The Burning Man

The Burning Man (1996)

Phillip Margolin

*

Chapter ONE.

On the day the gods chose for his destruction, Peter Hale ate his breakfast on the terrace of his condominium. The sun was just beginning its ascent above the city of Portland and a blood-red aura surrounded the flat, black silhouette of Mount Hood. The dark metropolis looked like an ink-black carpet crisscrossed by Christmas lights. A poet would have savored the sunrise for its beauty, but Peter enjoyed the advent of day for another reason. He believed that Galileo was wrong when he imagined an Earth that revolved around the sun. In his heart of hearts, Peter knew that the sun that was slowly rising over his city revolved around him.

A crumb from his bran muffin fell onto the leg of Peter's gray Armani trousers. He flicked it off, then took a sip of the cafe latte he had brewed in the espresso machine that graced the marble counter of his designer kitchen. Peter lived in the condo, drove a fire-engine-red Porsche and pulled in a high five-figure salary as a fourth-year associate at Hale, Greaves, Strobridge, Marquand and Bartlett. The salary did not cover all his expenses and Peter was a bit overextended right now, but he never had any trouble obtaining mortgages, car loans or things of that sort since everyone knew he was the son of Richard Hale, one of the firm's founding partners and a past president of the Oregon State Bar. With all this, Peter was not a happy camper.

The living room drapes moved. Peter looked over his shoulder. Priscilla padded across the terrace wearing only an oversized Trailblazer T-shirt. She was a flight attendant with United. Peter had dated her on and off for a few months. Most men would have killed for such a lover, but Priscilla was talking about "commitment" with increasing frequency and Peter was finding it more and more difficult to avoid discussions of the dreaded "C" word.

Priscilla bent down and kissed Peter on the cheek. Peter's head moved slightly and she sensed the rebuff.

"Boy, are you a grouch this morning," Priscilla said, straining to keep the hurt out of her voice.

"Yeah, well, I've got to get to court," he answered brusquely.

"How is the case going?"

"Great for Sir Richard. Not so good for me."

Priscilla sat across from Peter. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"The same damn thing that's been wrong since I made the mistake of going to work for my father."

Peter did not try to disguise his bitterness. It felt good to vent his anger.

"Last night, right after court, Sir Richard informed me that he would be cross-examining all of the defendant's important witnesses and giving the closing argument."

"Your father has let you try some part of the case, hasn't he?"

"He's let me examine a few insignificant witnesses.

That's about it."

"Oh, Peter. I'm so sorry. I know how much you've been counting on being lead counsel."

"Yeah, well," Peter shrugged, "I should have known better. My father just has to hog the glory."

Peter looked out toward the sunrise, but his thoughts were turned inward. When his father asked him if he wanted to work at Hale, Greaves, Peter had imagined brief apprenticeship followed quickly by a succession of major cases in which he would act as lead ce i counsel, winning multimillion-dollar verdicts and establishing his credentials in the legal community. It had taken four years serving as Richard Hale's vassal to bring him to his senses. He had worked on Elliot v. Northwest Maritime from day one and he knew more about the case than his father ever would. If his father would not let him be lead counsel in Elliot, he had little hope of being lead counsel in a major case in the near future. He had to get out from under his father's influence. If necessary, even leave Hale, Greaves. A new start with a new firm might be the answer. He would seriously consider a move when the Elliot case was over.

The senior partners in Hale, Greaves, Strobridge, Marquand and Bartlett looked out from corner offices on the fortieth floor of the Continental Trust Building at the rivers, towering mountains and lush green hills that made Portland, Oregon, so unique. Though the skyscraper was new, the firm's quarters were decorated with heavy, dark woods, polished brass fittings and fine old antiques, giving the place an air of timeless quality.

At precisely 7:30 A.M Peter entered a small, windowless conference room where he and his father met before court every morning to review the witnesses who would testify that day and to discuss any legal issues that might arise. Peter's father still had the same massive build that helped him win second team All-American honors in football and an NCAA wrestling championship at Oregon State in 1956. He owned a full head of white hair and his craggy face was outfitted with a broken nose and a cauliflower ear. Richard Hale practiced law the way he played sports, full steam ahead and take no prisoners. This morning, Peter's father was striding back and forth in front'of a low credenza in his shirtsleeves, a phone receiver plastered to his ear, muttering "Jesus Christ!" at increasing decibel levels each time he made a turn.

Peter took off his suit jacket and hung it behind the door on a hanger. He noted with distaste that his father had flung his jacket onto a corner of the long conference table where it lay crumpled in a heap. Richard loved playing the humble, hulking man of the people in front of juries and he thought that the disheveled clothes helped his image. Peter could not imagine wearing a suit that had not been freshly pressed.

"When will you know?" his father barked, as Peter took several files from his attach case and arranged them in a neat pile.

"No, goddamn it, that won't do. We're in the middle of the goddamn trial. We've been in court for two weeks."

Richard paused. His features softened. "I know it couldn't be helped, but you don't know judge Pruitt."

He paused again, listening intently. Then, his face turned scarlet with anger.

"Look, Bill, this isn't that difficult. I told you I needed the goddamn things two weeks ago. This is what happens when you wait until the last minute.

"Well, you better," Richard threatened, ending the conversation by slamming down the phone.

"What's up?" Peter asked.

"Ned Schuster was in a car wreck," Richard answered distractedly, running his fingers through his hair.

"He's in the hospital."

"Who "Schuster. He's supposed to testify today. Now, Bill Ebling says they can't get the papers to court because Schuster had the only copy."

Peter had no idea what his father was talking about.

He glanced down at his files. There was one for each witness and none was for a Ned Schuster. When he looked up, his father was leaning against the wall. His face was as pale as chalk and he was rubbing both sides of his jaw vigorously.

"Dad?" Peter asked, frightened by his father's ashen pallor and the beads of sweat that suddenly bathed his face. instead of answering, Richard grimaced in pain and began rubbing his breast with a clenched fist. Peter froze.

"Heart attack," Richard gasped.

Peter snapped out of his trance and raced around the conference table.

"I need to lie down," Richard managed, as his knees sagged. Peter caught him before he hit the floor.

"Help!" Peter screamed. A young woman stuck her head in the door. Her eyes widened.

"Call 911, fast! My father is having a heart attack."

When Peter looked down, Richard's teeth were clenched and his eyes were squeezed tight. He continued to rub his chest vigorously as if trying to erase his pain.

"Hold on, Dad," Peter begged. "The medics are coming."

Richard's body jerked. His eyes glazed over. The two men were sprawled on the floor. Peter held his father's head in his lap. He was concentrating so hard on his father that he didn't notice the room filling with people.

Suddenly, Richard's eyes opened and he gasped, "Mistrial."

"What?"

"Get ... mistrial ... Must..

"Don't talk. Please, Dad. Save your strength."

Richard grabbed Peter's wrist and squeezed so hard his fingers left raw, red impressions.

"Must ... Mistrial," he managed again.

"Yes, I will," Peter promised, just as someone called, "Let me through."

Peter looked toward the doorway.

He recognized the older woman who was pushing through the crowd as a nurse the firm had hired to assist in working up personal injury cases. A moment later, Peter was standing on the far side of the conference table as the nurse tried to save his father's life.

The idea of Richard Hale dying sucked the air right out of Peter. He slumped onto a chair just as two medics rushed into the room with oxygen, a stretcher and a portable IV. Peter's mother had died several years ago after a long illness and her death had been expected, but Peter saw his father as a mountain that would last forever.

When he looked up he could not see his father through the crush of medical personnel who surrounded him.

What if Richard didn't pull through? he asked himself.

Peter's heart beat sora idly he had to will himself to p calm down. The anxiety attack passed. He opened his eyes and saw his briefcase and his files. The trial! Peter looked at his watch. It was almost time to go to court.

Suddenly, the people in front of the door were backing away and the medics were rushing out of the room with a stretcher that supported his father. Peter wanted to follow them to the hospital, but someone had to tell Mrs. Elliot what had happened and ask judge Pruitt for a mistrial. There was no way he could see his father now anyway. Peter knew he would probably have to stay in the hospital waiting room for hours before the doctors could tell him anything.

Peter stepped out of the conference room into the hall.

It was empty. Everyone had followed the medics to the elevator. Peter walked away from the crowd and left the offices by a back door that opened near the men's room.

He was trembling and flushed. He went to the rest room sink and splashed cold water on his face. Then, he leaned forward and looked at himself in the mirror. His brown, blow-dried hair was a mess, his shirt was rumpled and his tie had been wrenched to one side. Peter took out a pocket comb and wet it. When his hair looked presentable, he tucked in his shirt and straightened his tie.

Peter examined himself again. He saw a man whose genetic inheritance from his mother had softened the sharp features his father had contributed. Peter had his father's intense blue eyes, but he also had his mother's smooth, high cheekbones. His nose was straight instead of craggy and his lips were thinner than Richard Hale's.

At five feet ten, one hundred and sixty pounds, he was slender and wiry with none of the bulk or height of his father.

Peter straightened up. He felt back in control of himself and the situation. There was nothing he could do for his father now. Richard would be unconscious or drugged for hours. Peter decided that he would quickly explain what happened to the judge before going to the hospital. Certainly, Pruitt would grant a mistrial under the circumstances. No judge would require the trial to go on when the lead counsel had been stricken with a heart attack.

Peter took the elevator to the lobby. The courthouse was only a few blocks away. As he rushed toward it, an unsettling thought suddenly occurred to him. Mrs. Elliot was suffering terribly. He could see how hard it was for her to sit through her trial, both physically and emotionally. If a mistrial was declared, Mrs. Elliot would have to suffer through a second trial. In a second trial, the defense would have transcripts of Mrs. Elliot's witnesses and would know all of their strategy. Delay always helped the defendant when the plaintiff had a strong case. And the plaintiff's case was almost finished. Only two short witnesses remained.

Peter paused inside the courthouse doors. Lawyers, litigants, policemen and clerks swirled around him, the noise from dozens of conversations formed a constant din, but he was oblivious to the crowd. Was his father thinking clearly when he told Peter to ask for a mistrial?

He had been in unbearable pain. Did his father really want to abort the case when it was going so well? Would Richard even remember his order when he recovered from the trauma of his coronary? Peter was certain that following his father's wishes was not in Mrs. Elliot's best interest, but the thought of disobeying Richard Hale's command terrified him.

Peter realized that he was trembling. He took a deep breath and willed himself to calm down. A lawyer's first duty was to his client. Why, then, had his father told him to ask for a mistrial? It took a moment for the answer to dawn on Peter. Richard Hale had no confidence in Peter's ability to take over the case.

Peter's fear gave way to a sense of outrage. He squared his shoulders and strode across the lobby toward the elevators. By the time the elevator doors opened, Peter was ready to go to court. He would show his father just how good he was. He would win Elliot.

