Officer of the Court
by
Lelia Kelley


Books by Lelia Kelly

PRESUMPTION OF GUILT

FALSE WITNESS

OFFICER OF THE COURT

Published by Pinnacle Books

OFFICER

OF THE

COURT

Lelia Kelly

PINNACLE BOOKS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

http://www.pinnaclebooks.com

PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.  850 Third Avenue New York, NY 10022

Copyright 2001 by Lelia Kelly

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This book is dedicated to the friends who shared

Bay Head: The Norbert Years

Carmel, Elaine, Jill, Dave, Kae, Charles,

and especially Kathy Jones Rapetski

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I owe thanks to Kay Kidde and John Scognamiglio for advice and support,
and to Laura Langlie, who has been a pleasure to work with for the past
four years.  I was also fortunate to have technical advisors who
contributed materially to this story: Steve Skoumal, M.D."  of the
Pocatello Regional Medical Center; Ian Smith, a fine pathologist and a
darn good brother-in-law; and Tom Patton, my armaments expert; all of
whom provided much information and inspiration.  Inspiration of more
than one kind came from the Reverend Frederick Pope.

I am grateful, too, to have an opportunity to thank the real Tommy
Wood; without his help, none of my books would have been published.
Thanks, Tommy, for your fearless willingness to hook up computers and
DSL lines, as well as your unflagging friendship for many years.

Thanks are due to all my friends, especially my book club, the patient
and understanding folks at Wachovia, and my wonderful family,
especially the "Jefferson branch": Harry, Jayne, Bill, Jane, John, and
Karen Bryan, and the "Mobile branch": Kathy and Mike Conwell.  My
mother contributed her considerable editorial and secretarial skills,
and my sister-in-law Karen and my Aunt Lillian continue to act as my
most effective marketers.

Finally, I'd like to thank the little people: Cameron and Grantland
Smith and Elizabeth Kelly and her new sister, Lelia Ann Kelly.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This story could not take place in Fulton County.  In the first place,
as Laura is careful to point out, death penalty trials are relatively
rare in that jurisdiction.  In the second place, there are many good
resources, both public and private, for defendants faced with a capital
charge in the Atlanta metropolitan region.  There has not been, to my
knowledge, any recent case where a defendant went on trial for his life
with inadequate or incompetent representation in Fulton County Superior
Court, thanks to dedicated and talented lawyers like those from the
Georgia Indigent Defense Council and its Multi-County Public Defender
(Death Penalty) Division.  An author has to have some latitude,
however, in creating dramatic situations, and I have taken advantage of
that allowance.

Monday Morning

The minivan barely tapped the rear bumper of the Jaguar.

Neither car should have been in the intersection in the first place,
but there was a MART A bus stalled in the right hand lane of Piedmont
Road, forcing all the cars trying to turn right onto Peach tree Road to
merge into the center lane with all the traffic that was trying to
cross Peach tree.  So, instead of stopping behind the white line as
they should have, both the minivan and the Jaguar had crept into the
intersection of Piedmont and East Paces Ferry Road.

The selfish optimism of Atlanta motorists never ceased to amaze Laura
Chastain.  Not only did they insist upon running stop signs and red
lights, and entering intersections when they clearly would not be able
to pass through them, but they never really committed to stopping.
Instead, they rolled, claiming every inch of pavement they could.

That was precisely what the lady in the minivan was

doing, rolling, one micrometer at a time, as she blocked the
intersection.  Maybe she was feeling conspicuous, and not without
reason.  She could have bought herself a hefty ticket if there had been
a cop on the scene--which, as it happened, there was, although she
couldn't know that the man at the wheel of the Jeep Wagoneer that was
waiting to turn left from East Paces Ferry onto Piedmont was, in fact,
a cop.  But neither could she have known that the driver and his
passenger were not particularly anxious to get through the intersection
in a hurry.

Laura Chastain and Amos Kowalski were oblivious to the traffic jam,
sharing a perfect moment, listening to an Ella Fitzgerald and Louis
Armstrong duet.  Amos had just taken his hand off the gearshift and
placed it on Laura's knee.  As she turned to smile at him, she saw the
accident--which was hardly worthy of the name, as it was, by any
definition, just a tap.

The minivan could not have been going more than five miles an hour,
probably less.  The guy in the Jag could hardly have been aware of the
impact.  The van lady didn't seem to be--at least, she didn't throw her
vehicle into reverse, or leap from the driver's seat to apologize. It's
possible that she didn't even realize that she had hit the Jaguar.
Maybe she wondered why its driver came out of the car, storming toward
her with a golf club in his hands.

Laura certainly wondered what he was doing, right up to the moment he
swung the club--it was an iron--and smashed the van's windshield. Laura
gasped in shock.  His actions were extreme to the point of being
bizarre, and he looked so ... normal, just an average guy, maybe in his
forties, attired in a "business casual" ensemble of gray trousers and a
slate-gray shut, open at the collar.  Laura noted, as he teed off on
the van's headlights, that he was

balding, and that he had allowed his hair to compensate by growing
over his collar in the back.  It was funny, she thought later, how much
detail she had taken in.  He wore little wire framed glasses, which he
pushed up onto the bridge of his nose as he proceeded around to the
passenger side of the van, which positioned him directly in front of
Amos's Jeep.

Laura started to say something to Amos, but by that time he had already
vaulted out of the Jeep and sprinted into the intersection.  "Call
911!"  he shouted over his departing shoulder.  Laura fumbled with her
cell phone, not willing to take her eyes off him as he ran straight at
the man with the club, holding his ID and shield above his head and
shouting "Police!"

The club-wielding man turned as Amos neared, pausing only a moment
before swinging again and shattering the front passenger window.  Laura
could hear the shrieks of the woman and children inside the car; they
almost drowned the voice of the 911 operator.  She tried to concentrate
on the questions the 911 operator was asking--where was she?  What was
the closest address?  Was the attacker armed?

Now Amos was trying to talk to the man, holding his hands out, showing
that he was unarmed, trying to reason.  Laura would have preferred him
to draw his gun and stand the man down without all the discussion,
which she felt was unnecessary under the circumstances.  The golf-club
man apparently agreed; he hefted the club over his head and warned Amos
away.  Laura jumped from the car, ready to do something if the man
swung at Amos.  He didn't.  He took another step toward the van, raised
the club again, and brought it across one of the rear windows.  Laura
could see the children inside, scrambling for safety, screaming and
howling in terror.  This time the window didn't break.  The man
prepared to swing again.

Amos took advantage of the fractional second when the assailant's
backswing had him off balance.  He lunged at him, and hit him low, like
a cornerback bringing down a wide receiver.  They both crashed to the
pavement.  She saw the attacker's head hit the street, and bounce.
Laura expected that he would remain there, prone and unconscious, but
he didn't.  He fought Amos furiously, trying to reach the gun Amos wore
in a holster on the back of his belt, and when that didn't work,
flailing at Amos with his club, landing ineffective foreshortened blows
on his shoulders.

When she saw that, Laura abandoned the cell phone and the 911 operator,
and ran, murder in her heart.  "I will kill you!"  she heard herself
screaming.  "I will kill you!"  She wanted to bounce his head off the
pavement again--that would be lovely.  She wanted to land a kick in his
ribs with the toe of her sling-back pump; she imagined the satisfying
crunch of the pointed toe connecting with the man's ribs.

In her anger and fear, Laura didn't notice the house painter who had
gotten out of his truck.  She was almost there when the painter reached
down, with an economical gesture, and jerked the attacker to his feet,
Amos still grasping his knees.  The painter held the man, one brawny
arm across his neck, the other behind his back, wrenching the golf club
away in the process.

Amos stood, and unhooked handcuffs from his belt--the handcuffs that
always embarrassed Laura so much when he took his jacket off in public.
The man saw the cuffs, gave up, sagged against the painter with a
strange moaning cry.  Amos snapped the handcuffs on him, and then they
heard the sirens.  It was over.

Laura stood, shaking with frustrated rage.  Her fists were still
clenched, still hopeful of landing a punch on the Jaguar driver, who
was now sobbing pathetically in the custody of the house painter. Amos
was inside the van, checking the children for injuries.  A patrol car
pulled up, followed by another, and blue-uniformed cops poured out of
them.  Laura stumbled to the curb and sat down, disregarding the
potential damage to her skirt and panty hose, heedless of the stares of
the drivers who were by now pulling around the Jeep and passing through
the cleared intersection, off to work a little late, but with a great
story to tell at the water cooler.

Laura waited while the van was moved to the parking lot of the
restaurant on the corner, and the Jaguar hooked up to one of the
omnipresent tow trucks that homed in on accidents like bats on moths.
No one took any notice of her, not even Amos.  He was talking to one of
the uniformed cops, describing what had happened, and laughing.
Laughing, when just a few minutes before he could have been killed.
Laura's fists tightened, and her nails dug into her palms.

Finally, after what seemed like an age, Amos approached her.  "You
okay?"  he said.  Laura didn't answer, but landed a glare on him that
could peel paint.  "I know," he said.  "You're mad at me.  You wanted
me to wait for the real cops.  You don't like to have your boyfriend
jumping on maniacs in public.  But, sweetheart, it's my job."

She hunched her shoulders and looked away; she was furious with him,
all the more so because he was right.  She wanted to hit him, almost as
badly as she had wanted to hit the golfing man a few minutes earlier.
Amos, shrewdly, guessed what was running through her mind.  "I bet you
want to hit me, just smack the crap out of me, don't you?  It's just
the adrenaline--you'll come down in a minute.  C'mon.  Let me help you
up."

He was right; the anger and the fear were both ebbing away.  She
reached up and took his hands, and allowed him

to pull her to her feet and into his embrace.  He snorted. 
"Buckhead," he said.  "Some damn neighborhood you live in, Chastain. 
If this is what they do here on a Monday morning, I don't wanna know
what goes on on a Saturday night."

She laughed.  Then she punched him.

Chapter 1

"I don't give a fat damn what you think, young man.  I want to know
what you know!  Don't come into my courtroom unprepared because you're
too damn disorganized to talk to your client."

Laura Chastain winced.  Even when it wasn't directed at her, Judge
Root's wrath was a terrible thing.  The hapless defense lawyer
straightened his tie, playing for time, and tried to recover his poise.
"Your Honor, I haven't had an opportunity to discuss a strategy with my
client...."

"Strategy?  Who the hell needs a strategy?  This is an arraignment,
son--head 'em up and move 'em out.  Is he guilty or not?"  
"Well,
that's the thing--you see, we haven't had a chance to discuss the case,
not really, Your Honor, and I just thought if I could have a little
more time ..."

"Why haven't you had time?  And what the hell is there

to discuss?  It's an arraignment.  He's accused of robbing a liquor
store.  He's supposed to enter a plea, and then we'll talk about bail.
You don't need to take a meeting to do any of that, do you?"

"Yes ... I mean, we did meet, Your Honor, but we disagreed on what
course we should take at this juncture."

"Juncture?  What the hell are you talking about?  You're a public
defender, son, and this ain't the Supreme Court.  I don't allow
junctures in my courtroom.  Get on with it."

"Yes, uh, but ... you see, there's some question as to whether I should
be representing him at this hearing ... he doesn't like me, Your
Honor," the unfortunate tyro concluded lamely.  
"Then he's got more
sense than I'd have given him credit for.  You!  Defendant!"

"Yes, sir," the accused answered, grinning at his attorney's
discomfiture.  
"I bet you've spent a helluva lot more time in court
than your lawyer here.  Am I right?"  
"I reckon you are, Your Honor,"
came the beaming reply.

"Then you know the drill--are you pleading guilty or not?"

"Not guilty, Your Honor, and I'd like to say that this pecker wood
wanted me to plead guilty.  At my arraignment," with a contemptuous
glance at his counsel.  "I done told him I ain't pleading guilty--I got
a sheet, Your Honor, and you gonna have to send me down a long time if
I plead guilty.  No, skI want a trial with a jury," he said with the
authority of a man who had been there and done that.

"Do you wish him to continue to represent you, son?"  
"I wish to fire
his ass, Your Honor."  Titters rose from the courtroom; even the
bailiff was having a hard time keeping a straight face.

"Your Honor, my client--" The perspiring defender tried to get back in
the game, but the judge pulled him up short.

"It seems to me that your client has decided to represent himself,
Counselor.  And I might add that it seems like a good call to me."

Laura thought it was time to stick her neck out--probably right onto
the chopping block, but nobody had ever accused her of being afraid of
a little judicial reaming."  "Your Honor, in view of the gravity of the
charges, I think the defendant should be encouraged to reconsider his
decision to fire his lawyer."

"What the hell difference does it make to you?"  Judge Root snorted.
"If the man wants to appear pro se, I say let him."

"I'm not convinced that the defendant is fully aware of the gravity of
his situation, Your Honor.  He has a previous felony conviction, and if
he's found guilty on this charge, he's looking at a minimum sentence of
twenty-five to life.  That's not a jaywalking ticket, with all due
respect to Your Honor.  His, ahh, legal experience may be adequate for
the purpose of this proceeding, but I question his ability to sustain a
defense at trial."

Judge Root threw up his hands.  "I fail to see why the prosecution
should want to make its job more difficult, but if I've learned
anything about you in the past year, Miss Chastain, it is to expect the
unexpected.  Defendant!  Rehire that skinny boy who calls himself a
lawyer, and make him shape up."

Fifteen minutes later, with his client arraigned and on his way back to
the Fulton County Jail, the thoroughly cowed defender caught up with
Laura in the hall of the courthouse.  "Hey--thanks for helping out in
there.  I'm Avery Daniels.  You're Laura Chastain, aren't you?"

"I am."

"You went to law school with a buddy of mine--Jim Morris.  When he
heard I was coming to Atlanta, he told me to look out for you."

"Well, tell him I said hey."

"Listen, I really appreciate what you did.  Is he always like that?"

"Norris?"  Laura asked, remembering Jim vaguely as a consummate
law-school weiner, and thinking it figured this kid would know him.

"No, Judge Root--is he always such a jerk?"

"He's not a jerk.  He's a judge on one of the busiest benches in the
country, and he doesn't have time to teach law in the courtroom."

A very pulled himself up.  "He didn't have to teach me anything--I know
what I'm doing.  I wasn't going to plead my client guilty.  Shit, what
kind of a moron do I look like?"  Laura took the question as rhetorical
and allowed him to continue.  "I simply suggested to my client that he
might want to consider a plea and he went nuts on me.  We got called up
before I could sort things out.  I just met him five minutes before his
case was called.  But I still think he ought to plead to a lesser
charge."

Laura shook her head.  Although she was a dedicated prosecutor, she
always put herself in the shoes of the defense, and in this case she
believed that the accused man was right in demanding a trial.  He was
probably a cagey courthouse veteran who knew that the only plea bargain
he'd get from the district attorney would put him on a bus to a state
prison within forty-eight hours.  But if he held out for a trial, he'd
spend months--maybe a year or more--in the far friendlier, if crowded,
confines of the Fulton County Jail, close to home and, if he had the
right connections inside, maintaining a

lifestyle not so different from the one he was leading now.  And after
a year, who could say what the prosecution's case would look like?  The
eyewitnesses who had put him in the liquor store might have moved on,
or forgotten what they saw--all in all, a risk worth taking.  Laura
would have counseled him to stick it out.  If things looked grim as his
trial date approached, he could still strike the same bargain he could
today, with credit for the time served before the trial.

Laura, after a year as a prosecutor, knew that the dimmest seeming
inmate was capable of this sort of crude calculus, but she didn't feel
inclined to clue Avery Daniels in on the game.  He'd managed to rub her
the wrong way--by dragging her into his doofus problems in front of a
notoriously fierce judge, or by invoking the irritating memory of one
of her least-favorite classmates.  She didn't know.  But as far as
Laura was concerned, Avery Daniels could learn the rules of the jungle
on his own.  Laura shrugged at him and said, "He's the client.  You do
what he wants to do, Counselor."

"Well, you heard him--he wants to fire my ass.  He hates me."

"He'll hate you a whole lot more if he ends up spending his golden
years as a guest of the State of Georgia, which with his record is a
real possibility."

"I know that.  I was gonna ask you if we could plead him on a
misdemeanor."

"No."

"Why?  He didn't hurt anybody."

"He attempted to rob a liquor store at gunpoint."

"But the gun wasn't loaded."

Laura was becoming exasperated.  "How was the poor clerk to know
mat--or the cops who caught up with him?  Your client's lucky he didn't
get shot full of holes.  And he's going to serve his time if I have
anything to say about

it."  What she didn't add--what she shouldn't have needed to add--was
that it was an election year, and her boss, District Attorney Marshall
Oliver, wouldn't thank Laura for going easy on a career criminal three
months before the primary.  Laura looked at her watch.  "Look, I have
to get going.  My only advice to you is this: represent your client.
Get to know the facts and see what you can do with them.  And listen to
him."

Avery drew himself up.  "You know, I was in the top ten percent of my
law-school class.  I clerked for a federal judge in Virginia.  I just
took this job for the courtroom experience.  When I've logged some
trial time, I'm going to set up my own criminal defense practice.  I
think these scumbags are lucky to get a lawyer like me for free."

Laura started to reply, but she was luckily interrupted by someone
shouting.  "Laura!  Chastain!"  Laura looked around.  She smiled when
she saw Detective Carlton Hemingway trotting toward her.  "Hey!"  she
said, happy to see Carlton for his own sake, but equally glad to be
able to get away from Avery.  "Look, Avery, I'll see you around.  Don't
take it too hard--consider it your initiation.  You'll get the hang of
it soon  Avery strode off huffily.  "Carlton!"  Laura said, turning to
a more pleasant companion.

"Hey," the detective said with a grin.  "Heard you and your man mixed
it up with a yuppie this morning."

"There's entirely too much gossip in the police department," Laura said
sternly.

"Naw, I hear KowalsM was a real hero.  Took on a bald guy with a
five-iron singlehanded."

"It wasn't funny at the time," Laura said, remembering all too vividly
her own rage.  She changed the subject."  "What brings you to the
hallowed halls of justice, anyway?  Testifying?"

"Nope," the detective replied.  "Research."

"Research?  What for?"

"I've got a missing person case, and I need some background on the
victim."

Hemingway was a homicide detective, but missing persons cases went to
his squad when foul play was suspected.  "Not a child, I hope?"  Laura
said.  There was no worse case for a cop than a missing child.

Carlton shook his head.  "Adult male.  Got a minute?  Maybe you can
give me some ideas.  You did the corporate law drill for a while,
didn't you?"

Laura nodded.  "About seven years."

"This guy who's turned up missing is a businessman.  His coworkers and
family are sure that someone's killed him, but I think they've been
reading too much Agatha Christie.  Guys like this don't get offed, but
they do disappear --usually under their own power."

"What makes you mink that's what happened?"

Carlton shrugged.  "Instinct.  His house was clean as a whistle--no
sign of anything violent going down there.  His car's missing, too--but
he's been gone two, maybe three days.  We usually find the car pretty
quickly in a murder case.  I figure he and the car are still together.
What I'm thinking is that there may be something dicey about his
business, something that might make it advisable for him to disappear
for a while.  I came over here to check his name through the court
records--you know, see if anyone's suing him or something along those
lines."

"Good thought," Laura said.  "You'll need to search the federal system,
too.  I can save you a trip to the federal courthouse, if you've got a
few minutes.  Why don't you come back to the office with me?  We've got
all the online databases--I can just plug in a few coordinates and
we'll

see what pops up.  And I have a friend who can clue us in to what the
IRS thinks of this guy.  If it's a money problem, they'll most likely
be involved."

"Thanks," Carlton said.  "I was kind of hoping I'd run into one of you
lawyer types.  I don't mind kicking down doors or reading autopsy
reports, but financial stuff bores me to death."

Laura and Carlton had walked to the end of the hall, where she yanked
open the door to the stairwell.  The elevators were entirely too slow
and crowded for her; she preferred to climb the three flights to her
office.  "I haven't seen you around for a while," Laura said as they
began the ascent.  "What have you been up to?"

"Little of this, little of that.  How 'bout you?  Guess Kowalski's
still in the picture."

Laura smiled.  "Yep.  He's finished renovating his house, so he's taken
over mine.  He's building a brick wall and planter boxes on my patio
this week."

"Sounds serious.  Any plans you want to tell me about?"

"Nope.  I like things just the way they are."  They arrived on the
landing, and Laura pushed through the door to a dim corridor banked
with file cabinets and office doors.  She led Carlton to her own patch
of county real estate.  "Take a seat," Laura said.  "I'll just check my
messages and fire up the computer."  There was nothing urgent on her
voice mail, so she launched into a records search, explaining to
Carlton what she was doing as she went along.  "Okay, we'll look under
his name first--what is it, by the way?"

"Lawrence Belew."  
"Oh, yeah--I read about this in the paper
yesterday. He's some kind of a computer jockey, isn't he?"

"Yeah, he's a 'systems consultant," whatever that means.  He does a lot
of government business.  He went to the

"House," of course," he said, his voice tinged with resentment.
Morehouse, the "African-American Harvard," was noted for its tightly
networked alumni.  Most of Atlanta's black power brokers were
"Morehouse Men," or were tight with those who were.  "Then he got a
masters at Georgia Tech for good measure.  Covered both sides of the
street, you might say."  By which, Laura assumed, Carlton meant that he
made contacts in the white business world.  And what was wrong with
that?

"You don't seem too nuts about Lawrence Belew-what's the name of his
firm, anyway?"

"Seventh Generation Systems.  And it's not that I don't like him; I
never met the brother.  But I know the type.  Buppie.  Born with a
silver spoon in his mouth."

"Buppie, as in ... ?"  
"Black urban professional.  Slick car, cell
phone welded to the ear--you know what I mean."

"Hey, baby, I live in Buckhead.  Don't get me started on the cell
phones.  Okay, I'm coming up empty here.  He's not a party to any
lawsuits, nor is his firm.  Let's check some other sources.  I'll
switch over to a news database."  Laura waited as the search engine did
its job.  "Lots of pieces on him, mostly about his business.  He's not
just tied in with city hall--looks like he's got contracts with
everyone, from the big corporations to the county and state
governments, too.  But there's nothing here that makes me see trouble.
What do you know about his personal life?"

"Very little.  He's a real loner, they say.  No girlfriend, few
intimate buddies.  Even his firm is funny--he's only got a couple of
permanent employees, a secretary, and a payroll clerk.  He hires people
for specific jobs."

"That's par for the course in his line of business.  They

get a contract, and hire independent programmers to do the work."

"Yeah, and he hires a lot of kids--college and even high school
students who've smart about computers.  Very few of them seem to know
anything about his personal life, other than the fact that he is a Star
Trek buff."

"Surprise, surprise," Laura said with a chuckle.

Carlton wrinkled his nose.  "Yeah, and I don't recall seeing a lot of
brothers on the Starship freakin' Enterprise."

Laura laughed again.  "Don't be such a hard case, Carl ton."

Carlton shrugged.  "I just like to keep it a little more real,
myself."

Laura hooted.  "Oh, give it up, Carlton.  If you could, you'd be
driving a Lexus and getting Mr.  Sulu's autograph in a heartbeat.
You're just jealous."

Carlton grinned.  "Oh, sure.  Jealous of a herb.  That'll be the day."
He stood up.  "Thanks for the help, anyway."

"No problem.  I'll call my IRS contact right away and get back to you
as soon as I hear anything.  Good luck."

"Yeah, good luck wasting my time.  This guy's gonna turn up in a day or
two, and I will have missed some real cases."

"Grumpy!  Call me when you're in a better mood and we'll have lunch."

Carlton snorted and left Laura laughing.

Chapter 2

The Jeep was there when she pulled into her driveway.  She had been all
but certain that it would be, but she was relieved just the same.  She
pulled out the bag of expensive groceries she had picked up on the way
home.  She had invested in apology food: jumbo shrimp, with beady
little eyes still attached, asparagus, and wine that cost more than ten
dollars a bottle--which violated one of her principles, but it was a
wine Amos especially liked.  And ice cream, which was more for her than
for him, but he wasn't the only one who'd had a bad day.

She shut the door of the car softly, and crept into the kitchen through
the back door.  She didn't want him to see her yet, not until she could
get a reading on his mood.  She put the bag on the counter and craned
her neck to look out the window that overlooked the patio.

The signs were good: he had Sinatra on the boom box,

which meant that he was in a good mood.  A blue-collar,
salt-of-the-earth, none-of-your-fancy-pants-music mood, but that was
okay, a good sign, in fact.  She would have worried if he had chosen
Billie Holiday; Laura didn't care for the Billie mood, which was
melancholy and silent.  But Frank meant that things were okay.  She
watched him for a few minutes as he slathered mortar on bricks and
tapped them into place with a satisfying chink.

Looking at him like this, with him unaware of her gaze, made her knees
a little rubbery.  They were still in that stage where their mutual
physical attraction was a novelty.  Sure, Laura had always known that
Amos Kowalski was an attractive man.  But now he was her attractive
man, and that made a difference.  At one time, not so long ago, their
relationship had been professional, and she could remember being
embarrassed when she found herself contemplating that six-foot two
frame, the square jaw, and those green eyes.  Her knees were getting a
little wobblier just thinking about him.  She couldn't believe that she
had punched him.  She prepared herself to explain to him what had
happened this morning.  Taking a steadying breath, she stepped to the
French doors that opened to the patio and stepped outside.

"Looks good," she said, hoping that she sounded cheerful.

He turned and smiled at her.  He certainly didn't seem angry.  She
returned the smile, relieved but still worried.

"You're running late," he said, unconcerned.  "Like it?"  He stood up
and wiped his hands on his cement-encrusted pants.

"Yes.  Amos, I'm so sorry.  I am so sorry.  I've just been sick all
day...."

A puzzled frown skewed his forehead.  "Why?  About what?"

"About this morning.  I don't know why I did it.  It was
inexcusable."

"What are you talking about?"

"Amos, I hit you this morning."

He laughed.  "Yeah, you did.  Sucker punched me, to be accurate.  Good
thing I've been working out; the abs of iron hardly felt it."

"Don't laugh at me!  I'm trying to discuss this seriously."

"What's to discuss?  You were scared half to death, and something had
to give.  It just happened to be my gut.  Better me than some poor jerk
down at the courthouse, I figure."

"Yeah, well, there was one of those, too, but that's beside the point.
There is no room in this relationship for violence."

He threw back his head and howled with laughter.  "You call that
violence?  Oh, sweetie, don't get your knickers in a twist--it is
funny.  What chick magazine did you get that from?"

Laura bridled.  "Listen here, mister, just because you're listening to
Frank Sinatra and laying bricks doesn't mean you can start chic king
and brooding me.  I'll ring-a-ding ding your bell again if you don't
watch it."

"That's more like it.  Look, Laura, you have nothing to apologize for.
Zero.  You're a civilian, and you don't know how to handle the
adrenaline rush.  I'm a cop; I'm used to it."

"Like the cops handle themselves so-o-o well all the time," she said
with a sarcastic fling of her hands.

"Well, maybe not all of 'em, but I do.  Anyway, I know exactly what
happened to you.  The guy was attacking me, and you wanted to kill him.
I thought it was sweet.  And I had the punch coming to me.  I should
have checked on you right away, but instead I let you sit there and
stew while I

helped clear the mess up.  I should have let the real cops handle
it."

"Maybe," Laura said, placated.  "Or maybe if you had come straight to
me, I would have knocked you down.  I just wish you wouldn't charge
into situations like that.  He was trying to get your gun, Amos, and he
was hitting you with what amounted to a deadly weapon.  Don't they tell
you not to go into a situation without backup?"

"I sized it up, and I made the decision.  He wasn't going to hurt me.
And, by the way, there's no way he could have gotten the gun.  I've had
a little experience in taking guys down safely.  And he was just a big
blob of frustration, anyway.  I knew he'd fold in a minute."  
"What
happened to him?"

"He's down at Grady for psychiatric evaluation.  Just a stress case, in
my opinion--he lost his job, things weren't going so well at home, so
when that poor lady tapped his bumper he was ready to flare up.  But
that was all it was-- a flare.  You saw how quickly he came down.  I
knew he would.  And by the way, he was compos mentis enough by the time
they got him downtown to call for a lawyer.  In fact, he called your
old pal Craig Fannin.  So don't cry for him."

"I certainly will not.  And I hope Fannin charges him a ton of money.
Maybe he'll have to sell the damn Jaguar and buy a Hyundai to pay the
bill," Laura said spitefully.

"If he owned the Jaguar--if he's like ninety percent of these guys, he
had it on lease; Jaguar style on a Honda budget."

Laura laughed.  "You're undoubtedly right, as always.  I stopped and
picked up something for dinner.  Shrimp.  And asparagus, for ri sotto

"Oh, now I know you're sorry.  I should let you beat me up more
often."

"Shut up, or I will.  Are you ready to stop working?"

"Just about.  I need to take a shower before dinner."

"That's okay.  It'll take a while to get things ready.  I've got to
change before I start, anyway."

"I'll finish out here and take a shower."  Laura started back to the
kitchen, but he caught her hand.  "You can apologize a little more, if
you want."  She slipped her arms around him and laughed as he kissed
her.  She pulled away after a minute.  "We better stop, or we won't
make it to dinner."

"And?"

"I'm hungry," she said.  "Let me go before I faint."

"Bullshit," he grumbled, but he released her.

Thirty minutes later Laura was chopping asparagus and tending a pot on
the stove when a cleaned-up Amos joined her in the kitchen.  "Want a
glass of wine while you cook?"  he asked.  
"Sure.  I bought your
Australian stuff; it's in the refrigerator.  How was the rest of your
day, anyway?"

"About average," he said as he searched for the corkscrew.  "Yours?"

"The usual pageant of human folly.  I ran into Carlton Hemingway at the
courthouse."

"Oh?  What's he up to?"

"That missing person case--you know, the computer guy.  It's been on
the news.  Carlton's very sure that he's hiding out somewhere,
chortling over his ill-gotten gains.  I offered to do a records search
for him, to see if there were problems with the business."

"Find anything?"  Amos asked as he handed her a glass of wine.

"Nope.  Clean as a whistle.  I even checked with a pal in enforcement
at the IRS.  The man is a stand-up, taxpaying citizen.  If you want to
know the truth, Carlton has a little chip on his shoulder about guys
like this Lawrence Belew."

"What about Belew would get Carlton in a twist?"  
"Oh, nothing--it's
just that Belew's a buppie.  You know, a black entrepreneur who knows
all the important people in Atlanta.  He went to all the right schools,
and had it pretty easy, relative to a guy like Carlton, at least.  To
tell you the truth, I think Carlton is a bit of a classist.  He only
respects you if you've had some hard knocks."

Amos laughed.  "He'd say he's just keepin' it real."  
"Actually,
that's what he did say.  Would you mind setting the table?  I have to
keep stirring this stuff.  Anyway, whatever did happen to Lawrence
Belew, it didn't involve his absconding with the corporate funds.  Why
would he? It's his company, one hundred percent.  He'd only be robbing
himself."

Amos, retrieving plates and silverware, shook his head.  "He's most
likely off living out some personal fantasy."

"You mean sexual, I suppose?"

"What other fantasies are there?"  he replied with a wry smile.  "He's
probably got a secret life, and he just forgot to manage expectations
back in his everyday world.  It happens."

Laura waved her wooden spoon at him.  "So typical-Carlton thinks it has
to be about money; you think it's gotta be sex.  Your frames of
reference are so totally shaped by your personalities!"

"Oh?"  Amos asked as he filled water glasses from a pitcher."  "And
what's your theory, great and wonderful Oz?"

Laura thought for a moment.  "Well, Carlton does have one point--in a
murder, the car usually turns up abandoned

somewhere.  That hasn't happened, so I think he's on to something when
he says that Belew and his car are still together.  But I don't think
he's off in some tax haven--I think he had an accident, and the car
slid off the road into a gully somewhere.  Someone will stumble across
the car, with Belew in it, as soon as the kudzu dies back in the
fall."

Amos laughed triumphantly."  "I should have known!  Carlton and I may
mink the guy's a thief or a pervert, but we at least are willing to
offer up a hope that he's still alive.  But you think he's dead--that's
what being a lawyer does to you."

Laura started to argue with him, but she stopped and laughed instead.
"Touche".  I guess being a prosecutor does give me sort of a Gothic
outlook.  Well," she said, picking up her wineglass," 'wherever
Lawrence Belew is, I just pray that he's safe.  I get the feeling he
was--is--a pretty decent guy."

"Amen," Amos added.  
"Okay, it's done--get ready to be dazzled by my
culinary skill."

Laura ladled out the ri sotto tossed the salad, and joined Amos at the
table.  They talked about more pleasant topics while they ate--plans
for the weekend, Laura's new nephew, the upcoming election.  As they
finished, Amos said, "That was great.  You're getting to be a regular
Martha Stewart."

"Sure, I'll be making a chandelier out of ordinary household paper
clips and bottle caps any day now.  You really liked it?"

"Very much," he said, as he helped clear the table.  Then, in a blandly
disinterested tone, he asked," "Anything particular you wanted to do
tonight?"

"No," Laura replied, as she cleared the table.  "But I'm guessing
there's something you've got in mind."

"As a matter of fact, I wouldn't mind catching the hockey game."

"Hockey?  Good grief, it's practically summer--they're still playing
hockey?"

"Yeah.  They play indoors now, you know, so they don't have to worry
about the ice melting," he said.  
"There's no need to be smart with
me, mister.  Of course we can watch the game.  You can explain it all
to me."  
"As if you cared.  You don't have to humor me anymore; I
accepted your apology."

"I'm not humoring you.  I have ice cream, and one box of frozen Girl
Scout Thin Mints left.  Give me thin mints, and I can watch
anything...."

"Even OprahT'

"No, for that I need booze.  Go on and turn on the TV.  I'll finish up
here."

When Laura arrived in the living room, Amos had tuned the television to
the Blackhawks game, and had settled onto one end of the sofa.  Laura
gave him a dish of ice cream, placed a plate of cookies on the coffee
table, and sat on the other end of the sofa.  She pulled her feet up
onto the sofa and took two cookies.  "Don't let me eat too many of
these.  What's going on?"

"It's just started," he said.  "The Blackhawks are up one game in the
series."

"So if they win this one they go on to the next round?"

Amos laughed.  "No, I hate to break it to you, but these aren't the
playoffs.  This is still the regular season."

"So what you're saying is that we have weeks of fun to look forward
to."

"Potentially, yes."

They watched in silence for a while, Laura wincing theatrically when
the skaters collided and bashed each other into

the walls.  Amos laughed at her.  "Oh, lay off.  I watch the figure
skating when you want to.  And that would be a lot more interesting if
they could body-check.  It would add a real element of suspense--get
two of those gals in the skimpy costumes out there and let 'em go at
each other.  Then you'd get the male viewing audience."

An hour later Laura was sound asleep, oblivious to whatever
high-sticking, icing, or what-have-you was happening on the ice up
there in Chicago.  Amos nudged her awake shortly after eleven.

"Did I miss anything?"  She yawned.

"Just the most exciting hockey game ever played," he said.

"Shucks.  Tell me all about it."  She extended her hands to Amos, who
was standing.  He pulled her to her feet, a little too hard; she
overbalanced into him.  He caught her, and held her.  She looked up
into his eyes.  "Tell me about it later," she said with a smile.

Chapter 3

There was nothing predictable about life in the district attorney's
office.  Laura never knew when her plans for the day would be bowled
over by a new case.  And as a member of the major cases division, she
could count on being involved in the most highly publicized
cases--which made the job exciting, although sometimes it could be
exciting in the way a minefield is exciting.  Despite a few false
steps, and some near blowups in her first year on the job, Laura had
just been made deputy to the head of the division.  Very little
happened that she wasn't in on, so she wasn't surprised when she
arrived at the office Tuesday morning to find that her boss, Meredith
Gaffney, was looking for her.  Laura took her cup of high-test coffee
and her notebook into Meredith's office before she even logged on to
the computer.

"Oh, there you are," Meredith said, clearly distracted.  "What's on
your schedule today?"

"Not much.  A couple of meetings, a pretrial conference.  Nothing I
can't move.  Why?"

"Carlton Hemingway says he spoke to you about the Lawrence Belew
case."

"Yesterday.  Yes, I helped him with a background check.  He thought
Belew had absconded."

"Well, he was wrong.  Belew's dead."

"How?"

"Beaten to death.  It looks like the perp was after his car.  Shit--why
don't people just give up the damn keys?"  Meredith, a fifteen-year
veteran of the district attorney's office, seemed to have a hard shell,
but Laura knew that every case ate at her.  Meredith had once told
Laura that the only reason she stayed in the game was that she imagined
it would be worse to read the newspaper, see the stories, and not be
able to at least try to do something to help the victims.

"Where is the investigation now?"  Laura asked, pen poised over
paper.

"Closed," Meredith announced, to Laura's surprise.  Seeing Laura's
arched brows, Meredith explained.  "They found the guy driving Belew's
car--with the body still in the trunk."  She shook her head.  "Talk
about your criminal masterminds.  Anyway, Marshall wants this to go
without a hitch--so dump what you've got and come with me to the zone
headquarters where the cops are holding this moron."

Laura hurried to do her boss's bidding, reflecting sadly that she,
Amos, and Carlton had all managed to be wrong-the triumph, she knew, of
hope over experience.  Of course they all should have known that the
man had been murdered; responsible professionals don't simply disappear
for no particular reason.  But no one wants to believe the worst, not
when a decent, productive citizen is involved.  We may have

been naive, she comforted herself, but that's a whole lot better than
being cynical.

And I'm not cynical, she thought as she strode out of the office at
Meredith's side.  It's a miracle, but I'm not.  This was not the first
murder--brutal, senseless murder--that she had prosecuted, but it never
got any easier.  She thought back guiltily to her conversations about
Lawrence Belew with Carlton and Amos.  He was probably already dead,
she thought, and we were talking about him in that abstract way that
cops and lawyers have.  We owe him more than that, she thought, grimly
determined to deliver a conviction by way of apology to the dead man
for her irreverence.

They took Laura's car, a slightly shabby Toyota.  "When are you going
to get a new car?"  Meredith groused.  
"When are you going to give me
a raise?"  Laura retorted.  "Where are we going?"

Meredith sighed.  "Cherokee Avenue."

"What else do you know?  How did they catch the guy?"

"I don't know much more than you do.  The police got in a tip early
this morning--just after midnight--that they would find the car in
Kirkwood, at the house of"--she referred to her notes--"one Roland
Jervis.  He seems to be pretty much your average loser; he's got a
record for petty theft and public intoxication.  Looks like this was
his first try for major thug status.  They picked him up around one
a.m. He said he 'found' the car down by Oakland Cemetery, but he had a
little trouble explaining what the body was doing in the trunk."

"Any history of violence?"

"Not that I know of."

"Seems like a big leap--drunk and disorderly to violent murder, don't
you think?"

Meredith shrugged.  "Who knows?  He might have been

a ticking bomb, just waiting for the right time to blow.  Or maybe
this is the first time he's been caught.  Anyway, we're not here to
psychoanalyze the guy.  All we have to do is convict him--and fast.
Marshall doesn't want any mistakes on this one."

"What's that supposed to mean?"  Laura asked, stung by the implication.
She and Marshall had never fully mended their fences over Laura's last
big murder case, which, in all honesty, she had come close to bungling,
even though everything had turned out for the best in the end.

"Don't get all hurry.  This is politics, that's all.  The primary is
less than three months away and Marshall's running scared.  It's bad
enough to have to face a Republican in November, but now he's spending
all his energy--and his money--running against another Democrat.  He
doesn't need any distractions, and he doesn't want to hand the
opposition any ammunition.  Plus, the victim's family has quite a bit
of pull."

"Who are they?"

"They're from DC.  Dad's an army surgeon--he fixed the president's
hernia a couple of years back.  And Mom is press secretary for some
senator.  They've already been in touch with the mayor."

"Great," Laura said.  "Just what we need--more pressure."  The district
attorney's office, usually a calm backwater as far as the electorate
was concerned, had become a political lightning rod in recent years.
This year, so far, a couple of big cases--none, thankfully, that Laura
had had anything to do with--had been mishandled, and the backlog at
the Superior Court was becoming worse, not better.  A federal judge was
threatening to start releasing inmates from the Fulton County Jail if
the district attorney didn't do something about the overcrowding.  So a
big murder case, with

ties to the Washington power structure, was not exactly what the
doctor ordered.

Meredith sensed Laura's dismay.  "Relax.  This one's a lay-up.  How
many times do you find the perp with the body still in his
possession?"

They were approaching the police station.  "If it's really such a chip
shot, why don't we just offer a plea, and get this one off the radar?"
Laura asked as she signaled a turn.

Meredith paused before she answered.  "No.  It's felony murder, and
Marshall wants it to go all the way."

That meant death penalty.  Laura clamped her lips shut.  Meredith knew
how she felt about Georgia's death penalty.  And Laura knew how
Meredith felt: that it was the law of the state, and that they were
bound to uphold it.  Period.  Usually the death penalty issue just went
away, and Laura wished it would this time.  But she didn't start
arguing with Meredith.  For one thing, it would be pointless, and for
another, they had arrived at their destination.

The zone headquarters was an unlovely building, but functional.  Laura
and Meredith did some practiced badge flashing at the front desk and
were quickly ushered into a room where several cops--some identifiable
by their uniforms, others by their weary demeanors and ugly ties--were
sitting drinking bad coffee.  Carlton--neither weary-looking nor badly
dressed--stood out among them.  "Hey," he greeted Laura and Meredith.
"Glad y'all could make it."  He jerked his head to a door on the far
side of the room.  "He's lawyered up--a public defender showed up about
half an hour ago."

"What did you get out of him before his lawyer got here?"  Meredith
asked.

"Not much," an older detective, one Laura had not met before, replied.
"He's sticking to his story: he found the car

with the keys in the ignition, and he was just trying to return it to
its rightful owner."

Meredith snorted with laughter "That's a good one."  She thrust out her
hand to the detective.  "Good to see you again, Alex.  Do you know my
assistant, Laura Chastain?"

"I haven't had the pleasure," he said, shaking Laura's hand.  "I'm Alex
Devereaux.  I've heard good things about you."

"Thanks," Laura said.  "So what else do we know-what did the medical
examiner say?"

"Not a lot he could say at the scene.  He figured the guy had been dead
maybe forty-eight hours, give or take.  Cause of death was probably
severe trauma--he was beat to shit, the poor guy.  I've frankly never
seen anything like it in thirty years as a cop.  Must've used a tire
iron," he said, glancing at the closed door with sudden fierce hatred.
"The body and the car are on their way to the crime lab.  We won't know
much more for a day or two."

"Has his family been informed?"  Meredith inquired.

"The mayor and the chief are doing that now," Carlton said.  "Mayor
wants a press conference to announce the arrest later today."

Meredith nodded, and gestured at the closed door.  "Who's the
attorney?"

"Some guy I've never seen," Devereaux said.  "Tall, skinny kid.  Must
be new."

Laura had a sinking feeling, which was confirmed a moment later when
the closed door opened and a satisfied looking Avery Daniels entered
the room.  "Everything my client said to you people is inadmissible,"
he said in a warning tone.  "He tells me he asked for counsel right
away, and that he was denied an opportunity to speak to a lawyer for
several hours."

"We called you folks as soon as he asked for a lawyer.  If he was
denied anything, it's because it took you three hours to get here,"
Devereaux replied belligerently.  "As for what he said to us before you
came, you can tell your 'client' that I don't need a lawyer to tell me
what's bullshit-and that's all he gave us."

"My client maintains that he found the car, and that he was attempting
to drive it to the nearest police station so that its rightful owner
could claim it."

The cops hooted in unison.  "Was he going to stop off at church on the
way?"  one of the uniformed officers jeered.  Avery shot him a dark
glance.  "Make light if you will, gentlemen--and ladies--but if my
client tells me that any more of his rights have been violated, you
will be hearing from me.  Now," he said, as if he had successfully
ticked off that item of business," "I see the district attorney's
representatives are here.  I'd like to speak to the two of you in
private, if I may."

"Certainly," Meredith said, raising her eyebrows at Laura.  Laura was
sorry that she wasn't going to have a chance to tell Meredith what she
was up against.  But the boss wouldn't take long to get the measure of
Avery on her own.

The three lawyers were shown into another room, and Avery closed the
door and looked at them portentously.  He nodded curtly at Laura and
looked inquiringly at Meredith, without bothering to introduce
himself."  "I'm Meredith Gaff they," she said.  "Head of the major
cases division.  And you are ... ?"

"Avery Daniels.  I'm with the public defender's office.  Has my client
been charged with anything yet?"  "No, but we'll soon see that he is,
if that's what's worrying you," Meredith answered cheerfully.

"You can file all the charges you want to, Ms.  Gaffhey, because I've
already found so many procedural irregularities in the arrest that your
case will never see the light of day."

"For pity's sake, Avery ..."  Laura began, hoping to get the young
Clarence Darrow to climb down a bit.  Meredith held up a hand, barely
suppressing a smile.  "Would you care to tell me what these violations
are?"  she asked politely.

"Certainly.  You've already heard that he was denied access to counsel,
despite his request for representation.  But even earlier--when he was
arrested--there were serious errors made.  For one, the police officers
failed to properly identify themselves.  For another, my client was not
informed why he was being stopped--"

Meredith interrupted.  "He was stopped because he was driving a car
that the officers knew for a fact was stolen.  You're not trying to
argue that there was no probable cause, I hope?"

"No," Avery said with a serpent smile.  "I am asserting that my client
was stopped on the basis of an anonymous tip received by the police,
and that the tip was insufficiently corroborated."

"Hardly," Laura interjected.  "Possession of the stolen vehicle is way
beyond adequate corroboration, Avery.  This is just nonsense, and you
know it."

Avery became genuinely angry, and for a moment Laura thought he was
going to lose his cool.  "It's not nonsense, and I'm warning you that I
plan to move for dismissal the minute you charge him with anything."

Meredith stood up.  "Thanks for the heads-up, Avery.  I'd like to speak
to your client now--with you present, of course, so you can let him
know when I start trampling his rights."

Avery narrowed his eyes, as if he suspected that he was

being mocked.  But he nodded his assent.  "So long as it's clear that
everything he says is off the record," he said.

"Naturally," Meredith replied.

Avery led them back through the waiting room and into the side chamber
where Roland Jervis sat, attended by a lone uniformed officer.  Laura
guessed that the suspect was in his early thirties, although he looked
much older.  He had the beaten-down look of a man who had lived hard,
and had amazed himself by surviving.  He was tallish--it was hard to
say how tall, since he was seated--and slightly built.  His clothes
were a polyglot combination of designer labels and thrift-store
rejects.

"Good morning, Mr.  Jervis," Meredith said.  She introduced herself and
Laura.  "Are you aware, Mr.  Jervis, that you have been arrested on
suspicion of being involved in the murder of Lawrence Belew?"

Jervis cut his eyes to Avery, who nodded.  "Yeah," Jervis said.  "But I
didn't kill him."

"Then why were you driving his car?"  Laura pressed.

Jervis shrugged.  "Found it.  The keys was in the ignition.  I was
just..."  Avery caught his client's eye and shook his head.  "I was
just going to return it to the police."

"It didn't occur to you to call the police to the scene?"  Meredith
asked.

Jervis's eyes brightened with sudden inspiration.  "Wasn't no phone
anywhere near that place--that's a bad neighborhood, ma'am."

"I see," Meredith said dryly.  "Care to tell me what an upright citizen
like yourself was doing there?"

"I was on my way somewhere.  Passing through."  
"Passing through a bad
neighborhood.  And saw a Lexus.  Tell me, Mr.  Jervis, was Mr.  Belew
very hard to kill?  Did he fight a lot?"

Jervis's head jerked up, and he protested, tearfully, that he had
never seen Belew.

"Of course not.  Not after you put his body in the trunk of the car,
anyway."

Jervis broke down in sobs.  Meredith, so genial most of the time, had
the ability to switch on this tough persona at will.  She could
intimidate confessions out of harder cases than Roland Jervis, and had
done so.  It was a part of the game Laura knew that she'd never be able
to play as well as her boss.  And she didn't want to.  Avery should
stop this now, if he cared about his client.

As if he could read her mind, Avery stepped forward.  "That's enough.
He's got nothing more to say to you people."

Meredith stood and patted Jervis lightly on his shoulder.  "That's
okay. We'll talk again, Roland.  You call me any time," she said. 
Glancing at her watch, she snapped back into her professional
character.  "We'd better be going now--we've got work to do.  It's been
a pleasure meeting you, Mr.  Daniels.  Look forward to seeing you again
real soon."  She walked out of the room, and Laura followed without
glancing back at Avery.

"Book him for felony murder," Meredith said to Devereaux and Carlton,
who were waiting outside.  "And if you can arrest Perry Mason in there
for impersonating a lawyer, that would make me real happy, too."

The cops laughed, and Laura smiled.  Poor Avery--if he thought blowing
his classmates away in moot court meant that he could take on a
Meredith Gaffney, he would soon realize his error.  But it was one
thing to have a laugh at the expense of a jackass like Avery, and quite
another to pretend that the kid could mount an adequate defense of his
client.  Laura said as much to Meredith on the trip back to the
office.

"Listen, Laura," her boss replied.  "I hired you because you're a damn
good lawyer.  And I like the fact that you have a conscience.  But
we're not here to judge the skills of the defense.  There are adequate
safeguards in the system to protect Roland Jervis.  If you don't want
to be a part of this let me know, and I can arrange for someone else to
take on the case."

Laura was taken aback by the harsh tone Meredith used.  "No, that's not
what I want.  It's just that--I've seen Avery in court, Meredith. Can't
you talk to Julia Walton about him?"  Julia had recently been made head
of the public defender's office, and she and Meredith went way back.

