when he disappeared. He was reported missing two days after the fire, to his local police department.”

“Where?”

“East Brunswick. Lived there for three years; nobody in the community had any idea where he went, and the police never found anything. Never been heard from since.”

It’s just like Sam to dramatically hold back the reason we should be interested in Lockman until after he tells us the details. Even though I’m dying to know, I can’t help having some fun with him.

“Okay, Sam, thanks. That’s helpful.”

“What’s helpful?” Sam asks, knowing he hasn’t gotten to the key point yet.

“Lockman’s information. Tell Morris he did good.”

“Don’t you want to know why Lockman is important?”

I open my mouth and cover it with my hand, as if I’m shocked. “You mean there’s more?”

Sam finally gets it and smiles. “You’re busting my chops, right?”

“Right,” I say. “Tell me the rest about Lockman.”

“You know that company Bauer is trying to take over? Milgram Oil and Gas? Well, Lockman worked for them.”

“Whoa, that is important, Sam.” If anything, I’m understating the case; this is way too big to chalk up to coincidence. “You digging into this guy’s life?”

“I’ve got Hilda and Morris working full-time on it.”

I tell Hike that I’ll handle court by myself this afternoon; I want him to hang out with Sam and the gang and keep me posted on all developments. We need to focus on this as much as we can.

The afternoon court session is relatively uneventful. I introduce a series of witnesses, all of whom knew Noah in the weeks before and after the fire. They all claim to be unfamiliar with Danny Butler, and quite sure that Noah would not have confided in him.

All also say that Noah never talked to them about the fire. Dylan has some success on cross, but basically I’ve used the day to make it seem unlikely that Noah would have confessed a mass murder to Butler.

If Butler’s statement was the only evidence Dylan had, our success today might even mean something.

Gail Lockman doesn’t want to talk to me, but feels she has to.

She has suffered these past six years from the loss of her husband. He didn’t die, or at least if he did she doesn’t know it. He rather just disappeared, without a trace, or a hint of explanation.

She has never really entertained the possibility that he left willingly, not even in her most private thoughts. They were happy, in fact had never been happier. Their baby was soon to be born, and it is inconceivable to her that Steven could have voluntarily spent all this time without any contact with either of them.

So she is sure he must have lost his life, somehow, yet not a day goes by that she doesn’t remain alert, looking everywhere for a sign of him.

That’s where I come in. I had Laurie call her, because to have her talk to Hike would have been the icing on her Depression Cake. Laurie asked if she would see me tonight, to talk about something that has come up regarding Steven. I’m sure she would rather do anything other than talk to a stranger about Steven, but there is always that hope…

Gail works in the admissions office at Rutgers University, and wants to meet me in the student center coffee shop. Laurie and I drive down, park, and walk across campus to meet her. I watch as one male student after another stares at Laurie. If any co-eds eyed me, they did it without my knowledge.

Gail is waiting for us, sitting at a table and looking at her watch impatiently. We’re not late, so she’s either counting the minutes until this is over, or hoping that we will be late so she can leave. When we introduce ourselves, I can’t tell if the look on her face is disappointment, anxiety, or hopefulness.

In any event, it’s soon replaced by a practiced smile, if not a desire to chitchat. “I understand you want to talk about Steven,” she says.

“Yes. His name has come up in connection with a case we’re working on. It may have nothing to do with him, but I felt it important to follow up.”

“The Galloway case?”

She obviously and not surprisingly has done some homework on me since getting the call. “Yes. Your husband disappeared around the time of the fire, and the company he worked for, Milgram, has become part of the investigation.”

“Milgram? In what way?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say,” I lie. “It’s covered by attorney-client privilege.”

I need to start asking questions rather than answering them, and Laurie picks up on this. “Have you at any time considered that Steven’s disappearance could in some way have been connected to his work?”

“As you can imagine, I’ve analyzed it from every angle, including that one, but I haven’t come up with anything. Steven seemed mostly happy with what he was doing. In fact, in the days before he left…”

She pauses for a moment. She used the word “left,” but it seems as if she has never really come up with a word that she is comfortable with, or that seems to fit. She continues. “He was particularly upbeat. That’s one of the things that has always seemed so strange…”

“So nothing about his work was bothering him in any way?” I ask. “You said ‘mostly happy.’”

She shrugs. “He wasn’t making as much money as he thought he should, but he felt that was going to change. We were about to have the baby, and earning money had become very important to him.”

“What exactly did he do for Milgram?”

“He was what they call an assayer. He had a master’s in quarrying and extraction, and he went to land that Milgram owned and estimated how much oil and gas, or other resources, were there. You know, so they’d know whether to drill or not, I guess.” She smiles. “Truth is, I never really understood it myself.”

“Is that why he traveled so much?” Laurie asks.

She nods. “It wasn’t so much, just more than I would have liked. I wanted him home as much as possible.” She shakes her head and smiles sadly, “Look how that worked out.”

“Would you have any way of knowing where he traveled in, say, the two months before he disappeared?”

She nods. “Absolutely. I gave the police all of that information, his records, his calendar… and they gave them back about a year later. When they gave up looking.”

“You still have them?” I ask, knowing there is not a chance in hell she threw them out.

“Yes, in case the police ever found a lead. But I want to keep them. I could copy them for you.”

“We would appreciate that,” I say, and Laurie arranges to pick them up tomorrow.

On the way home, Laurie says, “It’s pretty hard to imagine anything worse than someone you love like that just disappearing. And to never find out what happened…”

“I think we’re going to be able to tell her what happened.”

“You think he was in the fire?” she asks.

“Probably. But even more than that, I think he might have been the reason for the fire.”

Judge De Luca calls Dylan and me into chambers prior to the start of court.

He has the court reporter in there to record everything, something he doesn’t always do.

“I’ve decided to grant the defense’s request and admit the evidence as proffered,” he says. Once he does, Dylan formally objects again, for the record, but he knows it’s a lost cause, and De Luca confirms that for him.

De Luca then launches into a speech which, if listened to out of context, would lead one to believe he had ruled against us. He goes on and on about how the ruling is a limited one, capable of being changed or curtailed at any time. He warns me not to take this too far afield, and not to allow witnesses to speculate.

I believe he is covering himself for the record, though the prosecution is unlikely to stop the trial in order to appeal it to a higher court. They also cannot appeal it after the fact, should Noah be acquitted. But if the transcript is later scrutinized for any reason, De Luca wants to look as unbiased and evenhanded as possible.

I’ve given a lot of thought as to how I can introduce the evidence that De Luca has now ruled admissible. Part of it, Camby’s shooting, involves Marcus, but there is no way I’m going to call him to testify.

The jury, not knowing better, would look at Marcus and definitely not consider him one of the “good guys,” and since he is on our side that would not cut to our benefit. It also would not be fair to the court reporter; Marcus is tough enough to listen to; to have to accurately transcribe what he says is covered under the Constitution as “cruel and unusual” punishment.

Instead I call Laurie. She was enough of a participant to get by, or at least I hope so. And it’s something of an understatement to say that the jury will find her more appealing than Marcus.

Laurie describes for the jury how she and I had just come from interviewing a witness, and she noticed that we were being followed. “So we pulled into a 7-Eleven parking lot, and while you went inside, I called one of our investigators, Marcus Clark.”

“Why did you do that?”

“So that he could come and follow the man following us. We were confident it had to do with the Galloway case, since that was the only one we were working on. It was important to learn why someone thought they needed to monitor our movements.”

She describes how she signaled me to stay in the store until Marcus was in place, and that when she was certain that he was, it was okay for me to come out. She throws in the information that I brought out a “bread and some bleach,” which brings a few snickers from the jury, and more from the gallery.

“What happened next?” I ask.

“We went to your house and waited for Marcus to call, which he did. He had attempted to question the man, but before he could do so, a sniper fired through the window, killing him.”

Laurie goes on to say that Marcus took the man’s cell phone and that we found out later that it was Camby, and that we were able to trace the phone records, which eventually led us to Loney.

Dylan focuses his cross-examination on the shaky connection between Camby and Galloway, claiming that there is no basis for us to assume that link.

“Mr. Carpenter has been a criminal attorney for a number of years, has he not?” he asks.

“He has.”

“And you were a police officer here in Paterson? And then a police chief in Wisconsin?”

“Correct.”

“Did you arrest a lot of people?” he asks.

“My share.”

“So it’s certainly possible that someone was following you, unrelated to this case?”

“It would have been possible, had not subsequent investigation confirmed our suspicions.”

It was a great answer, nailing Dylan in his tracks, but he quickly recovers. He smiles condescendingly, and says, “We certainly look forward to hearing about that.”

The decision was posted at noon on the Delaware Chancery Court Web site.

It was twenty-one pages, and filled with legalese and rationalizations. But the summary page was all that one needed to read to understand that it represented a sweeping victory for Entech Industries.

The poison pill that Milgram had attempted to adopt was considered by Judge Holland to be a “fraudulent attempt by the board of Milgram to thwart the purchase,” and not in the best interests of the Milgram shareholders.

Savvy legal minds, were they inclined to read and analyze the full opinion, would note that Holland’s ruling relied mostly on fact, rather than law, which would make it even less likely for an appeals court to overturn. Since it was widely known that Milgram did not have the resources nor appetite to mount an appeal, Holland’s approach made such an attempt even less likely.