Then, he would place the multimillion-dollar judgment in front of Richard Hale, irrefutable proof that he was ready, willing and able to step up to the big time.

Alvin Pruitt was a cadaverous jurist with a military crew cut, beady, bloodshot eyes and sunken cheeks that always seemed to be covered by gray stubble. He was foul-tempered and ran his courtroom like a Marine barracks. By the time Peter walked into court, he was ten minutes late and the judge was furious.

"I hope you have a good explanation for your tardiness, Mr. Hale."

"I do, sir. There's been an emergency. May I approach the bench?"

Pruitt frowned and searched the room beyond Peter.

"Where is your father?"

"That's what I want to tell you," Peter answered, as he pushed through the low gate that separated the spectators from the area before the bench.

Pruitt beckoned Peter forward, then addressed the attorney representing Northwest Maritime and their driver.

Mr. Compton, you'd better get up here."

Peter paused at the plaintiff's table to say hello to his client. Nellie Elliot was a washed-out woman who had been worn down by poverty, the untimely death of her husband and the grueling task of raising five young children when life added a final insult by putting her in the path of a Northwest Maritime truck. Now, Mrs. Elliot was a wheelchair-bound quadriplegic and her lawsuit was worth millions.

"What's wrong?" Mrs. Elliot asked. Since the accident, she could move only her head, which bobbed toward her left shoulder as she spoke in the halting, of the defenslurred speech that was another product dant's negligence. -I'll fill you in after I confer with the judge," Peter answered with a reassuring smile.

"Well?" Judge Pruitt asked impatiently.

Peter spoke quietly, so his voice would not reach his client.

"Your Honor, my father had a heart attack just as we were leaving for court."

Lyle Compton looked stricken and the judge's hardbitten demeanor disappeared. Both men had known Richard Hale for more than twenty years. Though judge Pruitt was brusque with all who appeared before him, he had the highest regard for Richard. Richard and Lyle Compton had been friendly adversaries in countless courtroom battles.

"Is he going to be all right?" Pruitt asked with genuine concern.

"I don't know."

"Well, I'll adjourn court and we'll reconvene tomorrow so you can bring us up to date," the judge said.

Peter had been afraid the judge might try to stop the trial on his own. "There's no reason to adjourn," he said, hoping he did not sound as anxious as he felt. "I won't be able to see my father for hours."

judge Pruitt's brow furrowed. He looked at Peter as if he was certain he had misunderstood him.

"You don't plan on continuing the trial, do you?" the judge asked.

"Oh, certainly. After all, our case is almost over and there's Mrs. Elliot to consider. It would be awfully hard for her to go through a second trial."

"Yes, well that may be, but your father is lead counsel," the judge said.

Lyle Compton was short, bald and rotund. He usually had a disarming smile on his face. He represented insurance companies for a living, but he was sympathetic to plaintiffs and was fair and charmingly nonadversarial until he was forced into the courtroom.

"Peter, it wouldn't be right to make you continue this case," Compton said with sincerity.

"Mrs. Elliot has a right to be represented by the best. If you move for a continuance or a mistrial, I'm not going to object."

Peter kept control of his facial expression, but he was seething. He believed Compton was trying to sucker him into moving for a mistrial so he could save his case. And that crack about Mrs. Elliot deserving the best ... Peter's heart hardened. He would show Compton what it was like to really go up against the best.

"I appreciate your concern, Mr. Compton, but I'm prepared to continue."

"Do you feel that you're ready to do that, Mr. Hale?" the judge asked. "You've never been lead counsel in a case this complex, have you?"

"No, Your Honor, but I worked on this case from the beginning. I prepared the witnesses, wrote the pleadings and the legal memos. In all modesty, I believe I know the ins and outs of Mrs. Elliot's lawsuit as well, if not better, than my father."

"Is this what your client wants?" the judge asked.

"I haven't had an opportunity to confer with her. She doesn't know what happened."

Judge Pruitt looked troubled. "Well, why don't you take a few minutes to confer with Mrs. Elliot. But before you do, I have to tell you that I think you're making a big mistake if you go ahead. You should be with your father in the hospital. I know you're thinking of your client's interests, which Is commendable, but I can't imagine how you're going to be able to focus on this case without knowing that your father has pulled through."

Peter felt a brief flash of elation. The trial was going to continue and he was going to try it by himself. Then, as Peter walked over to his client, a moment of selfdoubt assailed him. Aside from his mistrust of Peter's abilities, was there some other reason why his father had ordered Peter to ask for a mistrial? Peter remembered how upset his father had been just before his heart attack, had that been about) Some witness and papers. As Peter sat down next to Mrs. Elliot, he tried to review every , thing he knew about the case. He could think of no witness who needed to testify other than the two who were scheduled for this morning and no papers that had to be introduced.

Before he could consider the matter further, Mrs. Elliot swung her wheelchair so she could face Peter.

"Where's Mr. Hale?" she asked fearfully.

Peter promptly forgot about the mystery witness and said, "Mrs. Elliot, I want you to stay calm. I have some news for you that may be a bit disturbing."

"Plaintiff rests,". Peter declared in a voice that conveyed to the jury the confidence he felt in his case. His last two witnesses had been terrific and Peter could not conceive of a juror who was not convinced that Nellie Elliot should be awarded millions to compensate her for the negligence of Northwest Maritime's driver.

"May I confer with Mr. Hale for a moment?" Lyle Compton asked judge Pruitt.

"Why don't I send the jury out for lunch, Mr. Compton. As soon as you're finished talking to Mr. Hale, you can make any motions you may have. We'll start the defense case after lunch."

"That would be fine, Your Honor."

When the jurors were gone, Compton motioned Peter to join him out of earshot of Mrs. Elliot. Peter felt he was on top of the world as he crossed the courtroom.

During a phone call to the hospital, he had been assured that his father would make a full recovery, and he was on the brink of winning his first million-dollar verdict.

"Peter," Compton said in a low voice, "I'm prepared to recommend a settlement of 1.5 million. I think that's a fair offer."

Peter's chest swelled. Compton was on the roes and he knew it. The offer was a last-ditch attempt to save his client the several million dollars more Peter was confident the jury would award.

"Sorry, Lyle, but I don't think that's enough.

Compton seemed uneasy. "Look, Peter, I feel very uncomfortable about the way this case is proceeding. You shouldn't have continued to try this matter. You're too inexperienced.

"Oh," Peter replied, fighting hard not to smirk. "Why don't we let the jury decide that."

Compton looked down. He took a deep breath and exhaled.

"I probably shouldn't do this, but I don't want to take advantage of you. I respect your father tremendously and, because of that, I feel compelled to tell you that you have problems with your case. Under the circumstances, this is a very good offer

Peter wanted to laugh in Compton's face. Problems with his case, indeed.

Did Compton think he would fall for this transparent attempt to prey on the insecurities of a young lawyer trying his first big case? He felt great seeing one of the best insurance defense attorneys in the state squirming like a worm on a hook.

"Lyle, I appreciate your concern, but it's no go."

Compton looked distraught. "All right. I tried, Peter, but I have a client, too."

As soon as the lawyers were back at their respective tables, Mrs. Elliot asked, "What happens now?"

"Mr. Compton will probably move for a directed verdict. It's nothing to worry about. It's routine. The defense always does that after the laintiff rests. He's going to argue that we haven't produced enough evidence to let the case go to the jury. He has to make his record. "He won't win?" she asked anxiously.

"of course not," Peter answered with a confident smile. "To rule against us, the judge would have to find that there is no reasonable interpretation of the evidence that could support our position. It's an almost impossible burden to meet."

"I have a motion for the court," Compton said, sounding almost apologetic.

"What Is the basis for your motion, Mr. Compton?" judge Pruitt asked.

"Your Honor, plaintiff's complaint alleges that Northwest Maritime is a corporation registered in the state of Oregon. It is in paragraph one of the complaint."

Peter looked down at the pleading that had been filed a year and a half before to formally put the case before the court. Mrs. Elliot's complaint alleged that Northwest Maritime was a corporation doing business in Oregon, that a truck driven by one of its agents had caused her injury and that the driver was negligent in the way he drove. It was a simple, straightforward court document.

"Our answer denied each and every allegation in the complaint," Compton went on. "When a defendant does that, it becomes plaintiff's duty to prove each and every allegation in the complaint. I kept track of the evidence and I submit that Mrs. Elliot has failed to prove the existence of the corporation."

Peter did not hear anything else Compton said. It was as if the engines on a plane in which he was flying stopped suddenly and the plane began plummeting downward at a dizzying speed. Peter had assumed that his father had entered the corporate documents on one of the occasions he had been in the law library researching legal issues. Now, it looked as if the evidence had never been produced.

Suddenly, Peter remembered Ned Schuster, the mystery witness who had been in the accident. The man who was bringing the documents his father was so up set about, right before he'd had his coronary. They must have been the documents that would prove that Northwest Maritime was a corporation. That's why Richard had implored Peter to move for a mistrial.

".. . to dismiss the case against Northwest Maritime and grant a directed verdict for my client," Compton concluded.

judge Pruitt looked very upset. He turned toward Peter, who was rereading the complaint as if, somehow, he could will the words to change. "This point that Compton had raised was such a little thing. A technicality. Everyone knew Northwest Maritime was a corporation. It owned huge buildings and declared its existence from signs with fat red letters. The missing document was so small. A notarized paper that took up no space at all.

"Mr. Hale," the judge stated quietly, "I've been expecting this. The answer does deny the existence of the corporation. That does put the burden on you to prove your allegation regarding the corporation. This morning, I looked up the case law in anticipation of this motion."

"The .. . the driver. Mr. Hardesty. I believe he said ... judge Pruitt shook his head. "No, sit. The question was never put to him."

"But Mrs. Elliot? What about her?" Peter asked pathetically. "If you dismiss the case against Northwest Maritime, only the driver will be left and he doesn't have the money to pay for Mrs. Elliot's bills. She's paralyzed. You know Northwest Maritime is liable."

Peter stopped. The judge could not look him in the eye and Lyle Compton looked sick, like a child who has played a successful practical joke and now feels guilty about it.

"Mr. Hale," judge Pruitt said, "there is nothing I can do in this case. You did not prove that Northwest Maritime is a corporation. No reasonable jury could conclude it was from the facts in evidence and the jurors may not go outside the evidence produced in court. If I deny Mr. Compton's motion, he will appeal and the court of appeals will reverse me. They have upheld motions of this sort in seven reported cases I have found.

My hands are tied."

judge Pruitt turned toward Lyle Compton and Peter sank onto his seat. His head was spinning. He had no idea what he should do. He thought he might be sick.