"No.  I certainly wouldn't appreciate a call from Julia telling me how
to run my office, and I'm not going to start telling her how to run
hers.  There's a lot at stake here, Laura.  This is not the time for us
to stick our heads up.  We've got a job; we've got to do it.  Capisce?"

"I understand," Laura replied.  But her mind was uneasy.  Roland
Jervis, murderer or not, was about to become a burnt offering on the
altar of Marshall Oliver's ambition.  And that just wasn't right.

Chapter 4

The triumphal press conference to announce the arrest was held at City
Hall East, where Police Chief Charles Sisson's office was located.  The
building--a former department store--was located just to the east and
north of downtown.  It was not a terribly convenient location; that is,
not for anyone but the mayor, who could avoid having to appear at press
conferences like this one by claiming urgent business at his offices in
City Hall proper downtown.

His Honor had reason to avoid the searchlights of the press these days,
as he was rumored to be in the crosshairs of the ongoing federal
investigation into irregularities in the City's contracting practices.
The remote location made it convenient for the busy mayor to skip this
press conference.  But Laura liked the City Hall East building, and
never minded a trip there.  It was an interesting example of adaptive
reuse of a historic building.  And Amos's office was there.

Marshall Oliver, who had arrived early to confer with the chief and
his press team, saw Laura and waved her to his side, behind the podium.
"Where's Meredith?"  he asked.

Laura, accustomed to the district attorney's abrupt style, chose not to
be insulted by the implication that her presence was inadequate.  "She
had to stop at the ladies' room.  She'll be along in a minute."

"What's happened?  Did you get a chance to question the guy?"

Marshall had been in high-level meetings all morning, out of reach even
by the cell phone that never left his side.  While Laura filled him in,
Marshall's eye wandered across the room where the participants were
assembling.  His gaze--and Laura's--fell on a group of four people.
"Are those the Belews?"  Laura asked.  She knew that Marshall, a member
in good standing of the black power elite, would know the family.

Marshall nodded.  "Helen and Martin, his parents, and his sister Diana
and her husband.  This has crushed them, just crushed them.  They're
good folks."

Helen Belew stood slightly apart from the rest of her family, surveying
the room.  Laura recalled that she was a Senate press secretary in
Washington, so this must be a familiar setting for her.  She was a
tall, striking woman, dressed soberly in a navy suit with an
asymmetrical neckline, the kind of suit that every powerful woman in
Washington-and no one else in the world--wore.  Her husband, though
retired from the army, carried his six-foot-plus, muscular frame with
military dignity.  But it was the daughter who wrung Laura's heart. She
was leaning heavily on her husband, and trembling so violently that
Laura could see it from across the room.  "I wonder if she should be
here," she remarked.

Marshall shook his head.  "I doubt they could have kept her away.  She
was exceptionally close to Lawrence."  He shook his head violently.
"What a waste--with all the no damn-good people in the world, why did
that punk have to choose Lawrence?"

"You knew him?"

"Sure.  You knew he wrote our case-assignment software?"  Laura shook
her head, and tried not to raise an eyebrow.  A politically well
connected contractor won a sealed bid?  It was exactly what the FBI was
looking at.  Marshall was continuing, "I don't think Lawrence was all
that interested in politics, but the rest of his family lives for it.
Diana was a political consultant before she had a child.  She and
Julian have two now.  Bright girl, very bright.  She worked for both of
Harrison's campaigns."

"Did she?"  Laura asked, noncommittally.  Mayor Harrison Broad was not
one of Laura's favorites, but no politician had much of a chance of
making it onto her Top Ten list, not even Marshall, on the days when he
was more politico than lawyer, which were occurring more frequently as
the election neared.

"I had better go speak to Helen," Marshall said.  "I'll talk to you
later."

He crossed the room and positioned himself with the Belew family. Laura
was not naive; she knew the value of a grieving relative in a courtroom
or a newsroom, but that didn't mean she liked playing that particular
card.  Marshall wouldn't mind, she reflected.  Not that Marshall was a
cynic.  If he had been a cynic--or maybe a "more able politician" was
the polite phrase--he might have regularly manufactured scenes like
this out of the flimsy fabric of Atlanta's everyday tragedies.  But
Laura knew that Marshall was either too principled or too stubborn to
take advantage of folks

who didn't know the score.  The Belews knew the score.  They knew
there was a closely fought election on the horizon, and if their
interest in getting justice for their son happened to align with
Marshall's need for a little good press, that was the way things
worked.

The conference was about to begin; the doors were opened so that the
assembled dignitaries could file into the larger room where the press
waited.  Laura was always surprised at how many reporters attended
these events, given that she never seemed to be able to get local news
from any source.  But there were five television stations, the morning
and evening papers (which were really one and the same), and a handful
of radio stations represented.  The balance of the crowd consisted of
freelancers and representatives of community papers and the out-of-town
news sources that considered Atlanta worth the effort of reporting.
Laura and Meredith were strictly supernumeraries at this production.
All that was required of them--and of Devereaux and Carlton--was that
they stand behind the speakers at the podium and look solemn.

Chief Sisson went first, reading a statement about the loss Lawrence
Belew represented to the city, followed by the announcement of the
arrest.  Then Marshall took over to reassure everyone that the
perpetrator would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.  Was
there an extent of the law that was less than full, Laura wondered?

All the time she watched the Belews, especially Lawrence's sister.
Although Laura had feared that Diana was close to fainting, she managed
to remain standing throughout the ordeal of hearing the details of her
brother's death, and the identity of his presumed killer, recited over
and over, as the press seemed to require.

Each of the reporters seemed to feel that he or she had

to ask each question, as if it didn't count if he just took notes on
some other guy's question.  And the questions themselves were numbing
in their predictability.  Few of them were even answerable at this
stage--when would the trial begin?  Was the suspect going to plead not
guilty?  On the whole, Laura thought a printed press release would have
accomplished what the press conference did, without traumatizing the
family.  Unless, of course, you considered the intangible benefits of
this public ritual.

Finally, it was over.  The chief' spress secretary stepped up to thank
everyone for coming, and to offer printed handouts listing the names of
everyone who had appeared, and reiterating his boss's statement.
Meredith tapped Laura on the shoulder.
"Marshall wants us to stick
around for a meeting with the family."

Laura nodded, not especially glad to receive the invitation.  "Why?"
she asked.  "We're not that far along yet."

"They know that.  I think they want us to outline what happens in our
system in general, give them a general idea of what they can expect.  I
told Marshall I want you to handle all the pretrial business, so you
should run through that with them.  Marshall and I can talk about the
actual trial procedures."

"Okay.  Where are we meeting?"

"Upstairs in Chief Sisson's conference room.  I have to call the
office; I'll meet you and Marshall there.  Go ahead and start without
me."

Laura followed Marshall onto an elevator, and they rode upstairs in
silence, Laura wondering if Amos was in the building, and if she'd have
time to say hello to him before she had to head back downtown.

The Belew family, the chief, the press secretary, and one or two other
aides were already seated around the table in

a large conference room when Laura and Marshall arrived.  Marshall
explained that Meredith would be along in a minute, and they took their
places at the table.

"Why don't we get started without Meredith?"  the chief suggested.

Marshall frowned.  "Meredith had a phone call to make.  She might be
delayed a while, but she asked me to kick things off.  Laura Chastain,
Meredith's deputy, will handle the pretrial phase.  Meredith and I will
actually argue the case at trial," he said emphatically, sensing that
the Belews wouldn't want the second string handling things, which was
fair enough.  He nodded encouragingly at Laura.

"I can go ahead and give you a feel for the pretrial process--if that's
okay."  She addressed herself to Mrs.  Belew, who commanded the room
effortlessly.  Mrs.  Belew nodded.  "Yes.  You will understand, I hope,
that we don't have any experience in criminal matters.  Our attorney in
Washington will come down to help us, but he tells me that local
practices differ."  "Yes, he's right," Laura said, hoping that Marshall
didn't resent the Belews' arranging oversight of the process.  "There
are a lot of similarities in criminal procedure here and elsewhere, but
there are some quirks in our system.  Let me just start at the
beginning, which may be a little redundant after the press
conference."

Mrs.  Belew conferred permission by a nod of her head.  Man, she's used
to running the show, Laura thought with some foreboding.  But she met
Mrs.  Belew's gaze evenly and continued.  "Roland Jervis, as you know,
was arrested early this morning.  He's no stranger to the system, and
he knows his rights, so--not surprisingly, given the gravity of the
charges--he requested counsel.  As an indigent accused,

he's entitled to representation in Fulton County by a public
defender."  
"Who are the public defenders?"  Diana's husband asked.

Marshall fielded his question.  "The public defender's office is a
county agency under the supervision of the Fulton County Superior
Court."

Dr.  Belew frowned.  "I thought private attorneys had to take turns
defending indigents."

Marshall nodded.  "In some jurisdictions, they do.  But not here.  The
bar association does make attorneys available for complex defenses on a
pro bono basis, but the legal requirement to provide counsel is met by
the public defender."

"So he already has a lawyer?"  Mrs.  Belew asked.

"Yes.  Yes, he does," Laura replied.  And how, she added silently,
thinking of Avery.

"You can't talk to him?"  Mrs.  Belew pursued.

"I'm sorry--to his lawyer or to the defendant?"  Laura asked.

"The defendant."

"Yes, we can talk to him, if he and his counselor agree to it.  We
can't compel him to talk to us, though."

"Have you talked to him?"  "Yes, as a matter of fact we did, this
morning.  He told us the same story he gave the police, with some
embellishment."

"What will his defense be?"  Mrs.  Belew asked, leaning forward.  Her
questions were certainly germane, Laura thought, and belied her
professed inexperience of the criminal justice system.

"I can't say with certainty.  He says that he found the car, that he
never saw your son, and that he didn't know that his ... body"--she
hurried over the word--"was in the

trunk.  We, of course, have the burden of proof, which means that we
must prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Jervis did, in fact, kill
your son."

"How can you do that?"  Dr.  Belew asked, coming suddenly to life and
slapping his palm on the table for emphasis.  "Can you?  Or will his
lawyer use all the goddamn tricks in the book to get him off--how do
you stop that from happening?"

His wife laid her hand on his arm.  "Please, Martin.  The girl is just
trying to explain the process to us."

"Yes," Marshall interjected, while Laura tried on the feeling of being
called "girl."  "We're getting a little ahead of ourselves, into trial
strategy.  We'll have ample time to build our case, and we will--I
promise you--anticipate any stratagem the defense may have up its
sleeve.  Go on, Laura, and talk about what's going to happen next."

Laura resumed her explanation."  "Jervis has been arrested, and charged
with felony murder.  That's the equivalent of first-degree murder in
other jurisdictions.  Our penal code recognizes two murder charges:
felony murder and malice murder.  Felony murder is murder committed
during the deliberate and premeditated commission of a felony.
Premeditation of the murder itself is not necessary--only premeditation
of the crime that results in the death of a victim.  Malice murder is
premeditated murder--where the intent of the criminal was to kill."

"Why not charge him with malice murder?"  Mrs.  Belew asked.

Laura cut her eyes at Marshall, thinking he might want to handle that
one, but he nodded, encouraging her to continue.

She cleared her throat.  "Let me back up and clarify a point: felony
and malice murder both carry the same penalty in Georgia.  Death, or
life in prison without the possibility

of parole.  The felony murder concept--well, to keep it short, if you
set out to prove malice murder in the case of your son's death, we
would have to show that Roland Jervis set out with the express intent
to kill your son.  And that would be hard to do, since as far as we
know your son had never laid eyes on him.  I think--and I hope Marshall
agrees-that it would be nearly impossible for us to prove that he had
targeted Lawrence, or anyone, for death.  On the other hand, we have a
very good case that Jervis was intent upon stealing your son's car,
even at the cost of your son's life.  That we are confident we can
prove, on the basis of the evidence."

"Which is?"  Mrs.  Belew asked.  She was taking rapid notes in a
leather-bound book.

Marshall fielded the question.  "His possession of the car is prima
facie evidence that he committed the crime.  We also expect that the
forensic analysis of the car and Jervis's clothing and effects will
provide more physical evidence.  And the investigation, you should
understand, is continuing.  We hope to introduce witnesses who may have
seen the crime, or who may have seen Jervis with the car."

Laura nodded.  "We can continue to investigate and introduce new
evidence and new witnesses throughout the discovery period--which is,
as the name implies, the pretrial phase in which we construct our case.
And we have to share all our evidence with the defense."  
"And they
with you," Mrs.  Belew stated.

"Yes.  We can't keep a surprise witness in the wings, and neither can
they.  But while all this is going on, there are certain procedures
I'll be overseeing.  Right now, Jervis is in the Fulton County Jail. He
made what we call a 'first appearance' today in front of a municipal
court judge-because he was arrested, you see, in the City of
Atlanta."

"Which," the mayor added," is not the same as Fulton County." 

"Fulton County Superior Court is a division of the Georgia court
system--every felony has to be tried at the state court level, in this
case the Superior Court.  I know that's confusing," Laura said
apologetically. "The whole jurisdictional thing is a product of Georgia
politics--"

"Which we certainly don't want to waste your time on!"  Meredith added
as she entered the room.  "I'm sorry I'm late," she said, as the mayor
made new introductions.

"That's perfectly fine," Mrs.  Belew said.  "Your able assistant has
been giving us a very interesting lesson in Georgia jurisprudence."

"Then I'll let her continue," Meredith said as she took a seat, smiling
apologetically at Laura.

"Okay.  So let's say that Jervis has been bound over to the Superior
Court for trial.  From here, a couple of things need to happen: within
ninety days, he has to have a bail hearing.  He will not get bail," she
hastened to add.  "Then, because it's a capital case, there will most
likely be a probable cause hearing, where the evidence that led to the
arrest and charge is reviewed."

"That's a chip shot," Marshall interjected.  "A formality, really, in a
murder case.  Sorry to interrupt, Laura."

"No problem.  After that hearing, we'll begin preparing Grand Jury
testimony.  He has to be indicted--formally charged--by the Grand Jury
for felony murder."

"Who chooses the Grand Jury?"  Dr.  Belew asked.

"It's the same pool from which trial jurors are drawn," Meredith
explained.  "But they serve a fixed term instead of just serving for a
trial.  There are eighteen of them on the panel, plus five
alternates."

"We present the charges and the evidence against Jervis

to the Grand Jury," Laura said, "and they return a'true bill' of
indictment for felony murder."

"So it's automatic?"  Mrs.  Belew asked.

"Well, not really ..."  Laura floundered.

"It's a virtual certainty, anyway," Meredith said.  "I hate to put it
bluntly, but the Grand Jury is really a tool for the district attorney.
It has an oversight function, to make sure we're not abusing our power,
but it's not charged with deciding guilt or innocence, as a trial jury
does."

"So Jervis can't present his case to them as well?"

Laura, Marshall, and Meredith exchanged glances.  "He can testify
himself, but he can't call witnesses," Marshall said.

"But the Grand Jury can subpoena witnesses," Laura added.  "Although
they rarely do."

Mrs.  Belew put down her pen.  "But are you saying he could get in
there with some sob story, or some fancy technical arguments, and they
could set him free?"

"No!"  the three prosecutors said, almost in unison.  "Not at all,"
Meredith elaborated.  "Even if they didn't return a true bill on the
first pass, we could try again."

"How many times?"  Mrs.  Belew asked.

This woman is fooling with us, Laura thought--she knows criminal law.
It crossed her mind that Helen Belew might be a non practicing
lawyer.

Marshall stepped up to handle the air ball.  "We get two chances.  But,
Helen, I promise you it won't happen that way.  We will indict Jervis,
and we'll do it the first time out.  There will be no surprises."

Mrs.  Belew seemed to accept his assurance, at least for the moment.
"So then the trial--when?"

"Well," Laura said, "there are going to be other pretrial events.  His
lawyer will file motions ..."  Boy, will he, she

added silently, reflecting on Avery's proclivity for complicating
things.  "... and the judge will hold hearings--either in open court or
in his chambers--on those motions.  The trial will take place when
we're ready, unless Jervis exercises his right to a speedy trial, in
which case the trial will take place in the next session of the
Superior Court."

"Which is?"

"Each session is six months, so--given that this session has almost
expired--that would mean before year-end.  If he so requests, which he
probably will not.  He needs time to build his defense."

"It may be to our benefit to wait longer," Meredith pointed out.  "Some
types of evidence take time to prepare-DNA, for one."

Dr.  Belew nodded.  "I see.  So there's not much that we can count on,
really, is there?"

Marshall rapped his knuckles on the polished wood of the table.  "Only
this: that we will get justice for your son."

That seemed to satisfy Mrs.  Belew, who nodded and rose to her feet.
The rest of the family seemed to recognize a signal, and they all rose
along with her.  "Thank you for taking the time to explain things to
us," she said.  "I hope you understand our concerns."

"Of course we do," the chief said soothingly.  "And you know that you
have the mayor's, and the district attorney's, strongest commitment,
too.  We're going to make sure that there are no missteps on this
one."

Laura, Carlton, and Meredith waited behind as the room emptied.  "You
heard the man," Carlton said.  "No missteps."  "I hadn't planned on
making any," Laura replied dryly.  "I wish that goober head Avery would
just cut out the civil rights b.s. and mount a real defense."

"What about your boss's reelection?"  Carlton asked in mock surprise.
"He should appreciate a weak defense lawyer."

"I didn't know you were such a cynic," Meredith answered.  "But it
doesn't matter.  You need a ride back downtown?"  she asked both of
them.  Laura had taken a cab, but she didn't want to leave without
trying to lure Amos out for a late lunch or a cup of coffee.  "I'll
take a cab," she said.

"I've got some business here," Carlton said.

"I'll see you back at the office, then," Meredith said.  "Say in to
Amos for me," she added with a grin.

"Busted," Carlton said as Meredith disappeared down the hall.

Laura smiled.  "Am I that obvious?  I guess so."  She headed for the
stairwell that would take her to the floor where Amos sat, with Carlton
following.  "I have to see somebody, too," he said.

They emerged from the stairwell into an open floor stuffed with desks
and loud with telephones.  Amos's glass-walled office was visibly empty
in the far corner, and she tried to bridle her disappointment.  Maybe
he's just gone off for a few minutes, she thought.

"Hey, Carlton," someone said.  Laura knew before she turned who had
spoken, and she cringed involuntarily.  It was Don Archer, a big blond
bohunk of a cop, and one of Amos's intramural basketball teammates.  He
also happened to be head of the mayor's security detail.

"Hey, man, what's up?"  Carlton asked as he shook Archer's beefy
hand.

"Same old," he replied.  "Looking for Kowalski?"  he asked her. Without
waiting for an answer, he crushed her hopes.  " "Fraid you're out of
luck," he said.  "He's been

called to a scene.  In fact, I hope you don't have plans for dinner,
'cause he may not make those, either.  Another attack out on Bolton
Road," he said in an aside to Carlton.  "Bad scene.  Guy used a box
knife this time."  He glanced at Laura to gauge her reaction.  She
offered none.

Amos said that Laura had a bad attitude about Don, a charge she didn't
even try to defend.  He was everything, in Laura's opinion, that people
hated in cops.  He was crude and thuggish, and took an unsettling
interest in Amos's grislier cases.  In fact, Laura believed that Archer
liked to hang around Amos for the vicarious thrill of hearing about the
latest in sex crimes.  He seemed ill-suited, and an odd choice, for the
sensitive, high-profile job he held.  "You just don't like him," Amos
argued.  "He's in that job because he's extremely well qualified."
Archer was ex-Secret Service, Laura knew, and she appreciated the elite
nature of that force.  If only he would go back to it, preferably in
another city, where she didn't have to socialize with him.

"I have to get back to the office," she said, abrupt in spite of
herself.  "Keep me posted, Carlton," she said.  "See you," she managed
to say to Archer.  As she left, she saw Archer bend his head toward
Carlton, and take the detective by the arm.

Chapter 5

A week went by, a few days' lull while the legal system began to digest
Roland Jervis.  The arraignment and bail hearings went with predictable
smoothness, and the probable cause hearing was on the court docket.  It
was time for Laura to familiarize herself with the evidence that the
court would need before the case could proceed to the Grand Jury.  It
was time to visit the crime lab, in other words.

The headquarters of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation's excellent
crime lab was in Decatur, a pleasant urban town just east of downtown
Atlanta that had so far managed to avoid becoming snarled in Atlanta's
traffic and general bad mood.  Laura was making a trip to the lab by
herself, because Carlton and Alex Devereaux were busy running down some
supposed eyewitnesses.  She would have preferred to have at least one
of them accompanying her, given that they had far more expertise in
analyzing physical evidence than she

did.  But Marshall made it clear that the case had to be top priority
for everyone involved.  So, on Monday afternoon, precisely one week
after Lawrence Belew's body had been found, Laura drove to Decatur.

Her first appointment at the lab was with Scott Butler, a technician in
the latent evidence area.  He had examined the fingerprint evidence in
Belew's car.  Then she had a meeting with Jay Cooper, a forensic
pathologist.  She was looking forward to her meeting with Scott a whole
lot more than her meeting with Jay, which would inevitably involve
autopsy photos.  She hadn't seen them yet, but Carlton had warned her
that they were hard to look at.  She parked and entered the building,
where she signed in and was directed to the technician's office.

Scott, a slightly built sandy-haired man in his late thirties, was
eager to see her--seething with excitement, in fact, at the prospect of
sharing his findings with her.  "Miss Chastain--hi!"  he said brightly.
"Glad you could come.  I'm all set up in here, got some slides to show
you.  Got some interesting stuff!"  The fiber guy would join them
later, he said, ushering Laura into a small conference room that
featured a white screen on one wall.  A laptop computer was set up,
ready to show Scott's slides.

It was marvelous how quickly the technicians had worked, given the
sheer volume of cases they handled as the central lab for the entire
state.  Getting a latent report scarcely a week after the crime was
committed was almost unheard of.  Strings, naturally, had been
pulled--not just by powers in the city, Laura suspected, but in the
statehouse as well.  The Belews knew the governor, too.

"Have a seat over there, where you can see the screen," Scott said, his
excitement barely disguised.  "I've got this all set up."  He dimmed
the lights and hurried to his computer.  "I gotta tell you, this is
strange, real strange.  I don't know what you're gonna think.  Well, I
should just shut up, maybe, and show it to you, huh?"

Laura didn't quite know how to answer that, so she smiled.  Scott
clicked a button on a controller that extended from the computer, and
an image of Belew's goldish tan car appeared on the screen.  "This is
Belew's car--1998 Lexus IS 400, VIN number 1G8JW82R5YY635834.  The car
was brought in here after the on-scene techs secured it.  Now,
normally, there's no way I could get a report to you this quickly, but
the weirdest thing... anyway, here's a shot of the interior."  The
camel-colored interior of the car, like the exterior, was covered with
the greasy powder the police used to lift fingerprints.  Little graphic
arrows on the screen pointed to the steering wheel, the gearshift, the
window switches, and several other places.  "The arrows indicate where
fingerprints were found.  Now, like I said, normally, we would be still
matching the prints through the systems at this time.  Do you know how
we work?"  he hurried on without waiting for an answer.  "We first take
a set of Mr.  Belew's prints from his body.  Those would be what we
would call 'elimination prints."  Because, you see, we would expect to
find Mr.  Belew's prints in his own car."

"Yes, I see," Laura said.  She knew this much, but she didn't mind
hearing it again.  She liked knowing that Scott was thorough and
articulate; he would need to be if he was to testify before the Grand
Jury and later at the trial.

"So, we had Mr.  Belew's prints before we started our analysis.  We
took the prints we found in the car and compared them against his.
Well, what we found was pretty surprising."  He paused for effect, saw
that his audience was hooked, and proceeded.  "Mr.  Belew's prints were
nowhere in the car."

"What do you mean, nowhere?"

"I mean nowhere.  And believe me, we know where to look."  He clicked
again, and a second image of the car's interior appeared, showing the
open glove compartment smeared with powder.  Another click, and an
exterior shot appeared, a close-up of a door handle.  "See, Miss
Chastain, there are places where we would expect to find the owner's
prints--and they are not there.  Think for a minute about how you open
your car door--do you have flush handles?"

"I can't recall--you mean, the kind that are flat against the car door?
Okay, I know what you mean."  She visualized curling her fingers under
the handle before she lifted it.  The door handles on Lawrence Belew'
sLexus were similar to her Toyota's.  "I would leave my fingerprints on
the underside.  You're saying there aren't any there?"

"No.  Not on the driver's-side or passenger-side doors.  And--this is
what really baffled me--there were no prints at all inside the glove
compartment.  Now, if the man had owned the car for over three years,
wouldn't you expect that he had opened his glove compartment?"

"Of course."

"And you wouldn't think that the man wore gloves to drive his own car,
would you?"

"No, I wouldn't."  Laura tried to be patient with Scott's Socratic
method, but she wanted to know where this was heading.  "Are you saying
there were no prints at all in the car?"

"There were prints all right.  Just not Mr.  Belew's.  Let me move on."
He clicked again and some reproductions of fingerprints, enlarged to
giant proportions, appeared."  "These are the prints we did find.  This
is a full set, selected from all that we found.  There were a ton of
them."

"Were you able to identify them?"

"Yes!  That's why I'm able to share all this with you today--all of
these {Hints belong to one individual!"

"And you know who that individual is?"

"It is your suspect, Mr.  Jervis."

"Okay, so this proves that Jervis was in the car--but we already knew
that, I'm afraid.  Still, it's helpful to have the physical
evidence--"

"I don't think you understand what this means, Miss Chastain," Scott
said, shaking his head."  "There are no prints but Jervis's in the
car!"  For emphasis he clicked through a series of photos.  "None of
Belew's prints on the door lock switch!  On the dome light!  On the
turn signal, or the ashtray!  It's as if Belew was never in the car.
And as if he never had any passengers, which I doubt.  But let's say
that Belew actually never did have a passenger in his car, just for
argument's sake.  How many people do we know with absolute certainty
were in that car at one time or another?"

"Two, at least--Belew and Jervis."

"Right!  So what does it mean that only Jervis's prints are in it?"

Good Lord, Laura thought, I'm back in Logic 101.  Okay, if that's how
he wants to play, I'm game.  Good lawyers usually were; some legal
proofs were nothing more than well-constructed syllogisms.  This one
was a cinch.  "It means that someone wiped every surface in the car
that could possibly hold a print.  Presumably Jervis."

Scott threw up a hand.  "Hold on--why would Jervis wipe out traces of
Belew, but leave his own fingerprints everywhere?"

Laura shrugged.  "Maybe it was an attempt to obscure his guilty
knowledge that he had killed the car's rightful owner.  There's no
saying, really.  Someone who kills in order to get a car is not
operating on a logical plane, and his actions

aren't susceptible to logical explanations.  Anyway, we don't need to
explain his actions; we just need to prove beyond a reasonable doubt
that he committed the crime."

Scott looked disappointed that Laura wasn't properly baffled and
astounded.  "But you've got to believe his defense lawyer is going to
ask the question--not to mention why he would carefully clean the
interior of the car, but leave the body in the trunk."

Laura refused to be stumped.  "That's easy--first he cleaned the car,
while he figured out how to dispose of the body.  He must have had some
plan for it.  Maybe he was going to the river, or a patch of Woods, or
out into the country, to get rid of Belew's corpse, when the police
caught him."

"Maybe so, but let me tell you one thing: that car was cleaned by a
pro.  What do you know about this guy Jervis-was he ever in the
military?  Was he ever a cop?"

"He was definitely not a cop, but I don't know about his service
record.  There's at least some probability that he served for a time,
given his age.  He's about the right age for a Gulf War vet."

"I'd check carefully on that, because no civilian could do the kind of
job this guy did.  The military, the spooks, some cops--they all know
to wipe the inside of the glove compartment But not Joe Carjacker.  No,
sir.  Not unless he got taught somewhere along the way.  I give
seminars right here, twice a year, to cops and military police and
intelligence folks, on how to find prints at a crime scene when
somebody's tried to hide them.  And naturally, the inverse applies--if
you know where to look for them, you would know how to scrub a crime
scene so no one can find anything.  This guy could have taken one of my
courses, for all I know."

"I doubt it.  He's a petty criminal."

"Well, whoever cleaned the interior of that car was good--that's all
I'll say.  And here comes of' Tommy Wood to tell you the same thing
about the fiber evidence."

"Which there ain't none of," a gangly man who had just entered the room
said.  "At least, none to speak of."  He introduced himself to Laura
and shook her hand.  "Scott here been sharing his conspiracy theory
with you?"

"I wouldn't call it a conspiracy theory," Laura answered with a smile."
"He gave me a good heads-up on some unusual aspects of the
investigation.  Doesn't change my mind about what happened, though. Are
you going to try?"

"No," he said, taking a seat.  "Sorry I don't have any slides.  You can
turn up the lights, Scott--no need to keep anybody in the dark for what
I'm about to say.  You've dealt with fiber evidence before, I guess?"

"Sure.  It's been a factor in a couple of my cases."

"Then you know it's not an exact science.  When I look at any crime
scene--including a car--I can only make a positive statement about who
was there if I find an unusual fiber, and I can match it to someone who
is suspected of having been there.  It doesn't do you much good for me
to find a unique fiber at a scene if we can't then match it to someone,
or someplace.  On the other hand, it's not really all that helpful for
me to find fibers relating to people we know with certainty were on the
scene.  All that proves is something you already know."

"So you're saying that you found fibers that you can match to Lawrence
Belew and Roland Jervis?"

"Yes and no.  I did find fibers matching the victim's hair and clothes,
but only in the trunk of the car where his body was found.  Not in the
interior of the car.  And I found evidence that Jervis had been in the
interior of the car, but

not in the trunk.  I found no fibers that were unique to Jervis on or
near Belew's body, in fact."

"But that doesn't mean that Jervis didn't put the body in the trunk. It
just means that he didn't leave any fibers," Laura interjected.

"Right.  I can't prove a negative--that he didn't put the body there,
just because he didn't leave fibers.  But by the same token I can't say
positively that he did handle the body."

"Is there any evidence that someone else might have come in contact
with the body?"

Wood shrugged.  "There were a variety of fibers on the body.  Some we
haven't matched off yet to Belew's home, office, colleagues, et cetera.
Could they belong to a third party involved in the crime?  Maybe.  But
in order to say that with any certainty, I'd have to locate a unique
fiber that could be tied to someone who might have been at the scene.
And there's no one else you have in your sights for this one, is
there?"

"No," Laura admitted.  "We're operating on the theory that it was
Jervis alone."

"And I can offer you evidence that Jervis was in the car.  I found
fibers matching the carpeting in his apartment in the victim's
automobile.  I can defend that finding to a jury pretty well, I
think."

"I appreciate that, but as I told Scott, since we found Jervis in
possession of the car, I don't think I need further proof that he was
inside it."

"And you've got to admit," Tommy said, "that it just makes it all the
more likely that Jervis killed Belew and cleaned the car."

Scott shook his head.  "That's where we disagree.  I just don't think
he could have done that kind of a job."

"My poor little paranoid buddy here is always looking for a
conspiracy," Tommy said confidentially to Laura.

Laura laughed, but she was troubled.  If Scott saw holes in the
evidence, others--like Avery Daniels--would, too.  An idea flashed into
her head.  "Either of you guys ever have a car detailed?  I mean a real
hundred-and fifty-dollar job?"

"I drive a Corolla," Wood said dryly.

"So do I, but I had a boyfriend who drove a Bentley.  Twice a year he
had that thing detailed--and those guys went everywhere in that car,
with brushes, cotton swabs, and an industrial vacuum cleaner.  What if
Jervis was a detail man--one of those guys who works Saturdays in
Buckhead at a luxury car wash?  It's a real industry in Atlanta, I'm
telling you--there are guys who spend more time and money on their cars
than they do on their kids.  Maybe Jervis's first instinct on getting a
fine set of wheels was to give it a good cleaning.  We know that Belew
had been dead for a while when we found the car.  Who's to say Jervis
didn't detail the car in the time he drove it before he got caught?"

Scott looked thoughtful.  "You can't say for sure that he didn't.  I
guess it would be up to you to show that Jervis knew how to detail a
car that thoroughly, or that he took it to someone who did.  But I
still come back to his having the body in the trunk the whole time.  It
just seems illogical that he would keep the body but clean the car to
the nth degree."

"I agree that it's illogical, but as I said, so is beating a guy to
death to get his car.  And we know Jervis did that.  So as far as I'm
concerned any bizarre behavior on his part fits an established
pattern."

"The lady's got a point," Tommy Wood said.  "I'm not through with the
fiber analysis, of course.  When I heard you were coming I told Scott I
would give you what I knew

after the first pass.  I'm still hoping to find something that'll tell
us more.  There is one other thing I found that I'm a little hesitant
to bring up."

"What's that?"  Laura asked.

"A button.  A black button, about five-eighths of an inch in diameter,
with some silk threads clinging to it."

"Does it match any of Belew's clothes?"

"No, and it doesn't match anything Jervis was wearing when he was
arrested either."

"Are you saying it could belong to a third party?"  
"No.  I mean, it
could, but there's no way to prove it.  Both Belew and Jervis had
buttons missing from their clothes, but this button doesn't match any
of the other buttons on their clothing.  But that still doesn't mean it
belongs to a third party--it could be a mismatched button one of them
sewed on to replace a lost one.  I've done that before.  Anyway, you
need to get the cops to go through Belew's and Jervis's wardrobes to
see if this button matches anything they owned."

Laura, who had been listening thoughtfully, spoke carefully.  "Even if
you did eliminate all their clothes, you still haven't proved the
presence of a third party."

"But it would be a much stronger possibility," Scott retorted.

"Right," Tommy Wood said.  
"What about the button--can it be traced
back to a manufacturer?"  Scott asked.

"Way ahead of you.  I've sent it to the FBI."

"What, they have a button identification unit?"  Laura asked,
surprised.

"No," he said, laughing, "but they have the resources to look into a
thing like that.  They've sent it on to their New York field office.
Somebody'll take it down to the

garment district and see if they can get a bead on who might have used
buttons like it.  I've got to say, though, that I don't hold out a lot
of hope that they'll come back with anything solid.  It's just a plain
old black button.  Couldn't be more anonymous if it tried."

Laura chewed the end of her pen thoughtfully.  "The silk thread
suggests that it came from a more expensive piece of clothing, doesn't
it?"

"Maybe.  But that just suggests that it was more likely to be Belew's
than Jervis's."

"Where was it?"

"Loose, inside the plastic that wrapped his body.  Could have come out
of his pocket--I've carried a button in my pants pocket when I've lost
it.  Sometimes stays there for weeks at a time.  See, this is why I
didn't bring up the button right away--it's probably meaningless."

"But if I found a third party who might have been involved, and I
found that he was missing such a button ..."

"You'd have yourself a clue."  He glanced at his watch.  "I'd best get
back to work, unless you've got some more questions."

"I appreciate your sharing what you have so far.  You too, Scott--this
has been very helpful to me.  It's like I've been grilled by a good
defense lawyer; now I know where some of the open questions are."

Both men seemed pleased to hear that.  Scott offered to take Laura to
the pathology lab, after Tommy ambled back to his lab.  He didn't offer
to go in with her, however.  "I'm not a big one for the real gory
stuff," he confessed.

' The neither," Laura said, eyeing the door of the lab with misgiving.
"All in a day's work, though, I guess.  Thanks again for everything,
Scott."

Chapter 6

The pathology lab that Scott directed Laura to was in another part of
the building.  She found a door marked pathology, and she opened the
heavy door and peered inside.  There appeared to be no one in the lab.
"Are you looking for Cooper?"  a voice behind her said.

"Yes.  I have an appointment."

"He's probably in his office," said a tall man whose clothes and
bearing said GBI.  "Down that hall, second door on the right."

"Thanks," Laura said, and followed the man's directions.  She found a
door with Cooper's name on it, and tapped on it tentatively.

"Come in," said a midwestern-accented voice.

Laura entered the pathologist's office, a cluttered and unattractive
cell furnished with gray metal desks and file

cabinets.  Jay Cooper was sitting behind the desk, his face blueish
from the reflected light of his computer screen.

"I'm Laura Chastain with the Fulton County District Attorney's office.
You spoke on the phone to Detective Hemingway, I believe, about the
Belew case."

"Yes.  I was expecting him.  Where is he?"

"He couldn't make it, but I didn't want to put this off.  I have
testimony to prepare for the Grand Jury."

"Oh.  Well, then," Cooper said without enthusiasm.  "I haven't written
up my report.  It's only been a week," he said accusingly.  "I'm not
prepared to testify until I've completed my report."

"I don't need you to testify.  Carlton Hemingway or his partner can
present the forensic evidence to the Grand Jury.  I can take notes on
your report, but I will need it in final form.  How much longer do you
anticipate it will take?"

Cooper shrugged.  "I don't know.  Some of the toxicology won't be back
until next week."

"Is the toxicology important?"

"Maybe, maybe not."

Laura was at a loss to explain this man's sullen demeanor, especially
after the cheerful crime-fighting bonhomie displayed by Scott and
Tommy.  She had interviewed defendants who were easier and more
pleasant to talk to.  Cooper wore an unchangeable bland expression on
his face, but he was, Laura suspected, enjoying busting her chops for
some private reason.

"Look, Dr.  Cooper, I have a job to do and I need your help.  I need a
few basic facts: how and when did Lawrence Belew die?"  
"How he died I
can tell you.  When is a matter of opinion.  I can give you a range of
time, that's all."

"That's fine."

Cooper sighed and opened a file on his desk.  "This is a transcription
of my autopsy notes.  Again, not in final form, but I'll read them to
you.  "Subject is black male, thirty-two years old, six feet tall,
weighing one hundred and ninety pounds."  Then there are some
identifying characteristics-moles, scars, etcetera.  They're not
important, because we had a positive ID by a family member."

"That's okay.  Skip ahead to his injuries and the cause of death."

Cooper ran a finger down the page.  He cleared his throat and began to
read.  " "External examination reveals multiple contusions and
lacerations to chest, head, and extremities.  There are abrasions on
the palms of the hands, consistent with an effort to break a fall onto
a hard surface, and additional scraping evident on the elbows. 
Multiple facial injuries, including cuts on both lips.  One ear is
partially detached."  " Laura cringed, but Cooper didn't look up from
his report. " "X-ray examination reveals multiple fractures of the
ribs, collarbone, and skull, with inter cerebral bleeding."  " He
looked up. "You want specific locations of the fractures?  I counted
forty-six."

"You can skip ahead a bit," she said.

"Okay, internal examination--the right lung was punctured by one of the
broken ribs, and there were contusions to the internal organs,
particularly the liver and kidneys, with internal bleeding resulting
from the injuries."

"Was that the cause of death?"

"No, probably not.  He didn't really have time to bleed out from the
thoracic and abdominal injuries.  I would say he went quickly, from the
head injury."  He referred to his report.  "The skull was fractured,
accompanied by inter cerebral hemorrhage.  I'd say that's your cause of
death, right there.  Of course, if he hadn't had the head injuries, he
might

not have survived the abdominal trauma.  Hard to say.  But what is it
you lawyers look for--proximate cause?  Well, that's the head
injury."

"Any idea what inflicted the injuries?"

"Hard to say--I'd guess fists and feet."

"You mean someone beat him to death barehanded?"

"It appears that way.  Of course, the injuries were repetitive --there
could have been some blunt instrument involved.  There were bruises on
bruises.  Hard to say what caused them.  Here," he said, pulling out a
sheaf of photos and tossing them toward Laura.  "You can see for
yourself.  He was pretty well beaten into a pulp."

Laura took a quick glance at the top photo, and immediately looked
away.  "Who ID'd the body?"  she asked.

"His brother-in-law, I think.  Yes, Julian Arnold, it says here.
Married to Diana Belew, the sister of the deceased."  
"You say whoever
did this might have used a blunt instrument?"

"Might have, to inflict some of the injuries.  He probably didn't need
to, he did such a good job with his hands.  It was the kicking and the
stomping that really took the toll, though.  See here?"  he said,
pulling a photograph from the pile and pointing to a mark on Belew's
torso.  It was easier to look at than the photo of his face that had
turned Laura's stomach, but still horrific.  "There's a semicircular
impression there, one of the few clean marks I was able to isolate.
Could have been the heel of a hard-soled shoe that made it, or
something else.  I'm inclined to think it was a shoe."

"Can you get any idea of what size the shoe was?"

"From a heel impression?  Don't know--you'd have to ask one of the
geniuses out there," he said, making a vague

gesture that encompassed the entire crime lab.  "There's probably one
of these guys spending his life on footwear identification."

Laura frowned, and introduced a new topic.  "What about time of
death--can you pin it down at all?"

"Well, yes and no.  There are certain signs, like livor and
putrefaction, that can give a general idea.  But I can't be too exact.
As a matter of fact, there were a couple of aspects in this case that
didn't quite tally."

"Like what?"  Laura asked.

"Take what we know about the time frame.  The guy is last seen leaving
his office on a Friday evening, and his body is found in the trunk of
his car late Monday night, or in the wee hours of the morning on
Tuesday."

"Right."

"That gives you the earliest time of death possible as sometime Friday
evening, or approximately eighty hours before the body was found.  If I
assume that he walked out of his office Friday and ran straight into
the guy who killed him, I would expect a couple of things to be present
eighty hours later--advanced livor, and signs of decomposition."

"What did you find?"

"That livor was more or less consistent with the victim having been
dead for less than forty-eight hours.  And I looked at putrefaction. In
this weather, we would expect the corpse to begin showing signs of
decomposition fairly rapidly.  If indeed the body was in the trunk of
that car for the entire weekend, there would have been early signs of
decay--possibly the presence of insect contamination."

"I take it there was none."

"Not to the extent I would have predicted.  Of course, he was wrapped
in plastic, which would have minimized insect

exposure," he mused.  "So you see, there are a couple of contradictory
factors at work that make it harder than usual to pin down an
approximate time of death.  There are some that support a decease early
in the time frame.  Some were consistent with a decease later in the
period."

"Could he have been ... stored?"

"It might be possible to conclude that the body had spent some time in
a place that was presumably cooler than the trunk of that car, yes. And
also not exposed to insect contamination.  It's a possibility worth
considering," Cooper added, speaking blandly and without interest.

"But what would that do to your ability to determine time of death?"

He shrugged.  "Not much, really.  It broadens out (he time frame a
little, but dead is dead.  You die, your heart stops pumping, the blood
pools.  Decay sets in, but not on an exact schedule.  I sense that
you're trying to get me to commit to something here," he said
accusingly.

"No, I'm not.  I shouldn't need any testimony at all about the time of
death, because the defendant--so far--hasn't raised an alibi defense.
My concern is that there are some inconsistencies--anomalies,
actually--in the other physical evidence.  That makes me
uncomfortable."

"That's too bad.  But it's not my job to make lawyers comfortable.  And
if you don't mind, I do have other work to do."

Startled by his sudden rudeness, Laura rose hastily to her feet.  "Of
course," she said.  "Forgive me for taking up so much of your time
trying to solve a brutal murder.  I'll show myself out--don't bother.
You've been really helpful."

What an ass, she thought as she strode down the corridor.  Okay, so the
man didn't write poetry for a living, but a little more professional
courtesy wouldn't have killed him.  As

she turned the key in her car's balky ignition, it occurred to Laura
that the whole damn town was in a bad mood.  She was glad that she had
a date with Amos--whatever they were putting in Atlanta's water system
these days didn't seem to affect him.

Chapter 7

There were two cars in Amos's driveway when Laura arrived.  One, a
sleek Mitsubishi, was unfamiliar to her.  The other, asteroidal Ford
pickup truck in a livid shade of red, was all too well known.  She
almost drove on past the house and headed home, forgoing her date with
Amos in order to avoid further contact with Don Archer.  But a date
with Amos was worth a little irritating contact with Don.

She pulled to the curb and parked, quickly running a comb through her
hair and dabbing on some lipstick.  She left her overnight bag
discreetly in the backseat, knowing that the sight of the bag would
bring on one of Archer's salacious smirks, and maybe even a clever
remark.  Slamming the car door a little harder than usual, she started
up the walk to Amos's bungalow.

She heard voices in the backyard, so she didn't bother opening the
front door with her key--just as well, because

she didn't care to have Archer know she carried one, the fat headed
jerk.  She schooled her face into a polite smile as she rounded the
corner.

Amos, Archer, and a third man were sitting on his flagstone patio,
drinking beer and wearing gym clothes.  Archer, to Laura's disgust, was
shiftless, with far less justification than Amos, who was very well
built, and the third guy, who was actually quite a looker.  "Hi," she
said in a voice that she hoped wouldn't communicate her annoyance at
finding Don there.

Amos rose to his feet and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.  "I
forgot we had a basketball game this afternoon," he explained.  "I'll
shower before we go out."

"It's okay," she said.  "Hello, Don."

"Laura," he said, with a nod, managing in the two syllables to intimate
that he knew exactly what she and Amos were going to get up to later.
His eyes grazed her entire body, making her blazer and knee-length
skirt feel as revealing as pasties and a thong.  
"Have you met Darryl
Michaels?"  Amos asked, directing her attention to the other man.

"No, I haven't."

Michaels rose to his feet and extended his hand, managing to keep his
gaze focused only on her eyes.  He was as tall as Don, and blond, too,
but the two couldn't have been more different in their manners. "Hello,
Laura.  I've heard that you're a force to be reckoned with down at the
courthouse."

Laura laughed politely.  "I don't know about that.  I try to do my
little bit--you guys catch 'em, I just clean 'em."

"Darryl's not a cop," Archer said.

"Not anymore," Michaels amended.  "But I like to think I still wear a
white hat."

"Darryl runs a security business," Amos explained.  "He and Don are
old Secret Service buddies."

' I'm trying to talk this guy into signing on for some part time work,"
Michaels said, indicating Amos with a nod of his head.  "I could use
him."

"No sale," Amos said.  "When I get off work, all I want to do is come
home.  Working another shift has zero appeal to me."

"Jeez, it's not like he wants you to direct traffic, Kowal ski," Archer
interjected.  "Sitting courtside at the Hawks game ain't exactly combat
duty, bud.  I'd do it in a heartbeat if the mayor would let me," he
said wistfully.  "He's got a no-moonlighting policy for my squad."

"My clients are mostly celebrities," Michaels explained for Laura's
benefit.  "I go where they go, which is sometimes fan.  Sometimes,
frankly, I'd rather be at Peach tree and Piedmont, directing
traffic."

"Exactly," Amos said.  "I wouldn't mind an occasional gig at the
stadium, but I'm not interested in trailing around after some guy ten
years younger than me and fifty times richer, trying to stop women from
tearing his clothes off."

"Sure, easy for you to say, when you can get your own clothes torn off
without leaving home," Archer said in an attempt at ribald humor.

"I guess we should be shoving off," Michaels said in the silence that
followed Don's leaden joke.  "It was a pleasure meeting you, Laura," he
said.  "And, Kowalski, if you change your mind, here's my card.  Always
looking for new talent."

As soon as she heard their cars pull away from the house, Laura
vented."  "That guy--why do you let him hang around with you, Amos?
He's such a creep."

"Who, Don?  He's got some good points.  I don't know why you don't
like him."

"He's a goon, and I don't like the way he looks at me."  
"He doesn't
mean any harm.  He thinks you're cute, that's all."

Laura snorted.  "How would he know whether I'm cute or not?  He's never
looked higher than here."  She indicated her chest.

"Okay, so he's not the smoothest guy in the world.  But I don't think
he has a lot of luck with women.  You probably make him nervous."

"Sure, he's really nervous around me.  I am around him, anyway.  I
can't even begin to imagine what's going through his head."

"Nothing that doesn't go through mine from time to time," Amos said
with a mock leer.

"Cut it out.  As a lecher, you're not even in his league.  I'd be
willing to bet that he has an absolutely encyclopedic porn
collection."

Amos laughed.  "When you take a dislike to someone, you really take a
dislike, don't you?"  
"Not without reason, I hope.  Anyway, enough
about Don Archer.  How was your day?"

He shrugged.  "It was a day."  The tone of his voice was even, but he
cut his eyes away as he answered.  That was a bad sign; anything might
have happened, but Laura knew that it wouldn't do her any good to
pursue the matter.  He would just clam up more tightly.  "Are you too
pooped to go out?  We can stay in if you'd prefer."

"No, I just need to take a quick shower and change.  Grab yourself a
beer and I'll be ready in a flash."

Laura did as instructed, and wandered into the living room with her
beer.  She browsed through Amos's CDs and picked

"The Swingin' Miss D" to install on his freakishly complicated stereo.
Dinah Washington was a musical taste--like Joe Williams and Anita
O'Day--that Laura had developed since she and Amos had been spending
time together.  It was an improvement over the shoe-gazing British pop
she had favored since college, although she did have to hinge on
Radiohead from time to time.

She didn't feel like sitting, so she circled the room while she
listened.  One wall of the room was lined with bookcases that, to
Laura's eye, seemed a little barren.  Amos wasn't much of a reader;
what books he had tended to be biographies and military history--which
was fine, Laura told herself.  Not everyone has to read.  And look at
everything else Amos could do--he could build or fix anything, and that
was nothing to take for granted.  Most men his age, Laura's own
brothers included, couldn't drive a straight nail, and as far as fixing
the cars they drove--forget it.  But Amos could do just about anything,
from grouting to wiring.  It was a shame that he didn't take the same
pleasure that she did in a good book, but it wasn't the end of the
world.  As Laura's mother had said--she had taken one of her shines to
Amos--"Who cares?  You can join a book club if you want to talk about
literature."

"Ready?"  Amos asked.  Laura turned and saw that he had entered the
room without her noticing, his hair still wet from the shower.

"Sure.  What are you in the mood for?"

"Anything, as long as we can walk to it.  I'm too tired to fight for a
parking space."

"Sure you wouldn't prefer to stay in?  We could order pizza."