Sure enough, within an hour of the announcement of the ruling, Milgram’s board indicated reluctant acceptance. Though they disagreed in principle with Judge Holland’s decision, they pledged to work with Entech to insure that the purchase would move immediately to completion.

Alex Bauer on behalf of Entech followed in kind, releasing a statement praising the work of the court, and Milgram’s acceptance of the decision. The statement indicated that the purchase of the outstanding shares would begin within twenty-four hours, and promised that the future of the combined company and its employees would be an outstanding one.

For Judge Holland, the issuing of the opinion brought a mixture of shame and relief. It was the first time in his career that he had ever been coerced into giving a particular ruling; it violated every principle he had ever lived by.

But he had known he was going to do it for a while; no other option presented itself as feasible. It was over now, it was well behind him, and he knew that he had done it masterfully, and that it would withstand whatever scrutiny might be applied to it.

He would go home, and spend some precious hours and days with his family.

And then he would say good-bye.

Sam is proving to be a surprisingly good witness.

I’m pleased and relieved about that, because even though we’ve rehearsed his testimony a few times, I was afraid that he would love the drama of it all and turn into a loose cannon on the stand.

I take him through the phone records, and the process by which we zeroed in on Loney, as well as the other various players. I avoid naming the important people on the list, including Bauer and Judge Holland. We may wind up going there, but I’m reluctant to do so. Once they are named, then the threat of doing so becomes an empty one.

Sam refers during his testimony to the subpoenaed phone records, which helps to avoid having to explain how we got the previous, hacked versions.

Finally, he describes finding Loney’s body in the Delaware warehouse. “I called his cell phone, and it led me to the bloodstains, which led me to the body.”

“What did you do then?”

He grins. “I climbed back through the window and ran across the street.”

“How about after that?”

“I called Laurie… Ms. Collins, and she said to stay there, that she was going to call the FBI, and that I was to just tell the truth about what happened.”

“And did you do that?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“And did you tell the truth today?”

“Yes.”

I turn him over to Dylan, who continues to take the same approach to what he considers tangential testimony. He doesn’t want to get too far into the nitty-gritty of it, fearing that would give it credibility, and worse, relevance.

“Mr. Willis, that was quite an adventure you went on.”

“I guess…”

“Discovering the body of a known mobster like that, it must have been frightening,” Dylan says.

“It was, but I handled it.”

“Obviously. Now that it’s over, and you can look back on it, what does it have to do with the Paterson fire that was set six years ago?”

I had told Sam that Dylan would lead him down this path, trying to get Sam to give a tortured explanation of how Loney’s death could possibly relate to Noah’s guilt or innocence. But the quick flash of panic in Sam’s eyes makes me fear that in the pressure of the moment he’s going to forget the plan.

He doesn’t.

“I’m afraid I haven’t given that any thought,” he says. “My job was to analyze the phone records, and try to track down Mr. Loney. I wasn’t told to work on any theories. That’s above my pay grade.”

It stops Dylan in his tracks; he wants to attack the relevance but can’t, since Sam didn’t testify to it. He tries to come at it from a few other angles, but Sam is ready for him, and deflects it.

All in all, it’s a tour de force performance, and I don’t even have to ask any additional questions on redirect.

I am not at all happy with the quality of our defense, or where we stand in the trial as we reach the end. We’ve thrown a bunch of stuff on the jury wall, but at this point there is little chance that it stuck. I’m going to have to explain what it all means during my closing statement, and hope that we can get to that elusive reasonable doubt, at least in some jurors’ minds.

Where I think we have been successful is in casting doubt on the Butler statement recounting Noah’s “confession.” It should be clear by now that Noah barely knew him, and would have been very unlikely to have confided such a monstrous secret.

Working against us, of course, is the fact that Butler’s statement is corroborated by other evidence, most notably the DNA on the paint can. That is simply not something that we have been able to effectively rebut.

Closing statements will be tomorrow, and I head home to do some preparatory work. Laurie is not there; hopefully she’s out either solving the case or, if not that, maybe getting some sexy lingerie to please her man.

I take Tara and Bailey for a walk and then settle in to read through the files for what seems like the five-millionth time. Laurie comes home at around nine o’clock. I don’t see any Victoria’s Secret bags, so hopefully she solved the case.

The look on her face says that she just might have.

“I’ve been at the hospital,” she says. “Seeing Jesse Briggs.”

“How is he?”

“Not good. He’s not going to leave there, and he knows it. The doctors have stopped treatment.”

“That’s too bad,” I say. “But why were you there?”

“I’ve been finding out as much as I can about his daughter and her baby, but I needed to know something else, and I knew he could tell me. She moved back to Paterson a few months before the baby was born.”

I nod. “I know. Tony told us that when we were at Taco Bell.”

“Good memory,” she says. “But do you know where she moved from?”

“No.”

She smiles. “Delaware. Dover, Delaware.”

“Well, you’ve now heard all of the evidence,” Dylan says.

“I know that it wasn’t easy. Sometimes lawyers like me have a tendency to speak more than we should. My wife often says that I take five sentences to say something I shouldn’t say in the first place.”

He pauses to smile, so the jurors will know he’s joking, and a few of them return the smile.

“And it wasn’t just long and sometimes dull; some of it was difficult to watch and hear. I know that, but there was no way around it. You are the triers of fact, and you needed to know the facts.

“Now you do.

“Every fact in the case points to Noah Galloway as the arsonist, as the mass murderer. He bought drugs from the dealers in that building. They cut him off, and he became furious. He knew how to mix the chemicals. His DNA was on the murder weapon. He confessed the crime, in detail.

“It couldn’t be clearer.

“And how does the defense respond? Not with evidence, because they have none. So they talk about other murders, which have nothing to do with this case. One of the murdered people called Danny Butler. That’s it, yet they try to create an entire defense around it.

“You’ll notice at no point did Mr. Carpenter offer a theory as to why these evil-doers framed Mr. Galloway, or why they planted all this evidence, but then waited six years to reveal. Or even who has been doing these killings, or what they have to do with this trial.

“So when I say that you’ve heard all the evidence, I mean that you’ve heard all that relates to this case, and a heck of a lot that doesn’t.

“I thank you for your patience, and I especially thank you for your service. All I ask is that you continue to exercise your best judgment, and keep your eyes on the true facts. And then follow those facts to justice.”

I stand even before Dylan sits down; I don’t want to let his words sink in too deeply. “There is much that I don’t know,” I say. “I wish I knew more, so that I could tell it to you, and everything would be clear.

“Unfortunately, life doesn’t usually work that way, and trials almost never do. So all we can do is go by what we know at the time, and what we think that could mean.

“The prosecution would have you believe that Noah Galloway, a man who never committed a violent act in his life, decided one day to ruthlessly burn twenty-six people to death. And why? Because he had a grudge against three people.

“They would have you believe that instead of killing those people, perhaps with a gun, Mr. Galloway somehow carried in a mixture of napalm, in so many cans that it would have been impossible for one person to hold. Then he went through the building, spreading out this mixture, risking detection at any point. And then he set fire to the building, in the process burning up all the drugs they say he was so desperate to have.

“And then what did he do with the cans? Leave them to be incinerated and destroyed in the fire? Not according to the prosecution’s case. No, they think he carried at least one out and left it a few blocks away, with his burned skin on it.

“But if that wasn’t a crazy enough thing for him to do, their theory is that he then confessed the crime in minute detail to a relative stranger, for no apparent reason. And that stranger, drug-addicted himself and not very bright in the first place, remembered every single detail, so as to be able to repeat it six years later.

“And now, six years later, people are continuing to die. Noah Galloway sits in a prison cell, as airtight an alibi as one could imagine, while people involved in this case continue to die.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it makes no sense. What does make sense is that Noah Galloway has been made a fall guy. I can’t tell you why right now; I expect that someday I’ll be able to. But your job, and even my job, is not to find all the answers. It’s to judge the guilt or innocence of one man.

“Noah Galloway is an exemplary citizen, who overcame a terrible problem and has helped countless others overcome theirs. His is a comeback and a story to be celebrated. He deserves our thanks, not our condemnation. And justice, true justice, demands that he be set free.

“Thank you.”

When I finish, Noah shakes my hand, and even Hike nods his approval. I hear Judge De Luca say that court is concluded early for the day, and that he will issue jury instructions tomorrow.

But I’m only half listening, and I’m out the door as soon as he finishes talking.

I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.

Laurie got the call about an hour after Andy left.

It was from Alex Bauer, and the fear in his voice was evident. He was standing in his den, pacing as he talked.

“They’re coming after me,” he said. “Somebody has stepped in to replace Loney.”

“Who is it?” she asked.

“His name is Brett Fowler. He’s an ex-marine who has a consultant business in Washington.”

“Did he say what they want?”

“They want me to sell the wind-turbine business,” he said. “I don’t know why; it might have to do with the land that it’s on. I would do that, to keep them off my back. But I don’t think that will be the end of it.”

“Why not?”

“Because Ricci is calling the shots. Fowler even admitted it.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. But once I do what he wants, Ricci is going to get rid of me. I’ll know too much.”

“You need to talk to the FBI, Alex,” Laurie said. “We can help you do that.”