"I'm granting your motion, Mr. Compton. A verdict "II be directed for Northwest Maritime. The case wi against Mr. Hardesty will proceed."

Peter felt the wheels of Mrs. Elliot's wheelchair bumping against his chair. -What is it? What is she asked, her slurred voice trembling with panic and fear. With each repetition, Mrs. Elliot grew louder and more strident and everyone in the courtroom looked at Peter to hear the answer he would give to this poor, crippled woman who would not receive one cent for the anguish and horror she had been through. Peter wanted to answer her, but he could not speak. He could only sit, eyes staring straight ahead, as his world went up in flames.

After court, Peter staggered back to Hale, Greaves in a daze. Martin Strobridge was one of the most eloquent attorneys in the state of Oregon, but he was struck dumb by Peter's account of his attempt to try Elliot v. Northwest Maritime. When Strobridge recovered his senses, he issued an order that no one was to tell Richard what had happened for fear of sending him into another cardiac arrest. Then, he suspended Peter from all his duties at the firm until a committee reviewed his conduct. Strobridge had no idea how grateful Peter was for the opportunity to stay away from the firm where he would be the object of derision as soon as the office grapevine spread the news of his disgrace.

Peter drove directly from his office to the hospital. He was allowed into the intensive care unit for only a few minutes. Richard's doctor assured Peter that his fathers condition was not serious and that Richard would be out of the hospital within the week, but the shock of seeing his father hooked up to IV drips and blinking machinery was as great as the trauma of losing Elliot.

Though he had never seen him play, Peter's image of his father always involved football. He thought of Richard Hale as a man of boundless energy who crashed through lines and smashed into opponents. The Richard Hale who stared at him with heavy-lidded eyes was old and frail and his speech was barely coherent. Peter tried to smile. He made a few feeble attempts at conversation.

Then, he stumbled out of his father's room before his allotted time was up, grateful that the drugs his father had been given prevented him from thinking clearly enough to ask about the outcome of the Elliot case.

In the intervening days between his debacle and the inevitable summons to the offices of Hale, Greaves, Peter hid in his apartment trying to imagine a scenario in which his life would go on as before. Thankfully, Priscilla had flown off to some unknown destination leaving him alone with his despair.

Peter knew that there would have to be some consequences for his actions, but by the time the phone call came requesting his appearance at the firm Peter had created a fantasy in which he apologized and promised to never do anything so foolish ever again, and all was forgiven.

On one of Peter's visits to the hospital, his father had asked about Elliot and Peter had answered that everything, was taken care of. As soon as he entered his father's massive, corner office on the day he was summoned, Peter knew that someone had finally broken the news of Peter's disgrace to his father. The man who slumped down across from Peter behind the vast oak desk was tired. He studied Peter with weary eyes. He had lost weight in the hospital and his ruddy complexion was now pasty. After a moment, Richard shook his head slowly and sadly.

"Sit down, Peter," Richard said, indicating a highbacked leather chair. Peter sat.

"I never imagined that it would come to this."

Peter wanted to protest, to defend himself, but there was a lump in his throat the size of an apple and he could only look down at the polished desktop.

"You wanted to be lead counsel in a big case. That's why you did this, isn't it?"

Peter nodded.

"I know how much you resented me for denying you your chance." Peter looked up, surprised. He had no idea he was.so transparent. "But I could not permit it."

Richard sighed. He looked defeated.

"I've tried to fool myself about you, Peter, but what you've done has forced me to face the truth. You are a highly intelligent young man. I have your scores on IQ tests to prove it. But you have never lived up to your potential. You didn't apply yourself in high school, so I had to use my pull to get you into a good university, where you partied for four years, achieving grades that were s o low that I had to call in every chip I could find to get you into law school. Then I did the same thing to get you a job with this firm, hoping against hope that you would finally change into a responsible adult.

"In part, I blame myself for your failures. I know I wasn't around as much as I should have been when you were growing up, because I was working so damned hard to build this firm. And when I was around, I tried to make up for my absences by spoiling you rotten. With the wisdom of hindsight, I see now that you would have been better off getting through life without so much of my help. Maybe, if you had been forced to deal with failure, you would have developed the toughness moral fiber..

Richard's voice trailed off. He closed his eyes and rubbed the lids. When he opened them he looked sad and resigned.

"Well, it doesn't matter now. Regardless of who's to blame, you are who you are and that is why I could not let you try Elliot. I know you possess the intelligence to be a good lawyer, but you are lazy and self-centered.

You have always taken the easy way out. You have never given one hundred percent of yourself to anything.

For you, trying Elliot was an opportunity to show off your trial skills and gain advancement in the firm, but this case was Mrs. Elliot's life. Your arrogance and your thoughtlessness have deprived that poor woman of the money she needs for medical care and her children. You have destroyed her future and her children's future and, the saddest thing for me, as your father, is that I don't believe you care."

"Dad, I Peter started, but Richard shook his head.

"There is nothing left to say, Peter. Mrs. Elliot will sue this firm for malpractice and I will have to tell her lawyers that you disobeyed my direct order to ask for a mistrial, that you misled judge Pruitt so you could have your day in the sun and that your conduct was a blatant example of malpractice. Naturally, under the circumstances, you can no longer remain here. As a favor to me, the firm will give you the option of resigning. That, however, is the last favor you will ever get from me."

Richard leaned forward. He rested his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands.

"It pains me to say this, but I must be blunt with you, for your own good. This may be your last chance to be saved. I've thought about what I am going to say long and hard and I hope and pray that I'm doing the right thing. First, I've changed my will to disinherit you. Second, I will never give you another penny. You have not earned the way you live. From now on, you must live according to what you earn."

The words hit Peter like a hammer and he could only stare, open mouthed. His father was turning his back on him, his law firm was taking away his job.

Not one more penny, Richard had said. How would he meet his payments on the Porsche and the condo? How would he pay his debts? And the will. Disinherited, Richard had said.

"Dad," Peter managed, "I know I was wrong. I'm sorry. I ... It's just -."

Richard shook his head. "Save your breath, Peter. I love you, but I can't stand the sight of you anymore.

You have no idea how hard it is for me to admit to myself that my only child is a failure. I had such high hopes for you. But you let everyone down. Me, the firm, Mrs. Elliot."

"You can't do this. You can't cut me out of your life."

"No, I can't. I'm going to give you one, last chance to make something of yourself."

Peter collapsed with relief, feeling like a hiker lost for days in the forest, near death and bereft of hope, who suddenly hears the voice of his rescuer.

"Anything, Dad. I know I was wrong. I'll do what you want."

"You're not going to like what I'm about to propose, but I see it as the only way out for you. If you can prove to me that you are a responsible adult, I will reconsider my decision to disinherit you. To that end, I've spoken to an old friend, Amos Geary. Amos and I go way back.

We played football together at Oregon State and we were once partners. He has a practice in Whitaker, a small town of about thirteen thousand in eastern Oregon, and the contract to provide indigent defense for Whitaker County and several other small counties around there. His associate just quit. He's willing to give you the job. It pays seventeen thousand to start."

Peter could not believe his ears. He'd been to Whitaker to take depositions, two years ago. There were four streets in Whitaker. When the wind blew, you couldn't see the buildings for the dust. If it wasn't for the college, which was packed with Future Farmers of America, there wouldn't be any life at all.

"I won't do it," he said, shaking his head from side to side.

"Then, we have nothing more to say to each other."

Peter stood up. He'd had enough.

"That's where you're wrong." Peter's voice shook and tears welled up in his eyes. "You may have nothing to say to me, but I have plenty to say to you. You can be self-centered. You are the most arrogant son of a bitch I've ever met. You call yourself a father. You were never a father to me.

Mom raised me. You put in appearances and made rules. And it sure is no surprise to me that you think I'm a failure. You let me know how little you thought of me every chance you had when I was growing up. My grades were never good enough. I never put out enough at sports. Well, I'll tell you this, no one could live up to your standards. All-American, high school valedictorian, first in your law school class.

How was I supposed to compete with a ghost? But I tried and you never gave me credit for trying.

And now, when I was ready to show you what I could do in court, you stepped on me, every chance you could.

You're afraid to admit how good a lawyer I am. Well, I'll show you. I'll get a job with another firm. I'll make partner and Hale, Greaves; can kiss my ass."

Richard listened to Peter's tirade calmly. When Peter was through, Richard asked, "What firm will give you a job after the stunt you pulled? They all know what you did. You're the talk of the Portland legal community. How are you going to get a job once your potential employer talks to us? I will tell you flat out that no one here will give you a recommendation."

Peter's bravado disappeared. He knew that what his father said was true.

"You may not believe me," Richard said, "but I do love you. You have no idea how it hurts me to cast you out. But I have to do it for your sake. Go to Whitaker.

There won't be any temptations for you there. Learn to stand on your own two feet and live within your means.

Learn how to be a good lawyer. Learn to be a man."

Chapter TWO.

The sun was a blistering disk that mercilessly baked the brown dirt covering the vast expanse of wasteland east of Whitaker. There were no clouds to compete with it in the pale blue and unforgiving sky. The young Oregon state trooper was grateful for his Stetson and fervently wished for a breeze that would cool him down and create a cloud of swirling dust thick enough to obscure the thing that lay among the sagebrush halfway down the gully. When Dr. Guisti's vehicle appeared, shimmering in the heat like a toy trapped in a bubble of molten glass, the trooper was intentionally standing with his back to the thing. One long look before radioing for assistance had been enough.

The trooper knew it was disrespectful to think of the young woman as a thing, but she no longer resembled any woman he had ever known. The creatures of the desert had feasted on her flesh, the elements had had their way with her, and something else had been at her.

Some person whom the trooper also had trouble thinking of in human terms.

A group of students from a geology class at Whitaker State College on a field trip with their professor had found the body. They huddled together while members of the Major Crime Team took their statements. The young trooper noticed that they too averted their eyes from the gully, even though there was no way they could see the body from where they were standing.

The City of Whitaker had a sixteen-person police force. The county sheriff's office was even smaller, with one under-sheriff and five deputies. On those rare occasions when a major crime occurred, it was investigated by a Major Crime Team, which consisted of a detective from the small Oregon State Police office headquartered in Whitaker, the Whitaker County sheriff, or his designee, a member of the Whitaker Police Department and police from neighboring Blaine and Cayuse counties.

Since the body was found outside the city limits of Whitaker, and because the Oregon State Police had taken the initial call, the team had designated Detective Jason Dagget of the Oregon State Police as the officer in charge.

Dagget had summoned a forensic team from the Oregon State Crime Lab to the scene and they were working the area around the body. Then he called Dr. Harold Guisti, a tall, anorexic man with a florid complexion who had practiced family medicine in Whitaker for thirty years and contracted with the state medical examiner to perform autopsies in Whitaker, Blaine and Cayuse counties. The doctor's battered Range Rover bounced to a stop in front of Detective Dagget. The detective went around to the driver's door.

