Open and Shut

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

To Debbie, who makes everything possible, and worthwhile, and fun

And to Heidi, Ross, and Brandy, who have given me the gift of pride

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The “I couldn't have done it without my teammates” speech, which I ordinarily find insufferable, is unfortunately so accurate here that I'm compelled to give it. So, in no particular order, I would like to sincerely thank:

My agents, Robin Rue of Writers' House in New York on the book end and Sandy Weinberg of the Summit Talent and Literary Agency in LA on the film side. They are two of the most talented, honest, dedicated people I've had the good fortune to work with.

The many terrific people at Warner, including but certainly not limited to Jamie Raab, Susan Richman, Bob Castillo, Colin Fox, Julie Lu, and most especially Sara Ann Freed, an outstanding editor who is responsible for any coherence the book might possess. All of them could not be more supportive of a first-time author who doesn't have a clue what he is doing.

Jerry Esbin, David Matalon, and Steve Randall, three friends who were there for me when I needed them, and who taught me that big business can be intelligent and human and a lot of fun.

My legal advisers for the book: George Kentris of Findlay, Ohio, and Eric Weiss of Clifton, New Jersey. They generously lent me their remarkable expertise, and if the book doesn't sell and I find myself forced to commit a serious felony, it'll be in Findlay or Clifton.

Al and Nancy Sarnoff, who provided help in any way they could, and in their case that is considerable.

Those who read the book in its early drafts and offered gentle criticism, which is the only kind I can really tolerate. They include Debbie Myers, Heidi, Ross, Lynn, Rick, Mike, Sandi and Adam Rosenfelt, Stephanie Allen, Betsy Frank, Emily Kim, Jerry Esbin, Steve Randall, Robert Greenwald, Joe Cugini, George Kentris, Amanda Baron, Holly Sillau, Edna, Abbey and Sandy Silver, Nancy Carter, Roz Wagner, Suzanne Jarmusz, Nancy and Al Sarnoff, and the entire, wonderful Heller family.

Robert Greenwald, an extraordinarily talented director and producer, and an even better friend, who has gone out of his way to help me in every way possible. It was Robert's encouragement and counsel that is the only reason I am writing today. I leave it up to the reader to decide whether or not that is a good thing.

I would welcome feedback on the book from all readers at dr27712@aol.com.

THE LINCOLN TUNNELIS A SCARY place. Especially now, at the end of the workday. I'm one link in an endless chain of drivers, all moving our cars through an atmosphere of one hundred percent pure carbon monoxide. Tunnel workers patrol walkways along the walls; I assume they are there to make sure no car achieves a speed above three miles an hour. Their lungs must have a life expectancy of an hour and a half. Surrounding us all are thousands of tons of dirt and water, just waiting for a crack to come crashing through.

I usually avoid this tunnel. It is one of three main passageways between New York City and Northern Jersey, where I live. I prefer the George Washington Bridge, where oxygen is plentiful and it doesn't feel like I'm driving through an enormous MRI machine.

The fact is, I don't come into New York that often, and when I do it's rarely during the absurdly misnamed “rush” hour. But I needed to go to the NYU law library to do some research for an appellate case I'm handling, and I was stuck in court all day, so here I am.

I have two choices. I can ponder my impending death by suffocation under all this mud and water, knowing my loved ones will forever wonder whether my final resting place was in New York or New Jersey. Or I can think about the case, and what my strategy will be if the Court of Appeals turns us down. I go with the case, but it's a close call.

My client is death row inmate Willie Miller, a twenty-eight-year-old African-American convicted of murdering a young woman named Denise McGregor in the alley behind the Tea-neck, New Jersey, bar where he worked. It's a case my father, Nelson Carpenter, prosecuted seven years ago, when he was the State District Attorney. Ironically, it's also my father's fault that I'm on the case now.

I think back almost two years to the day I was at home watching the Giants play the Redskins on television. It was a frigid, windy, December Sunday, the kind of day that passing would be difficult, so each team would try to run the ball down each other's throats. My father had come over to watch the game with me. He was never a big football fan, and my fanaticism about the Giants was clearly learned elsewhere. But he had been joining me to watch the games with increasing regularity since my mother died a year before. I don't think it's that he was liking football any more; I just think he was liking loneliness even less.

It must have been halftime that he brought it up, since if it were during the game I never would have heard him. “Do you remember the Willie Miller case?” he asked.

Of course I did. My father had sought and received the death penalty; this was not something I was likely to forget.

“Sure. What about it?”

He told me that some information had recently come to his attention. He wouldn't tell me how, or even what the specific information was, but he said that he had learned that a juror lied in voir dire, a significant lie that could result in a new trial if revealed to the court.

He was grappling with what to do with the information, since revealing the specifics would amount to breaking a privilege. Yet as an officer of the court he felt uncomfortable with concealing it, since Willie Miller was entitled to have the truth come out.

“How would you feel about representing him on an appeal?”

“Me?” I'm sure my mouth was stuffed with potato chips, so it probably came out “Mnnpphh?”

“Yes. You could have an investigator look into it, find out the facts without me having to tell you, and then go to the appeals court.”

The case, as I remembered it, was open-and-shut. Willie Miller, even when seen through my skeptical defense attorney's eyes, was a murderer. I was not about to get involved in an appeal based on a technicality. What if it succeeded? I'd have to go through a trial I was bound to lose.

“No thanks.”

“It would be important to me.”

There it was, the sentence from which there was no defense. In my family, when you asked a favor of someone, it was acceptable to refuse. But once the person said that it was important to them, it crossed a line and became an absolute imperative. We did not use those words frivolously, and they carried an awesome weight.

“Then I'll do it.”

“You've got no chance, you know.”

I laughed. “Then why the hell is it so important to you that I enter the swamp?” That is how we referred to legal cases that dragged on forever with little or no chance of ultimate victory.

“Because the man is on death row.”

The Giants kicked off to start the second half, the Redskins drove the length of the field for a touchdown, and I was on a case that might well leave me forever stuck in the Lincoln Tunnel.

But, no! Suddenly, without warning, a burst of speed by the cars ahead lets me gun the accelerator to almost five miles an hour. At this rate, there's a chance I might make it home in time to leave for court tomorrow morning.

THERE IS NOTHINGLIKE A GOLDEN REtriever. I know, I know, it's a big planet with a lot of wonderful things, but golden retrievers are the absolute best. Mine is named Tara. She is seven years old and the most perfect companion anyone could ever have. She is also funny and playful and smart. The only problem she has ever caused is that I spend so much time with her in the mornings that I am almost invariably late for work.

This morning is a case in point. I take Tara for an hour walk, throw a ball with her in the park, then come home and feed her. I've got to be in court by nine-thirty, so I wind up taking an eight-second shower and mostly get dressed in the car on the way. I'd love to take her with me, and she often comes to my office, but the bailiffs take a dim view of canines in court. What they don't realize is that she's smarter than half the lawyers that practice there.

Having said my goodbyes and given her a biscuit, I stop at a newsstand on the way to court, even though I'm in grave danger of being late. The decision to stop is essentially an involuntary one; I have long ago certified stopping at this particular newsstand as a permanent superstition. I would rather face the wrath of a judge by being late than irritate the newsstand god.

The name of this particular superstition is Eastside News, so named I'm sure because it's just a few blocks from Paterson Eastside High School. Not only does it have every conceivable magazine in the entire world, but there is a sign proclaiming it to be “Paterson's Only Out-of-Town Newspaper Stand.” I can easily understand why there is no competition for this honor; in all the years I have been stopping here, I've yet to see anyone buy a Des Moines Register.

The proprietor of Eastside News is Cal Morris, a forty-five-year-old African-American. After all this time I consider Cal a friend, though my knowledge of him consists of his occupation and the fact that he hates the Knicks and Rangers. I also once overheard him talking about his football exploits at Eastside High, though that would have been about ten years before I was there. In any event, we never talk about these things. Cal seems like a nice enough guy, but his role in my life is strictly to satisfy my superstitions.

As I said, I'm late, so I quickly initiate the rest of the ritual.

Cal is ringing up another customer, but he sees me out of the corner of his eye.

“How they hangin' today, Cal?”

“Low, Andy, mighty low.”

“Gotta hoist 'em up,” is my practiced response.

“I try, but they keep gettin’ lower.”

We both laugh, though neither of us have thought this is funny for a few years. I buy a Bergen Record, which is what serves for the local paper now. I remember when there was a Paterson Evening News and a Paterson Morning Call, but both have long ago ceased to exist. The Record doesn't have the feel of a local paper, but it covers the national news pretty well. Besides, I'll be in court all day and won't have time to read it. I just feel silly stopping at the newsstand and not buying a paper.

The Passaic County Courthouse is a venerable old building, and to say it is the most impressive in downtown Paterson is to shower it with faint praise. My father once told me that the stature of the building and the courtrooms it contains can work against defendants, particularly those charged with relatively minor offenses. A juror looks at the majesty of the place and says, “This must be an important crime if it's tried here. Let's throw the book at the bastard.” These days the person usually representing the bastard is me, Andy Carpenter, attorney at law.

Today my client is Carmen Herndez, a twenty-three-year-old Puerto Rican immigrant accused of breaking into a jewelry store. There wasn't exactly a pitched battle in the legal community to land Carmen as a client. I got the assignment because his mother is Sofý, who owns a fruit stand next door to my office. What I know about Sofý she works sixteen hours a day, has a smile on her face every morning, and gets summer fruit before anyone else. I also know she asked for my help, and money wasn't an issue because she doesn't have any. What I don't know is whether her son is a crook. But that's what we're here to determine.

This is the third and last day of the trial. The Assistant DA, Norman Trell, has done his usual competent job of presenting his competent case to this competent jury, and soon they will be sent in to competently deliberate and find Carmen guilty. The only thing standing in the way of all this competence is my summation.

I take a quick glance at the large door in the back of the room, though I know it won't be opening for three minutes. I then take another look at Carmen, wearing a suit as if it is the first time in his life he has ever worn one. It probably is; that suit was hanging in my closet until the trial started. Carmen is six foot four and I'm five foot eleven; he looks like he spent the last six hours in a dryer.

I stand and begin my summation, walking toward the jury, though I know I'm about to be interrupted. Their faces are bored, their eyes glazed, twelve poor slobs who couldn't get a doctor's excuse or a valid note from their boss to get them off jury duty. To these concerned citizens, the only positive aspect to this upcoming speech is that it is the last one they will have to hear.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you've had to listen to a lot of talking these past few days, and I'm smart enough to know not to chew your ears off much longer.”

Two of the jurors smile, which shows how little humor they've been exposed to lately. The other ten think I'm bullshitting them.

“There are only two things for me to talk about, and then I'll shut up. The first is circumstantial evidence. Carmen Herndez stands accused on this kind of evidence. No one saw him break into that store. No one saw him take any jewels. No one saw him leave the store. Instead we have guesswork, and seem-to-be's, and probably's. The prosecutor, Mr. Trell, says, ‘Gee, with these circumstances, it sure seems to me that Mr. Herndez did it.’ ”

I look over at Trell, but he does not return the stare. He neither likes nor trusts defense lawyers, and as far as he's concerned, I'm the worst of the lot. I extend the stare, mainly because it will be fifteen seconds until the door opens.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, that's not good enough.” Another pause for dramatic effect, as I wait impatiently. Open, door.

And open it does. Laurie Collins enters from the back. I turn, but then again so does everyone else. When Laurie Collins enters a room, you turn to see her. It's as simple as that. She is a beautiful, sexy woman, and I would say this even if I weren't sleeping with her. I would say it even if she weren't able to kick the shit out of me.

Laurie, as instructed, is dressed in a conservative pants suit. She is five foot ten, with blond hair and a perfectly proportioned body. That figure comes across despite the otherwise nonrevealing attire, but then again Laurie's body would look great if she were wearing a Winnebago.

Laurie seems excited about something, and she makes a motion to get my attention, a singularly unnecessary act. I nod and turn to Judge Kasten.

“Your Honor, if I could have a moment.”

Moments aren't something Judge Kasten is inclined to dispense, and he stares at me with an intensity designed to make me withdraw the request. When I don't do so, he finally says, “What is the problem, Mr. Carpenter?”

“I'm not really sure, Your Honor, but Ms. Collins certainly would not be interrupting were this not important.”

If there is such a thing as a stern sigh, Kasten pulls it off. “Make it brief.”

I walk over to Laurie, whose facial expression still shows excitement. Her words do not, though she speaks softly enough that I'm the only one able to hear them.

“Hi, Andy,” she says. “What's new in the legal world?”

Now, you may not think this is big news, but I look stunned, as if she had dropped a bombshell.

“Not a hell of a lot,” I say. “Still hot out there?”

She nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, close to eighty, although they're predicting a thunderstorm. By the way, you do realize your father is going to be upset by this, don't you?”

My father is not only the retired State District Attorney, he is also a legend in the legal profession. As the next few minutes are about to demonstrate, the legend gene obviously skipped a generation.

“You think I'm afraid of my father?” I ask her, incredulous at the possibility.

“Petrified,” she says.

“Then I'll tell him this was your idea.”

I make a triumphant fist and look skyward, as if thanking God for this good fortune. I may be laying it on a little thick, but these aren't the brightest jurors in the world.

Barely able to contain my excitement, I turn and walk to Carmen at the defense table. Since he can only speak about four words of English, I don't bother making sense when I whisper in his ear.

“All the while I'd be thinkin', I could be another Lincoln, if I only had a brain.”

I break out in a big grin and hug him. He figures something good must have happened, so he breaks out in just as big a grin and hugs me back. We are one happy lawyer-client team. Among the people who aren't quite as happy is Judge Kasten.

“Perhaps you would like to enlighten us as to what is going on, Mr. Carpenter?”

Smile painted on my face, I turn and walk toward the bench. “Sorry, Your Honor, but I thought my client should be the first to hear the good news.”

“And just what good news is that?” he asks.

“Well, I'm not sure why we had to learn about it this way …” I take the smile off long enough to stare a silent reprimand at Prosecutor Trell. “… but I've just heard a report that another man has confessed to the crime my client is being tried for. The media has the story. He is under arrest and is being held at this very moment.”

There is an uproar in the courtroom, or at least as much uproar as this scraggly group can manage. My eyes are on the jury, now fully awake and talking excitedly among themselves. “Can this be true?” they're thinking. “Does this mean we can go home?”

Carmen shakes hands and hugs everyone in sight; for a moment I think he's going to accidentally strangle the bailiff. My eyes are on the prosecution table, where one of Trell's assistants gets up and rushes out of the room, already drawing his cell phone out of his pocket as he goes. I watch him until I turn to the sound of an increasingly annoying noise. It's Kasten's gavel, and he's pounding it as hard as he can.

Eventually, order is restored, if for no other reason than to quiet that stupid gavel. Kasten turns to Trell, who is still looking befuddled.

“Mr. Trell, what is your information on this?”

Trell doesn't know what attitude to take, since he doesn't know if it's true. He plays it down the middle. “I'm having it checked right now, Your Honor.” He turns toward the doors in the back of the court as if to show Kasten where the answer will come from.

On cue, the assistant opens those doors and comes back in the room, holstering his cell phone as he does. He quickly goes to Trell and whispers in his ear. The jig, I am aware, is about to be up.

Trell nods vigorously, then turns back to Kasten. I think he so relishes what he's about to say that he's actually salivating. He uses his deepest voice. “Your Honor, I am told there is no truth whatsoever to this report.” Roosevelt spoke with less drama when he announced the attack on Pearl Harbor.

No sooner does Trell finish speaking than Kasten's head, as well as every other head in the courtroom, swivels toward me.

I shrug, as if I'm an innocent bystander. “I'm as surprised as you, Judge. The media in this town is getting out of hand.”

He, of course, is not buying it. “This is bizarre behavior even by your standards.”

Obviously he doesn't know my standards, but now is not the time to educate him. I shrug so hard my shoulders hurt. “Your Honor, surely you don't think-”

He interrupts me, which is just as well, since I wasn't quite sure how to finish the sentence. “Finish your summation, and then I'll want to see both counsel in chambers. The jury will disregard this entire incident.”

I walk toward the jury, shaking my head in amazement at this turn of events. Let's see if they disregard this …

“The second thing I wanted to talk to you about is reasonable doubt. If any of you believed, even for a few moments, that someone else had confessed to the crime my client stands charged with, then you must have a reasonable doubt as to his guilt.”

A cannon goes off in Trell's chair, sending him soaring to his feet. “Objection! Objection!”

He yells so loud that I have to yell over him to the jury, while I'm pointing to Carmen. “You cannot be absolutely positive about this man's guilt and at the same time be ready to believe that someone else did it!”

“Objection! Objection!” That Trell is quite a conversationalist. Meanwhile, Jean Valjean never pounded rocks as hard as Kasten is pounding the gavel.

“Bailiff, remove the jury.”

As I watch the jury file out, I know that Kasten is going to come down on me, even contempt is a possibility. I also know that I'm my father's son, and Kasten has too much respect and friendship for Nelson Carpenter to destroy his first and only born.

Besides, Carmen Herndez is going to be a free man within the hour, which makes this a very good day.

MY CHILDHOODIS FILLED WITH GREAT MEMO-ries, in fact, great ones are the only memories I have. I talked to a shrink about it, and we pretty much agreed that unpleasant things must have happened when I was growing up, but that I had just repressed them. I asked him how long I could go on repressing them, and he said maybe forever. That worked for me, so I left therapy before I could blow it and get in touch with my true feelings.

That was eight years ago. So far, so good.

But if one memory stands out over all others, it's my father and I going to Yankees games. We lived in Paterson, which is where I still have my office. The drive from our house to Yankee Stadium was eight miles on Route 4 to the George Washington Bridge, then the Cross Bronx to the Major Deegan to the stadium. Without traffic it's about twenty-five minutes, which means that in real life it takes about an hour and a half. But I never minded, because I knew at the end I was going to walk through the tunnel and out to our seats, and I would see the most beautiful sight in the world. The Yankee Stadium infield.

The green of that infield was and is unlike any color ever produced anywhere else. You could buy a box of half a million Crayolas and never begin to match that color. Set against it is the understated tan of the dirt part of the infield, which becomes a deep, powerful brown when watered by the groundskeepers. Their job, the job of maintaining the Yankees’ home field, is a heavy but rewarding burden that they shoulder flawlessly.

Today I'm going to get to see that infield, as my father and I have tickets to the game. As always, I pick him up at his house and head for the stadium. The drive there is just as glorious, just as filled with anticipation, as it was in my youth. The only difference is that I'm the one behind the wheel, which can't be right, since when we go to the games I'm eight years old again.

But we'll get there, we'll park in our special place, which gets us out after the game faster than anyone else, my father will become my “Dad,” and everything will be right with the world.

Today the Yankees are playing the Red Sox. I used to hate the Red Sox, just like I hated the Orioles, and the Indians, and the White Sox, and anybody else not in pinstripes. But I don't hate anymore, I'm too arrogant for that. To hate is to grant a level of importance that those teams don't deserve. We dismiss our opponents, we don't hate them. They are not worthy of that.