“You only care about your client.”

“Ending this will help both you and Galloway. It’s the only move for you to make, and I think you know that without my telling you.”

“I’ve got to think about this,” he said, desperation in his voice. “If what they know about me ever comes out, I’ll be destroyed.”

“You’ll be alive.”

“I’ve got to think.”

Click.

Laurie got off the phone, called Andy, and relayed the conversation to him. “What do you think he’ll do?” he asked.

“I don’t know. He’s scared, so it will be hard for him to think rationally.”

“Fowler was on the call list. Tell Sam to dig deep on him.”

“I will,” she said.

She and Andy were of course unaware that the person they just decided to dig deep into was at that moment at the door of Alex Bauer’s house.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Fowler asked.

“Come in.”

He offered Fowler a drink, which he declined. “The judge has ruled. The ruling was perfect,” Fowler said.

“I know. I issued a press release praising it.”

“I saw it. Nicely done. Have you taken the other actions?”

Bauer nodded. “I have.”

“Then do you know what time it is?” Fowler asked. He smiled, not waiting for an answer. “Time for you to die.”

I’m surprised to see where Judge Holland lives.

It’s strictly middle-class all the way, and has a real neighborhood feel. The houses are modest, and each is set on a piece of land that has to be less than a quarter of an acre. If someone here raises their voice in their living room, neighbors on both sides know what they’re saying.

For some reason, even though judges do not make that much money, I always picture them as living in stately mansions with big white columns and long circular driveways. So far I’ve been wrong one hundred percent of the time.

I get there at around eight P.M., well past dark. My plan, such as it is, is to ring the bell and confront him. It’s not that well thought-out, since for all I know he could be away on vacation. But I was never going to get through by calling, and I want to see his face when he hears what I have to say.

I pull up and am about to get out of the car when I see his front door open. Judge Holland is standing there, with his wife, Alice, and son, Benji. I’ve reread all of the background information on Holland that Sam had dug up, so I’m very familiar with his family situation. In fact, it’s the reason I’m here.

Holland kisses Alice on the cheek, then picks Benji up and gives him a hug and kiss. Then he closes the door and leaves.

He heads for his car, in front of the house. I get out of my car across the street, and call to him just as he’s opening his door. “Judge Holland,” I say.

He looks up in surprise; I have no idea whether he recognizes me or not, but he doesn’t say anything, just stares at me.

“I’m Andy Carpenter.”

“Leave me alone,” he says.

“I can’t do that. I’m here to talk about Benji.”

It was an educated guess, and it’s only when I see him stiffen that I have confidence that I’m right.

He quickly recovers, gets in the car and drives away. I get back in my car and follow him, and we drive about twelve blocks. He’s not going quickly, making no apparent effort to lose me, though it wouldn’t be tough to do so. Car-following is not my specialty.

He turns into a small park, not at all well lit, and I follow him in. There are tennis courts near the rear of the park, and he pulls up and parks his car in a small parking lot adjacent to them.

I’m not at all comfortable with this. I’m not panic-stricken; following a judge to suburban tennis courts is not exactly like meeting Double J in his drug hideout. On the other hand, I don’t have Marcus with me.

I don’t see how he can be leading me into a trap; it’s not like he knew that I would show up. On the other hand, he could have called from his car and told them where we were going. I think they have cell phones in Delaware.

My hope is that he is willing to talk with me, but wanted to lead me somewhere private. That seems the most logical explanation, so I get out of the car when he does, and I walk toward him.

“So, Mr. Carpenter, what do you know?”

Judges have been seeing through my bullshit for years, so I decide to be straight with this one. “I don’t know much for sure, but I have very strong hunches, and they are hunches that can be verified. What I do know is that you adopted Benji before you were married, not unheard of, but an unusual thing for a single man to do.

“I also know that the mother of Roger Briggs, the boy who was supposed to have died in that fire six years ago, moved to Paterson from here in Dover. What I believe is that Roger Briggs is Benji, and that you are his real father. I believe that after his mother left and gave birth, she wouldn’t give you access to him. Maybe she was trying to extract money from you… I don’t know. So you hired people to bring him to you, and they set the fire.”

He nods slowly in a final confirmation that I’m right. “They were supposed to give her money, or scare her, or both. She was an addict, Mr. Carpenter. She couldn’t take care of him; she couldn’t give him any kind of life.”

“Why did they burn the house down?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe to hide the fact that he was missing, but I’ve always thought there was much more to it. He would never tell me. But no one was supposed to get hurt; he had promised me that.”

“Loney?”

“Yes.”

“So they had you on tape, and they could connect you to the fire. That’s how they blackmailed you.”

“Yes.”

“They told you how to rule in the Milgram trial.”

“Yes.”

“Did they demand anything else?”

“No.”

“You need to tell the truth now. You can’t let Noah Galloway be convicted of this crime.”

“They would take Benji; Alice is his mother, as surely as if she gave birth to him. He needs her, and she needs him.”

“You don’t understand,” I say. “I know the truth. I’ll reveal it with or without you.”

“No one will believe you. I’m a respected judge.” He laughs a short laugh, recognizing the irony.

“You’re wrong about that,” I say, even though I know he’s probably right.

“No,” he says, and in the dim light I can see him reach into his pocket and take out a gun. There is a glint of light off the barrel.

“Don’t do it, Judge. People know where I am, and they know why.” Even in my panic, the irony that a judge might shoot me is too obvious to miss. They’d probably never find another judge to convict him.

“I know something about guilt, Mr. Carpenter. I’ve lived with it for many years. You needn’t suffer with it; I was coming here anyway.”

I don’t know what he’s talking about, but it only takes a few seconds to find out.

“Don’t take my son from his mother,” he says, just before he puts the barrel of the gun to his temple and pulls the trigger. He says another word, but it is mostly drowned out by the sound of the shot. I think it was “please.”

It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen, and nothing comes in second.

Judge Holland’s head literally exploded, sending pieces of it in all directions.

It all happened too quickly for me to react. Of course, the truth is that my reaction time in moments of physical danger is such that he would have had time to load a Revolutionary War cannon and shoot himself with it.

I edge over to his fallen body, but I don’t get too close. There is no way he could possibly be alive, and I wouldn’t know what to do if he was. Instead I call 911 and report what has happened. I don’t really know where I am, so it’s hard to direct them to the scene. I do the best I can, and they seem to be confident that they will find me.

Before the police arrive, I call Cindy Spodek and tell her what has happened. “A judge, Andy?” she asks.

“Not just a judge. The presiding judge of the Delaware Chancery Court.”

She tells me to hold while she notifies agents in the area, then gets back on the line. “Are you okay?” she says. “I’ve seen someone commit suicide before; it was probably ten years ago and I still can’t get the image out of my mind.”

“It’s going to be a while,” I say, as the police cars and an ambulance make their appearance. “Gotta go, the locals are here.”

“Don’t let them take you anywhere until our agents get there.”

The police come out of their cars, guns drawn, as is appropriate for the situation. They have no way of being sure what really happened here; for all they know I could have been the shooter. They have me turn and put my hands against my car, and then frisk me.

They tell me to wait, and I hear one of the officers, who is looking at Holland’s body, say, “I’m pretty sure it’s him.”

This is going to be a monster of a story. Anything unsavory involving a judge is automatically big news. Judges represent an occupation that people hold in very high regard.

That reverence is a little weird, because lawyers are scorned almost as much as politicians. Where do people think judges come from, the Judge Fairy? They’re lawyers, and very often lawyers who’ve leveraged political connections to get where they are. For the most part the ones I know are decent people, but the truth is I would say the same about lawyers.

The story will be even bigger because of my presence. Not because I’m any kind of celebrity, but rather because the media will correctly jump to the conclusion that this is related to the Galloway case, which is already a huge media event.

The detectives start to ask me questions, initially focusing on what happened rather than why it happened. That suits me just fine, because it is the “why” questions that I’m not sure how to answer.

My first obligation is to Noah, so I want to try to manage developments to his benefit, if there is any benefit to be had. Secondly, and probably incorrectly, I have a concern for Judge Holland’s son. He has no parents, and his grandfather is dying. At the moment he is apparently living with a loving woman he considers his mother, and I would hate to see him taken from her and put into the public system.

Also, not too many people have made a dying wish to me. Holland did so, asking that I protect his son and keep him with his mother. It would be nice if I could grant it.

After about ten minutes, two FBI agents show up, and there are quick, huddled conversations. Both sides obviously want and are claiming jurisdiction. There is as much chance of the local cops prevailing as there is if the mayor of Dover duked it out with the President of the United States.

The agents question me for three hours, and I limit what I tell them. Basically, I just say that I was investigating a lead in the Galloway case, and that Holland’s name came up. When I approached him, he led me to the park and killed himself.

All of that is true, but I describe the conversation I had with the judge as minimal. I just don’t see the upside to bringing Benji into all of this now, or maybe ever. He and his mother are about to have enough to deal with.

During the questioning one of the agents gets a call. He steps away to take it, but when he comes back he says, “Special Agent Mulcahy will have some questions for you when you get back to New York.”

“Great. That will give me something to look forward to.”

I finally leave at just after three in the morning. I have satellite radio, so I spend the first half of the three-hour drive listening to news about Judge Holland’s suicide, without commercial interruption.