"I'm not in a pizza mood.  Or Chinese, either."

"Okay.  Let's just go to Atkins Park and get a burger."

She retrieved her purse from the sofa, but as she heaved it onto her
shoulder, a beeper went off.  "Uh-oh.  One of us is beeping."

"Not me," Amos said.

She was relieved.  Pages for Amos were always devastating to evening
plans.  Hers, on the other hand, could usually be disposed of with a
phone call.  She checked the tiny screen.  "It's Carlton.  I forgot to
call him.  Do you mind?"

"Knock yourself out."

She dialed the familiar number; the detective picked up almost
immediately.  "Hey, Carlton.  Sorry, I forgot to call you."

"That's okay.  I tried your office, but they said you never came back
after you went to the crime lab."

"Well, I had some plans, and it just didn't make sense to go all the
way back into town--"

"Busted!  You're at the lieutenant's, aren't you?"

"Maybe.  So what's up?  Did you interview the witness?"

"Witnesses, baby--we got two for the price of one."

"Oh?  Who are these concerned citizens?"

"Couple of guys who were hanging out with Roland Jervis the weekend
Belew was killed.  He offered one of them a ride in a Lexus on Saturday
night,"

"So they saw him with the car?"

"No, but they described it, the way Jervis described it to them."

Laura's excitement ebbed.  "That's interesting, but it doesn't
contradict any part of Jervis's story, except the time frame.  He says
he didn't find the car until Monday."

"But that's not all they said.  When they told him they didn't believe
him, he started bragging on how he'd jacked the car."

"But they never actually saw it?"

"What do you want?  I'm serving up some double corroborated hearsay
and you act like I've stepped in doggie doo.  What do I have to do to
impress you, lady?"

"I'm plenty impressed.  I'm just thinking ahead to what the defense is
going to do to them.  I'll have to interview them myself."

"No problem.  I can get them in here anytime."

"Get them in tomorrow morning, then--say around eleven.  I'll have a
nice chat with them."

"I'll do it.  I already faxed their statements to your office.  You,
uh, want me to bring you copies tonight?"  "No, I can survive a few
more hours without them.  I'll see you in the morning."  She hung up
and looked apologetically at Amos.  "Sorry.  It's the Belew case. 
Carlton and Alex Devereaux found some witnesses.  I meant to call Carl
ton earlier, but seeing you must have distracted me."

"You're such a liar."

"Cut me some slack.  I do honestly have a lot on my mind.  I've got a
bad feeling about this whole case.  I mean, the mayor and the victim's
family offer a reward, and-surprise!--you get witnesses.  I can't wait
to meet these two."

"I can't wait to meet my dinner.  Let's get going; you can tell me all
about it on the way."  He looked down at her feet and gestured at her
sling-back pumps.  "Nice shoes.  Can you walk in them?  I mean, on the
sidewalk?"

"Let me change into my flats--oh, shoot, I left my bag in the car."

"I'll get it for you," he said.

"No, that's wasted motion.  We can stop there on the way out."

Amos leaned on the car while she changed into more

appropriate footwear.  "I didn't even ask you how your day went," he
remarked.

"About par for the course," she said.  "I went to the crime lab to
review the physical evidence in the Belew case.  I've got to pull
together the testimony for the Grand Jury pretty quickly."

"How's it looking?"

Laura stood up and locked the car door.  "I don't know.  To be honest,
some of the stuff I heard today made me kind of uneasy."

"How so?"  he asked, taking her hand.  They began to stroll off in the
direction of the restaurants of the Virginia Highland neighborhood.

"You don't want to talk shop, do you?"  she asked, hoping that he
would encourage her to do just that.  She wanted his opinion, because,
in addition to his many other skills, Amos was a fine cop.  She liked
getting his viewpoint on things.  He shrugged.  "I don't mind.  What
did Carlton and Alex Devereaux have to say?"

"Nothing.  They were running down those eyewitness, so they didn't go.
They'll go tomorrow.  Anyway, I went on out there by myself and talked
to the lab techs and the pathologist.  One of the technicians didn't
think that evidence added up."  She described Scott's reservations, and
the peculiarity of the fingerprints that weren't in the car.  "And then
I talked to the pathologist who did the autopsy.  He was a big jerk."

"What does that have to do with the case?"

"Nothing.  Just describing the scenery for you a little.  Anyway, he
was pretty vague about the time of death."

"It's hard to be exact about time of death in anything but the most
ideal circumstances.  Like when you have a tight time frame to work
with."

"Which we certainly don't in this case.  I understand that pathology
isn't magic, but it's not helpful that he's so wishy washy on the time
of death when the latent evidence is contradictory, too."

"Seems to me you're working pretty hard to undermine your own
evidence," he remarked.

"I'm not undermining it; I'm testing it.  It has to stand up to some
pretty tough scrutiny."

"A Fulton County Grand Jury?  That's not exactly a three point shot,"
he said dryly.

"I give our good citizens a little more credit than you do,
evidently."

"But there's nothing that exonerates Jervis in what you told me.  Just
get the indictment and worry about the details later.  That's what you
guys usually do, isn't it?"

"Never mind whether justice is served or not."

"Is that the goal?  I thought reelecting Marshall Oliver was the object
of the exercise."

"Maybe for Marshall.  I want to get to the truth."

"Okay, so what's standing in your way?"

"Just those pesky facts.  And the suspect--you haven't met Roland
Jervis, but if you had you'd hardly peg him as a criminal
mastermind."

Amos laughed.  "I don't need to meet him to know that.  I mean,
cleaning the victim's prints from the car and leaving his own--come on.
 Sounds to me like he's a candidate for the stupid criminal file."

"Do you really think anyone's that stupid?  And whoever cleaned that
car was smart enough to wipe the inside of the glove compartment.  And
the dome light, and every other surface in there."

He shrugged.  "The guy killed someone for a car.  He's

not firing on all his cylinders.  Better look out for an insanity
defense."

"I'm already dealing with an insane defense lawyer.  But seriously,
Amos, how would he know how to clean a car like that?"

"How should I know?  Maybe he used to detail cars or something."

Laura smacked him on the shoulder in delight.  "That's what I said! I'm
getting better at this, aren't I?  I'm going to find out, of course, a
lot more about Jervis.  But what if he didn't work the Buckhead
car-care circuit, okay?  What then?"

"Okay, Laura, how many tunes have I told you not to get ahead of
yourself?  Do I have to remind you what's happened when you start
developing theories?  Once you get an idea in your head, you know what
you do--you make all the facts fit that theory."  
"That's not fair.  I
have to question everything, from every angle.  That's what the defense
is going to do.  Or at least," she amended, "that's what he's supposed
to do, the little yutz.  Anyway, I have to consider the possibility
that Jervis is telling the truth, that he had that car for only a very
short time, and that person or persons unknown killed Belew, cleaned
the car, and left it where some idiot like Roland Jervis would find
it."

"Ahh, there it is--the conspiracy theory.  I've been waiting for it to
come out."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing.  I just know what you're about to say."  He lowered his voice
and said in a portentous voice, "Who could have cleaned the prints from
that car?  Who, but a cop?  Don't look at me like that--you know it's
what you

were thinking.  You always think there's a crooked cop behind every
unexplainable fact."

Laura started to say "inexplicable," but thought better of it.  "You
are so wrong.  That's not what I was thinking at all."

"So what were you thinking?  Spies?  A rival clan?  Extraterrestrial
beings?"

Laura dropped his hand and stopped walking.  "What's eating you?  I
don't think a damn thing, except if that poor loser had a half-decent
lawyer, I might not be able to get an indictment.  All I want to say is
that there's something wrong with the picture.  I thought you might
help me hash it out, but just forget it.  I'm sorry I brought it up."

"No, I'm sorry.  I had a crappy day, and I shouldn't be taking it out
on you."

He seemed sincerely distressed, or as distressed as Amos was likely to
get.  Laura took his hand again.  "What happened?"

He shook his head.  "They found a girl's body today, some runaway.
Probably forced into prostitution.  It was pretty bad."

"Tortured?"

He nodded.  "But she didn't have any political connections, so it won't
make the papers."

"That's just cynical, and you know it.  People do care.  I care."  She
put her arms around him, and rubbed the small of his back "I wish you
had another job.  I wish we both did."

He managed a small laugh.  "Then who would save the world?"

She smiled up at him.  "Captain Justice and his sidekick Tort-Girl to
the rescue."

Equilibrium restored, they were able to enjoy lighter conversation over
dinner and the walk home.  "You forgot to leave any lights on," Laura
remarked as they neared the house.

"There's still plenty of daylight left," Amos replied.

"For the nocturnal lemurs of Madagascar, maybe, but I can't see a
thing.  Ow," she added for emphasis as she stumbled on the steps.

Amos didn't answer as he unlocked and opened the door.  Laura followed
him into the darkened living room.  "We don't need no stinkin' light,"
he said.  "Not for what I've got in mind."

"I guess we're not going to play Scrabble, huh?"  she said.

"Nope," he said, and he pulled her into his arms.  "Not unless you
insist," he added, gently tugging her blouse from the waistband of her
skirt and bending to kiss her.

"I kind of had my heart set on it," she said, when she could come up
for air.  "But I'll adjust."

Chapter 8

"What in the name of God is this?"  Meredith held the blue-jacketed
sheaf of paper at a safe distance, dangling it by a corner as if she
feared it might carry a legal contagion.  Laura recognized the work
product of Avery Daniels that she had left on her boss's desk an hour
earlier.  Avery, having failed to prevail at the probable cause hearing
the previous day, had a new angle.

"That?  Why, that's the product of one of our finest law schools,"
Laura answered.  "You're not impressed by the finely honed legal
arguments contained therein?"

"I haven't made it out of the preamble yet, and he's got everything but
Marbury versus Madison in there.  What's he trying to do?"  She plopped
into a chair across from Laura's desk and shoved her half-glasses onto
the top of her blond head.

"How should I know?  You've met Avery Daniels, boy

attorney.  Are you saying you're not dazzled by the sheer brilliance
of his argument?"

"Does he have an argument in here somewhere?"  Meredith asked, rattling
the pages impatiently."  "I don't have time to find it, if there
is--I'll be collecting my pension before I get through all this
nonsense.!"

"Of course there's an argument.  If I may direct your attention to
Section Four, sub-paragraph two 'b," you will see that counsel for the
defense is moving for dismissal based on--hold your breath--the grounds
that the arrest violated the Fourth Amendment of the Constitution."

"Do tell.  How did our local jackboots trample the rights of the
citizenry this time?"

"You need only read Avery's extensive brief--"

"Oh, no, I won't--that's what you're paid to do."

"Then let me summarize for you: racial profiling.  It is the argument
of the defense that Roland Jervis was stopped and questioned because he
was, in short, a black man driving a luxury automobile.  Never mind
that there was an all-points bulletin issued alerting the police to be
on the lookout for that particular car, and its owner, who happened to
be a black man."

Meredith tossed the motion onto Laura's desk.  "How stupid is this
kid?"

"He's not stupid at all.  Just inexperienced and a little bit of a
show-off.  His argument turns on the point that the all points bulletin
initially issued on the car gave an incorrect license plate number.  So
the car Jervis was driving-- Belew's car--was not the car described by
the APB.  Ergo, the only reason the police stopped this particular
Lexus was that there was a black man behind the wheel."

"Is the judge going to buy it?"  
"No.  For one thing, the APB was
corrected, very quickly,

and A very fails to prove that the arresting officers had not seen the
corrected plate number.  For another, I can make a case--if I have
to--that the description of the automobile was in itself sufficient to
warrant the stop."

"How do you figure that?"

"I made a quick call to the cops, to ask if any other officers stopped
any other tan Lexuses ... Lexii?  What would you say?"  Meredith
shrugged, and Laura continued.  "Anyway, a number of cars matching the
description were stopped.  Some of them even driven by white guys, and
one by a white woman.  So there goes the argument that there was racial
animus on the part of the arresting officers."

"So why even put this thing forward?  He's just wasting the court's
time."

"He would disagree.  He clerked for an appeals court, in Virginia, I
think, and he saw arguments like this one getting traction with the
judges.  What he lacks is trial experience, where this kind of
argument... Put it this way: even you "or I would throw it at the wall
if we didn't have anything more substantial.  But it's a moot point,
because it is as flimsy as the paper it was printed on, not to mention
that there's plenty of substantial stuff Avery could be using."

"Like what?"

"The physical evidence.  It's ... troubling.  And the time line is
weak.  We can only tie Jervis to the car on Monday, and the pathologist
at the crime lab seems to think that the death probably occurred much
earlier.  So where was the car before Monday?  And where was Jervis? We
don't know."

"That's not what I hear.  I hear that we have two witnesses who can tie
Jervis to the car as early as Sunday afternoon, hours before he says he
'found' it."

"So they say.  Have you read then- statements?"

"Yes.  Do you have a problem with them?"  Meredith asked, one brow
cocked quizzically.

"No, no--I just need to see them, talk to them, that's all.  If Aveiy
comes after them, I have to make sure they're going to stand up to it."

"Well, I don't see any evidence that the defense is concentrating on
the weaknesses in our case.  He's too busy trying to get appointed to
the Supreme Court."

Laura laughed.  "He's not an idiot.  This is just his first shot across
the bow, his bid to impress us with his legal acumen."

"I'm overwhelmed, anyway.  That's not quite the same as being
impressed, of course.  It seems to me that he's conceding the trial and
Grafting grounds for appeal."

"I think you're right.  In the meantime, though, whether he's ready or
not, he's got to try the case.  And he's got to go though me to win it.
So don't worry, boss."

"Oh, I'm not worried.  Who's hearing the motion?"

Laura rolled her eyes.  "Judge Root.  He's already had one run-in with
Avery.  I just hope he doesn't kill him this time."

"No, we certainly don't want to prosecute that one.  When's the motion
hearing?"

"Tomorrow morning."  Laura looked at her watch.  "In the meantime, I'm
due to meet our two eyewitnesses.  Want to come along?"

' Til pass.  I've got a meeting with Marshall.  By the way," she said
as she rose from her chair, "you do remember about the thingie tonight,
don't you?"  
"What thingie?  Oh, that," she said with a sigh.  There
was a fund-raiser for Marshall's campaign, and the attendance of all
his loyal employees was strongly suggested.  "I'll be there."

"Is Amos coming?"

"Are you kidding?  He hates things like that He announced that he has
to plane the bottom of the bathroom door, because it's sticking.  It's
apparently very urgent, and must be done tonight between the hours of
six and nine p.m. So, in short, I'm stag."

Meredith laughed.  "My beloved husband managed to get called out of
town, so I am, too.  Who knew that the ultimate result of thirty years
of feminist struggle would be that we get to do the boring stuff?  I'll
see you there."

An hour later, Laura realized that, if she didn't get under way, she
would be late for her meeting with Carlton, Alex Devereaux, and the two
witnesses.  She gathered up some papers and threw them in a briefcase,
updated her voice mail announcement, and hurried to the downtown
command where Carlton and Devereaux had arranged for her to meet the
witnesses.

Carlton met her and ushered her toward the interviewing rooms.  "We've
got them in separate rooms, so you can talk to them one at a time."

"Did they come in together?"

"No, they didn't.  They say they don't know each other."

"So they each heard Jervis brag on the car-jacking separately?"  Laura
said, her voice tinged with doubt.

"Yes.  You sound like you don't believe they're for real."

"No, not at all.  I'll reserve judgment until I talk to them.  One
question, though: in the statement that one of them made--I think it
was Albert Jackson--he says he ran into Jervis at the pool hall on
Saturday.  I take it that the pool hall in question was not a legally
licensed operation?"

Carlton laughed.  "The place he's referring to is technically
classified as a 'private club," so they can skirt the liquor-licensing
laws.  Every so often somebody gets stabbed or shot in the parking lot,
and it gets shut down for a while,

but it's pretty much a fixture.  When you live in a neighborhood like
that you've got to have someplace to go to blow off steam."

"I understand, but I'm worried about the character of the witnesses."

"They're both sleaze bags all right, but I wouldn't worry too much
about it.  It's not like you would expect Jervis to have come across
them at church or anything."

Laura shook her head.  "Okay, I guess.  Let's get it over with."

Carlton led her into the first room, where a slightly built black man,
maybe in his late forties or early fifties, was seated at a table.  He
smiled genially at her, greeting her as if this were a delightful
social visit.  "Mr.  Jackson?"  she

"No, miss, I'm Jermaine Clay."

"Okay, Mr.  Clay.  Tell me what you told the police about Roland
Jervis."

"Well, like I tell them, I met him on a Saturday, 'bout lunchtime.  We
was, uh, at the social club down there on the Bankhead Highway.  He
comes in, and he's talking to one or two of the fellas.  I was just
listening, you understand."

"Did you know Jervis?"

"No, ma'am, I didn't.  Somebody told me his name, though."

"I see.  And what did he say to the fellas?"

"He was bragging on his car.  He say he has a Lexus, but the fellas
don't believe him.  They want to know where is the car, you know."

"Naturally.  What did he say to that?"  "He say he don't like to drive
it to a place like that where all kind of trash can mess with it.  He
say he keep it where he stays at, but that soon everybody going to see
him driving

that car.  The boys, they all laugh at that, and that make him real
mad.  He say we don't want to be messing with him like that, 'cause
he's bad to lose his temper and all that" Clay frowned and shook his
head.  "I didn't talk to him no more after that, 'cause I had to go
home then."

"And did you see Jervis with the car at any time?"  
"No, ma'am, I
never did see that car.  He did tell what it look like, though, so when
I hear the police was looking for somebody who 'jacked a tan Lexus, I
thought I ought to tell them what I heard Roland say 'bout that car."

"Did you know that there was a reward for information about the car,
and its driver?"

Clay cut his eyes at Carlton, who remained impassive.
"Yes, I knew
that.  But I would have come to them anyhow."

"Very public-spirited.  Thank you, Mr.  Clay.  Did the detectives tell
you that you would be required to tell this story to a Grand Jury?"

"They said I would have to go to court, and that I shouldn't leave town
without telling them."

"That's right.  We'll be in touch, Mr.  Clay."

They left the room, and Carlton instructed a uniformed officer to send
Clay home.  "What do you think?"

"He seems sincere enough, and it's a straightforward story.  I'm still
concerned that neither of them saw the car, or Jervis with the car."
Alex Devereaux joined them."  "Hello, Alex.  I was just telling Carlton
that our eyewitness testimony would be a whole lot more effective if
the eyes had actually witnessed something."

"But you've only talked to Clay.  It's Jackson who has more details on
the car-jacking itself."

"Bring him on, then."

Devereaux obliged by leading her into a second room, where a far less
attractive character than Clay sat at a table.

Albert Jackson was younger than Jermaine Clay, and he sported the
thuggish garb of a would-be rapper.  He neither spoke nor nodded when
they entered the room.  "Hello, Mr.  Jackson," Laura said."  I'm Laura
Chastain, from the district attorney's office.  I'd like you to tell me
how you met up with Roland Jervis, and when."

Jackson gave a barely perceptible shrug."  "It was Saturday, in the
afternoon.  Maybe about three.  I don't remember the date."

"And where did your encounter take place?"

"At the store."

"The store?"

"Yeah, the liquor store.  We was hangin' in the parking lot Just
chillin', know what I mean?"

"I guess I do.  And Jervis was with you?"

"Naw, not at first.  He came along later.  But I don't know the man's
name, know what I mean?  I ain't never seen him before."

"I see.  How did he arrive--in a car?"

Jackson shook his head.  "He was walkin', but he said he has a car."

"When did he say that?"

Another languid shrug.  "I don't know, but somebody says, "Yo, Roland,
where's yo' car at?"  so I know the dude got a car, you know what I
mean?  He says, "I don' wan to be bringin' my car out all the time,
'cos too many folks be trying to ride in it."  He says he don' wan'
folks messin' up the car, 'cos it's a Lexus and all that.  I say, "Yo,
man, you bullshittin'.  You ain't got no Lexus," and he say, "Yes, I
do, but I don't hafta show it toyo sorry self."  He was buggin', you
know what I mean?  So I say, "Where you get a car like that, anyway?"
and he say, "I don' hafta tell you where I got my ride."  I say to my
peeps--"

"Your whats?"

"My peeps, you know what I mean, my crew.  The guys that was hangin'
with me.  I say, "This mutha ain't got no car, 'specially not no
Lexus."  That make him mad, and he say he gon' beat my ass same as he
beat the guy he 'jacked.  I say, "You ain't never 'jacked nobody and
you ain't got no car."  Then the man, he goes live on me.  He break his
forty--"

"I'm sorry--is that a gun?"

"Naw, his forty--his bottle."

"Oh, I get it--a forty-ounce bottle.  Go on."

"He break the bottle, and he wave it at me, sayin' he's gon' cut me.
Couple of my boys hafta grab him, hold him back, you know what I
mean?"

"I guess I do.  What happened next?"

Jackson shrugged again.  "Nothin'.  I laugh at the dude, and he leave.
I don' remember 'bout seem' him until I hear some guy's Lexus been
'jacked, and the man dead.  Then I call the cops, and say I know a guy
say he 'jacked a Lexus.  So they come and get me, take me to the police
station, and show me a bunch of pictures of some guys.  I see the man,
and I say that's him, that's the one say he 'jacked a Lexus.  That's
all.  I'm out."  
"I guess you are.  We certainly do appreciate your
helping us out like this, Mr.  Jackson.  We'll let you know when we
need you to appear."

When they were safely out of earshot, Laura turned to the detectives.
"He's a really attractive witness."  
"We can clean him up," Devereaux
said."  "The important thing is that he establishes not only that
Jervis boasted about the car for a second time, but that he also showed
a propensity for violence."

"Waving a broken bottle at some hophead in a parking

lot is a far cry from beating a guy to death with his bare hands,"
Laura said.

"What's the matter with you, lady?"  Devereaux asked, obviously
annoyed.  "You don't seem to think that either guy is telling the
truth."

"I just wish that they hadn't posted that stupid reward money.  Neither
of them is particularly credible to begin with, and the defense is
going to be able to make an issue out of the money."

"There's nothing we can do about that.  The important thing is that the
two corroborate each other, and they don't have any prior connection,
either to each other or to Jervis."

"That we know of, anyway," Laura said, more thinking aloud than
anything else.  She should have thought silently, because Devereaux
took exception to her offhand remark.

"Just what are you thinking?  Do you think that we--that I--set this
up?"

"That's not it at all.  I just think that these guys look like
mercenaries, and I've still got problems with the physical evidence,
too."

"That fingerprint stuff?  You're making too big a deal out of that.  He
cleaned the car, or had it cleaned.  Whose team are you playing for,
anyway?  You better get with the program, lady.  We've turned this into
a goddamn chip shot for you, and if you screw it up, I wouldn't want to
be in your shoes.  Everybody--the mayor, the chief, and even your own
boss--wants this taken care of.  Maybe there's another assistant
district attorney who should be handling this."

4 "Really?  You're not going to find one who doesn't ask the same
questions I am.  There's no point in being sensitive--if you think I'm
asking tough questions, wait until the defense gets hold of your prize
witnesses.  I'm sorry, Alex; this is just the way I work.  Ask Carlton.
He knows me."

"That's right.  She's got a job to do," Carlton said helpfully.  "You
just wait until you see her in the courtroom.  She'll make those two
look like Boy Scouts."

Alex seemed placated.  Laura only wished that she shared Carlton's
confidence in her own abilities.

Chapter 9

The motion hearing started off badly for Avery Daniels, who was not
actually present when it started.  Laura, who had arrived safely in
advance of the appointed hour, sneaked inconspicuous glances at her
watch, hoping, for Avery's sake, that her timepiece was fast and that
her hapless opponent was not really late to a hearing in Judge Root's
notoriously punctual courtroom.  But her watch--and the judge's, and
his clerk's--were all scrupulously correct.

The judge entered the courtroom, announced by the bailiff, and took his
seat as the matter before the court was announced.  He shuffled a few
papers on his desk, then peered at the assembly over the tops of his
half-glasses.  Laura looked straight ahead, although she was tempted to
crane her neck toward the courtroom doors to watch for Avery.  "Where
is the defense counsel?"  Judge Root barked.  No

one--especially not Laura--felt it his duty to reply.  "Well?  It's
his motion.  Where is he?"

"Your Honor," Laura ventured, against her strong instinct for
self-preservation, 'if we could just delay for fifteen minutes I could
put in a call to his office and find out what's keeping him."

"You?  Why should you do that?  You stand to benefit if he doesn't show
up, because I will, by God, deny his motion.  This court is entirely
too busy to be held hostage to the schedule of every half-prepared
lawyer in Atlanta."  
"I would prefer, Your Honor, that the hearing be
rescheduled, if it's all the same to you."

"Well, it's not all the same to me.  And why should you care if the
motion's rescheduled?  Oh, I know what you're thinking, Miss Chastain.
You don't want your grand case to be appealed because I was in error in
dismissing a pretrial motion on a technicality.  Heh--am I right?"

He was precisely correct.  Technically, Laura shouldn't have cared a
bit if a judge's error resulted in an appeal, or even overturning, of a
trial verdict.  Her task was to prevail at the Superior Court level,
and not to make any errors or omissions that could lead to an appeal.
If a judge made an error that opened the door to an appeal, the
prosecution wouldn't be held responsible--in theory, anyway.  In
practice, Laura wished that Judge Root would just lighten up and let
her argue against the motion.  Then he could feel free to dismiss it in
as high-handed a manner as he cared to, because it was, after all,
nonsense.

In the meanwhile, the judge was waiting for an answer to his question.
"No, Your Honor, I simply believe that the motion warrants argument.
Counsel for the defense has, umm, touched upon one or two points that I
believe require clarification...."

Judge Root snorted impressively."  "Spare me the fertilizer, Miss
Chastain.  This motion is--"

Happily, Avery chose that moment to burst into the courtroom, a
prison-garbed Roland Jervis in tow, before the judge could go on record
with a disparaging remark that, Laura sadly feared, would reveal that
his mind was already made up.  
"Mr.  Daniels!  Thank you for joining
us!  I hope we haven't inconvenienced you?"  There was, of course, no
correct answer to that question, Laura reflected, looking at Avery's
flushed face with pity.

"Ahh, no, Your Honor, I mean, of course I wasn't inconvenienced.  I was
just, umm, I didn't realize what time--"

"May I suggest that in the future you plan to arrive early, as the
prosecution managed to do?  You've put Miss Chastain here in a very
awkward position, young man--she's been trying to argue your motion for
you."

Avery glared quickly in Laura's direction, and she stifled a groan.
"I'm sorry, Your Honor, but something came up.  I was called down to
the jail to see a client, and it took longer than I expected."  Avery
had managed to summon up a little anger of his own, and it went a long
way toward restoring his dignity--and toward placating Judge Root, who
tended to overuse, in Laura's opinion, the Socratic method.  Good for
you, Avery, she thought.

The judge, his point made, seemed prepared to get down to business at
last.  "All right, son, I've read your motion, and your brief in
support of it.  You seem to believe that the arrest of your client was
the result of an illegal search and seizure.  How do you figure
that?"

"There's a large and growing body of case law, Your Honor, that holds
racial profiling to be a violation of the Fourth Amendment.  In this
particular instance, the defendant

was arrested when he was driving a tan Lexus sedan.  The police were
seeking a tan Lexus sedan, but--and this is my first point--the license
plate number initially issued was not the license plate number on the
tan Lexus that was driven by the defendant."

"Your Honor, if I may.  Laura said.  The judge nodded.
"It is true that
the license plate number in the initial bulletin was in error, but the
rest of the information, including the description of the automobile
itself, as well as the fact that it was owned by a black man, was all
correct.  I should also add here that the police made numerous other
stops in response to the bulletin, including some cars that did not fit
the description of the automobile, and at least one that was driven by
a white woman.  It would be an error on the part of the court to
presuppose that the arresting officers stopped Roland Jervis solely
because he was a black man driving a certain type of automobile--which
is the essence of racial profiling as I understand it--given these
other stops that were also made.  The defense has also not demonstrated
that the arresting officers had not, in fact, received the corrected
bulletin."

"Which leads me, Your Honor, to my second point: that the arresting
officers displayed a degree of racial animus in addressing Mr.  Jervis,
which indicates that race was a factor in their decision to stop him
while he was driving the car."

"What?"  Laura exclaimed.  "Your Honor, this point wasn't raised in the
motion!"

"She's right, son.  What 'racial animus' are you talking about?"

"One of the arresting officers used the, uh, the 'n' word, Your
Honor."

"According to whom?"  Laura asked, outraged at this

ambush.  "Is the defense counsel prepared to introduce testimony to
that effect?"

"Are you?"  the judge asked Avery.

"I am.  My client will testify that one of the officers used that
particular racial epithet in addressing him at the time of the
arrest."

Laura was incensed.  "Your Honor, whether or not this assertion is
true, is it relevant to the motion?  As I understand the primary
argument of the motion, it was the act of stopping the car that
constituted the racial profiling.  What was--or was not--said to the
defendant after the stop was made simply isn't relevant."

"She's right, son.  Your argument might hold some water if you could
show that the description of the vehicle was sufficiently vague to
allow a biased police officer to stop vehicles based on the race of the
driver and no other factor.  I believe that most of the case law cited
in your brief cites vehicles searched in traffic stops, where that type
of latitude is given to the police.  Here, we had a situation where the
police were requested to seek out a particular automobile, and, I
believe, its driver, described as a black man in his thirties--a
description that also fits the defendant.  Regardless of the biases of
the arresting officers, which I might add have not been demonstrated or
proved, they had full grounds for stopping the vehicle driven by Roland
Jervis, and subsequently--since he was, in fact, driving the victim's
car--for arresting him in connection with the disappearance of the
victim.  The motion is therefore dismissed."

Judge Root banged his gavel in an authoritative manner, rose from the
bench, and left the courtroom.  Laura began gathering up her papers,
hoping to avoid speaking to Avery.  He didn't have the same idea,
evidently, because he started complaining as soon as Laura was in
earshot.

"I never had a chance, did I?"

"What do you mean by that, Avery?"

"Oh, nothing.  Just a little hometown officiating, I guess.  Guess I
shouldn't be surprised, given that His Honor is up for reelection this
year."

"For pity's sake, Avery, even you can't believe that.  Nobody's ever
accused Judge Root of anything except maybe being a little crabby every
now and then.  He's the best judge in the county."

"I'm sure all the prosecutors think so."

Now Laura was irritated.  "You can't seriously expect me to believe
that you thought that motion would fly.  Not even with the little race
card you tried to flip in there.  Look."  Avery, do yourself a favor:
try the case first.  You can appeal it later."

"You really are an incredibly arrogant woman, aren't you?  What makes
you so sure I'll need to appeal?"

"I'm not sure," Laura said, a little more heated than she liked to be.
"Except that if I were defending Roland Jervis, I surely wouldn't be
messing around with useless motions."

Avery smiled tautly."  "And just what would you be doing, Perry
Mason?"

"For one thing, I'd be spending some time at the crime lab, going over
the physical evidence."

"I've read the reports," he said with an offhanded wave.  "It's pretty
cut and dried."

"Have you talked to the technicians who prepared the report?"

"What, they're going to say something that's not in the report?"

"Just do it, Avery.  Just defend your client.  He deserves a defense.
And please excuse me, but I've got to get back to my office."  She
started to leave, but it was clear that

Avery was still fuming."  I'm sorry," she said in a genuinely contrite
tone.  "I shouldn't have lost my temper."  She laughed.  "I don't think
they mean it to be quite so literally an 'adversarial system."  Your
brief was good, Avery; you did some great research.  And the behavior
of the arresting officers may not have been relevant to your motion,
but if I were you I'd sure as heck make a stab at getting it into the
trial transcript.  But this isn't theoretical anymore; it's a trial.
And a trial is a rock fight.  Start flinging some boulders, okay?"

Avery gave her a grudging smile.  "Believe me, I plan to.  I'm just
warming up.  Wait until the trial.  I'm going to move for a speedy
trial, by the way."

"Great.  That suits us.  See you around, Avery."

Laura returned to her office, ruefully reflecting all the way on her
exchange with Avery.  Do men feel this bad after they lose their
tempers?  she wondered.  No, of course not; it was all part of the
give-and-take.  Well, if that were true, at least Avery wouldn't have
any hard feelings.  And besides, he was the one who had called her
Perry Mason.  She'd have to get back at him for that; the trial
couldn't come fast enough to suit her.

But there was another treat awaiting Laura before she got to take on
Avery again: that evening's political fundraiser.  Laura and the other
assistant district attorneys dutifully packed it in around six-thirty
and proceeded to one of the big downtown hotels.

The shindig was taking place in one of the hotel's windowless
ballrooms.  Atlanta architects had the persistent idea that they could
create more appealing vistas inside than nature could provide outside.
That was, of course, a self fulfilling prophecy; downtown Atlanta was
liberally supplied with monolithic, narrow-eyed concrete hotels that
were

indistinguishable from the county jail.  The interiors ran the gamut
of decorative styles, from Louis-whatever grandeur to fantasy kingdom
landscapes.  This one had lagoons in its lobby, which served little
purpose that Laura could see, other than forcing hapless guests to
carry their bags around the "shores" and over "bridges."  The ballroom,
in the basement, was windowless and nondescript.  Laura wearily
regarded the floral carpet, dark-papered walls, and white draped,
crudity-burdened tables.

They were a little early; the honorees--Marshall and the mayor, and
their entourages--had not yet arrived, but a band was setting up at the
far end of the room, and a microphone held ominous promise of stump
speeches to come.

Laura milled around with the others, swapping office gossip and sipping
an acrid Chablis, until a slight commotion at the far end of the room
signaled that the important guests were arriving.  The band--a spirited
R&B combo--struck up the popular light-rap tune that had become the
mayor's campaign theme song.  "Boo-yah!  Gotta get me some a' that!"
the female vocalist declaimed with a spine-dislocating swing of her
hips.

Lordy, who would want some of that?  Laura reflected as
His-portly-Honor's shiny bald pate came into view through the
applauding crowd.  He was followed closely by Marshall, who, although
more physically attractive, was every bit as un sexy as the mayor. 
They both wore the broad, warm smiles that had occupied their faces
ever since they had declared for reelection.  They were a team, a
package, a buy-one, get one-free political special.

Laura didn't like politicians.  She didn't like politics, in fact.  It
was nothing personal; Marshall was a good enough guy, and the
mayor--well, he was about as good as you could expect, given the
inherent lose-lose proposition that

being a big-city mayor was.  Politics seemed like a ludicrous pursuit
to Laura, and she couldn't understand why two otherwise bright men
would care to seek out the low pay, long hours, and public abuse that
came with the jobs they sought so doggedly.  Of course, there were
suggestions that public service in Atlanta could be quite lucrative if
the rules were bent, but the ongoing federal investigation had netted
so far only a couple of minor players.  The mayor himself was
untouched.

The room was full now, giving Laura a faint hope--if she could avoid
observation by Meredith and Marshall--of leaving early.  She put her
half-full glass of wine on a table and began sidling toward the door.

"Hey there," a voice behind her said.  "Trying to sneak away, huh?"

Laura fixed a smile on her face and turned to see who had busted her.
Of course Don Archer, head of the mayor's security detail, would be
here.  "Hello, Don," she said.  "Just, umm, looking for the ladies'
room."

"It's the other way," he said, smiling at her obvious irritation.

"Oh.  Well, so long.  Good to see you."

"Hey, where's Kowalski?"  he asked, apparently not sensitive to a
woman's private needs.

"Not here.  He had some work to do around the house and he thought this
would be the perfect night for it, I guess.  Shouldn't you be guarding
the mayor?"

Archer turned and looked toward the small knot of people who were
gathered around Mayor Broad.  "Him?  Naw.  The most danger he's in
tonight is of getting his ass bruised from too much kissing."

Laura had to laugh.  "What's he like--really?"

Don shrugged.  "Not a bad guy, when he's not running

for office.  Of course, a lot of my fellow cops wouldn't agree.  They
hate him."

"Why--oh, because of the bonuses."  A promised bonus had not been paid
to Atlanta's police officers the previous year, although the money had
been included in the budget.  The mayor's explanation was simply that
it had been spent on overtime pay, which none of the cops believed, for
the very logical reason that none of them had been permitted to work
overtime hours.  Eventually, the city council had
"found" enough money
to pay the bonus, but there probably wasn't enough money in ten years
of budgets to win back the loyalty of the cops.

"But he's okay.  God knows everybody's got a hand out, trying to get
something from him.  And now he's got the FBI up his ... well, you
know."

"Is he guilty?"  she asked disingenuously.

"Everybody's guilty of something, aren't they?"  was his answer.  She
couldn't tell if he meant yes or no, and before she could pursue the
subject further, Don saw that the mayor was signaling to him.  "Gotta
go.  I'll see ya later," he said as he waded through the throng, a head
taller than just about everyone in the room.

Everyone, that is, except the group of professional athletes gathered
in an imposing semicircle near the bandstand, surrounded by a picket of
Sacks and bodyguards.  Laura was surprised to see the infamous Shawn
Tolliver among them.

Tolli'ver, as well known for his abuse of fans and reporters as he was
for his deadly three-point shot, stood out from the crowd of jocks. For
one, he was the tallest guy among them, no small accomplishment given
that their average height looked to be about seven feet.  He was also
one of only two white players in the group.  He wasn't as wide as some
of the football players, but his fierce scowl made him

by far the most menacing.  Laura wasn't the only one who noted his
displeasure; a petite woman--well, she looked petite next to him,
anyway--was talking urgently to him.  After a moment, a painful-looking
forced smile appeared on his face.  He looked at the woman, as if to
say "Happy now?"  and returned to staring at the middle distance, but
with a grin replacing the scowl.

Laura figured that Shawn's attendance at this particular shindig was a
part of his ongoing rehabilitation.  He had garnered headlines the
previous season for using a racial epithet in a dispute with a black
referee.  It had cost him his seat on the bench for a full month, and
his exile had been followed by "sensitivity training" and all sorts of
good works, performed publicly under the supervision of a group of
public relations specialists and team officials.  Backing the mayor's
reelection campaign must have been part of the program, too.

As Laura was making these observations, she was surprised to see
another familiar face.  She hadn't initially noticed Alex Devereaux in
the crowd orbiting the jocks, but he was there.  He must have been
moonlighting as a bodyguard for one of the athletes, Laura figured,
because it was highly unlikely that he had paid fifty bucks to rub
shoulders with the mayor.  Yes, the players were being herded toward
the stage, and Alex was going with them.  She couldn't tell which body
he was guarding--although it was hard to believe that any of these
Brobdingnagians would require the protection offered by one
medium-sized detective.

"Having fun yet?"  Meredith said in her ear, over the racket the band
continued to make.

"Sure.  Aren't you?"

"Let me see ... no.  I am not having fun."

"When are you leaving?"

"As soon as Marshall makes his speech.  He'll go first, so I won't
have to hang around for Harrison's sermon-although I am sure it will be
very inspiring."

Laura laughed.  "Did you ever think about running yourself --I mean, if
Marshall quits?"

"Good Lord, no.  I have enough trouble as it is.  No, if I ever tell
you I'm thinking about running for district attorney, do me a favor and
hit me with a hammer until I come to my senses."

"You're the boss.  Hi, Alex," she said, as the detective approached
them.

"Hi, Laura.  Meredith."

"Are you protecting the virtue of one of the celebrity guests?"
Meredith asked, jerking her head at the stage where they were now
gathered.

"Just trying to pick up some coin."

"Which one?"  Laura asked.  
"Shawn Tolliver."  He saw the look of
surprise on Laura's face.  "Darryl Michaels asked me to do it.  Nobody
else wanted to handle him, especially not after his latest escapade."
Shawn had punched a fan who was seeking an autograph for his
six-year-old son.  Assault charges had been filed, and just as quickly
dropped when defense lawyer Craig Fannin took Shawn's case.  "Darryl
didn't want to come tonight himself, so he strong-armed me into doing
it."

"I hope you're getting combat pay," Laura remarked.  
"He's not so bad.
He's not a racist, anyway.  No more than any redneck who happens to be
in a profession dominated by black guys, anyway.  I guess he feels
alienated from time to time.  He sure ain't popular with his teammates.
It's gotta be pretty lonely in that locker room."

"That's an awfully sympathetic view for you to take, Alex," Meredith
said skeptically.

Alex shook his head.  "I tell you, I kind of feel sorry for the kid.
Too much money, too soon.  Same old story."

"So, Alex," Laura said, seeing an opportunity, "have you had a chance
to go over the physical evidence again?"

"Yeah.  The guy cleaned the car, Laura.  It's the only logical
explanation."

"It's an explanation, all right, but hardly a logical one!  Just tell
me why he would have done it."

"Because he saw someone do it on the TV, that's why."

The crowd was growing noisy, and Devereaux and Laura had to almost
shout to be heard.  Someone bumped into Laura, sloshing wine on the
sleeve of her jacket.  She wiped at it irritably with a crumpled
cocktail napkin.  "You don't think he could have learned it in the
service?"  she asked.

"Maybe, if he had been in the military.  And he would have to have been
in intelligence, or the military police, to pick up tricks like that.
Seems likes a stretch for Jervis."

Laura continued her pursuit of the subject despite a hint of annoyance
in the detective's voice.  "Well, what about a car-detailing
shop--could he have picked up some tricks there?"

"Maybe--who knows?  I don't know why you've got your shorts in such a
knot over this."

Laura ignored his hostile tone.  "Could you please humor me?  Just look
into Jervis's employment history, and I won't bring it up again."

"If it'll make you shut up, yeah, I'll do it."

Laura started to answer, but Meredith, who had been chatting with a
city councilman, hushed them.  "Stop talking shop, you two--it's show
time!"  She pointed at the stage.

The band played a flourish, and Mayor Broad stepped up to the mike.
"Thank you!"  he said, nodding and flinging his arms out wide.  "Thank
you all for coming out tonight!

We're kicking off tonight with a party, but let me teD you, this
campaign isn't going to be a party--not for my esteemed opponent, at
least!"  Laughter from the crowd.  "And not for Elk's Brady, the man
who is foolhardy enough to challenge our own district attorney,
Marshall Oliver, the big MO!  Give it up for Marshall, y'all!  Get yah
MO-jo going for Marshall Oliver!"

"Good Lord," Laura muttered.

"Amen, sister," Alex opined.  "Isn't MO a laxative, anyway?"

Laura laughed but Meredith scolded her.  "Be a little supportive of the
boss, okay?  He's just having some fun with this."

And he was, indeed.  It was a transformed Marshall up there on the
stage, far from the dour martinet Laura had come to know and respect.
He and the mayor were lapping it up.  Arms around each other's
shoulders, they waved and smiled.

"Look at him!"  Laura said to Meredith.  "This is the guy who
threatened to take away our coffee privileges because we used up all
the half-and-half?"

"He's a born campaigner," Meredith said.  "And God bless him for it.  I
sure don't want to wake up next November and find myself working for
Elk's Brady."

"What's wrong with Brady?"  Alex asked.

"Nothing, if you don't mind morons.  I'll tell you something: Marshall
may not be the nicest guy in the world, but he's a lawyer's lawyer, and
he lets me do my job.  Elks is nothing but a poktician, and he's got an
agenda I don't like.  "Restoring civic values," my ass.  I don't want
to spend four years prosecuting jaywalkers.  Bekeve me, this city's got
problems that go way beyond ktterbugs.  So I'm givin' it up

for the big MO--whooo-hoof"  she whooped with genuine enthusiasm that
surprised Laura.

Marshall's speech was mercifully short, and, in the applause that
followed it, Laura managed to escape.  Almost, anyway--Don Archer
intercepted her once more.  "Leaving for real now, huh?"  he said.

"Yes, I am.  Enjoy the rest of your evening, though," she said.

"Lemme walk you to your car," he offered.  "It's dark out now."

"Thanks, but I left it with the valet," she lied.  She didn't want to
venture into a dark parking garage with Don; she would take her chances
with whatever unknown menaces might be lurking for her.  She felt a
twinge of guilt for the lie, though.  Amos was probably right; Don was
harmless.  As she started the car, her thoughts turned from Don to
Amos, and she toyed with the idea of dropping by his house instead of
heading straight for her own.  No, she decided, she could use a good
night's sleep.  And she wouldn't get it at Amos's house.

Chapter 10

"He's challenging the indictment," Laura said, standing in the doorway
of Meredith's office holding another sheaf of Avery-generated paper.
Justice had moved swiftly in the week since Avery's first dismissal
motion had been denied.  The Grand Jury had returned a bill of
indictment in less than four hours.  But Avery was back at it now.

"Let me guess ... composition of the Grand Jury?"

"Right on the first guess."

"Racial composition?"

"Partly.  And partly a specific challenge to one juror based on--get
this--his place of work."

"Which is?"

"A Speedy Tire shop.  Because, as everyone knows, Speedy Tire is a
hotbed of Republicanism and pro-death penalty sentiment.  And if that
doesn't blow the judge's skirt up, we go to exhibit B: a Grand Jury
member who happens

to belong to the Sons of Confederate Veterans.  Which, as I do not
need to tell you, is 'an organization composed of individuals dedicated
to the preservation of the ideals of the Confederate States of
America."  "

"He doesn't really say that!"

"Want to read it?"

Meredith took the paper and glanced through it.  "He cites racial
discrimination suits against Speedy Tire.  So what?  Even if the
president of the company is an Imperial Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan, it
doesn't mean everybody who works for him is.  And the SCV stood up for
the old Georgia flag with the Confederate battle jack on it.  Is this
all he has?"

"All that I can see."  "Wasn't there a case like this, some ridiculous
challenge to a juror?"

Laura nodded.  "McKibbons versus State.  Avery's cited it, and pointed
out that his challenge differs."

"How?"

"Those challenges were 'fanciful."  "

"And these aren't?"  Meredith asked, eyebrows at full height.

"He says that the suits against the company are prima facie evidence of
endemic racism at Speedy Tire.  And everyone knows that the SCV is an
auxiliary of the KKK."

"What a load of crap."

Laura sighed and settled heavily into a chair.  "You and I might say
so, but give Avery this: he really drafts a beautiful motion.  Never
mind that his logic has a flaw; he has done the research,"

"When's the hearing?"  Meredith asked.

"This afternoon.  And here's the bad news: you know Judge Root is in
the hospital, don't you?"

"Yes.  Having an angioplasty.  I should send the old coot a get-well
card.  Who's hearing this?"

"Judge Edwards," Laura replied.

There was a moment of silence as Meredith took in the bad news.  Judge
Marjorie Edwards was relatively new to the Fulton County bench, elected
by a narrow margin in a runoff.  She brought little criminal experience
to her new post; she had been in the city attorney's office for most of
her career.  And she was notoriously soft on defendants, black ones in
particular.  Laura couldn't think of a single instance in which she had
declined to rise to the race bait when a defense attorney dragged it
in.

"You want me there?"  Meredith asked.

Laura nodded."  "I think it would be best.  There's no telling what
she's going to say."

"Tell me about it.  I just missed spending the night in jail for
contempt the first time I was up in front of her.  Do you have a
plan?"

"I'll do what I can.  I have the decision in McKibbons, of course, and
some more case law to throw at her.  But I'm realistic about my
chances."  "Fallback plan?"

"Appeal her decision, and reindict Jervis.  And hope that Judge Root is
a fast healer."

Laura wasn't any more optimistic when she and Meredith presented
themselves in Judge Edwards's courtroom.  Avery was already there,
looking especially pleased with himself.  Meredith didn't let that get
to her.  "Hello, Avery," she called out cheerfully.  "Hey, I just
bought a new set of tires from Speedy Tire.  Whitewalls, of course."

"Ha-ha.  Very funny," the defender of the oppressed replied.

"Really?  Think I should use it on Judge Edwards?"

"Meredith," Laura said sotto voce.  "Please don't tease him."

"What?  Afraid I'll awaken his inner Clarence Darrow?  You know I
relish a challenge."  
"Easy for you to say.  You're not the one
Marshall's going to snap like a twig if we lose the case.  Here comes
Judge Edwards, anyway.  Straighten up and fly right."

"Relax.  If we're going to lose, we might as well enjoy it."

Judge Edwards, petite and pretty, seated herself and surveyed the
courtroom with a level gaze while the bailiff and the clerk got the
proceedings rolling.  "Is counsel for the defense here?"  she asked.

"I am, Your Honor," Avery replied.

"And who is representing the state?"

"Laura Chastain, Your Honor," Laura said.

"And I see that Mrs.  Gaffney is here as well."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Which of you will argue for the prosecution?"

"I will, Your Honor," Laura answered.

"I fail to see, then, why Mrs.  Gaffhey's presence is required.  Is
Mrs.  Gaffney an attorney of record in this matter?"

"Yes, she is, Your Honor."  Laura glanced sidelong at Meredith, and
raised an eyebrow enquiringly.  Just what did you do to get this lady's
tail in a twist?  she wanted to ask.

Whatever Meredith had or hadn't done, Judge Edwards decided to move on.
"I will hear your arguments now, Mr.  Daniels," she said.

Avery shuffled his papers and launched into his recital.  "Your Honor,
I wish to challenge the sufficiency of the indictment on the following
grounds: first, that the composition of the Grand Jury that returned
the indictment did not reflect the racial makeup of Fulton County. 
Second--"

"If we may, Mr.  Daniels, take your points one at a time.  How did the
composition of the Grand Jury fail to meet the requirements of the law
in this case?"

"The Grand Jury in question, Your Honor, was fully eighty percent
composed of whites, whereas the population of the county is fifty-five
percent African-American, or, conversely, only forty-five percent
white, Hispanic, or other--"

"If I may, Your Honor," Laura interjected.  "The law concerning the
composition of Grand Juries has never made reference to the general
population of the district.  The composition of the pool of eligible
jurors is the only factor that has been held to be germane--"

"Which was my next point, Your Honor," Avery said in an injured tone."
"The pool of potential Grand Jurors from which this Jury was drawn was
also overwhehningly white uh, seventy-five percent white, Your
Honor."