Dr. Guisti stepped out. A sudden wind blew dust in the doctor's eyes and spread his thinning gray hair across his partially exposed scalp.

"Where's she at?" Guisti asked, as soon as the wind died down.

"In the gully. We think she was killed somewhere else and dumped down there. We haven't found much blood. She's also naked, but there are no clothes."

Guisti grunted, then stepped over the lip of the gully, cautiously edging sideways down the wall far enough away from the body so that anything he dislodged in his descent would not foul the crime scene.

"How was she killed?" he asked Dagget, who was following behind.

"She was butchered, Harold. Plain and simple." PART of Guisti had been hoping that the woman had been shot or poisoned, because there had been another body discovered in an outcropping of rock two months ago, naked and butchered. Guisti believed the weapon used was a hatchet of some kind. He was hoping he would not come to the same conclusion when he examined this young female, because he did not want to think about what that would mean for the people of Whitaker, Cayuse and Blaine.

A FINGER EXERCISE FOR HELL!

Chapter THREE.

Surrounding the City of Whitaker was farmland made 'green by irrigation systems that tapped into the Camas River, but beyond the farms, hot, dusty winds blew tumbleweeds across vast flatlands that were broken only occasionally by high, brown hills. As Peter drove through the desert, he felt his spirit burning up and crumbling slowly to gray ash and he entered the City of Whitaker as empty as the and land that encircled it.

Peter spent his first night in Whitaker at the Riverview Motel, which was clean, quiet and actually had a view of the Camas River. After breakfast, Peter walked from the motel to the offices of Amos Geary. He was exhausted from tossing and turning all night in strange surroundings as his emotions shifted from boiling rage at the injustices that life had heaped upon him to feelings of fear and utter despair as he struggled with the very real possibility that he might have lost forever the love of his father.

The walk from the motel took Peter through Wishing Well Park, which ran the length of the town between High Street and the Camas River. There was a wistful beauty in the slow-moving Camas, but Peter found the town as dry and uninteresting as the wastelands that surrounded it. The biggest bookstore was the Christian Bookshop; you could easily find a store that fixed saddles but none that made carlattes and the town's only movie theater featured wholesome family entertainment. Peter thought of Whitaker as a finger exercise for l the architect who designed hell.

City center started at High and First where the courthouse stood. Peter turned up First Street to Main. Running parallel to Main Street was Broad Street. Elm, the street farthest from the river, started commercial, then curved through a pleasant, tree-shaded, residential section of town until it arrived at the campus of Whitaker State College. On the other side of the college was the hospital.

As Peter walked, he saw battered Ford pickups in the parking spaces and noticed more cowboy hats than he had seen all of last year in Portland. When he reached Main and Fourth, he checked the slip of paper with Geary's address. On both sides of Main were old, two and three-story brick buildings.

Peter saw Dot's coffee shop, B.J."s beauty salon and an orange-and-black Rexhall sign, but no law office. Then, he glanced up a story and saw AMOS J. GEARY, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW painted in flaking gold letters on a second-floor window. Peter backtracked and found a narrow doorway between the beauty salon and the coffee shop. The door opened directly into a cramped stairwell. Dingy, green linoleum was secured to the stairs by dented brass runners. It creaked underfoot as Peter climbed to the second floor.

The hall at the top of the stairs was dark and musty.

Geary's name and profession were painted in black on a door to the left of the stairwell. The door stuck and Peter had to push hard to get it open. A middle-aged woman with grey hair was sitting behind a desk working at a word processor, the only item in the reception area that did not look as if it had been purchased in a seca ndhand store.

Two issues of Field and Stream and a dog-eared copy of Sports Illustrated lay on a low Formica-topped end table next to a couch made of cracked, red imitation leather. A ceiling fixture lit by a dim bulb and a little sunlight that managed to work its way through the dirtcovered front window conspired to cast a dull yellow glow over the room. Peter could not help comparing this iquated dump to the elegant offices from which he had so recently been evicted. The memory of the plush carpets, brass fixtures and polished woods made his stomach seize up in rage and frustration. It just was not fair.

The woman looked up when the door opened and stared at Peter through glasses with thick, black plastic rims.

"I'm Peter Hale. I have an appointment with Mr. Geary for nine."

The woman eyed him suspiciously.

"You're the young man who's going to work here, aren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, take a seat. Mr. Geary's not in just yet. But I expect he'll be along any minute. He has court at ten."

The secretary-receptionist went back to her work without another word. Peter was shocked by her abrupt dismissal, but decided against reprimanding the woman.

She'd probably be typing his work and did not pay to alienate what appeared to be the only support staff in the office.

Peter sat on the couch. After a while, he looked around the reception room. Except for some cracks in the ceiling plaster, he did not see anything he had not seen the first time he looked. Peter glanced at his watch.

It was nine-fifteen. He decided to check out the Sports Illustrated. It was nine months old but Peter thumbed through it anyway. He was finished skimming it by nine-thirty and was deciding whether to read an article on a Peruvian boxer or start on Field and Stream when the door to the law office opened.

Amos Geary's face was a beet-red matrix of busted blood vessels. What Was left of his unkempt hair was a dingy gray and he had compensated for its loss by growing a shaggy, walrus mustache. His bloodshot eyes were lost in folds of puffy flesh. Geary was as tall as Peter's father and looked twice as heavy. His stomach sagged over his belt and the buttons on his shirt looked as if they were about to pop. Peter was wearing a tailored gray pinstripe suit and a tasteful maroon tie. Geary was wearing an awful aquamarine tie spotted with stains that matched those on his rumpled brown suit. Peter's facial muscles twitched with the effort it took to hide his distaste.

Geary studied the young man from the open doorway, mentally reconstructing his face with his mother's features deleted and his father's expanded.

"Peter Hale, I presume?"

"Mr. Geary?" Peter asked hesitantly while he studied Geary's sagging jowls and bulbous, red-veined nose.

Geary shifted his battered briefcase and extended his right hand. It was sweaty and Peter withdrew his own after a light touch as if he feared he could contract alcoholism from the brief contact.

"How was the drive?" Geary asked, ignoring the light and Peter's discomfort.

"Fine," Peter responded, flinching slightly as Geary's alcohol- and mouthwash-drenched breath hit him full in the face.

"Glad to hear it."

"Don't forget you have court at ten," the secretary reminded Geary.

"What case, Clara?"

"Judd."

"Oh, lord. Not Judd," Geary answered, turning his back on Peter and trudging down a dark and dingy hall.

"Follow me," Geary called over his shoulder. Peter trailed his new boss to a poorly lit office that stank of stale smoke. Geary tossed his briefcase on top of a mess of files and papers stacked atop a battle-scarred, wooden desk.

Peter sat on a straight-backed chair in front of the desk. While Geary rummaged through a gray metal filing cabinet for the Judd file, Peter looked around the office. On one wall, among diplomas and certificates attesting to Geary's admission to various state and federal bars, was a black-and-white team photo of the 1956 Oregon State football team. Geary caught Peter looking at it.

"I'm in the front, kneeling down. Your father's behind me on the right. I opened holes for him for four years and I've got cleat marks on my back to prove Geary said with a brusque laugh.

Peter forced a smile. He was not in the mood to listen to an old drunk wax nostalgic about the man who had exiled him to this big zero. Then, he noticed a framed law degree to the right of Geary's OSU diploma.

"You went to Harvard?" Peter asked, trying not to sound incredulous.

"Class of '59. Does that surprise you?"

"Well ... Uh, no," Peter said, flushing because Geary had read him so easily.

"It should. A Harvard man stuck out here in the boonies. But, then, you're stuck here with me, aren't you?"

This time, Peter flushed from anger. Geary found the Judd file and slumped onto a slat-back chair behind the desk.

"Your father told me everything when he asked me to hire you. To be honest, I was against it. Not because I was unsympathetic to Dick's attempts to save your soul.

I just didn't want to put my practice at risk while your father was fighting for your salvation."

"If you didn't want me here," Peter asked resentfully, "why did you agree to hire me?"

Geary folded his hands behind his head, leaned back and studied Peter without rancor.

"I owe your father a great debt. Supervising your stay in purgatory will take a little off the top. But I made it clear to Dick that I'll drop you like a hot coal if you fuck up. I have a sense of honor, but not a shred of sentimentality. Do we understand each other?"

Peter nodded.

"Good," Geary said. "Now, let me tell you the facts of life in Whitaker. There are fifteen lawyers in private practice in this county. Five of them work at Sissler, Macafee and Petersen. They handle every insurance defense case in Whitaker and the five surrounding counties. Those boys make the big bucks. The other ten attorneys, including yours truly, do not.-We fight over the scraps. There's the occasional personal injury case.

One good old boy runs his four-by-four into some other good old boy's four-by-four. I write wills, I handle divorces. If it walks through the door and it doesn't take a lot of expertise, I'm your man, "Then, there's crime. Crime does pay, only not for the criminals. You're probably wondering how I can afford these palatial digs. Well, I'll let you in on the secret.

About fifteen years ago, the state decided to contract out indigent defense and I was firstest with the mostest. I've had the contract for Whitaker, Blaine and Cayuse counties, ever since. It pays my overhead and makes me a small profit. It's easy money and I aim to keep it. That's where you come in. You're gonna become the Perry Mason of Whitaker County."

Peter was gripped by deep depression. He had not gone to law school to muck around in the swamp called criminal law. Real lawyers sued for millions or handled massive business deals. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the most prestigious type of legal practice, criminal law was a minus seventy-two.

"I hope my father didn't misrepresent my qualifications, Mr. Geary," Peter said hesitantly. "I've never handled a criminal case."

"Peter, we're not talking crime-of-the-century. We're talking shoplifts at JC-PENNEY, driving while stupid.

Most of these cases will plead out and the rest could be handled by Forrest Gump. Your dad told me about some of the cases you've tried on your own and some of the ones you've second-chaired. I'd say that you're probably one of the most experienced attorneys in town, right now. So, don't sweat the small stuff. -Now, here's my plan," Geary said, fishing through his desk until he found a cigarette. "Your office is next door." A plume of smoke blew across the desk and Peter held his breath to avoid breathing in the foul, cancerous discharge. "The walls are paper-thin, so we don't need an intercom. Settle in. Read through the twenty case files on your desk. Keep a copy of the Criminal Code at your right hand, a copy of the Constitutions of the United States and the state of Oregon at your left, and a copy of the Oregon State Bar Criminal Law Handbook within easy reach. If you have any questions, try not to bother me with them. I'm very busy."

Peter looked stunned. Geary grinned maliciously.