But there is another interruption, a news bulletin that reports that Alex Bauer was killed in an intense fire that consumed his Mercedes sedan, with him in the driver’s seat. The car was virtually incinerated, burning out of control in a secluded rest stop near Camden.

They didn’t waste any time.

I didn’t know Bauer very well, but the news is still jarring. People are dying all around us, and I’m unable to figure out how to stop it. If I don’t do so soon, Noah Galloway will be the next victim. His sentence won’t be death, but a lifetime in prison for an innocent man might be even worse.

As I approach my house, I see that it is filled with media people and trucks, so I drive around the block and sneak in through my neighbor’s backyard into mine. Laurie is up and waiting for me; we’ve talked on the phone, but she still has many more questions.

Most annoying is that I can’t take Tara and Bailey for our morning walk; the media crush is just too great. So instead, they, Laurie, and I hang out in the backyard until it’s time to go to court.

I’m a little tired… it’s been a long day.

Entech filed a barrage of paperwork with the federal government.

For the most part they were notifications that work was to begin developing previously undeveloped land just purchased as part of the Milgram takeover.

Very little of it was actually going to happen, and the multiple filings represented a cover-up so that no one could focus on the one piece of land that was in fact important.

Area TX43765 in Texas.

Once the filings were complete, the men who had prepared the mine under that land could move back in. Slowly, since there was no sense at this point creating any stir or attracting unnecessary attention.

In any event, no one would question them. Senator Ryan’s amendment had made it possible to mine land without having to serve notice of intent to, or receive approval from, the government. It was allegedly designed to facilitate the development of energy resources, but that was not Ryan’s motive at all. He put in the amendment because Fowler forced him to.

It would take no more than a week to put the material in canisters, and then load them on to a truck. The actual amount and weight of the materials was not daunting, but the nature of them made careful handling a must, especially because of the extraordinary depth of the mine.

Once they were ready, they would wait for the final word to come down, and for the truck to arrive. Then they would load the truck and collect their money.

It would be more money than any of them had ever seen.

Judge De Luca calls Dylan and me into chambers before the start of court.

When he sees me, he says, “Is there more than one of you?” He’s referring to the fact that he watched coverage of me in Delaware just a few hours ago.

“At this point one feels like more than enough.”

The banter part of our conversation is over, and De Luca gets down to business. I notice that this time there is no court reporter present, which means that De Luca the fair-minded judge is going to become De Luca the take-no-prisoners dictator.

“Here’s how this is going to go, gentlemen,” he says, and then turns to me. “I assume you are going to move for a judgment of acquittal?”

It’s standard for defense attorneys to move for a judgment of acquittal, which in effect asks the judge to acquit without even turning it over to the jury. It almost never works, and certainly won’t here. “Absolutely, Your Honor.”

He nods. “Okay, I’ll deny it.”

Judgments of acquittal can be renewed within fourteen days of denial, but that’s not something that fills me with hope either.

He continues. “Then I assume you’ll want to reopen testimony so they can hear about your little Delaware adventure last night?”

“Yes, definitely,” I say.

“I’ll deny that as well. The jury has heard your theory. If they believe it connects to this case, that’s fine. If they don’t, one more incident won’t change things.”

“I strongly object, Your Honor,” I say. “There is more than just Judge Holland’s suicide. Alex Bauer was on the call list as well.”

“That was quite a list,” De Luca says. “The objection is nevertheless overruled. Once these motions are dispensed with, I will give my charge to the jury, and then we’re out of here. Nice and quick. There’s a lot of interest out there in the media, gentlemen, especially after what happened last night. I will not have my trial turned into a media circus.”

I make another attempt, but there is no arguing with De Luca on this. I had very much hoped to get the Judge Holland suicide entered into evidence, and possibly even Bauer. Not only would it have been significant in and of itself, but the unusual step of restarting the trial would have likely had a great effect on the jury.

But that’s not happening, and all we have left is the possibility of using the ruling as the basis of an appeal should Noah be convicted. That’s not exactly a major consolation.

Hike and I meet with Noah for ten minutes before court is convened. As a prisoner in solitary confinement, he’s one of the few people in America that hasn’t heard about Judge Holland. I explain to him what it means in the context of the trial, which isn’t much.

“How long do you think the jury will be out?” he asks.

“I have no idea.”

“And the verdict?”

I’m not about to lie to him now. “I think we’re going to lose,” I say.

He nods. “Me too. I think you’ve done an amazing job, and Becky and I will be grateful to you for as long as we live. But if I were on the jury I would vote to convict.”

“I think we’re going to win,” Hike says.

Hike, who at any given time expects the world to come to an end within an hour, thinks we’re going to win.

“There you go,” I say to Noah. “The incurable optimist has spoken.”

Noah laughs; he has gotten to know Hike quite well. “Why do you say that?” he asks.

Hike shrugs. “I’ve just got faith in human nature.”

I’ve got to get out of here before he breaks out in a rendition of “Put on a Happy Face.”

Once I leave I turn on my cell phone. There’s a message from Laurie asking that I call her, which I do.

“I got the travel records from Gail Lockman for her husband.”

“Anything interesting?”

“He made four trips in the six weeks before the fire. The first one was to Texas, then Georgia, Arkansas, and Texas again.”

“If there’s something revealing in there, I’m missing it.”

“You’ll find it eventually.”

“Eventually isn’t going to be nearly good enough.”

When I get back to the office, Agent Mulcahy is waiting for me.

Which is good, because I was going to call him. We have a lot to talk about.

The fact that he has come to my office gives me a small advantage; usually in a case like this he would try to summon me to the bureau offices, and then intimidate me when I got there. Of course, that small advantage does not quite make up for the fact that he has the entire government of the United States behind him, while I have Hike and Edna.

But for now it’s just him and me talking alone in my office, which is interesting in itself. Usually agents like Mulcahy travel in twos, and play “good cop/bad cop.” In this case Mulcahy is playing “only cop,” and that could mean he wants to trade.

“Nice place you got here,” he says, looking around as if he stepped in shit.

“Thanks; I’ll convey your appreciation to my decorator.”

“You do that,” he says. “So I read the transcript of your interview with our agents in Delaware. From what I gather, you and the judge were just chatting away, about nothing in particular, and he shot himself?”

“That pretty much sums it up,” I say.

“Having heard you talk in court, it does make some sense,” he says. “I took the bullets out of my own gun before coming here, just in case.”

I nod. “Wise move.”

“Other than you annoying him to death, why did he do it?”

“Mmmm, that’s a tough one.”

“Be careful, Carpenter.”

“No, I don’t think so. I’ve got a guy who’s never hurt a soul probably going off to prison for the rest of his life. If I’m going to prevent that, the last thing I need to be is careful.”

“Is that right?” He doesn’t seem cowed, but I’m not in the mood to care.

“That’s exactly right. And you know what else? I think you know he never set that fire, and you’re sitting back and watching it happen.”

“You should have presented a more effective case,” he says.

“Okay, here’s the way we’re going to do it. You’re going to tell me information you have that can help me, and then I’m going to tell you information that I have that will help you. And you’re going to go first.”

“Why would I go first?”

“Because I don’t trust you, and because you’re worried, and because my information is probably better than yours.”

He smiles, as if he thinks that’s amusing as hell, even though he doesn’t. “What would possibly make you think I’m worried?”

“Because you’re sitting here. Your agents already asked me every question there was to ask. If you’re sitting here, it’s because you have a different agenda.”

“Okay,” he says. “Deal.”

“I’m not finished with the terms yet. You’re going to go to the judge with me, on the record or off, and tell him to reopen the trial.”

“You think I can tell De Luca what to do?”

“I think you can try. Now tell me something I don’t know.”

He pauses, as if trying to decide what to say. There’s no doubt that he knew even before he got here what he could and could not say; he’s probably under very specific orders about it. But his open pondering is to give the illusion that he is in charge.

“There has been a lot of chatter these last few months.”

I interrupt. “Chatter?”

“That’s spy talk meaning we hear stuff. A foreign entity has been very interested in the result of the Delaware trial.”

“Which foreign entity?”

“You don’t need to know that,” he says. “Let’s just say that it isn’t Switzerland or Luxembourg. It’s a country that we very much do not want to have WMDs.”

“And is that what this is about? This chatter?”

“It’s very possible,” he says. “Which makes this a little bigger than Noah Galloway.”

I shake my head. “That’s not how the system works. I’m his lawyer; for me there’s nothing bigger than Noah Galloway. How long have you known that this foreign stuff is tied to this case?”

“Not very long; in fact, we’re still not positive that it does. But you’re making a good case; we’re more willing to see all possibilities than a jury is.”

“Tell it to the judge.”

He nods. “Now tell me what I don’t know.”

“There’s a cottage blackmail industry that’s been thriving; Loney was one of the people behind it. They find things out about people, or they do them very illegal favors. Either way they’ve got them from that point on, and they extract favors from them. Judge Holland was one of those people; Alex Bauer was another.”

“And they told Holland how to rule in that case?”

“I’m sure they did. Alex Bauer told me so.” I feel as if I can break the confidentiality of what Bauer told me; being dead means he doesn’t require protection.

“Give me a name besides Loney,” Mulcahy says.