Laura went on the attack again.  She was enjoying this.  "Again, Your
Honor, the courts have held that the actual composition of the juror
pool is not relevant so long as there is no evidence that the county
deliberately attempted to exclude one group or another from it, by,
say, requiring property ownership or some other qualification.  And, as
Your Honor knows, our pool in Fulton County is drawn solely from the
rolls of registered voters."

"Which is, Your Honor, skewed toward whites--almost fifty-six percent
white, as a matter of fact."  Avery waved a sheet of paper
indignantly.

Laura was ready.  "Your Honor, voter registration rolls are generally
held to be the best and the most objective pool for jurors.  The
standard is 'a fair cross-section' of the

population, as in Lipham versus State, Your Honor.  If counsel wishes
to challenge whether Fulton County's voting rolls represent a 'fair
cross-section," he must make a prima facie case that the rolls are
tainted because there was an 'opportunity for discrimination' in their
selection, and secondly that, being improperly drawn, the source of the
jury pool actually produced a 'significant disparity."  Cochran versus
State, Your Honor.  Does counsel wish to argue that Fulton County's
voter registration process presents an opportunity for discrimination,
Your Honor?"

"Well?"  the judge asked Avery.  "Are you prepared to make that
argument?"  
"Uh, no, I... well, I believe that the under
representation of African-Americans on the voting rolls is prima facie
evidence of discrimination, and there's no doubt that it did produce a
significant disparity in the race of the jurors compared to the racial
composition of the county--"

Judge Edwards waved her hand.  "Thank you, Mr.  Daniels.  I think I've
heard enough.  Please proceed to the second point of your motion."

Avery looked momentarily abashed, but he proceeded gamely to smear the
good name of the Speedy Tire Company.  "Your Honor, I wish to challenge
the qualifications of Mr.  Michael Davis to serve on the Grand Jury.
Mr.  Davis is a manager of the Speedy Tire store located on Piedmont
Road in Atlanta.  Speedy Tire, as I have stated in my motion, has been
party to several racial discrimination suits."

"Has Mr.  Davis been named as a defendant in any of these suits?" Laura
asked sharply.

"No, not to my knowledge ... but it has been alleged that there is an
overall and pervasive culture of racial discrimination and outright
harassment at Speedy Tire stores."

"Any allegations of these occurring at the store Mr.  Davis manages?"
Laura pursued.

"No, not specifically, but there is ample evidence that senior
management of the company holds certain views--"

" "Ample evidence'?"  Laura queried.  "Tell me, Mr.  Daniels, has any
plaintiff in any one of these suits won a judgment against Speedy Tire
or any of its employees?"  
"Not to date, but there are two suits
pending at this time, and the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission
has an ongoing investigation into Speedy's hiring and promotion
practices--"

"But no judgments have been entered against the company or any of its
employees?"  Judge Edwards asked, giving Laura hope.

"No, Your Honor," Avery answered dejectedly.

Laura moved in for the kill.  "Your Honor, I would like to cite
McKibbons versus State, in which the Court of Appeals held that a
challenge to a juror based on alleged political affiliations encouraged
by employers was 'fanciful' and was therefore disallowed."  
"Your
Honor," Avery said, plucking up a little, "McKibbons dealt with the
composition of a trial jury, not a Grand Jury."

"Moot point," Laura said.

"It is not," Avery said fiercely.  "And besides, the attorney in
McKibbons introduced no evidence of a pervasive pattern of racial
discrimination, as I have done."

"With all due respect, Your Honor, a handful of suits-most of which
have been dismissed with no judgments--is hardly demonstrative of a
'pervasive pattern' of anything."

"Miss Chastain, please try not to speak in a sarcastic tone in my
courtroom."

"Sorry, Your Honor," Laura said, trying to sound contrite

although she felt a simmering anger.  How could anyone not speak in a
sarcastic tone when confronted with this pile of garbage?

"Thank you.  I believe I have heard enough.  Mr.  Daniels, you have one
remaining argument for quashing the indictment, I believe."

"Yes, I do, Your Honor.  Specifically, I wish to call into the question
the qualification of another Grand Juror, Mr.  Henry Porter.  Mr.
Porter, I have learned, is a member of the Sons of Confederate
Veterans."

"Your Honor," Laura said, trying very hard not to let sarcasm creep
into her tone, "I have to admit that I don't understand counsel's
objection to the SCV."

"It's simple, Your Honor.  The goal of the SCV is to honor the memory
of men who fought for the Confederacy.  As part of that goal, they
have--among other things-championed the use of the Confederate battle
flag as part of the Georgia state flag."

"I fail to see, Your Honor," Laura said, "how this translates to
wholesale racial animus on the part of the SCV's members."

' "The battle flag of the Confederacy, Your Honor, is generally
acknowledged to be a symbol of racial oppression.  I think it's safe to
say that most African-Americans find the battle flag highly offensive.
It is also a fact that the battle jack was added to the Georgia state
flag in 1956 by a group of Georgia lawmakers whose only ambition was to
express their resistance to integration in the wake of the Brown versus
Board of Education decision."

"Your Honor, I don't dispute that the battle flag became a highly
charged symbol, and a negative one at that.  And I

have no doubt that the motives of the men who put it on the state flag
were far from pure.  But I still don't see the connection between
membership in the SCV and racial bias."

Avery darted a triumphal glance at Laura.  "Your Honor, Mr.  Porter was
the Chairman of the SCV's committee to save the flag.  He spoke at
numerous gatherings in support of the use of the Confederate symbol."

"Did he, at any of these gatherings, explicitly state that his support
of the battle flag was rooted in his contempt and hatred of black
people?"  Laura asked.

"No, but I don't think he needed to say that--"

"I do," Laura said.  "Your Honor, my father is a member of the SCV, and
to call him a racist would be simply ludicrous."

"I don't know your father, Miss Chastain," the judge replied.

"Well, if you did, you'd know that he wasn't a racist."

"I fail to see the relevance of Miss Chastain's family history," Avery
said--sarcastically, which Judge Edwards seemed not to notice.

Laura retorted swiftly.  "Precisely.  It's not relevant, just as Mr.
Porter's membership in the SCV is not relevant to his qualifications as
a juror."  
"I believe that I have heard enough arguments from both
sides.  I am prepared to rule on the motion," Judge Edwards said
abruptly.  Laura started to protest, but felt pressure from Meredith on
her elbow, and remained silent.

"As to your first argument, Mr.  Daniels, that the composition of the
Grand Jury was inherently discriminatory, I find that your arguments
are insufficient.  I agree with Miss Chastain that you have failed to
make the prima facie case that

an opportunity for discrimination existed.  Second, as to Mr.  Davis's
qualifications, I find that you have not proved to the satisfaction of
this court that Mr.  Davis's employment by Speedy Tire is necessarily a
sign of racial feeling one way or another."

Avery stood in silence, stunned by the judge's announcements.  Laura
kept her eyes forward and tried to avoid letting her face pull into an
involuntary smile of victory.  
"Finally, on the matter of the
qualifications of Mr.  Porter, I find that counsel for the defense has
made a compelling argument.  The indictment of Roland Jervis for felony
murder is, therefore, quashed."  In a single smooth motion, the judge
brought down her gavel, rose from her seat, and vanished from the
courtroom, leaving Laura standing dumbfounded and gaping in
indignation.

"What 'compelling argument' did he make?  Did you hear a 'compelling
argument'?"  she asked Meredith.

"Of course not.  But you knew how this was going to go, didn't you?  I
have to give Avery some credit, too.  He served up three screamers,
knowing that it would help her look good to be able to reject a couple
of them.  Then she doesn't look as bad when she rules for him--which
she would have done, anyway, of course."

"Don't give Avery any credit.  He's got all the strategic ability of
... of tree bark.  I had him cold, on all three of his arguments--"

"Of course you did," Meredith said, interrupting the swelling tirade.
"But when did that ever matter?  Look, tell me this: did we know before
we came into this courtroom that we were probably going to lose?"

"We knew that."  
"And did we not come up with a fallback plan?"

"We did do that."

"So quit moaning and come back to the office.  Because, my friend and
colleague, we have to give this news to Marshall before he does." Laura
looked in the direction Meredith was gazing, and saw, to her dismay,
the crime reporter from the morning paper.  "Hi, Bob," Meredith said,
smooth as silk, as Bob Harper approached them.  "Did you get a load of
that?"

"Sure did.  Care to comment?"

"The district attorney's office believes that Judge Edwards was in
error in making her ruling.  We will appeal her decision, and in the
meantime, we will reindict Roland Jervis on the charges."

Bob smiled and shook his head.  "Why am I not surprised?  Where's the
big MO today, anyway?  I thought he'd be seeing this one through
personally."

"He trusts us to take care of the details.  You'll see him when the
trial starts, I promise."  
"Which, of course, will be strategically
timed for maximum preelection exposure."

"Bob Harper, you surprise me.  What happened to your spirit of
Woodward-and-Bernstein idealism?  Why, you're turning into as
ink-stained a cynic as I've ever seen."

Bob threw back his head and laughed.  "If I thought you believed your
own bullshit, Meredith, I'd be worried.  I'll see you around."

"How can you be so chummy with those guys?"  Laura grumbled as they
returned to the office.

"If we aren't chummy, they'll skewer us like kebabs.  And Marshall's
going to be peeved enough as it is without having to read in the
morning paper that his assistants blew the big case."

"Wedidn'tblowit!"  Laura protested.  "She was wrong!"

They had arrived back at the office, where things were winding down
for the day.

"Stop being so damn sensitive.  Hey, Frances," she said to Marshall's
secretary.  "Where's the chief?"

His beleaguered assistant rolled her eyes.  "Hollering at some poor guy
on the phone.  I'd wait until tomorrow if I were you."

"No can do.  Call me when he's free."

Laura trailed Meredith back to her office to wait for Marshall.  She
had hardly warmed the seat when he appeared in the doorway.  "Well?" 
he said.

Meredith shook her head.  "Quashed.  Judge Edwards took exception to a
juror's qualifications."

"A Grand Juror?  That's ridiculous--she can't do that!"

"Can, and did, I'm afraid.  Laura, tell him what happened."

Laura did.  Marshall fumed.  "That woman's not competent!  Any damn
attorney can go in there and raise race as an issue.  I'm filing a
complaint.  Damn it, I'm sick of this mess!"

"Relax," Meredith said.  "We'll reindict.  Of course, if Judge Edwards
hears another challenge we'll be out of luck...."

"Well, she won't.  I'll call the clerk."

"You can't," Laura pointed out.  "The new system assigns judges by
computer."  Your precious new system, she refrained from saying. "We'll
have to wait for Judge Root to get back from his sick leave."

"Goddamn it," Marshall said, as he turned on his heel and left.

"That went well," Meredith said.

Laura laughed.  Then she was struck by the paradox.  Suddenly serious,
she asked, "You do appreciate the coincidence, don't you?"

"What coincidence is that?"

"Lawrence Belew designed the new court system.  The system that
assigned his own case to Judge Edwards."

They were both silent.

Chapter 11

"Okay, here's the deal," Alex Devereaux said.  "Roland Jervis worked
off and on at Bumper to Bumper Car Wash on Roswell Road in Buckhead for
about a year.  They haven't seen him there in a while, though."  Laura
brightened; the detective's phone call was the first evidence she'd had
in days that the Atlanta Police Department was still investigating
Jervis's story.

"Fantastic!"  she said.  "How did you find this place--I hope you
didn't have to go to every car wash in Atlanta."

"As a matter of fact, I didn't.  Someone came forward, a guy who worked
with Jervis there.  He wanted a slice of the reward pie."  
"Back up a
minute--we haven't released the details about the interior of the car.
How would this guy know he had something we could use?"

"He didn't.  He thought he did, though.  He recognized

Jervis's picture, and he'd been mulling this over for a while.  He
finally decided to come forward to tell us that Jervis was always
talking about how much he liked the Lexus.  He said he was going to get
one someday.  Our man thought that made for a motive."

"That's hardly compelling evidence in a murder case how many people do
you imagine have said they want a Lexus one time or another?"

"About a million.  Including me," Devereaux said.  "But you're missing
the point.  This bozo stumbles in with his stupid story--which I'm
willing to bet he fabricated, anyway-thinking that we were going to
shower him with ducats for sharing this breaking news.  The guy on the
desk who took his statement almost threw him out, but he decided he
should at least run it past us.  He had no clue we were looking for a
car wash where Jervis might have worked.  That's why I even bothered to
talk to the guy."

"Lucky for us," Laura mused.  "Clues made to order, on demand."

"What the hell are you bitching about now?"  Devereaux exploded.  "You
asked if Jervis worked at a car wash, and I tell you he worked at a
damn car wash.  This case couldn't get any sweeter--but you're never
happy.  I don't get you, lady--or maybe I do understand what bug
crawled up your rear.  You blew the indictment, so now everybody's got
to pay."

Laura was dumbfounded.  "Alex, I have no idea what I've said or done to
offend you.  We're on the same team--why can't we have a little
give-and-take?  I have to think all the angles through on this case,
and I'd like to think I can do it aloud with the detectives without
stepping on someone's toes.  And, for the record, we didn't blow the
indictment-- I just came back from the Grand Jury with a brand-new,

shiny indictment, thanks to your testimony.  And the Court of Appeals
has agreed to hear our appeal of Judge Edwards' s decision, and we're
going to win that one, too."

Devereaux failed to be appeased.  "So what are you worried about?
You're home free, as far as I can see.  That kid Daniels couldn't
defend Mother Teresa on a jaywalking charge."

Laura chuckled.  "Well, maybe Mother Teresa.  You just have to realize,
Alex, that--like every NFL coach I've ever heard blather into a
microphone--I take all challengers seriously.  In fact, I've started to
believe that Avery is actually doing all this to lull me into a sense
of complacency.  Once he gets me in the courtroom, in front of a jury,
he'll spring like a coiled snake--and I have to be ready."

"There's about as much coiled snake in that kid as there is in a
Teletubbie.  Listen, I'm sorry I barked at you.  I've had a lot of late
nights lately."

"Do you have a baby at home?"

"God, no.  They're all in high school.  But they're still keeping me up
late--I'm moonlighting all the time to pay their expenses."

"Still baby-sitting jocks for Darryl Michaels?"

"Yeah.  No more Shawn Tolliver, though.  Not unless I get combat
pay."

"What's the problem?"

"Nothing, if you don't mind spending late nights with the biggest
asshole in the world."

Laura laughed."  "I thought you felt kind of sorry for him."

"That was before I got to know him.  He really shoulda gone to jail for
that crap he pulled last season.  There musta been a lotta hoops fans
on the jury."

"He had Craig Fannin defending him, too.  When you care enough to pay
through the nose for the very best..."

"Fannin--I've heard about him but I never met the guy.  Is he good?"

"The best.  If I ever decide to kill somebody, I'm going to make sure
I've got enough money set aside to pay Craig's fee.  Which I'll never
have, not on an assistant district attorney's salary, anyway."

Devereaux laughed."  "I guess I better not strangle Tolliver, then,
because I could never pay for my defense on a cop's salary."

"Maybe Fannin would take your case pro bono.  Thanks of a grateful
nation, and all that."

It was Devereaux's turn to laugh.  "Poor Shawn.  He ain't that bad.
Okay, lady, I see Carlton's getting antsy; he wants to go to the
Varsity for lunch.  I better get going.  And I'm sorry I lost my cool
with you.  I'll send over this ragman's statement, and if you want to
meet him I can set that up."

"Thanks.  I'll let you know.  Maybe we won't need him after all.  Is he
getting any reward money?"

"Not if he doesn't testify."

Laura sat thoughtfully for a moment after she hung up the phone.  She
certainly didn't want to seem ungrateful for Devereaux's work, but it
was awfully convenient to have all these witnesses popping up left and
right with exactly the information the cops and the district attorney
were looking for.  It could be the reward money; justice and lucre had
always had an uncomfortable relationship.  She made up her mind that
she wouldn't use this testimony unless Avery turned up the spotlight on
the fingerprint evidence--which he showed, to Laura's amazement, no
sign of doing.

As far as she knew, Avery himself hadn't yet been out to the crime lab.
Maybe the public defender's office had sprung for an investigator out
of its perennially tight budget.  Damn it, she thought, why hasn't he
been running an investigation?  Because, she answered herself, Avery
was a supremely overconfident product of our legal education system.
Beautiful credentials, but if his client knew anything about the
law-school system, he would have felt more comfortable in the hands of
a scrappy night-school lawyer who'd never been near a law review.

But you could be wrong, Laura told herself.  Avery might turn out to be
a courtroom genius, another F. Lee Bailey or Alan Dershowitz.

Later that afternoon, Avery proved to Laura's satisfaction that he was
neither of those things.  Laura, in fact, could hardly keep herself
from screaming when she sliced open the envelope that contained Avery's
latest blue-jacketed grenade.  "Meredith!"  she howled as she ran down
the hall to the boss's office.  "Look what he's done!  Look at it!"

"For pity's sake, Laura--get a grip.  What could be so bad?  Oh, Good
Lord.  That... that pinhead 
"What did I tell you?  An insanity
defense?  Even when the client's actually insane those don't work!"
Laura moaned.

"He's playing for time.  He'll have this guy on the couch for a year.
You know, now that I think about it, it's not totally dumb.  He knows
Marshall wants this trial to go forward before the election--he doesn't
want this hanging over him when the voters troop into the polls in
November.  It's clever, really.  I bet he's hoping for a plea
bargain."

"Will he get one?"

"Of course not.  That would be worse for Marshall--and the mayor."

' "Then what's so doggone clever about it?  It's just another excuse
for Avery to pull out his Latin phrase book if you ask me.  Will you
please talk to Julia Walton now?  This is not going to look good for
her office.  She should know what her lawyers are up to."

"Okay.  I will call her and talk, woman to woman.  I wouldn't expect
great results, though.  I know you don't give him much credit for
strategic smarts, but he may have really thought this one through.  Or
Julia may have thought it through for him.  It's the kind of stunt I
would have pulled, in a pinch."

"But if it came down to a trial you would have put up a real defense,
wouldn't you?"

"You're damn straight I would.  And trust me when I say that Julia
Walton will, too, when it gets down to brass tacks."

Laura gratefully left it up to Meredith to share the latest development
with Marshall.  His nerves were wearing thin lately, and Laura wanted
to minimize her contact with him-especially on this case.  And thank
goodness Meredith was finally going to talk to the head of the public
defender's office about Avery.  Maybe Julia would agree to let a pro
bono attorney come in and look over Avery's shoulder.  There was a
consortium of private attorneys available to help out in death penalty
cases--good, experienced trial lawyers.

Of course Laura appreciated the limited resources the public defenders
had to work with, but in Julia Walton's shoes she would have used what
little cash she had available to hire a good investigator.  Spending
what little budget she had on psychiatrists was a huge waste.  If she
were in Avery's shoes, she would be mounting an all-out
investigation-limited resources or not.  She'd whip the press into a
from over the injustice of it all, and let them do the legwork for
free.  She wouldn't rely on her own limited experience and
resources--she'd get some old pros involved.  Julia Walton was an okay
lawyer, but she was missing the boat on this one.  The whole problem
was that Fulton County didn't often

see capital cases.  Sure, there had been more in the past year or
two--some that Marshall would rather forget--but as a rule, the death
penalty hawks nested below the fall line, down in the nether parts of
Georgia.  There, the system relied on private attorneys who got paid
about $500 to defend men who were one step away from the electric
chair--with predictable results.  If it weren't for a quixotic band of
anti death-penalty activists and the admirable--if underfunded-Georgia
Indigent Defense Council and Georgia Resource Center, Georgia's death
row would soon grow to gulag proportions.  And why Julia hadn't brought
some of those resources to bear on this case, Laura couldn't
understand.

Laura's phone chose this vexed moment to ring.  She picked it up and
barked a curt "Laura Chastain" into the handset.

"Whoa!  Sounds like I just walked into a buzz saw," Amos said.

"In fact, you did.  I'm just sitting here brooding on the justice
system."

"Guess that means you're not up for going out tonight, huh?"  
"No, not
necessarily.  I don't think that the cause of justice would be advanced
by my sitting at home.  Why?  What did you have in mind?"

"Would bowling have any appeal for you?"

"Bowling?  What brings this on?"

"Kenny, actually.  He and Cindy have a baby-sitter, and they want to go
bowling."

"I'm a terrible bowler," Laura warned.

"That doesn't matter.  It's just for fun."

"No, it's not.  I've been with you and Ken before.  You guys can turn
anything into a contest."

"You're exaggerating."

"Am I?  Have you forgotten the batting cage episode?  You ended up with
a sprained wrist, and Ken and Cindy didn't speak to each other for two
days."

"That was different"

"How so?"

"The batting cages won't let you bring beer in.  We'll have beer
tonight."

Laura sighed.  "Okay, but I'm warning you: I'm not in the mood for
petty bickering."

"What's eating you--this case, the car-jacking?"

"Yes.  But I don't think it was a car-jacking."

"Then why are you prosecuting it?  I mean, if you think the guy's
innocent--"

"I didn't say he was innocent I'm just saying that it wasn't a
car-jacking."

"Okay, what are you going to do about it?"  
"I'm trying to decide
right now.  The defense is just inadequate, and they need help.  This
kid is fooling around with an insanity defense."

"Will it work?"

"It almost never does.  Meredith thinks he's trying to keep the case in
limbo past the election, so that Marshall will be willing to make an
offer for a plea bargain, just to get it off the radar before the
election.  Which is not likely; I think a plea bargain would be worse
politically than another controversial trial.  And, even if there is
some idea of putting pressure on Marshall, any leverage they have will
evaporate after the election.  Assuming Marshall wins.  Naturally."

"Did you tell Meredith this?"

"Not in so many words.  She's going to call Julia Walton and lay out
some of our concerns."

"Do you really expect Julia to do anything?"

"I don't know her that well.  But if she's a good lawyer, she will."

"And if she doesn't?"  Amos asked.

"I don't know.  I'll think of something."

"Just be careful that you don't get on the wrong side of Meredith and
Marshall.  Like it or not, they are the bosses, and they know what
they're doing."

"You don't need to tell me who I work for," Laura said tartly.

"Yikes!  Sweetie, maybe you should stay at home tonight," Amos said.

"No, no; I'm sorry.  I'm just tired.  Putting on rented shoes will be
just the pick-me-up I need."

"Are you sure?  Because I can cancel."

"No.  I will bowl, and bowl cheerfully."

Laura hung up feeling bad.  She hated sniping at Amos, who was nothing
but an innocent bystander.  She made up her mind to apologize,
profusely.  She and Amos did have these little rough patches from time
to time, but the making up was always worth it.  She resumed her work,
halfheartedly, until Meredith reappeared.

"I talked to Julia," she said.  "Want to hear what she said?"

Laura nodded.  Meredith plopped wearily into a chair.  "She hired Avery
on the understanding that he would take all the capital cases."

"What?  Why?"  Laura said, startled.

"He had a lot of experience, on an appeals-court level.  In Virginia,
where they see a fair number of cases.  Julia liked his credentials, so
she hired him.  She thinks she's lucky to have him."

"If she were running appeals, she might be.  But she'd

be better off taking the trial herself.  How could she not see how
lame Avery is?"

"Maybe she does.  The point is, she very politely told me to mind my
own business.  Which is what I plan to resume doing, right away.  And I
recommend you do the same."  Meredith stood up and looked at her watch.
"And now I have to go find Marshall.  Have a good weekend if I don't
see you before you leave."

"You too," Laura replied.

Stupid Avery Daniels, she thought.  Experience with appeals--big deal.
He was, as her grandmother would have said, "blinking at gnats while
swallowing camels."  I bet he didn't ever go out to the crime lab, she
mused.

As if to prove her point, her phone rang."  "Miss Chastain?  Hey.  This
is Tommy Wood from the fiber unit at the crime lab.". 
"Hi, Tommy.
Funny, I was just thinking about you guys.  Did you ever hear from
Jervis's defense attorney?"

"Nope.  Sent him my report and offered to talk to him.  So did Scott,
and as far as I know he ain't heard pea-turkey John-Brown, either."

Laura laughed.  "Boy, that's an expression I haven't heard since my
grandfather died.  But, damn it, I wish he had called you.  Things are
happening that I don't like."  
"I may be able to help you, then.
Remember that button?"

"The black button?  Yes.  Did you hear from the FBI?"

"I did."

"What were they able to find out?"

"Well, it's a very nice button.  Most buttons are plastic, and most are
made in Asia, on the cheap.  But this one is made out of natural
materials.  Horn or bone, probably, dyed black.  Antique buttons were
made out of bone and shell, or even wood, but most modern buttons are
plastic."

"It's an antique?"

"No, it's modern.  But a button like this costs a lot more than a
plastic one.  In fact, it's most likely European."

"How can they tell?"

"When I measured it, it came up to an even size in millimeters, but not
in inches--I should have known right away that it wasn't American.
Anyway, the man they showed it to says the quality of the materials and
the size of it made him think the button came from a high-end man's
jacket, most likely European--French or Italian, he thinks.  Probably a
cuff button.  It came off of a nice piece of clothing, anyway."

"So it's more likely to be Belew's than Jervis's?"

"Could be.  You need to check his entire wardrobe to either show it was
his, or to eliminate it."

"Lord, I hope his family hasn't gotten rid of his clothes.  But if it's
not his?"  
"You're looking for a well-dressed guy with a cuff button
gone."

Laura laughed ruefully.  "That shouldn't be too hard to find."

"Well, I was thinking more along the lines of you finding a guy you
thought was good for the murder--then, if he had a cuff button gone off
one of his jackets, you'd be able to link him in."

"I see.  So all I need to do is find this guy."

"Yep."

"Okay, then, let me ask you the million-dollar question: do you believe
there is a guy to find?"

Tommy Wood paused for a long time before he answered.  "I'm not a
detective," he said at last.  "And I don't know anything about your
case, except what I've seen in the lab here and read in the newspaper.
But based on that, I have

to say yes.  I think there's at least one other person besides Roland
Jervis involved here."

"You know something?"  Laura asked.  "I think you'd be a pretty good
detective."

When Laura hung up, she was sure of two things: there had been a second
person involved in the murder of Lawrence Belew.  And she was going to
find him.

Chapter 12

Laura stretched and yawned, purposefully making more noise and stirring
around more than strictly necessary in order to wake Amos.  It didn't
work; he continued to sleep in peaceful oblivion of her design.  She
tried again, to no avail, and then abandoned subtlety.  "Amos!"  she
said, shaking his shoulder.  "It's nine o'clock."

He pulled the sheet over his face and muttered unintelligibly.

"Amos, wake up.  I'm hungry."

"Then go eat something," he said.

"But I want to go to the Waffle House," she persisted.
"Come on, don't
waste a whole Saturday morning.  I'll make some coffee--you'll feel
chirpier after you've had a cup of coffee."

"I'm not going to feel 'chirpy' no matter how much coffee you give me.
Why is it so critical that we get up and

go to the Waffle House right this minute?  It'll still be there in a
couple of hours."  
"I know that.  But I want to have my car washed
while we eat, and you know what the car wash place is like on a
Saturday."  
"As a matter of fact, I don't know, because I don't waste
money having my car washed.  I do it myself, and I will be happy to
wash your car all day--if you'll just let me sleep one more hour."

Laura sighed.  "I don't want you to wash my car.  I want to take it to
the Bumper to Bumper Car Wash on Roswell Road."

He turned and looked at her.  "You want to take your car--your 1992
Toyota with eight thousand Diet Coke cans on the floor--to a car wash,
and pay forty bucks to have some guy rub the rust spots with a rag?"

"That's right.  I do.  And it's not forty dollars.  You can get a basic
wash for twenty."

"That's twenty more than I charge.  Laura, what are you up to?  It
would be a lot simpler if you just came out and told me what your
ulterior motive is.  I'll find out sooner or later anyway."

"You are so wrong about me," she said, theatrically innocent.  "I don't
have 'ulterior motives."  As a matter of fact, I'm thinking of taking
your advice and selling the car, and I thought it could use a
professional cleaning."  
"I can do just as good a job.  We can take it
over to my place, and I'll get out the shop vac.  You'll be impressed,
I promise."  
"I know you can wash a car, Amos.  I just don't want us
to waste the whole day doing it.  If we go to Bumper to Bumper, we can
leave it and walk to the Waffle House and have breakfast.  Then we'll
have the rest of the day to have

fun.  But not if we don't get moving--by eleven, every jackass in
Atlanta will be lined up at the car wash."

Amos sighed.  "The fact that you're willing to be one of those
jackasses confirms to me that you are up to something.  In fact, I'm
curious enough about what that is that I will get up.  I'm not going to
shave, though."

"No--don't.  Just get dressed and let's go."

Once having maneuvered Amos to the car wash, however, Laura found it
harder to conceal her real mission.  "Go on to the Waffle House," she
said, "and get us a booth.  I'll be along in a minute or two."

"Oh, no," he said, "I'll wait for you.  It's just going to be a minute,
right?  I mean, how long does it take to tell them you want your car
washed?"  
"But you know there will be a line at the Waffle House," she
said, determined to shake him off.

"Naw, it's not crowded--you can see the parking lot from here.  Hardly
anybody there.  Look--here's the guy to take your car.  See?  You were
right.  If you come early enough, you don't have to wait."

Laura shot him an exasperated glance and rolled down the window to
speak to the attendant.  "Hi.  I'd like to have it washed and have the
interior vacuumed."

The attendant looked at the backseat, which did indeed contain a few
beverage cans, and cleared his throat.  "You want us to shampoo the
mats?"

"Sure, yeah.  Umm, are you the manager?"  she asked.

"No, ma'am.  That's him over there," he said, gesturing with his
clipboard to a tall black man.  
"Thanks," Laura said."  "I need to
have a word with him."  She slithered out of the car, handed the keys
to the attendant, and trotted briskly toward the manager.  Amos
followed close on her heels, wearing an amused expression.  "What
now,

Nancy Drew?"  she heard him say.  She didn't rise to the bait.  "Hi,"
she said cheerfully to the manager.  "Can I talk to you for a
second?"

"What about, lady?  We're busy here," he answered, irritably.

"It'll just take a minute, I'm Laura Chastain, with the Fulton County
District Attorney's office.  I need to know how long Roland Jervis
worked here."

"Who?"

"Roland Jervis.  He worked here for about a year."

"I don't know nobody named Jarvis," he said sullenly.

"Jervis.  And one of your employees told the police that he worked
here, on and off, for about a year."

"Well, I don't know nothing about that, and I never heard of the
man."

"How long have you been here?"  Laura asked.

"Two years," he said.  "Andlain'tneverheardofnobody named Jervis, or
Jarvis.  So you better let me take care of my business now.  I got no
time to talk to the cops."

"I'm not a cop," Laura said.

"Yeah, but he is," the manager said, pointing to Amos.  "And I don't
need no trouble with you or him.  You want your car washed, we'll wash
it.  Otherwise, we got no business."

Laura started to answer him, but Amos stepped in front of her, reaching
into his pocket and pulling out his detective's shield."  "Please
answer the lady' squestion," he said offhandedly.

"I did answer her.  And I'll tell you again, slow, so you'll
understand: I ... don't ... know ... nobody ... named Jervis.  You can
flash your shiny badge all you want, but it ain't goin' to change my
answer."

"Amos," Laura said, "I can handle this.  Look, mister,

this isn't a police thing.  I just need a little information.  I can
get a court order, but I don't think I need one.  I don't want to look
at any confidential records, or anything like that.  I just want to
know what kind of employee Jervis was."

"And I'm tellin' you he was no kind of employee, 'cause he never worked
here.  What I gotta do to get you to believe me--and go away?"

"Okay, so you don't remember Jervis.  What about ... Terence Walker?"

"Yeah, I know him.  He's supposed to be here right now, but I ain't
seen his sorry butt in a week.  What's he done?"

"Nothing.  He's the one who told us that Roland Jervis worked here."

"Well, he was lying, 'cause no one named Jervis ever worked here that I
know of.  But Terence did, but he don't no more, 'cause I just this
minute fired his ass.  Now can I get back to work?"

A small man, who looked Hispanic, had been hovering in the background,
listening to this exchange with an appearance of anxiety.  " "Scuse me,
boss.  I think I know what she is talking about."

"Yeah?  Well, you better tell me then, Francisco, before I get
frustrated with her."

Francisco nodded.  "You weren't here when the big cop came, boss.  He
talked to Terence about this guy Jervis, too."

"What cop?"  Laura said.  "A black guy--about his size?"  she asked,
indicating Amos.

"No, miss.  White.  And more big."

Laura turned and looked at Amos.  "I don't get it.  Alex and Carlton
are both black.  What other cops would have been working this case?"
Then Laura remembered what Alex had told her: Terence Walker had come
forward voluntarily.  No one had come to the car wash looking for
him.

"Tell me more about this cop," she said to Francisco.  "When did he
come?"

"It was Monday, or Tuesday.  He came and get his car wash, you see.
That's when he talk to Terence.  See, we are not so busy in the week,
only the Saturdays.  And, boss, you havin' your day off."

"That means it was Monday.  I'm off on Mondays," the manager said.

"Yes.  Monday.  And he talk only to Terence.  I think that he gives
Terence some money."

"What makes you say that?"  Laura asked.

" "Cause Terence tell me he no comin' back to this shitty place,"
Francisco said.  "He said he quittin' and you can kiss his black ass,
boss.  Sorry," he added.  "It's jcs' what he say, boss."

"Well, damn it, Francisco, why are you tellin' me this now?"  the
manager said in exasperation.  "I woulda taken on some more crew if I
knew Terence had quit on me."

"Excuse me," Laura interjected.  "Tell me more about the cop.  How did
you know he was a cop?  Did he have on a uniform?  Show a badge?"

"No, miss, he jcs' look like a cop.  Like this man, your friend, he
look like a cop, too."

"So much for my undercover career aspirations," Amos said.  "Made twice
in one day."

"So he might not have been a policeman, then," Laura said.

"Maybe not.  You ask Terence, lady.  He will tell you.  But I know the
man give him some money, 'cause he show it to me and he say boss can
kiss his black ass."

The boss didn't seem to appreciate hearing Terence's comment reprised.
"We know he said that.  You don't need to keep on repeatin' it, mi
hombre.  So you found out what

you need to know yet, lady?  Can we get back to business here, or
what?"

"Yes, I guess so.  If you don't mind, though, I'd like Terence Walker's
home address and phone number."

"I'll give you what I got.  Seems to me he said he was stayin' at his
sister's house.  I'll go get it."

A few minutes later, Laura and Amos were walking toward the Waffle
House, and Francisco was culling the cans from the backseat of her car.
"Want to tell me what that was about?"  Amos said.

"Nothing, really.  I just wanted to talk to the guy who said Roland
Jervis worked at Bumper to Bumper."

"Because you didn't believe his statement."

"I just wanted to check it out.  That's what you'd do-check it out,
right?"

"Of course.  But why not rely on Carlton, or Alex, to do the
checking?"

That was a loaded question, and Laura chose to ignore it.  "Anyway, I'm
glad I did ask.  It sounds as if this Terence Walker was lying about
Jervis."

"Why would he do that?"

"For money, of course.  Someone paid him."

"Who?  What are you after here, Laura?  Did you think Alex Devereaux
was lying to you?"

"No.  How can you even think that?  I just want to be sure of my
case."

Amos held open the door of the Waffle House and allowed her to enter
first.  "What made you think that Walker might have been lying, anyway?
What makes you so suspicious, especially when it comes to cops?"

"This is not about being suspicious of cops.  Two, please, nonsmoking,"
she said to the hostess.  "Maybe I shouldn't have brought you along.
I'm just being a lawyer, Amos.

And yes, maybe I was a little suspicious--not of the police, but of
this guy Walker."  The hostess led them to a booth, and they sat down
and ordered coffee.  Laura glanced at the menu, unnecessary, since she
always got the pecan waffle with bacon and hash browns.  "But I was
right to be suspicious, don't you think?  It.sounds as if someone paid
him off to put Jervis at the car wash.  See, every time I've raised a
doubt or a question about this case, miraculous witnesses appear.  I
ask about Jervis's whereabouts on the weekend of the murder, and I get
two eyewitnesses who tie him to the car.  I ask how the interior of the
car gets so clean we can't even find the victim's prints in it, and I
get Jervis's car wash-career resume  What does it mean?  I don't know.
But I know one thing: I think I just got my first glimpse of Mr.
Button."

"Who the hell is "Mr.  Button'?"

"A gentleman of wealth and taste, who sews black horn buttons to his
clothes with silk thread."  Seeing that Amos lacked patience for
cryptic answers, she explained the button.

Amos listened without comment.  "A button," he said, when she
finished.

"A button, and some silk thread.  I've asked Carlton to check Belew's
wardrobe to see if he had any clothing with similar buttons, and to see
if one is missing."

"And if there isn't?"

"I'm going to act on the assumption that there's someone else
involved--at least in the disposal of the body.  It's never made sense
to me that Jervis did this on his own.  I'm not saying he wasn't
somehow involved, but I never believed that a schnook like Jervis could
pull off something like this."

"So who did?"  Amos asked.

"How should I know?  That's for the cops to say."

"And what are you going to do next?"

"Find Terence Walker.  I was hoping you might help me."  "Nope.  Not
interested.  It's not my case, and I don't want to get crossways with
the major-cases guys.  I need their help on too many cases of my
own."

"I understand.  I'll follow up by myself."  "Aren't you going to call
Carlton, or Devereaux?"  "Not this weekend.  There's no harm in my
cruising down to this address and talking to Walker, is there?  He's
one of my witnesses, after all--I need to interview him."

"Let me see the address," Amos said.  Laura handed him the slip of
paper the car wash manager had given her.  "Uh uh.  You can't go here
by yourself."

"Sure I can, on a Saturday afternoon.  It's not that bad a
neighborhood."  He handed the paper back to her.  "Okay, you win.  I'll
go."

"I win?  What's that supposed to mean?"

"Isn't that what all this was about--manipulating me into doing what
you wanted?"

The waitress had arrived with their plates, which gave Laura time to
consider her answer carefully."  "I don't manipulate, Amos.  Yes, I did
think it might be handy to have you along at the car wash.  I concede
that.  You're a cop, and you have a certain authority in these
situations.  But I don't need you to go to Terence Walker's house with
me.  I'm perfectly capable of asking a few questions on my own."

"Sure you are.  But if it's all the same to you, I'll tag along."

"Fine, if you want to.  But don't say you were manipulated, because
you weren't."

"I wasn't manipulated.  I am doing this of my own free will," he said,
robotically.

Laura laughed.  "Shut up and eat your waffle."

An hour or so later, with a clean car and a wallet lightened by a
generous tip to Francisco, Laura drove to the Atlanta neighborhood
known as Summer Hill, down by Turner Field.  Cosmetic improvements made
before the Olympics several years earlier had brought some life back
into the area, but there were still side streets that had escaped the
brush of urban renewal.  Terence Walker's sister lived on one of these
streets.

"Not pretty, is it?"  Laura remarked as they searched for house
numbers.  
"No.  There's a lot of Section Eight housing down here,"
Amos said.  "I'd like to make some of these landlords live in these
places for a few weeks."

"It's the law of unintended consequences.  We deplore public housing,
and so we come up with a way for the private sector to provide it.  And
it's worse.  Is that the house?"

"I can't tell.  I'll ask this kid."  He rolled down a window and asked
a small boy where number 247 was.  The kid looked at him blankly.  "Do
you know Terence Walker?"  Amos asked.  The kid nodded.  "Well, where
does he live?"  The kid pointed to a house two doors down.  Amos gave
the kid a dollar and rolled the window up.  "I hope he spends that
before some bigger kid takes it from him.  Right there."

Laura drew up to the curb in front of a derelict house with a bald
patch of front yard and a sagging green-shingled porch.  There was no
sign of occupancy, and she hesitated before cutting the engine. "Second
thoughts?"  Amos asked helpfully.  
"No.  Just planning my approach. 
Come on--unless you'd rather wait in the car."

"No way."

They walked up the cracked remains of a concrete walk to the porch, and
carefully mounted the two bowed wooden

steps that led to the front door.  The door was open; only a torn
screen door served as an ineffective shield against insects and
assistant district attorneys.  The front room was dark, and there was
no sign of a bell, so Laura knocked.  "Hello?"  she called when no
response came.  She could hear faint sounds of a television playing
somewhere inside.  "Hello?"  Laura said, louder, knocking vigorously on
the door frame.  The door itself looked as if it wouldn't stand up to
being knocked upon.

The television was turned off, but no one spoke.  "Is anyone home?"
Laura asked.

Finally, shuffling feet could be heard approaching through the gloomy
interior.  "Who's there?"  a woman's voice said.

"My name is Laura Chastain.  I'm looking for Terence Walker."

"He don't stay here no more," came the reply.

"Are you his sister?"

"What you asking' for?  Are you the police?"

"No, ma'am.  Terence isn't in any trouble.  I'm with the district
attorney's office, and he's a witness in one of my cases.  I need to
talk to him."

"Well, he ain't here, and I don't know where he's at.  But you can tell
him when you find him not to come back here lookin' for no place to
stay at.  Not'til he pay me what he owe me."

Laura's eyes had grown accustomed to peering into the dimly lit room,
and she could make out the shape of the woman she was speaking to.  "He
owes you rent?"  Laura said sympathetically.

The shape nodded vigorously.  "And I know he got the money, 'cause he
been braggin' about he been paid a lot of money.  I reckon he's off
staying with some gal until his

money runs out.  Then he'll be back around to me, but I won't take him
in, no sir.  Not'til I get my rent money."

"I don't blame you.  Any idea where I might find him?  Does he have
friends, or a regular hangout?"

"You can try down to Josie's.  She runs the grocery store on the
corner, and I reckon he's been in there."

"Thank you, ma'am.  I appreciate the information."

"Yeah, but you ain't gonna pay me," the woman said with a knowing
chuckle.  "That's okay.  You just tell Terence not to come back around
here.  That's all the reward I need."

Laura beat a hasty retreat, with Amos trailing behind.  "Sisterly
love," he mused.  "Nothing quite like it.  Are we going to Josie's?"

"I guess so," Laura said.  They returned to the car and cruised in the
direction indicated.  Josie's was a white-painted cinder-block
structure, gaudy with beer signs and boasting a milling crowd of
brown-bag drinkers in the parking lot.  Laura found that her desire to
meet Terence Walker was diminishing rapidly.

"May I make a suggestion?"  Amos asked.

"No," she said.  "Not if you're going to try to talk me out of going in
there."

"No, that's not my suggestion.  In fact, I was going to say that I
think you'd have better luck if you went in without me."  "Why?"

"Because this gang will know right away that I'm a cop.  Everyone else
does.  Might as well make use of it.  I'll just stand right here by the
car and keep a watch on things.  They'll leave you alone."  He opened
the passenger door and swung his long legs out of the small car.  He
unfolded his full height, and leaned against the car with his arms

folded nonchalantly across his broad chest.  Even Laura was
impressed.

She walked to the front door of Josie's without so much as a murmur
from the congregants.  Once inside, she let her eyes adjust to the dim
light.  The store was small, but neat, dominated by two large
glass-doored coolers.  An elderly black woman sat behind the counter in
the path of an oscillating fan.  The counter was cluttered with
collection jars marked with various community causes.  Most of them
were nearly empty.  "Hello.  Are you Miss Josie?"  Laura asked.  "There
ain't no Josie.  What you want, child?"  ' I'm looking for a man named
Terence Walker.  His sister said he might have been in here
recently."

"Oh, yeah--he was in here a couple of days ago, talking big.  He want
everybody to know that he had some money.  I bet he don't have it no
more, though," she commented with a chuckle.  "How long ago?"

"Maybe a day or two--no, it was Tuesday, 'cause that's the day I get my
delivery.  He was here when the truck came."

"And you haven't seen him since?"  "No.  What you wantin' him for?  He
ain't no good."  "I'm beginning to gather that.  I'm an assistant
district attorney, and he's a witness in a case.  I just want to
interview him."

"Well, I'll tell him you came by, if I see him."  "Here's one of my
cards.  I'd appreciate it."  Laura looked around for something she
could buy, and decided against taking a forty-ounce to Amos.  She
settled for a liter of Diet Coke, which the woman rang up without
comment.  Laura dropped the change from a five into a jar on the
counter that bore a picture of a small girl who had

leukemia and needed help with medical bills; the coins made a hollow
clinking sound.  Laura left, unaccountably depressed.  She barely
noticed the gang outside.

"Success?"  Amos asked when she reached the car.

"No.  Not really," she said, thrusting the bag containing the Coke into
his hands.  "She saw him right after he met Mr.  Button.  He was
flashing a wad.  But that was Tuesday, and he hasn't been around
since."

"It may be that his sister was right--he's holed up with a lady love
until the funds run dry.  He'll surface in a week or two."

"I guess so," she said, but she couldn't hide her disappointment as she
started the car and pulled away from Josie's.

"What's bugging you?"  he asked as they drove away.

"I don't know.  I just hoped that I could get a handle on this case."

"By which you mean that you want to prove that Roland Jervis is
innocent."

"I didn't say that."

"You don't have to.  It's what you want, isn't it?"

"It's not a matter of what I want It's what I believe.  Which is, yes,
that Roland Jervis is innocent--or at least that he's not the only
guilty party in Lawrence Belew's murder."

"You don't trust the police to do their jobs?"

"Again, not what I said.  But there has been a certain ... lassitude in
their approach.  But I don't blame Alex or Carl ton.  It's politics.
It's the mayor, and the chief, and Marshall who've at fault.  All they
care about is that one stupid day in November.  And the deeper Jervis
is buried under the jail by then, the better."

"Can I say just one thing?"

"You're going to anyway, aren't you?"

"Yes.  I want you to do me a favor and consider the possibility, just
for a minute, that Jervis is guilty.  That he did it all, the whole
thing, including the clumsy attempt to cover up the evidence, to get
that damn car.  You're trying to complicate this."

"Not really," Laura said.

"The simplest answer is always the best answer," Amos said.  "And
what's the simple answer?"

"Cool the Socratic method," she said, irritably.

"Hey, I'm just trying out this Ockham's razor you're always talking
about," he said with a disingenuous grin.  "The simplest explanation is
always the best, right?"  
"Okay, the simplest explanation is that
Jervis killed Belew for his car.  But William of Ockham died in the
fourteenth century, and Lawrence Belew died last month.  And if William
of Ockham were here, he'd be a lawyer, and he'd be exploring plurality
right and left.  Let's drop this, okay?  Let's go get our bicycles and
forget we ever heard of Lawrence Belew."

Chapter 13

Laura liked to think that Avery Daniels made the decision for her.  He
indisputably prompted her to make it, but she honestly believed that he
had left her with no other course to pursue.  He chose, in the language
of Internet marketers, the negative option: he didn't decide, so Laura
had to do it for him.

It wasn't that she didn't try, as she promised Amos she would, to
forget that Lawrence Belew and Roland Jervis had ever existed.  She did
a good job of forgetting their existences, in fact, for the rest of the
day Saturday and all of Sunday.  It wasn't until Sunday evening, after
she returned home from an early dinner with Amos, that they reappeared
on her psychic radar screen in the form of a message from Tommy Wood.
There was nothing she cared to watch on television, so she ambled back
to her small office--actually a hallway with built-in desk and
cabinets--to pay a few

bills and answer some e-mail.  In the course of performing these
mundane chores, she took the fatal step of picking up her office voice
mail.

Tommy's message had been waiting, apparently, since Friday afternoon.
"Hey, Miss Chastain," he said, "I wanted to let you know that I called
Avery Daniels, like you suggested.  He, uh, didn't seem much interested
in hearing about the button.  In fact, he said that it seemed
irrelevant to him, seeing as how he was going to go with an insanity
defense and that the facts of the crime wouldn't be so important.  I
thought you ought to know.  I guess it's good news for you, because
it'll save you some time, I mean, if you don't have to follow up on
looking through Belew's clothes and all that.  But, uh, I thought you
might be kind of concerned, too.  Anyway, that's the story.  You can
call me Monday if you want to know more."

Laura hung up the phone in dismay.  Avery had really crossed a line
now.  Not to make even the pretense of defending his client, for
whatever reason--stalling tactics, showmanship, she didn't care--was
criminal.  She reached for the receiver with every intention of calling
Meredith at home, but she stopped.  What would Meredith say that she
hadn't said already?  She wasn't going to call Julia Walton again.  She
had made that clear.

But somebody had to help Avery--no, not Avery; it was Jervis who needed
and deserved the help.  Laura toyed for an insane moment with resigning
from the district attorney's office to defend Jervis herself, but she
didn't think that Marshall would allow a move like that to go
unchallenged.  He couldn't really stop her, but he could make noise and
make her the focus of the case--which she certainly didn't want.

What Jervis needed was a disinterested lawyer in private

practice to take on the case.  There were such animals in Fulton
County, a whole lot of them, in fact.  She could place an anonymous
call to the Atlanta Volunteer Lawyers Foundation.  Someone there might
take on the case--but there was no assurance that someone would, or
that the person who volunteered would be right for the job.

In fact, there was only one person Laura considered right for the job.
She flipped through her Filofax and pulled out a small white card.  An
office number, a fax number, a cell phone number, and a pager number
were all printed on the face of the card, but she turned it over.
There, written sloppily in pen, was what she wanted: the home number.
She could punch those ten digits and change everything.  Or she thought
she could.

She hesitated, poured herself another glass of Diet Coke, and wandered
around the living room straightening pillows and magazines.  She took
the garbage and the recycling bins to the curb.  The little white card
lay on her desk undisturbed when she came back.  Oh, hell, she thought.
She grabbed the phone from its cradle, without giving herself time to
reconsider, and dialed Craig Fannin's home.