"Welcome to the real world, son. And have a nice day. Now, scat. I have to go to the ninth circle of hell to fight the devil for Elmo Judd's soul."

Whitaker State College was founded as an agricultural school to service eastern Oregon in 1942, but had since developed a decent liberal arts program. The older, brick buildings surrounded a quadrangle at the center of the campus and were covered with ivy. The legislature had funded an expansion program in the late fifties and, again, in the early eighties, and a school of business, the football stadium, a new athletic facility and a block of two-story, brick dormitories were among the newerlooking buildings that spread out from the hub.

In the shadow of the business school was a large blacktop parking area. Shortly before 10 P.m evening classes ended and the faculty and off-campus students emptied into the lot. Christopher Mammon drove a dull green Chevy when he did not want to attract attention.

Tonight, the Chevy was parked as inconspicuously as possible in the shadows of a large oak tree on the edge of the lot because there were two kilos of cocaine in separate Ziploc bags under the driver's seat.

The Chevy was a normal-size car, but Mammon was so massive that there was barely room for Kevin Booth in the front seat. Mammon's body was so large it approached the grotesque. At a flabby two hundred pounds, Booth had been big enough to play high school football, but alongside Mammon's enormous lots, awesome thighs and mile-wide chest, he appeared to be one dimensional.

Booth looked over his shoulder through the rear window as he had several times each minute since Mammon parked. After a few seconds, Booth twisted forward and drummed his fingers nervously on the dashboard.

"Where is that bitch? She said nine forty-five and it's after ten."

"Relax, man." Mammon's eyes were closed and he sounded bored. Booth could not believe how calm Mammon was with this much dope in -the car. Of course, Mammon was always calm. When you were that big only King Kong could raise your blood pressure. If they were arrested and went to jail, Mammon would be the king of the beasts in a jungle filled with wild animals.

Booth would die in prison, prey for the lowliest of meateaters.

"There's something about that cunt I don't trust," Booth told Mammon, as he looked anxiously over his shoulder again.

"You don't trust anyone. That's your problem," Mammon said, opening his eyes and lifting his huge head from the headrest.

"If this deal gets fucked up, Rafael is gonna be really Booth said, more to himself than Mammon.

pi Booth could not decide who scared him more, Mammon or the slender man with the lifeless eyes who supplied Booth with cocaine.

"That's why you should be glad I'm dealing with your buddy, this time."

"But what if the bitch doesn't show?"

"She'll be here," Mammon assured Booth, a hint of menace creeping into his voice. "She knows what would happen to her if she let me down."

Booth imagined the things Mammon would do to punish the blonde if she crossed them. Then he imagined what Rafael might do to him if the sale did not go through. one of Rafael's mules had dropped off the two kilos at Booth's house early this evening. Booth's part in the transaction was turning over the cocaine to Mammon and giving the thirty thousand the girl was bringing to another of Rafael's mules. Objectively, Booth was only a go-between, but Booth had vouched for Mammon.

"What if she goes to the cops?" Booth asked anxiously. "She's been acting squirrelly lately."

Mammon sighed. He switched on the dome light.

Then, he took a mirror and a razor blade from the map holder on the driver's door and handed them to Booth.

Mammon opened one of the Ziploc bags and dipped a slender coke spoon into the bag. Mammon held the spoon over the mirror' Booth fixed on the white powder, hypnotized by it.

"I need some peace and quiet, Kevin. If you promise to shut up, I'll let you have a little nose candy."

Booth's brain told him it was dangerous to use in public. It was also a form of suicide to use any of Rafael's cocaine before the deal went through, because Rafael would weigh the dope if it was returned. Booth thought about turning down Mammon's offer, but his need overcame all objections and he leaned for-ward greedily as the white powder cascaded onto the mirror to form a small mound. Booth separated the white powder into several thin lines, then rolled a ten-dollar bill tight and inserted it into his nostril. Using the bill like a straw, he sucked up the coke, then leaned back to enjoy the rush.

Mammon returned the razor blade and the mirror to the map holder and turned off the dome light. He started to close his eyes when a voice next to his ear said, "Freeze," and he turned slightly to his left to find himself staring into the barrel of a gun.

Chapter FOUR.

Peter spent his second morning in Whitaker looking for a place to live. After lunch, he went to the office. As soon as he opened the door, Clara Schoen thrust a case file at him.

"Mr. Geary called from Blaine County. He'll be there all day. He wants you to interview this man at the jail."

"The jail? Where is that?" Peter asked nervously, as pictures of drooling psychopaths and perverts danced in his head. He had never been to any jail.

"It's a block from the courthouse," the secretary told him, shaking her head.

Peter opened the file. On the right side was an order appointing Amos Geary to represent Christopher Eugene Mammon. Beneath the order was a complaint filed by the district attorney charging Mammon with possession of a controlled substance: cocaine. Peter cleared his throat.

"Uh, Mrs. Schoen, what exactly am I supposed to do with Mr. Mammon?"

"How am I supposed to know what you're supposed to do? Am I a lawyer? I just do the typing here, Mr. Hale. Didn't they teach you what to do in law school?"

IN The narrow, concrete room in the Whitaker jail where attorneys met their clients was about the length of a do run and doubled as the jail law library. it was poorly lirg cold in winter and stifling hot in summer.

The so-called library consisted of two handmade wooden bookshelves containing a one-volume edition of the Oregon Criminal Code, a one-volume edition of the evidence code and a worn set of Oregon Supreme Court and Court of Appeals cases. A high window with thick, escape- proof

was provided by two bulbs that let - enough light into the room. The wire hung hung from the ce ling In wire cages.

Peter sat on a metal folding chair in front of a rickety wooden table with his back to the far wall, waiting to meet his first criminal client. His fingers nervously were drumming a solo on Mammon's case file when the door to the interview room opened. Peter stood. A guard stepped aside and all the light from the hall was obliterated by the man who filled the doorway.

"Knock when you want me, " the guard said. Then, Peter heard the lock on the thick metal door snap shut, trapping him inside the overheated coffin of a room.

Christopher Mammon moved under one of the caged lightbulbs and Peter sucked in a breath. He was used to large men. His father was large, Amos Geary was large.

But Christopher Mammon was bizarre. Curly black hair hung down over his high, flat forehead and cascaded over his massive shoulders. Tufts of hair stuck out of the collar of an orange jail-issue jumpsuit that was stretched taut across his gargantuan chest. The jumpsuit had short sleeves and Peter could see snake and panther tattoos rippling along Mammon's forearms and biceps whenever he moved. About the only parts of Mani-mon that were not grotesquely big were his cold blue eyes, which were narrow and focused like a predator's, and his ears, which were tiny and delicate.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Mammon. I'm Peter Hale, the attorney the court appointed to represent you," Peter said nervously, holding out one of Amos Geary's business cards. The card disappeared in Mammon's hand.

He examined it, then examined Peter.

,If you're my lawyer, why isn't your name on this card?" Marmnn asked in a voice that was velvety smooth and very scary. it was the sort of purr that might issue from a hungry leopard while it was deciding what part of a staked goat to eat first.

"Well, actually, the court appointed Amos Geary.

In fact, I've just started. My cards are on order," Peter He'll represent you, if we go to trial. I work with him.

babbled, managing a tiny smile he hoped would convey his perfect harmlessness and the fact that he should be considered a friend and not dinner.

"I see," Mammon said, returning Peter's smile with an ominous glare.

"Mr. Geary is in Blaine County this afternoon. He wanted me to conduct the first interview. Why don't you sit down and we can get started."

Peter sat on his folding chair and took a pen and pad out of his attach case. Mammon remained standing.

Clara had placed an interview form on the left side of the file. Peter scanned some of the questions on the form, then, without looking up, he said, "There's some background information I'll need. Can you give me your date of birth?"

Marmnlon tilted his head to one side and read the interview form upside down.

"Can I see that?" he asked, pointing at the form.

Peter hesitated, then took the form out of the file and handed it to Mammon. Mammon studied the form for a moment, then slowly ripped it into tiny pieces.

"If Geary's my lawyer I'll talk to Geary and not some flunky."

As Mammon let the pieces of the form flutter from his fingers like a minisnowstorm it suddenly occurred to Peter that he was locked in the interview room and there was only wooden table separating him from a a very dangerous wild animal.

"Yes, well, I'm an experienced attorney and anythin You tell me is confidential. I'll only talk about our contempt to steer his client out of the world of ultraviolet, versation to Mr. Geary)') Peter told Mammon in an at kung fu flicks and graphic slasher movies. t "Just how experienced are You, Peter?" Mammon asked.

"I've been a lawyer for four years."

"And how many criminal cases have you handled P, "Well, none, but, uhm, I have tried many complex legal matters and I .. ."

Mammon held up his hand and Peter stopped talking.

Mammon rested his hands on the table and it buckled.

Then, he leaned across the table until his face was inches from Peter's.

"You just lied to me, didn't you, Peter?"

Peter turned pale. His voice caught in his throat and all he could manage was, -1 ... 1.. ."

Mammon held him with his eyes for a moment. Then he went to the door and pounded on it. The locks snapped open and Mammon walked out of the room. It took a moment for Peter to realize that he was still alive.

Peter's only other visit to Whitaker had been spent humiliating and browbeating a local attorney and his client. After the deposition, Peter had celebrated at the Stallion, a bar Popular with the students at Whitaker State, where he met a nurse named Rhonda something whom he fascinated with his descri tion of the devastap tion visited on his adversary. The the'xt morning, Rhonda had written her name and phone number on a piece of a motel stationery before she left for the hospital. Si ince the Stallion provided the only good memory Peter had of Whitaker, it was here that he ran as soon as he escaped the Jail. oing to do?" Peter asked himself, as he "What am I g started on his second Jack Daniel's. He could not endure another encounter with a Mammon-like individual. It was out of the question. But what was his alternative?

Being a lawyer was all Peter knew and no one except Amos Geary would offer him a job after the Elliot fiasco.

Peter longed for his condo, now owned by a Merrill, Lynch exec who had gotten it at a fire-sale price because of Peter's sudden descent into poverty, and his Porsche, I which he had been forced to trade in for a used Subaru.

He wanted a job of which he could be proud. Most of all, he needed to reclaim his dignity. But his material possessions, his job and his dignity had been stripped from him. He was, he thought bitterly, as big a failure as one could become.

"Peter Hale?"

Peter looked up and found a tall, solidly built man in a business suit staring down at him.

"Steve Mancini," the man said. "We went to law school together."

"Right!" Peter said, breaking into a smile.

"Mind if I sit down?" Mancini asked as he slid into the booth across from Peter.

"Hell, no. What are you drinking."

"No, no. It's on me. I'm half owner of this joint."

Mancini signaled for a waitress.

"You live in Whitaker?" Peter asked incredulously, unable to fathom why any sane person would choose to live in a town without one decent clothing store.