“Brett Fowler. He’s a political consultant in D.C. He either killed Bauer or had it done.”

Mulcahy doesn’t take any notes; he either knows Fowler or has confidence in his own memory. “What else?”

I don’t want to tell him about Judge Holland’s son. I don’t see how I could be risking national security in the process. It doesn’t matter what they were blackmailing Holland with; the important point is that they were doing it.

“Steven Lockman was an assayer employed by Milgram. He disappeared around the time of the fire, and was never heard from again.”

“You think he was in the fire?”

“I do. I’m speculating here, but I think he found something important, maybe on Milgram land, and the wrong people found out about it before his management did. They killed him, and used Bauer to get the company. But it took a long time.”

“The people we’re dealing with are patient,” he says. “We think in weeks; they think in decades.”

“Lockman’s last trip before he died was to Texas; he flew into Dallas. He went there twice, and Milgram has land in east Texas waiting to be drilled on.”

“It can’t be about oil,” he says.

“What about something dangerous, like uranium?”

He shakes his head. “No. Uranium can be had; it’s enriching it that’s the tough part.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “Thanks for this,” he says. “Set up the meeting with De Luca.”

I get a little anxious while waiting for a verdict.

At least that’s how I would describe it. Laurie sees it a little differently; she says I get “totally psychotic” and “unbearable to be with.”

I am not generally a superstitious person, but during a verdict-wait superstitions run my life. Everything I’ve ever done during this period on a case I’ve ultimately won becomes something I have to do each subsequent time. It’s exhausting.

I’m always pessimistic while waiting for a jury; but this time I’m even more sure we’re going to lose; I believe that if I were on the panel I’d vote to convict.

It’s the ultimate defense attorney’s nightmare. A client whom he likes and knows to be innocent gets convicted and spends year after year in jail. There is no question that a life sentence for Noah would mean one of my own as well.

Usually I have nothing to do other than wait, but this time is different. If we’re going to lose this trial, then we need to develop evidence that can exonerate Noah, or at least earn him a new trial. Focusing on the investigation at least takes my mind off the verdict. A little bit, anyway.

I spend some time on a computer trying to figure out what could possibly be on that land that could be of consequence to a foreign power looking to develop WMDs.

One of the things I examine is the possibility that certain plants or bacteria could be growing there, perhaps a rare growth that could be used to make biological or chemical weapons. So I spend hours reading scientific stuff online, only to discover I have no idea what I’m reading, or what I’m talking about.

“Let’s look at where we are,” I say to Laurie. “We know from Mulcahy that there is the potential for a country to be helped in its WMD program from Entech buying Milgram. It can’t be intellectual property; there’s no secret formula in the Milgram safe, with Entech now having the combination.”

Laurie nods. “So it has to be something substantive, something tangible.”

“Right. Plus, I’m positive that Lockman’s disappearance ties into this. And Lockman’s profession was to analyze what materials are in the ground. I don’t know what that material is that is so important, but it doesn’t matter for our purposes. We just know it’s there, and that Entech now owns it.”

“This is the endgame for the bad guys,” Laurie says. “All the other blackmails were small potatoes. Killing off Bauer, and especially Loney, means that they want to eliminate everyone who knows anything. The payoff from this is big enough that they are willing to dismantle the operation.”

“What about the people physically taking the stuff out of the ground?” I ask, knowing the answer as I ask the question.

“I wouldn’t want to be holding their life insurance policies.”

“Ricci behind this?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I could be wrong, but I don’t think so. I think he provided the muscle, and maybe some financing, but that’s it.”

“Why didn’t he get revenge for Loney?” I ask.

“Maybe he did. Or maybe Petrone got him to back off. That’s still to be learned.”

“So where are we?”

She thinks for a minute. “I’m not sure, but I know where we should be. East Texas.”

Laurie, Marcus, Hike, and Sam are on a flight to Dallas, when I get the call.

FBI lawyers have petitioned De Luca to grant status to address the court in camera this afternoon. That literally means “in a chamber,” but in the non-Latin world means “in private.” De Luca has granted the request, which was a formality. The meeting is called for two P.M.

We had no real strategy for sending the “east Texas delegation,” even Laurie admitted that. We just felt that was where the real action was, so that’s where they should be. I would have gone along, but I needed to be here to deal with the court.

They’re going to drive around the land owned by Milgram, which is now owned by Entech. It’s an enormous area to cover, and the chances of them actually hitting on something are minute. They’ll ask people about unusual activity, but chances are what is going on does not seem unusual to anyone.

The plan is to split into pairs to cover more area, and I can just imagine the maneuvering going on to avoid being paired with Hike. I hope Marcus doesn’t draw the straw, because Sam or Laurie would just throw Hike out of the car when he got annoying. Marcus would kill him.

Dylan, Mulcahy, and I assemble in De Luca’s chambers at the appointed hour. De Luca has invited lead counsel only, which is just as well, since my “staff” is driving around Texas looking for bad guys. Mulcahy brings a bureau attorney with him.

“To what do I owe this interference in the workings of this court?” is how De Luca opens the session. I would have to say that as opening lines go, that one is not a particularly good sign.

“We have information which leads us to strongly believe that a conviction of Noah Galloway would represent a miscarriage of justice.”

“Very well,” De Luca says. “Let’s hear it.”

Mulcahy turns it over to the FBI attorney, who proceeds to give a dry recitation of facts, head down and reading every word. Worse yet, it’s basically just a rehash of the case we’ve already presented. Since De Luca turned down our request to reopen the trial, there is nothing here to make him reconsider, other than possibly the fact that the FBI is doing the talking, instead of me.

De Luca seems as unimpressed as I am. “That’s it?” he asks.

“Not quite,” Mulcahy says. “There are two more things. The fire that killed Bauer in his car was started with an almost identical mixture of chemicals as that of the house fire.” This surprises me, and I assume it was left out of the media reports for investigative purposes.

“Second, and far more important, is the fact that there are serious national security implications to this case.”

That gets De Luca’s attention. “Are you officially telling me that the national security of the United States is threatened by the jury reaching a verdict in this trial?’

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. But I am saying there are serious connections between this case and matters of national security.”

De Luca considers this for a few moments, and then says, “Okay, gentlemen. Here’s where I come out on this. Basically the information before me has not changed. What I am being told is that the FBI thinks Mr. Galloway is innocent.”

Mulcahy nods. “We do, Your Honor.”

“However, the reason this trial ever started, the reason Mr. Galloway was arrested in the first place, was because the FBI conducted an investigation and came to the conclusion he was guilty.”

“The facts have changed,” I point out.

De Luca nods. “Maybe, or maybe just the interpretation of those facts have changed. In any event, even though the FBI originally thought Mr. Galloway was guilty, our system decided in its infinite wisdom not to just accept that and convict him. It decided a jury was better equipped to make that decision.”

This is heading south.

De Luca continues. “I’m going to side with the system, gentlemen, and let the jury make the call, without interruption.”

The FBI lawyer starts packing up his briefcase. He couldn’t have cared less which way De Luca was going to rule; it was simply his job to present the case and get out. Mulcahy looks at me with some sympathy; I think he wanted the right thing to happen here, and he knows it didn’t.

Dylan hasn’t said a word since “good afternoon,” but I think he’s never been more eloquent.

I leave the court, having accomplished absolutely nothing. The only way the visit could have been worse was if I was there to hear the verdict.

When I leave I call Laurie, who sounds like she’s had a worse day than I have.

“We’ve accomplished absolutely nothing,” she says.

“Join the club,” I say, and then update her on the meeting with De Luca.

After that’s over, she says, “There’s a lot of land out here, Andy, especially since we have no real idea where to look, or what we’re looking for.”

“And you’re asking people that you see?”

“When we can find any. But of course they have no idea what we’re talking about, because we have no idea what we’re talking about. And that’s not the worst part.”

She hesitates for a moment, then. “Hike.” Another pause. “He’s driving me crazy.”

I’m glad she can’t see me smiling. Whenever I complain about Hike, she defends him and tells me I’m too hard on him. Now that she’s spent time with him alone, it appears that the depressing tide has turned.

“Really? Hike?” I ask.

“Yes. I’m with Hike, and Marcus is with Sam. Everywhere we go the land is dry and desolate, and Hike says it reminds him of the Dust Bowl during the Great Depression.”

“Interesting historical reference,” I say.

“Andy, Hike thinks of the Great Depression as the good old days. He says we’re heading for much worse, that the way things are going, the United States is soon going to consist of two things, Wall Street and dust.”

I try to stifle a laugh, but can’t quite do so.

“Andy…”

“I’m sorry. Where is he now?”

“In a diner, possibly using the bathroom.”

“Why possibly?”

“It’s our fourth try. The last three weren’t sanitary enough. He said something about dysentery, and lizards, or something. I’m losing track.”

“What are you and Hike doing tomorrow?” I ask.

“We’re going to drive around for a while, and then I’m going to strangle him and bury his body.”

I’ve got nothing to do and nowhere to go.

I’d like to be in Texas with Laurie and the team, but I need to be here in case the jury has a question or, God forbid, a verdict. What I really should have done was keep Hike here, and gone down there in his place. I think Laurie would have been in favor of that.