Our seats are field level boxes, third row behind third base. If there is a more perfect six feet of real estate, I have no idea where it is. I am sucking on a snow cone and wondering why food sold at the seats by vendors tastes better than the same items bought anywhere else, when my father nudges me and points to the scoreboard. He doesn't have to say a word; it's the fourth inning, time to start betting.

I don't know when this started, but I think it was in my early teens. My father and I bet on everything in the fourth inning. We keep track of the bets; at one point, I think I owed him a million dollars. It was a big burden for a high school sophomore, but I won it back and then some. Today he owes me forty-one thousand, three hundred and fifty-five dollars. I'm on a roll.

Trot Nixon steps up to the plate to face Roger Clemens. It's my father's turn to choose the bets because he's behind. His mind calculates the infinite possibilities as if he is planning a legal argument.

“I'll bet you five hundred dollars the first pitch is a strike,” he says with confidence.

“You're on,” I say unnecessarily, since every bet is on. Clemens throws a slider a foot outside. Good start for me, but I don't get cocky. The fourth can be a very long inning.

“Six hundred says he gets a base hit. You give me three to one.”

I just nod this time, he knows he's on. Nixon pops up to center, Williams calls off Knoblauch and handles it easily. I make a fist in triumph. “Yesssss.”

While we're waiting for Garciaparra to come up, my father says, “I was hoping Nicole would join us.”

Not now, Dad. You're supposed to leave the real world out in the parking lot.

“Nicole and I are separated, Dad. You sometimes seem to forget that.” He also forgets that I go back to being eight years old when I'm here. How could I have an estranged wife?

“An old man can't hope?”

“An old man should concentrate on the game, because I'm cleaning the old man's clock.” I'm trying to refocus him, but I'm having a tough time.

He looks at his program, so I think maybe he's getting back to baseball. Unfortunately, he isn't.

“Judge Kasten told me about your stunt in the courtroom.”

Uh, oh. I'm caught, but not backing down. “You mean the stunt that got my client acquitted?”

“I mean the one that could have gotten you disbarred.”

“It was worth the risk,” I parry.

“In the future, you might want to substitute solid preparation for risk taking,” he thrusts. “By the way, how are you doing on the Miller appeal?”

“The ruling could come down anytime,” I say. “I'm hopeful.” Dad is worried about something as trivial as a death sentence in the fourth inning?

“You need to understand that even on a retrial, it's a case you can't win,” he says. “I covered all the bases.” “Speaking of bases, Garciaparra is up.” This seems to work, and our legal careers are moved to the back seat. More fake money is about to be put on the table.

“Garciaparra will foul off the first pitch. Eight hundred bucks. Nine to two.” He seems pretty confident, so I just as confidently tell him that he's on.

Clemens winds up and Garciaparra lines one down the right field line. I'm on my feet. It's curving … it's curving … fair!

“Fair ball! Fair ball! Fair ball!” I scream. I hate cheering for something against the Yankees, and everybody around us is staring at me with disdain, but my competitive juices are flowing. I turn to my father in triumph, and he has bowed his head appropriately in defeat.

“Can't even watch?” I crow. But it's more than that. In a brief, terrible instant, I realize that in fact he can't watch, can't speak, can't even sit up. He falls over and his head hits the railing in front of us, and then he slumps to the ground, his body grotesquely wedged between the seats.

And then I start screaming, screaming louder than anyone has ever screamed in Yankee Stadium. Screaming louder than anyone has ever screamed in any stadium.

But my dad can't hear me, and I'll never be eight years old again.

THE CROWDAT THE FUNERAL SEEMS LARGER THAN the crowd at the stadium, except everyone here finds themselves compelled to talk to me, to convince me they knew my father, and to let me know how sorry they are. It's supposed to make me feel better. It doesn't come close.

The cemetery itself covers miles and miles of gently rolling hills, which would be beautiful and uplifting if they were not dotted by endless rows of headstones. Can there really be this many people buried here? Have their loved ones all felt the same kind of pain I am feeling?

I tell someone I want to deliver the eulogy, but I dread the prospect of it. Laurie tells me I don't have to, that no one will think less of me if I don't. She's right, but I go up there anyway. I look out at the crowd. It seems as if the only people in America not at this funeral must be the ones lying under all those headstones.

“All of you knew Nelson Carpenter in your own way,” I begin. “Like everyone, he had his labels, and he wore them proudly and well. To many he was the District Attorney, a brilliant man whose devotion to justice was complete, and who would go to any lengths to ensure that everybody received fair and impartial treatment under the law.

“To many of you he was simply a friend, and when you had Nelson Carpenter as your friend, you didn't need many others. Because he wasn't simply there if you asked for his help; he had a sixth sense that could see through you, and a generosity that would provide that help without you ever having to ask.

“But I knew Nelson Carpenter as a father, and that makes me luckier than any of you. Because his family was his world, and let me tell you something, there was no better world to live in.”

My throat feels like it is in a vise the entire time, but I don't cry, just like I didn't cry at my mother's funeral three years ago. But I remember having my father to share the pain with then, and I could focus on supporting him. Now it's just me.

Only child becomes even more only.

Afterward I'm walking toward the cars, nodding thank you to the remaining four or five million people who are just now approaching me. Philip Gant, U.S. Senator Philip Gant, soon to be ex-father-in-law Philip Gant, walks toward me.

Philip was my father's oldest friend, and though that friendship always struck me as rather unlikely, it was remarkably strong and enduring. Their relationship is what originally brought their offspring together. Philip was upset when Nicole left me; I always thought that she must have had a harder time breaking the news to him than to me.

Philip dominates every room he is ever in, even rooms with no walls, thousands of people, and rolling hills dotted with headstones. As he comes toward me, everyone else seems to melt away. He taps me on the shoulder with authority. Philip does everything with authority.

“Magnificent eulogy, Andrew. I knew Nelson longer than anyone here, and let me tell you, every word you said was true.”

It is typical of Philip that even when he is trying to be nice, he secures the upper hand, this time by assuming I need his confirmation that I really knew my father.

This time he's gone too far. “Thank you, Philip. I appreciate that,” I lash back.

“I spoke to Nicole,” he says. “She was very upset.”

I nod, since I know this must be true; Nicole was quite fond of her father-in-law. I am actually surprised that she wasn't here.

“Terrible,” he says, shaking his head. “Just terrible. You just let me know if there's anything I can do.”

I nod again, Philip heads off to a limousine the size of North Dakota, and his chauffeur holds the door open for him as he enters. I turn and see Laurie, who has been great throughout this. She takes my arm and squeezes it gently.

“You okay?” she asks.

“I'm okay,” I lie.

I don't feel like going home, so we go to a sports bar named Charlie's. It is my favorite restaurant in the entire world; in fact, it is the best restaurant in the entire world. In fact, every single item on the menu is better than every item on any other menu at any other restaurant in the entire world. Some people think I overrate Charlie's. I think those people are stupid.

Anyway, Charlie's feels more like home than home, so this is where I want to be. We go to our favorite booth in the corner, the one next to the video trivia game. We order burgers and beer and I start planning my life as an orphan.

The first thing I'm going to have to do is go back to my father's house. I'll need to go through his papers and his personal possessions, and make sure that everything is in order. That's not going to be easy. Laurie promises to help, but I feel like I want to do everything by myself, like it's some rite of passage I have to go through.

Within a short time we're laughing and joking, punctuated every few minutes by my feeling guilty that I'm laughing and joking. But we're enjoying each other's company, and it feels good.

Laurie and I have only been sleeping together for two weeks, a total of four times. Each time has been better than the time before it, and the first time wasn't too shabby. She has blue eyes which she claims are green, and when you stare into them you feel like you're on a gorgeous beach on a gorgeous day drinking a gorgeous drink with an umbrella in it.

She's also the best investigator I've ever known, smart, tough, and relentless, at least when she doesn't let her integrity get in the way. She's an ex-cop and I'm a lawyer, which probably explains why I think all my clients are innocent, and she thinks they're guilty. It's the difference between law school and the police academy. We bridge this gap by agreeing that the clients are all entitled to the best defense possible.

I hesitated a long while before letting things turn sexual, to say nothing of emotional, with Laurie. I've been married to Nicole since I was twenty-three, and I wasn't exactly a sexual dynamo before that, so even when I got separated I felt like I was cheating by being with another woman.

I also was leery of mixing business with pleasure, cognizant as I was of the difficulties that can result. But the main reason I hesitated to sleep with Laurie is because whenever I brought it up she said no. Two weeks ago she changed her mind, which coincidentally was the exact moment I stopped hesitating.

But tonight Laurie is not my lover, nor is she my investigator. She is my friend, and the time with her at Charlie's is comforting. She drives me home, pulling up in front of my house at around nine. I live in Franklin Lakes, an upscale suburban community about a half-hour northeast of New York City. Each house, including mine, has manicured lawns and perfectly maintained flowers, none of which are maintained by those of us who live here. I've never checked, but Franklin Lakes must have the highest number of gardeners per capita in the United States.

What it doesn't have is the feel of a neighborhood, at least not the ones I remember. I am on a waving relationship with my neighbors; it is the suburban equivalent of a nodding, elevator relationship for those who live in high-rise apartments.

“You want to come in?” I ask.

“I don't think I should. I think you might need some time alone.”

I don't argue, because we both know she's right; her staying over tonight wouldn't feel right for either of us.

It's just as well that Laurie doesn't come in, because when I go into the house Nicole is sitting on the leather sofa in the den, petting Tara and waiting for me.

“Hello, Andy.”

“Nicole …” is the cleverest retort I can come up with.

“I heard about Nelson … I was in Seattle visiting my grandmother … I got here as fast as I could … oh, Andy …”

She comes over and hugs me, though it makes me feel awkward. I wonder if she feels the same, but there's no sign of it. Actually, I don't think “awkward” is something Nicole ever allows herself to feel. Feeling awkward would just make her feel awkward, so she simply avoids it.

“He was really crazy about you,” I say, driven by a sudden need to make her feel better.

“And I felt the same way about him. Are you okay?”

“I'm hanging in. I'm not sure it's totally hit me yet.”

She still has her arms around me, it's one of the longest hugs I've ever experienced. And there's no sign of it ending anytime soon.

“Andy, I've been thinking … even before this … I don't want to just give up on us.”

I'm at a loss for words, not an everyday occurrence for me, which goes on for quite a while. The uncomfortable silence is enough to get her to break the hug.

“It's your turn to say something,” she says, though I already knew that.

I give it my best shot. “Nicole, we've been separated for six months. In that time I have not become a big-time corporate attorney, nor have I decided to run for Congress.”

“Andy …”

“And I still represent people who think Beef Wellington is a wrestler. In short, I'm not what you seem to want anymore.”

“So maybe I can try and change. It's worth a try, isn't it?”

I'm not sure and I tell her so. She takes that as a qualified yes.

“So I was thinking we could start dating … have dinner or something?”

“You want to start dating?” I ask. “What's the matter, you can't find anybody to take you to the prom?” This is meant to sound tough; it comes off as cutesy.

“Andy, let's start over.” She renews the hug again, this time with certain body parts rubbing against certain other body parts.

“Am I going to have to get you a corsage?” I have now openly switched to cutesy. Even Tara looks disgusted.

Nobody's ever accused me of being a tower of strength, least of all Nicole. I think we're going to try. This would have been a good day for my father.

THE HOUSEOF MY FIRST EIGHTEEN YEARS WAS ON 42nd Street in Paterson, New Jersey. This is of considerable significance because of the manner in which Paterson has developed. There is a downtown area, economically poor and overwhelmingly African-American. Then there are the numbered streets, 1 through 42, ending at the Passaic River. The river is where 43rd Street would be.

The higher the street number, the more expensive and desirable the houses. For years, almost all of the people living in the streets above 20 were white. Gradually, though, African-Americans started moving “upward” to the mid-20s, then the early 30s, and on toward the heavenly 40s. The whites would then move further up, fearful that the mixing of the neighborhood was driving their home values down.

Looking at the big picture, it was as if the whites were being driven to the sea, in this case the river, and that it eventually would part and allow them to flee to the suburbs. This they did, in droves, and Paterson is now overwhelmingly African-American. The houses look exactly the same, but the people look different.

It is a source of great pride to me that my parents never followed the masses across the river, but a source of some shame that I did. But I love that house, and that neighborhood, and I love my parents even more for not abandoning it.

I drive to the house, with Tara sitting in the front seat and looking out the window at the neighborhood, checking it out as if she is thinking of buying property here. We arrive at the house, now empty of family, and I take a deep breath as we walk toward it. We walk up the steps where I covered myself in glory playing stoopball. We step up onto the porch from which I used to watch summer thunderstorms, mesmerized as the water hit the ground so hard that it bounced six inches back in the air.

And then we enter the house. You could blindfold me and I could describe every square inch of the house, tell you every piece of furniture that has ever been in it, yet I could barely remember what any house I've lived in since looks like.

Once inside, the pain begins inside my stomach and keeps boring inward. By the time I'm in the den it has reached previously unexplored depths, but I resolve not to give in to it. My resolve lasts for about eight seconds, and I start sobbing. Tara nuzzles next to me, letting me know that she loves me and is there for me. I wonder if she can comprehend how much that helps; I believe she can. The power of a dog's love is astonishing.

I compose myself and get started. My father kept everything in four file cabinets in his office, and for the next three hours I go through papers and documents. Everything seems characteristically straightforward and organized; my father would never have had it any other way. My unspoken (even to myself ) dread that I would find something troubling (an old love letter to a mistress?) soon gives way to semiboredom as I plow through the material.

I seem to remember that there are a lot of things in the attic, so I take a stepladder and go up there. It's dusty; this area obviously was not a frequent place of visitation. There are boxes of old papers, books, photographs, and memorabilia, and despite myself I get lost in them. I realize with a flash of guilt that I have not similarly chronicled my own life, then I realize with a flash of sadness that there will not be anyone to notice.

Many of the items I see trigger old memories, though some are literally before my time. There is a yellowed newspaper clipping from the day that my then thirteen-year-old father slipped through an ice crack in a local pond, along with a picture of Philip, dripping wet after heroically pulling him out. It is an incident my father related to me perhaps half a dozen times; he truly credited Philip with saving his life. Surprisingly, I never heard Philip mention it, though it would certainly have added luster to his political résumé.

I pick up a photograph of my parents at the beach. What strikes me about it is how comfortable they look together; I can never remember a time when it was any other way. Looking at their youthfulness, it seems amazing that they are gone, or even that they ever existed in this form.

The photograph is in a frame, and as I go to put it back, I see there is something behind it, as if hidden. I pry open the frame and pull out another picture, which is of four men, arm in arm, smiling and laughing as they pose for the camera. All of the men seem to be in their early twenties, and my father is one of them. There are two 1960s model cars in the driveway behind them, one sideways to the camera and one facing it.

The black and white shot was taken at night, and the young men seem jovial, perhaps intoxicated. In the background are trees and a large, manicured lawn, but I don't recognize the location.

I go to put down the photo, then do a double take and pick it back up. One of the men looks like a young Victor Markham, a very wealthy, very influential local industrialist. I've never met Markham, but his son's girlfriend was the young woman that my client, Willie Miller, was convicted of murdering years ago. Even though my father prosecuted the case originally, I until now was not aware that he knew Victor Markham as a younger man. It is a strange thing for him not to have mentioned.

It is the Miller case that finally draws me away from the house. I put the picture in my pocket and leave. I have to go out to the prison this afternoon and see my client, to keep him up-to-date about what is going on. He's the one who very well might receive the lethal injection, so I think he has a right to know.

After driving Tara home, I head out to the prison, which is about twenty-five minutes from Paterson, near Newark Airport. It seems a sadistic placement, as the prisoners must constantly listen to those living in freedom literally soaring off into the sky. It must make their cagelike existence seem that much more confining. On the other hand, they never have to eat airline food.

Visiting death row is something I don't think I'll ever get used to, and I don't recommend it at all. The first thing I notice about it, the first thing I always notice about it, is that it is so clean. It's ironic. The people housed here are deemed the filth of society, not even worthy of life, yet their “house” is kept clean with a zeal unmatched this side of Disneyland.

The place seems entirely gray, as if I am looking at it through black and white eyes. The stench of hopelessness is everywhere; it feels like the animal shelter in which I found Tara. Everybody in cages, just waiting until it's time to die, knowing no one is coming to set them free.

I go through the process of checking in and wait until the guard, Danny, comes to bring me to the cell block. Danny and I are by now familiar with each other, and I am struck by his ability to maintain a sense of humor in these surroundings. He's not Jerry Seinfeld, but he's okay.

We walk down a corridor flanked by cells on both sides, just like you see in the movies, and the prisoners call out taunting comments about the legal profession in general and myself in particular. None of it is flattering, some is positively brutal.

Danny is amused by it. “They're getting to know you pretty well.”

I just nod and walk faster; I'm not in the mood for banter.

I'm finally brought to Willie Miller's cell, the small iron box where he has spent the last seven years. He is heavily muscled and keeps himself in outstanding shape by working out. I don't have the discipline to exercise even though I know it will help me lead a longer, healthier life. Willie's about to be put to death and he never misses a day.

Willie never acknowledges my arrival until I'm inside the cell, and this time is no exception. I'm waiting for Danny to open the door, but instead he pulls over a metal chair and positions it outside the cell.

I'm puzzled, so I give him my puzzled look. He explains, “No direct contact with visitors during the last two months.” He's referring to the time left in Willie's life, and on Willie's behalf I'm thoroughly irritated.

“I've been frisked and put through a metal detector. You afraid I'm going to slip him my teeth so he can bite through the bars?”

“Rules are rules, Andy.”

I can tell that he feels bad, and I feel bad for making him feel bad. But I keep going, 'cause Willie feels worst of all.

“Are you sure? Rules are rules?”

“That's right.”

“Have you got a pen? Because I want to write that down. ‘Rules are rules,’ ” I repeat. “What a great line. Is it okay if I use it at cocktail parties?”

He's not in the mood for my bullshit. “Call out if you need me,” he says, and then walks away.

I turn to Willie, who is on his cot all the way across the length of his home, which means he's eight feet away from me. “How are you doing today, Willie?” It is an innocent question, but it presses a button.

He stands up and walks toward me, challenging. For a brief second, I'm glad Danny didn't let me in the cell.

“What the hell is the difference? You think next year anybody is going to say, ‘Boy, I wonder how Willie felt fifty-seven days before they killed his ass?’ ”

“What is it about death row that makes people so damned cranky?”

Willie looks at me for a moment, then starts to laugh. The weird thing is I knew he would. I know and like Willie, plus I think he's as innocent as the rest of my clients.

“Man, you're a lunatic, you know that? Of course, if I had me a lawyer, instead of a lunatic, I wouldn't be here.”

This has become a familiar refrain, and I respond in kind. “Need I remind you that I was not your lawyer when you were sent here? I have merely been handling your appeal. A small but significant point.”

Willie looks around at the cell. “You don't seem to be appealing too well,” is his logical reply.

“That's because the Supreme Court has become a major pain in the ass in this area.”

“More white bullshit,” he says.