She had no idea what Fannin would say--it could go any way, from
sarcasm, to outright hostility.  She knew for sure that he'd milk the
situation for his own amusement.  But she believed there was no other
choice.  Any lawyer she called might scorn and mock her, and she
figured she might as well be scorned and mocked by the best--no point
in letting some legal hack take shots at her.

A woman with a long-legged, blond voice answered.  Laura couldn't
recall if Craig was married at the moment or if he was between
engagements, so to speak.  She cleared her throat.  "May I speak to..."
Laura paused. What should she call him?  She had never addressed him
as "Craig." In

fact, she had very seldom addressed him directly at all, usually
referring to him to a judge in the third person as "Mr.  Fannin" or,
when she was really peeved, as "Counsel for the Defense."  She decided
"Mr.  Fannin" would have to do, at the risk of being taken for a
telemarketer.  "May I speak to Mr.  Fannin?"

"Who's calling, please?"  the woman asked, in a suspicious tone.

"Laura Chastain.  From the district attorney's office," she added,
hoping to upgrade her status from annoyance to legitimate business
caller.

"Oh.  I'll get him."

There was a pause, during which Laura imagined a sotto voce
conversation: "Laura Chastain?  Why the hell is she calling me at
home?"  "Probably just stalking you, dear-- call the cops."  Then
Fannin's voice came on the line.  "Well, Miss Chastain--what can I do
for you?"  Fannin sounded genial, at least, although Laura could detect
an undercurrent of amused surprise.  Or maybe just an undercurrent of
Sunday-night Scotch and soda.

"Thanks for taking my call, Mr.  Fannin--"

"Craig, please call me Craig.  We're old friends, aren't we?"

"Well ... yes, and please call me Laura.  Craig, I have to ask you
something.  It's ... well, it's kind of unorthodox.  Do you have a few
minutes?  This could take a while to explain."

"I have all the time in the world."

"All I ask is that you hear me out."

"Of course.  For you, I'm one big ear, darling'.  Whatever you say will
get my full, undivided, unadulterated attention."

"Okay, here's the situation.  You know the Lawrence Belew murder?"

"Doesn't every sentient being in Atlanta know about it?"

"Yes, I suppose so.  Can I also assume you know that there's been an
indictment?"

"You mean two indictments, I think--one that Judge Edwards very wisely
quashed, and the one you managed to shepherd through a more sympathetic
courtroom."  He was enjoying himself a little at her expense, but Laura
didn't care.  The important information she gleaned was that he had
been following the case, closely.  " "Scuse me just a second--honey,
will you top this off for me?  I'll be tied up a while," he said to his
companion.  "Go ahead," he said, returning to Laura.

"Roland Jervis, the defendant, is a guy from the south side with a
sheet as long as a Tolstoy novel.  But it's all petty stuff--loitering,
drunk and disorderly.  And what's more, he doesn't seem to be very good
at any of it.  He's probably spent more time in courtrooms than I have,
and he's done a good bit of jail time.  He's a loser with a capital L,
in other words."

"I get the picture."

"He also has no money."

"Naturally."

"And I would like you to assist in his defense," she said, rushing her
words.  
"Well, you make it mighty attractive--a loser of a client, and
he can't pay either.  Why am I being honored with this request? Doesn't
he have counsel?"  Laura could hear the clink of ice on glass as Fannin
took a pull on his drink.  
"Of course he does.  He has a public
defender representing him."

"Doesn't sound like he needs me then.  I'm sure his defender is a fully
qualified member of the bar."

"Sure he is.  And he's got no business being anywhere

near a capital case.  For Christ's sake, Craig, a man's life is at
stake, and you should see the goober head who's defending him!  I
wouldn't hire this Avery Daniels to defend me from a littering ticket.
He tried to plead one of his clients 'guilty' at a first appearance.
Judge Root had to give him one of his special little lectures.  Now
he's filing for an insanity defense.  He's hopeless."

"Why does that bother you?  I think you'd appreciate having a nice
no-brainer drop into your lap."

"Think again.  This is a capital case, and Roland Jervis is no more
insane than you are.  Avery is flailing away at procedural error, but
he's not trying the case.  He's not looking at the evidence, which is
..."  She stopped, not sure how much she should say.

"Ahh, now we're getting somewhere.  You don't think the man's
guilty."

"It's not that, exactly.  I think there is a chance that he did it. But
there are ... questions."

"Such as?"

"Such as there is no physical evidence.  Or, more accurately, the
physical evidence is inconsistent with the conclusion of the
investigators."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Okay, take the latent evidence--the only fingerprints inside the car
belonged to Jervis."

"So?  What's wrong with that?"

"I said the only prints were Jervis's.  None belonged to Belew, who had
owned the car for years.  The car was cleaned, Craig.  Jervis's
story--tell me if you know this-is that he found the car, with the keys
in the ignition, late on Monday night, over three days after Belew
disappeared.  He succumbed to temptation and took it for a ride, but
was stopped by the cops less than two hours later.  He says he

had no idea the body was in the trunk.  He only had the valet key, so
he couldn't have looked in the trunk if he had wanted to.  And that's
just the start.  The pathology of the physical injuries is very
confusing, and there was a button on the body that doesn't seem to
belong to either Jervis or Belew.  I had the crime lab call Avery to
tell him about the button.  He said it wasn't important."  "What's the
case against Jervis, other than the prints?"  Fannin asked.  He was
interested now, Laura could tell.  The bantering tone was gone.

"Two eyewitness identifications.  They both say they heard Jervis brag
about 'jacking Belew's car the day after Belew disappeared."

"Solid citizens?"

"One's okay.  One's a grade-A creep sniffing for reward money."

"And there was nothing else in the car?"

"Absolutely nothing--no blood, no hair, no fibers.  It was as if the
car had been cleaned--"

"By a pro," Fannin finished her thought.

"Well, a professional something--I looked into the possibility that
Jervis could have worked at a car detailing shop.  And lo and behold,
up pops another witness who says he worked at Bumper to Bumper on
Roswell Road in Buck head."

"You think this guy's lying?"

"Can't say.  I have yet to speak to this one.  He seems, however, to
have come into a good bit of money lately, because he quit the car
wash."

"So what's your theory?  Somebody else killed Belew and is framing
Roland Jervis for it?"

"You tell me.  All I want to know is if Jervis could have done it.  If
he did, fine.  If he didn't... well, he's good for

auto theft, but that's not a hanging offense last time I looked.  I'll
cheerfully convict him for stealing the car--"

"Not if I have anything to say about it.  If I take on this case,
you'll be lucky to convict him for anything, sweetheart.  But tell me
something, Laura; you're buying yourself a mess of trouble.  Why do
this?".

"Because there's something wrong here, and I'm not about to participate
in a judicial murder.  Jervis may be a criminal and a derelict, but he
deserves a defense, especially when his life's on the line.  And he's
not going to get it from Avery Daniels, boy attorney."

Fannin laughed.  "Okay, but why not beg off?  Tell Meredith you're not
up for it."

"You know very well why--because the case would probably go to someone
without any scruples about railroading a guy into the death chamber."

"So I'm supposed to show up, decks stripped for action and ready to
give you a real run for your money.  What if I say no?  What's your
plan then?"

"If you say no, I'll slog it out through the pretrial phase and then
call for an appellate review of the pretrial proceedings.  Then I'll
hope that somebody on the Appeals Court notices that the counsel for
the defense is an idiot."

"And if that's a no-go?"

"I'll quit the district attorney's office and make as big a stink as I
can in the press."

"But naturally you would prefer not to do something that drastic,"
Fannin mused.

"Of course not.  I like my job.  Not that I couldn't quit if I had to.
Believe me, I thought about this for a long time before I picked up the
phone.  I looked at the ethics inside and out, because I know that this
might look like a real betrayal of Marshall.  But my job description
says I'm an

officer of the court.  My duty is to get the truth, not just a
conviction.  Convicting the wrong man would be worse than letting the
guilty man go; I don't have to tell you that.  Calling you, or someone
like you, as I see it, is within the bounds of the duties of an officer
of the court.  I'm obeying the law: I am ensuring that Roland Jervis
receives an adequate defense.  Going ahead with this farce, knowing
that I could have Roland Jervis strapped in the chair without breaking
a sweat, that's unethical.  That, I couldn't do."

"But naturally you don't want me to tell anyone about this phone call?"
Fannin said, raising a verbal eyebrow.

"Well, I guess.  Does that mean you're going to do it?"

"I think it would be a ton of fun to have another shot at you in the
courtroom, Miss Chastain.  And of course my social conscience demands
that I do a little pro bono work every so often."

"I should hope so.  You can divert a little of the lucre you earned
defending Shawn Tolliver.  You owe a debt to society for that one,"
Laura said tartly.

"That poor, misunderstood boy--thank God the underdogs have me to turn
to.  I tell you what: I'll look into this whole matter.  If I think
there's a chance Jervis is being railroaded, I'll take his case."

Laura smiled broadly.  "Thanks, Craig.  Thanks a lot.  I really
appreciate it, and I hope I didn't ruin your dinner."

"Not a bit, sugar.  I wouldn't have missed a chance like this for the
world."  
"Great.  Your client is in the Fulton County Jail, of course.
I don't know how you can get in there without going through Avery or
Julia Walton...."

"Let me worry about that.  I think it's best if we just act like this
conversation never happened.  You go on and argue

your little heart out against every motion I make, just like you
normally would.  I can take the heat."

"Of course.  I just thought--"

"Never mind.  Thanks for the call, Laura.  I'll see you in court."

"Good night, Craig.  And thanks again."

Laura felt an enormous sense of relief, which was immediately
superseded by one of pure panic.  What the hell had she just done?
Craig was right to advise caution; Marshall would be furious if he knew
what she had done.  Meredith well, she wouldn't be happy, but she would
understand.  Calling in a hot-shot defense attorney, no matter what the
ethical framework of the circumstances, was unorthodox behavior for a
prosecutor.  Laura wondered if this made her unique in the annals of
prosecutorial history: the assistant district attorney who sold out the
side--in the cause of justice, of course.  But she squared her
shoulders; she knew that she would be able to defend her decision if
she had to.  She just hoped that she wouldn't have to.

Chapter 14

Monday dawned, and the world didn't end.  Laura sat through Meredith's
routine staff meeting without contributing to the discussion, which she
hoped Meredith didn't notice.  Since the discussion centered on keeping
the break room refrigerator cleaned out, her silence was probably not
as noticeable as it would have been if the topic had been something
that actually mattered.  When everyone had finally spoken his or her
piece on refrigerator hygiene, the meeting broke up.  Laura tried to
make an exit that she hoped could not later be characterized as
slinking.

"Laura!  Hold up a minute," Meredith said.  "You're not going to
believe who called me this morning."  Laura opened her eyes wide and
shook her head.  Meredith grinned."  "Craig Fannin!  He's taking Roland
Jervis as a client.  Doesn't that beat all?"

Laura feigned surprise.  "Yes, it does!  Did he say why he's doing
it?"

"He says he's taking more pro bono work these days, and that he thought
this might be one of the few death penalty cases he would see for a
while in Fulton County."

"Are you upset?"  Laura, asked.

"Upset?  Why should I be?  Craig has every right to take on a client. I
can't be upset about that."

"But it'll be tougher for us to make our case with Fannin involved."

"Don't quote me, but this case should have been a lot tougher from the
get-go.  Avery's too much of a pushover to be running a death penalty
defense.  I know, I know-you've been saying that all along.  So it's a
good outcome, really.  With Craig defending, there's less chance of
errors and appeals."

"So do you think Marshall will be okay with it, too?"

Meredith whooped with laughter.  "Marshall?  He'll be furious!  He'll
rupture a vein!  I'm off to tell him now.  Want to come?"

Laura shook her head.  "Pass.  But let me know what he says."

"You'll probably hear him yourself."

Laura returned to her desk, a bit weak in the knees.  She was glad that
Meredith could see the big-picture benefit of having Fannin take the
defense.  A good prosecutor didn't relish a guilty verdict that was
based on error or incompetence of the defense counsel.  That didn't
mean that Marshall Oliver, fighting for his survival as district
attorney, would see it that way.  Laura was grateful that Meredith had
given her the option of not being there when he heard the news.

Thirty minutes later, Meredith popped her head in.  "He's calmer now,"
she said.

"But he wasn't at first, I guess."

"No.  Calm was not the word.  In fact, I walked right into a buzz saw:
He had just taken a phone call from Fannin.  You don't know Marshall as
well as I do.  I could have predicted how it would go.  We
begin--always--with righteous anger, and move to self-pity and
self-victimization.  But we end with rock-jawed determination to
prevail."

Laura wrinkled her nose in distaste.  "Not really."

"He's a politician, and politicians are part actor.  That's good; he
needs to be able to draw on a reservoir of indignation to do this
job."

"But what's to be indignant about?"

"He believes that Fannin took the case at the suggestion of Ellis
Brady's campaign."

"No!  That's just paranoid," Laura exclaimed, forgetting for a moment
that, if Marshall had known who really gave Fannin the suggestion, he
would have had cause for a positively Nixonian level of paranoid
anxiety.

"That's what I told him.  Craig probably has his own reasons, none of
which have anything to do with Marshall, or Ellis Brady.  Knowing
Craig, in fact, I'd be willing to bet that it's nothing more than a
good, old-fashioned love of making trouble and being at the center of
the storm.  Or maybe he's itching for a rematch against you--he doesn't
often lose, you know, and you trounced him pretty well last fall.  But
I stopped by to tell you that Marshall wants you to talk to Craig. Call
his office.  Do you need the number?"

"Um, no.  I have his card."

After Meredith left, Laura dutifully dialed Craig's office number. "May
I speak to Mr.  Fannin?"  she asked, identifying herself to the
pleasant woman who answered.

Craig's voice boomed down the phone line a moment later.  "Miss
Chastain!  Did you hear that I'm representing

Roland Jervis?  Looks like we'll be facing off for battle once
again--just like the good old days."

Laura thought he was piling it on a little thick.  "The lines aren't
bugged, Craig," she said dryly.

"You never know with Marshall.  Anyway, I've talked to Julia Walton,
and I'm now officially cocounsel for the defense of Roland Jervis.  I
met my client this morning at the jail, and I've filed an entry of
appearance."

"What did you think of Jervis?"

"Pathetic.  Not cut out for hard time."

"And Avery?"

"Promising lad.  Probably brilliant.  I'll get rid of him by the end of
the week."

Laura laughed.  "You're a piece of work.  What's your next move?"

"I've just come back from the crime lab.  I met your buddies out there.
That guy Scott was delighted to meet someone as paranoid as himself."

"So you're going to follow up on the prints, and the button?"  
"Nope.
If this thing gets to trial, I can use them to establish reasonable
doubt, but, frankly, they all look like dead ends to me--as far as
grounds for dismissal, anyway.  No, I'm going after the eyewitness
testimony."

"How?"

"Hey, don't expect me to open the kimono all the way, sugar.  I will
say that I've hired a PI to check out their stories.  Your pal Kenny
Newton, in fact.  I was impressed by the work he did for you last year.
I'm hoping he turns up something to discredit their stories.  If not,
I'll try something else."

"Did you talk to the pathologist?"

"That guy.  Yeah.  Not much help there.  I took the photos and his
report and sent them to a buddy of mine at Emory

medical school, one of the pathology professors.  He said he can't be
a hundred percent about anything, without actually seeing the body, but
he can at least give me an idea of how thorough the autopsy report
is."

"You've certainly had a busy day."

"And I'm just getting started, kid--the best is yet to come.  In the
meantime, you and I should probably keep our contact to a minimum."

"Believe me, I want to.  I only called you because Marshall asked me
to.  By the way, do you know Ellis Brady?"

"Yeah.  A complete and total tool.  Why?"

"Marshall thinks you're working for him."

Craig snorted with contempt.  "That'll be the day.  Maybe I should send
a check to Marshall's campaign--that'll blow his mind."

"It's already blown enough, thanks.  I guess I'll see you around,
huh?"

"You bet you will," he said.

Laura managed to make it through the balance of the afternoon without
seeing Marshall.  She slipped out as soon after five as she decently
could, in time to go home and change her clothes before going over to
Amos's house.  He wasn't home when she got there, so she let herself in
with the key he had given her.  She pulled a beer out of the
refrigerator and settled down to wait for him.

"Sorry I'm running late," he said when he arrived shortly after
six-thirty.

"No problem.  It's given me an opportunity to thoroughly peruse the
latest issue of Guns and Ammo.  Which reminds me, Emily Bailey wants us
to come up to the farm weekend after next."  Emily was the sister of
Laura's late legal mentor and lover, Tom Bailey.  She and Laura had
come together in the wake of Tom's death, but the real surprise was
the

relationship--based on a mutual love of pistol-shooting-that had grown
up between Emily and Amos.  A weekend at her farm in north Georgia
meant horseback riding for Laura, and a blissful two days of shooting
at things for Amos.  He brightened up at the prospect.

"Great.  Did she say if she got that new pistol?"

"Yes, she did, and yes, you can play with it.  You two and the
guns--honestly."

"And you and the damn horses," Amos replied good naturedly.  "Psychotic
animals."

"I still say you were doing fine until the dog got in the way," Laura
said.  Amos's first and only attempt at riding had not gone well.  "Who
knew he didn't like dogs?"

"Emily knew it, and she still let me get up on him."

"But she didn't know the dog would run in front of you.  And you did a
great job of hanging on."

"Until I came off, that is.  I know where you're heading with this, and
you can forget it.  I'm never getting on one of those things again."

"Okay.  And I'm not shooting one of those guns."

"I don't know," Amos said.  "You're not bad.  You've only tried it
once, but I was impressed."

"But I don't like it.  Guns scare me.  How was your day, anyway?"

He shrugged.  "Nothing to write home about.  You?"

"Same."  
"That's not what I heard.  What about Craig Fannin taking on
the Belew case?"  
"Oh, that.  Marshall was kind of upset," she said
noncommittally.  "Aren't you?"  he asked.

"Me?  Why should I be upset?  Craig can do whatever he likes."

"What he likes to do is makes the cops look bad.  And prosecutors."

"He didn't make me look bad last fall.  In fact, that's why Meredith
thinks he's taking this case."

"What, to get even with you?  Some ego you've got going there, kid."

"didn't say it," Laura said indignantly.  "Meredith did."

"And why do you think he took on the case?"

Laura struggled to meet his eyes."  "He's just Craig Fannin, that's
all.  He does what he wants to.  Now change your clothes and let's go.
I'm hungry."

Laura knew that she should have told Amos the truth, but something told
her that he wouldn't be happy about it.  She deftly steered the
conversation away from her case at dinner, and begged off from
returning home with him.  "I've got a big day tomorrow," she said.

"Yeah, I'm tired, too.  I'll talk to you tomorrow."  He kissed her good
night in the driveway, and waited while she got in her car and started
it up.  He leaned in the open window.  "You need a new car," he said.
"This one's going to break down one of these days."

"It's only got a hundred and twenty thousand miles on it," she
protested.  "Your truck has a lot more than that."

"But I know how to maintain my truck.  You've run this heap of junk
into the ground.  I'm amazed it's still running."

"I do take care of it.  I have the oil changed, and I got new tires.
And a new belt thingie."  
"A timing belt.  And a new distributor, but
you only did that because I told you to.  We'll start looking around
for a new car, okay?"

"I'm not ready to spend money on a new car."

"A good used car, then.  I'll take care of it."

Laura felt a tiny surge of irritation.  She knew that Amos

wasn't patronizing her--he was probably right about the car.  But
there was something in his tone that she didn't respond well to. "We'll
see," she said.  "I really should go now."  She turned her face up so
that he could kiss her once more, and reversed out of the driveway.  He
stood and watched as she drove down the street, ready, it appeared, to
rescue her from all the dangers that might present themselves within
two blocks of his driveway.  Laura shook her head. Caveman Kowalski,
ready to defend his mate.  As if she needed it.  He of all people
should know that she was capable of defending herself, and of taking
responsibility for her car and herself.  Although, she admitted, her
reluctance to tell him about her call to Fannin didn't exactly make her
the most stand-up girlfriend of all time.  Still, she had no trouble
falling into a deep and untroubled sleep and waking rested in the
morning.

Craig's appearance on the scene created a flutter of renewed interest
in the Belew case.  Bob Harper had a story on the development in the
morning paper, which Laura read at her desk.  The reporter seemed to
share Marshall's view that Fannin's action was politically motivated,
which was fine with Laura--and fine with Craig, she assumed, based on
the cryptic quote that Harper attributed to him: "I'm just doing my bit
to make sure that the system works for everyone, not just for the folks
who can afford to pay a private attorney."  Harper had managed to get a
hurry comment from Marshall, to the effect that the prosecution's case
was overwhelmingly strong and that he hoped that Craig Fannin wouldn't
try to distract the public with fanciful theories.  Laura put the paper
aside with a chuckle and went about her

business, hoping--but not expecting--to hear from Craig directly what
he was up to.

In fact, she didn't hear from her opposing counsel until Friday
morning, and when he did call, he was all business.  "I've got to see
you," he said abruptly.

"Why?  What's happened?"

"I'll tell you in person.  We need to meet where we won't be seen
together," he said.

Laura knew that Craig's offices were in Buckhead, near her house, but
she couldn't think of a place where a locally famous defense attorney
could go in that neighborhood without being recognized.  "There's a
place down on Marietta," she ventured.  "Near Northside Drive.  It's a
hangout for students, and no one from the courthouse ever goes there."
She gave him the name and the location, a barren strip of turf west of
downtown that had escaped gentrification.

An hour later, Craig joined Laura at a table.  "Holy smokes," he said,
surveying his surroundings.  "What is this place?  And what the hell
kind of name is "The Somber Reptile'?"

"I don't know, but the food's okay, if you like Cajun.  So what's
happened--why did you call me?"

"To tell you that I'm about to blow your damn case out of the water.
Frankly, I didn't think it would be this easy."  He looked pretty
somber himself.

"You don't seem thrilled."

"I'm not.  What do you know about Alex Devereaux?"

"Nothing.  Except that he's a cop, of course.  He's pretty experienced.
Seems like a good guy."  
"Can you think of any reason he might monkey
with a case?"

"No.  Are you saying that's what happened?"

"No.  But I am saying that there's been monkeying."

"You talked to the eyewitnesses?"

"No.  They've disappeared.  Kenny's still looking for them.  But I
checked out the time frame, and they could not have talked to Jervis
when they say they did."

"Why not?"

"Because he was at church, believe it or not."

Laura almost choked on a sip of water.  "I've got to say 'not," " she
said when she had recovered.  "I don't think that Jervis is capable of
having killed Belew for his car, but I'm not going to buy into his
being a choirboy."

"He's not.  He went to church that day, in fact, against his will.  One
of his aunts died, and her funeral was Saturday.  Ever been to a black
funeral?"

"Can't say I have."

"It's an all-day affair.  Jervis was there from approximately nine
o'clock Saturday morning until two that afternoon, allowing for the
burial at the cemetery and all.  Then he went back to his grandmother's
house for dinner.  All this took place during the time he was supposed
to be hanging in the parking lots of various pool halls and liquor
stores, confessing to carjacking Lawrence Belew's Lexus."

"Wait a second.  Who saw him in church besides his loving granny?"

"The preacher and about twelve solid, hat-wearing church ladies."

"How come they didn't come forward before now?"

"For one thing, they didn't know that there were eyewitnesses against
Jervis.  For another, if they had, they all thought that Jervis needed
an alibi for Friday night, when Belew disappeared--not for Saturday
afternoon."

"But Avery knew--"

"If Avery knew jack-shit, he didn't do anything about it.

I have fired his brilliant young ass, and I'm going to call Julia
Walton and tell her to do the same."

Laura felt a warm glow of satisfaction, followed by chagrin for Avery.
"He didn't look at the eyewitness statements?"  
"You know what I
think? I think Avery assumed his client was guilty, notwithstanding
anything Jervis might have told him to the contrary, and
notwithstanding anything a careful examination of the case against his
client would have shown him."  Craig was angry, and his voice was
rising.  Laura placed a warning hand on his arm.  "Sorry.  The boy
genius was so in love with the idea of making new law on appeal that he
completely neglected to try the case.  Damn it.  Oh, and by the way, I
never found the guy from the car wash, but Roland says he never worked
there a day in his life.  I figure that will be easy enough to prove,
so even if Roland didn't have an alibi for Saturday, I've got one lying
witness caught cold.  I'd still like to find his sorry ass and find out
who paid him off."

The waiter approached with menus and water glasses, and Laura hastily
ordered beans and rice, with a Diet Coke.  Craig tossed the menu down
and asked for the same, substituting a Dos Equis for the Coke.  "Where
were we?  Anyway, I don't know where these 'eyewitnesses' are now, but
I'm going to find them and I'm going to wring the truth out of them.
Someone told them what to say.  Someone gave them details."

Laura shook her head.  "I'm sorry, but I can't believe it was Alex
Devereaux.  Or Carlton Hemingway.  The guy who talked to Terence Walker
at the car wash was white.  Both the detectives on the case are black.
What does that tell you?"

Craig shrugged and took a gulp of beer.  "I don't know.

I never thought it was Hemingway; he's still the junior guy, and he
was following Devereaux's lead."

"But what possible motive could Devereaux have for framing Roland
Jervis?"

"I don't see this so much as a frame-up of Jervis in particular. Jervis
just happens to be the poor schmuck who wandered into the path of the
so-called investigation.  In fact, Jervis might actually have been an
inconvenience.  Whoever did this probably intended that the car be
found by the police.  That's why there was a tip turned in.  And when
the cops found not only the car but Jervis, too, somebody had to
improvise."

"You mean Mr.  Button?"

"Who?  Oh, whoever left that button in the plastic.  I'm not so sure
about that."

"Could he be the white cop who talked to Terence Walker?"  
"We don't
know that he was a cop.  A white guy, anyway," Craig said.  "These
beans are pretty good.  What did your Mexican pal say about him?"

"That he was big, and white, and looked like a cop."

"That's not much to go on."

"But he identified my boy ... my friend Amos Kowalski for a cop right
away."

"You're dating Kowalski?  Good man.  And he doesn't need to flash his
badge to prove he's a cop.  My granny could make him for a cop.  There
could be something, though, to this mystery man--Mr.  Button, as you
call him.  If you don't mind, I won't call him that Sounds too much
like a name for a kitty-cat.  But if we can get one of these two
eyewitnesses to admit that someone--cop or not--paid

them, or told them they could collect reward money, for telling these
tales about Jervis, I might believe there's some sinister force at
work.  More than likely we're just looking at lazy cops and greedy
citizens out for reward money, with the added bonus that it's a
politically convenient solution for a high-profile crime."

"But you do believe that there's something else going on--this can't
all be down to lazy cops.  Not that I think Alex and Carlton are lazy.
What about the autopsy report-did you hear anything from your guy at
Emory?"

"Not yet.  He's been busy.  I hope to have something by the end of next
week.  I don't expect too much to come out of that--at least, not as
far as exonerating my client goes.  He may see something the cops
missed.  But it's not my job to figure out who really did kill Belew.
I'm only interested in getting Jervis off."

"But don't you care what happened?"

"As a person, yes.  As Jervis's defense lawyer, I don't have to.  I
don't need to play Sherlock in order to get these charges dismissed.
Finding the killer?  That's your problem --yours and the Atlanta Police
Department's.  I'll be on my merry way after I win my motion for
dismissal."

"You really think this is enough for a dismissal?"

"I do.  That's why my office is filing the motion right now."  
"What
do you think I should do--should I fight you tooth and nail, or
capitulate?"

"Do what you think is right.  I'm sure Marshall would prefer to keep
the indictment of Jervis in place--even if you convince him that the
case will ultimately fail.  It's always better to have a jailbird in
the hand in these things."

"Tell me about it.  If Jervis gets sprung, the press--and

Ellis Brady--are going to turn up the heat on Marshall.  So if you
don't mind, I think I'll vigorously oppose your motion."

"I wouldn't expect anything less from you," he said with a smile.
"Cheers," he added, clinking his beer bottle against the rim of her
glass.  "See you in court."

Chapter 15

Going up against Craig, as Laura rediscovered, was like facing down a
full-tilt monster truck rally, within the civilized confines of a
courtroom, of course.  It was hard to remember, in the face of his
attack on her case, that she had actually invited him to do this to
her, and harder still to believe that only a few days earlier she had
been sharing an amicable lunch with this ... pit bull.

"Your Honor, if I may--" Laura tried to interject to stem the tide of
Craig's argument for dismissal.

"Please, let me finish," Craig said impatiently.  Laura hoped that he
was just over involved in role-playing; otherwise, she was going to
have a thing or two to say to him.  "None of the facts of the
prosecution's case stand up.  There are three witnesses, Your Honor,
who have out-and-out lied in order to implicate my client in a terrible
crime. And that, Your Honor, is a crime unto itself.  A crime for which
I

intend to seek full justice, Your Honor, once these ludicrous charges
against him are dropped...."

"Yes, Mr.  Fannin, somehow I knew that you would," Judge Root answered,
his attitude apparently not improved by increased arterial blood flow.
"But if you don't mind, Miss Chastain does deserve an opportunity to
defend her case."

"Thank you, Your Honor," Laura said with an exasperated sidelong glance
at Craig.  "Mr.  Fannin has certainly raised some interesting new
evidence.  It appears that the reward money that was offered in this
case may have attracted a less-than-honest group of witnesses in this
matter.  The State concedes that the testimony of Messrs.  Clay and
Jackson should probably be excluded at trial.  But the third
witness,-Mr.  Walker, has not been located by Mr.  Fannin-at least, not
so far as I can tell.  And Walker's story-that the defendant worked at
a detail shop where cars were routinely and thoroughly cleaned, inside
and out--supports the State's case.  That is, his testimony shows how
Mr.  Jervis had the means to cover his tracks."

"If 7 may interject," Craig said with a touch of sarcasm that Laura
found most annoying, "Surely Miss Chastain is not trying to argue that
my client--though not, I admit, the beneficiary of a fine
education--was stupid enough to think that by cleaning the car,
eliminating every set of prints but his own, that he could conceal his
involvement in a crime...."  
"I am not suggesting anything, Your
Honor, but that there are inconsistencies in the defense's argument.  A
couple of greedy people come forward with stories to collect a
reward--well, it doesn't reflect very well on the police, or the
district attorney's office, that they made it this far, but it
certainly doesn't disprove anything else in our case.  You'll

note that Mr.  Fannin makes no effort to deny that his client was
driving the victim's car, with the victim's body in the trunk, when he
was arrested.  His explanation--that he 'found' the car--stretches
credibility more than a little.  And I am arguing that--no matter what
Mr.  Jervis's educational background may have been--he did have the
means to clean signs of a struggle from the interior of the car.  That
he allowed his own fingerprints to remain is, in that light,
meaningless, because he didn't mean to obliterate signs of his own
presence--only those of his victim."

"Come on, Miss Chastain--do you expect the court to believe that this
criminal mastermind cleaned the interior of the car in an attempt to
hide signs of a murder, but left the body in the trunk?  You know, Miss
Chastain, I've always thought you were one of the more logical
employees of the district attorney's office.  I'm sad to say that I'm
being forced to revise my opinion."  And he did, indeed, look sad.
Craig was giving an Academy Award performance, and he was enjoying
himself.

"That's enough, Mr.  Fannin.  We don't need ad hominem observations. If
neither of you has any additional facts to introduce, I am prepared to
call a recess while I consider the motion."

"I have nothing further, Your Honor," Craig said.

"I have nothing, either," Laura said.  
"Good.  We'll recess until,
say, two o'clock.  I'll be prepared to rule then."

Laura didn't look at Craig as she gathered her papers.  Meredith, who
had been seated throughout the proceedings, watched as Fannin escorted
his client--dressed, for this appearance, in what looked to Laura like
a new suit, no doubt courtesy of his new lawyer--from the courtroom.

"That went well," Meredith said, her tone implying that she believed
anything but.

"Hey, I tried," Laura said.  "You could have jumped in any old time,
you know."

"Don't bite my head off.  You did great.  But Craig ... he's on to
something."

"Think so?  Think we should expect Judge Root to let us go ahead and
let these two dirtbags testify?"

' "That's water under the bridge.  I'm just hoping he doesn't go all
the way to dismissal."

"What's to stop him?"

Meredith stopped and shook her head."  "Nothing.  It looks bad.  I
better prepare Marshall for a loss on this one.  Let's hope he doesn't
fire me."  Seeing the dismay on Laura's face, she offered her shoulder
a pat.  "Don't worry.  I'm just kidding.  Marshall's not that
unreasonable.  And you haven't done a thing wrong.  I could strangle
Devereaux, though.  This was sloppy police work."

Laura nodded in agreement, hoping that it was just sloppy work.  The
alternative was not very appealing.  It occurred to her that Alex
Devereaux--and Carlton Hemingway, whom she counted as a friend--could
be in a whole lot of trouble if Craig won this motion.  She trooped
dejectedly back to her office, reflecting that whoever postulated the
law of unintended consequences knew what the hell he was talking about.
Here was Meredith talking about getting fired, and who-knows-what kind
of grief about to rain down on the Atlanta Police Department... all of
which could have been avoided by Laura's simply keeping her mouth shut.
If she had, the only person to suffer any consequences at all would
have been Roland Jervis, who was not Laura's boss, and not a friend.
Just a guy who might have been executed for something he didn't do.
Knowing that--and knowing

that she would have felt worse if she had let it happen-would have to
do as shield and buckler for Laura if the going got tough.

Which it very soon did.  To no one's surprise, or at least not to
Laura's, Meredith's, or Craig Fannin's surprise, after reading
statements from one preacher and two staunch aunts, Judge Root granted
Fannin's motion to dismiss the charges against Roland Jervis.  He did
so with a lecture that, although directed at the absent police officers
who had investigated the crime, struck Laura as exceptionally harsh.

"To say that I'm disappointed," he rumbled from the bench, "would be an
egregious understatement.  I am dismayed.  Dismayed that the testimony
of two such transparent liars as Jermaine Clay and Albert Jackson could
be used to indict a man for felony murder.  Dismayed that the police
spent no more time investigating their false and malicious claims than
they would have investigating some petty crime.  And especially
dismayed that the State--which is charged, as I hope I don't need to
remind Mrs. Gaffney and Miss Chastain, with seeing that justice is
done--could acquiesce in such a flimsy excuse for pursuing a capital
case.  I would like to remind all concerned--those present and those
not in the courtroom today--of the duties of an officer of this court. 
The search for justice is of far more lasting importance than any quest
for office."  Laura cringed especially at that last remark; clearly,
the judge thought that all this was a product of Marshall's political
ambitions.  Which was not, she admitted privately, all that far off the
mark."  "The charges against you, Mr.  Jervis, are dismissed," Judge
Root concluded.

"All the charges, Your Honor?"  Fannin asked.

"All of them."

"But, Your Honor," Laura interjected, "the felony charge--the theft of
the automobile!"

"I consider that a lesser included charge, Miss Chastain.  Your case
was based on your theory that Mr.  Jervis had assaulted the victim with
the intent of taking his car.  Insofar as I don't believe that you have
shown that Mr.  Jervis was Mr.  Belew's assailant, I don't believe that
you've shown that he took the car, either."

"But he was driving the car!"  Laura declared.  This was a little much;
she wanted Jervis out from under a death penalty rap, but to try to say
that he hadn't taken the car was ludicrous.  He was driving the car; it
wasn't his car; he didn't have the owner's permission to drive
it--q.e.d."  he had stolen it.

"Yes, Miss Chastain.  And if you had charged him with felony murder and
auto theft, you might still have an indictment.  But you clearly cast
the theft of the auto as a carjacking --a felonious assault that
resulted in Mr.  Belew's death.  You can reindict him for theft if you
wish, but he is, as of now, a free man.  That's all I have to say."
With that, Judge Root rose and left the courtroom.

Laura turned slowly to meet Meredith's gaze.  In the background, Fannin
was congratulating Jervis and the battalion of church ladies who had
showed up to support his cause.  "Sorry," she said tersely.

"Why?  You did what you could.  You said all along that the case was
shaky.  This is what happens to shaky cases."

"But Marshall--"

"Will have a cow.  So what?  You did your job, Laura.  Who could have
known that Craig Fannin would take an interest in a case like this?
Helluva time for him to develop a conscience, if you ask me," Meredith
grumbled.

"It's better, though, don't you think--I mean, not to be

going ahead to trial on such a weak foundation?  Sooner or later--even
without Fannin--this thing would have collapsed."

Meredith shrugged.  "Who knows?  The only important thing now is to
decide what we want to do next.  And to get out of here without talking
to our friends with the green eyeshades--whoops, too late."  Laura
turned to look where Meredith saw something.  It was Bob Harper, the
reporter from the morning paper who had been following the case.  "Hey,
Bob, how are you?"  she greeted him as he turned his attention from
Fannin and his client to the defeated prosecutors.

"I'm great, Meredith.  Better than you, I think.  What happened?"

"You were here.  What do you think happened?"

"I think you got your ass whupped.  But, for public consumption, I'm
willing to make it a little prettier."  
"What a prince.  Well, you can
say that the district attorney doesn't believe that the facts Mr.
Fannin brought forward change a thing.  Roland Jervis still has some
'splaining to do--just what was he doing driving a dead man's car,
with, I might add, the dead man as a passenger?"

"Maybe it's just what he's been saying all along--he found the car. And
he didn't know Belew was in the trunk."

"You think so?  And when was the last time you found a Lexus with a
body in the trunk, Bob?"

The reporter laughed.  "Okay, it's not the best story.  So what's your
next move?"

"We're not prepared to say," Meredith answered.

"Will you do what the judge said--reindict him?"

"We're not prepared to say right now.  So scoot along and write your
story, Bob.  I'll call you as soon as I know something."  Harper
switched off his vest-pocket recorder,

gave Meredith a wink, and left.  But they hadn't cleared the courtroom
before they were approached once again, this time by a well-dressed,
handsome black man who looked vaguely familiar to Laura.  He also
looked angry to her.

"What the hell just happened?"  he asked.

Laura remembered who.  he was.  Lawrence Belew's brother-in-law, the
husband of Diana Belew.  She had seen him at the press conference the
day they had announced Jervis's arrest.  "You're Julian Arnold, aren't
you?"  she asked.  "Yes.  Diana Belew is my wife.  What just happened
here?"

Laura shook her head.  "Our case wasn't strong, Mr.  Arnold.  Craig
Fannin--the man who argued the motion to dismiss--had us cornered."

"Well, that's just great, isn't it?  All along you people have been
telling us you had this guy cold.  And now, it turns out you don't.  I
don't know how I'm going to tell my wife about this--let alone my
in-laws.  Do you know what this has done to them?"

"I have an idea," Laura replied.

"What can I tell them?  What are you going to do?  Can you reinstate
the charges?"  
"Yes, probably," Laura said thoughtfully."  "But our
case, without those eyewitnesses, is pretty shaky."

" "Pretty shaky'?  You catch the guy in Lawrence's car and you say your
case is shaky?"

Meredith answered him patiently.  "You're right that the prima facie
case looks bad for Jervis.  He had the car, and there's no doubt that
the car is somehow connected to the murder.  But you heard what the
judge said--we tied the theft of the car into the murder.  We believed
that the car was taken in a car-jacking, and that your brother-in-law
was

killed in the course of the commission of that crime, and that's how
we charged him--as a car-jacker who, in the course of committing a
felony, killed Lawrence Belew."

"And that's not what you think happened now?"

Meredith sighed.  "I do.  But if we recharge Jervis right away, it will
have to be with the theft of the car.  We don't have the evidence to
support the car-jacking at this point."

"Are you saying you can't reindict him for murder?"

Laura nodded.  "Not unless we want Craig Fannin to replay this scene
again."

"We can hold him, though, on the theft charges," Meredith amended.

Arnold hardly seemed placated by these tepid reassurances.  "I'll try
to explain it to my mother-in-law, but she's not going to be happy."

"Please tell her that the full resources of the Atlanta Police
Department and the Fulton County District Attorney's office are going
to be dedicated to gathering the evidence we need to reindict
Jervis."

"Or to indict someone else," Laura added, more in the spirit of honesty
than of helpfulness.  Arnold nodded curtly, and left them without
saying goodbye.

"I guess we're off to see the wizard now," Laura said glumly,
anticipating another unpleasant encounter, this time with Marshall.

"Yup.  Oh, don't look so sad--he won't kill you."

He would if he knew the truth, Laura thought.  But Meredith was right.
Marshall took the defeat surprisingly well.  At first, anyway.

"Bullshit," he said.  "Nothing but grandstanding.  Fannin drags a bunch
of church ladies past Judge Root, and he goes PC.  Smug bastard.  He
threw out the felony murder indictment?"

"He threw out the whole case," Laura said.

"What about the felony auto theft?"

"Lesser included charge, he says, since we positioned it as a
car-jacking.  He was probably right," Laura added masochistically.

"But we can reindict him for the felony auto theft," Meredith added
hastily.  "We'll get right on it."  
"Well," Laura said."  "Let's think
about that.  What would be the point?  We can't reindict him on the
murder--not with the evidence that we have--so we'll only look petty
and vindictive if we try to hold him on the auto theft charge."

"What do you mean, 'petty'?"  Marshall demanded.  "How is it petty to
keep a car thief behind bars?"

"Everyone would know that's not why we're indicting him.  They know we
think he killed Lawrence Belew."  
"And?  I'm afraid I don't see your
point.  Unless you don't think he killed Belew."

Laura drew a deep breath.  "As a matter of fact, I don't.  There's too
much that doesn't fit.  Like, how would he have cleaned the car?  Why
did all these witnesses step up and start lying their heads off?  Don't
you think there's something going on that bears looking into?"  
"I
think the murder of a good citizen of this city deserves looking into,
a point of view that you apparently don't share."

"Oh, climb down, Marshall," Meredith intervened.  "All Laura is trying
to say is that she never felt that this case added up to much.  Right,
Laura?"  
"That's right.  It didn' thang together like it should
have."

"Why else would Fannin have involved himself?  Come on, Marshall,
when's the last time you knew him to back a loser?"

"Last fall, when he defended another murderer.  Don't

make the mistake of assuming that Craig Fannin was acting out of
principle--the man doesn't have any."

"I wouldn't say that," Lauraargued.  "He's plenty principled, when he
wants to be."

"Really?  Why do you think he took this case, then?"

"Because he didn't think Jervis was guilty."  
"And I say bullshit.  He
saw a couple of petty inconsistencies in our case and decided to ride
in on a white horse.  You know what his real motive is, of course."
Laura shook her head.  "Let me tell you, then.  I give it about
twenty-four hours before Fannin files a civil suit on Jervis's behalf.
It's all about the Benjamins, baby, with that one."  
"Aren't you
ignoring something?"  Laura asked, growing more heated than she liked.
"There would have been no opportunity for Craig to take Jervis's case,
or to file a civil suit on his behalf, if our own case hadn't been a
half-baked mess of lying witnesses and dubious conclusions."

"If that's how you saw the case, I'm not surprised that Fannin beat
you.  You could do me the favor of at least pretending to believe in
the cases you prosecute."

"Don't get snide with me, Marshall--you would have lost this one as
quickly as I did, because it was bogus from the start and you knew it.
If you weren't so focused on your stupid election you might not have
pushed to even indict Roland Jervis for auto theft--much less sent him
to death row for felony murder."

"All right, children, let's not go there," Meredith said warningly.

"No, I am going there," Laura said, truly angry.  "For the past six
months this office has been run with one goal only: reeled Marshall
Oliver.  This isn't the first bad decision that's been made with
Marshall's political career in mind--"

"I think you should shut up now," Marshall warned.
"Because you don't
know what you're talking about.  I don't need staffers who question my
judgment."

"No, you don't.  You don't need to have your almighty judgment
questioned, and God forbid anyone does.  We're all on eggshells around
you, all the time--especially since you filed for reelection.  That's
why nobody in this office can look you in the face and tell you the
truth.  But I'm going to.  Here it is, Marshall: Roland Jervis did not
kill Lawrence Belew.  He did exactly what he said he did.  He found the
car, with the keys in it, where someone had left it, cleaned of prints
and fibers.  Someone who knew what the hell he was doing.  Did he mean
for some idiot like Jervis to find the car?  I don't know.  But when he
did, and when we jumped on that poor schmuck, whoever did it was only
too happy to point us in Jervis's direction.  Witnesses were popping up
like daisies--need corroboration of something?  No problem!  One
witness, coming up.  You want fries with that?  I'm ashamed that I went
along with it as long as I did.  And here's the capper: want to know
why Fannin took this case?  Huh?  Because I asked him to.  I called him
up, and told him I thought the case was being mishandled.  And I
practically begged him to take it on--because I couldn't live with what
was happening."

Even Meredith was astonished.  "Laura, why didn't you tell me?  Why did
you have to go to him, of all people?"

"I tried to tell you.  I'm sorry, Meredith, I love you to death, but
you didn't listen to a word I was saying."

"Why didn't you just resign the case, then?"

"What?  And let someone less scrupulous fry an innocent man?  I
couldn't take the chance."

Marshall had recovered himself enough to speak.  "Get out.  You're
fired."

Meredith tried to intervene once again.  "Now, Marshall, think it
through.  Laura's one of our top performers--"

"No.  Get her out of here.  I never want to see her again.  I don't
need some damn Judas on my staff.  Leave--go!  And you can go, too,
Meredith, if you don't like it.  That's all."

Both women left Marshall's office.  "For God's sake, Laura, did you
have to go that far?"

"Yes.  I'll get my things and go."

"No, let me try to talk him around."

"Give it up, Meredith.  He fired my ass.  And I would have, too, in his
position.  I did what I did knowing there was a chance this would
happen."  
"You didn't have to tell him it was you who called Craig.
Marshall never would have found out."

"No, he wouldn't have.  Craig certainly never would have told anyone.
But why would I want to keep working for a man like Marshall, who puts
his own job ahead of an innocent man's life?"

"And what does that say about me?  Do I need to pack my bags and storm
out to keep my reputation with you intact?"

"For the love of God, Meredith.  That's not what this is about.  You
know I admire you, and I trust you--" 
"Not enough to be honest with
me, apparently," Meredith said bitterly.

"Okay, I can see this is going nowhere.  I should have told you.  I
really should have, and I'm sorry I didn't.  The last thing I wanted to
do was blow up my relationship with you."

Meredith paused, emotions fighting on her face.  "You haven't.  You're
a good lawyer, and you did the right thing.

I wasn't listening to you when you tried to tell me.  I didn't let you
tell me."  
"Meredith, I'm so sorry," Laura was crying now, dabbing at
her face with the back of a clenched fist to try to hide the tears.  "I
liked working here.  I liked working for you."

Meredith put her arms around her now-former assistant.  "And you will
again, some day.  Just give him a chance to cool off."

Laura accepted the embrace, and the assurance, but she knew in her
heart that he would not.  It was going to be a long, long time before
she worked for Marshall Oh'ver again.

Chapter 16

An hour later, Laura left the courthouse, her career as an assistant
district attorney reduced to the contents of a box and a shopping bag.
She tossed them into the trunk of her car and got into the driver's
seat.  She sat there for a few minutes, at loose ends.  Relief warred
with anger; she didn't respect Marshall, and she didn't want to work
for him-but how dare he fire her?

She looked at her watch; it was still early in the afternoon.  She had
a sense that she shouldn't be out of the office at this time of day;
the habit of work was deeply ingrained in her.  She could go home, but
she thought that seeing her home in the unfamiliar afternoon light
would make her feel strange.  There would be enough of those quiet
afternoons in the coming days and weeks, she knew, but she wanted to
spare herself this first one.  She decided to go to Amos's house. 
There, at least, she could sustain the pretense of being

on vacation.  She backed out of the familiar parking space and headed
east.

Amos was surprised to find her waiting at his house when he returned
from work two hours later.  She was sitting on the porch swing, idly
dangling a ball of crumpled paper in front of the delighted cat.

"What are you doing here?"  Amos asked, surprised but not displeased.

"Don't we have a date?"

"Yeah, but I didn't expect you until later.  Did you get off early
today?"

"So to speak," she said.  "I'm on vacation."

"What does that mean?"

"It's a permanent vacation."

"You quit?"  he asked, astonished.  
"I didn't get the chance. 
Marshall fired me before I could fling my resignation at him."

"He fired you?"  he said, sitting down next to her.  "Just like that?
Why?"

"It had to do with the Belew murder, of course.  What else?  I guess
you didn't hear that Craig Fannin won his motion for dismissal."

"I did, but it wasn't your fault.  Why would he fire you for that?  Did
he can Meredith, too?"

"Nope.  Just me."

"That's outrageous.  Just because you lost a motion?"

"In fairness to Marshall, it wasn't just any motion.  He had a lot
riding on convicting Roland Jervis.  Anyway, it was more the way I lost
it that he had a beef with.  I should have seen it coming; I knew that
Marshall was nothing but a self-serving political hack.  He'd fry his
own granny if he thought it would get him reelected."  
"That's not
exactly headline news.  But his reaction seems

a little extreme.  He'll look like a jackass when the press gets hold
of this."

Laura shook her head.  "Maybe so.  He was pretty mad, though.  I don't
think he was thinking about the consequences."  
"What did you do,
anyway?  He's been mad at you before, but he's never fired you."

"Well," Laura said hesitantly, realizing that this was not going to be
easy to tell Amos.  "I guess it is fair to say that losing to Fannin
was the proximate cause.  Marshall was pretty upset that Craig had
gotten involved in the case in the first place."

"It is annoying that he decided to stick his nose in.  But it wasn't
your fault."

"Actually, it was."

"How could it be?"

"Because I called Craig and asked him to look into the case against
Jervis."