"Live here and practice law here. But what are you doing Whitaker? I thought you went to work for your father's firm. Are you out on a case?"

"Uh, yes and no," Peter said, stalling for time. There was no way he was going to tell Mancini the truth, but "There you are," a woman said, and Peter looked over his shoulder into a pair of hazel eyes that had no room for him and were filled with Steve Mancini. Standing next to the beautiful brunette was a rugged-looking man with the broad shoulders and thick forearms of someone who labors for a living. He had curly black hair, a bushy mustache and blue eyes and he was grinning widely at Steve.

Mancini stood and kissed the woman on her cheek.

Then, he took her hand.

"Pete, this is my fiancee, Donna Harmon, and her brother, Gary."

A law school memory of Steve Mancini and a pretty blond wife made Peter frown for a moment, but he caught himself and said, "Hey, congratulations."

"Thank you," Donna answered with a satisfied grin.

"When is the wedding?"

"We're tying the knot in a few weeks," Mancini answered, as he ushered Donna into the booth and sat beside her. Gary slid in next to Peter.

"Do you have the tickets?" Gary asked.

"What tickets?" Mancini asked deadpan.

Gary looked panicky. "My football tickets. The season tickets. You you didn't forget my tickets, did you, Steve?"

"Don't tease him, Steve," Donna said sternly. "Of course, he has them, Gary."

"Here they are, buddy," Mancini said, pulling an envelope out ai his suit jacket.

Gary Harmon's face lit up and he started to grab for the tickets.

"What do you say first, Gary?" Donna asked gently.

Gary looked confused for a second and Peter examined him more closely. The guy looked normal, but he was acting like a kid.

Gary's face suddenly broke into a grin and, he said, "Thanks, Steve."

what could he say?

"Hey, guy, you're welcome."

Gary took the tickets and examined them as if they were a priceless work of art. "So, Pete," Mancini asked, "what brings you to Whitaker?"

Peter had hoped that Mancini had forgotten the question, but the arrival of Donna and Gary Harmon had given him time to invent an answer.

"I'm working for Amos Geary."

"Geary?" The expression on Mancini's face registered disapproval. "I never pictured you as the type to practice small-town law. I thought you were aiming for a partnership in a megafirm."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. I was working in my father's firm in Portland. Hale, Greaves. But I got tired of the rat race and Dad's an old friend of Amos. They played ball together at Oregon State."

Mancini forced a smile and he and Donna congratulated Peter on his new job.

"How did you get to Whitaker?" Peter asked to divert Mancini's attention.

"Didn't you see the trophy case when you walked in?"

"Well, no, I In my senior "Then, check it out when you leave.

year, I quarterbacked the Stallions to the NCAA Divipionsion 11 title, Whitaker State's only national chain ship in any spar ."

"Tell about the run, Steve," Gary begged, leaning forward eagerly.

"You've heard this story a million times," Dorma chided her brother.

"But I haven't," Peter said, hoping that Mancini would not press him further on his reason for being in Whitaker if he could keep him talking football.

"Looks like you're overruled," Mancini laughed. He ut his arm around Donna and leaned back in the p booth.

"It was the fourth quarter. Texas A&I had a three point lead and we were backed up on our own six with less than a minute on the clock. I was supposed to hand off to Rick Sandusky, but the son of a bitch slipped. I turned back toward the line, only to be confronted by three of the biggest human beings I have ever seen. Their eyes were redrimmed, steam was coming out of their nostrils and I could see that they were dying to commit an act of extreme violence on yours truly. That's when I was inspired to make one of the greatest runs in football history. You can find a wall-size photo of me in the Whitaker gym galloping the last ten yards before the end zone. In this town, Pete, I'm an immortal.

After graduation, most of the class gravitated to the big city, but people remember me here. I've got a great practice, I'm big in the Chamber of Commerce and," Mancini added, puffing up his chest, "my ship may soon be sailing into the dock."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Bend has the track on the next Winter Olympics and I'm involved with some guys who are building condos just fifteen minutes away from Mount Bachelor."

"How long have you been in town?" Donna asked.

Peter decided that Steve's fiance was every bit as good-looking as the wife he remembered.

"This is my second day," he said.

"Have you found a place to live?"

Peter shook his head. "I'm still at the Riverview Motel."

"We can't have that," Donna said, turning to her fianc. "Can't you help him, Steve?"

"I think so. I own a few rental properties near the college, if you're interested."

"I've got my own house," Gary said proudly.

"You shouldn't interrupt, Gary," Donna reprimanded her brother gently. "Peter and Steve are talking."

Gary stopped smiling. "I'm sorry," he apologized, looking down at the table.

it suddenly dawned on Peter that Gary Harmon was retarded. Peter shifted a little toward the wall. Gary looked harmless enough, but Peter had still not recovered fully from his encounter with Christopher Mammon and he felt uncomfortable sitting so close to a person whose behavior he could not predict.

"Gary just moved into his own home and he's work ising as a janitor at the college," Donna explained. "He's very excited. It's his first job." -oh, yeah," Peter said, trying to be sociable. "Do you like your job?"

Gary frowned and considered his answer. "It's hard, but Mr. Ness says I'm doing good. He says I work real hard."

"Well, that's great," Peter answered lamely, at a loss for anything else to say.

"I think I might have a place for you," Mancini said.

"It's furnished and only three quarters of a mile from town, not too far from my house."

Mancini took out a business card and wrote an address on the back. Donna looked at her watch.

"We'd better go. Mom's expecting us."

"It was good seeing you," Mancini told Peter. "Give me a call after you look at the house. I'll take you out to lunch and give you the lowdown on Whitaker. And, since you'll be living here, I'll send you an invite to the wedding."

Mancini followed Donna and her brother out of the bar and Peter ordered a pitcher of beer and a burger with everything. He felt a little better. At least he knew someone in town. Peter remembered Steve Mancini as a real party animal. If there was anything going on in this hopeless burg, he would know about it.

When Peter finished eating, he suddenly remembered the last name of the nurse he had spent the evening with the last time he had been in Whitaker. It was Kates.

Rhonda Kates. He decided to go back to the motel and give her a call.

On the way out of the Stallion, Peter looked in the trophy case. There was Mancini's helmet and cleats, a program from the championship game and a photo of Mancini's famous run. Fame and fortune, Peter thought wistfully. Steve Mancini certainly seemed to have it all.

Chapter FIVE.

At six-thirty on Friday morning of his second week in town, Peter awoke in the house he was renting from Steve Mancini, then ran four miles through the quiet streets of Whitaker. The houses Peter passed were not split levels or indistinguishable tract homes. They were old, wood frame houses with gables and front porches that stood in yards rimmed by white picket fences where swings hung from the thick, gnarled limbs of ancient oaks. In the half light of early morning it was easy to imagine the glow behind the curtained windows was cast by an oil lamp and that the rickety garage doors would open wide, barn style, to reveal a horse and buggy.

After his run, Peter showered, dressed for court and brewed a cafe latte in the espresso machine he had brought with him from Portland. He drank the latte with his breakfast at a rickety wooden table in his postage-stampsize kitchen. Amos Geary had been dragging Peter around Blaine, Whitaker and Cayuse counties so he could meet the D.A."s, judges and court personnel.

Geary had not let Peter handle anything by himself but Peter was starting to realize that criminal law was not that difficult. After breakfast, Peter walked to the court ... ... ... ... ... . aided house to watch Geary handle the preliminary hearing in Christopher Mammon's case.

Criminal complaints in felony cases were lodged in the district court, but only a circuit court had jurisdiction to try a felony. There were two ways to change the jurisdiction of a felony case to the circuit court: A grand jury could meet in secret and hand down an indictment or a district court judge could hold a preliminary hearing in open court and order the case bound over to circuit court. District attorneys loathed preliminary hearings because they gave defense attorneys the opportunity to hear the state's case and cross-examine the state's witnesses. It was very rare to hold a prehin in cases as serious as Mammon's. Amos Geary had been shaking his head about the development all week, but he was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The four-story courthouse was the tallest building i in Whitaker. It was a square, no-nonsense edifice of gray stone and it stood at the end of High Street across from Wishing Well Park. The office of the district attorney was on the to floor above the two circuit courts. The p administrative offices and the traffic court were on street level. Misdemeanor cases and certain preliminary matters in felony cases were handled in the district court, where the preliminary hearing for Christopher Main mon and Kevin Booth was to be held.

Peter walked up the central staircase to the secondfloor courtroom and found Steve Mancini standing in the hall talking to the cutest thing Peter had seen since mavin g to Whitaker. Peter figured her for five two at the most. She had curly red hair, freckles that made her look like a high schooler and a body that was definitely not adolescent. just looking at her made Peter feel all mushy and downright lascivious at the same time.

Mancini waved Peter over. "You're here to help Amos wit the prelim, aren't you?"

"Yeah. He wanted me to sit in," Peter said, fighting to keep from staring at the redhead.

"Then, you should meet Becky O'Shay, Whitaker's so most vicious prosecutor. Becky, this is Peter Hale. Watch out for him. He's a big-city lawyer who's moved to the sticks to prey on innocent young things like you."

O'Shay looked up at Peter and he swore she was gazing into his eyes with something more than polite curiosity.

"Pleased to meet you, Peter," she said. Her voice sounded like the trill of clear water rushing over smooth stones in a mountain stream. O'Shay extended a tiny, delicate hand. Peter took it and felt a jolt of electricity.

"Time to go, boys and girls," M ancini said.

"Are you involved in this case?" Peter asked him.

"I'm representing Kevin Booth, the co-defendant."

O'Shay entered the courtroom and Peter watched her walk to the prosecution's counsel table. When he tore his eyes from her, he saw Christopher Mammon sitting with Amos Geary at the defense table. The two were chatting as if they were old friends and Geary did not seem the least bit intimidated.

To Mammon's right was Kevin Booth. Mancini's client was a mess. His jumpsuit sagged on him, his dirty black hair was uncombed and pimples dotted his pale skin. The contrast between Booth and Christopher Mammon was amazing. Although they were facing sentences that would keep them in prison for eons, Mammon looked as if he was going to fall asleep, while Booth's prominent Adam's apple bobbed up and down from fright and he could not keep his hands still. When Mancini sat beside him, he jumped.

Peter edged behind Mammon and Geary and sat at the end of the table. His boss looked up at him with bloodshot eyes.

"Good morning, Mr. Geary," Peter said.

Before Geary could reply, the bailiff rapped his gavel and District Court judge Brett Staley, a short, balding man with thick glasses, ascended to the bench. Becky O'Shay told judge Staley that Earl Ridgely, the district attorney, was on vacation and she was handling the preliminary hearing. Then, she called her first witness, Jeffrey Loudhawk.