So I’m tied to the phone, hoping Laurie will call with good news, and hoping the court will not call with bad news. Instead nobody calls, with the exception of Willie Miller, asking me if I’d read his book when it’s finished, which is apparently going to be any day.

“You think I need to read it?” he asks.

“No, you already know the ending.”

“Cool.”

I head down to the jail to see Noah and brief him on what’s going on. I’ve been a little lax in doing so, and he wasn’t even aware that the meeting was taking place between the FBI and Judge De Luca.

Before I even relate the story, I tell him that the outcome was not positive. I don’t want him to get his hopes up, even for a few minutes. He’s the one with his freedom on the line, not me, and he needs to know the straight scoop.

“Becky thinks the jury is going to say I’m not guilty,” he says. “At least that’s what she tells me.”

“Needless to say, I hope she’s right.”

“But you don’t think she is.”

I shake my head. “No, I don’t. But I do think it’s a good sign that they haven’t come back yet. Maybe we’ve got some holdouts on our side.”

“Maybe.”

“Noah, if you get convicted, it’s not over. I really mean that; we’ve got a lot going for us. This thing hasn’t played out yet.”

I don’t think he believes me, and I can’t say I blame him. I tell him that I’ll let him know if anything happens, and I leave to go home.

I’ll take Tara and Bailey for a walk, and then I’ll look through the case files again, just in case I’ve missed something the other four hundred times I’ve read them.

But basically I’ll do nothing.

Deep under the ground, the eight men were finished with their work.

The canisters had been taken up the elaborate system of pulleys, and loaded onto a waiting truck. It was the culmination of years of work, done in secret.

The men had been chosen well. They were extraordinary workers, loners without family or close friends. They could be trusted to keep the confidentiality of the mission, and would basically do anything for money. Investigators had been tracking them, without their knowledge, and all were judged to have kept silent.

They were, of course, very well paid, but what really motivated them was the promise of a huge bonus when the work was completed.

They had just gotten an apparently sincere thank-you speech from a man they had never met before, but who seemed as if he was in charge of the entire operation. More importantly, they had just received their bonus checks, and were delighted to see that each was twenty-five percent higher than promised.

The man also thanked them for their having kept the secret for so long, and impressed upon them the importance of continuing to do so. He also made a surprise promise that if, in five years, the operation was still a secret, each man in the group would receive another check.

Were any of them to move, the man gave them a number to contact, to inform him of their new address and contact information. That was to enable him to forward that supplementary bonus, but also to make it possible for them to be reached should another job like this one come up.

And with the kind of money that they’d earned, another job like this one would be very welcome.

The man went around and shook each of their hands, offering personal thanks. He then went up the pulley to the truck, asking them to wait at least a half hour to leave, and then to leave one at a time, so as not to call attention to themselves, should anyone be around.

Then the man went up to the truck, where the driver was waiting for him. He signaled for the driver to come down out of the truck and help him load something, and when the driver did as instructed, the man shot him through the head.

The man dragged the driver’s body a few feet to the open mine, and pushed it over the edge. He listened, until he could hear the body strike bottom, though the drop was so long that the sound was barely audible.

The man then climbed into the truck, drove half a mile, and then took out his cell phone, and dialed a number. It was a number that was prearranged six months ago, and it set off the explosives that had been planted at the same time.

The explosion was enormous, and the man could see and hear it from his distant vantage point. He knew that it had forced the mine to cave in on itself. Of the nine dead bodies that were in there, the driver was the only one not to have been buried alive.

And then the man drove away.

There is one report in the file that I haven’t read multiple times.

It’s not even a report, but rather the travel documents and records that Gail Lockman had provided to us. I had read it, and noted that it confirmed Laurie’s report of where Gail’s husband Steven had traveled in the period before the fire, just before he went missing.

I will never understand how people, me in particular, can see something one time and not another, when looking at the same thing each time. But it happens to me all the time, and I assume I’m not the only one.

Laurie and I had asked for the information for the purpose of learning where Steven Lockman had gone on his business trips before the fire. That made sense, and it led us to believe that Texas was the place to focus on. That may or may not prove to be a good decision.

But what we didn’t notice were Steven Lockman’s return flights. On the two non-Texas trips he flew back to Newark Airport, which was logical, since he lived not far from there. On the two Texas trips, however, he didn’t fly to Newark.

He flew to Philadelphia.

I call Gail Lockman, and catch a break when she is there and answers the phone. I tell her I have just one more question about Steven, and I can hear the apprehension in her voice. It’s a wound that I keep opening.

“In the weeks before Steven’s death, he flew back to Philadelphia rather than New Jersey. Do you have any idea why?”

“That can’t be right,” she says.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he would have told me. And we had a thing, call it a superstition, that I always picked him up at the airport. The company would have paid for a cab, but I picked him up every time.”

“And never in Philadelphia?” I ask.

“Never.”

“Did he know anyone there?”

“Not that I know of.”

There seems to be a real possibility that Steven landed in Philadelphia, did whatever business he had there, and then drove to Newark and pretended to his wife that he had flown there. The chance of an affair comes to mind, but it was only twice, and apparently for very short stays.

I think I know the real reason.

“Did Steven have any business dealings with people or companies in Philadelphia?”

She’s becoming annoyed with my questions. “Mr. Carpenter, Steven was an assayer. His job was to tell his company what was under the ground that they owned. There are sewers under Philadelphia.”

I thank her and apologize for bothering her. I start to dial Mulcahy’s number when I see that Laurie is calling me on the other line. I stop dialing and take her call.

“Andy, the world down here just exploded.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There was a huge explosion, maybe five miles from here. We could see the cloud go up, and our car shook.”

“What was it?”

“I can’t be sure, but it happened out here in the middle of nowhere, and it was on Milgram land. I don’t believe in coincidences; it might have been the place we’re looking for.”

“Okay, let me think for a minute,” I say, but then only use up ten seconds of my requested time. “We have to assume that they took whatever they needed to out of the ground, and the explosion was to destroy the mine and cover their tracks.”

“So it’s got to be on a truck,” she says. “There are no train tracks out here, and I haven’t seen any planes take off.”

“Right, and it’s got to be going south.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s a foreign connection here; that’s what Mulcahy said. Assuming it’s too large to get on a plane, then it’s going to leave by boat, and the nearest water is south. You should at least start heading in that direction.”

“Marcus and San are three hours south of us right now. They were driving around the Milgram land down there.”

“Then call them and tell them to head south, and wait for further instructions, in case we figure something out.”

Laurie promises to do so, and I call Mulcahy. He’s not there, so I tell them to have him call me, that’s it’s a matter of life and death.

There’s nothing I can do except wait for him to call, so I turn on the television and see that the first reports about the explosion are coming in. They are saying that a mine blew up, possibly from leaking natural gas, but that no people were believed to have been in the mine.

I have my doubts about the lack of casualties; starting with Loney, people with knowledge of the operation are being wiped out. But I have more than doubts about the “leaking natural gas.” That is pure bullshit.

It takes forty of the longest minutes I’ve ever experienced until Mulcahy calls me, and I don’t waste any time. “The mine explosion is what we were watching for. They’ve taken out what they need, and are covering up the evidence. Unless I’m wrong, they’ve covered up a bunch of people in the process.”

“Shit,” he says. “Do you have any idea where they’re going with it?”

“No, but they’ve got to get it out of the country, and…” It hits me as I’m talking, and I’m immediately angry with myself for not seeing it earlier. “Hold on a minute. I’ve got an idea.”

I put the phone down and grab the case files. I search for Sam’s report on Loney’s phone records, scanning down the list of files until I find what I’m looking for.

I grab the phone again and say, “Galveston. He’s heading for Galveston.”

“How do you know that?”

“One of the people on Loney’s phone records is a guy named Jason Young. He’s a customs official in Galveston. It all fits; they must be blackmailing Young to get him to do something for them. And that something is to pave the way for this shipment to get on a boat and out of the country.”

“I’m on it.”

“You want to know who you’re looking for?” I ask.

“Who’s that?”

“Unless I’m wrong, it’s Alex Bauer.”

“He’s dead,” Mulcahy points out.

“He might not be as dead as we think.”

I check the files again, and then call Sam to update him.

“We’re only about a half hour from Galveston,” he says. “But we’re going to die before we get there. Marcus is driving about four hundred miles an hour.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re ahead of Bauer,” I say. “And you both might be ahead of the FBI. Head for the port; I was there a bunch of years ago; I think there’s one main road in.”

“What are we looking for?”

“A large truck with Bauer in it.”

“And if we see it?”

“Stop it.”

“How the hell are we going to do that?” he asks.

“Marcus will figure it out.”

I call Laurie and brief her on what’s going on. She’s heading in that direction as well, but is pretty far behind. Whatever is going to happen will take place well before she gets there.

“It’ll be okay. They’ll have agents all over that place.”

“I know, but Bauer has been outsmarting everybody all along. Once he gets the material off the truck, there’s no telling where it could go.”

“Andy, what makes you think Bauer’s alive?”

“Steven Lockman made two secret trips to Philadelphia on the way back from Texas. According to his wife, he had been worried about money, with a baby on the way, and felt he was underpaid. My guess is he felt that if he reported to Milgram what he found, all he would have gotten would have been a pat on the back.”