Amos stood up so suddenly that the swing rocked violently.  The cat
skittered away, alarmed.  "You did what?"  he asked.  
"I called him.
Fannin, I mean.  Avery Daniels was missing the forest for the trees,
and I thought Roland Jervis was being railroaded to make life easier
for Marshall and the mayor.  And Avery was making it easy for them."

"So you decided that you had to take matters into your own hands?"

"Yes.  Look, I knew you'd be mad when I told you--" "So you were going
to tell me?"

"Eventually.  Craig and I thought it was best--"

"Craig thought?  That's great.  Now you're taking advice from Craig
Fannin."

"Amos, it was a delicate situation.  Craig's the best

defense lawyer in Atlanta.  I knew if there was something screwy he'd
find it."

"And what did he find that was so screwy?"

"The same things I had noticed--the same things I had been trying to
get everybody else to pay attention to!  The fingerprints, the sleazy
eyewitnesses--and no one listened to me.  If Avery had been doing a
halfway decent job, I would have shrugged it off and said tough luck
for Jervis.  But Avery was wrapped up in some Supreme Court fantasy.
Actually, you're right--I didn't need to call Craig Fannin.  I didn't
have to get the best lawyer in Atlanta involved; pretty much anyone
with some courtroom experience and the ability to fog up a mirror would
have done as well.  But I'm glad I called Craig, and I'm not sorry that
he blew my so-called case to hell."  
"Your case?  Excuse me, but there
were some other people involved here.  What about Alex Devereaux, and
Carlton?"

"I tried, Amos.  I really did.  But Devereaux was determined to put
this one to bed and drive on.  And Carlton is still the junior
partner--not to mention that, much as I like him, Carlton isn't as
open-minded as a detective should be.  He went into this thing with
some prejudices against Lawrence Belew."

"Really?  Then you'll be happy to know that both of them are under
investigation by the Office of Professional Standards."

Laura gaped at him, disbelieving.  "I never thought--"

"No, of course you didn't.  You never thought that you might be taking
a chance with the careers of a couple of pretty good cops.  Because,
let's face it, the cops are the bad guys in your book."

"That's not fair--and it's not true, either!"  Laura exclaimed,
standing up and once again driving the cat into

hiding behind a planter.  "Neither Craig nor I seriously thought that
Devereaux had cooked up evidence.  We thought he was sloppy, sure, but
we didn't want him investigated."

"Maybe you didn't, but your pal Fannin sure did.  It'll help him when
he files Jervis's civil suit.  Which, of course, he will be doing."

"He may.  Why shouldn't he?  The bottom line, Amos, is that Jervis
didn't do it.  He didn't kill Lawrence Belew."

"What makes you so damn sure?"

"Just what I told you.  The evidence points elsewhere."

Amos snorted.  "The evidence.  Don't you think Alex Devereaux knows
more about evidence than you do?"

"Of course he does--and so do the guys at the crime lab.  Both of them
thought there was something wrong with the setup."

Amos waved a dismissive hand in the air.  "What do they know?  You
don't make a case out of fingerprints and fibers.  There's a whole lot
more that goes into an investigation.  I've been doing this for a
while, and I'm glad that those guys are out there, looking through the
microscopes and all that, but most crimes I've been involved in get
solved by detectives' gut instincts.  And luck."

"Okay, then, look at what the detectives had in this case.  What about
the eyewitnesses, then?  They were lying.  You can't deny that."

He shrugged.  "So a couple of creeps make a grab for some of the reward
money.  Doesn't mean that Jervis is innocent"

"No, it doesn't.  But how come they lied with such specificity?  And
where are they, then--why couldn't Craig find them?"

"What makes you so sure he didn't?"

"Okay, now you're being ridiculous," Laura said irritably."  "What
reason would Craig have for tampering with the witnesses?  And, for
your information, he hired Kenny to find them."

Amos shrugged.  "There's one thing I know: I don't trust Craig Fannin
as far as I can throw him."

"So he's the one who set all this up?  You're accusing me of having an
anti cop mind-set.  Well, if that's so, you're anti lawyer

"Why shouldn't I be?  I get to see them at work all the time.  Go
anywhere, say anything for a dollar."

"Just like me, huh?  Of course.  That explains why I took a fifty
percent cut in salary to go to work for the district attorney.  I'm so
glad we're having this discussion.  It's nice to know what you think of
me."

"Not of you; of your profession.  You, unfortunately, I happen to
love."

"Yes, that is unfortunate.  And may I say you're doing a fine job of
showing it?  Amos, you're treating me like I'm the enemy.  Don't forget
that we're supposed to be on the same team.  We're supposed to be
working together to catch the bad guys."  "I haven't forgotten, but you
did.  You called in Fannin, and now Alex Devereaux's entire career is
in jeopardy.  Carlton will be okay.  Like you said, he's the junior
guy. I don't imagine you're going to be top of his list, though."

"That would be too bad.  I like him, and I consider him a friend.  But
you--and Alex, and Carlton--have to realize that I didn't go into this
to get cops investigated.  I wanted the crime investigated."

"I'm sure that's what Devereaux thought he was doing," Amos answered.

"Maybe he did.  But being a detective isn't like working

on an assembly line; there are no production quotas.  If he had taken
a little more time--"

"He would have seen it your way," Amos finished the sentence for her.
"You haven't learned anything, Laura.  You go into situations with your
mind made up.  You'll discard any fact that doesn't fit your version of
events.  And if you can't get everyone to see it your way, you'll do an
end run."

"Playing a little bump and run with the bad guys is what it's all
about.  Damn it, if I'd played by the rules this time, whoever killed
Lawrence Belew would have gone scot free."

"How do you know he's not scot-free right now, as a result of your
meddling?"

"Meddling?  Excuse me, but I don't appreciate that.  I could hardly
have meddled in my own damn case."

"But you did just exactly that.  You called in the biggest sleazebag in
the Southeast.  And--big surprise--he turns up a bunch of witnesses to
contradict the witnesses the cops had found."

"Are you saying that Craig got a preacher to commit perjury?  And a
bunch of old ladies?"

"It's worth considering," Amos said.

"Please.  Why would they lie?"  she said, exasperated.

"Why wouldn't they have come forward earlier?  See, when Alex Devereaux
brings you a witness, you're immediately suspicious.  But when Fannin
shows up with one it's the word of God."

"And why would Craig risk his livelihood and his career by suborning
perjury?"

"To win a civil settlement from the city, of course.  All you did was
give him the right ambulance to chase."

"Absurd.  Craig doesn't have to go looking for business.  He was
genuinely disturbed by what I told him."

"Give me a break.  Fannin's never been genuinely anything in his life.
The guy's scum."

"And so am I, I guess.  Just a scummy old lawyer.  I'm surprised you've
put up with me this long."

"I didn't have any choice.  I fell in love with you."

"Poor old you.  How you must have suffered!  I guess I should thank you
for overcoming the ancient animosity between our two clans--the lawyers
and the cops."

"Stop it, Laura.  I don't think we should continue this discussion
until we cool down."  
"I'm completely cool.  And I hear very clearly
what you're saying: that I should let Roland Jervis take one for the
team, in the higher interest of making the Atlanta Police Department
look good."

"Bullshit.  That's not what I'm saying."

"That's what it sounds like you're saying," Laura said.  The cat twined
himself between her ankles, trying to convince her to get back to the
serious business of entertaining him.

Amos shook his head.  "As usual, you're hearing what you want to.  You
do that, you know.  You filter out everything that contradicts your
opinion."

"I do not.  I wouldn't be a very good lawyer if I did."

"No, it's actually what makes you such a good lawyer.  But I've told
you before--so you don't need to get your panties in a bunch when I say
it again--you would make a lousy cop."

Laura nodded.  "I agree.  I would be a crummy police officer--I can't
just bag 'em and tag 'em and move on.  This may sound silly, but I'm
interested in getting to the truth."

"That does sound pretty silly for someone who just partnered up with
Craig Fannin.  He's about as interested in the truth as I am in German
operas."

"What the hell do you know about Fannin?  For your information, he
thinks you're a pretty good guy.  He doesn't see you as his enemy."

"I guess I should be flattered.  Or maybe not--if Fannin likes me, I
must not be doing my job very well."

"That's it I've had it.  I'm going home."  
"That's probably a good
idea.  We should go to our corners and cool off.  I'll call you in a
day or two."

"Please don't bother," she said.  "Good-bye, Mr.  Cat."  She turned her
back so he couldn't see that she was fighting tears, and she didn't
look back, even though she knew that he was standing on the porch
watching as she went to her car, got in, and drove away.

Chapter 17

Saturday morning rolled around, but for Laura the day was
indistinguishable from the previous three--unemployed-days.  She got
out of bed and ambled aimlessly through her morning routine.  She made
an attempt at breakfast, but it was a halfhearted one.  Laura's
reaction to any crisis was to go off her feed; she had survived the
days since Marshall and Amos had both fired her subsisting on Diet
Coke, pasta with prefabricated sauce, and cinnamon Altoids.  It wasn't
exactly nutritious, but her jeans fit better than they had in weeks and
her breath was minty-fresh.

She was toying with the idea of driving home to Nashville, where she
could rest in the bosom of her family.  Her brother had just produced
an heir, the first grandchild and Laura's first experiment in
aunt-hood.  Or she could drive up to Rabun County and take Emily Bailey
up on her offer of a sympathetic ear.  The second idea had a lot of
appeal,

considering that there was a long-legged, evil-tempered horse there
that Laura loved to tangle with.  Or she could continue to mope right
here at home, wasting another beautiful late-spring day.

Before she could come to a decision, she heard the rumble of a car
engine in her drive.  Her heart leaped at the thought that it might be
Amos come to storm the ramparts in his determination to get her back. A
hopeful, surreptitious glance out the kitchen window revealed a sleek
silver convertible as far from Amos's old Wagoneer as any vehicle could
be.  Before she had time to wonder whose it was, the front doorbell
chimed.

Laura tiptoed silently to the door--she wanted to maintain the option
of pretending to be out--and peered through the peephole.  She saw
portions of a casually attired Craig Fannin, standing on her front
porch holding an envelope under one polo-shirted arm.

She opened the door.  "Craig--what brings you here?"

"Figured you could use some company.  Mind if I come in?"

"Of course not," she replied, standing aside.  "Mi casa, etcetera.
You've heard the news?"

"That you're a free agent?  Of course.  I was surprised that you didn't
call me.  Marshall's an idiot, of course.  But he'll take you back."

"Don't bet on it.  Things were said that cannot be unsaid."

"He'll be begging you to come back before next month.  This is a cute
place," he said, digressing, surveying her hallway and living room."
"How long have you lived here?"

"A little more than a year.  I bought it with the last of my ill-gotten
gains from Pendergrast and Crawley, before I became a public
servant."

"Prices have gone nuts in this neighborhood.  You were lucky to get in
when you did."

"I guess so.  Have a seat.  Can I get you a cup of coffee, or
something?"

"No, thanks.  I've got someone waiting outside in the car, so I won't
linger.  I wanted you to see something."  He seated himself in an
armchair, and Laura positioned herself at the end of the sofa closest
to him.  He handed her the manila envelope he had brought with him.  "I
thought you should see this."  His normally bantering demeanor
departed, leaving him strangely sober.

Laura opened the flap of the envelope and removed the contents, which
consisted of a sheaf of papers.  On top was a handwritten note that
read, "Craig: As you requested.  As I told you, as I was not present at
the postmortem examination, I am not able to say anything with absolute
certainty.  But I found some inconsistencies that I think would be
worthwhile following up on.  Call me if you want to discuss this."  The
signature was illegible, in the hallowed tradition of the medical
profession, but Laura knew that the note had been written by Craig's
"guy" in the pathology department at Emory University.

Laura put the note aside and examined the papers, which consisted of
the autopsy report she had already seen, marked with comments.  The
photos she had tried to avoid looking at were included as well, marked
in numerous places with little sticky yellow arrows, numbered to
correspond to the comments.

Craig took note of her frowning attempts to decipher the notes.  "It's
a lot of technical jargon, but I can sum it up for you.  My man at
Emory--Eric Hillman--says that the doctor who performed the autopsy is
either incompetent or an outright liar."

"What makes him think that?"  
"Inconsistencies.  Big ones.  What did
the original report list as the cause of death?"

"Blunt force trauma to the head, I think."

"Right.  What do you know about head injury?"

"Not a lot.  I know that head trauma can cause bleeding in or around
the brain.  It's not always fatal, I know.  But I didn't delve too
deeply, because the facts of the autopsy weren't in dispute--heck, with
Avery on the case, nothing was in dispute.  I had some trouble
communicating with Dr.  Cooper, anyway."

"Let me give you a short primer on head injury.  What kills you isn't
the blow itself; it's the bleeding that results from it.  That's
hematoma.  But there's hematoma, and then there's hematoma.  Near as I
can tell, they have about six kinds.  What Lawrence Belew died from
was--hand me that report so I can read the big words--a 'subscalpular
hematoma, with sub arachnoid and subdural hemorrhage."  In the degree
he suffered it, that type of injury is almost universally fatal in a
short time.  According to Dr.  Hillman there's no way he could have
lived for any significant period of time with that kind of injury.  The
bleeding was too massive and too traumatic."

"That's consistent with what Cooper said, though."

"Hang on.  I ain't done school in' you yet, missy.  What Hillman saw
that disturbed him were the rest of Belew's injuries.  Bruises,
fractures, abrasions ... all consistent with a brutal beating,
right?"

"Right," Laura agreed, cringing mentally at the remembrance of the
photos.  "He was beaten, literally, to a pulp."

"Twice," Craig said.

"What, beaten twice?  But Cooper and Hillman both say

that he couldn't have survived for any length of time after he
received the injuries."  
"Not after the fatal injury, no.  But the
first set of injuries, bad though they were, were survivable.  And he
did survive them--for more than twenty-four hours, near as Hillman can
tell from the photos and reports.  Maybe as long as forty eight hours.
Hillman believes that Dr.  Cooper deliberately obfuscated the time of
death."

"That's absurd--Dr.  Cooper wouldn't have lied.  What advantage does he
have in lying?  His whole livelihood is at stake."

"Which is why I allow for the possibility that he was simply
incompetent.  I'm looking into his credentials.  Anyway, let me tell
you what Hillman thinks about the sequencing of the injuries.  There
was a set of traumas inflicted on Lawrence Belew somewhere between
forty-eight and twenty-four hours before he died.  Then he met with the
fatal blow, and died almost immediately.  How does he know this?  He
can look at the photos and tell from the appearance of the bruises that
Belew had been injured for some time.  How long does it take a bruise
to develop on your shin when you bang it?"

"I don't know.  Maybe a few hours, or overnight?"  
"That's about
right. But bruises have sort of a life cycle-it's not possible to say
exactly when someone was bruised, but they've made enough of a science
of it that they can make a pretty good guess.  Recent bruises are
bluish black; older ones show yellow and green because of iron in the
blood. These are recent bruises, but the important thing is that
they're bruises at all.  Belew had time, in other words, to bruise
before he died.  He had, in the jargon, antemortem contusions.  There
were also postmortem ocular changes that are consistent with his being
alive much later than Cooper

suggests.  That means that the fluids in his eyes were still present.
If he'd died right away, the fluids wouldn't have been there.  And
Hillman's guess, based on the degree of bruising, and the condition of
the other injuries, the scrapes and cuts, is that Lawrence Belew was
beaten to within an inch of his life in the time frame I just gave
you."

"Twenty-four to forty-eight hours before he actually died?"

"Yes."

"Okay, say your man is right--let's look at the implications.  We have
approximately eighty hours in the life of Lawrence Belew unaccounted
for, if you take the maximum parameters.  He left his office Friday
evening about seven; his body was discovered about midnight Tuesday
morning."

"That's seventy-seven hours, to be exact," Craig added.  "And Hillman
says that he believes--although he won't swear to it--that the fatal
blunt force trauma was inflicted about thirty-six hours before the body
was found and photographed."

"What does he base that on?"  Laura asked, putting aside the papers and
photographs.

"Pathologist savvy, mostly.  You know that fixing the time of death is
really only possible when you can pin a victim's movements down to a
fairly narrow time frame.  But a good experienced pathologist can make
a guess or two based on the condition of the body.  Hillman's is that
Belew was beaten--to use the time frame we know about-Friday night.  He
survived until sometime Sunday morning or afternoon, when a final blow
to the head finished him off."  
"Why wouldn' the have gone to a
hospital?"  Laura asked.  Before Craig could answer, realization
dawned. "Sweet

Jesus, Craig--are you saying he was being held somewhere?  That this
was a kidnapping?"

"I'm saying it's possible.  Belew had also suffered a subdural
hematoma, probably in the first assault.  That's a bleed between the
membrane that covers the brain and the brain itself.  It's serious, but
survivable--although someone with a subdural hematoma might lose
memory, or even be semiconscious."

"So he might have wandered around for part of the time he was
missing?"

"It's possible, although it seems that someone would have seen him and
helped him.  And the condition of the car ... someone did that
deliberately ... that gives some credence to the idea that he was being
held somewhere against his will."

"If he was, if someone beat him, then held him prisoner that's
depraved.  That's torture, pure and simple."  Laura's hands were
shaking and her heart was pounding.

"You're damn right it is.  But it adds up, at least.  We both wondered
why the car had been cleaned from stem to stern.  It never made sense
that Roland Jervis cleaned the car.  First, despite what may have been
alleged about his employment history, he couldn't have done that
thorough a job without training, and by that I mean of a more
specialized variety than he would pick up at the car wash.  Second, why
was Belew missing such a long time, only to be found, right on cue,
when the cops got an anonymous tip?  The idea that Jervis had been in
possession of the car for three days was never plausible, even if I
hadn't found that he had a solid alibi for the time he was supposedly
bragging on his brave deeds of piracy to Jermaine Clay and Albert
Jackson."

"So what does it mean to you?"

Craig rose from the chair and wandered to the fireplace,

where he looked nonchalantly at Laura's family photos before
answering."  Tm not entirely sure.  What do you know about Alex
Devereaux and Carlton Hemingway?"

"I know that Carlton would never be party to anything crooked.  I know
him pretty well.  I also saw him the day he caught the case.  He was
investigating Belew's business--I don't think he would have gone
through the motions if he were a party to a cover-up.  Or worse."
Fannin raised a skeptical eyebrow.  "I also know that he's not that
good an actor.  He wears his heart on his sleeve.  Forget it, Craig;
Carlton wasn't involved."

"What about Devereaux?"

"I only met him through his involvement in this case.  He and Carlton
haven't been partnered for long.  Carlton's old partner, Randy Travers,
retired last year.  I think Devereaux was transferred to homicide and
assault from the auto theft unit.  I had never dealt with him before
this case."

"Auto theft, huh?"  Craig said, hands in pockets.  "Interesting."

"He strikes me as just a regular guy.  He's got teenaged children.  I
know he has to moonlight a little to keep up with the bills," she added
thoughtfully.  "But if that's evidence of criminal proclivities, better
round up the rest of the Atlanta Police Department.  Cut to the chase,
Craig: what are you thinking?"

"Look, you know that my reasons for getting involved in this case were
not purely altruistic."

"You want to sue the city on Jervis's behalf, right?"

"It had crossed my mind."

"That's what Amos said," Laura remarked ruefully.

"Kowalski?  I knew he was smart.  But it can't come as a shock to you,
Laura, that I don't just get on white horses

and ride to the defense of the indigent without some self interest in
the mix."

"No, I'm not surprised.  And I have no problem with it.  If there's a
suit to be filed, I say, file away.  This was horrible, sloppy police
work, and I don't think it should go unpunished."

Craig nodded his affirmation.  "And it won't.  But the larger issue for
me now is figuring out if sloppy police work is all we're dealing
with."

"You mean, was there a cover-up?"  Laura asked.

"Correct.  And, further, were the police party to it?"

"No--not Carlton, anyway.  And I may not know Devereaux well, but I
find it hard to believe that he would participate in a murder.  Or a
cover-up of one.  Why would he?"

"Why, indeed?"  Craig mused.  "That's the crux of my dilemma.  I know
there's a case for false arrest.  That's a chip shot.  I'm wondering,
though, if there isn't a larger case lurking behind this one."

"Such as ... ?"

"For one thing, a charge of attempted murder.  If person or persons
unknown deliberately framed Jervis, knowing that he could be sent to
death row, I'd call that attempted murder, wouldn't you?"

"Doesn't matter what I'd call it.  You'd have to convince a jury."

"I think I could, with some work," Craig said offhandedly.

Laura shook her head.  "A lot of work.  All you've got to go on are the
inconsistencies in the police case, plus the opinion of your
pathologist.  And that's just one expert disagreeing with another--and
your expert didn't even see the body.  If I were arguing against you, I
would crush you on that alone."

"Exactly, which is why I'm here ..."  Craig began.  As he spoke, a
horn sounded.  Craig was positioned so that he could see out the
window.  "My Mend is getting impatient; I'd better hurry up and get to
the point.  Look, Laura, I'd like you to come on board with me for this
case.  You know I fly solo, so I'm not offering you a permanent spot.
But I'm very busy these days, and I can't do justice--pun entirely
intended--to the Jervis matter on my own.  I was wishing that a
talented and experienced lawyer was available to help me, and then,
like the answer to a prayer, Marshall very foolishly cans you.  How
about it?"

"I'm not sure what to say," Laura answered, surprised although she
perhaps should not have been.  "It's been a while since I handled a
civil matter...."

"You've handled them as recently as I have."

"How would our arrangement work?"

"I live by a simple rule: you eat what you kill.  You take the Jervis
case, and I'll give you total access to my offices and
staff--paralegals, investigators, paper clips, whatever you need.  You
get to keep whatever fee you want out of the settlement you win.  I get
ten percent plus expenses.  I'll bankroll a first-class
investigation."

"What if I don't win?  Will I owe you expenses?"

"I wouldn't be making this proposition if I didn't think you would win.
But, to answer your question, no.  I'll take one hundred percent of the
risk.  Are you in?"

Laura hesitated.  "I don't know.  It's not... do you think there's an
ethical issue?"  
"Do you?  The only ethical issue I could imagine
would be your revealing something you learned in the district
attorney's office and were required to keep in confidence.  But the
last time I looked at the principles of discovery, anything that the
state has is public property.  If Marshall and Meredith

are still holding on to some pertinent information, I'll go after them
for misconduct."

"Of course they aren't.  And I guess you're right.  Still, it's very
sudden.  I think I need some time."

"Worried about what Kowalski will say?"

"No!"  Laura said, more vehemently than she intended.  "I mean, he has
no say in what I do."

"Uh-oh.  Trouble?"

"He was not happy that I had involved you.  He's a police officer,
after all," she said carefully, not entirely willing to share her
private life with Craig.

"Cops," Craig said.  "Gotta love 'em.  I married one, you know."

"Really?  You?"  Laura was now genuinely surprised.  She knew that
Craig had a reputation for marrying early and often, and there was that
old story about one of his wives being a witness in a trial--there had
been trouble over that.  This must have been the one.

Craig sighed nostalgically.  "Yep.  Mrs.  Fannin number two.  She
was--is still--a Fulton County Sheriff's Deputy.  And did she ever look
hot in the uniform.  Sorry," he said, catching Laura's glare.  "But we
came to a parting of the ways.  Lawyers and cops are a classic case of
opposites attracting, you know.  Know why we like them?"

Laura shook her head.  She knew why she liked Amos, of course, but she
didn't think that Craig was talking about big shoulders, green eyes,
skill with mortar and trowel, or any of the other things that made Amos
wonderful.

Craig continued his soliloquy.  "Police officers have the moral
authority that we lack.  I'm not saying we're immoral," he added."
"It's just that we're prone to question the received wisdom, whereas
they accept it whole.  How else could they enforce some of these
boneheaded laws?  They're moral

authoritarians.  They're kindergarten teachers for adults; they can
always tell you what's right or wrong."

Laura had to admit that he, at least in part, was right.  There had
been a time when she was grateful to turn over all her decisions to
Amos because he was so sure about everything.  Lately, though, she been
finding that same quality more of a problem.  Maybe they had been
moving toward this point for a long time.  Maybe they had used up
whatever it was they had had in the beginning that was so good.

But if that was true, why did Laura feel as if she had been cored like
a pineapple when she walked away from him the other day?

Craig glanced at his watch.  "I better get going, or Miss Gilmer County
of 1989 is going to slash my tires."  
"A beauty queen?"  Laura asked
with an arched eyebrow.

"Yeah, I just can't move past the cliches," he sighed.  "Maybe that's
why she's about to become the fourth Mrs.  Fannin."

"The triumph of hope over experience?"  Laura asked wryly.

"No, just better at drafting prenups than I used to be.  Think about my
offer.  I can't leave it open indefinitely."

"I know.  I'll let you know soon.  Monday."

"Good.  And don't worry about Kowalski.  He'll come around."

"I'm not so sure, but thanks for the good thought."

Laura closed the door behind Craig and stood in thought for a few
minutes.  Then she walked purposefully to the kitchen and picked up the
phone, and dialed.  "Emily?  It's Laura," she said to the answering
machine.  "I'm taking you up on your offer.  I'll be there by three.
And I'll stop in Clayton and pick up some barbeque.  I need your wise
counsel, and some spareribs."

Chapter 18

Emily's farm was cupped in one of the many small valleys in the north
Georgia hills.  The house was built on a wooded hillside overlooking a
pasture, a paddock, a dirt-floored riding ring, and a barn.  Emily grew
beans, squash, tomatoes, and cantaloupes, but her real love was the
exotic hens that she housed in a chicken house at the far end of the
pasture.  The small house featured two wire-enclosed pens on either
side, where the birds could scratch and do whatever it was they did.
Emily also housed them in movable pens that she could set down anywhere
in the pasture to let the fowl feed on bugs and seeds.  It was a good
place, for chickens, horses, and people.

When Laura arrived, a leaky paper bag of intoxicatingly scented
barbeque on the backseat, Emily and one of her hired hands--a friendly
Mexican named Angel who spoke almost no English--were replacing a
section of the wiring

on the coop, much to the consternation of the hens.  She called out to
them from the front porch of the house.  Emily shouted back, "I would
come hug you, but I'm covered in chicken poop."

"That's okay!"  Laura said.  "I can wait!"

Laura took her things into the house and joined them.  "Can I help?"
she asked, disingenuously.  Emily knew that Laura was not exactly
afraid of the chickens, but it was fair to say that, with all their
muttering and fluttering and their unpredictable way of launching
themselves three feet into the air if anything startled them, they made
Laura nervous.  Some of them, especially the ones called Buff-laced
Polish, were downright creepy, with weird quiffs of feathers sprouting
from their tiny heads.  Laura liked the Plymouth Rocks, though,
especially the roosters, whose combination of black and white feathers
with red comb was the image, in her opinion, of what a chicken should
look like.

Emily did a bustling business in these creatures, breeding them and
shipping them all over the country.  She occasionally showed some of
them, too, although she had admitted to Laura that, as a sport,
chicken-showing didn't really blow her skirt up.  Overall, she
preferred shooting at things.  Emily was one of a vanishing breed of
southern women who were equally comfortable in the country and the
city, directing boards and chatting at the club, or hunting quail and
driving tractors.  There was nothing she couldn't do, and do well, but
she was relaxed, funny, and an overall good companion.

"We're fine here, but you can muck out some stalls in the barn," Emily
answered Laura's insincere offer.  "And I'd appreciate it if you could
give Slim a good workout.  I haven't been able to ride all week."

Laura didn't need asking twice; she had made the drive in her paddock
shoes, so she wouldn't have to waste time

changing.  She walked the rest of the way around the paddock, to
Emily's three horses--Slim, the chestnut gelding, a gray Arabian mare,
and an old black warm-blood gelding that had won many ribbons for Emily
in her competing days.  Slim was Laura's favorite of the three; at
sixteen hands he was just the right size for her tall frame, and he had
a demonic streak that made him a challenge to ride.

She stopped for a moment to watch the horses cropping grass, then
continued to the barn where three stalls awaited her.  Shoveling wet
sawdust was the best upper-body workout Laura knew anything about, and
it guaranteed that she would sleep soundly and gratefully--something
she had been having trouble doing the past few days.

The barn, like the Plymouth Rock rooster, looked exactly as it should:
dark red and ship-roofed.  The farm--a refuge from the sweltering heat
of summer in Atlanta--had been in the Bailey family for a little more
than a century.  The house dated from the late nineteenth century, but
the barn was newer, built in 1920 from a prefabricated kit.  Emily had
pictures of her grandfather and some local men building it.  Eighty
years of sweet-smelling straw and leather had mellowed the structure to
perfection.  In the soft afternoon light, dust motes drifted sparkling
in the air.  Only three of the twelve stalls were currently used to
house horses; others held Emily's workhorse New Holland tractor, dusty
lockers of horse tack, and the combined detritus of ten decades of
human and animal habitation.  A ladder led upstairs to the hayloft,
where an occasional fugitive chicken would roost.

She stood for a long minute and drank in the silence that was
interrupted only by the occasional flap of bird wings and a scratching
that may have been mice in the hayloft Then she went to work with
shovel and wheelbarrow, dumping load after load of muck on the compost
heap.  Finally,

she was able to spread new shavings in the clean stalls and get her
saddle and Slim's bridle from the tack room.

She remembered that she needed to add a new hole to her stirrup
leathers; they had stretched and were too long for her liking.  She
opened the small cabinet where Emily kept tools, assuming that there
would be a leather punch or an awl that would serve her purpose.  What
she saw made her take a step backward.

There was a gun in the unlocked cabinet, lying among the tools and cans
of saddle soap.  Laura looked at it for a minute, not sure what to make
of it, before she moved in for a closer examination.  It wasn't a toy,
as she had hoped.  And the damn thing looked as if it was loaded.  She
couldn't fathom why Emily--who was a gun-safety missionary-would leave
a weapon in such an exposed place.  Granted, the tack room was normally
locked, but the key was hidden, not very cleverly, under the seat of a
broken-down tractor in one of the empty box stalls.

Laura picked up the gun.  It was a little one, as guns went; she
recognized it, with some pride, as a Smith and Wesson38-caliber Chiefs
Special, a five-shot revolver, just like one Amos had taught her to
shoot, or tried to teach her to shoot.  She checked the magazine; it
was loaded, with funny-looking cartridges with blue plastic tips that
held tiny shot in place of bullets.  Laura had never seen anything like
them.  She guessed that they might be some target-shooting cartridges
Emily used; she would have to ask.

Laura swung the magazine back into place, but she didn't return the gun
to the cabinet right away.  Seeing it stirred up turbulent emotions
that she had come here to put to rest, at least temporarily.  She
didn't like guns; she didn't like the

shotguns her father and brothers had used for hunting, and she didn't
like the nasty-looking nine-millimeter pistol Amos carried for his job.
But the day last fall when she and Amos had been visiting Emily, and
Amos had convinced her to try shooting, was a good memory.

The sun had been warm, and Laura had liked having Amos as a teacher,
standing behind her with his arms around her, putting hers into the
proper position, and praising her when she shot anywhere in the
vicinity of the target.  She had performed respectably, she thought,
even while recognizing that his praise had been a little exaggerated,
the same way hers had been when he managed to sit straight in a saddle
for a whole hour.  There had been so much accommodation between them.
Was it all just an effort to avoid acknowledging what Craig Fannin had
said this morning--that cops and lawyers would always be attracted to
each other, but that they could never bridge the gulf between their
outlooks?

Laura looked down at the gun again.  No, Craig was a cynic, and he was
wrong.  She didn't mind that Amos was a cop.  She minded what being a
cop meant, and there was a difference in the two things.  She didn't
like the danger his job placed him in, and she didn't like the
nightmarish things that he saw and knew as part of his job.  She had
seen him troubled by his worst cases, and she hadn't forgotten how she
felt when that idiot with the golf club attacked him.  She felt foolish
even admitting it to herself, but she felt protective of him--all six
feet, two inches of him.

This, she thought, is going nowhere.  She put the gun back in the
cabinet and fished out the leather punch.  When she had adjusted her
stirrups, she hoisted her saddle onto a rail and slipped the stirrups
into place.  Then she hung a bridle on a peg, and headed outside with a
lead rope.

Slim was on the far side of the paddock, but Laura knew that he was a
sucker for a treat.  She had brought carrots for all the horses, but
Slim, the greediest, was first to reach her.  She snapped the rope's
shackle onto his halter, and hitched the end of the rope to the fence.
Then she doled out the carrots.  When they were gone, she untied Slim
and led him back into the barn, where she snapped his halter to two
restraining lines while she brushed and saddled him and slipped the
bridle over his tossing head.  She led him outside to the mounting
block and climbed onto his broad back.

Two hours later, as the sun was setting, Laura cooled Slim down with a
long walk around the perimeter of the pasture and the paddock, then
took him inside for a bath and a treat of alfalfa.  She rounded up the
other two horses as well, and placed them in their clean stalls with
plenty of water and food.

By the time she reached the house, it was almost dark and she was
happily exhausted.  She hadn't thought about Amos, or Marshall Oliver,
for hours.  Emily was already inside, showering.  Laura went to' 'her"
bedroom--she came so often that Emily treated her less like a guest
than a family member--and shucked out of her sweaty T-shirt and
jodhpurs and headed for the guest bath.

Clean, but fighting drowsiness, she slicked a comb through her wet hair
and joined Emily in the kitchen.  Emily was heating the barbeque and
mixing a healthy gin and tonic.  Laura passed on the booze, but
accepted a beer.  "Hey," she said, "while I remember it, what the heck
is a loaded gun doing in the tack room?"

"Oh, that's Angel's idea.  We've had some problems with rats, and he's
terrified of snakes.  So I took one of my old guns and loaded it with
shot shells.  He can pot away at the varmints without doing too much
harm."

"Those blue-tipped things are shot shells?"

"Yes, they're just thirty-eight cartridges loaded with number-nine shot
instead of bullets."

"So they're pretty harmless?"

"I didn't say that.  A face full of snake shot wouldn't do you any
good.  But I don't anticipate Angel getting into a shoot-out with
anyone.  Between you and me, I think he's more afraid of the gun than
he is of the snakes.  Anyway, we keep it locked up in the tack room."

"Which was wide open today," Laura pointed out.

"But it's not usually.  And I'll speak to Angel and tell him that if he
wants to keep the gun in the barn he has to be more careful.  Ready to
eat?"

They had dinner on the screened porch, talking about nothing important.
It was only after the dishes were in the dishwasher, and they were back
on the porch with ice-cream sandwiches, that Emily brought up the topic
of Laura's difficult week.

"So, tell me more about the situation," she said with typical
bluntness.

"There's not a lot more to say.  I have managed, once again, to
dismantle my life with astounding speed and completeness."

"You're exaggerating."

"Let's see: no job, no boyfriend ... sounds like a train wreck to
me."

"I'm not convinced that you don't have a boyfriend.  You're just on
hiatus until this thing blows over."

Laura threw her hands up in a helpless gesture.  "How's it going to
blow anywhere?  Tune isn't going to change the fact that I did call
Craig, which both Amos and Marshall see as a betrayal.  I couldn't care
less what Marshall thinks, but I care quite a bit about Amos's
opinion."

"What if it turns out you were right to call Fannin?  What if there is
something fishy going on in the police department?"

"I doubt that'll send Amos rushing back to me.  There's this thing
between us about being a cop and a lawyer.  Maybe I should say 'cop
versus lawyer," because near as I can tell that's how he sees it."

"I don't think that's what it is."

"It's what Fannin thinks," Laura said.  She told Emily about Craig and
the sheriff's deputy he had married.

Emily laughed, but she shook her head.  "I can't believe you're taking
his advice on romance.  No, what I've always seen about you and Amos is
a certain tension that's more related to your backgrounds than it is to
any philosophical differences."

"Such as?"  
"You're from a privileged, southern family, Laura, and
he's not.  He's a Polish cop from Chicago.  He's an outsider-- a
wonderful one, but I don't think you can appreciate how these
differences matter to a man like Amos."

Slightly irritated, Laura wiped her ice-cream-sticky hands with a paper
napkin.  "Look who's talking.  You say I'm privileged?  You could buy
and sell my whole family, Emily."

"Possibly, but I'm speaking from my own experience here, sugar.  I
haven't always been the bitter old woman you see before you."  Laura
laughed.  Emily was barely fifty.

Emily continued.  "That's right; mock me, but I once had a tender young
heart, and I was quite susceptible to men who were ..."  She hesitated,
groping for a word.

"Proletarian?"  Laura suggested.

"No, you snob.  What I liked was men who weren't like the ones I grew
up with--because I knew I didn't care for

those.  They were soft around the edges.  I liked men who knew how to
take care of themselves, because I figured they could take care of me.
What I didn't bank on was how sensitive they would be to my family's
money.  It scared a lot of them off."

"I don't think Amos comes from such a humble background.  He has a
college degree, you know."

"I know.  It's just a feeling I've gotten.  And when you tell me that
he's accused you of being anti cop I have to believe that there's more
to it Because you're not anti cop you just may be opposed to some of
the things cops stand for."

"Not true.  But I hate it, Em, that he's in a job where any fool can
come after him, and try to hurt him."  She told her about the golf-club
man.  "I think that's maybe where all this got started.  It got me
thinking, I know.  It brought out something in me."  "I can understand
that But is it really because he's a cop?  My brother wasn't and you
saw him die, Laura.  Is it that you're afraid of--that Amos will die,
too?"

"I don't know.  I really don't" Laura answered quietly.

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, which
Emily broke with an abrupt question.  "Do you love him?"

"Amos?  Absolutely."  It occurred to Laura that Emily might have her
own reasons for asking.  "I loved your brother, too."

"You worshipped Tom," Emily amended.  "We all did.  I can't help but
think he might still be here if we hadn't."

"What do you mean by that?"  
"He was the golden boy.  My parents never
thought they'd have another child.  He could do no wrong--in their
eyes, or mine.  But he had to live up to being a miracle every day

of his life."  She sighed, and shook her head.  "If only we'd allowed
him some honest failures ..."

"Don't say that Tom made his own choices.  Some of them just happened
to be bad ones.  He was a good person.  And a great lawyer," Laura
added.  "I learned a lot from him."

"And you can learn a lot from Amos.  You're lucky, Laura.  You're young
enough to have a chance at happiness."

Laura was surprised at the implications of Emily's words.  "But, Emily,
you're happy--look at what you have!  There are about a million people
in Atlanta who'd kill for this setup."

Emily laughed ruefully.  "Yep.  Me and my chickens.  We do all right.
But you can do better, Laura.  You just have to work at it.  You and
Amos can make it work, I know.  Just give him some time; he'll come
around.  Or you will."  
"Do you think it would upset him if I went to
work with Craig on this case?"

"You're not seriously considering doing that, are you?"  
"I am.  Craig
has told me some things that make me want to stay involved."

Emily shook her head.  "You're playing with fire, Laura.  Because, as I
see it, there are two things that can come out of this: either you'll
be right, or you'll be wrong.  If you're right, the cops are the bad
guys--and if what you tell me is true, that won't sit well with Amos.
If you're wrong, he'll have some justification for saying you're
prejudiced against the police."

Laura disagreed with her friend, and she said so.  "I think you're
misjudging Amos.  If there's something amiss in the way the detectives
investigated this case, and it comes out, Amos will be the first to say
they should be punished."

"You're going to take Fannin up on his offer, aren't you?"  Emily
said, peering at Laura in the dim light.

"Yes.  I am," Laura said.

Emily looked up at the pale blue porch ceiling and sighed.  "I'll tell
you what you and Kowalski do have in common: you're both stubborn, and
you both play for keeps."

Chapter 19


"Come on down," Craig Fannin said, obviously delighted to get Laura's
phone call Monday morning.  "I can put you right to work."

"Where exactly are your offices, Craig?  I know they're on Maple Drive,
but I can't place the number."

"We're between Peach tree and East Paces Ferry.  You can walk it, if
you're so inclined."

"I am.  I've just come back from the mountains, so I'm in desperate
need of a shower and clean clothes, but I can be there by lunchtime."

"Take your time.  I'll get an office and a phone set up for you."

Two hours later, Laura was standing outside a modest two story brick
office building.  She'd driven this block countless times, but the
presence of three nearly identical buildings had somehow escaped her
notice.  This one had a parking

lot beneath it, which Laura took note of.  The half-mile walk had been
pleasant today, but she'd be glad of a parking spot on a rainy day.

Craig's one-man firm occupied the entire building.  Laura entered the
modestly furnished waiting room and registered surprise.  She had
expected Fannin's digs to resemble a Bond villain's lair--leather and
chrome, with round sofas and miniskirted female minions.  Instead, a
well-dressed middle aged black lady greeted her by name."  "Miss
Chastain?  Welcome.  I'm Arlene Turner, Craig's office manager.  He
wants you to join him in a meeting right away."

Laura shook Arlene's hand and followed her into Craig's private office.
The furnishings were a bit more luxurious than those in the waiting
room, but still reassuringly conservative.  "Laura!"  Craig exclaimed,
beaming.  "You're just in time.  You remember Roland, don't you?" 
Laura did, of course, recall Roland Jervis, although without prompting
she might not have recognized this happy, smiling version of him.  "And
this is Roland's grandmother, Mrs.  Alien, and his aunt, Mrs. 
Walker...."

Laura smiled and greeted the family group, a little puzzled as to why
they were gathered here in what appeared to her to be Sunday garb.

"You're in time for the press conference," Craig said.  "Actually, it's
not so much a conference as a little party for some of our ink-stained
friends.  They'll be here in a few minutes."

"Great.  Terrific," Laura said, forcing a smile.  "Craig, can I see you
for a minute?"

"Sure.  Excuse us, folks.  I'll show you to your office.  I had to put
you upstairs, but it's a corner office.  Arlene's getting the phone
hooked up."  They mounted the stairs; Craig threw open a door to a

spacious office decorated in the same Britishmen's-club idiom as
Craig's.  "What's on your mind?"

"A press conference, Craig?  To announce what?"

"That we're representing Jervis in his civil suit against the city."

"Does there always have to be a press conference?"  Laura sighed.
"Can't we do a little quiet legwork before we call in the hounds?"

"Come on, Laura.  You know half the battle's fought outside the
courtroom.  You've played the game before-and well, might I add."

' "Thanks, I guess," she replied.  "I just wish I had a better grasp of
what happened."

Craig shrugged off her concerns.  "We know enough to file a suit.  The
Atlanta Police Department failed miserably in its duty to investigate a
crime.  Roland Jervis was a victim of sloppy police work."

"Is that what you're going to say today?"

"That's all.  I'm not ready to start whispering about a conspiracy, if
that's what's got you worried."

"It is.  Just promise you won't let it get beyond that."

"Of course not.  Not until I have a good reason to, anyway."

"So who's coming to this shindig?"  Laura asked as they descended the
stairs.

"The usual suspects--Bob Harper from the morning paper, and Jan Butsch
from the Buckhead weekly.  Plus someone I don't know from the evening
paper, and that guy from Terminus magazine who wrote about the last
time you and I faced off in a courtroom, emphasizing the David versus
Goliath nature of your victory over me.  He wants to interview you."

"I don't know if I'm up for that."

"I made no promises," Craig reassured her.  "Just meet him, and if
you're comfortable, you can give him the interview.  If you're not, he
can pound sand.  They all can, in fact.  Are you ready?  Arlene's got
them herded into the conference room, eating cheese straws."

"Ready as I'll ever bcs" Laura sighed.

"I'll get the Jervises," Craig said.  If Craig was right, and this was
all part of a great game, Laura wasn't sure who won this round.  The
ladies and gentlemen of the press, despite the excellence of the cheese
straws, seemed to regard Craig with some skepticism, probably based on
bitter experience.  Bob Harper, the familiar crime writer from the
morning paper, seemed downright amused by the proceedings.  But they
all played their roles, down to Roland and his loving family, and the
half-hour conference passed without a major breakdown in either side's
facade.  Craig remained the concerned citizen, crusading for justice;
the press bent over their notebooks with suitably furrowed brows.  No
one laughed out loud, anyway.

When the throngs had departed, Laura followed Craig back into his
office.  "Now that we've run down the curtain on that little bit of
theater, let's get down to business," she said.  "We've got a long way
to go."

"I could not agree with you more," he said.  "And I'm turning one
hundred percent of the work over to you.  I've got a new criminal
defense that's going to be taking up a lot of my time."

"What's that?"

"One of those federal indictments that's coming out of the FBI
investigation of the city's contracting procedures."

"Which crook is yours?"

"My completely innocent client is alleged to have bribed certain
officials to consider his firm's qualifications for a

recycling contract.  Which is, of course, nonsense--a citizen is,
after all, entitled to make a political contribution, is he not?"

"Of course.  I'm sure there's no evidence that any particular
consideration was given to him in exchange," Laura said ironically.

"Naturally.  The fact that he won the contract is beside the point,"
Craig said with a straight face.  "But it doesn't help that the guy who
accepted the check shortly thereafter bought a new BMW.  I take that
back--it might help my client.  It would be a shame to have a campaign
contribution given in good faith diverted by the campaign treasurer,
wouldn't it?"

Laura could see that Craig's mental wheels were turning on this idea,
so she hastened to bring his attention back to Jervis.  "I see my first
priority as supplying the prima facie evidence that the police did
inadequate investigation of their case.  To do that, I'm going to need
to talk to all three of the supposed eyewitnesses.  And to do that, I'm
going to need to find them.  I thought I'd rehire Ken Newton to run
them down, if it's okay with you."

Craig waved a hand in the air.  "You have carte blanche, as long as you
think the expense is productive.  I'm relying on you not to break the
bank, but I think I can trust you to be prudent."

"Of course."  She rose to her feet.  "I'll call Ken and get him
started.  I'll also want to get affidavits from the crime lab
technicians.  I think that's pretty much the case, don't you?  Unless,
of course, we turn up some evidence of malfeasance."

"Put it this way," Craig said.  "I think we can get a nice quick
settlement on the false arrest complaint.  If we can show there's a
conspiracy, the sky's the limit."

"Speaking as a conflicted city taxpayer, I'd like to think that's an
exaggeration," Laura said.  "I hate to think I'm taking money from the
city coffers that could be used to fill the giant gaping pothole on my
street."  
"If we left the money in their hands they'd just spend it on
golf outings and trips to the Bahamas," Craig said with a laugh. "Don't
worry about any of your tax money making it to classrooms and social
service agencies."

"It must be nice to be a cynic," Laura said.

"I'm never surprised, anyway," he said with a wink.

Laura returned upstairs to her office, where the phone and the computer
were fully functional, leaving her to wonder if Craig had ever been in
doubt about her acceptance of his offer.  She dialed up Kenny's number
right away.

"Hey, boss," he said.  "Where are you calling from?  I don't recognize
the number on the caller ID."

"I'm in my new office," she said.  "In Buckhead."

"You move fast.  Who hired you?"

"Take a guess," she said.

"Not Fannin!  Don't that beat all.  What does Amos think?"

"He doesn't know.  Not yet, anyway.  Have you talked to him?"

"Yesterday."

"He didn't tell you that we've split up?"  Laura said, not really
surprised.

"No!  That idiot.  What'd he do?"

"Nothing.  It's my fault."  She outlined the grounds for the quarrel.
"He thinks I'm too inclined to mistrust cops.  But that's not the
problem.  I don't suspect them all of being murderers--I just think
there was some sloppy police work done in the Belew case.  That's where
you come in.  I want to hire you again.  Are you free?"

"I can be.  What's your angle?"

"I want to talk to the eyewitnesses.  I can give you names and
addresses.  They're all lying through their teeth--that much I'm sure
of.  I want to know why.  What could possibly induce someone to lie and
say they heard Jervis claim to have murdered Belew?"

"You'd be surprised at how little it would take," Kenny said.  "I'm
betting that the two of 'em cleared less than five Benjamins on the
transaction."  
"Make that three of them--I want the creep who claimed
Jervis worked at the car wash, too.  He's the one I know for sure was
approached by someone."  She described the mysterious white cop to
Kenny.  "That's where I do have a little bit of a bad conscience," she
admitted.  "I know that there's some white guy out there who's involved
in this, but Alex Devereaux and Carlton Hemingway are under
investigation now.  I wouldn't mind clearing them."

"One thing at a time, sugar.  If they're not involved, it'll come out.
You and Fannin aren't out to solve the murder, are you?"

"No, that's up to the cops.  We just need to show that Jervis was
wrongly accused based on a faulty investigation.  I think Craig has
some hope of showing that there might have been a police conspiracy,
but I think that would be hard to prove.  I think there's more going on
than meets the eye, of course, but I can't convince myself that it's
the doing of a cabal of corrupt cops."

"It is kind of hard to imagine.  But if it's out there, you and I will
find out.  I'll get started right away," he said.  "Give me those names
and addresses."

Laura did, and hung up.  As she did, she noticed Arlene standing
discreetly in the doorway, so quiet that she hadn't noticed her.  "Hi,
Arlene.  What's up?"

"There are two ladies downstairs to see you, Miss Chastain."  "Call me
Laura, please.  Did they give their names?"

"No.  But one of them is Lawrence Belew's mother.  I recognized her
from the newspapers."

Laura stood up and put her jacket back on."  "Helen Belew?  What's she
doing here--and how did she know I was here?"

"I couldn't say," Arlene answered.  "Would you like Craig to come with
you?"

"I don't think that will be necessary," Laura said as they descended
the stairs.  "I think he's busy."

Arlene opened the door to the conference room and stood by silently
while Laura went in.  Helen Belew was standing on the far side of the
conference table, and her daughter, Diana Arnold, was seated in a
chair, head slumped."  "Hello," Laura said.  "What can I do for you?"

"I think you've already done plenty," Mrs.  Belew replied.  "You've
not only set free the man who murdered my son; now you're going to help
get him a lot of money so he can actually go out and buy a Lexus
instead of murdering someone else's son to get one.  Thank you.  You've
done us all a great service."  Her tone, heavy with sarcasm, barely hid
her rage.