“Did you ever hear of Clarence Thomas?” I counter.

“No, who's he play for?”

I laugh so loudly that it rattles through the corridors. Willie knows damn well who Clarence Thomas is, he's been reading up on everything about his case, including who might someday be ruling on it.

As if satisfied that he got me laughing, he gets right to the point. It's a point we've gone over before.

“We gonna get the new trial?”

“The Court of Appeals ruling should come down at any time.”

“We gonna win?”

“I think so,” I say. “But even if we get it, we're still in deep shit.”

“I'll just lose again?” he asks.

I pretend to be puzzled. “Lose? Did somebody say ‘lose'? I know I've heard that word, I'm just not familiar with it.”

“Make sure it stays that way.”

The specifics of Willie's case really haven't come up between us, since all I've had to concern myself with is the technical aspect of the appeal. We're pursuing a number of arguments, but our best one is the fact that one of the jurors on Willie's case openly lied in concealing the fact that her brother was a cop. More significantly, that brother had been killed in the line of duty six months earlier. That does not tend to make one friendly to the accused.

But if we get a new trial, we're going to have to move quickly. I decide to put my toe in the water, mainly because there's not much else to talk about. “You know, you're going to have to help me more than you helped your last lawyer.”

His antennae are up. “What the hell does that mean? I got nothing more to tell you than I told him.”

“That's because I haven't started my subtle, probing questioning yet.”

“Why don't you just ask your father? He was damn sure he knew everything that happened that night.”

It is not exactly unprecedented for a death row inmate to hold a grudge against the prosecutor that put him there, and Willie has been open about his hatred for my father. Because of those feelings, it took longer than usual for Willie and me to establish a mutual trust.

He obviously has not heard about recent events, and I see no reason to conceal them. “My father died last week.”

Willie's face reflects his feelings, or lack of feelings, at hearing this news. No guilt, no triumph, no nothing. “I'm sorry for you, man,” is what he says.

I nod my thanks. “Are you ready?”

“Ready.”

“Okay,” I say. “Let's start with an easy one. Did you kill her?”

I almost never ask this question, since if the client says yes, I am then prohibited from allowing him to say no at trial. It's called suborning perjury. The reason I ask is because I know what his answer is going to be. That doesn't make it any easier to hear.

“I don't have the slightest fucking idea.”

It goes downhill from there. Willie was totally drunk that night, with no memory of anything that happened. But he had never committed a violent act in his life, except for a few street fights. He wouldn't, couldn't, murder a woman.

We don't get very far, which right now is not a big problem, since we don't even know if we'll ever get another trial. The only fact that the conversation reaffirms in my mind is that Willie is never going to testify in any trial in which I am his lawyer. The “I was too drunk to remember if I did it” defense isn't generally a winner.

After twenty more minutes of getting nowhere, I head home, where I find Nicole preparing dinner. This is in itself a rare event; Nicole can make three types of food, the best of which is a tuna fish sandwich. But here she is making spaghetti, which means she's trying to “change,” which means I'm going to get stuck eating some really terrible spaghetti.

Outside the kitchen, things seem to be going reasonably well between us. We're both aware that we're testing the waters, which doesn't make for spontaneity, but I agree with her assessment that we're making progress. We haven't had sex yet, which shows how limited that progress has been, but I think we might be getting there.

If we had no history together, I'm not sure that we would fall madly in love. But we do have a history, and I'm just not ready to abandon it. I haven't mentioned this to Laurie yet, and I tell myself it's because I haven't seen her. I also tell myself that I don't owe her anything, that we have no commitment to each other, but I can't quite get myself to stop feeling like a shithead.

THE NEXT MORNINGI HAVE TO STOP AT Roger Sandberg's office. Roger is known as “the attorney's attorney,” and for years he has personally represented many of the top lawyers in the area. He and my father had been close friends for twenty years, and my father trusted Roger with his life. Since he doesn't have his life anymore, here I am.

The purpose of this visit is to go over matters of the estate and learn the terms of my father's will. I arrive ten minutes early and start reading one of the ancient magazines from the rack in the waiting room. For some reason, every doctor's, dentist's, or lawyer's office I am ever in only has magazines more than four months old. Where do the magazines go when they first arrive? Is there a publication purgatory that they are required to inhabit until their information is no longer timely?

I pick up the current one in the office, a six-month-old Forbes. It predicts that the stock market will go up, a prediction which has turned out to be wrong. I'm glad I didn't read it six months ago.

The door to Roger's office opens and he comes out to greet me. Roger is a very distinguished-looking man, with a kind smile and smooth manner. He is the definition of “unruffled,” a neat trick to have pulled off since he's been married five times. I've had only one troubled marriage, and I am thoroughly ruffled.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Andy.”

Roger shakes my hand and then hugs me, just like he hugged me at the funeral. I'm not a big hug fan, but I hug him back.

“No problem.”

We exchange pleasantries about his wife and children, all of whom I vaguely know, and he inquires about my practice. I talk briefly about it, at which point his eyes start to glaze over. Criminal law is not Roger's thing.

We go into his office and he suggests that I sit on the couch. He goes to his desk and starts to gather the paperwork he is going to show me. He handles legal papers like a Las Vegas dealer handles cards … smooth, with no wasted motion.

“Roger, before we start, there's something I want to ask you. Did my father ever mention knowing Victor Markham?”

He seems surprised by the question. “Of course, don't you remember? He prosecuted that murder a few years ago … when the young woman was murdered in that bar. I believe the victim was Markham's son's girlfriend.”

“I know. I'm handling the appeal.”

“Really? Did your father know that?”

I nod. “Definitely. He encouraged it.”

“Anyway, as far as I know, that's how Nelson knew Victor Markham,” he says.

“I was talking about much earlier. Almost forty years ago. I'm pretty sure he was one of the people in a picture I found up in the attic. Dad was in the picture as well.”

“He never mentioned it to me. But there was apparently a great deal about your father that I didn't know.”

Roger has just lit a fuse; and all I can do is wait for it to reach the dynamite and explode. He doesn't make a comment like that unless he has something significant to tell me. I get a strong feeling that I'm not going to like it. I know for sure that I'm dreading it, so I take a breath so deep it sucks most of the air out of the room.

“What do you mean by that?”

He looks me right in the eye. “I was very surprised by the amount of money in your father's estate. Very surprised.”

It's exhaling time; I'm relieved to hear that it's about money. I'm comfortable enough, and I really have no need to live off an inheritance. But I'm still surprised.

“Really? Dad was always so careful with his money.”

He nods. “That he was.”

“How much is left, Roger?”

He takes a deep breath and presses the detonator. “Twenty-two million dollars.”

“Twenty-two million dollars!” I choke.

“And change.” He reads from the papers. “Four hundred thirty-two thousand five hundred and seventy-four dollars’ worth of change.”

My mind immediately registers three possibilities, listed in order of likelihood. One, Roger made an error. Two, Roger is joking. Three, I'm rich! I'm rich! I'm rich!

I find myself standing up, though I'm not sure why. “Can't be, Roger. It's an appealing thought, but it's simply not possible.”

“You had no idea he had this kind of money?”

“He didn't,” I say firmly. “I knew he made some good investments over the years, but not like this. He would have told me. He would have raised my allowance.”

“I don't know what to say, Andy. But it's all real.”

My legs seem to give out from under me, and I sag back down on the couch. Roger brings the books over to me and takes me through them, every square inch of them, and there is no doubt about it. I am, in fact, rich.

It isn't immediately clear where the money came from, but it doesn't seem to be the result of particularly shrewd investments. The money is sitting in long-term tax-free municipal bonds, earning much less interest than it could be elsewhere.

None of this makes any sense, so I decide to investigate, and make the logical decision to assign my investigator. I call Laurie from Roger's office and tell her what I've learned, and the extent of my wealth.

“You've suddenly become far more attractive, you big adorable hunk, you,” she gushes.

Since I haven't told her about Nicole, this doesn't seem to be a good time to engage in sexual/romantic banter. So I don't, and she promises to get to the bottom of this quickly. I have no doubt that she will.

When I get home I tell Nicole the news, and her astonishment matches mine. My father would be the last person you'd expect to keep a momentous secret like this from his family, and I have to assume my mother had been in the dark about it as well. She was biologically incapable of keeping a secret; she would have told me without any prompting at all.

There are ordinarily no circumstances under which I have trouble sleeping. My ability to fall asleep on a moment's notice is a blessing I have never taken for granted. But tonight I toss and turn for half the night.

I don't even have Tara in bed for me to pet; since Nicole's return Tara has been reduced to sleeping on a comforter on the floor. I could pet Nicole, but she might read more into it than she should. So I just lie there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Becoming an orphan, a husband, and a multimillionaire in the same week must be causing me some stress.

The next morning I go to the office for the first time since the funeral. When I arrive I find my secretary-receptionist, Edna, doing a crossword puzzle. Edna is sixty-six and she proudly and often proclaims that she has worked every day of her life since she was a mere child, yet she hasn't done a real day's work in the five years she's worked for me. If you think I'm about to tell her that, you don't know her or me.

Edna, to hear her tell it, has what must be one of the largest extended families in the United States. There is nothing one can mention, be it an experience, an occupation, a talent, an affliction … anything … that isn't shared by a member of Edna's family. The only thing they all seem to have in common is that all are constantly advising Edna that she doesn't need to work. If I could speak to all of them, and a venue the size of Yankee Stadium would be necessary, I would reassure them that their advice has been taken to heart. Edna does many things, but work is not one of them.

But whatever one might say about Edna, she is the greatest crossword puzzle talent this country has ever produced. It's amazing; she can go through the New York Times puzzle in less than twenty minutes. She often waxes eloquent about the injustice of it all. Here Michael Jordan made millions because he was better at basketball than anyone else, while she gets nothing for being at the peak of her chosen avocation. She vows she will live to see the day that crossword championships are held at Madison Square Garden before screaming multitudes, and she's signing huge pencil endorsement deals.

I get in early and set about trying to relax, which for me means a good sock basketball game. I take a pair of rolled-up socks (I keep some in the office for just this purpose) and shoot at a ledge above the door. I have to pretend to dribble, since rolled-up socks don't really bounce, and I create fantasy games to play in.

Right now I'm in the middle of an intense game, made all the more difficult by the fact that I also serve as commentator.

“Carpenter fakes left, the shot clock is off, the game clock is down to ten, his teammates have cleared out, giving him room … Carpenter loves to take the final shot … a two will tie, a three will win. The crowd is on its feet.”

Edna watches this with no apparent emotion, unimpressed by my prowess, since she has previously told me that sock basketball was invented by her Uncle Irwin. The door opens and Laurie comes in, carrying a huge watermelon. Even this isn't enough to hurt my concentration.

“Carpenter backs in, three on the clock. He turns, jumps, shoots … and hits!” The shot has actually gone in, but I'm not finished. I wait a few moments for effect.

“And a foul!”

I go up to my nonexistent opponent and get right up in his nonexistent face.

“In your face, sucker! In your face!” I snarl.

Laurie has finally managed to put the watermelon on a table, and she turns to me and my imaginary opponent. “I think you've got him intimidated.”

“Her. I've got her intimidated,” I say. “I combine my sports and sexual fantasies. It saves time.”

Laurie looks around the office, as she always does, her face reflecting her displeasure at the mess I've made.

“This is a dump,” she says with some accuracy.

“So is that why you brought in a four-hundred-pound watermelon? To class up the place?”

We both know that Sofý, the owner of the fruit stand downstairs, has given us the watermelon as partial payment for defending her son. I would have preferred peaches, but they're not really in season.

“Someday you might want to take payment in actual money. Although as rich as you are, you don't need to.”

This interests me enough to put down the sock basketball. I walk toward her, throwing out questions along the way.

“Did you check out the money? Where did he get it? Is it really mine?”

“Yes. I don't know. Yes.”

I focus in on the negative. “You don't know where he got it?”

Laurie takes a diet soda out of the small refrigerator and pops the top before she answers. “Correct. But I do know when he got it. Thirty-five years ago. It started as two million.”

This has now moved smoothly from the very strange to the totally bizarre. Thirty-five years ago my father was in his mid-twenties and in law school. How the hell could he have gotten hold of two million dollars?

Laurie continues. “It gets even stranger. He never touched the bonds, not once in all these years. The principal just grew from interest.”

“But he loved to play the stock market. When he retired he used to sit by the television all day and watch that stupid ticker go across the screen.”

She shakes her head. “Not with this money. The brokerage was instructed never to suggest new investments … they were told never even to call him … to pretend the money didn't exist.”

“You spoke to them?”

She nods. “Not the same people who were there back then, but the instructions were passed down, and nobody ever questioned them. Not a single person in the place had ever spoken to your father about the money.”

“I've got to find out where he got it in the first place.”

Laurie has an annoying habit of dribbling out information, and she is dribbling away now. “The plot thickens. The brokerage records show it was a single cashier's check … so there's no way to trace it from this end.”

This is incredibly frustrating, so I spend the next ten minutes brainstorming ideas with Laurie about how to go about getting more information. We collectively come to the conclusion that she already had come to: The only way to find out more is to look back into my father's life.

Laurie thinks I should drop it, that there's nothing to be gained by going further. The unspoken concern is that there's something to be lost, that my father did something to acquire that money that was so untoward that he could not bring himself to tell anyone about it or even touch it for thirty-five years.

The prospect of going further is frightening, but I have no choice. I don't want to feel like I didn't know a big piece of my father, though the evidence clearly shows that I didn't. We discuss how to proceed, and I'm thinking that I want to take the lead in this rather than Laurie.

The phone rings and we wait for Edna to answer it. By the fourth ring it is clear that she's not going to; 48 across must be requiring all of her considerable powers of concentration. I pick up the receiver and am jolted by the voice of Judge Henderson's clerk. Hatchet wants to see me about the Miller case. It can only mean that the decision has come down from the Court of Appeals.

I grab my jacket and start heading for the door, but Laurie walks along with me and asks if we're still having dinner tonight. It's the moment of truth, and I almost choke on my tongue.

“Laurie … Nicole's back in town … we … the situation …” The actual words, when spoken, are even wimpier than they look on paper.

Her tone is instantly challenging. “Talk, Andy. Nicole's back in town and that means what?”

“I'm not sure. Part of me says it's over and part of me feels like I should see where it goes.”

“And you think I'm going to hang around while your parts fight it out? Forget it, Andy.”

“I know this is difficult … but if you'll just try and understand …” I'm dying here and she shows no sign of letting me off the hook.

“Oh, I understand. I understand that your wife, the wife who walked out on you, has decided she might give you a second chance, and you're jumping at it. Well, you can jump through this particular hoop without me.”

I start to blabber some more, but she dismissively points out that Hatchet Henderson doesn't like to be kept waiting. Her saying this is both true and at the same time an act of mercy, and I'm able to leave with what little dignity I have left.

Even though I'm not actually going into the courtroom, but only into the judge's chambers, I decide against risking pissing off the superstition god, and I stop at Cal Morris's newsstand. I've already gotten the paper today, so I pick up a Baseball Weekly, which I will never read. Cal and I go through our conversation in a perfunctory fashion; I'm too nervous to hear what the judge will say to put my heart into it.

Judge Walter Henderson, better known as Hatchet Henderson, is a large, imposing hulk of a man who stays in shape by adhering to a no-carbohydrate, no-fat, all-lawyer diet. He terrorizes all who appear before him, though me less than most. I've developed the ability to step back and view him as a caricature of the “mean judge,” and my reaction is usually amusement. He instinctively knows that, and it drives him crazy.

Hatchet absolutely refuses to engage in the small talk that constitutes social relationships between normal human beings. “Hello” is to him meaningless and wasteful chitchat; every word he says or allows himself to hear must provide information. Right now that's fine with me, because information is what I'm waiting for. I'm going to learn whether Willie Miller is going to die or be granted another trial.

Hatchet's clerk ushers me into his chambers, which is famous for how dark Hatchet keeps it. The drapes are drawn and the Great One reads a brief at his desk in the sparse light of a table lamp.

He doesn't look up, but he knows I'm there. He also knows that I know the game, which is to stand there like an idiot and wait for him to speak. It can go on for a while, and this time it goes on for ten excruciating minutes.

Finally, he talks without looking up. “Speak.”

I'm now free to open my mouth. “Nice to see you again, Judge.”

“Sorry about your father.” For him that is an amazing burst of humanity.

“Thank you,” I reply.

“Top man. Top man.” He's positively gushing. “One of the best.”

“Thank you,” I reply again.

“You said that already.” Hatchet is back in character. “The decision is coming down today from Appeals. You're getting your retrial.”

There it is. Willie is saved, at least for the time being. Hatchet said it with such a lack of emotion that it took me off guard, though of course I would have expected nothing else.

I'm going to be humble about this. “That's good news. It's the right decision.”

“Bullshit.”

I nod agreeably. “That's another way of looking at it.”

He takes off his glasses and stares at me, peering through the darkness. This is not a good sign. There is a possibility I will never be heard from again.

“You got the retrial on a technicality.” He says “technicality” with such intense disdain that his teeth are clenched. It comes out “technically,” but I don't think I'll point this out. What I think I'll do is just listen.

“You'll need a hell of a lot more in court,” he continues. “There was enough evidence to convict Miller ten times over, and that's not going to change.”

“Well …” I begin.

“Bullshit.” I wonder how he knew what I was going to say?

“Your father did a good job prosecuting that case, but Daffy-fucking-Duck could have nailed Miller. And your courtroom stunts, should you be crazy enough to risk contempt and try them, won't help.”

A question forms on my lips, but I hesitate to ask because I dread the answer. I can't help myself. “Has a judge been assigned?”

“You're looking at him,” he says with obvious relish.

“Wonderful,” I lie. Other than the fact that I just got twenty-two million dollars dropped in my lap, and my client isn't going to be executed anytime soon, this has been a rough couple of days.

“You know,” he says, “there are some people that refer to me behind my back as Hatchet Henderson.”

“No!” I'm flabbergasted. “Why would they do that?”

“Because I cut the balls off lawyers in my courtroom who piss me off.”

“As well you should.”

“Trial is set for four weeks from today. I want your motions filed within ten days.”

This is simply unacceptable. Four weeks is not nearly enough time. I don't care if they call him Hatchet, I'm not going to let him walk all over me. “Judge, I need more time. The preparation involved will take-”

He cuts me off. “You've got four weeks.”

I'm raging with anger now. There is no way this asshole is going to railroad me and my client into this. “Four weeks,” I nod.

I realize that Hatchet is looking back at the papers on his desk. He's effectively dismissed me.

“Nice talking to you, Judge.” He doesn't respond; I have ceased to exist. Without saying another word, I turn and leave, closing the door behind me. I don't say goodbye. That'll teach him.

My next stop is out to the prison to tell Willie the good news in person. It's the first one of these visits I've looked forward to, although I'm already starting to focus on just how difficult this trial is going to be.

On the way to the cell, Danny asks me if I've gotten any news on Willie's appeal. He obviously can sense that I have.

“I really want to talk to Willie about it first,” I say.

He nods. “I understand. I hope he gets the new trial.”