“But if he sold the information to a competitor like Bauer, he would get a lot more,” she says.

“He thought it would make him rich, but it made him dead.”

“But how does that mean Bauer is alive?” she asks. “Maybe his partners in this killed him.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. Bauer has been lying to us all along, and in the process trying to find out what we know. Faking his death would make sense; after whatever this is goes down, no one would be looking for him.”

It’s incredibly frustrating sitting in New Jersey and wondering what is happening all those miles from here. For me the only thing worse than being far away when friends are in danger would be to be in danger myself.

As soon as I put the phone down it rings. I pick it up, assuming that it’s Mulcahy, or Sam, or someone that’s a part of the exploding events in Texas.

It isn’t. It’s Rita Gordon, the court clerk. “Andy, you need to be in court at ten A.M. tomorrow morning.”

“Why?” I ask, though I know the answer.

“There’s a verdict.”

Mulcahy’s first call was to the Houston bureau, the office closest to Galveston.

It was quickly put through to the bureau director, Ryan Van Pelt, who fortunately was in his office. The call was taken by Gary Summers, who served as Van Pelt’s executive assistant.

Mulcahy explained the urgent nature of the call to Summers, who quickly grasped the situation and put the call straight through to his boss.

It look less than sixty additional seconds for Mulcahy to make the situation clear to Van Pelt, who promised to get every agent under his command into the field, and in this case the field meant the Galveston port.

There are emergency procedures in place at every bureau office, and the moment Van Pelt got off the phone he set them into action. Everything worked smoothly and according to plan, and within ten minutes every agent within range was on the way to Galveston.

Van Pelt then notified his contact at the Department of Defense that assistance might be needed, and that he would keep them apprised of developments. After that, he left the office to go down and personally supervise the operation in Galveston.

He issued instructions with Summers to patch all calls regarding this crisis to him in the field, which Summers promised to do.

Once Van Pelt was out the door, Summers took out his cell phone and dialed a number. When the connection was made, he simply said, “They know.”

“I understand,” said Alex Bauer.

The road narrowed into two lanes in each direction, causing traffic to slow down.

Marcus continued driving for another half mile, during which he got a look at what was up ahead. There were a series of exits, and different ways Bauer could go, all of which led to various areas of the port. They would have to be incredibly lucky to find him.

Instead, he made a U-turn and drove back to the place where the road narrowed.

“Where the hell are you going?” asked Sam.

Marcus didn’t answer, which did not come as much of a surprise to Sam, since he had said maybe ten words in two days. When he reached the area where the road narrowed, he made another U-turn and pulled over, waiting along the side of the road in the direction heading to the port.

“You know Bauer?” Marcus asked.

“I don’t know him; I mean, I’ve never met the guy. But I’ve seen his picture; I’d recognize him.”

Marcus nodded and pulled back on to the road, in the right-hand lane. He then slowed to a stop and shut the car off. Before Sam could waste his time by asking what was happening, Marcus got out of the car, went to the front, and lifted the hood. He then propped the hood so that it would stay open, and got back in the car. To anyone coming along, it would look like the car broke down with mechanical trouble.

Marcus touched the rearview mirror, and said, “Watch.”

This time Sam caught on. Their “stalled” car in the right-hand lane would cause the traffic to significantly slow down. Sam could adjust his mirror to see the drivers of oncoming trucks, rather than turning around and possibly tipping Bauer off.

They waited for almost fifteen minutes, and a few times Sam thought he saw Bauer, only to change his mind. “I can’t be positive which one is him, you know? I’m afraid we could be letting him go by.”

“Watch,” Marcus said.

Finally Sam saw a man that he was positive was Bauer driving a large truck. “That’s him,” Sam said. “I’m sure of it.”

Marcus nodded, waited for the truck to clear them and drive forward, then got out and closed the hood. He then proceeded to drive quickly, making up the ground between themselves and Bauer’s truck.

They followed from a safe distance, watching as Bauer turned left, a surprise since it seemed away from the port area. And then, up ahead, they saw why.

“Andy, he’s going to an airfield!” Sam yelled. “He’s not going to the port!”

“Where are you?” I ask. I’m already sick from the realization that I’ve sent the FBI to the wrong place.

“We’re about ten miles north of Galveston. There’s what looks like a private airfield up ahead, and we’re following Bauer toward it. I’m sure that’s where he’s going.”

“Do you know the name of the airfield?”

“No, we haven’t seen one yet.”

“Can you tell me more about the location?”

“We got off the road at Deerfield. We just passed a Denny’s… I’m sorry, I just don’t know where we are.” The panic in his voice is evident.

My guess is that somehow Bauer found out the FBI was waiting for him. Otherwise he would not have driven all the way to Galveston; he would have had a plane waiting much closer to the mine. His initial plan was to leave by boat, but the FBI’s actions caused him to switch.

“Okay, here’s what we need to do,” I say. “I’m going to call the FBI and tell them what you’ve told me. You keep watching Bauer. Be careful, Sam, but I have to tell you, whatever Bauer is hauling cannot be allowed to get on a plane.”

“Got it.”

“Sam, let Marcus take the lead on this.”

I get off and call Mulcahy. “He’s not going to the Galveston port,” I say.

“Don’t shit me, Carpenter. “I’ve got twenty agents there now, with two choppers on the way.”

“The choppers you can use,” I say, and tell him what Sam told me.

He’s not satisfied. “An airfield near a Denny’s? I’ve been looking at maps; you know how many airfields there are in south Texas? You’ve got interns working for those big oil companies that make enough to fly their own planes. There are almost as many airfields as there are Denny’s.”

“So get fighter jets up in the air; shoot the planes down once you identify them.”

“Carpenter, with what he’ll have on board, we can’t afford to shoot it down.”

The automatic private gate to the airfield opened as the truck pulled up.

Sam and Marcus could see that it was prearranged; they were waiting for Bauer to arrive. The gate then closed behind the truck, leaving them outside.

Up ahead on the tarmac were two medium-sized jets. Sam knew absolutely nothing about aircraft, but to him they looked like they could carry maybe seventy-five passengers each. If they were hollowed out, they could handle a lot of cargo.

The backs of the planes seemed to be open, an indication that they were specially designed to haul large items. Next to the jets were large machines that looked like cranes. There was no doubt in Sam’s mind that they were there to transfer the cargo on to the plane.

Bauer pulled up next to the planes, and two men ran up to help him. There was no way to tell whether they were also the pilots, but no one else seemed to be around. Bauer opened the back of the truck and climbed on, while the other two men quickly started moving the machines into position.

“Marcus, we can’t let them transfer that stuff on to the plane. I’m going to see if I can open the gate.”

Sam got out of the car and started running toward the gate, but as he did he sensed motion behind him. He turned to see that Marcus was driving the car toward the gate at high speed.

Marcus hit the gate at seventy miles an hour, and it was no contest. The gate was obliterated, and Marcus continued driving out to the airplanes. The two men looked up, shocked at the noise of the gate getting smashed, and the car barreling down on them.

Marcus pulled the car to a screeching halt, crashing into the machines in the process. He was out of the car and on the men in an instant. If there were twelve of them it would not have been a fair fight; two of them was a total mismatch.

It took Marcus a total of two punches to end it, leaving the men unconscious on the asphalt. He then climbed up into the relative darkness of the truck to go after Bauer.

But in the process of disposing of the two men, Marcus did not realize that Bauer had exited the truck from the front, and had come up behind him.

He heard the click of the gun being cocked, and whirled. It was too late to do anything before the shot was fired, but just in time to watch Bauer blown sideways by the blast, into the wheel of the plane.

And there was Sam, about twenty feet away, unable to take his eyes off of Bauer. “I shot him,” he said, as if he couldn’t believe it himself. “I really shot him.”

“Yuh,” said Marcus.

I learn what happened from a variety of sources.

First is Sam, but all I can really get him to say is, “I shot him, Andy. He’s dead. I shot him, and he’s dead.” After a few rounds of that I’m so desperate for information that I ask him to put Marcus on the phone. That doesn’t work out so well.

Then Laurie calls. She had arrived on the scene well after it happened, but had gotten the lay of the land rather well. She describes what happened, and how the FBI and Homeland Security agents are now all over the airfield. There are also decontamination experts on hand, but no one seems terribly worried about that, as the canisters seem secure.

By the time she calls, Sam and Marcus are being questioned and debriefed by agents. Good luck with that.

I also get some information from the cable news networks, though they don’t really add much to the picture. They know that there was a shootout at the airfield, and that Homeland Security was called in.

No mention is made of any dangerous cargo, and more ominously, no mention is made of any possible connection to the Galloway case.

I have spent the three hours since I found out that Sam and Marcus were okay and Bauer was dead thinking about how I can make this impact Noah’s situation. My only possible way to do that is through Mulcahy, to have him again go to De Luca, this time armed with the weight of the night’s events.

I try him a bunch of times, but he doesn’t answer the call, probably because he knows it’s me. He finally calls me back at one-thirty in the morning, though he doesn’t wake me. He could call at any hour tonight and not wake me.

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” I say. “I want to know what happened.”

“You already know what happened,” he says.

“What was the cargo?”

“That’s pretty much the only thing I’ll tell you, because you were right. But I need your word you won’t repeat it.”