"Mrs.  Belew, I don't know where you got your information, or how you
knew to find me here, but you're wrong," Laura said flatly.  "Roland
Jervis didn't kill your son.  I don't think sending the wrong man to
death row would be justice for your son."

"Don't patronize me, you arrogant bitch.  It's just fine with you that
my son's murderer will go unpunished.  Roland Jervis did you people a
favor by getting rid of one uppity black boy who didn't learn his
place.  You'd rather have a million Jervises than one Lawrence Belew, a
proud black

man who could buy and sell you.  No, you'd rather defend the almighty
civil rights of this ni--"

"Mother!"  Diana Arnold exclaimed.

Mrs.  Belew ignored her daughter.  "You'd rather let that thug go,
because you know he'll never rise up to challenge you like my son
would.  To think that I fought, that I marched in the streets for
people like him--the scum of the earth-so that they could kill my
family!"

"Mother, please," Diana said, in tears and shaking.  "Please, let's go.
It's not her fault"

"It's okay, Mrs.  Arnold," Laura said, although she was more than a
little shaken herself.  "I understand why your family is taking this
hard--"

"Taking it hard?"  Mrs.  Belew shouted.  "Do you not understand that
this has destroyed my family?  Look at my daughter--look at her!  I
never should have let either one of them come to this city.  My family
left the South sixty years ago, and we should have stayed away.  It's
no different than it was when my grandfather left Alabama--only now the
lynch mobs are more subtle.  They use lawyers and juries instead of
rope."

The door opened, and Arlene and Craig entered."  "Is there a problem?"
Craig asked quietly.

"Are you this Craig Fannin?"  Helen Belew asked.  Craig nodded, and she
continued."  Tm glad to see you, Mr.  Fannin.  I'm glad to confront the
man who's murdering my son.  Roland Jervis ..."  She spat the name as
if it were poison on her tongue.  "Roland Jervis only killed my son. 
It's you people who've murdering him--murdering him and burying him
under the courthouse!"

"I understand that you're upset, Mrs.  Belew," Craig said coolly, "but
you're wrong.  Roland Jervis didn't kill your son.  He stole his car,
but he didn't kill him.  Laura and I

believe that someone very powerful had something to do with your son's
death.  We can't do anything about that but push the police and the
public to find the real killer.  That's why we're representing Jervis.
The truth won't come out without pressure."

"You bastard!"  Mrs-.  Belew exclaimed.  "How dare you stand there and
lie to me?  You no more care who killed my son ... you and this
mercenary you've hired.  All you two care about is your payday.  Don't
you dare talk to me about some greater good to come from this--the only
good that will come from this is that Diana will finally get some sense
and leave this city.  I told you all along," she said, turning to her
trembling daughter, "I told you and Lawrence both not to come here!
Your father and I knew how the game was played here--nothing has ever
mattered in Atlanta but money.  The white folks don't care if they have
a black mayor, or black people running the schools--that's not where
the real power is.  The real power is downtown in those towers where
they keep the money, and you better believe no black person's going to
get a cut of it.  If one comes close, he has to be dealt with.  That's
why my son is dead, and that's why you two are out to get Roland Jervis
his reward money."

She had a point, Laura had to admit, even if her rhetoric exceeded the
rational.  Power in Atlanta was strictly measured by bank accounts.
That a few black businessmen and politicians had succeeded hadn't
changed the basic architecture of the city's economy, which was still
dominated by a handful of white-owned corporations.  Black progress, at
least until very recently, had been more symbolic than real.  But she
was wrong, too, in saying that no power rested in the hands of the
minorities.  Look at Marshall, Laura thought.  He's no Uncle Tom, and
he's proved it over and over again.

"I'm sorry you feel the way you do, Mrs.  Belew," Laura said, her
courage and confidence restored.  "You're wrong, and that's all I can
say.  I set out with every intention of putting Roland Jervis away for
killing your son.  From the start, I felt like I owed your son
something, and I still do.  But everywhere I turned I found things that
didn't add up.  I saw things that made me believe that someone far more
clever and powerful than Roland Jervis had something to do with
Lawrence's death.  You're right about Jervis: he is just a punk, and he
doesn't deserve any kind of reward.  But neither does he deserve to
die.  And you're wrong about the money; I don't care about money.  If I
cared about money I certainly wouldn't have quit a job that was paying
me two hundred thousand dollars a year to go work for the district
attorney at seventy-five thousand!  And I wouldn't be working with
Craig on a long-shot lawsuit that may net me a lousy one-time paycheck.
I wanted to stay involved in this case, and this is the only way I knew
how.  If you knew what we knew ... tell her, Craig, about Dr. Hillman's
report."

Craig started to outline the gist of the pathologist's findings, but
Mrs.  Belew, her fury unabated, interrupted him.
"I've heard enough of
your lies and self-justifications.  Come on, Diana, let's leave.  You
two will roast in hell for what you've done."

She swept from the room, her shaken daughter trailing behind.  As Diana
left, she directed a look of contrition at Laura.  "I'm sorry," she
whispered.  "He was her only son."  And with that single poignant
remark, they were gone.

Craig and Laura stood in silent shock for a moment after the women
left.  It was Arlene, who had been standing unnoticed in the corner,
who spoke first.  "She had no right to say those things," she said, her
normally even tone disrupted by emotion.  "She doesn't know the first
thing about Atlanta,

or Craig Fannin.  I know her type; she and her people have made it,
and screw the rest of us."

Laura was taken aback at Arlene's choice of words and at the bitterness
of her tone, which grew more pronounced as the diatribe continued.  "In
fact," Arlene added, "the worse off the rest of us are the better it is
for them.  Don't look at me that way, Craig.  You know exactly what I
mean.  First the white people had us all down, and when it looked like
that wasn't going to keep working, they let a few of us rise up.  They
didn't much care who, so long as it wasn't too many of us.  And it
didn't take the Helen Belews long to realize that the pie wasn't going
to get much bigger--so they've been trying to keep as much as they can
to themselves for thirty years now.  And that's okay with you people,
and you know it."

"A pox on both our houses, huh?"  Craig said wryly.

"You're damn right," Arlenesaid.  "Now if you'll excuse me I've got to
get back to work."

Laura watched Arlene's ramrod-straight back leave the room; then she
collapsed into a chair.  "Wow," she said.  "What the hell have you
gotten me into, Fannin?"

"Don't worry about Arlene.  We have these discussions from time to
time.  She likes to remind me that I'm the lowest form of life."

"What about Helen Belew and Diana Arnold?"

"I don't know if I'd get too het up about all that, either.  You've
handled unpopular cases before; you know what the heat feels like."

"Somehow it's never felt quite this hot before.  How did they know I
was here, anyway?"

Craig smiled at her naivete.  "That's easy.  The ladies and gentlemen
of the press, of course.  How long do you think it took Bob Harper to
call the mayor's office for a reaction and how long after that do you
think it took for him to spread the word?  It is unfortunate that Mrs.
Belew happened to be in town, but I'm not concerned.  You heard Arlene;
she won't necessarily get the most sympathetic ear in this town."

Laura waved her hand in the air.  "That doesn't matter, let them say
what they want to.  After all, everyone else has."

"Who?  Marshall?  And your boyfriend?  Come to think of it, with Helen
Belew pitching in, you have sort of hit a triple," he said, laughing.
"Buck up, kiddo."  
"Yeah, right," Laura said, rising to her feet."  "I
can always look to the silver lining--there are still some people left
in town who haven't had a shot at me yet."

Chapter 20

Kenny Newton was normally a fast worker.  Laura had sometimes called
him in the morning, and gotten his report over lunch.  So it was
frustrating to wait several days to hear from him, and then to get bad
news.

"I found one of your witnesses," he said, settling into a chair in
Laura's new office.

"Just one?"  she asked, disappointed.

"Actually, not even an entire one," he said cryptically.

"Okay, it's time to stop fooling around with me now," she said.  "I've
been sitting here for three days doing nothing and I'm ready for a
little action.  Where is this partial witness, and when can I talk to
him?"

"He's down at the Tipton Brothers Funeral Home."

"Let's go, then," she said, starting to stand before she got it.  "Damn
it, Kenny!  He's dead, you mean?"

"Yep.  Stone-cold."

Laura sat back down and glared at him.  "You and your little games.
You couldn't just tell me he was dead.  You had to dangle it in front
of me."

"You're in a mood," Kenny remarked cheerfully.  
"Wouldn't you be? 
I've got quite a bit of personal capital invested in this case, and I'm
about to start thinking I'm going to lose it all.  How did he die?"

"At the hand of another," Kenny said melodramatically.  
"Really?"
Laura said, brightening."  "He was murdered?"

"Don't get your hopes up.  He was killed in a knife fight in the city
jail.  I'm afraid it was a random act of violence.  Sorry to
disappoint. There's nothing I'd like better than to bring you a big of'
conspiracy.  But this was just one dumbass punk slicing open another
one."

"Too bad.  Which one was it, anyway?"

"Albert Jackson."

Laura sighed.  "I can't say I'm surprised.  He was the seedier of the
two--not that it wasn't a close race.  What was he in for?"

"There was apparently an old warrant out on him.  The cops picked him
up some time last week.  I don't have any details, but I can get some
if you want."  
"Would you?  I think it would be smart to know as much
as I can about Mr.  Jackson.  Maybe some of his associates can help."

"Maybe.  I'm sure they're very helpful people," Kenny said
disingenuously.

Laura laughed.  "You're a riot.  What about eyewitnesses numbers two
and three?"

"Number two, Jermaine Clay, is a tough nut to crack.  He had no fixed
address; he had stayed with various friends and relatives over the past
couple of years.  None of them have seen him recently, though.  Not
that they're admitting,

I anyway.  He might just be sleeping on the streets.  I'll check the
shelters and the parks, and I'll see if they know him at  the soup
kitchens.  Eyewitness number three--" j "Terence Walker," Laura said,
referring to her file.

"Right.  Former employee of Bumper to Bumper Car Wash.  I had about as
much luck as you did.  He hasn't been seen in the neighborhood.  One of
his buddies thought he might have gone to Florida."

Laura nodded.  "He seems to have come into some money."  
"If he did,
he'll burn through it quickly enough and come back to his usual
stomping grounds.  We'll just have to give it some time."

"I don't know how much we have," Laurasaid.  "Craig's not going to
bankroll me forever."

"Don't worry; I'll get you something.  You got plans for the
weekend?"

"No," she replied.  "I thought I might go up to Nashville and see my
family."

"If you change youunind, come on out to the house and have supper with
us.  Cindy's always glad to see you and I can make sure that the kids
don't bug you."

"Your children don't bug me.  Thanks for the invitation.  I'll let you
know."

Laura really didn't want to go to Kenny's house or to Nashville, but
she didn't want to stare at the walls for forty eight hours, either, so
she knew she'd do one or the other unless something else came along.
She reflected, ruefully, that she had reached that comfortable stage
with Amos where spending the weekends together was a foregone
conclusion.  This hiatus in their relationship was underscoring
something Laura had been only vaguely aware of before: she didn't have
many friends in Atlanta.

Laura wouldn't have called herself lonely, or even a loner.  She was
sociable and had plenty of friends back home in Nashville and scattered
over the country.  Eight years in Atlanta, however, had not netted her
a solid base of acquaintances, especially female ones.  The
relationships she had formed with the handful of women who had toiled
as associates with her at Prendergrast and Crawley had dropped away as
one by one they left that august law firm for less demanding hours,
better chances of advancement, or to start families.  By the time Laura
had left, she was the sole female associate of her rank.

She did have neighbors, and nice ones, but, as the only single and
childless woman (as far as she knew) for blocks around, she was
sometimes hesitant to take them up on their friendly offers of book
club memberships, potluck suppers, and group yard sales.  She had
bought in the Peach tree Park area because it was familiar and safe.
There were days, though, when she wished that she had chosen a more
adventurous faubourg, like Cabbagetown, or east Atlanta--or even Amos's
Virginia-Highland stomping grounds.  But Laura knew that, despite her
many sterling qualities, she was not adventurous.  And she liked that
little house of hers, and she liked the smart, funny women who lived
near it.  She wished that she knew any one of them well enough to
simply call her up and ask her over for a glass of wine and a talk.

She also wished that she had more professional responsibilities.  Her
deal with Craig strictly limited her to representing Roland Jervis.
Experience had taught her that there would come a time when that would
be more than enough, but now, at the developmental stage, the case was
hardly forcing her to fire on all cylinders.  Kenny's news hadn't been
very hopeful, either; Laura was resigning herself to more waiting and
watching, which meant less lawyering.  Craig didn't

care how many hours she worked, which was a welcome departure from her
past experience with private law practices, where "billable hours" were
sacrosanct.  But Craig's airy instructions that she take some days off,
or go shopping on her lunch hour, fell on fallow ground.  Laura didn't
feel right unless she was doing something.  So she sat in her office,
day after day, organizing her notes and records, making phone calls
that never turned up anything, and researching any obscure legal
precedent that might conceivably have some bearing on Jervis's suit.

Two days after Kenny's fruitless visit, she reached for the phone,
intending to call him.  She had the pretext of calling about the case,
but, since she knew Kenny would have called her if he had learned
anything, the pretext was tissue-thin.  On the other hand, she could at
least RSVP to his weekend invitation.

She never got a chance to dial.  The phone rang once, then twice while
she looked at it in a slightly puzzled manner.  She was so unused to
hearing its insistent chirping ring that she was slow to pick up.  When
she did, her expectations were low.

"Miss Chastain?"  an unfamiliar, soft female voice inquired.

"Yes.  May I help you?"

"I hope so ... I'm Diana Arnold.  You know, Lawrence Belew's sister."

"Of course I remember you."

"Of course, you would--after that scene my mother pitched.  I want you
to know how sorry I am about all that, Miss Chastain."

"It wasn't your fault.  Besides, I didn't disagree with everything she
said.  Just the way she said some of it."

"You should have thrown her out," Diana said bitterly.  "That would
have shown her."

"She's grieving," Laura said gently.  "We owed it to her to listen."

"Grieving?"  Diana said with a laugh.  "Grieving like Medea did.  You
don't know my mother.  She doesn't grieve the way another mother would
for her child.  She didn't lose a child; she lost her creation.  Now
there's no chance that he'll do what she had planned for him."

"Which was ... ?"  Laura asked, feeling a little voyeuristic.

"Senator Lawrence Belew, of course.  Then maybe a Cabinet post, then
who knows?"

"Did your brother have any interest in politics?"

"Lawrence?  You've got to be kidding!  He hated politicians.  He was
doing what he wanted to, running his own business.  He made good money
for doing what he liked best, which was messing with computers.  He was
happy."

"I got that feeling," Laura said.  "He seems to have been a good
guy."

"He was," Diana said.

"I'm glad you called, Mrs.  Arnold," Laura said.  "I've been feeling
bad about you and your mother."  
"Call me Diana.  I should have called
sooner to apologize.  I just... I just didn't.  But now I need to talk
to you about something else."

"Sure.  What can I help you with?"

"It's about Lawrence.  You know, I never really bought the car-jacking
story.  Lawrence may have been a computer geek, but he was a pretty big
guy, and he stayed in shape.  The first time I saw Roland Jervis I
thought that there was no way he could have beaten Lawrence to death.
But no one in my family wanted to hear anything different than the

official version of events.  I don't know why.  Maybe it was just
easier for them to believe that it was some random act of violence."

"But you don't, do you?"

"No, especially not now."

"Why now?"  Laura asked.

"I want to talk to you, Miss Chastain--"

"Please call me Laura.  You mean you want to meet in person?"

"Yes.  I need you to come somewhere with me, and you can't tell
anyone--not even your boss--about it."

Laura hesitated.  Was this some weird revenge plot?  Was the apparently
gentle Diana Arnold going to kidnap her and take her to some dank
hideaway and hold her ... for what?

As if she could read Laura's mind, Diana spoke.  "It's not like it
sounds.  There's someone who wants to see me, and I'm afraid to go
alone."

"Why not call the police?"

"He said no cops.  And I can't ask my husband--he'd just call in the
police.  This guy is scared of something.  I think he knows something
about who killed Lawrence."

"Who is he?"  Laura asked.

"He says he knew Lawrence."

"You can't just take the word of a mysterious stranger, Diana.  You've
gotten a lot of publicity lately, and you're very lovely.  What if this
is some guy who saw your picture in the paper and wants to get you
alone?"

Diana made an impatient sound.  "That's why I'm asking you to come
along, too!  He can't very well ravish both of us, can he?"

"He can if he has a gun," Laura warned.  "Look, I have a suggestion.
I'll go with you, but we let my PI follow along.

Don't worry, he's good at it.  If there's no trouble, your man will
never know he was there."

"And if there is trouble?"

"We'll set up a time limit.  If we're not out by a certain time, Kenny
storms the bunker.  Which he's also good at," Laura added, although she
had never actually seen Kenny storm anything.  She hoped that Diana
wouldn't notice his pronounced limp.

Diana hesitated for a long moment before agreeing.  "Okay, we can do it
that way.  But it has to be today.  And soon--I have to pick my son up
at school at three."

"Give me your number.  I'll call Kenny right now.  Where are you?"

"No, don't come here.  Someone might see you.  I'll come to your
office.  Get your private eye there as soon as you can, okay?  It'll
take me about a half hour to drive there."  She hung up.

Laura hoped that she could deliver Kenny in time.  If not, she'd have
to come up with another plan and quick.  She dialed Kenny's office
number and got the voice mail.  His cell phone number came up
"unavailable," so Laura sent an urgent page and hoped for the best. She
called Craig's extension.

"So you're calling me now--too good to come downstairs?"

"I can't leave my phone," she said, sketching out the latest
development for him.  "I've got to get Kenny here in thirty minutes. Do
you have a backup plan if I don't?"

"I could try another PL She might not trust someone you don't know,
though.  No cops?"

"None at all.  I thought about Carlton--wait, here's my phone.  I'll
call you back.  Hello?"

"You paged?"  Kenny's voice said.

"Thank goodness.  Where are you?  Please don't say Duluth, or Alabama
or anything."

"I'm on Northside Drive, near West Paces Ferry."

"Hot dog.  Come on over here.  I need you."

"I'm tailing an unfaithful spouse at the moment."

"He'll continue to be unfaithful.  You can catch him again."

"What's the rush?"

"Come to Craig's offices and we'll tell you.  Now, get a move on!"

She called Craig back, relieved.  "Plan A is operative; he's on his
way."

"I don't like the sound of this," Craig said.  "You might be walking
into a trap of some kind, or just gratifying some nut's
cops-and-robbers fantasy."

"I know that.  I wouldn't go on my own, although Diana Arnold was ready
to.  If I don't go, she'll just go alone and who knows what might
happen?  I don't want that on my conscience."

"You know best," Craig said.  "All the same, just be wary of running
all over the place drilling dry holes.  You've got a case to pursue,
and this doesn't sound like it's going to move the lawsuit forward."

"I promise to keep my eye on the prize, Craig," Laura said with an
expressive roll of her eyes.

Fifteen minutes later Kenny' sanonymous blue pickup pulled into the
small lot at the front of the building.  Kenny tricked out his truck
with ladders and buckets, camouflage that allowed him to park pretty
nearly anywhere in Atlanta, which was less a city than it was a large,
ongoing construction project.  Laura noted with approval that he even
had some convincing-looking power tools along this time.  She hurried
out the door and met him as he walked toward the building.

"Holy smokes, what's got into you?"  he asked.  "I haven't seen you
this agitated since you made me get that possum out of your garbage
can."

"This is a lot worse than a possum," she said, escorting him in and
leading him to Craig's office.  She told Kenny about Diana's call.  "So
I suggested that you tail us," Laura said.

"I'd rather go with you," he said.  "Just following along and waiting
for a disaster doesn't sit right with me."

"He said no cops," Laura reminded him.

"I'm not a cop," Kenny rejoined.

"You look like one.  Look, we'll be okay if you stay close.  And we
need some way to communicate.  Can I wear a wire?"

Kenny and Craig laughed.  "Too much TV, Laura," Kenny said.  "That
would take forever to set up, anyway.  Here, I tell you what: I've got
a couple of those walkie talkies in the truck.  They look just like
cell phones.  If you put it in the hands-free mode and put it in your
pocketbook, I'll be able to hear what's going on."

"Sure, if I make sure that I keep my purse close to this guy's
mouth."

"I don't expect perfect sound transmission, but I can hear you holler
if things take a turn.  It's not perfect, but it'll have to do."

"So you're coming?"

"I guess so.  Under protest."

"Good.  Because if this guy is for real, you can help corroborate the
meeting.  Now, here's Diana."  Arlene ushered in the agitated woman and
closed the door.  "Diana, you know Craig Fannin.  And this is Kenny
Newton, the private investigator I spoke to you about.  He'll tail us
in his truck, and I'm going to carry a little radio.  If there's any
trouble, he's going to pull us out."

"Hello," she said, weakly, as she shook his hand.  "I

didn't think this was such a big deal... I just thought that Laura and
I could go down and see the man...."  
"Chances are it isn't anything
at all," Kenny said reassuringly.  "But always better safe than sorry.
Now, where is it that we're going?"

"It's someplace I don't know--somewhere in east Atlanta."  She handed
Kenny a scrap of paper.

He nodded.  "I know k. Best way to get there is to take Memorial to
Moreland, then head south on Moreland.  Turn off onto Flat Shoals just
past I-Twenty."

"I think I know," Diana said.  "We should get going, though.  I only
have a couple of hours before I pick up my son."

"Let's ride, then," Kenny said, smiling.  "Come to the truck and get
the radio, Laura.  I'll give you the fifteen second course in how to
use it."

A few minutes later, Laura was in the front seat of Diana Arnold's
Volvo wagon, heading south on Georgia 400.  She twiddled with the
radio's controls, and tentatively spoke into it.  "Ken?  Can you hear
me?"

"Clear as a bell.  Diana, get on the downtown connector and get off at
Courtland Street.  I'll talk you on down to Flat Shoals from there."

"How do you know him?"  Diana whispered.  
"You can talk; I've put it
on mute.  Kenny's an old friend; we've worked on a bunch of cases
together.  He's very good.  And trustworthy."

"I hope so."  She was quiet for a minute.  "This is kind of exciting,
isn't it?  I mean, it's creepy, and I wish it weren't happening,
because the only reason it is happening is that Lawrence is dead ...
but..."

"I know what you mean.  It feels good to be doing something."

"What made you think that man, Roland Jervis, didn't doit?"

"The physical evidence told me that there was someone else involved,
someone smarter than Jervis.  I hope you understand what I did, even if
your mother can't."

"I think I do.  Does Mr.  Fannin think there's someone else, too?"

"Yes.  He ... he's seen a lot of cases," Laura said.  She had been on
the point of telling Diana about the second opinion on the autopsy that
Craig had gotten from Dr.  Hill man, but she couldn't bring herself to
do it.  After all, they might be wrong, and why trouble Diana with
images of her brother, helpless but still alive, in the hands of his
killers?

Kenny's voice came over the radio, directing them to make a turn.  They
fell silent as they drew closer to the address the mysterious caller
had given Diana, a brick building that looked as if it might once have
been a store or warehouse, but now, judging from the blinds that hung
in some of the windows, was a loft apartment building.  "Okay," Laura
said.  "We're here."  She could see Kenny's truck some way behind, and
when they pulled over and stopped, he passed them.

"Get on out of the car," he instructed.  "Fuss with your purses and
whatnot for a minute.  I'm going to turn around and get into position."
They waited and fiddled while Kenny moved his truck to a vantage point
that gave him a good view of the front of the building.  "Okay," he
said, "I can see you.  Now let's see if I can hear you.  Laura?"

"I'm here," she replied.

"Laura?"  She answered him again, to no avail.  "Sugar, I can see your
lips moving but I can't hear you.  Did you put it on mute so you could
discuss me?"

Laura hastily unmuted.  "Sorry.  We only said nice things."

"What else is there to say?  Okay, I can hear you pretty well.  Diana,
say something."

"Like what?"

"That'll do," he said.  "Okay, I'm muting mine, but I can hear you.
Stick as close together as you can.  And when you get inside talk aloud
about what you see.  Describe everything, so I'll know the lay of the
land if I have to come in."

"Okay," Laura said.  "Ready, Diana?"

"I guess so," Diana answered doubtfully.

"Then let's go," Laura said, hoping she sounded more confident than she
felt.

Chapter 21

Laura pulled open the industrial-style, aluminum-framed door and held
it ajar for Diana.  Diana hesitated momentarily before stepping across
the threshold.  "Look at the lobby, Diana," Laura said, mindful of
Kenny's instructions.  "Look, there's another set of doors inside,
straight ahead."

Diana caught the spirit.  "And mailboxes, with buzzers, on our right."

"And the interior doors are locked," Laura said."  "I guess that means
we have to buzz the apartment."

"Okay," Diana said.  "Apartment Two-C.  Here it is."

"Is there a name on the box?"  Laura asked, although she could see
perfectly well there was one.

"Yes.  Carl Vuh ... something."

"Looks like "Vasovitch," " Laura commented.  "Shall we buzz?"

"I guess so."  Diana extended one tentative finger and

pressed the buzzer.  There was a long silence.  "What if he's not at
home?"  Diana fretted.

"Why would he have set this meeting up if he wasn't going to be here?"
Laura asked.

"I don't know.  Maybe he's watching us."  Diana peered back through the
outer doors as if she expected to see a lurking Vasovitch.  She jumped
a foot in the air when the intercom popped to life.

"Who is it?"  a male voice said.

"It's... it's Diana Arnold," she said, her voice gathering conviction.
"You called me."

"I'll buzz you in.  The elevator's on the left.  Come up to the second
floor."  A loud, harsh buzzer sounded, and Laura tugged open the inner
door.  This time, Diana didn't hesitate to step through it.

Laura started to let the door close behind them, but Diana caught it.
"How would Kenny get in?"  she asked.

The radio in Laura purse came to life," "Don't worry about it," Kenny's
disembodied voice reassured them.  "Piece of cake."

"I thought you weren't going to talk," Laura said.

"I won't anymore.  Proceed," he said, and Laura heard a click as he
engaged the mute button.

Laura took stock of their new surroundings.  "It's a big hall, about
twelve feet wide.  There are two doors on the right, and one on the
left.  And that must be the elevator back at the rear."

"Yes," Diana agreed.  "On the left.  The elevator."  The elevator
appeared to be an industrial model, and not a new one.  There was only
a single button; Diana pushed it The massive doors rumbled open,
revealing a utilitarian steel plated interior.  Several colorful
flyers, most advertising various oddly named bands, were taped to the
walls, and there

was a discarded paper coffee cup on the floor.  Laura looked at Diana,
and nodded.  They stepped in, and Laura located the up button.  The
doors closed slowly, and the car started upward with a lurch.

"We're going up to the second floor," Laura narrated, unnecessarily, as
there appeared to be only two floors.  The elevator continued its slow,
noisy journey, finally stopping bumpily.  The doors peeled back,
revealing a hallway identical to the one below.  They stepped out, and
Laura scanned the numbers on the doors.  "Two-A ... B ... C is on the
left side of the building, on the front.  Here we go."

Laura had to admit to a few butterflies as they approached the gray
door.  She hopped almost as high as Diana had earlier when the door
swung open before either of them could gather the courage to knock.

Carl Vasovitch was an extremely tall, thin, pale young man, and he
looked more frightened than either of the two women standing in his
hallway.

"Mr.  Vasovitch?"  Laura said, as Diana appeared to have been struck
dumb.

"Are you Lawrence's sister?"  he asked, incredulous.

"No, I'm Laura Chastain.  I'm a ... friend of Diana's.  She's Diana
Arnold," she added.  "Lawrence's sister."

"Right," he said.  "Want to come in?"  His invitation was breezy, as if
he hadn't made an anonymous phone call to arrange this secret meeting.
He might have been greeting a couple of Girl Scouts selling cookies.

Diana must have found his tone incongruous as well, or maybe her nerves
finally snapped.  "Who the hell are you?"  she demanded."  "What do you
mean calling me up and telling me you wanted to talk about my
brother?"

Vasovitch cowered in the doorway."  "Take it easy, please!  I knew your
brother.  I worked for him."

Laura tried a gender approach.  "Do you think you know something about
Lawrence's death, Carl?  Is that why you called Diana?"

He nodded.  "Yes.  I mean ... why don't you come in?"  he asked.  "I
don't want to talk about this in the hall."

"Okay," Laura said.  "You look pretty harmless to me," she said
pointedly, in the direction of her pocketbook.  "I don't guess you have
any evil designs on us."

"Me?  God, no," he said.  "Can I get you something?  A Snapple or
something?"

Laura and Diana, now inside his apartment, didn't answer right away.
Laura could only speak for herself, but she was too dumbfounded to
reply.

The main room of Carol's loft--which Laura guessed was well over a
thousand square feet--was, in contrast to the shabby exterior of the
building, a high-tech palace.  Brightly colored, curvaceous furniture
was artfully arranged around the space, but the main attraction was the
electronics.  A huge flat-panel television clung to one wall; a sleek
stereo system inhabited a green-glass cabinet And there was computer
equipment everywhere.  It was one vast high-tech playground, the
interior decorating dream of a million teenage boys.  "Good Lord,"
Laura said.  "This is amazing."  
"It's cool, isn't it?  I was lucky to
find this place.  I couldn't have gotten this effect in a regular
apartment.  Plus this is a cool neighborhood.  So you want something to
drink?"

"I'll take a Snapple," Diana said."  "I could use something.  You
scared the fool out of me.  Why did you have to be so mysterious?"

Carl, fishing in the stainless-steel refrigerator, seemed contrite." "I
didn't mean to.  I just didn't want to say anything on the phone.  I
mean, it could be tapped.  I think I could tell if it was, but you
never know.  Anyway, you probably

would have thought I was crazier if I had tried to explain things on
the phone.  You probably would have hung up, or called the cops.
Lemonade or raspberry?"

"Lemonade," Diana said.

"You want something?"  Carl asked Laura.  "Why did you bring her,
anyway?"  he said accusingly to Diana.  
"Why would I come out all by
myself to see some kook?"

"I'll have a lemonade, too," Laura said.  "And really, you should have
identified yourself on the phone.  Would it have killed you to say you
worked for Lawrence?"

"I dunno.  Maybe.  Somebody killed him, didn't they?  Sorry," he said
to Diana.  "But it's true."

"And you think this somebody might kill you, too?"

"I'm not crazy," he said.  "When I heard that Law was dead, it didn't
even cross my mind that he was murdered.  I just thought maybe he'd
wrecked the car or something."  He gave Laura her drink and wandered
over to one of the jellybean-colored chairs, and collapsed into it.
Laura and Diana seated themselves side by side on an aluminum sofa
upholstered in a nauseous chartreuse fabric.  "I mean, who thinks one
of your own friends is going to get murdered?  So then there was all
this stuff about a car-jacking, and they caught some guy, and I
thought, man, that sucks.  Law was not a flashy guy.  I mean, there
have to be about five million absolute tools driving Lexuses around
this city, but Law, the most decent guy in the world, gets killed for
his car."  He shook his head.  "I tell you what.  I traded my Saab for
a Saturn the very next day.  It ain't worth it."  
"But you said you
didn't think he was killed for the car," Diana pointed out.

"No, not anymore.  I mean, when they let that guy go and said he didn't
do it, I thoujjit, whoa!  So who did kill him?

And I thought that maybe ... well, it seems kind of weird, I
know...."

"What does, Carl?"  Laura said.

"Look, I'm not one of these guys who sees a conspiracy in everything. I
want you to understand that.  But when this kind of shit happens, I
think there's got to be something to it.  You know what your brother
did for a living, don't you?"  he asked Diana.

"Of course I do.  He was a systems engineer."

"Right.  And that's just a way of saying he put together systems for
people--for businesses and organizations.  He was great at it, too.  He
really had a head for business, in addition to being a kick-ass
programmer.  He'd get a contract and hire a bunch of guys like me to
work on it.  It was a blast.  No office; we just worked over a network.
There were a lot of different people over the years, but I'm one of the
ones who stuck around the longest.  I liked the work, and I liked Law. 
A lot.  And the money wasn't bad, either," he said with a broad sweep
of his hand."  "I live all right, thanks to Law.  I mean, without him,
I probably would have been some systems puke working for a big
corporation.  We had a great setup.  Which is why I told him not to
mess with it."

"Not to mess with what?"  Diana asked sharply.  "Let's get to it.  I
have to pick up my son at school in about an hour."

"Okay, okay.  I was just giving you the picture.  Like I said, Lawrence
was the one who went out and got the contracts.  We did pretty much
anything that came along.  Financial systems for banks, a billing
system for the cable company.  And we did a lot of government work."

"He helped design the case management system for the Fulton County
Superior Court, didn't he?"  Laura asked.

"Yeah, that was cool, because we were trying to build

an interface so the cops could talk on-line to the district attorneys
about their cases.  It was going to save the cops a lot of time, so
they could stay on the street more.  We never got that off the ground,
though, because the budget got cut.  Anyway, there's this bidding
process for government work.  And it's supposed to be totally blind, so
that the taxpayers don't get screwed because somebody took the guy who
makes the decisions to a strip club, or out to play golf."

"Right," Laura said.  "We understand."

"Then you know that it doesn't really work that way, not always.
There's some latitude in the contracting process.  Things other than
price and the reputation and experience of the guy bidding on the
contract come into play."

"Things like race, and sex, you mean," Diana said pointedly.

"Yeah.  And I'm cool with that.  I mean, how many black people or women
would ever get ahead without some kind of leg up?  But Law just hated
it.  I don't know why.  I always kind of thought that he knew that he
was the best at what he did, but he hated it that people thought he was
getting all this work because he was black.  And--sorry--because his
family's pretty big in government and all.  He wanted to be taken
seriously on his own."

"I know that," Diana said.  "We used to argue about it all the time. He
thought that affirmative action and set-asides were keeping black
people back, not helping them."

"Right.  I never totally bought into what he said, you know," Carl said
earnestly.  "But every so often he would get all steamed up on the
topic.  So, to cut this short so you can get your kid, he cooked up
this scam.  Well, not really a scam, because he wasn't going to make
any money out of it.  He set up this one bid where he and I bid
separately.  He did all my paperwork, and he did this great plan--and

he priced my contract real low, too.  And I went in and pitched it,
you know, all white and all, in a Brooks Brothers suit he bought for
me.  Then he submitted a kind of half assed bid in his own name, and
made it more expensive."

"What happened?"  Laura asked.

Carl shrugged.  "He was right.  He won the bid, even though it was
screwed up and cost more."

"And that's why you think he got killed?"  Diana said, incredulous.

"That's not all," Carl said, sounding a touch offended.  "The whole
reason that he cooked up this goofy plan was that some white guy
approached him and said that he would pay Law to front for him on bids
for systems work with the city, county, and state.  All Law would have
to do was put his name on the bids.  This guy said the rest of it would
betaken care of."  "

"What did Lawrence do?"  Laura inquired.

"He threw the guy out, of course, and he said he was going to take the
whole stinking scam to the FBI.  They're investigating the city, I
think."

Laura nodded.  "And the county.  And then he did this little game,
using you, to see if it really was true that he could win a bid just
because he was black?"

"Yeah, I guess so.  He was pretty bummed about the whole thing."

"Did he do what he said he would--did he go to the FBI?"  Laura
asked.

"I don't know.  The next thing I know, I hear he's missing, and then
he's dead.  So you can see how I kind of drew a conclusion.  And like I
told you, at first I thought it was just some random crime.  But when
the judge let that guy they arrested off, and the investigation is
turned back on, well, then I had to think.  And I thought you would be
the person

to call," he said to Diana.  "He talked about you all the time, and
your kid.  He was real proud of you."

Diana put her face in her hands, unable to speak.  Laura patted her on
the back and resumed questioning Carl.  "Do you have any evidence?  Did
you keep the bid materials?"

"Sure," Carl said.  "That's why I called her.  I figured she would know
what to do."

"Can we have them?"  Laura said.

"Whoa," he said.  "I don't know who you are."

"I'm a lawyer," Laura said.  "I was in the district attorney's office.
I'm the one who got Roland Jervis off."

"The guy they arrested?  Why would you do that?"

"I guess it was because I was interested in getting fired and breaking
up with my boyfriend," Laura said ironically.  "No, the truth is that
Jervis didn't do it, and I knew it all along.  I guess I was more
interested in finding out who really did do it than my boss was, so I
kept pushing for answers until he fired me."

"So now you're helping Diana?"  he asked.

"Not exactly," Laura allowed.  "I'm technically representing Roland
Jervis.  Diana asked me to come here with her as a friend."

"Did Lawrence tell anyone else?"  Diana asked.

"I don't know.  No one's come around to ask me anything about it," Carl
replied.

Laura nodded."  "I don't think he went to the FBI, anyway.  Or if he
did he kept your name out of it.  Otherwise, they'd have been all over
you."

Carl looked taken aback, as if he had just realized the gravity of the
situation.  "You mean the FBI would want to talk to me?"

"Of course.  You're a witness in an ongoing investigation."

"What about the Atlanta cops?"

"Them, too," Laura replied, although she could see that Carl was
growing more and more uncomfortable.  "I'm sorry, but you're involved.
You have to come forward and tell what you know."

"Not to mention that you owe it to Lawrence," Diana said.  "You don't
want them to get away with it.  Do you?"

Carl shrugged.  "Depends on who' them is.  If they killed him, what's
to stop them from coming after me?"

Diana started to answer angrily, but Laura caught her eye and took a
more diplomatic approach.  "If you're right, and the people who are
involved in the bid-rigging are the same ones who killed Lawrence, they
already know about you.  And, if that's the case, going to the FBI is
the only way I know of that you can protect yourself."

"If I go and talk to them, do you think I need a lawyer?"

"In a word, yes," Laura said.

"Can I hire you?"

Laura shook her head.  "I think I have a conflict.  I'm representing
Roland Jervis, and that means I have a vested interest in cooking up
alternative theories on who killed Lawrence Belew.  It's not a huge
conflict, I admit, but I think you'd be better off with another lawyer.
I can put you in touch with someone if you'd like me to."

"Sure.  That would be great," Carl said, but he wore a look of serious
consternation on his pale face.

"Don't worry," Laurasaid.  "You just tell what you know and the FBI
will take care of you."

Diana looked at her watch.  "I'm going to be late picking up Martin,"
she said.  "In fact, Laura, if you don't mind getting a ride with
Kenny, it would save me some time," she added.

"No problem," Laura said, standing and fishing a card from her purse.
The radio dropped to the floor.

"What's that?"  Carl said, suspicious.  "And who's Kenny?"

"Busted," Laura said.  "We've,had a private investigator listening in,"
she confessed.  She picked up the radio and spoke into it.  "Come on
up, Ken.  I've blown your cover.  And I need a ride."

Diana suddenly laughed.  "It seems so silly now that we know who you
are," she explained to a hurt-looking Carl.  "But you have to admit
calling up somebody you've never met and asking to meet is a little
offbeat."

Carl managed to smile.  "I guess so.  But, jeez, I'm totally
harmless."

"I hope you're not totally harmless," Diana replied.  "I'd like to see
you do some damage to whoever killed my brother.  Laura, I'll call
you."

As she left, the buzzer sounded, and Carl admitted Kenny to the
building.  A few moments later, he opened the door and stood aside to
let the big PI in.

"So you're a real private eye?"  he asked.  
"Yep," Kenny said.  "I'm
an expert in shadowing, tailing, and general lurking.  Man, this is
some setup," he added.  "What kind of components are those?"  he said,
moving toward the stereo cabinet like a riling attracted to a magnet.

Carl followed.  "Bang and Olufsen, man.  These are cool, but you should
see the ones that hang on the walls.  And the sound--here, let me show
you."

"Excuse me," Laura said, "but can we focus on the matter at hand for a
minute?  Ken, did you hear everything?"

"Enough," Kenny said.  "You said you've got all the bid materials,
right?"

Carl nodded.  "For the bid that I made, sure.  I don't have

Lawrence's stuff, and I don't have the letters that he got from the
city, you know, offering him the contract."

"Those are probably at Belew's house or office," Laura said.  "I'll ask
Diana if we can look for them."

Kenny nodded and continued to interrogate Carl.  "And what do you know
about this man who approached him-the man who wanted Lawrence to front
for him?"

"Nothing, except that he was some white guy.  Law never mentioned a
name.  He said he was a big bohunk, though, and he said he had a
connection with the city.  He promised Law lots of money if he would
just put his name on some bids."

Kenny looked at Laura."  "He has to go to the FBI.  And the Atlanta
Police Department.  But he's going to need protection when this comes
out.  Carl, how would you feel about lying low for a day or two until I
can line something up with the Bureau and the cops?"

"I guess so, man.  I could go somewhere.  I'm due for a trip to Vegas,
anyway."

"Why don't you go there for a few days?  Just let me know where you'll
be and I'll keep in touch."

"Is that smart?"  Laura asked.

"No one's looking for him now," Kenny said, "and when he comes back,
I'll have a deal for his protection."  He looked around.  "This
building should be pretty easy to secure, actually.  Only one entrance,
controlled access.  Yeah, it'll do."

"You think that the guys who killed Law might come after me, too?" Carl
asked.

"I don't know.  There's nothing in what you to'-i the ladies that gives
us any clue about who these people might be.  It just gives a reason to
believe that someone had a motive for wanting Lawrence Belew out of the
way.  And if you're

right in thinking that those people actually did kill Lawrence, they
might come after you.  If they know about you."

Laura frowned.  "Ken, don't you think we should just go to the FBI to
start?  You know the Atlanta Police Department It's very porous;
information doesn't stay secure.  What if the bid-riggers find out
through the cops that someone's got evidence against them?"

"You've got a point," Kenny said.

"Hey!"  Carl said, alarmed.  "I'm not so sure I like this."

"Relax," Kenny said.  "You're going to love the FBI.  So, show me this
stereo."

Laura sighed and settled back down to finish her lemonade.

Chapter 22

Craig Fannin wasn't as thrilled as Laura expected him to be by the
news.  "The last thing I need," he sighed, "is to get tangled up with
the feds."

"Got something to hide?"  Laura asked.

"No.  I just can't stand dealing with them.  But I don't see any reason
that we have to.  We don't need to pull Lawrence Belew's killer--or
killers--out of a hat to win Roland's suit.  In fact, I think we have
enough to go on now.  We should probably just file the complaint and
see where the chips fall."

"I'm not so sure.  I don't have much to support the argument.  I've got
all the affidavits from the grandmother and the aunts and the preacher,
and of course there's Carl Vasovitch, for what that's worth at this
point.  Overall, I think it would be better to wait until Ken turns up
one of the other two witnesses."

"Why?  You can always get to them later.  Anyway, I think affidavits
from church ladies are about as good as it gets, lawsuit-wise.  It
might just terrify them into a settlement."

"It wouldn't scare me if I were defending the city.  Besides, you said
yourself that our case would be better if we had some evidence that the
Atlanta Police Department knew that Jervis was innocent when they went
after him."

"And I still believe that.  However, I also believe that we have plenty
to go on now, and we can always add on later.  I just want to get the
clock started on their response," Craig said, glancing at his desk
calendar.

"You're the boss.  I'm planning to name the City of Atlanta and the
Atlanta Police Department in the complaint, but I'm keeping the
individual officers out of it.  Is that okay?"

"Worried about what Kowalski will say?"

Laura bristled."  "You know better than that," she snapped.  "I don't
think we have cause to go after Devereaux and Carlton personally,
that's all.  The real fault in this case lies with the mayor and with
Marshall.  I'd name them, if I could, but I don't see that it would
hold up."

"No, there's no point.  We can always add them later if we find out
they had an active role in the setup.  But you're right: our ability to
link in specific individuals is limited right now.  Unless we go after
your pal Avery."

"Avery?  I don't know.  There's a malpractice suit out there somewhere
with his name on it," Laura stud thoughtfully, "but he's just a lowly
public defender.  Do those guys carry any kind of liability
insurance?"

"No.  But it's not money we'd be after.  It's a stunning moral victory
I'd be looking for."

Laura looked at him doubtfully.  "It would come at a

pretty high price," she said.  "For me, of course; I do want to go
back to the district attorney's office eventually, and I'll have to
deal with Julia Walton again.  But it doesn't seem to me to be the kind
of suit you'd want to pursue either."

"You think I worry about what my colleagues in the bar association
might say or think?"

Laura laughed."  "Based on your history, no.  I was thinking of the
Goliath-versus-David nature of your--our--suing poor old Avery."

"You're right," he sighed.  "My finely honed PR instincts tell me that,
however tempting the prospect, I had better not go there."

"Right."  Laura stood up.  "I'll get you a draft of the complaint
before you leave tonight."

"Good.  Then we can file tomorrow with all due ceremony."

"By which you mean that you'll make sure all your press buddies know
about it, of course," Laura said with a roll of her eyes that said what
she thought of them.

"Naturally."  He wagged a finger at her.  "You were with the district
attorney's office too long; you've forgotten how to stir up a good
froth of public indignation."

"I never liked playing to the press," Laura said.  "And I was never
that good at it.  But I'll do it.  And if you can review the draft
tonight, we can alert the media first thing in the morning.  And, by
the way, Kenny has a meeting with one of his FBI pals later tomorrow.
He's going to give them Vasovitch's story on a no-name basis and see if
they can offer him some kind of protection before he testifies."

"Great.  Just try to leave my name out of it, okay?"

"Oh, I see: it's okay to have your name in the papers, but not in the
FBI's files."

"You got it," he said.  At that moment, Craig's phone

began to ring.  He gave her a silent thumbs-up as he took the call and
she left the room with her mission clear in her mind.

Laura made short work of drafting the complaint.  Years of experience
in a civil practice had given her a good grounding in the forms and
conventions, and the complaint was really very simple, anyway: Roland
Jervis was not guilty of murder, and the police could have easily
uncovered his alibi if they had bothered.  Laura did feel a twinge of
guilt, however, as she put on the finishing touches.  It wasn't all the
fault of the police; Avery Daniels bore a lot of responsibility, too.
Her scruples notwithstanding, Laura hoped that Avery would someday get
the public scourging she believed he had coming to him.  But she
contented herself with naming only the city, in the august person of
its mayor, the Honorable Harrison Broad, and the police department.

Craig came into Laura's office, pressed and polished, early the next
morning, her draft in his hand.  "Perfect.  Didn't change a thing," he
said.  "Print up the final version for filing and take it down to the
courthouse."

"Me?  Can't we just send it by courier?"

Craig laughed.  "You're much more photogenic than any courier I've ever
seen."

"Oh, no.  You've lined up some photographer."

"Not just a photographer, sweetheart--a television camera."

Laura frowned.  "This isn't fair, Craig.  You said it was my case."

"I also said I'd help, and that's what I'm doing.  I'm lending you the
benefit of my experience."

Laura made another bid to duck out.  "I'm not really dressed for it
today," she said, indicating her trouser suit.  "If I had known, I
would have worn a skirt."

"You look fine," Craig said, "I think be pants look more professional,
anyway.  Besides, if you want to change, you're mere blocks away from
your closet" He smiled and waved in the general direction of her house.

"You win.  But everyone who knows me is going to know that you're
behind this, you publicity hound."

"Naturally.  But, as I said, you'll make a better segment on the six
o'clock news.  Did you bring your car today?"

"Yes, I was going to run some errands at lunchtime.  But I think I'll
take the train and avoid the hassle of parking."

"Suit yourself," he said.  "Call me if there are any problems."

Laura set out to walk the few short blocks norm to the Buckhead MARTA
station.  It probably would have been faster to drive at this time of
day, but she did have a real issue with parking near me courthouse.  It
was okay when she had been with the district attorney's office, but as
a civilian she would have been at the mercy of the commercial parking
lots.  So she settled in to enjoy the ride on the MARTA train.

Atlantans were fond of complaining about MARTA, but Laura could find no
fault with it.  It was fast, clean, and efficient, and some of the
stations--Peach tree Center especially-were the best architecture in
Atlanta.  She chalked up the griping to people who would rather seal
themselves into their cars for their commutes, anyway, and who bashed
the public transportation system in a more or less prophylactic way, to
ensure that they'd never have to use it

Craig was as good--or as bad--as his word; Laura found a television
news crew waiting, along with the ubiquitous Bob Harper, who greeted
her with his usual sardonic grin and jerked his head at his fellow
media travelers.  "Called out the pretty people for this one, huh?"

"Craig's idea, totally," she said.  "He told you what's up?"

"Yep.  Suing the city on behalf of the downtrodden.  Got anything to
say to me before you pull out the one-syllable words for the broadcast
media?"

Laura laughed.  "Sure.  Between you and me, I'd think you should watch
the skies in the next week or two."

"What will I be looking for?"

"Men in dark suits and sunglasses, with shiny badges."

Harper whistled.  "No kidding?  Tied in to any particular ongoing
investigation that you know of?"

"How would I know?"  Laura said with a sly smile.  "I'm just a lawyer.
Uh-oh, here comes the TV reporter--what's her name?"

"Ariel Saunders," Harper answered.  "Ill met by klieg light, proud
Ariel!"  he said in greeting to the petite blonde.

"Nice line, but wrong play, I think," Laura murmured.

"Close enough for this crowd.  Oh, dear, I've upset her.  I guess I
should be on my merry way."

"Your revels now being ended," Laura said, keeping in theme.  He
smiled, made a vague salute, and ambled away down the sidewalk.

"Hello, Laura," Ariel said, immediately putting Laura's teeth on
edge.

"Hello, Ms.  Saunders," she said pointedly.

The point flew wide.  "Okay, Laura, let's get this set up.  You look at
me, not the camera.  I'll do a lead-in and then they'll widen out the
shot to get you in.  I'll ask you a couple of questions, and then
they'll focus back on me for the wrap up.  Ready?"