I just nod, still noncommittal. It would seem a betrayal of Willie to tell anybody else before I tell him.

Danny continues, “I don't always root for the prisoners, you know? But I like Willie. I don't know what he did, or didn't do, but I judge 'em on how they are in here. And I like Willie.”

Willie is waiting for me, but trying to act nonchalant. He can't quite pull it off, but it doesn't matter. I get right to it.

“We heard from the Court of Appeals. We got the retrial.”

Willie sort of flinches when he hears it. I was nervous waiting to hear what Hatchet would tell me, and I'm just the lawyer. Willie was listening to hear whether he would live or die. He's going to live, at least for now. I can't imagine what this moment would have been like if I had to tell him the appeal was turned down. I don't know how I could have done it.

I call Laurie and tell her the good news. We agree to meet the next morning at eight o'clock in my office. There's going to be about three months of work to do in the next four weeks, and Laurie is going to be responsible for a great deal of it. She doesn't mention Nicole or the situation between us, but neither does she whisper sweet nothings into the phone. It's going to be the longest, shortest four weeks of my life.

NICOLE ANDI HAVE DINNER PLANS TONIGHT. I'M still feeling guilty about Laurie, so I exact my revenge on Nicole by taking her to a sports bar that I've never been to. It's a sign of how hard she's trying that she doesn't voice a complaint about the choice.

The only sports Nicole tolerates are sports cars, and occasionally sports shirts. It was a problem in our marriage. One time I planted myself on the couch and watched football for so long that she came over and watered me. Tara licked it off my face and I didn't miss a single play.

This place actually turns out to be pretty cool, with nine large-screen TVs and headphones that plug into the table so you can hear whatever game you want. Unfortunately, the only game on is a hockey game, which doesn't interest me. I have this rule: I'm only a fan of sports in which I can pronounce 30 percent of the players’ names. I don't think Nicole is a big hockey fan either; she glances at the screen and asks me what inning it is.

Nicole doesn't seem terribly impressed by the place. She has this hang-up about wanting edible food when she goes to a restaurant, and her meal doesn't seem to measure up. I make the mistake of inquiring as to how her salad is.

“Actually,” she says, “I've never said this about salad before … but it's too tough.”

I nod with characteristic understanding. “Same thing with the burgers. It's good for your teeth.”

She smiles and takes my hand. “It's just good to be together.”

At this point I'm thinking that she might be right. Things are getting more comfortable, more like old times. Of course, old times led to our separating, but I'm willing to overlook that right now.

I've known Nicole since I was fourteen; my father and Philip Gant were old friends who had gone on to Yale Law School together. They both then went on to work in the District Attorney's office. Though it became my father's life and passion, it was a résumé-builder for Philip, and after four years he left crime fighting behind to fight for votes.

Tevye would have been thrilled with our courtship; it was the closest thing to an arranged marriage as the United States Constitution permits. We were introduced at a charity ball at Nicole's family's country club, an important enough event that my mother bought me a new navy blazer and khaki pants. I went reluctantly, much preferring to waste time hanging out with my friends than to meet this ritzy prep school girl. I was cool, my friends were cool, the ice cream stand we hung out at was cool, and the country club was said to be very definitely uncool.

For an uncool place, it had some of the coolest things in it I had ever seen, and one of the coolest was Nicole. She was gorgeous, five foot eight, with curly black hair, bare shoulders sloping down from a perfect neck, and a smile that brightened up the entire room. But most importantly, most significantly, most amazingly, she had cleavage! Yes, actual cleavage! And she wore a dress that revealed it! In retrospect, there wasn't that much of it, but at that age, on that night, it felt like I was staring into the Lincoln Tunnel.

I almost choked on my tongue when we were introduced, but as the night wore on things became more comfortable. I regaled her with stories of my baseball prowess, and she told me about her trip through the Orient with her family. She had a slightly rebellious air about her, and a smile that said she realized how absurdly ostentatious these surroundings were, but that was tough, because she was damn well going to enjoy them. She was funny, smart-and she touched my arm when she talked.

I think we both knew from that night on that we were going to wind up together. School and family obligations conspired to keep us mostly apart over the next eight years, but we never lost touch. We'd even talk about our respective relationships, as if they were just passing, unthreatening fancies until we got back to the real thing. Each other.

When I was in my third year of law school it somehow simultaneously dawned on us that the time was right, and we started dating seriously. Less than ten months later we were married, followed by a wedding reception, the cost of which could have fed Guatemala for three months.

It seems too simplistic to say that we grew apart, that our respective lifestyles finally lost their capacity to blend together. But as near as I can tell, that's basically what happened, and when Nicole finally left me, the dominant feeling I was experiencing changed from sadness to relief.

But now she's telling me that it's good to be together, and I'm buying into it. I made a lifelong commitment to this woman, and that is what I'm trying to fulfill. What this world needs are more honorable, responsible people like me.

Now she has said that this feels right, and I raise my bottle of beer. “I'll drink to that. How's your father?”

“Very busy. They're still hassling over that crime bill … trying to pass it before the summer recess. But he's really happy we're working things out.”

A few days ago she said we were “trying” to work things out. I guess we must have succeeded while I wasn't paying attention.

“My father would have been just as happy. It must be a father thing.”

She nods as if that is sound wisdom. “Any luck with Nelson's mysterious money?”

I shake my head. “Not yet. You know, all those years I thought I married you for your money, and now it turns out you married me for mine.”

She laughs. “Twenty-two million dollars? To us Gants, that's tipping money.”

She's joking, but not that far off. Nicole comes from real money, money so old it was originally called wampum.

She leans forward seductively. It's a lean she has mastered. “But you rich men do excite me.”

I give her a sexy lean of my own, but I'm not quite as good at it. “When I stand on my wallet I'm six foot four.”

“What about when you're lying down?” she purrs.

We haven't had sex since she came back, so there's more excitement here than I remember. We're like two kids teasing each other, but both knowing where it will wind up.

“How about coming back to our place?” is my clever response. It seems to work pretty well, because the next thing I know we're back home, standing next to our bed, slowly undressing each other.

Tara's outside the room, pawing at the door. Nicole has always felt uncomfortable having Tara in the room when we have sex. Right now I don't even hear Tara's whimpering; Nicole has my undivided attention. This is not feeling like a husband-wife thing, and I can sense she's a little nervous. Join the club.

“Andy, I haven't been with anyone else since we separated.”

“I know,” I respond. “I've had you followed.”

I have this problem; I joke at inappropriate times. Also at appropriate times, though there don't seem to be that many of them anymore.

“What about you?” she asks. “Have you been with anyone?”

I nod, though she can't see me in the dark. “The Olympic girls’ volleyball team, Michelle Pfeiffer, the women's division of the Teamsters, the White sisters, Vanna, Betty, and Reggie-”

She interrupts, which is just as well, since there's no telling how long I would have babbled on. “I had forgotten that about you,” she says.

“What?”

“You never shut up.”

With that she prepares to shut me up, except for an occasional moan. She does a really good job of it, but hell, somebody had to.

I have a great night's sleep, which carries right through the usually effective wake-up call planted in my brain. I gulp down a cup of coffee and some M amp;M's and head for the office. I'm feeling good for the first time in a while; the idea of diving headlong into the Miller case is actually appealing.

I stop off at Cal Morris's newsstand, not for superstition purposes, but rather to read what the media is saying about Willie's prospects. For the time being they're buying the prosecution line about this being merely a technicality, and that the result will be the same the second time around. I know in my gut they're probably right, so I bypass my gut and make a mental note to meet with the press and push our point of view. That is, as soon as we come up with a point of view.

On the way into the office I'm stopped by Sofý, standing and waiting for me in front of her fruit stand. She hands me two cantaloupes, the second installment on her son's legal bills.

“Thank you,” I say. “You know, the best thing about being paid in cantaloupes is that they don't bounce.”

She doesn't come close to getting the joke. If a joke is told in a fruit stand and nobody gets it, did it make a sound?

As I enter the office, I see Laurie sitting there, waiting for me. The smell of annoyance is in the air.

“Good morning,” I cheerily volunteer. It doesn't get the response I hope for. Actually, it doesn't get any response.

I look at my watch. Uh, oh. “You're pissed off because I'm late.”

“Forty-five minutes late. Which wouldn't mean much if the meeting were called for three P.M. But since it was called for eight A.M., forty-five minutes is a very long time.”

“Sorry. I had a late night.” I can see Laurie react, but it's too late, the words have already left my mouth. Maybe I've said stupider things in my life, but I can't remember when. This isn't pouring gasoline on a fire, it's more like pouring freon on a frozen tundra.

Laurie, to her credit, doesn't say anything. Which means the ball is still in my court. “Okay … you're right … I'm a shit-head.”

“Let's not let that obvious fact interfere with our work, okay? And let's keep each of our personal lives personal.”

She's right, at least for now. The strain between us is not likely to go away, and eventually it will have to be dealt with. We both know that. But this is not the time, not with the Miller case staring us in the face. Edna is of course not in yet, so I make some coffee and we get right to work.

Laurie has spent the previous night reading the transcript of the first trial, which makes me even guiltier about how I spent the night. Her reaction is rather predictable.

“It's a disaster. Openand-shut,” she says.

This is Laurie's style. She's an optimist in life, a total pessimist in work. Not only does she assume that all clients are guilty, she assumes they are going to be found guilty as well. One would think it would then fall to me to be encouraging, to be a motivator, but it's really not necessary. Laurie is a total pro; she'll do the best that can be done for the client, despite her personal views.

We start talking about the case, and she asks why Willie's lawyer, a man named Robert Hinton, didn't plead it out last time. It's a question I've wondered myself, and I make a note to ask Willie about it. Maybe Willie adamantly refused to plead down for a crime he didn't commit in the first place. It's also possible that my father wouldn't go for it. Even though he wasn't the death penalty type, he may well have been under a lot of pressure to take this one all the way.

I ask Laurie if she's ever heard of Hinton, but she hasn't and neither have I. We're going to have to find him; he should be able to give us some insight that the cold transcripts don't provide.

What the transcripts do provide is a version of the fateful night that appears devastating to Willie's case. According to the prosecution, Willie Miller left work an hour before the murder, went on a drinking binge, and came back through the alley and into the back door. He went into the ladies’ room, where he came upon Denise McGregor. Willie allegedly hit Denise over the head and dragged her out into the alley, where he slashed her with a steak knife from the bar.

Cathy Pearl, a thirty-five-year-old waitress from a nearby diner, came through the alley on the way home from work and saw Willie standing over the body. He ran off, dumping the knife in a trash can three blocks away, before settling into a doorway and collapsing in a drunken stupor.

As if that weren't enough, there were scratch marks all over Willie's face, and his blood and skin were found under Denise's fingernails. Just to add another positive character trait for the jury to consider, there were needle marks in Willie's arms. It is such an airtight case that I am suspicious of it.

Laurie believes every word of the government's case, while I say that is for a jury to decide.

“They already have,” she notes.

“The conviction has been set aside,” I point out.

“He admits it.”

“No, he doesn't dispute it. He can't remember anything. He was too drunk.”

“Andy, read the transcript. This is not exactly a major whodunit.”

“It reads like a frame-up to me.”

She laughs derisively. “You're amazing,” is what she says, but what she means is that I am an asshole.

“Thank you, but enough about me. What do we know about the victim?”

Laurie recites the facts that I already know. Denise McGregor worked as a reporter for a local newspaper, the Newark Star-Ledger. No information was ever turned up to show that she had any enemies, anyone who would have had reason to kill her. According to testimony, she had been dating Edward Markham for about three months, and she was out with him on the night of her death. This reminds me of the picture I found in the attic, so I take it out of a drawer and show it to Laurie.

“Isn't that Victor Markham?”

“I have no idea what Victor Markham looks like,” she says. But then she points at the man standing next to him in the picture. “But I think I recognize him.”

He doesn't look at all familiar to me, and Laurie tells me that she thinks it's Frank Brownfield, a real estate developer who has built ugly malls all over the New York metropolitan area. Laurie has a friend who works for him, and she had met Brownfield about a year ago. All this does is add to the puzzle; my father never mentioned knowing Brownfield either.

Laurie turns the picture over and reads the date, June 14, 1965, off the back.

“Now, that's weird.”

“What?” I ask.

She digs a piece of paper out of her purse and confirms her recollection. “The cashier check your father got for the two million. It was deposited on June 17, 1965.”

Less than a week after my father posed for a picture with the future Who's Who of American industry, all of whom he never admitted knowing, he received two million dollars, which he never admitted having. If these two facts aren't related, then we're talking serious coincidence here.

Laurie asks if she should check further, but I've got to get my priorities straight. I tell her I need her working full-time on the Miller case, and we agree she'll find Hinton, Willie's lawyer, to get his notes and impressions from the first trial. Meanwhile, I'm going to kill one witness with two stones and have a chat with Victor Markham.

MY GUESSIS THAT VICTOR MARKHAM NEVER GETS LOST on the way to work. First of all, he no doubt gets into the back seat of a car and says to the chauffeur, “Take me to my office.” But if by some chance he were left to fend for himself, he would just have to look up. There, towering over the office buildings in Paramus, are the huge words “Markham Plaza” emblazoned across the top.

If he got to the underground parking lot and was somehow still unsure that he had reached the right place, he would be reassured as he took a ticket from the machine. A computer-generated female voice would say to him, “Welcome to Markham Plaza. Please take a ticket. Have a good day.”

“Thank you, I will,” I reply graciously when the machine welcomes me. I think that perhaps this particular computer-generated female might have a crush on me, but when I pull into the lot I hear her welcoming the guy in the next car just as warmly. Women.

I take the elevator up to the lobby, which is large enough for the Knicks to play their home games. I enter another elevator, and this time a computer-generated male voice addresses me. “Welcome to Markham Plaza. Please press the floor of your choice.”

“Will do,” I say. “By the way, there's a gal in the parking lot you might like. Short, a little metallic-looking, but a good personality.”

Unfortunately, a couple is getting on the elevator behind me, and they hear my conversation.

I smile lamely at them. “The elevator talks.” Heh, heh.

They don't respond, and we have an uncomfortable ride up, especially for them. They're the ones trapped in an elevator with a lunatic.

The reception area outside Victor's office is nothing short of spectacular. I'm pondering the cost of the paintings on the walls, when I realize that I could probably afford them. I've got to get used to the concept; I am the most nouveau of all the nouveau riche in the country.

Victor's secretary, Eleanor, appears to have a permanent scowl on her face. Clearly her job is to protect Victor, and I doubt that Norman Schwarzkopf could lead a battalion past her without an appointment. Fortunately, I have one, and she buzzes me through.

I enter Victor's office, which makes the reception area look Third World. Victor is at his desk. He's tall, graying at the temples, wearing a three-piece suit which strains slightly to contain his rather bulky midsection. I don't think I've ever sat at my desk without taking off my jacket, but there's Victor wearing all three pieces, sitting back in his deep leather chair, staring out at the world as if he hasn't got a care in it. And there's really no reason that he should.

“Mr. Markham, my name is Andy Carp-”

He cuts me off. “I know who you are. I'm sorry about your father. Good man.”

“Yes, I wanted to talk-”

He does it again. “You wanted to talk about that killer.” He means Willie Miller, but I doubt he even knows his name. “I won't help you with that,” he goes on. “You shouldn't have gotten a new trial. It's a waste of taxpayer money. End of discussion.”

Since this hasn't really been a discussion, I consider his announcement of its ending to be premature. “Actually, I thought that since-”

And again. “Since I have influence, and since the victim was my son's girlfriend, I could talk to the governor, get that scum's sentence reduced to life in prison. Forget it. As I said, end of discussion.”

This is getting annoying. “I like beer,” I say quickly.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demands.

“Nothing. I just wanted to see if I could get in one complete sentence without you interrupting, and ‘I like beer’ was the quickest sentence I could think of.”

This is the point where the gruff, overpowering type usually laughs grudgingly and warms up. Victor, unfortunately, doesn't seem to be familiar with that stereotype. He looks at me with the same respect he would a roach that he just found in his Rice Krispies.

“You're as big a wiseass as I've heard.”

“Thank you very much.” That's my second sentence in a row, so I'm feeling pretty chipper.

“What do you want? I'm a busy man.”

I had been planning to talk to him about the Miller case, but he's made it clear that the only way I'll get any answers about that is to take his deposition under oath. I smoothly switch to plan B, taking out the photograph and laying it on his desk. “I was curious about when and where this picture was taken.”

For the first time, I see a human reaction. I can't tell what it is, maybe a gas pain, but something has gotten through his outer crust. A moment later it's gone, and he's back in control.

“Where did you get that?”

“My father had it.”

“Who are those people?”

“The second one from the left is you.”

He shakes his head a little too hard, and doesn't bother to look at the photo again. “That's not me.”

I'm surprised, because it is clearly him. “You're saying it's not you? That's the position you're taking?”

This annoys him; human reactions are rapidly becoming commonplace to Victor Markham. “Position? I don't have to take a position. It's not me.”

“Did you know my father back around … oh, thirty-five years ago?”

“No. Now if that's all, my girl will show you out.”

“Your girl is older than you are.”

He is already on his intercom, calling for Eleanor.

I keep at him. “Why are you so upset that I have this picture of you?” I look at the picture again and then at Victor. “Maybe it's because you've had a few snacks since then.”

He doesn't answer, pretending to no longer be paying attention. The door opens and the ominous Eleanor arrives. I can either follow her out the door or she'll throw me through the glass wall.

“By the way, Victor. I will be deposing you about the McGregor killing. You can do it the easy way, or I can get a subpoena. Let me know.”

I wink at Eleanor and keep talking to Victor. “Have your girl call my girl.”

I go downstairs, taking out my annoyance on Victor by refusing to converse with the elevator. I call my office from a pay phone in the lobby, catching my girl, Edna, with her mouth full, and I wait while she swallows to get my messages.

“Mr. Calhoun from a company named Allied called. He says it's about your car.”

I'm terrible paying bills; they sit on my desk until collection agencies call with reminders.

“Forget it. He's from a collection agency. I'll take care of it later.”

“My cousin Shirley's husband, Bruce, worked for a collection agency. He could tell you-”

I interrupt her. “Edna, did anyone else call?”

“Cal Morris.”

“Who?”

“Cal Morris from the newsstand. He said if you don't recognize his name, I should tell you that they're hanging really low today.”

Cal has never called me before; I didn't even realize he knew my full name. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“He wouldn't tell me,” Edna says, “but he said it was urgent, and he sounded really upset.”

I stop off at the newsstand on the way back, and sure enough, Cal has been anxiously waiting for me to contact him. He closes up the stand and takes me to the diner next door for a cup of coffee. We sit at a booth, and he lets it spill out.

“It's my daughter, Andy. She's been arrested. You got to get her off, there's no way she could have done this.”

“Take it easy, Cal. Start at the beginning.”

Cal doesn't know much, just that his only daughter, Wanda, has been arrested on prostitution charges. She's only sixteen, and until today Cal has assumed she's a virgin. In fact, he still does.