A dark-complexioned man with high cheekbones and straight black hair was sworn in. He was wearing the uniform of a Whitaker State campus security pard.

After some preliminary questions, O'Shay askd Toudhawk if he had seen either of the defendants on the evening of May 22.

"I saw both of them."

"Tell judge Staley how you came in contact with them."

"Yes, ma'am. I was patrolling around ten o'clock when I noticed the defendants seated in a car at the far end of the parking lot."

"Was the lot crowded?"

"Yes, it was. Classes were 'just I ti j et ng out and there were a lot of students milling around and a large number of cars."

"What was it that attracted you to these two gendemen?"

"The dome light came on suddenly and I was able to see into the car. Something about Mr. Booth looked odd. When I came closer I saw a rolled, ten-dollar bill in his right nostril."

"Why did that attract your attention, Officer Loudhawk?"

"I've attended seminars on narcotics cases run by the Oregon State Police and I know, from my training, that addicts use rolled bills as straws to assist them in snorting cocaine."

"What did you do after you saw Mr. Booth with the bill in his nose?"

"I radioed for assistance using my walkie-talkie. Ron Turnbull, a fellow security guard, arrived and we approached the car. I went to Mr. Booth's side and Officer Turnbull went to the driver's side."

"Then, Mr. Mammon was driving?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"What did you observe when you reached the car?" -Mr. Mammon was sitting behind the wheel of the car with his head against the headrest. Mr. Booth was in the same position in the passenger's seat with his eyes closed." -Where was the ten-dollar bill?" -I found it on the floor of the car on Mr. Booth's side." -What happened next?"

,Officer Turnbull told Mr. Mammon to freeze and I did the same with Mr. Booth. They both complied. I looked across Mr. Booth and saw, in plain view, a transparent, plastic Ziploc bag filled with a white powder."

,Where was this bag?"

"Halfway under Mr. Mammon's seat on the driver's side."

"Did you see anything else that your training led you to believe was associated with narcotics use?"

"Yes, ma'am. I saw a mirror in a map holder on the driver's side." -Why did the mirror interest you?"

"I know from my training that users of cocaine will prepare the drug on a mirror before snorting it."

"What happened after you saw the bag of powder and the mirror?"

"I asked Mr. Booth what the powder was. He said he didn't know. I accused him of snorting cocaine and he denied it. Then, I placed both men under arrest and radioed the Whitaker police for assistance. When the police arrived, I turned over the prisoners, two bags of cocaine, the mirror and the rolled bill."

"Nothing further."

Peter thought the case against both men looked open and shut. Geary asked a few perfunctory questions of the witness, but his heart was not in it. Then, it was Steve Mancini's turn.

"Officer Loudhawk, how far from Mr. Mammon's car were you when you saw Mr. Booth with the bill in his nose?"

"It's hard to say."

"Several car lengths?"

"About six. "And you saw no mirror when you observed Booth with the bill in his nose?" Mr. "No, sir."

"Out of curiosity, was a test administered to Mr. Booth to determine whether or not there was cocaine present in his blood?"

"Not that I know of."

"No further questions."

Booth leaned over to Mancini. He was upset.

"Is that all you're asking? Why didn't you make him say he didn't see me with any coke? He's lying. They planted the dope and the bill. Call him back."

"Calm down, Kevin. Let me do my job."

"But he said he saw me snorting coke."

There were beads of sweat on Booth's forehead and his eyes were dancing everywhere.

"Will you shut up? I've got to concentrate and I can't do it with you whining in my ear."

Booth chewed on his lip for a moment. Then, he said, "Okay. I'm sorry. I just don't want to go to jail for something I didn't do. I'm innocent. This is all bullshit.

I didn't even have that bill in- my hand."

"Right, Kevin, I believe you," Mancini answered sarcastically. "Now how about letting me listen to this witness."

Miles Baker, a chemist with the Oregon State Poll ice, finished testifying about his qualifications. Then he explained how he determined that the substance in the two bags was cocaine. Geary did not cross-examine.

"Mr. Baker," Mancini said, "the evidence log lists several other items that were turned over to you, including a ten-dollar bill and a mirror. Did you test the bill and the mirror for traces of cocaine?"

"No, I did not."

"Thank you. No further questions."

"The state rests," O'Shay said.

"Any witnesses for the defense?" the judge asked.

Geary shook his head.

"No witnesses, Your Honor," Mancini said, "but I have a motion for the court."

"Very well, Mr. Mancini."

Peter could not imagine what motion Mancini might I make. if he were the judge, he would have both defendants breaking rocks on Devil's Island by now. Peter guessed that Mancini was putting on a show to make Booth think he was earning his fee.

"I move for dismissal of the charges against Mr. Booth," Mancini said. "The state has accused Mr. Booth of possession of a controlled substance. Now, there was a controlled substance under Mr. Mammon's seat in a car registered to Mr. Mammon, but there has been no evidence connecting Mr. Booth with that controlled substance. Officer Loudhawk never said he saw Mr. Booth with cocaine and nothing was done to determine whether Mr. Booth had ingested cocaine, although this could have been accomplished with a simple blood test. I don't believe probable cause exists to bind over Mr. Booth."

"What was he doing with the ten-dollar bill up his nose?" the judge asked with a straight face.

"That is for the state to explain, Your Honor. He could have been cleaning his nasal passages, he may enjoy the aroma of American currency. I don't know.

But there is certainly no evidence that he was snorting ording to t cocaine with that bill. Acc he officer, you do that from a mirror. There is no evidence that the mirror and the bill tested positive for cocaine."

Judge Staley frowned. He was lost in thought for a moment. When he addressed Becky O'Shay, he sounded concerned.

"What do you have to say to Mr. Mancini's argument, Miss O'Shay?"

Peter gazed at the prosecutor. He was certain she would respond with a brilliant argument. Instead, all she managed was, "Mr. Mancini is being ridiculous, Your Honor. It's obvious that Mr. Booth was snorting cocaine."

"Why is it obvious? There is no evidence that there was cocaine on the bill or the mirror, the cocaine was under Mr. Mammon's seat, the car is registered to Mr. Mammon and Mr. Booth denied using cocaine."

"He had the bill up his nose," O'Shay repeated in obvious frustration at her inability to counter Mancini's argument.

"That's not illegal conduct in this state, no matter how disgusting it may be. No, Miss O'Shay, I'm going to have to grant Mr. Mancini's motion."

O'Shay looked as if she wanted to. say something else, but she slumped onto her seat instead. Peter thought she looked adorable. He wanted to rush across the room and console her. Instead, he studied Christopher Mammon, expecting him to go insane with rage because his co-defendant was free and he was not, but Mammon sat passively as judge Staley addressed Steve Mancini's client.

"Mr. Booth, don't think you have me fooled one bit.

I know damn well you possessed and used cocaine on the evening of your arrest, but we are a country of law and one of our most fundamental rules of criminal procedure is that the state must prove its case with evidence, not conjecture. If the state can't do that I must set you free, no matter what my personal feelings might be. So, I am going to dismiss the case against you. But that doesn't mean I'm going to forget your face. You better not come before me again, young man. You've had your break. If I ever see you again, I will make certain that you go to prison for a long, long time.

"As for you, Mr. Mammon, this court finds probable cause to bind you over for prosecution in the circuit court on the charge of possession of a controlled substance. You will be released, Mr. Booth. Guard, you can take Mr. Mammon back to jail."

Amos Geary took a long drag on a cigarette and trudged toward his office. The old lawyer was short of breath and he walked with effort. Peter hoped he would make the three blocks to the office without collapsing.

"What did you learn from this morning's outing, Mr. Hale?" Geary wheezed.

"Uh, well, I saw how a preliminary hearing works."

Geary shook his head. "You saw an aberration.

Ninety-nine times out of one hundred, the judge binds over the defendant. I don't know what got into Brett this morning."

"Steve was pretty amazing. I didn't know he was that good an attorney."

"You know Mancini?"

"We went to law school together."

"Himn," Geary said.

"What does that mean?"

"Watch yourself. Mancini's an opportunist."

"Why do you say that?"

Geary took another drag on his coffin nail. "Has he suggested that you invest in Mountain View?"

"is that the condominium deal?"

Geary nodded. "He's tried to get every lawyer in town to invest, except me.

He knows I don't have a pot to piss in."

"Steve seems to think those condos will make him rich."

"Oh, they will. If Bend is awarded the Winter Olympics. That's a big if. If Bend doesn't get the Olympics, Steve just might end up in my tax bracket. I 'just hope I he doesn't sucker Jesse Harmon into putting up some money." The name sounded vaguely familiar and Peter asked, "Who is Jesse Harmon?"

"He's one of the most successful farmers in the county. Mancini wasn't divorced more than a month when he put a move on Donna Harmon, Jesse's daughter."

Geary drew on his cigarette and they walked on together in silence. Peter was not surprised that Geary was trashing Steve, especially after the way Mancini had shown him up in court. Geary never had a nice thing to say about anyone. Peter decided that Geary was just a sour old fart who, like his father, could not stand seeing a younger man succeed.

Peter's thoughts turned to Becky O'Shay. He wondered if she was seeing anyone. Peter had gone out with Rhonda Kates again. She was okay, but O'Shay was really interesting.

"The D.A. sure was bent out of shape when the judge swallowed Steve's argument," Peter said.

"Rebecca doesn't like to lose."

"How long has she been a prosecutor?"

Geary stopped in mid-stride and looked at Peter.

Then, he shook his head in disgust.

"I know exactly what you're thinking. Forget it."

"Forget what?" Peter asked innocently. Wearily, Geary shook his head again.

"That cute little thing has every young buck in three counties panting after her, but I'm going to give you some advice, which I assume you won't take. Stay.away from Rebecca O'Shay."

"What's wrong with her?"

"Did you see that Tom Cruise movie where he plays a vampire?"

"Interview with the Vampire?"

"That's the one."

"Sure. Great flick."

"Remember the little girl vampire?"

"Yes'

"Rebecca O'Shay was the model."

Chapter SIX.

His mouth was dry and he could barely breathe. She was so beautiful. He knew if he touched her she would be soft like a rabbit. He wanted to close his eyes and stop his ears to make time move faster, to bring her to the moment where she would take off her clothes, but he was afraid he would miss that moment if he shut his eyes.

He heard a sound on the path that went past the girls' dormitory. Instantly he was down, hidden by the bushes. Two girls passed, chatting about a boy one of them was dating. They giggled. When they were gone he rose up slowly, until his eyes were level with the sill.

Where was she? He could not see her. She was gone.

Please don't let her be gone, he prayed. Then the bathroom door opened and his heart stopped. Her jeans were off. She was holding them in her hand. Tossing them on the bed. Her legs were bare. He licked his lips and'undid his zipper. Please, please, he prayed.