“You’ve got it,” I say. “Uranium?”

“Uranium. But not the normal kind. Not the kind seen anywhere before.”

“What kind is it?”

“More than ninety-nine percent of uranium taken out of the ground is called uranium 238. It has within it a tiny amount, less than half of one percent, of uranium 235, and that’s the part that’s needed to make a nuclear weapon, at least a basic kind. If you have enough 235, the enrichment process is easy.”

“And this uranium contained a high level of 235?”

“The current estimate is twenty-two percent. It’s never been seen before, and I hope it’s never seen again. Whoever got their hands on this would in effect be getting their hands on the bomb.”

“Who was trying to get it?”

“That’s on a need-to-know, and you are not close to having that need. But I do want to thank you. You were right about an awful lot, and you saved a lot of lives today.”

“Great,” I say, “now all you need to save is one. Noah Galloway’s.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to talk to De Luca.”

“I’ve seen that movie,” he says.

“Then see it again. Or have someone above you see it. But get De Luca to order a directed verdict of acquittal before the jury convicts him tomorrow morning.”

“Everything about this incident is classified, Andy. There is nothing I can do.”

“I’ll talk to the media.”

“And people might or might not believe you. Or they might think you’re a lawyer trying to protect a client with information that already didn’t work at trial.”

“He’s going to go to jail for the rest of his life.”

“You’re worried about him, and I’m worried about everyone else. I can’t help you.”

I can see the strain on Noah’s face as he is led into the courtroom.

It’s the look on every defendant’s face as they prepare to hear the verdict that will decide their fate. The problem for me in this case is that I put that strain there.

If not for me, there would have been no trial. Noah would have taken his punishment well, even willingly, and would never have hoped or expected freedom. I raised his hopes, and now the jury is going to wipe them away.

Becky sits directly behind him, wearing a similar expression. When I nod to her she mouths, “Thank you.” I don’t know if Noah’s likely conviction will make her feel the guilt that I feel, because without her I never would have had the chance to take Noah down this path.

Noah sits down next to me. He smiles and says, softly, “The day of reckoning.”

Across the way, Dylan and his team are assembled. They do not seem under any particular stress; either way they are going home tonight. If I had to guess, it’s more important for Dylan to beat me than to convict Noah. Unfortunately, doing one means doing the other.

Mulcahy is also in the gallery. I would rather he were with the judge, but I saw him come in through the rear door and take his seat. He nods to me, but I don’t nod back. That’ll teach him.

De Luca is fifteen minutes late, which is not terribly unusual. For some reason I find that judges are often late on verdict day. I consider it a form of cruel and unusual punishment, at least for the defendant and his lawyer.

De Luca finally comes in, and gives a brief speech about how important it is for the courtroom to remain calm and quiet after the verdict. It’s a packed house, and De Luca, realizing that, emphasizes the importance of postverdict silence even more than usual.

I see Laurie and Hike enter the courtroom through the back door, having come straight here from the airport. Coming down to the defense table would be disruptive, so they stand in the back and watch.

De Luca calls in the jury, and they come in looking properly solemn. I have no ability to read faces, so I don’t try. If they convict Noah, I’ll want to track them down and rip off those faces, so rather than read them, I should try to remember them.

De Luca asks the foreman if they have reached a verdict, and the woman says that they have. “Please give the form to the clerk,” he instructs, and she does so. He then asks Noah to stand, and I join him in doing so.

I put my hand on Noah’s shoulder, as a gesture of support but really because in the past I’ve put my hands on other defendants’ shoulders, and they’ve been acquitted. My verdict superstitions continue until the verdict is read.

The bailiff then brings the form to De Luca. He opens it and takes what seems like a month to read it. He then hands it to the clerk, and asks him to read it aloud.

“In the matter of New Jersey v. Noah Galloway, as relating to count one, we the jury find the defendant, Noah Galloway, guilty of murder in the first degree.”

I keep my hand on Noah’s shoulder as the clerk reads the guilty verdicts for the other three counts as well. The hand-on-the-shoulder thing obviously does not work.

Becky moves forward and hugs Noah, and the bailiffs respectfully allow her a few seconds to do so. I lean in to both of them and say, “This will not stand,” but I doubt they believe me.

The gallery is fairly loud, and De Luca slams his gavel repeatedly to achieve quiet. It takes a minute or so, but he finally gets it.

“First of all, I would like to thank the members of the jury for your service. You have worked hard, heard the evidence, and made your decision. Based on the facts presented to you, it is the correct decision.

“But I have just been given additional facts, some classified, that you did not have and therefore were not able to consider in your deliberations. It is for that reason that I am exercising my right to set aside your verdict and order a directed verdict of acquittal.”

The gallery is quiet for a few moments, as if trying to digest what they have heard. I’m having a bit of a digestion problem myself. Then they explode in noise, and I barely hear De Luca tell Noah that he is no longer subject to the jurisdiction of this court.

“I’m free?” Noah asks me, understandably bewildered.

“You’re not just free. You’re innocent.”

“I’ll talk to lead counsel in chambers,” De Luca says.

As I stand to obey the order, I spot Mulcahy out of the corner of my eye. He’s smiling.

“I spent the past twenty minutes on the phone with the White House chief of staff and the attorney general. They told me in no uncertain terms that Noah Galloway was innocent of this crime, and that the events in Texas last night confirmed it beyond any doubt.”

Dylan has looked stunned since the verdict was announced, but the shock seems to be slowly giving way to anger. “What specific information did they give you?”

“Not much, and what they did provide was classified. They relied on my security clearance from my days in Army Intelligence.”

“So you took their word for it?” Dylan asks. “And disregarded the will of the jury?”

De Luca’s eyes flash some anger, but he controls himself. Dylan has put a lot of hard work into this case, and won, and then lost. I think De Luca is giving him some leeway because of it.

“That’s exactly what happened.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I say, smiling sweetly for Dylan. “What you did was courageous.”

When I leave, the gallery is empty, except for Laurie, Hike, Noah, Becky, and Mulcahy, who is sitting alone near the back. I walk over to him first.

“You’ve got some pull,” I say.

“When I want to, and when it’s necessary.”

“I thought you didn’t consider it necessary.”

“I changed my mind,” he says.

“I’m glad you did.”

He looks over at Noah and Becky. “Me too.” Then he turns and walks out of the courtroom.

Whenever a jury rules in our favor, we have a victory party at Charlie’s.

Tonight’s is a particularly festive one, and we all get drunk toasting Becky and Noah.

Willie Miller is here. He’s drinking club sodas, because he is a recovering alcoholic. He’s leaving next month on a book tour, and the book has already gotten a rave advance review.

Pete and Vince are here as well. Pete is particularly grateful to me for getting this one right; as much as he wanted the case solved, he wanted justice to prevail. So this was pretty much a perfect resolution for him.

Things happened so fast at the end that Noah was out of the loop, and he has some questions for me. “How did you know that Bauer was alive?” he asks.

“I wasn’t positive, but it seemed like a safe bet. Lockman flew to Philadelphia after Texas, and the only reason I could think of for that was to talk to Bauer. He had discovered the uranium, and rather than just tell his bosses at Milgram about it, he saw a way to make a fortune by letting Bauer go after it. Also, when I heard the car was incinerated by napalm, I thought that it was an attempt to hide who the victim really was.”

“And that was Fowler?”

“That’s my best guess. Bauer was getting rid of everybody who knew what was happening.”

“Where did Ricci fit in?”

“Just provided the muscle, and was paid well for it. I think once he saw the publicity and the danger it represented, and he found out that Petrone was pissed off, he stepped aside.”

“But why me, Andy? Why did they set me up?”

“You were a backup plan. My guess is they scouted customers for the drug dealers in that house, and made you as a possible person to pin it on. Maybe you were unconscious from drugs, or maybe they injected you, but they were able to burn your arms, and get your DNA on that can. When the police started investigating the baby angle, they trotted you out to stop them.”

Laurie comes over to join in the conversation. “I can’t figure out why Bauer came to us,” she says.

“To make himself look like one of the blackmail victims, so that when he faked his death, no one would be looking for him. With what he was doing, if people thought he was alive, there would be no place in the world that he could hide. He wasn’t the type to live in Pakistani caves.”

When I get a chance to talk to Becky alone, I take out a check that I had in my pocket and give it to her. She looks at it and sees that it is for forty-one hundred dollars. “What is this for?”

“It’s the money that was in the box with Danny Butler’s head,” I say. “I figured you’d rather have it this way than the cash.”

“Andy, you should keep it. We owe you this and a hundred times more.”

“Noah gave me Tara,” I say. “I’m still ahead of the game.”

She kisses me and says, “I’m afraid to ask, but where’s the head?”

“Marcus hasn’t told me, and I don’t want to ask.”

Later, as the night is coming to an end, Noah comes over and says, “You know there is no way I can ever thank you. You gave me back my wife, and my son, and my life.”

“Any chance we could give you back your dog?” I ask.

He laughs. “You don’t like Bailey?”

“Actually, we love her. She’s a gentle giant, and sweet as hell. We just can’t afford to feed her.”

“Can we come by tomorrow and get her? I’m also dying to see Tara. She saved my life; I want to thank her.”

“Words won’t do the trick,” I say. “Better bring some biscuits.”