Cal knows that I have contacts in the local justice system. He is desperate, and he offers to pay me whatever it will take. Since money is not my biggest problem these days, I shrug it off, mumbling something about free newspapers and magazines. I don't mean it, though, since paying for the papers is part of my superstition.

I've got about an hour before I'm supposed to meet with Laurie, so I tell Cal that I'll stop off at the police station and see what I can do. He's so grateful I think he's going to cry, and it makes me feel good to be able to help. That's if I'm able to help.

I go down to the station and am lucky enough to run into Pete Stanton. Not only is Pete a pretty good friend of mine (we play racquetball together), but he is a lieutenant, and he owes me a favor. That doesn't mean he won't give me a hard time, it just means he'll eventually give in.

By a coincidence, Pete was the detective originally assigned to the Willie Miller case, and he ran the investigation. He assumes that is what I'm here to see him about, and is surprised when I tell him about Cal's daughter, Wanda.

Though Pete does not have anything to do with Wanda's case, he tracks down her file and looks through it. I tell him that Wanda Morris is a troubled kid, but after a quick read he dismisses her as a hooker.

I correct him. “An alleged hooker.”

“Who do I look like?” he sneers. “John Q. Jury? She allegedly propositioned a cop. Vice has allegedly got it on tape.”

“An obvious case of entrapment.”

Pete laughs and shows me his nameplate on his desk. He points to the word “Lieutenant.” “See that?” he says. “That means I'm hot shit around here.”

I nod. “You're a goddamn legend, a combination J. Edgar Hoover and Eliot Ness. Which means you spend your time walking around in a dress looking for alcohol.”

He ignores that. “Come on, Andy, why are you talking to me about a hooker? I deal in big stuff, like homicides. If this hooker screws a guy to death, come talk to me.”

“You owe me.” I didn't want to have to use my ace this early in the conversation, but I don't want to be late again for my meeting with Laurie. I represented Pete's brother on a drug charge in a nearby town. I got him off and kept Pete's name out of it. His brother is doing well now, turned his life around, and Pete remembers. Pete's the type who will remember it until the day he dies, and maybe even a few years afterward.

That doesn't mean he'll cave easily. “You calling in your chit on this? A hooker case? You know as well as I do she'll be back on the street in a day anyway.”

“Her father's my friend.”

Pete nods; no more explanation is necessary. Pete is a guy who understands friendship.

“I'll call McGinley,” he says. “I'll get him to plead it out to probation. She stays clean and it comes off her record.”

“Thanks. Now, on to more important business.”

He's surprised. “There's more? You got another friend whose kid is a bank robber? Or an arsonist? Why don't you just give me a list of your friends and we won't arrest anybody with those last names?”

I haven't met the sarcasm that can stop me, so I push on. “What do you know about Victor Markham?”

“He's a rich scumbag.” He reflects for a moment. “That might be redundant.”

As a rich person, I'm offended, but I don't show it. “What did Markham have to do with the Miller case?”

“You want me to tell you what you already know? The victim was his son's girlfriend. They were out together when it happened.”

“Were you aware of any special connection between Victor Markham and my father?”

Pete shows me a flash of anger. “Your father did not have special connections. Except to the truth.”

“Don't you think I know that?”

He nods. “Yeah, of course you do. Sorry.”

I wait for him to continue, to tell me what he knows. I don't have to wait long.

“Markham's son, Edward, was a loose cannon,” he says. “I had the feeling that Victor was pulling his strings, like he was worried what the kid might say or do on his own. No big deal, just a feeling I had.”

I take this very seriously. Pete is an outstanding cop; there are a lot of people making license plates and saying “Pass the soap, Bubba” in the shower because of feelings Pete has had.

“Where's Edward now?” I ask.

“He works for his daddy. Big job.”

I nod. “He must interview really well.”

I thank Pete and leave, stopping off at the newsstand on the way back to the office. I tell Cal that Wanda is to be in court three days from now, and if she behaves everything will be fine. For now. Cal is so grateful I think he's going to cry or, even worse, hug me. But since deep emotion is not really a part of our relationship, I'm glad when he doesn't.

I get to the office early, and Laurie hasn't yet arrived. I get a message from Richard Wallace, a Deputy District Attorney. Wallace is the best lawyer the department has to offer; if he is the one handling the Miller trial, an impossible job just got tougher.

Wallace is friendly when I call him; he and I have established a good working relationship over the years. Of course, he can afford to be nice; he's beaten me two of the three trials in which we've gone against each other. And I don't get the feeling he's too worried about this one.

The other factor that leads to us having a good rapport is that he used to work for my father, who was the District Attorney and head of the department. My father was a mentor to Wallace, and they shared a mutual respect. Some of that has transferred to me.

Basically the call is to discuss discovery, that process during which both sides turn over their evidence in advance, so that the other side is not ambushed and has time to prepare. It's not as big a deal in this case for two reasons. We already have everything that came out at the first trial, so there's not much for them to give us. And we've got nothing whatsoever to give them.

Richard informs me that additional DNA tests are being taken from the skin under Denise's fingernails, so as to more closely link Willie to the crime than the technology at the time of the murder was able to accomplish. Our response will be to attack the evidence as unreliable and incompetently gathered, but the problem is it isn't and it wasn't. I make a note to think about getting our own expert to refute what they are going to say.

“When will you have the results?” I ask.

“Just in time for opening statements.”

“Why is Hatchet rushing this?”

I can hear him shrug over the phone. “You know Hatchet. He's not a big fan of technicality appeals. This is probably his way of showing it. I asked for more time myself; it's screwing up my vacation.”

Near the end of the conversation, Richard brings up the possibility of discussing a plea bargain. He does this with a minimum of subtlety.

“You want to talk about a plea bargain?”

“Sure. We'll take a dismissal and an apology from the state. Something humble, but not cloying.”

He laughs the laugh of the gracious winner. We agree to talk at his office tomorrow, though I can't imagine it going anywhere. There will be too much public pressure on Richard to right the wrong that the technicality appeal represents. Besides, Willie has said he absolutely won't cop to anything he didn't do, or as is the case here, something he can't imagine he could ever have done.

Laurie arrives, and her manner is cold but professional. It feels like I need to do something to resolve the situation, but I'm at a loss to know what. Her attitude is completely appropriate, which makes it all the more frustrating.

We set out going through all the files on the case, though we've both already been over them at least three times. I start letting my mind roam, not tempering my thoughts with logic. I often find it leads me to places I want to go, though just as often it leads me nowhere.

“What if Denise wasn't just a random victim? What if the killer had a motive?”

“Like …” she prompts.

“I don't know … she was a reporter … maybe she was going to write a story which would hurt the killer. He got rid of her to prevent the story.”

“Why would she write a story about a loser like Willie Miller?”

I challenge her. “Who said the killer is Willie Miller?”

“A jury.”

I'm starting to get frustrated by her pessimism. “Don't you get suspicious when there's all this evidence? Don't you think the prosecution's case might be a little too strong?”

“Actually, no,” she says. “I tend to find evidence convincing. More evidence is more convincing.”

I am about to challenge this logic when there is a knock on the door; it is the Chinese food Laurie has ordered for us. She hadn't asked me what I wanted, but I let it go because I figured she was lashing out at me, culinarily speaking. She also lashes out financially speaking, by signing for a big tip and telling the delivery guy to charge the whole thing to my account.

She starts to unpack the food, so I ask her what she's ordered.

“Steamed broccoli, stir-fried asparagus tips, and broiled seaweed with tofu.”

This is not exactly making my mouth water. “Are you catering a rabbit convention?”

“It's good for you, unlike that greasy poison you always order.” She takes two bites, then looks at her watch. “Are we almost finished here? Because I've got plans.”

Uh, oh. The dreaded plans. I get a pit in my stomach the size of Argentina.

“Plans?”

“Yes, plans,” she says. “Like in, I have a life so I make plans.”

“Okay. I deserve that.”

“No. If I gave you what you deserve, I'd be in the same situation as Willie Miller.”

I'm getting annoyed, and my level of annoyance has always been directly proportional to my level of courage. Actually, it's a theory of mine as well. I believe that all real heroes demonstrated their bravery only when they got angry. You think Nathan Hale liked the guys who put the rope around his neck? You think Davy Crockett considered the Mexicans coming over the Alamo walls his good buddies? I'm no different. Piss me off enough and before you know it they'll be writing songs about me.

Here goes. “Look, we started to get involved. It was nice … really nice … but we never took an oath.”

She's ready for this. “Right. You and Nicole are the ones that took an oath.”

“As a matter of fact, we did. And one of us may wind up breaking that oath, but we won't know that for a while.”

She stands up. “I'm happy for you, but I've got plans. Now what is it you want me to do next?”

I guess she's not going to eat the Chinese food next, leaving it all for me. Yummm. I'll have enough left over to make broiled seaweed sandwiches tomorrow.

“Check out the eyewitness … Cathy Pearl. Maybe we can shake her. Maybe she did it, for Christ's sake.”

“Great idea!” she enthuses. “I'll also ask people I meet at the supermarket if by any chance they killed Denise McGregor. Maybe we can shake someone else into confessing.”

“Aside from our personal situation, what is your problem with this case?”

She looks me straight in the eye, though that is what she always does. She's an inveterate eye looker; I on the other hand look at people's mouths when they talk.

“My problem is that we're defending a brutal murderer, Andy. If we're successful, which we won't be, he goes back on the street.”

“And if he didn't do it, then the guy who did is already out on the street.”

She sighs with resignation, as well as the fact that down deep she knows I'm right. We've been over this ground before. We have a role to play, and if we don't play it to the hilt the system doesn't function.

“Okay. It's a job and we do it. Where are you going to start?”

“With Denise McGregor.”

VINCE SANDERSIS A GRUFF, UNKEMPT, VERY overweight man who has spent one hundred twelve of his fifty-one years working on newspapers up and down the East Coast. He's the type that you think must still be pounding stories out on his old Smith-Corona while all his colleagues are using high-tech computers. When I show up at his office, he is doing research at warp speed on the Internet. Oh, well.

Vince was Denise's boss on the Newark Star-Ledger. I ask him if Denise was working on something at the time she was killed, and he laughs. Not a hah-hah, friendly laugh, but any port in a storm.

“Working on something? Are you kidding me? Denise was always working on something.”

I ask him if he knows what she was working on. He doesn't.

“She wouldn't tell me, but she was really excited. And it must have been good, 'cause she asked me to meet her in here the next day, which was a Saturday. She knew damn well I don't get off my fat ass on Saturdays.”

I laugh, since it seems like I'm supposed to, but he calls me on it. “What the hell are you laughing at?” he asks.

“I was thinking that based on the size of your ass, the reason you don't get off it on Saturdays is because crane operators don't work weekends.”

He looks at me for a few moments, as if deciding whether to kill me. He doesn't have a gun, which means he would have to get that same fat ass out of the chair to get up and strangle me. He seems to decide that it's not worth it.

“You think insulting me is the way to get information?” he asks.

“I'm hoping you'll admire my honesty.”

He shakes his head. “I don't. Besides I'm on a diet. All fish.”

“Yeah,” I say. Try as I might to conceal it, I'm afraid my skepticism shines through, although he doesn't seem to notice.

“You ever notice how all fish tastes alike?” he asks. “I think there's really only one kind of fish in the world, but they use different names to scam the public.”

For the sake of our budding friendship, I think I'll go along with this. “Come to think of it,” I say, “I've never seen a sword-fish and a flounder in a room together.”

“Of course not,” he says. “Nobody has. That's because they're the same damn fish. I'm telling you, it's a fraud on the public.”

I nod. “That's probably where they got the saying, ‘There's something fishy going on.’ ”

“Damn right,” he agrees. Then, “You come here to talk about fish?”

He knows I haven't, so I get back to Denise. “Is it unusual that Denise wouldn't tell you what story she was researching?” I ask.

“Unusual, but it wasn't the first time. I gave her a lot of leeway, because I trusted her.”

“Did she leave any notes?”

He shakes his head, as the memories come flooding back. “That was the weird part; I couldn't find any. And Denise took notes about everything. I mean, you say ‘good morning’ to her, and she jotted it down. You know the type?”

I don't, but I nod anyway. “What about Edward Markham?”

This gets another laugh from Vince, this one a little happier. “Denise brought him to a party. I talked to him for a few minutes, and then I told her he was an arrogant asshole. Boy, did she get pissed.”

“Why?”

“He was standing there when I told her.” He starts laughing again, and I join in. I'm starting to think we're buddies, but the next thing I know, he's looking at me like I'm some slime he just got on his shoes.

“Let me ask you something: Why would you defend the scumbag that killed Denise?”

I look him right in the mouth. “I don't think I am. I believe that the real killer is running loose.”

He stares at me for a few moments, and a feeling of impending doom comes over me. Finally, he shakes his head and says, “It's your job to believe that.”

I shake my head. “No. It's my job to defend him. It's not my job to believe in him.”

“If you get any real evidence, let me know how I can help. Me and my fat ass can get a lot done if we want to.”

“Thanks,” I say. “When all this is over, I'll take you out and buy you a tuna.”

That night I'm at home, literally ankle deep in paperwork. My work style is to sit on the couch, cover the rest of the couch, the coffee table, and the floor in papers, and wade through them. There's a basketball game on the television that serves as background music. The Knicks are playing the Pacers, and I bet on the Knicks minus three. Allan Houston just hit a jump shot. Once in my life I want to hit a backhand down the line like Pete Sampras and shoot a jump shot as smoothly as Allan Houston. The Knicks are up by eleven with a minute to go, my bet is locked, and as my mother used to say, “Money goes to money.”

The doorbell rings and I yell up for Nicole to get it. She doesn't hear me, so I answer it myself, which is just as well, since Laurie comes in, all excited. The last time she was here, she was a different kind of excited, but that's ancient history.

She doesn't even say hello, just launches into what she has to tell me. This is a sign that she's into the case, and I'm pleased about that. As it turns out, her visit has nothing to do with the Miller case at all.

“You've gotta hear this,” she says. “I ran into my friend, the one who works for Frank Brownfield, the developer? He agreed that the guy in the picture looked like Brownfield, so I gave him a copy of the picture, and he said he would check it out.”

“And?” I ask.

“And I got a call back an hour ago … what's it, ten o'clock? … from my friend …”

At this point, Nicole comes downstairs and into the room. On the list of people I was hoping would join us at that moment, Nicole ranks just below Charles Manson.

“Oh, hello, Laurie. How are you?”

Laurie hesitates, then says, “Okay … I'm okay. I didn't realize I was interrupting anything.”

“Oh, you aren't. I was just going up to bed. See you in a while, Andy?” That's Nicole, another gracious winner.

“In a while. Laurie needs to talk to me about something.”

Nicole nods. “Nice seeing you, Laurie.”

Nicole goes upstairs; it's my turn to speak. Too bad I feel like I swallowed the four-hundred-pound watermelon from Sofý.

“I should have told you. Nicole moved back in.”

Laurie puts on a look of feigned surprise. “She did? You're kidding! I just assumed her car broke down and she stopped here to phone for help.”

“Laurie …”

“Your wife is waiting for you. We can talk about Brownfield tomorrow.”

“No, let's talk about him now. So your friend called you and said what?”

The enthusiasm is now gone from Laurie's voice, but she says, “He said the picture is not Brownfield, on second thought looks nothing like Brownfield, and Brownfield knows nothing about it.”

“So?”

“So he didn't sound like himself, and he denied it so hard, you'd think the guy in the picture was naked in bed with a goat. And then, just before he gets off the phone, he asks where I got the picture.”

“What did you say?”

“That if it isn't Brownfield, what do you care?”

So now we have what seems to be a harmless picture of a bunch of guys, none of whom will admit to being in it. And we're no closer to finding out why.

Laurie leaves and I go upstairs. Nicole is in bed, waiting for me as promised. She's reading a book, but she looks up as I walk in.

“Break in that murder case?”

Nicole uses the word “that” as a distancing mechanism. “That” murder case. “That” friend of yours. It diminishes the importance of what she is talking about, and removes any connection to her.

“No. But the situation with the picture is getting stranger and stranger. Brownfield denies that it's him … vehemently.”

“Maybe they were a group of men who got together to cheat on their wives. It does happen, you know.”

“Except this time it may have ended with my father getting two million dollars.”

“Where are you going with this, Andy? What will you do if you find out what happened?”

I have no real answer to this. I can't predict how I will react until I know what it is I am reacting to.

By this time I'm already undressed. I shed clothes faster than basketball players tearing off their warm-up suits as they enter a game. I get into bed, and Nicole drops the bomb.

“You and Laurie have been involved.”

Uh, oh. “It's that obvious?”

She nods. “It's that obvious.”

“We started to … and then we stopped.”

“What happened?” she asks.

“You,” I answer.

FOUR WEEKSIS SIMPLY NOT ENOUGH TIME TO PREpare for a murder case. There are lawyers who take that long to pick out what suit they are going to wear for their opening statement. But it's all Hatchet has given us, so we have to deal with it.

Things are already starting to fall between the cracks. There are motions to be filed, evidence to be challenged, discovery to be gone over, witnesses to interview, media to be spun, and prayers to be prayed. I'm going to need help.

Ordinarily, I would discuss additions to our team with Laurie, but discussions with Laurie these days are less than comfortable. I grapple with this for a short while, but I decide that not to get the benefit of her input is to cause my client to suffer because of my personal situation. I can't let that happen.

Laurie completely agrees that we need help, and after thinking for a minute, she comes up with a name I've never heard before: Kevin Randall.

“He's as good as any attorney I've ever met,” she says. “And he can be trusted totally and completely.”

Laurie doesn't exactly throw around praise indiscriminately, so I'm intrigued.

“Where is he practicing?”

“He isn't,” she says. “He quit.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because he has a conscience.”

As Laurie goes on to say, Kevin graduated Harvard Law about twenty years ago, but rather than join his classmates on their march to corporate law stardom, he went to work for the District Attorney in Essex County. He was a talented prosecutor, insightful and intense, but he had the misfortune to recognize his ability. Kevin would win cases with his skill and work ethic, which caused him to worry that perhaps innocent defendants were going to prison because their lawyers were outgunned.

To counter this situation, Kevin decided to become a defense attorney. It didn't work out quite the way he hoped. Now, when he won a case, he began to worry that he was responsible for dangerous felons roaming the streets. This was confirmed to him when one of his victories wound up killing two people in an armed robbery a month after Kevin got him off a convenience store holdup charge. Kevin blamed himself for the deaths.

That, Laurie says, was the final straw. Having been both a prosecutor and a defense attorney, Kevin had now run out of sides to take. His only other chance to stay in the legal system was to become a judge, so Kevin Randall made the obvious choice.

He opened a Laundromat.

Laurie and I drive out to East Brunswick to see Kevin at his current establishment, set in a tacky strip mall. There's a 7-Eleven, a takeout-only Chinese restaurant, a check-cashing business, and the “Law-dromat,” Kevin's place. The sign outside offers “Free Legal Advice While You Wash and Dry.”

I look at the place and then at Laurie, who has perfected the ability to read my thoughts. She can tell that I can't believe we've even come here.