She walked to the chest of drawers and took out a shorty nightgown. Suddenly, she remembered the window. She turned and only his quick reaction saved him from discovery. He heard the blinds go down. No, he screamed silently. It wasn't fair. He had been here so long, waiting forever, worshiping her while she studied.

Praying so hard to see her naked. And now this.

Suddenly, he noticed a wedge of light and adjusted his body. Praise God. There was a slit. A gap between the edge of the venetian blinds and the window ledge. He peeked into the room and was rewarded by a vision of a goddess with long blond hair.

She began unbuttoning her blouse slowly, as if she knew he was watching. Maybe she did know. Maybe this was for him. She would strip slowly, tantalizing him, then she would walk to the window, raise the blinds and ask him in.

He was hard now, working himself with his fingers as her blouse came off. Breasts, he thought. He could feel his body tensing as his excitement grew with each quickening stroke of his hand. The moment was now. She reached behind to unhook her bra. Now! He felt his body tremble. Now! His eyes shut tight, his teeth clenched in ecstasy as his back began to arch.

Then, a deep voice said, "Well, well. What have we got here?" and fear and shame engulfed him.

Rhonda Kates was dying to see the romantic comedy playing at the Whitaker Cinema, so she and Peter caught the early show then ate dinner at an Italian restaurant on Elm. Rhonda lived just on the other side of the campus near the hospital. It was a beautiful June evening and they walked the mile or so to the theater and back.

Rhonda had to get up early, so Peter only stayed for a while. Before he left, Peter promised to call, but he was not certain he would keep his promise. He liked Rhonda, but there was something about Becky O'Shay that fascinated him. In fact, Peter had called O'Shay ear that day, but she was in court and he lost his nerve her and called Rhonda instead. hat there was about Peter was starting to examine w Becky that attracted him when he heard a commotion.

A small crowd was watching two men struggle in the bushes under a window at the side of the women's dormitory. Peter pushed his way to the front of the crowd a ey Loudhawk, the campus se and s'w Jeffr curity guard who had testified at the preliminary hearing, wrestling with a man who was thrashing around and wailing incoi -pitched, keening sound from herently. The high the captive was eerie and unsettling. Then Loudhawk jerked the man around and Peter recognized Gary Harmon.

"What's going on?" Peter asked just as Gary made it halfway to his knees. Loudhawk was a large, muscular man, but it took all his strength to bring Gary back down to the ground.

"Gary, don't fight. You'll only get hurt," Peter said.

Gary turned his head toward Peter's voice as soon as he heard his name.

t'i'm Steve Mancini's friend, Peter Hale," Peter told Gary.

Gary stared at Peter, wide-eyed. He looked terrified.

"You know this guy?" Loudhawk gasped, grate U that Gary had stopped struggling.

"He's Gary Harmon. I met him through a friend.

What did he do?"

"I caught him peeping in a girl's room."

"Don't tell Mama," Gary pleaded, his voice rising.

"You're Jeffrey Loudhawk, right?" Peter asked.

"How'd you know my name?"

"I work with Amos Geary. I heard you testify at that prelim the other day.

The drug bust."

"Riglic, "I don't suppose you could cut Gary any slack? He's retarded. I'm sure he didn't mean anything by what he did.C'It's not my call. I radioed for backup before I orrested him. You'll have to work it out with the Whitaker Police."

"Could you wait to write this up until I talk to them?

Gary is working at the college. If you report him, it will proably cost him his job."

"It should," Loudhawk answered indignantly.

"Well, yeah. Normally. But he seemed real slow when I was with him. Like a kid. I mean, listen to him now.All during their conversation, Gary had been weeping and moaning. Loudhawk took a hard look at his prisoner. Then, he said, "Okay. I'll wait to see what the police say."

"Thanks. Thanks a lot."

Peter rushed home then drove to the police station while the police transported Gary. Peter knew he had to tell someone what had happened, but the way Gary was carrying on he knew he couldn't tell Gary's parents or his sister. It was almost twelve, so he decided not to call Steve Mancini right away. Peter figured he would wait at the station until he knew what was going to happen to Gary. If the police let him out, Peter would drive Gary home, then tell Steve what happened in the morning.

When Peter arrived at police headquarters, Gary was being interrogated. Peter told the officer at the desk that he was Gary's lawyer. A few minutes later, an officer escorted Peter to the back of the building. The door to the interrogation room was opened by Sergeant Dennis Downes, a jovial, thirty-four-year-old, who wore his hair in a crew cut. Downes, an avid outdoorsman, had moved to Oregon four years before for the hunting and fishing. He was roly-poly, which made some people believe he was soft, and he always smiled, which led some people to think he was dumb. Downes did not try to dispel either impression. As a policeman, he found it was an advantage to have people underestimate him.

The interrogation room was covered with white acoustic tile and the only furniture in it was a long wooden table and a few straight-backed chairs. A large, two-way mirror covered a section of one wall. Gary Harmon was seated at the table across from a uniformed officer. He had a Coke and a half-eaten hamburger in front of him, but he did not look hungry. Peter could not remember ever seeing anyone who looked so ashamed.

Downes dismissed the other officer. When the door closed! Downes asked, "Just what is your interest in this, Mr. Hale?"

I'm a friend of Steve Mancini. We went to law school together. Steve is engaged to Gary's sister. He introduced me to Donna and Gary. I just happened to be on campus when Gary was arrested and I recognized him."

"Well, Gary here is damn lucky he has you as a friend." Gary hung his head. "I should throw the book at him, but I'm gonna let him go."

"That's awfully nice of you, Sergeant."

"Gary's folks are well respected. I don't know 'em that well, but I sure don't want to embarrass them."

Downes turned his attention to Gary. "And you shouldn't either. You hear me?"

"Yes, sit, Sergeant Downes, I'm real sorry." Gary's eyes watered. "I'll never, never do that again," he said, wagging his head back and forth for emphasis. "I promise I'll be good."

"Your promise doesn't mean anything to me, Gary.

It's what you do that counts. Think of what this would do to your folks if they found out."

Gary looked alarmed. "You won't tell em, will you?"

C, if I should, but I won't. How would your mother feel she learned you were creeping around the girls' dorm like some sex pervert?"

Gary started to cry.

"That baby stuff won't solve anything."

Gary wiped his forearm across his eyes and sniffled.

Downes turned to Peter.

"You better -have a talk with this boy. If this happens again, he'll be seeing the inside of a cell."

The front door of Gary's tiny cottage opened into a small living room. To the left was a narrow kitchen. A yellow, Formica-topped table was next to the stove and served as a dining area. A short hall led off the living room to the rear of the house. The bathroom was on the left side of the hall and the bedroom was across from it on the right. The beauty of the house was that it was small enough for Gary to take care of and it was within walking distance of the college.

Gary opened the front door and turned on the living room lights. The room was neat. He cleaned it every day, just like it said on the "To Do" list his mother had taped to the refrigerator door.

"You want a Coke?" Gary asked, the way his mother had taught him.

"Sure," Peter answered as he surveyed the room. On the walls were a seascape and a farm scene Donna had picked out. There was a sofa against the wall that faced the front window, two armchairs, an end table by the sofa, a standing lamp and a television.

Peter heard the refrigerator door open. He wandered down the hall to Gary's bedroom. Pictures of Stallion players and Stallion banners and posters covered the walls. Gary smiled when he saw Peter looking at pictures of the football team.

"We're going all the way this year," Gary said as he handed Peter the soft drink.

Peter sat on the bed. This room was also neat. Peter found the "To Do" list taped to the closet door.

"Your mom write that up?" Peter asked, pointing to the list.

"Yeah. Mama didn't want me to forget nothing important."

Gary suddenly thought of something.

"Are you gonna tell my mom what I done?"

Gary seemed pretty contrite. It looked as though Downes had done a good job of scaring the hell out of him. Sometimes, with a kid, that's all you needed to set him straight, and Gary acted more like a little kid than an adult.

"I should tell your folks, but I'm not going to."

"Thank you."

Peter took a sip of his drink. Gary did the same.

"You sure fucked up tonight. What were you doing looking in that girl's window?"

Gary hung his head and mumbled, "I don't know."

"How would you feel if you found some guy peeping in your sister's window?"

Gary did not answer.

"You wouldn't want that, would you?"

"No."

"You have to think about things like that."

"I will, honest. I ain't never gonna do that bad thing again."

"You better not."

They sat in silence for a moment while Peter drank his Coke.

"Do you date?"

Gary shook his head sadly. "I can't get no girls to like me that way."

"Hey, don't run yourself down. You're a good-looking guy."

"I'm dumb. When the girls find out they don't want to be with me."

Now it was Peter's turn to be embarrassed. He felt sorry for Gary.

"Any girl that doesn't want to be with you because you're not smart isn't worth being with. And you shouldn't be ashamed of your intelligence. Being smart is just luck. And being smart doesn't mean you're nice.

"Now, stop feeling sorry for yourself. You'll find the right girl some day.

Meanwhile, you can't go around doing what you did tonight. Do you understand that? If Sergeant Downes wasn't such an okay guy, you'd be in jail and your picture would be all over the front page of the newspaper. The next time you get the urge to do something bad, think of how your folks and your sister would feel if everyone in Whitaker found out about it."

Peter stood up and put his empty can on Gary's dresser.

"I'm going now. We both have work in the morning and we need our sleep. Do I have your word that this won't happen again?"

"Never. I swear."

After Peter drove away, Gary carried the soda cans into the kitchen and put them in the garbage. He checked the "To Do" list and was pleased to see he had done everything he was supposed to. Then, he locked the doors and turned out all the lights.

Gary changed into his pajamas, said his prayers and went to bed. He thought he would fall asleep right away because he was exhausted from the night's excitement, but as soon as he closed his eyes he saw the blond girl from the dorm in her bra and panties.

Gary opened his eyes quickly. He didn't want to see that girl. That was bad. But sure enough, when he closed his eyes again, there she was. To make matters worse, his penis was getting hard. Gary opened his eyes again.

He was scared. He didn't want to think about dirty things, but he did want to go to sleep. How could he sleep if he saw that girl every time he closed his eyes?

The magazines. No, he did not want to do that tonight. What would happen if Mom came into his room and found him with those magazines? But he did want to sleep. What should he do?

Gary tossed and turned. He felt sick. Finally, he got out of bed and opened the closet. The magazines were way in the back on a top shelf stuck under some sports magazines where Mom would never find them. He took out his favorite and opened it to the centerfold. That girl was blond, too. just like the girl at the dorm. Gary made believe that she was really in his room. He closed his eyes and took the magazine into bed with him. He imagined he was married to the girl in the magazine. When he touched her, she was as soft as a bunny and, best of all, she liked him to touch her and, when he did, she didn't laugh at him.