“Open your mind,” she says. “Unclench your ass and open your mind.”

Laurie has mentioned that she knows Kevin quite well, but she hasn't provided any specifics. Actually, I think she knows him more than quite well, maybe much more than quite well. I've got a feeling she once may have known him in the biblical sense, and my suspicious mind concludes that is one of the reasons she recommended him. But I've agreed to give it a shot, so we go in.

The inside of the place looks like a Laundromat, which in itself is no major surprise, since that is what it is. There is only one patron in the place, a middle-aged woman who is talking to the proprietor, Kevin. He, to my immense relief, is five foot seven, thirty pounds overweight, and balding. He doesn't have a hunchback, and he doesn't drool when he talks, but his overall unattractiveness should be enough to keep my jealousy in check.

Kevin and the woman are having an animated discussion, which Laurie and I cannot hear from our vantage point, since the washers and dryers are making too much noise. The woman seems upset, and Kevin's gestures indicate he is trying to placate her. It doesn't seem to work, and she throws up her hands and leaves.

Kevin sees Laurie and waves us over. When we get there, he's still shaking his head over the encounter with the woman. Laurie gives him a big hug and kiss, causing me to briefly wonder if my initial jealous instincts had been right. Nah, she's three inches taller than he is. Can't be.

“Hey, Kev, meet Andy. Andy, Kevin.”

We shake hands and say how nice it is to meet each other. I ask him if the woman that just left is a tough client.

“They don't come any tougher,” he says.

Laurie asks, “What's the problem? Or is it privileged and you can't talk about it?”

“No, I'll tell you,” he says. “She put in seventy-five cents and her towels didn't get dry.”

We go to a coffee shop around the block to talk, and I describe the Miller case. Kevin has three pieces of pie and a bowl of fruit while I lay it out, and I have no doubt he is going to eat as long as I talk. Fortunately the case is not that complicated, or he would have to get his stomach pumped.

I ask him what he thinks and wait for his answer while he swallows. He tells me we are in a difficult position. My God, Clarence Darrow lives!

Laurie asks him if he'd be interested in coming on board, and he says, “No thanks. Been there, done that.”

I'm relieved, since I don't yet share Laurie's high opinion of this guy. But Laurie keeps pressing him, and he seems to be weakening, so I jump in with what I think is an obvious point. “No offense, I'm sure you're a dynamite lawyer, but you do run a Laundromat.”

Kevin nods and turns to Laurie. “See? This is a smart guy. He wants somebody who doesn't fluff and fold all day.”

We talk about it some more, and he actually starts to impress me with his take on the case and the law. Laurie uses her considerable powers of persuasion on him, and he finally and reluctantly agrees to join the team, but only in a very secondary role. He'll do the grunt work, filing motions and moving things along, but will not take an active courtroom role. This is fine with me, since I was not about to offer him one.

“I think we should discuss my fee,” he says.

“The sign says your advice is free,” I reply.

“My free advice is don't use too much detergent. My legal fee is one fifty an hour. You as rich as Laurie says you are?”

I glare a dagger at Laurie, who shrugs. “It slipped out,” she says.

I shake my head, disappointed at the injustice of it all. Why can't we rich people be treated as normal human beings? “Okay. One fifty an hour. But you pay for your own pie.”

“Done,” says Laurie. Then they shake hands on it. Then they hug on it. It's a beautiful moment. There isn't a dry eye in the room, unless you count both of mine.

We agree that Kevin will come to the office the next morning, and Laurie and I make arrangements to meet later to go to the scene of the crime. I head down to the courthouse to meet with Richard Wallace, which is not something I relish.

If you watched Geraldo or Larry King or any one of a hundred cable shows that covered the Simpson trial or the impeachment debacle, then you noticed that ninety-five percent of all the legal pundits they use are dubbed “former prosecutor.” It's sort of like being a baseball manager: Every day you're in the job you're one day closer to being fired. Except every day you're a prosecutor, you're one day closer to quitting. The overwhelming feeling in the profession is that “former” is the best kind of prosecutor to be.

The exception to this rule is Richard Wallace. He's been prosecuting cases for eighteen years, and if he has enough to drink he'll admit that he loves it. He's the number two man in the department, which is the highest nonelected position. That's exactly the way he wants it, since if he were to go any higher he'd have to trade in the courtroom for an executive throne.

From a defense attorney's standpoint, the good news about Wallace is that he doesn't bullshit; you basically know where he stands and why. The bad news about Wallace is he doesn't bullshit, which means you can't expose his bullshit and make him look bad.

My theory about prosecutors is that they are the dishwashers of the legal profession; their main goal is to clean their plates. The problem is that criminals keep dumping more and more food on those plates, and they never can get them clean. But they keep trying, and Wallace is no doubt hoping that I'll help him put the Willie Miller plate in the dishwasher.

We sit down at two-thirty, right on schedule, and by two-thirty-one he has finished chitchatting and made his offer. Willie can plead guilty to murder one and take life without the possibility of parole. “It's an excellent offer,” he says with a straight face.

“Wow!” I say. “Life in a shithole cage for the rest of his natural life. He'd have to be crazy not to go for it. Damn, I wish you'd offer it to me. I'd jump at it myself.”

“If he doesn't take it, you might as well tell him not to unpack his things. He'll be back on death row before he knows it.”

“He won't take it.”

Wallace shakes his head as if saddened by my response. “Andy, this trial has already taken place. You've read the transcript; it'll be like putting a tape in a VCR and replaying it.”

“You're not allowing for my brilliance.”

“Hatchet is not big on your kind of brilliance. He'll cut you up in little pieces and feed you to the bailiffs.”

I'm not in the mood to be lectured right now, even if every word he is saying is true. Especially because every word he is saying is true.

“So this is what you asked me to come down here for? Life without parole?”

“That's it. And we'll get killed in the press for that, but we'll have to deal with it.”

“You're a regular profile in courage.”

He smiles. “That's why I get paid the little bucks.”

“This time you're going to have to earn them,” I say. “Willie is going to pass on your offer.”

He's not surprised by my answer, but he's not pleased that he's still got this dirty plate. “Then I guess I'll see you in court, Counselor,” he shrugs.

I growl at him on the way out, as a way of starting the intimidation process, but he's already talking on the phone, so it doesn't seem to have much effect.

Since I have a few hours before meeting Laurie, I go out to the prison to get the conversation with Willie behind me. Behind us.

Willie has been moved off of death row and into maximum security. It is a subtle distinction; you get to trade tension and dread and the stench of death for the right to be surrounded by twice as many murderers and rapists as before. Willie is already a celebrity of sorts, since not too many people come back from the other side. It doesn't seem to have put him in a great mood.

I tell him the offered deal and he tells me to go fuck myself. I realize that he is talking to me as a representative of the system, but I tell him that he shouldn't kill the messenger. He tells me that not only wouldn't he kill the messenger, but he also wouldn't have killed Denise, so he's not pleading guilty.

“Willie, there's a very good chance you're going to lose this trial.”

“Why?”

“Look at it this way. Suppose Dinky University's football team goes down to Florida State and gets beat a hundred and ten to nothing. Then somebody says, ‘Hey wait a minute, the water boy Florida State used wasn't eligible because his grades are shit and he used too big a bucket.’ So they rule that the game doesn't count, and decide to replay it the following week.”

“You gonna get to the point before the trial starts?” he asks.

I nod. “When they replay the game, you think Dinky is going to win?”

“That depends,” he answers, “on whether Dinky is bringing the same team down there.”

“Same team.”

“But I ain't going back to trial with the same team. I got me a new coach. You.”

“It won't be enough. Dinky is still Dinky. You get Bill Par-cells to coach 'em, they're still Dinky.” I may be carrying the analogy a bit far, but he's still into it.

“So you're asking me to crash the Dinky team plane before it even gets to Florida. Can't do it, Andy. I'm on that plane.”

There is certainly no way I'm going to convince him, and I don't really want to, since I'd probably do the same thing. If I were put in prison without any chance of parole, the first thing I would try to do is kill myself. Might as well let the state do it. Besides, I'm not just doing this for Willie, and I'm not just doing this for me. I'm doing it for good old Dinky U.

I call Nicole and tell her I won't be home until very late, and she's disappointed, because her father is in town for summer recess and wanted to have dinner with us. I tell her that I can't make it, and that she should go with him. I leave out the part about meeting Laurie at an XXX adult movie theater.

DENISE AND EDWARDHAD GONE TO A movie the night of her murder. In the years since, the theater they attended has not exactly thrived in the face of competition from the malls out on the highway. Back then it was called the Cinema One and showed first-run movies; it is now the Apex, and tonight is proudly presenting Hot Lunch and The Harder They Come. I want to go in so that we can really re-create the experience of the evening, but Laurie doesn't think it's necessary.

We stand in front of the theater, as Edward and Denise must have. Just another couple out on a date, except one of them only had about one hour left to live. Denise isn't here to tell us about the rest of the evening, so all we have to go by is Edward's testimony. So far I have no reason to doubt it. At least not this part of it.

“So they leave here,” I say, “just after midnight.

” Laurie nods. “And they decide to go for a drink.

” I point down the street. “They walk that way, although Edward had parked down there. Which means they didn't just happen to pass the bar … they were intending to go there.”

“Edward said it was a bar he used to go to when he was in college.”

Edward had gone to Fairleigh Dickinson University, less than a mile from where we were standing. I nod. “Care for a drink?”

We walk the three blocks down to the bar. The inside seems to have made the transition from trendy to seedy, and the ten or so patrons do not look as though they're waiting for their book club meeting to start. The television above the pool table is tuned to wrestling, and it has captured the attention of most of the group.

The bartender is a burly guy, about forty, with a friendly but grizzled face. It is as if we called Central Casting and asked them to send us a bartender. He comes over.

“Help ya?” he asks.

I point to the television. “Any chance you can change that to CNN? There's a Donald Rumsfeld press conference coming on.”

Laurie and I have developed a strange kind of synchronization between us. As soon as I open my mouth, she starts rolling her eyes. “Don't mind him,” she says. “He can't help himself.”

The bartender shrugs. “No problem.” You would think he hears Donald Rumsfeld jokes every day of his life. He directs his next question at Laurie. “What can I do for you?”

“We're looking for a guy named Donnie Wilson.”

“You found him.”

Surprised, Laurie says, “The same Donnie Wilson that was working here seven years ago, the night Denise McGregor was murdered?”

He nods. “My career ain't exactly taking off, you know?”

“Do you remember much about that night?” I ask.

“Are you kidding? Like it was yesterday.”

This is a mixed blessing. He'll be able to describe to us what happened, but he'll also look credible in front of the jury. When a crime has happened this long ago, one of the things the defense hopes for are faded memories by the key witnesses. This guy thinks it happened yesterday, which is not quite faded enough for our purposes.

I ask him to tell us about that night, and he jumps right into it. “Not much to tell. A preppie guy and a good-looking broad come in … didn't look much like they belonged here, but who knows, you know? This place was classier then. Anyway, the broad gets up and goes to the john. I was real busy 'cause Willie, that's the guy that killed her, had taken off an hour before.”

“Did you hear a struggle?”

“Nah,” he says. “In fact, I didn't even know what happened until the boyfriend told me. Then this older guy showed up. Turns out the preppie called his old man and the cops when he found the broad's body. When the cops showed, the place turned into a zoo.”

Laurie leans over to talk to him, as if she had a secret they were about to share. “Listen, Donnie, don't take this the wrong way, but if you call Denise McGregor a broad again, I'm going to cut off your testicles and shove them down your throat.”

Ever helpful, I tell Donnie, “I've seen her do it a number of times. It only takes a few seconds.”

Donnie has enough sense to be nervous and respectful. “Hey, I didn't mean no offense.”

Laurie gives him her sweetest smile. “None taken.”

It's now incumbent upon me to get Donnie thinking about the night of the murder, rather than the prospect of swallowing his testicles. It's not an easy job, but I give it a try. “So Denise gets up to make a phone call. The phone is in the ladies’ room.”

“Right. The ladies’ room … the ladies’ room.” Laurie has him unnerved.

“And that's the last time you saw her?”

“Well, I saw her in the alley afterward. You know … her body. The woman's body.”

Laurie and I go to the ladies’ room to check it out, and Donnie is really happy to see us go. The door has a faded drawing of Cleopatra on it, which identifies it as being for ladies. I start to push the door open, but Laurie grabs my arm.

“Where do you think you're going?”

“To check out the room, see where the phone is, solve the crime, whatever.”

“Let me make sure it's empty,” she says.

I shake my head in mock disgust. “Come on, this is business. Why do you have to turn everything into a sex thing?”

At that moment, even before Laurie has time to tell me what a pig I am, the bathroom door opens. A person comes out; I think it's a woman but I'm just guessing. She's at least two hundred fifty pounds, with tattoos all over her shoulders and arms. If she played for Dinky, we could kick Florida State's ass.

I take a deep breath and wait for my life to stop flashing in front of my eyes. In this case, if Laurie hadn't stopped me, I would have been alone in a bathroom with Queen Kong.

I'm nothing if not a quick learner. “Laurie, maybe you should go see if there's anyone else inside.”

“Maybe I should.”

Laurie goes inside and comes back out moments later.

“The coast is clear, macho man.”

I nod and enter. Except for possibly with my mother when I was too young to remember, this is the first time I have ever been in a ladies’ room. It turns out I haven't missed that much.

This particular ladies’ room is as unenlightening as it is unimpressive. There had been specks of blood near the telephone, and the police version of the crime was that Denise was struck over the head, and then dragged outside into the alley. Since there was no evidence of sexual molestation, I'm not sure why the assailant didn't kill her right there, but he clearly did not. The blood would have been everywhere.

Laurie and I go out into the alley where the body was found, which is no more than fifteen feet down a hall from the bathroom door. The hall cannot be seen from the main area of the restaurant, so if Denise were unconscious and unable to scream, it makes sense that she and her assailant would not have been noticed. She most likely was unconscious, both because of the blood in the bathroom and the fact that there were marks on the back of her shoes indicating that she was dragged down the hall.

While there is obviously no good place to be brutally murdered, this alley is particularly without dignity. Various establishments throw out their garbage in and around a group of Dumpsters against the far wall, and there are so many stray animals picking at it that they must be required to make a reservation. “Two rottweiler mixes, table for two? Yes, we're running a little behind. Care to have a drink from the gutter while you wait?”

One of the more puzzling aspects of this is what the eyewitness was doing here in the middle of the night. Willie's lawyer, Hinton, barely touched on this at trial, but then again, he barely touched on anything. He seemed to have no strategy, no coherent focus, and no desire to probe until he found weaknesses in the prosecution's case.

We hang out at the scene for a little while, not saying much, each of us lost in our own thoughts about how horrible that night must have been for Denise McGregor. I try to picture Willie Miller committing this crime, but I can't. I try to picture anybody committing this crime, but I still can't.

I drive Laurie back to the office, since that is where she left her car. She mentions the photograph, and I realize I haven't thought about it all day. I'm having lunch the next day at Philip Gant's club. He had called and invited me, saying that he wanted to “catch up,” but really wanting to know how things are between Nicole and me. I'll take advantage of the situation to ask him about the photograph. I'll do this because I need to find out information about rich people, and Philip is the proverbial horse's mouth.

Nicole is asleep when I get home, and I realize with a flash of guilt that I'm glad about that. I need to get the upcoming days straightened out in my mind, so that events don't just whiz past me. I want to be alone with a glass of wine and Tara, not necessarily in that order.

As I sit sipping the wine, I reflect for the fifty millionth time on the fact that I discovered Tara in an animal shelter. She was two years old and had been abandoned there by an owner who was moving and had no room for her. She was going to be killed-“put down” is the term shelters use-and I adopted her on her last day.

I don't care if those people were moving to a phone booth; they should have made room for Tara. What they deserve for almost causing her death is to be put in a cell next to Willie Miller. But, of course, I'm glad they didn't keep her, since if they had I wouldn't be sipping wine and petting her. Life for Tara is extraordinarily simple; she wants to be with me and have me pet her head and scratch her stomach. Experiencing that simplicity helps me right now.

I plan my strategy, legal and personal, for about an hour, and then I fall asleep in mid-scratch. I'm in the same position two hours later when the phone rings. It's the warden's office at the prison, informing me that Willie Miller has been attacked by two knife-wielding inmates and is in the prison hospital.

I briefly consider whether to call Laurie and tell her what's going on, but decide against it. It would not serve any useful function other than to provide company and a slight easing of my discomfort at having to drive to the prison at three o'clock in the morning. I'm going to be a big boy and do this on my own.

A guard meets me at the main gate and takes me to the prison hospital. He does not know Willie's condition, and unless I am a terrible judge of human behavior, he couldn't care less.

He brings me to Willie's room and leaves me there to fend for myself. The room is darkened and Willie is asleep, so I find myself standing there, unsure what to do. I don't want to wake him; he might be badly injured and very weak. On the other hand, I don't want to spend the entire night waiting for him to wake up.

“What the hell you looking at?” It's Willie's voice, but in the darkness I can't see his lips move.

“Willie?” I ask. It's a short, dumb question, followed by another. “Are you awake?”

“Shit, yeah. You think you can sneak up on me in the dark? 'Cause there's two guys down the hall that thought they could sneak up on me too.”

“Are you hurt badly?” I ask.

“Nah, just a few slices on the arm.”

He proceeds to tell me that two men approached him in the rec room and attacked him with sharpened kitchen utensils. They were unaware, as I was as well, that Willie is a black belt in karate. Within moments they were unconscious, and Willie had only a few minor cuts to show for his troubles.

I'm upset that Willie had to go through this, which makes me the only one in the room who feels that way. Willie is positively giddy.

“Man, that was the most fun I've had in seven years,” he says, cackling with laughter. “Those guys thought I was dead meat. You should have seen what I did to them. They had to get them off the floor with a shovel.”

“I'm glad you had such a good time,” I say. “It's really brightened my night as well.”

The sarcasm is pretty much lost on Willie. As I'm leaving, he says, “And I've got you to thank, man.”

I stop at the door. “How's that?”

“They mentioned your name. Said they were going after me 'cause you don't know when to lay off. That was just before I busted 'em up.”

This takes me by surprise. “You mean they went after you for a reason? It wasn't just a random attack?”

Willie laughs at my prison naet “Random attack? There ain't no such thing in here, man. Nope, whoever sent them had a reason, and I'll bet he paid big bucks to get it done. You must be gettin’ somewhere, man.”

I don't think I'll share this with Willie, but the only thing I'm getting is confused. Somebody tried to have Willie killed because I am uncovering something. I see three minor problems with that: I don't know who that somebody could be, I don't know why they would go after Willie, and I've uncovered absolutely nothing.

I offer to have Willie moved into solitary confinement for his own protection, but he acts as if I am trying to steal his bicycle. He promises he can take care of himself, which seems to be a promise he can keep.

I head home for a restful three hours sleep, knowing full well that I'll be just as confused in the morning.

KEVIN IS WAITINGFOR ME AND CHOMPING ON his second raspberry turnover when I arrive at the office in the morning. Edna has already drawn him into her morning crossword puzzle, and is showing off her skills. He is suitably impressed, as she knew he would be. I hear her tell him that he has a flair for crosswords; she says it in an offhanded way, like Joe DiMaggio might have said to a rookie, “Nice arm, kid.”

I like Kevin's style. When his mouth is not too full of food to talk, he's got a dry sense of humor, but a straightforward way of working. His work style on this case is simple and as advertised; he wants me to give him assignments and he'll accomplish them to the best of his ability. Based on this experience, if I were running a big firm, I would do all my recruiting at Laundromats. The first task I give Kevin is to prepare a motion for change of venue.

Change of venue motions almost never succeed, and they almost never should. If the publicity around a crime is so intense as to make it impossible to empanel an impartial jury, then that publicity is rarely localized. Judges recognize this, and since they are naturally protective of their own turf anyway, they almost always deny the motion.

My reason for requesting the change in this instance has more to do with Hatchet than with the community. I would love to get Hatchet off the case, but I have no grounds on which to so move. If I tried, it would get me nowhere and would most likely piss him off. Requesting the venue change represents a way to remove him, without directly identifying him as the reason.

Kevin outlines for me what his argument will be, and it is a solid one. Willie's case did not get particularly intense media coverage at the time, so at this late date its awareness level in other communities would not be great. However, local people have heard of it, and more importantly they are aware that a jury convicted Willie the first time. The prosecution has already made its case to the local media that the trial was overturned on a technicality, leaving Willie with a presumption of guilt in the minds of potential jurors.

Kevin has also managed to acquire specific, detailed information showing how much attention the media has devoted to this case, and it demonstrates that the recent coverage has been almost entirely local. It is a good argument, Kevin will make it persuasively, and we will lose.

I'm exhausted from last night, and I'd love to cancel lunch with Philip. The problem is that nobody cancels lunch with Philip. So I head out to meet him at the Westmount Tennis Club in Demarest. It's a twenty-minute drive from my office, but for all intents and purposes it's in another world. There are thirty-eight courts, a mixture of hard surface, clay, and grass. The place is perfectly landscaped on seventy-one acres, has three gorgeous swimming pools, a world-class restaurant, killer daiquiris, and ballboys on every court. It also, as far as I can tell, has a membership that does not include a single decent tennis player.

Philip is sitting in the lounge, picking at a fruit plate, when I arrive. He seems pleased to see me, and introduces me to the assortment of rich people within introducing range. I briefly wonder how many of them have less money than I do, and I figure I'm only in the middle of the pack. Just wait until I get my fee from the Willie Miller case.

We engage in meaningless chitchat until we finish lunch, at which point I take out the picture and ask Philip if he recognizes any of the men. He initially only recognizes my father, so I mention Markham and Brownfield. He has spent time with both men on a number of occasions, and while these are much younger versions, he does think it could be them, though he's far from sure.

“Why is this important to you, Andy?”

I tell him about the money, which he's already heard about from Nicole, and how the picture may well be related to that. I tell him I'm interested because Markham and Brownfield denied it so hard. What I don't tell him is the main reason, that I need to learn about my father in death what I obviously never knew in life. To voice this would seem somehow like a betrayal of my father, and I'm not about to come close to that with Philip.

“So how can I help you?” he asks.

“Well, with your connections in the business community, and your access to information …”

“You want me to check out Brownfield?”

I nod. “And maybe learn something about what he and Markham were doing thirty-five years ago. See if there was a connection between them.”

“Or with your father?”

There's no way around it. “Or with my father.”

He promises he'll do what he can, and I have no doubt that he will. Then he gets down to his own agenda for the meeting.

“How are things with Nicole?”

“Good. Really good.” I say this with sincerity, and in fact it may be true. Of course, if Nicole had attacked me the night before with a meat cleaver, I still would have told Philip, “Good. Really good.”

He's pleased; this obviously confirms what Nicole had told him last night. “Excellent,” he says. “I'd hate to have to break in another son-in-law.”

He asks if I have time for a cup of coffee, and I tell him that I don't. I thank him for his help, and then I say something I probably shouldn't say to my father-in-law.

“I've got to take care of a hooker.”

Philip asks me what the hell I am talking about, which forces me to stay there another five minutes as I explain about Wanda, Cal's daughter. But I finally get away so that I can drive to court to deal with Wanda's case. This seems like a particularly appropriate time to indulge my superstition, and I stop off at Cal's newsstand on the way. It is closed for the first time in my memory. I assume that Cal is going to be at court supporting his daughter.

I arrive at the court and arrange to meet Wanda in an anteroom. When I walk in, she is sitting at a table. She's all of sixteen, with a face at least ten years older and sadder. The sight of her jolts me.

There is one thing that virtually all of my clients bring to our first meetings … the look of fear. All but the most hardened criminals are genuinely afraid of the process they are about to go through, knowing full well that it can end with them being locked in a steel cage. Many of them feign a lack of concern, but if you look deep into their eyes, you can see the fear. In a weird way it's one of the things that I like about my job; if I do it well I take away the fear.

That fear is not present in Wanda. Her eyes tell me that this is a piece of cake for her, that she's faced much worse. Her eyes scare the hell out of me.

When I enter, Wanda looks at me as if a gnat had flown in through an open window.

“Wanda?”

“Yeah.”

“My name's Andy Carpenter. I'm a friend of your father. He's hired me to represent you.”

Wanda doesn't seem to consider this worthy of a reply. I clearly haven't charmed her yet.

“Is he coming today?”

“Who?” she asks.

“Your father.”

She laughs a short, humorless laugh, which unnerves me a little more. “No, I don't think so.” And then she laughs again.

I explain to her that I am her attorney, and I detail the charges facing her. She takes it in with a minimum of reaction, as if she's heard it all many times before. I don't think Cal's daughter is a virgin.

“Any questions so far?”

“How long is this going to take?”

“Not very long. An agreement has been reached already. You just have to show some contrition, and-”

She interrupts me. “I've got to show some what? ”

“Contrition. It means you have to say you're sorry. Just tell the judge you're sorry and you won't do it again.”

“Okay.”

“And Wanda, when you say it … mean it.”

She nods an unconvincing nod. I tell her that we're fourth on the docket, and she should be called in about an hour. She frowns and looks at her watch, as if she has theater tickets and is in danger of missing the overture.

I leave the room wondering how a father can be so blind as to not realize what his child has become. I feel sorry for Cal because getting Wanda out of this is not going to come close to turning her life around. And I feel sorry for Wanda, because she's never going to put on a corsage and go to the prom.

The county is considerate enough to provide defense attorneys with small offices in the courthouse so that we can productively pass the time while waiting for the wheels of justice to ponderously come around to us. I head for the office assigned to me, which is on the third floor.

When I get off the elevator, I run into Lynn Carmody, a court reporter for the Bergen Record. She tells me that she has been waiting for me, and asks if I've got some time to talk. I say that I do, since I've been planning to start speaking to the press about our side of the Willie Miller case anyway. I invite her into the office, stopping off at a vending machine to get some absolutely undrinkable coffee.

I've never really had a problem with reporters. I treat them as human beings, not as objects to be manipulated. I find I can manipulate them better that way. I've long ago learned that in dealing with the press, sincerity is the most important quality you can have. If you can fake sincerity, you've got it made.

Lynn is a particularly good reporter. She's been covering the courthouse beat for almost fifteen years, without aspirations of going anywhere else. She recognizes the incredible human drama that takes place in courtrooms every day, and enjoys conveying that emotion to her readers. She and I get along pretty well, because we understand each other. She knows I will only tell her that which will further my agenda, and she'll do the same.

I'm not really sure what to tell her about Willie, so I mouth platitudes about our confidence at trial, hinting at new evidence by talking about how different this trial will be from the first one. The strange thing is that I don't have to answer a bunch of penetrating questions about the case, since she doesn't seem terribly interested in it.

Lynn asks as many questions about the reason I am here today as she does about the Miller case. I tell her about Wanda, though I leave out my connection to her through Cal. He doesn't need his name dragged through the papers, though I can't imagine why Lynn would want to write about this anyway. She asks me if she can go with me downstairs when Wanda's case is brought up, and I shrug and say that it's fine with me. She's obviously a courtroom junkie.

The call comes moments later, and Lynn and I go downstairs. We enter the courtroom, and I'm surprised by the number of press in attendance. Obviously there is a case after mine that has some public interest, and I consider the possibility of hanging out afterward to lobby the assembled reporters about Willie's prospects. I just wish I had a more compelling story to tell.

On the way down to the defense table, I pass Alex, who has been the bailiff here since the fourteenth century. Alex looks twenty years older than his seventy-one years. In this courthouse, the metal detectors are the first and last line of defense; it the bad guys get to Alex they win.

“Big case today, Alex? The press is out in force.”

He turns around in surprise, as if he hadn't noticed them.

The Russian army could sneak up on Alex. He shrugs. “Beats me. I ain't never seen that many of them here before.”

I take my seat at the table, while Judge Walling finishes up a misdemeanor drug possession case. Walling is sixty-two years old, and is staggering toward retirement the way a once-a-year marathoner staggers toward the finish line. He is all but sleeping through this case, and I doubt that Wanda and I will provide him any more substantial stimulation.

Wanda's prosecutor, Barry Mullins, comes over to say hello and to go over the final arrangements for the plea. Wanda will plead no contest, Walling will lecture her on the evils of her ways, and she'll get two years probation. If she stays clean, it'll come off her record. My initial assessment is that she won't and it won't.

In any event, it's all straightforward and has been done a million times before; it is a safe bet that no future attorneys will be citing New Jersey v. Morris as precedent-setting law.

Finally, Wanda is brought in and our case is called. Wanda is no more friendly or animated than she was before, and she's also no more nervous.

Without looking up, Walling asks if the state is ready to proceed. “Yes, Your Honor,” says Mullins.

“And the defense?”

“We are, Your Honor,” I intone.

For the first time, Walling looks up, taking off his glasses so that he can see me. He seems surprised.

“Well, Mr. Carpenter, this is an unusual type of case for you to be involved with.”

I bow slightly. “A return to my humble roots, Your Honor.”

I sense something and turn around. The press has moved forward, en masse, apparently interested in this exchange. I'm glad my retort was characteristically clever.

Mullins, less concerned with putting on a show, gets to the point. “Your Honor, Ms. Morris was arrested on May 15 of this year for soliciting a police officer. The District Attorney's office and counsel for the defendant have agreed to probation in this case, if it pleases the court.”

Judge Walling examines the papers before him, as if deciding whether he will go along with this arrangement. Waiting for his decision is not exactly nail-biting time. He's probably had this kind of case brought before him ten thousand times, and it's safe to say that the next plea bargain he refuses to accept will be the first.

When he's finished, he removes his glasses and looks at Wanda, catching her in mid-yawn. “Young lady, do you know what is going on here?”

“Yeah, I'm getting off.” Good old Wanda, she must have been valedictorian of her charm school graduating class.

Walling isn't pleased by her answer or her demeanor. “You are possibly being put on probation. There is a difference.” He looks at me. “Which I hope Mr. Carpenter has explained to you.”

I nod. “In excruciating detail, Your Honor.”

Walling turns back to Wanda. “You understand the difference?”

“Yeah.”

“You will be expected to find proper employment, and to refrain from future actions of this kind.”

Wanda jerks her thumb in my direction. “Tell him that, not me.”

She is now officially getting on my nerves, and I think Walling's as well. He asks her, “Why should I tell Mr. Carpenter that?”

“'Cause he's my pimp.”

It takes a split second for the meaning of what she has said to penetrate. However, it doesn't take the press quite that long. There is an immediate uproar among them; and I realize in a horrifying flash that they have been primed for this.

Walling pounds his gavel to get quiet. “What did you say?” he asks.

“I said, he's my pimp.” Then she looks at me, a puzzled expression on her face. “I thought they knew that.”

Walling turns to me. “Mr. Carpenter, do you have any comment on your client's contention?”

I've been set up. I don't know why, or by whom, and I can't believe that Cal would do this to me.

“Your Honor, she clearly is using a different definition of pimp, from the Latin pimpius, meaning ‘to represent.’ ” I'm floundering and trying to use humor to defuse the disaster. But Wanda will have none of it.

“He keeps me and a bunch of other girls out on the street. We pay him part of what we take in.”

Walling turns to me. He's having so much fun I can see him reconsidering retirement. “Well, Mr. Carpenter, sounds like Webster's definition to me.”

Before I can respond, Wanda drops another bomb. “And he gets free blow jobs whenever he wants.”

The press is going berserk, laughing and cheering as if they are in a nightclub. I try and compose myself.

“Your Honor, this is bizarre. Ms. Morris's father is a friend of mine, and he called me, asked me to help his daughter. I have never met her before today.”

Wanda cuts in with the crusher. “My real name ain't Morris, and my father's been dead for ten years.”

Walling almost gleefully turns to me. “Mr. Carpenter?”

I look at Wanda, then at the hysterical reporters, then back to Walling.

“The defense rests,” I say.

It goes downhill from there. With an accusation like this taking place in open court, Walling is obligated to turn the matter over to the District Attorney for investigation. A hearing is set for two months from now to hear the results of that investigation, and Wanda is directed to appear. She says that she will, but she won't. This was her closing performance.

When I finally get out of the courtroom, I run into Lynn Carmody. She tries to stop giggling long enough to talk to me. It's going to take a while, so I walk past her. She turns and walks with me, finally controlling her laughter.

“I'm sorry, I just couldn't tell you.”

I stop and turn toward her. “So you knew about this?”

She nods. “My colleagues would have killed me if I tipped you off.”

“Who set me up?”

“I don't have any idea.” She holds up her hand as if taking an oath. “Honestly, I don't.”

I believe her. If she were protecting a source she'd say she's protecting a source.

“And you're going to print the story?” I ask.

“Andy, are you kidding? It'll be page one.”

I just shake my head and walk away, and she calls after me to tell me that if I find out how this happened, I should tell her and she'll print that also. Somehow I don't find this all that comforting.

I leave the courthouse and stop at the newsstand. It's still closed, and I have this unsettling feeling that it is never going to open again. What the hell happened to Cal Morris?

The next morning I get to the office and experience a first: Edna has the newspaper opened to other than the crossword page. Actually, the paper isn't really open at all, since Edna, Laurie, and Kevin are all looking at the front page. I don't want to look at it, but I can't help myself. There's a picture of Wanda and me, with the headline “A Different Kind of Client?”

I moan, and Edna tries to make me feel better by telling me that it's a good picture, that it makes me look like a slightly fatter version of her Uncle Sidney. Laurie chimes in with the revelation that she has been around a long time, and she's never seen a better looking pimp. I smile and try to seem good-natured about it all. I have as good a sense of humor as the next guy, but I generally prefer it when the joke is on the next guy.

This is disturbing on a level beyond the total public humiliation. Somebody has gone to an incredible amount of trouble to do this to me, and has demonstrated remarkable power in the process. If I'm right, they have even made a person, Cal, disappear. I don't think Cal even has a daughter, and if he did Wanda certainly isn't her. He was either frightened into doing this or paid off; this was no minor prank to embarrass me. This was designed to impress me with strength. It wasn't a severed horse's head in my bed, but it did the trick.

Once my staff finishes giggling, we kick around the possibilities. I come to believe Cal was paid off, and I further believe it would have taken serious money to do it. Since Laurie and I have been prying into the lives of Markham and Brownfield, people with very serious money, there seems a possibility that one or both of them are involved.

It's a long-shot hunch, but my instinct says I'm right. Representing the opposing view are Laurie and Kevin, who say I'm nuts. I hope they're right, because if they're not, then my father was somehow involved in something so bad that these people are desperate to conceal it.

After half an hour of unproductively debating all of this, Laurie offers to try and find Cal. I tell her that I will want her to do that, but not now. Now we have to focus all our attention on Willie Miller.

Kevin's brief on the change of venue is thoroughly professional and well reasoned. I make one or two nitpick changes, wipe off a couple of mustard stains, and then instruct him to file it with Hatchet. I also assign him to deal with the DA's office on all discovery matters. It's only been a couple of days, but I already have the confidence that I can turn something over to him knowing it will be done. It's a nice feeling.

Laurie reports on her progress, which is less favorable. I expected this; when a murder was committed this long ago there's little likelihood of turning up much new. More disturbing is her inability to find Willie's lawyer, Robert Hinton. His elusiveness is puzzling. Lawyers generally don't like to disappear; it causes them to have trouble attracting new clients.

Laurie is going to redouble her efforts to find Hinton, as well as arrange to interview the eyewitness whose testimony helped to bury Willie in the first trial. She's also recruited a DNA expert for us to possibly use to rebut the state's evidence, or to help us prevent it getting in. Like the change of venue and just about everything else involved with the case, it's pretty much a lost cause, but I agree to see him at three o'clock this afternoon.

We're wrapping things up when the phone rings. Edna, despite having been told not to interrupt us, does so anyway.

“I think you'll want to take this,” she says.

“Who is it?”

“It's your wife. It sounds like an emergency.”

I pick up the phone and conduct a ten-second conversation during which Nicole tells me what has happened. I hang up and start walking toward the door.

“Is everything okay?” Laurie asks.

I tell her. “Nicole found a threatening message on the downstairs answering machine.”

“What did it say?”

I shake my head. “I don't know yet. But whatever it says, that's not the worst part.”

“What's the worst part?”

“We don't have a downstairs answering machine.”

I make it home in record time. Nicole was borderline hysterical when I spoke to her, and she's not likely to have calmed down before I get there. She's also not likely to calm down after I get there.

I pull up to the house, and I see that she is peeking out from behind the drapes, watching for me. She opens the door and leads me to the answering machine, which is hooked up in the den. It is not a machine I have ever seen before.

So as not to smudge any fingerprints, and so I could appear to know what I'm doing, I use the point of a pen to press play. The voice is computer-generated, effectively concealing the speaker.

“Think of your embarrassment in court as just the beginning … a small sign of our power. We are bigger than you, Carpenter … much bigger. We can do what we want … when we want. So drop your crusade, before it is too late. The past is past.”

Nicole looks at me, as if I can say something that will take away her fear. Something like, “Oh, is that all? Don't worry. I had told a friend he could break into the house and drop off a threatening answering machine.”

She sees I have nothing comforting to offer, so she says, with great drama, “Andy, they were in here. While we were sleeping. They were in our house.”

My mind flashes to Michael Corleone, speaking to Pentan-geli after gunmen shot up his house. “In my bedroom, where my wife sleeps! Where my children come to play with their toys!”

I decide not to mention the Godfather reference to Nicole. Instead I ask, “Did you check the doors and windows?”

“No, I didn't,” she says before she explodes. “I'm not a policeman, Andy. I don't want this to happen in my house!”

“Of course you don't, Nicole, and neither do I. But …”

She's now more under control, but with an intensity in her voice that I don't think I have ever heard. It strikes me that I've never seen Nicole afraid. She did not grow up in a world where she ever had reason to be afraid.

“I do not want the awful people that you deal with in my life. Not the murderers, not the prostitutes, nor the other animals. I don't want it and I don't deserve it.”

“We don't know who did this. Or why.”

She shakes her head; as if I'm not getting it. “That doesn't matter. What matters is that it does not happen again.”

I start looking around, but I can't imagine that I'm going to find a clue. Tara sniffs around with me, though if she were going to be active in the case I would have preferred that she had barked during the break-in. My mind starts trying to put it all together: the debacle in the courthouse, the picture, the twenty-two million dollars, the attack on Willie Miller, the trial … somewhere in there is the answer, but I'll be damned if I know where.

I'm now talking out loud, but to myself. “It's all blending together.”

“What?”

I tell Nicole, “All the various elements, the photograph … the trial. It's like they're pieces of the same puzzle. But it doesn't make sense. How the hell could a picture my father took thirty-five years ago have anything to do with Willie Miller?”

“Whatever it is, it's not worth it. These people are dangerous. Andy, we don't need this.”

She's right, of course, but after all these years living with me, does she really think I can just drop it? Could she not know me at all?

“It might be a good idea for you to get away for a while.”

“Where to?”

“I don't know … one of your father's homes. Cannes, Gstaad, Aspen … pick a home, any home.”

“Why? Because you're afraid for me? Because you're not going to stop what you're doing? Because you're going to be a martyr? Because you're a bullheaded son of a bitch?”

“E. All of the above.”

She makes her decision. “No, Andy, I'm not leaving. I'm not the one who caused this problem, and I'm not the one who has to fix it.”

I HATE DNAMORE THAN I HATE OPERA. I HATE IT more than I hate lizards. I hate DNA more than I hate meaningless touchdowns by the underdog that cover the spread when I'm betting the favorite. I recognize that it is the greatest invention since fingerprints, and that it is an incredibly valuable tool to help justice to be served, but none of that carries any weight with me. I hate DNA because it's boring, because I will never understand it, and because it almost always works against me.

My meeting this afternoon is with Dr. Gerald Lampley, a part-time professor of chemistry at William Paterson College. Dr. Lampley used to be a full-time professor, a career which lasted until the justice system discovered DNA.

Once the people in criminal justice start using something, they need experts to explain that something to them. They pay those experts very well, hence Dr. Lampley's sudden loss of his burning desire to teach chemistry to college kids. And it's certainly not just DNA. There are people out there making a fortune because they understand and can explain to a jury how and why blood spatters. It's a crazy world we live in.

Experts generally testify for the same side each time, and Dr. Lampley is known as a defense witness. In other words, he tends to testify that DNA, his area of expertise, is unreliable. He doesn't take the position that the science is bogus, of course, since if he ever convinced the justice system of that he'd be back teaching chemistry full-time. So Dr. Lampley confines himself to testifying that the DNA is unreliable in the specific case at trial.

Dr. Lampley has had time to read the prosecution's brief on their intentions regarding DNA in the Willie Miller case. They are planning to use a new type of test, in addition to the PCR and RFLP tests they have been using. I ask Dr. Lampley in what way this new test is supposed to be better.

“The government claims that it is considerably more accurate.” He says “the government” as if he is talking about the Fýnchmen.

I ask him to explain, and he tells me that if this new test turns up Willie Miller as a match, it would be a one in six billion chance that it is wrong. The old tests are down around one in three billion.

It would be amusing if it weren't so depressing. “One in three billion isn't enough for them?”

“The goal of science and scientists is to strive for absolute certainty.”

The basic issue here is whether or not we want to ask Hatchet for a Kelly-Frye hearing. Such a hearing would determine whether this new test is reliable enough to present to a jury. The earlier type of tests do not require such a hearing, since they've had Kelly-Fryes in the past, so Hatchet has his ass covered when he admits those tests as evidence.

A Kelly-Frye hearing takes the form of seven to ten days of excruciatingly boring and detailed testimony by scientists. They might as well be speaking Swahili, since the people listening are lawyers and a judge, none of whom have the slightest idea what the scientists are talking about. But the lawyers lawyer, and the judge judges, and the prosecution wins.

Five minutes into our conversation I make my decision about the Kelly-Frye: I'm not going to request it. We would lose anyway and it would be a total waste of time, but that's not why I'm not seeking it. If we ultimately lose the trial, and Willie is sentenced to death, I want to give his future lawyer an appeal based on the fact that his idiot lawyer Andy Carpenter never even asked for a Kelly-Frye hearing.

I'm more interested in talking to Dr. Lampley about the evidence collection in this case. It is in this area that DNA can often be attacked, and a case like this provides more opportunity than most. The evidence was collected at a time when DNA was in its relative infancy, and less sophisticated collection techniques were used. If we can show that this collection was faulty, then the results are useless to the prosecution.

Dr. Lampley agrees to study the case and the police work involved. This is not a particularly generous offer, since he's charging us three hundred an hour, but I agree. I don't tell him yet that I'm not going for the Kelly-Frye, since I'm pretty sure that would dampen his enthusiasm. With preparation and presentation, the Kelly-Frye would be worth twenty grand to him. It beats the hell out of grading final exams.

With the boring torture of talking about DNA at least temporarily out of the way, it's time to focus on Willie Miller's story, assuming Willie Miller has a story. I take Kevin and Laurie out to the prison with me, so that they can hear it firsthand.

Willie is already back in the main section, with only a small bandage to show for his fun in the rec room. His eyes almost pop out of his head when he sees Laurie. After I introduce everyone, Willie makes a finger-wagging motion back and forth between Laurie and me and says to me with a lascivious grin, “Uuuhhh … you and her?” When he does this, I become an instant proponent of the death penalty.

“Don't start, Willie. We're here to talk about you.”

Still eyeing Laurie, he says, “Man, your life is a hell of a lot more interesting than mine.”

I finally get him back on track, and we discuss the night of the murder. He thinks he remembers showing up for work that night, but everything after that is an alcohol-induced blank.

“Do you remember when you started to drink?” Laurie asks.

“You mean that night?”

She nods, and he says, “Nope. I wouldn't have, that's what's so weird. But I guess I did, huh?”

“According to the blood tests,” I say. “Have you ever had problems with alcohol?”

“Nope.”

“How long had you been working at that bar?”

“About six months.”

“Any problems before that night? Any incidents? Were you ever reprimanded for anything?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. I did my job and didn't bother nobody.”

“What about the needle marks on your arms?”

Willie reacts to this, tensing and flaring up. “I never took no drugs. Never.”

This, of course, doesn't make any sense. I saw the marks on the police photographs. “Then where did the marks come from?”

“You know what ‘never’ means? I never took no drugs. I don't know nothin’ about no needle marks. Tell them to stop trying to peddle this bullshit, man.”

We question Willie for another hour, but it basically gets us nowhere. He never saw Denise McGregor before, has no idea what happened that night, but can't believe that he could have killed someone. It's not exactly a compelling case to present to a jury.

I arrive at home to something less than a standing ovation. Tara seems happy enough to see me, wagging her tail and graciously accepting her evening biscuit. Nicole is somewhat more reserved, having not yet gotten over the answering machine incident. I have to admit that I'm not quite over it either, and I double-check all the doors and windows to make sure they are locked.

We eat in, since Nicole doesn't seem anxious to go to a restaurant with the most famous pimp in New Jersey. That's fine with me, since I've got a briefcaseful of work to do. I'm still doing it at one o'clock when I fall asleep on the couch, Tara's head on my thigh. A boy and his dog.

I take stock of the situation the next morning, and I'm not pleased. I've learned almost nothing to help Willie Miller, and the trial is fast approaching. I also have no idea what secrets lie behind the picture and my father's money, nor do I know why I'm being harassed and threatened. So far, so bad.

The one germ of a clue so far is Vince Sanders's mini-revelation that Denise was working on something secretive and exciting to her when she was killed, and that for the first time in her career seemingly didn't take notes. It's not a stunner, but it is interesting and probably worth checking out further. At least until something better comes along.

I go back to Vince Sanders's office, not bothering to stop at the reception desk since I now know the way. I enter through the open door and find Vince throwing paper airplanes into a wastepaper basket. I should teach this guy sock basketball.

“A dedicated journalist,” I marvel, “working tirelessly to preserve the people's right to know.”

He keeps throwing the planes. “Next to the right to hire a hooker, it's one of our most sacred traditions.”

“You know that was a setup,” I lamely respond. “I thought I was helping out a friend.”

“Really? That's too bad. It made a good story. Sold a lot of newspapers.”

“You are a media leech.”

He nods. “Always have been. Always will be. By the way, could you get me a pair of twenty-one-year-old coed twin hookers for tonight? Figure about ten o'clock?”

“No problem. I'll take care of it.”

“Great. And tell them to call me Lord Sanders. No, change that. Dress them in Indian outfits and name them Little Feather and Babbling Brook.”

“Okay.”

“And tell them to call me Chief Broken Rubber.”

“Done. Now you owe me one.”

I take out my father's picture and put it on the desk. “Let's start with this.”

“What about it?” he asks.

I point to my father. “That's my father almost forty years ago. I want to know who the other three are.”

He looks at it for a moment. “No sweat. We'll just run it through our super-duper face computer.”

“This is important,” I tell him. “If my hunch is right, it might even have something to do with Denise's murder.”

He stares at me for a few moments. “I think you're just about the dumbest pimp I've ever met.”

“Thanks for your support.”

I prepare to cajole him to use his sources to check into this further, but I don't have to, since he looks at the picture again and points to the fourth person.

“You know, that guy looks real familiar.”

“Who is it?”

He doesn't answer, just goes to the intercom and presses the button. A female voice asks what he wants.

“Ask Carl to come in, will you?” Then, to me, “Carl will know for sure.”

There's no sense asking Vince who he thinks it is, since Carl's on the way in anyway, and Carl will “know for sure.”

Carl comes in. He's in his late fifties and wears a suit and tie. Isn't anybody in the newspaper business ink-stained anymore?

Vince doesn't bother to introduce me, and Carl doesn't seem to notice I'm even there. Vince hands him the picture.

“Does this guy look familiar to you?” He doesn't even have to tell him which guy he's talking about.

Carl takes out a pair of glasses thicker than the Hubble Telescope. He puts them on and peers at the picture for no more than three seconds.

“He should. I used to work for him. That's Mike Anthony.”

Vince smiles at me triumphantly. “I told you so.”

“Who's Mike Anthony?” I ask.

Vince says, “He used to be an editor at a small paper in Essex County. Let me tell you something, he was a little nuts, but one hell of a newspaperman.”

Carl nods his agreement. “One of the best.”

“Is he retired? Where can I find him now?” I ask hopefully.

Vince says, “At that great newsroom in the sky.”

“Dead?” Why can't we catch a break?

Carl jumps in. “He committed suicide. I think we ran the piece maybe six, seven years ago.”

I look to Vince to understand what piece Carl is talking about. He explains. “Carl runs the obit page. We write them and hold 'em until the person kicks off. Wanna read yours?”

“No, thanks,” I say.

Carl says, “Are you sure? I'm working on it today anyway. I'm adding the pimp thing as the lead.”

“Turns out he denies it,” Vince says.

“Lucky I don't have to include the denial. Dead guys don't sue much.”

Carl laughs at his joke and leaves. I can still hear him laughing as he walks down the hall. I'm glad that my pain can bring some joy into his life.

I ask Vince where I can find Denise McGregor's family, on the off chance that they can tell me something. That's if they agree to talk to the scumbag representing their daughter's killer.

“I think her father lived in South Jersey somewhere; I should be able to get you the address from personnel. I don't think she ever mentioned her mother.”

“Is her father still alive?”

“I don't know, but …” He seems to drift off, lost in thought.

“But what?”

He says, “Maybe it's a coincidence, but I remember Denise asking me a bunch of questions about Mike Anthony. At the time I figured he had offered her a better job, and she was checking him out, deciding whether to take it.”

“Was it around the time that she died?”

He nods. “I think so.”

I pump him for a while, trying to get more information, but he doesn't have any more memory to jog. I feel like he's given me a major piece of the puzzle, though I'm still not sure how it fits in. But one thing I'll bet on: Denise sure as hell was checking out Mike Anthony. It is the first factual link between the Willie Miller trial and the photograph. It confirms my instincts, which doesn't make me feel that great, since I still have no idea what the hell is going on. But the more I learn, the stronger my hunch gets that the people in the photograph are somehow related to Denise's death.

Before I leave, Vince gets me the address where Denise's father lived when she worked there, as well as copies of every story she wrote in the year before her death.

“Thanks,” I say. “I owe you.”

Vince tells me that if I can get the coed twins to sing the naked version of the Doublemint jingle, then we're even. He also says that he's got a feeling I'm on the right track, and he'll help in any way he can. I thank him without mentioning that I'm nowhere near the right track.

As I leave, I run into Laurie in the parking lot. My keen lawyerly mind has a feeling that this is not a coincidence.

She confirms it. “I'm glad I caught you.”

“What's up?”

“I've been tracking down Hinton … Willie's lawyer.”

“You find him?”

“In a manner of speaking,” she says.

“Are we in a cryptic mood today?”

“The bar association doesn't have any record of him, he's never tried a case anywhere except for Willie Miller's, and he never graduated from a law school, at least not in this country.”

“Are you telling me that Willie's lawyer never existed?”

“I'm telling you Willie's lawyer wasn't a lawyer.”

This is stunning news, and in a way it's embarrassing. A revelation like this would obviously have been a slam dunk for getting a new trial, yet Willie's crack new lawyer, Andy Carpenter, never tracked this down until now. Had Willie not gotten the okay from the Court of Appeals on the juror misconduct, it would never have come out at all and he would have been put to death.

The next, more important question that comes to mind is: How did Willie wind up with Hinton? That and answers to other questions can only come from Willie.

“Come on, let's go see Willie.”

“I can't,” Laurie says. “I've got a lunch date.”

I do a double take as I'm already starting toward my car. I turn and for the first time notice that there is somebody in Laurie's car. Somebody that's male and good-looking, if you like the tall, well-built, and handsome type. Personally, I don't.

“With him?”

She nods. “With him.”

“He looks familiar.”

“His name is Bobby Radburn. You may have seen him on television. He pitches for the Yankees.”

I would have much preferred she hit me on the head with a two-by-four, and for that matter so would she.

“I know who he pitches for. He's not even in the starting rotation.” That'll teach her.

“It's only a matter of time,” she says. “He's incredibly athletic. You want to meet him? I can get you his autograph.” She's loving this.

“No thanks.”

She nods. “Then I'll see you back at the office later.”

I take one more stab. “You'd rather have lunch with a guy who has a pitiful strikeout-to-walk ratio than visit a maximum security prison?”

“That's a tough call,” she says. “I'll think about it over lunch.”

BEFORE I DRIVEOUT TO THE PRISON, I CALL Richard Wallace to arrange a meeting. He tells me he's got a few minutes and that I should come right over, that he had been planning to call me as well. It's nice to be wanted.

When I arrive I get right to the point. I tell him about Hinton not being a lawyer, and watch his reaction. He seems genuinely surprised, and can't imagine how that could have happened. He promises to check into it, and I tell him that this is evidence of what I see as a conspiracy to convict a totally innocent Willie Miller.

He smiles. “What this is, if it's true, is a clear ground for getting a new trial. But you've already got the new trial, Andy. And Miller already has a new lawyer.”

“The system has failed Willie Miller. It railroaded him by approving a fraud and letting Hinton represent him. For all I know the court may have appointed him; Willie didn't exactly have a legal defense fund.”

“So?”

“So I'm going to move for a dismissal and then I'm going to sue the state for ten million dollars.”

He laughs. “You want cash or a check?” He is unfazed, and though it annoys me, I can't say as I blame him. We both know I'm not going to get the dismissal.

Wallace then reveals why he had been calling me. He's being pressured from above to reach a plea bargain, though he seems confused as to why. My hunch is that Markham and/or Brownfield are using their clout to lean on Wallace's boss, but I'll never be able to prove that.

Wallace's new offer is forty to life, with the possibility of parole in twenty-five years. Willie would be fifty-three before he'd have a chance of getting out. It's still terrible, but it's a lot better than life without parole or a needle in the arm.

I don't think Willie will take it, but it's his decision, and that's what I tell Wallace. He tells me that even though he had to offer it, he hopes Willie won't take it. Wallace believes that anyone who could slaughter Denise McGregor like that doesn't deserve to ever again taste freedom. On that we agree.

I promise to talk to Willie, and I leave to make the drive out to the prison to see him. I ask him where he found Hinton.

“Where did I get my lawyer? Where do you think I got him? From the fucking lawyer fairy?”

“If I knew where you got him, I wouldn't ask. So don't bust my chops, okay?”

He can tell that I'm annoyed, and he doesn't want to piss me off further. I'm the only lawyer he has; in fact I now know that I'm the only lawyer he's ever had.

“The court assigned the asshole to me.”

“Are you sure?”

“That's what he told me. You think I had the cash to go out and interview lawyers?”

“He told you?”

Willie nods. “He did. He bullshitting me?”

I confirm that Hinton was indeed bullshitting him. Willie asks the obvious question. “Why would he want to be my lawyer if he wasn't getting paid?”

I evade the question, but the answer is pretty well set in my mind. Somebody else was paying Hinton. Somebody who wanted Willie Miller to lose. Very possibly the same somebody who paid off Cal Morris and the guys who attacked Willie.

Before I leave, I bring up Wallace's new offer. His answer is short and to the point.

“No.”

“It's the best offer they are going to make,” I say.

“Then go back and tell them to take their best offer and shove it up their ass.”

“I'm not saying you should take it; but I am saying you should seriously consider it. If we lose at trial, it will turn out a hell of a lot worse.”

“I already told you, we ain't gonna lose at trial,” he says.

I'm not going to be able to convince him of our dire circumstances, so I leave and head back to the office. Laurie is back from lunch with Mr. Wonderful. I hope he tore a rotator cuff passing the potatoes. She has checked and learned that the court had in fact not appointed Hinton, and Wallace has also left a message confirming that fact.

My plan is to bring this up before Hatchet at tomorrow's pretrial hearing, but I'm going to need to get my facts in order. What this means is another late night tonight, and I grab all my papers and head home.

AN ENORMOUS LIMOUSINEWITH a chauffeur waiting in the driver's seat is in front of the house when I pull up. I go inside and find Nicole sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee. She does not look happy, which gives us something in common.

“Hello, Nicole.”

“Hello, Andy.”

“Based on the size of the limo outside, either the President of the United States, the Sultan of Brunei, or your father is here.”

“Right the third time,” Philip says as he comes into the kitchen, smiling but not exactly bubbling over with warmth.

“Daddy's heard about what happened.” She takes Philip's arm, which I suppose is her way of showing me who she means by “Daddy.” “He's concerned.”

“Join the club,” I say.

“What are you doing about it?” Philip asks.

“I called the police, made sure the windows and doors were locked, got the alarm system fixed … but most importantly, I'm trying to find out what's going on and who might have done it.”

“Have you made any progress?”

“Not much.” Nicole moans in frustration, but I keep talking to Philip, who puts his hand on Nicole's head to comfort her. “Did you check out Brownfield?”

He nods. “Yes. He was attending business school in London the entire year that picture was taken.”