"As I'D ever be," Laura said.  Ariel pitched a couple of softball
questions, which Laura answered with careful legal diplomacy.  It was,
all in all, pretty painless, Laura reflected

as she went inside the courthouse to make the actual filing.  She left
a few minutes later, satisfied in the knowledge that the clerk would
soon be issuing summonses to Mayor Broad and Chief Sisson.  Then it
would be then- turn to fire a volley in the media war, which she
expected them to do right away.  They would take longer to answer the
complaint in a legal sense, of course, but given that it had gone
fairly well, Laura was able to charitably concede that Craig's tactic
of opening a second front in the media was a good one.

She was enjoying the walk back to the MARTA station when she heard
someone calling after her.  "Hey, Laura!"

She turned and shielded her eyes from the early-afternoon sun, unable
to see for a moment who had accosted her.  Then a large, dark shape
loomed up and crystallized into a recognizable acquaintance, if not an
especially welcome one.  "Hi, Don," Laura said, trying not to show her
disappointment at her greeter's turning out to be Don Archer.

"Haven't seen you lately," he said, smiling.  "Well, I guess I
wouldn't, since the word is that you and Kowalski aren't getting along
so good these days."

"Who told you that?"  she asked, stung at having details of her
personal life bandied about.  Surely Amos wouldn't have told tales.  If
she knew him--and she did--he would be even more tight-lipped than
usual about his personal life with his brother officers.

Archer laughed."  "Oooh--hit a nerve, huh?  Nobody's said anything.
It's just that I haven't seen you with the lieutenant lately, and I put
two and two together.  I used to be a pretty decent detective, you
know, before I got put in babysitting duty for the mayor.  But, hey,
I'm real sorry if you guys are having trouble.  Say, have you had
lunch?  I haven't.  I was just going to grab a sandwich.  Why don't you
join me?  You

can tell me your side of the story," he added with a grin that put
Laura's nerves on edge.

"No, thanks," she said, "I've got to get back uptown."

"That's right--you work for Fannin now, don't you?  You guys are
planning to sue everybody and their grandmothers, I guess."

"No, just your boss," Laura said.  "In fact, I just filed the
complaint, and I better hop along now and get back to work on it."
Actually, Laura had told Craig that she wouldn' t be back for a while;
she needed to go to Lenox Square on a panty-hose-buying mission.  She
planned to take the train to the Lenox stop, do her errand, and grab
lunch in the food court before going back to the office.

"Okay.  Maybe next time," Archer said.

"Sure," Laura said.  "If you think your boss would approve of your
hanging around with me."

"He don't give a rat," Archer said.  "Any messages for Kowalski?  I'll
be seeing him after work--we have a game."

Laura didn't know what to say; she dug her nails into the palm of her
hand and managed a smile.  "No, I'll probably be talking to him before
you will.  See you around."  She walked away hurriedly, hoping that
Archer wasn't watching her rear end as she did, although she knew there
was no chance that he wasn't.

Traveling by MARTA had seemed like a good idea in the cool of the
morning, but by the time Laura had walked from the courthouse to the
MARTA station, run her errands in the marble halls of Lenox Square, and
hiked back to the office, the delightful late-spring day didn't seem so
refreshing.  Footsore and feeling slightly grimy, she had every
intention of taking advantage of Craig's liberal office-hours policy.
He said that he didn't care if she worked from nine to five, as long as
she managed the work flow on the case.

She had noticed that Craig, his two paralegals, and the office
staff--other than the dedicated Arlene--seemed to embrace the
flexibility.  And since she was looking forward to little other than an
afternoon at her desk looking for busywork, Laura planned to as well.

But when she entered the office there was a distinct all hands-on-deck
atmosphere prevailing.  "What'sup?"  Laura said to Arlene.  
"He just
got a call from a client who's been arrested, and he's got a motion
hearing in another case tomorrow.  He's trying to get the brief on that
together before he goes downtown to the jail."

"Do you think he'll let me help on the brief?"

"Honey, he might just kiss you."

Laura grinned and trotted down the hall to Craig's office, where she
found the beleaguered attorney hollering into a speakerphone, shuffling
papers, and cursing a frozen computer screen.  When he saw her he put
the phone on mute.  An aggrieved woman was continuing to talk about the
injustice of her husband's arrest, but Craig turned his attention to
Laura.  "This damn computer.  I tell you, Laura, there are days when I
wish I'd stayed with a big firm.  I'd have to put up with the partners,
but at least I'd have a thousand lackeys eager to do my bidding."

"How about one eager lackey?"  Laura said.  "I can't get your man out
of jail, but I used to write a pretty spiffy brief."

Craig's face brightened momentarily, then fell.  "Naw.  I can't ask you
to do that.  I'm not paying you anything."  
"Good grief, Craig, I'm
not thinking about money.  I was so bored I was going to leave early
and go home.  I need to work.  Please?"

Craig frowned for a thoughtful moment, but capitulated.

"Okay.  Let me give you the file.  You'll probably find everything you
need in there.  It's pretty simple, fairly straightforward.  The
defendant's accused of fraud, and the state-your pal Marshall--is
trying to compel his wife to testify.  They say there's no privilege
because the marriage is moribund and was at the time the alleged fraud
took place."

"Was it?"  Laura asked.

"Yeah, but that's irrelevant.  She doesn't have to testify.  I know
there's case law on this.  And she also gave a deposition that
incriminated him."  
"What?  It doesn' tsound all that simple or
straightforward, Craig."

"Okay, maybe it's not.  But I need to show that the fact that she gave
a deposition is not a waiver of spousal privilege.  There's abundant
case law in support; I just can't find it with my computer freezing up
on me.  And I don't have time to do it the old-fashioned way," he
added, waving a hand at the shelves of legal books that lined the walls
of his office.

"Don't worry; I'll get it done," Laura reassured him.  "Why did she
change her mind after she gave the deposition?"

He shrugged.  "Thought better of it.  Who knows?  Maybe she doesn't
want her kids' father to do time.  Maybe she loves him.  Anyway, I know
it's in good hands.  Hearing's tomorrow morning.  I gotta run."

And he was off.  Laura took the file up to her office and read through
it.  At first, she felt creepily guilty, knowing that one of her former
colleagues in the DA's office had drafted the motion to abolish the
privilege.  She hoped that it wasn't Meredith, but of course it
wouldn't have been, not in a fraud case.  Besides, no one would ever
know that the brief was her work.  She'd make sure Craig was clear on
that.

Conscience eased, she plowed into the case law.  She read opinion
after opinion that supported Craig's argument At length, she knew she
had enough.

She had just begun drafting when Arlene came in.  "It's after five.
Everyone's gone."  
"Is it?  Do you need to go, too?  If you give me
the keys, I'll lock up," Laura offered.  "I've got another couple of
hours on this."

Arlene looked unsure.  "I don't think you should work here alone at
night," she said.

"I bet you work late all the time," Laura countered.  "Anyway, it's a
safe neighborhood--at least, I hope it is; I live less than a mile from
here.  And I expect to finish up before it gets dark."

Arlene reluctantly agreed, and gave Laura a set of keys and
instructions for shutting up the office."  "Be sure to leave the front
light on," she said.  "It discourages the night clubbers from parking
here."

"I'll take care of it."

"Okay, then, I'll say good night.  See you tomorrow."  Arlene left and
the building fell into silence.

Laura made short work of the brief.  She considered ordering a pizza,
but decided that she'd be done in time to go home for dinner.  She ran
a spell check and sent the document to print.  The network printer was
downstairs, an inconvenience she didn't notice when the staff was
working.  She trotted off to pick up the pages, only to find the
printer jammed.  Clearing the jam took some time, and a few unladylike
epithets.  Then Laura realized that she'd have to send the document to
print again.  Back upstairs, and down again to another jam.  After un
jamming her brief and running up and down the stairs three more times,
she had the bright idea to set it up for manual feed.  That worked, but
there

were errors in the formatting.  Back upstairs to correct them she
went

Finally, a crisp brief lay ready for Craig on his desk, with copies for
the files.  Satisfied, Laura packed up her briefcase and started out.
She realized with a start that it was much later than she had expected
it to be--in fact, despite her assurances to Arlene, it was already
dark.  Maple Drive was quiet, but she could hear the rush of traffic on
Peach tree, less than a block away, and the boom of bass speakers from
the four-wheeled stereos that cruised the bar district nightly.

The noise reminded her of Arlene's instructions about the light over
the main door.  She flipped it on.  It cast a yellow ellipse of light
into the pavement of the small empty parking lot in front of the
building.  Laura looked for her car, and was momentarily startled not
to see it.  She then remembered that the front lot had been full when
she had arrived in the morning, and that she had parked beneath the
building.  She descended to the unlit lot somewhat reluctantly. Craig's
thriftiness with electricity was a running joke in the office. He had
installed timers that switched off the outside lights at nine, whether
or not anyone was still working in the building.

Despite the fact that she was in her own neighborhood, Laura was on
edge as she descended the short flight of stairs to the parking area.
It was just the strangeness of the building in the dark, she reassured
herself as she walked quickly toward her car.  Her heels made hollow
noises on the concrete floor that echoed off the low ceiling, giving
her the impression that someone was following her.  She looked over her
shoulder once or twice, and saw nothing but shadows.  With relief, she
unlocked her car door and hastened to get in and relock it.

She turned the ignition key, and nothing happened.  Again, with the
same result.

"Damn," she said, checking to see if she'd left the lights on.  No,
they were in the off position, but the battery was indisputably dead.
She had a set of jumper cables in the trunk--a romantic Christmas gift
from Amos--but, with no other car handy, they weren't going to do much
good.

Laura considered simply leaving the car and walking the mile home, but
she knew she'd have to deal with the car sooner or later.  Sighing, she
pulled her cell phone out of her purse and dialed AAA and reported the
dead battery.
"Are you in a safe place, miss?"  the operator asked.

"I'm in a very good neighborhood."  She described her location in
detail, taking pains to let them know that her car wouldn't be visible
from the street.  "Maybe I should meet him up on the street level,"
Laura said.

"Oh, no, miss," the operator replied.  "We never advise anyone to leave
a car.  Just stay inside it, and keep your doors locked and your
windows rolled up, Miss Chastain.  That's safest.  The truck should be
there in about fifteen minutes."

"Thanks," Laura said.  She hung up and reached instinctively for the
radio before realizing that it, too, would be dead.  "Shoot," she said
aloud.  It was too dark to pull the papers from her briefcase and begin
reviewing them.  She was beginning to think that the operator's
well-intentioned advice was not so good after all--she might be better
off standing in the upper lot, or even going back into the building to
wait for the truck.  That would mean, however, crossing the floor of
the garage again, which she was reluctant to do.

Luckily, the truck appeared in fewer than the advertised fifteen
minutes.  The headlights illuminated the parking lot, and Laura
breathed a sigh of relief.  She unlocked the door

and stepped out of the car to greet the mechanic, a scrawny guy with a
ragged ponytail protruding from the rear of his baseball cap.  His wiry
arms were liberally augmented with various satanic-themed tattoos, but
he was a welcome sight.  A sewn-on patch on his gray shut identified
him as trey.

"Hey there," he said.  His voice was nasal and his accent thickly
southern.  "Got you a dead battery, huh?"

"Looks that way," Laura said.  "I don't know why.  It was fine this
morning, and I didn't have the lights on at all today."

"Sometimes they just give out," he said.  "Let's take a look."  He had
pulled a set of jumper cables and a toolbox from his truck, and he
popped open the hood with a practiced gesture.  He had left his truck
running, the lights pointed at the front of Laura's car, so that he
could see what he was doing.  "Okey-doke.  Let's see if she's a goner."
Laura watched with interest as he attached some kind of meter to the
battery.  "No, ma'am, she's alive.  Gotta be something else.  Let's
look around here."  He turned on a high-powered flashlight and peered
deeper into the cavern under the hood.  "Well, I'll be.  Your
distributor's gone."

"I guess it fell off."

Trey looked at her oddly."  "Distributors don't just fall off, ma'am.
Somebody's got to take it."

"You mean somebody stole it?  Are they that valuable?"

"A distributor for this car'll set you back maybe ten or fifteen
dollars," he said flatly.  "Don't nobody need one that bad."  He looked
around the dark parking lot.  "What're you doing parked down here at
night, anyway?  A lady ought not to be in a place like this alone.
Can't nobody see you from the street."

"I work in the building, and I had to work late," Laura

explained.  "I usually do park in the upper lot, but it was full
today."

He peered closely at her.  "You havin' problems with anybody, ma'am?
You got a boyfriend mad at you?"

Laura laughed lamely.  "I sure do, but he didn't do this.  He's a cop,"
she explained.  She tried out a mental image of Amos sabotaging her car
in order to teach her a lesson, and quickly discarded it.  "No, he
wouldn't do anything like this.  I'm not sure he even knows where I'm
working these days."

"Well, somebody done this deliberate.  On purpose," the concerned
mechanic said.  "I think you better call the police."  He pronounced it
POH-leece, which made Laura smile in spite of the gravity of his tone.
"Or that boyfriend of yours, anyway.  What do you do for a living,
anyway?"

"I'm a lawyer," Laura said, and waited for the inevitable reaction. 

"I guess you make plenty of folks mad, then."  He looked around the
garage.  "You didn't see no sign of nobody down here, did you?"

"No," Laura said hesitantly, remembering her jitters when she came
down.  Had there actually been someone lying in wait for her?  "No, and
I sat in the car a few minutes waiting for you.  Nobody was here."  She
tried to sound convinced of it.  "So, can you fix the car?"

"No, ma'am.  I need to get the part.  I can get it tonight, but I don't
think you ought to stay here.  Tell you what.  I'll take you home; then
I'll come back and fix your car for you.  You'll have to find a way to
get in to work tomorrow morning, but the car'll be ready."  "Would you?
I don't live far away.  Just over on East Paces Ferry," she added,

"That's right on my way back to the filling station.  Get

your things and hop in the truck.  Just shift all that stuff off the
front seat," he added as he closed the hood of the Toyota and packed up
his tools.

Laura did as instructed and they were soon bouncing along in the huge
truck.  She gave him her address.  He insisted on walking her to the
door and waiting until she was inside, with the lights on and the door
locked, before he left.  Back at home, Laura felt much less nervous.
She dismissed Trey with sincere thanks and a twenty-dollar tip.

"That's all right," he demurred.  "But if I was you, I believe I'd call
the poh-leece.  Can't hurt none, anyway."

"No, I'm sure it was just a prank.  There's a lot of traffic in
Buckhead, people just cruising around looking for something to do,"
Laura added unconvincingly.  "Somebody probably saw my car and thought
it would be funny to disable it."

Trey shook his head.  "It don't seem all that funny to me.  You do what
you want to, but you lock up, you hear?  I'll have your car all ready
in the morning."

Laura gave him her spare set of car keys, and thanked him for his help.
"Don't worry about it," she reassured him.  "I'm sure it was
nothing."

He shrugged his thin shoulders and waved a cheerful good-bye.  In a
minute, she heard the roar of his engine as he started the truck; the
headlights flashed briefly through the windows of the living room, and
he was gone.  She sank into a chair, her knees suddenly weak.  She
thought for a moment that she really should call Amos, but she shook
the thought off.  It had probably been just what she said: a prank. She
wasn't harmed, and she would be better off not mentioning it to anyone.
If she did, she would only make herself look like some kind of
paranoid freak.

Feeling better, she rose and went into the kitchen.  The clock on the
wall said it was after nine o'clock, and she was starving.  Food and
bed were what she needed, and all this would seem like nothing in the
morning.

Chapter 23

"Why was your car in the lot?"  Craig asked the next morning.  "Did you
come in early?"

"No, I left it here overnight.  My battery died last night," Laura lied
smoothly.  "I just went on home."

He frowned.  "I don't like the idea of you being here alone.  Arlene
told me that you stayed late."  He shook his head.  "No more.  You
could have gotten into trouble, all alone at night."  
"In Buckhead?"
she asked lightly."  "Come on, Craig.  It's not exactly a high-crime
zone."

"It didn't used to be," he corrected her.  "But all those bars--you get
a bad mix of people in Buckhead these days.  Suburban jackasses and
inner-city kids.  I don't mess with it anymore."

"Still, it's hardly Dodge City," she said.  "I called AAA

and a perfectly nice man came in about five minutes, anyway.  He took
me home."

"What--he didn't just jump-start you?"

"No, I, umm, needed a new battery.  My car's pretty old, you know."

"Oh.  Hey, good job on the brief," he said appreciatively, holding up
the sheaf of paper she had left on his desk.

"Thanks," Laura said, relieved to have the subject changed.  "When's
your hearing?"

"I'm leaving right now," he said.  "I hope I'll be back by
lunchtime."

"Good luck.  It should be a slam-dunk.  Before you go, I wanted to ask
you something.  I'm going to talk to Kenny today, to see how his
meeting with the FBI went.  Do you think there would be any use in
having him talk to the pathologist at the crime lab again, to try to
clear up some of the inconsistencies in his report?"

"Sure.  Just don't let on that we've had another doctor look at his
work.  That might set him off."

"Right.  Call me if you need me," she added insincerely as she left his
office.  She had no desire to go downtown and appear in a case against
one of her erstwhile colleagues, and Craig knew it.

Upstairs in her office, Laura picked up her voice mail.  Kenny had left
a message yesterday afternoon that she must have missed in her
absorption with the brief."  "Hey, Laura," he said."  "Reporting in
from the field.  I talked to my buddy at the Bureau.  He was going to
get the information to someone involved in the investigation, and I
should hear something tomorrow.  They'll want to meet Vasovitch right
away, I'm sure.  He called me from Las Vegas.  I think he might be
having second thoughts, so I want to hustle the boys along.  Call me
tomorrow and I should have more for you."

Laura dialed Kenny's office right away, but the voice mail system
picked up.  Too impatient to leave a message and wait, Laura hung up
and paged him, and ended up waiting.

Finally, he called.  Better yet, he announced that he would be in the
neighborhood and wondered if she was free for lunch.  She accepted
quickly.  "I want to talk to you about something, too," she said.

"Sounds like a deal," he said.  "Meet me out front at noon.  We can go
to La Fonda and sit outside."

"Perfect," Laura said.

La Fonda Latina was a local chain that served good Cuban food at
reasonable prices.  Laura was especially fond of the vegetable paella,
which came in such generous portions that she could rely on it to
provide dinner, too.  It was probably past time for an honest-to-God
vegetable to get into her digestive system.

Kenny showed up right on time, although Laura, in her eagerness for
paella and information, had been waiting in front of the building for a
good five minutes.

"Afternoon," Kenny said as he pulled back out onto Maple Drive.  "Saw
the article in the paper this morning," he commented.

"Ugh.  I forgot to buy a copy," she said.

"What, you don't subscribe?"  "Not since the books editor left.  How
was it?"  
"So-so.  He only had a paragraph or two about the lawsuit
Most of it was a rehash of Jervis' sarrest, and the dismissal."

"I guess there's not a lot else to say at this point.  I did hint to
the reporter that there might be a tie-in with the FBI investigation.
Did that make it in?"

"So that was what he was referring to.  Here--I've got

the paper under the seat."  He bent down and fished around on the
floor.

"Just drive, Ken.  I'll get the paper."

"Don't be so nervous, kid.  The traffic's barely moving."

"That doesn't mean you can't have an accident," Laura retorted,
remembering the mom in the van who had rolled into the Jaguar with such
dramatic consequences.  Not that anyone sane would come after Kenny
with a golf club.  She retrieved the paper and pulled out the metro
section.  To her disappointment, the article--a short one--was
concealed deep in the interior.  " "A person familiar with the case
indicated that evidence linking the case to other investigations may be
introduced at a later date," " Laura read aloud.  "You're right. 
That's vague.  Hey, where are you going?  I thought we were going to La
Fonda."

"We are.  But I don't like the one in Buckhead.  We're going to Roswell
Road.  It's easier to get a parking space."

"That much is true.  As long as I get my paella.  So tell me about your
meeting with the FBI man."

"All in good time.  But they're interested."

"When can we meet with them?"

"You're impatient today," he said.

"I hate sitting around doing nothing.  By the way, I want you to go out
to the crime lab to talk to that pathologist again.  Craig thinks it
might do some good."

"It might.  On the other hand, it might not.  There are two
possibilities: either he's out-and-out lying, in which case talking to
him from now until the end of time will have absolutely zero results.
On the other hand, he might have just done a slipshod, half-assed
job--in which case he'll be defensive and uncooperative."

"My.  You're upbeat today."

"I'm realistic.  Every day."

They had battled through the lunchtime traffic in Buck head and were
zipping north on Roswell Road.  They passed the Bumper to Bumper Car
Wash, which reminded Laura that Kenny hadn't said anything about his
search for the remaining two witnesses.  "Any progress on finding
Terence Walker?"  she asked.

"Not a lick.  I have a lead on Jermaine Clay, however."

"Really?  That's good news," she said, delighted.

"It's just a lead," he said cautiously, "and a pretty darn vague one. I
hear tell that he has people in lower Alabama, in Atmore.  Looks like
I'll have to go there to find out if there's anything to it."

"That should be a pleasant trip," Laura said disingenuously.

"I always enjoy a trip to Alabama," Kenny said in a reproving tone.
"I've got a cousin in Mobile; I can run down to Atmore, check out the
story, and then go on to Mobile and have myself a good time.  Here we
are," he said, pulling into the parking lot at La Fonda.

Laura hopped down from the big pickup eagerly, and hiked her skirt,
which had slid around her waist, back into alignment.  Kenny eyed her.
"You don't look like you've been eating right," he commented as they
found a table.  "Looks like you might have lost a pound or two,
even."

"Maybe," she said noncommittally.

"I know what's going on," he said as he picked up a menu.  "You don't
eat right when Kowalski's not around, do you?"

"It's such a pain to cook for one, and I've been working pretty hard. I
didn't get home last night until after nine.  I stayed late to work on
a brief for Craig."

"Good grief.  Fannin's taking advantage of you, kiddo."

"No, he's not," Laura said defensively.  She was glad,

though, that the conversation had veered away from the topic of Amos.
"I wanted to do it.  And I wouldn't have been working late if the
printer hadn't kept jamming.  Printing the dumb thing took almost as
long as researching and writing it."

"Technology.  Not all it's.cracked up to be."  A waiter appeared with
chips and napkins.  "You ready to order?"  Kenny asked her.

"I've been ready.  I don't even need to look at the menu.  Vegetarian
paella, please."

Kenny ordered a quesadilla.  "I'm having a beer," he announced.  "You
might as well, too, so I won't look bad."

"You talked me into it."

When the beer was delivered, Laura resumed her interrogation of Kenny.
"So what's the deal?  When are we meeting with the FBI?"

Kenny made a play of pulling the label off his beer bottle.  "I don't
know if you should be there," he said.

"Why the hell not?"

"You don't know the Bureau," he said.  "They're going to wonder why
you're there, and it might open up a can of worms for you."

"I have no canned worms to worry about," she retorted.  "Jervis is my
client, and they'll have to share any information they get from
Vasovitch that's in any way relevant to the case with me anyway.  So
what's the big deal?"

"They only want to see Vasovitch and his attorney.  They didn't even
want me there, but I insisted," he admitted.

"You've already set it up?"  she demanded.

"I'm sorry, Laura.  You have to do it on their terms.  I will tell you
everything, I promise, just as soon as the meeting ends."

Laura fought off her disappointment and a bit of annoyance  "Okay,"
she sighed.  "I guess I really don't have standing in the matter.  Have
you talked to Diana Arnold?"

"No, I thought you'd want to do that," he said.

"Ah.  Throwing me a bone," she said with a smile.  "You're a prince.  I
assume that after you get this buttoned up you're off to Alabama?"

"Yep.  Unless something else comes up."  
"When you get back, I want
you to tackle this pathologist at the crime lab.  There's got to be
some reason that his report is so far off from the one Craig's guy came
up with."

"I agree.  Do you think he's lying?"

Laura sighed.  "It's impossible to say.  Why would he?  He doesn't have
a dog in this hunt--at least, not that you can tell.  But he struck me
as a strange guy.  I had a hard time getting a feel for what makes him
tick, but I'm pretty sure telling him that we had another doctor look
over his report wouldn't go over real well."

"I'll give him a call and try to wander out that way when I get back
from Atmore.  And, speaking of Atmore, what's up with you and
Kowalski?"

"Very smooth transition," Laura complimented him.  "The answer is
nothing.  I haven't called him, and he hasn't called me.  Nothing has
changed, and I don't think there's any reason to rehash the
discussion."

"You're both being stubborn," Kenny said.

"No, I don't think so.  I think we're dealing with a fundamental
difference in the way we look at things."

"You're saying it's over?"

"Of course not.  Not in my mind, anyway.  He may disagree.  You and
Cindy don't always see eye to eye, do you?"

"Of course not.  But we don't turn tail and stop talking to each other
for two weeks, either.  Because we're not stubborn ."

"Leave it alone," Laura said.  "Everybody in Atlanta seems to have an
opinion on Amos and me.  Police departments are nothing but hotbeds of
gossip and rumor.  I ran into Don Archer when I was downtown filing the
suit--you know him, don't you?"

"Big Don?  Sure.  Nice guy."

"There's where we disagree," Laura said.  "He gives me the creeps.  I
don't know why Amos hangs out with him."

"They don't hang out; they just play a little ball together.  And if
you ask me, Darryl Michaels is the creepy one.  He's a jackass,
anyway," Kenny added.  "I used to play with them, and he was never my
favorite. Archer's okay, though.  You're just reading him wrong."

"Maybe so, but he's one of those men who you just know thinks about sex
every seven seconds."

"I thought we all did."

"Probably so, but some of you do a better job of hiding it.  Change of
subject: How much do you know about cars?"

"I'd guess I'm about average.  I can change a tire and jump a
battery."

"Do you know anything about distributors?"

"I know what they do.  Why are you asking?"

"I had to get a new one."

He shrugged.  "That's normal for a car as old as yours, I suppose."

"I had to get it because mine was gone."

"Gone?"

"Completely.  I want to know how hard it is to take one off."

"On a scale of one to ten, about a four.  Given the right tools, of
course."

"How long would it take?"

He shrugged.  "Just a few minutes, if you knew what you

were doing.  Where's this going?  Are you saying somebody took your
distributor?"

"It looks that way.  I was parked under the building, and when I went
down to go home, I couldn't start the car.  I thought it was a dead
battery, but the AAA man said the distributor was gone."

"Who would have taken it?"

"That's what I'd like to know," Laura said.  "It must have been a
prank.  The mechanic said they're not expensive enough to making
stealing them worthwhile.  I think somebody just wanted to get his
jollies by inconveniencing me."

Kenny frowned.  "Or worse.  Taking the distributor out flat disables a
car.  Somebody might have wanted you stranded."

"Please; no paranoid fantasies.  It was in the middle of Buckhead, not
Beirut.  Just forget it.  It was nothing.  No harm, no foul.  Whoever
did it had plenty of opportunity to hang around and take advantage of
my helplessness.  But the only person I saw was a tattooed mechanic."

"Just the same, I'd be careful," Kenny warned.

"I'm always careful.  And, Kenny, please don't tell Amos about this.  I
just wanted a second opinion, that's all."

"My lips are sealed.  You want more chips?"  he asked.

"Absolutely."

Chapter 24

Laura tried not to be disgruntled at being left out of the meeting with
the FBI, but it wasn't easy.  She glumly told Craig what was going on.
He was, of course, unmoved.

"It's no big deal," he said.  "Let the Bureau do the legwork.  If they
find out that our client was the victim of a conspiracy, we'll reap the
benefits.  Otherwise we might be just wasting our time."

"And time is money," Laura commented.

"You say that as if it was a bad thing," Craig said.  "Speaking of
which, here's a small token of my gratitude for the work you did last
night.  I didn't hire you to be my associate, and I want you to know
that I don't expect you to do work for me without compensation."  He
handed her a check, which, to Laura's astonishment, was in the
munificent amount of twenty-five hundred dollars.

"Craig!  This is too much.  I just worked a couple of

hours--my toll able rate at Prendergrast and Crawley certainly never
got this high!"

"Maybe it should have.  Anyway, I feel bad that you stayed here and did
this, and then had to deal with your car.  I looked at your car this
morning, by the way.  You really should get rid of it."

"Thanks, but as long as it runs, I think I'll hold out."

"Suit yourself, but it's going to stop some day when it's not going to
be convenient--or maybe even safe.  Use that as a down payment on
something new."

"I'll think about it," she said noncommittally.  She didn't need Craig
taking up where Amos had left off in the argument over the car.

"And go on and take the rest of the afternoon off," Craig continued,
his bounty apparently not exhausted by signing the check.  "Go see a
movie.  You won't make the phone ring by staring at it, you know."

"I know, but I want to stay.  I have things to do," she said.  "Suit
yourself.  Let me know when you hear something.  And don't look at me
like that.  I can interested; I'm just not putting a lot of hope into
the FBI.  In my experience, once they're involved, you can kiss your
case goodbye."

Laura returned to her office.  She did have things to do-- a thing,
anyway: call Diana.  She tried, but got the answering machine.  It
occurred to her that Julian Arnold might not know that his wife had
been in contact with her.  It also crossed her mind that Helen Belew
might still be in town, and staying with her daughter.  In either case,
Laura didn't think it would be wise to leave a message.

That pretty much covered her to-do list She sat in the slightly
battered chair at her desk, and bent a helpless paper clip into new and
strange shapes.  Laura was not accustomed

to inactivity, and she'd had more than enough of it.  Maybe Craig had
the right idea.  Two hours in a brain-cell-killing movie might be just
the thing she needed.  She pulled out Kenny's newspaper and looked at
the entertainment section.  There were a couple of appealing films at
the art house on Cheshire Bridge she wouldn't mind seeing, and she
could still make the cheap early show if she left right away.

Just as she made up her mind to leave, the phone, which had been so
silent that she'd actually checked it for a dial tone a couple of
times, rang.  Laura knew that it wouldn't be Kenny; it was too early,
but she hoped that it might be Diana, even if that meant missing the
movie.  She picked up with alacrity.

"Hey, Laura, it's Carlton."

Laura was puzzled for a minute.  Carlton who?  She couldn't believe
that the detective would be calling her.  She hadn't spoken to him
since the charges against Jervis had been dropped, and since she had
put him at the center of an internal investigation.  Carlton might call
her, but she doubted that he'd sound this cheerful and friendly if he
did.  This had to be another Carlton altogether.

But it was Carlton Hemingway, and not only was he speaking to her, he
was as cheerful as ever."  "How are you?"  she asked, trying not to
sound surprised.

"Okay.  How about you?  Things okay with Fannin?"

"Sure," she said, and then she fumbled for something to say next.  "So,
ahh, what are you up to?"

"Working, as usual.  In fact, that's why I'm calling.  I need a
favor."

"Wait.  Back up.  You mean you're working again, as a detective?"

"Of course.  Oh, that's right--you and Kowalski split up.

I guess you've lost your pipeline for all the Atlanta Police
Department news."

Laura answered him tartly.  "We have not split up.  Honestly, all cops
do is gossip.  Maybe if you spent a little more time hunting down
felons and a little less talking about each other's love lives the
crime rate would drop a point or two."

Carlton laughed.  "Hit a nerve, huh?"

"Maybe.  Anyway, the last I heard you and Devereaux were the subjects
of an internal investigation."

"Yep.  Alex still is.  I'm cleared though, and back at the grind."

"You mean Alex has been implicated in the Jervis case?"

"No, there was nothing to all that.  No, he was suspended because he
was working unauthorized off-duty."

"For Darryl Michaels?  But everyone knew that!  He was at the mayor's
campaign rally body guarding a jock."

"But he didn't get it authorized.  Which would have been no big deal,
except that when the Office of Professional Standards started looking
at him for the Jervis mess, they found out that he was moonlighting. So
he was grounded for a week, with pay.  It's no big deal.  He'll be back
on the job tomorrow, as a matter of fact."

"I'm glad.  I was worried that you guys were in trouble."

"No sweat.  I mean, it wasn't the greatest thing that ever happened to
me, but I wasn't ever really worried.  And now, I'm beginning to think
that you were right all along.  I think we might have missed a thing or
two in the investigation."

Laura tossed the movie pages into the trash can and settled back into
her chair.  "What makes you say that?"

"It's this new case I'm working, which is related to the Jervis case.
You know that one of the eyewitnesses who turned up to testify against
Jervis got himself killed?"

"Yes.  Albert Jackson."

"Right.  And it just so happens that he was in custody at the time."

"Yes.  He got into some kind of fight with another inmate.  Which,"
she editorialized, "came as no big shock.  He was quite a little
player, wasn't he?"

"But things aren't always what they seem to be.  It's beginning to look
to me less like a jailhouse beef than a hit."

"You're kidding," Laura said.  "Who would want him dead?"

Carlton laughed.  "Hellooo--that's what I'm trying to figure out. Which
brings me back to why I'm calling you.  Your man Ken Newton's been
nosing around this business.  I was hoping I could talk to him."

"Of course.  He's tied up this afternoon, but I'll have him call you as
soon as he gets free.  But tell me more--what makes you think someone
was paid to kill him?"

"There are rumors.  Besides, the guy who did it had a hunting knife. He
had to have some help getting a weapon like that.  I mean, the jail's
not the tightest-run ship in the world, but they're pretty good at
keeping the pointy objects away from the felons.  I would be, too, if
it was my job to guard them.  And then there's a coincidental mix-up in
the records when the perp is being transferred to the county jail.
Instead of getting locked up to await trial for manslaughter, the guy
is released.  Needless to say, he ain't been seen around since."

"Wow.  It does sound strange."

"That's about all I've got to go on.  I was hoping Newton would have
had some luck finding the other guy... Jermaine Clay."

"As a matter of fact, he does have a lead on where he might be hiding
out.  It's pretty clear that he is lying low

somewhere.  Although," Laura wondered aloud, "he might be dead, too,
for all we know.  You think whoever killed Belew is behind all this, of
course."

Carlton hedged a little.  "Looks like there might be a tie in.  It's
still possible that it's all just a bunch of rumors.  Jails and cons
are notorious for spinning conspiracy theories."

"Just like police forces."  "Yeah.  Anyway, you're working for Fannin
now.  What's that like?"

Laura sighed.  "Not exactly a thrill a minute.  It's a waiting game."
She decided not to tell Carlton about Carl Vasovitch.  "You know we
filed suit against the city and the Atlanta Police Department, don't
you?"

"Yep."

"Nothing personal," Laura hastened to add.

"I'm not taking it personally.  Jervis wasn't the right guy; we made a
mistake."

"It's nice to hear you say that, Carlton.  I think other people are
taking it personally."

"Well, Kowalski's a hard case.  But he'll come around.  Want me to talk
to him?"

"Absolutely not!"

He chuckled.  "I kind of figured you'd say that.  I better get going.
Have Ken call me when he gets time."

"Sure thing.  Good talking to you, Carlton."

"Ditto.  Maybe we can grab lunch someday soon."

"Sounds like a plan."

That was a relief, anyway, she reflected.  This principled decision of
hers had proved pretty expensive in terms of her personal life.
Carlton's almost nonchalant attitude gave her hope that maybe Amos
might come around eventually, too.  Which was all to the good, except
that now she had missed

the start of the movie, and she still had nothing constructive to do
with the rest of the day.

Laura decided that she'd be better off at home than sitting here,
scrubbing the bathtub or anything.  Kenny knew where to find her.  She
packed her bag, said her good-byes to Craig and the staff, and started
for the parking lot, where she saw Kenny's truck.  She practically ran
to meet him as he angled into a parking space.

"What happened?"  she said, not even allowing him time to get out of
the truck.

"Easy," he said.  "I'll tell you all about it.  Where's Fanning  He
might want to hear this, too."

"He's inside.  Come on," she said, resisting the impulse to tug at his
sleeve.

Craig was happy to see Kenny, although he managed to keep his
enthusiasm more muted than Laura did."  "Give him a break, Laura," he
said.  "You want a Coke or something, Ken?"

"That'd be great," Kenny replied.  "It's been a day."  Craig stepped
out to get the Coke.  "Don't look at me like that," Kenny said to
Laura. "I'm plumb wore out from all of this running around.  And now I
bet you want me to go to Alabama looking for the mystery witness."

"I do.  I've got to tell you about what Carlton said."

"You're on speaking terms with him again?"

"Yes.  He didn't get in any real trouble.  He called today" Craig came
back into the room.  "I'll tell you both about it when we've heard your
story, Kenny."

"Okay," he said.  "Thanks, Fannin."  He popped the top on the can,
poured the Coke into a glass, and started narrating.  "Let me just say
first, for those of you who haven't dealt with our colleagues in law
enforcement at the Bureau for a while, that things haven't changed a
whole lot.  In other

words, when you have a meeting with the men in black, you can count on
doing a lot of talking while they do all the listening.  That's pretty
much how it went down today.  The good news is that they are very
interested in what our Mend Cad has to say.  They were especially
interested in this guy who asked Lawrence Belew to act as a front for
bids."

"But Carl never knew who the man was," Laura said.

"No, but I have a feeling that the agent we met with might have known
something.  He sat right up when Carl got to that part of the tale."

"Did you get a sense that the Bureau thinks Belew's murder might be
tied in?"  Craig asked.

Kenny shrugged.  "Who can say?  We'll just have to wait and see what
turns up.  In the meantime, they've put a guy in Carol's building, and
that tells me that they must believe that he might be in some physical
danger."

"Poor Carl!"  Laura said.  "I hope he's not too upset that we dragged
him into all this."

"Naw, he's cool with it," Ken said.  "I think he really cared about
Belew, and he wants to do what he can to make sure Belew's wishes are
carried out.  But don't hold your breath for any quick breaks.  Those
guys have an agenda, and they're not going to kite off and start
arresting folks just because they get some new lead.  They're all set
to keep this investigation running as long as it takes for them to get
what they want."

"By which I assume you mean getting the cuffs on some more of our
elected officials," Craig said dryly.

"You bet your bottom dollar.  I think they'd like to land a bigger
fish.  They've racked up a pretty good head count so far, but most of
the guys they've indicted or convicted are pretty small-fry.  So don't
be disappointed that we didn't

set off any fireworks."  This last remark was clearly directed at
Laura.

"I'm not.  Besides, I want to tell you about my call from Carl ton,"
she said.  "You, too, Craig.  He's looking into the murder of that
witness--Albert Jackson--in the city jail."  She ran down what Carlton
had told her.  "And he wants to talk to you about Jermaine Clay,
Kenny--when you find him."

"Okay, okay--I get it.  Time to stop sitting around on my duff.  I'm
off to "Bama."

"With a banjo on your knee?"  Craig asked.

"I believe that's Louisiana," Laura corrected.

"You're both wrong.  It's "I come from Alabama with a banjo on my
knee," " Kenny said.  "But whatever, I'll call you when I know
something.  And," he added, anticipating Laura's next question, "I
called out to the crime lab to see if I could get a meeting with that
pathologist.  Turns out he's gone."

"Gone?  What do you mean?"  Laura asked.

"He resigned, with no notice.  And, no, they don't know how to get in
touch with him--or if they do, they're not going to tell some random PI
just because he wants to know."

"I have to say that sounds kind of odd," Craig said.  "First, the guy
does a half-assed job on an autopsy; men he leaves town?"

"Maybe it is fishy," Ken said.  "Or maybe it's code for 'we fired his
ass."  "

"That's possible," Craig said.  "On review, Dr.  Cooper's superiors may
have decided that his work wasn't up to snuff."

"I'll call one of my buddies out there and see what he knows," Laura
said, "but it sure does seem like we have

a lot of people involved in this investigation who've mysteriously
disappeared."

"Cooper's bugging out is a little strange," Kenny admitted.  "But these
other witnesses?  I'm not a bit surprised.  We're not dealing with
responsible, productive members of society."  
"Understood," Laura
said."  "Still, it bugs me that Cooper could have--should have--been a
witness in the trial of Lawrence Belew's killer, whenever that
happens."

"He may be yet," Craig said.  "He can always be found.  But our case is
fine without him.  Maybe better, in fact.  There won't be anyone to
dispute Dr.  Hillman's version of events."

"Goodforus," Laura said.  "But not for everyone.  Speaking of which, I
should call Diana Arnold and bring her up to date.  Kenny, do you have
a minute to come up to my office and talk to her?  If we can get her on
the phone, that is; I haven't been able to so far."

"I'm game, as long as I get to go home and kiss my wife and kids before
I go on the next mission."

"We'll keep it short.  There's not an awful lot to tell her, anyway, is
there?"

There wasn't, and Diana didn't have much time to listen, as it
happened.  She was trying to get dinner on the table, and her son had a
friend from school over.  They managed to get through the chaos and
communicate what Kenny had learned.

Diana was keenly interested, though, in what they had to tell her, and
she listened as intently as anyone could with two six-year-old boys in
the background.  "Did they seem to think that there was some connection
between this man who tried to bribe Lawrence and the murder?"  she
asked.

"Hard to say," Kenny said.

"Did you get a sense that they might have known who this man was?"

"Maybe," Kenny said.  "They're pretty good poker players, but I thought
I picked up some interest."

"I guess that's about as good as it's going to get," she sighed.

"For now," Kenny said reassuringly.  "We've still got some leads to
follow.  Laura, tell her about Albert Jackson."

Laura shared Carlton's suspicions.  "So now the Atlanta Police
Department thinks that there might be something to what you've been
saying," she commented.  "I hope they're usually more on the ball than
this."

"In fairness," Laura said, "I think the blame--if there is any--belongs
to the higher-ups in the city government.  Carlton and Alex were just
doing the best they could."

"And now the FBI will do the best they can," Diana added, "and my
brother is still dead."

"Diana, I'm sorry."

"Hey, not your fault.  I guess I just have to suck it up and get on
with my life at some point.  No offense, Kenny, but I don't think
you're going to have any more luck in Alabama than you did at the FBI
this afternoon.  Whoever's behind this is one step ahead of us."

Laura hated to hear Diana's tone; she feared that the bereaved sister
was slipping into depression.  "All we can do is keep trying," Laura
said.  
"I know.  And at least you are trying.  Which is more than I
can say for the police and the city government."

"Don't give up, Diana.  That's what they want you to do."

"I'm just taking one thing at a time.  Right now, I've got two little
boys pestering the cat.  I better do something about it.  Call me if
anything else happens."

"We will," Laura promised.

She hung up and shook her head.  "She's depressed, I'm afraid.  She
doesn't know it now, but even catching the guy who killed Lawrence
isn't going to bring her out of it."

Kenny agreed.  "But she'll be okay.  She's a good strong lady."  He
glanced at his watch.  "I better hit the road.  I'll call you from
Alabama."

"Thanks.  It would be great if you could find Jermaine Clay."

"If I do, I'll tie him to the front grill of the truck and bring him on
in like a prize buck.  You go on home, too, kid.  You're not doing
yourself a lot of good worrying about all of this."  
"Yeah, I know.
Stops me worrying about everything else, though," she said with a
smile.

"Cindy says Kowalski is crazy, if that makes you feel any better."

"Your wife is a perceptive and intelligent woman.  Be good in
Alabama."

"I'm always good in Alabama," he said.

Laura looked at her watch; there was just time to catch Tommy Wood at
the crime lab before he left work.  She looked up his number and
punched it into the keypad.  
"You just caught me trying to sneak out,"
he said."  "What can I do for you?"

"What do you know about Jay Cooper leaving the crime lab?"

His reply was cautious.  "I know he's gone, but I don't know why. We're
kind of a small shop out here, so it gets around pretty quickly when
someone leaves.  Not always why, though."

"Can you say whether or not his departure was voluntary?"

"As far as I can tell, yes.  But they're so afraid of lawsuits that
they might have wanted it to seem that way."

"So you think he might have been asked to leave?"

"Geez, did I say that?  You're worse than that cop."

"What cop?"

"Uh-oh.  Now I've done it.  Look, a cop from the Atlanta Police
Department was asking about Cooper, okay?  I gave him the same story
I'm giving you."

"What cop was this?"

"I didn't meet him.  It was just a phone call."

"But surely he gave you his name."

"It was Alex Devereaux."  "But he's ..."  Laura stopped herself. 
"Never mind.  I don't mean to bug you.  Sorry I kept you."

"No biggie.  Just call if I can ever help."

Now, that's interesting, Laura thought after she hung up.  What's
Devereaux doing poking around this case when he's suspended?  She spent
a minute staring into the middle distance.  At length, she realized
that she wasn't going to figure it out by sitting in her office all
night. It was time to go home.

Chapter 25

Nothing looked wrong as Laura approached her house.  It was, in fact,
hard to imagine anything that could look more right than this small
white-painted brick cottage, unless it was any of the couple of dozen
other houses that bordered the quiet street.  This part of town had so
far escaped most of the depredations of the nouveau riche Visigoths who
thought that it was acceptable to tear down a house that had
unassumingly provided comfort and shelter to families for seventy
years, and to erect in its place a cracker box mansion.  There were one
or two hideous new houses in the neighborhood, but none yet on this
street.  Sometimes Laura wished that the economy would slow down, and
that people wouldn't have enough money to build those follies.

She pulled into the little one-car garage at the end of the drive,
turned off the motor, and got out of the car.  The door creaked every
time she opened it; the engine tended to cough

and sputter for a minute or two after the ignition was cut.  Maybe
Amos and Craig were right.  Maybe she did need a new car, but she'd
rather take Craig's little bonus and use it for a trip to Italy.  She
and Amos had been talking about going to Europe.  Now she'd have to go
alone, or get a girlfriend to come along.  She felt herself beginning
to slide into a little self-pity session.  "Shake it off," she warned
herself, half under her breath.  She walked out of the garage and
started toward the house; there was still enough daylight that she
didn't Sip on the light that illuminated the driveway.

"Hi!"  a little voice said, off to her right.  It was Evan, her
neighbor's three-year-old son, peeking through the gate in the fence
that separated Laura's driveway from his backyard.

"Hello to you, too," Laura said.  She liked this little guy, and his
mother Lucy, a "retired" lawyer.  They had some acquaintances in
common, and every so often they would share legal gossip over the back
fence.

"I'm having bisghetti for supper," Evan informed her.

"Oh?  Me, too, probably.  Do you like bisghetti?"

"I guess so."  He looked over his shoulder and saw his mother
approaching.

"Hi, Laura," she said.  "Is he bothering you?"

"Never," Laura replied honestly.  "We were just discussing
bisghetti."

"You're welcome to join us for some.  Mack's going to be working late
again, so it's just the two of us."  Mack, Lucy's husband, continued to
toil toward partnership in one of the big law firms downtown.

Laura started to decline, but changed her mind.  "You know, I think I'd
like that.  If you'll let me bring a bottle of wine," she added.

"You're on.  We'll go ahead and feed this guy and you and I can have a
little cocktail."

"Great.  I'll change and be right over."

Laura was so glad of the prospect of a nice glass of wine and some good
company that she almost didn't notice that the back door was ajar.  She
started to walk through it, but stopped.  Had she left it open this
morning?  It was possible, but she could conjure up a mental image of
locking the door behind herself.

Then she looked at the door frame.  The splintered wood told her that
she had locked the door.  Someone had opened it by force.  She quickly
turned away and headed back toward the driveway, to the gate in the
fence that separated her house from Lucy's.  Lucy and Evan were still
in the backyard.  "That was quick!"  Lucy said.

"No, I didn't go in ... there's a problem.  Have you been home all
day?"

"Yes.  Except for running out to the grocery store early this
afternoon.  Why?"

"You didn't see anyone at my house?"

"Oh, my God--did someone break in?"  
"Maybe," Laura said, with a
meaningful glance at Evan.

Lucy followed her gaze.  "Oh.  Right.  You better go inside and call
911.  We'll wait here."

Laura went into Lucy's house and dialed with shaky fingers.  She gave
the operator all the relevant information.  "Okay, Ms.  Chastain, we've
dispatched a car.  Don't go back inside."

"I won't," Laura promised.  "I'm at my neighbor's house."

She went back outside, and nodded to Lucy.  "On the way," she said
tersely.

"Okay, I'll get him in and start suppej.  And I'll get you a glass of
wine.  Come on in."

"I'd rather wait here," Laura said.  "I'll be okay."

The police car, dispatched from the zone headquarters just down the
road, was there in minutes.  Two officers, a man and a woman, got out.
Laura was thankful that they hadn't used the siren; the less attention
this drew, the better.

"You Miss Chastain?"  the male officer asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Did you go inside?"

"No, I started to, but I saw that someone had broken in."

"Okay, let us check it out.  Whoever did it is probably long gone, but
better safe than sorry."  His partner was already walking around the
back of the house.  Laura watched, alarmed, as they both drew their
guns before the woman called out' "Police officers" and went inside,
keeping her back against the door frame.  Her partner waited a moment;
then he went in as well.

They were inside for only a few minutes; it was a small house.  When
they emerged, their guns were bolstered again.  "He's gone, ma'am," the
female officer said.  "Can you come inside and tell us what's
missing?"

"Sure," Laura said hesitantly.  The woman went ahead of her.  Laura
thought, absurdly, that she should have asked her name; she had a
nagging feeling that she was being rude.  They stopped inside the
kitchen.  Laura looked around.  Nothing was gone, but there wasn't
anything to take, except the blender or the toaster, which were in
their usual places.  The female cop--her name was Debbie, Laura
noticed-looked inquiringly at her.  "Nothing's missing," Laura said.

They proceeded into the living room; the television, VCR, and stereo
were all intact.  Nothing was missing in the bedroom, either; Laura's
only valuable jewelry was a pearl

necklace, and it lay untouched in its case on the chest of drawers.
She shook her head.  "Nothing seems to be missing."  "Something must
have interrupted him," the male cop said.  His name was Mike, which was
a very good name for a cop, Laura thought irrelevantly.  He pointed to
the bed.  "Strange place to keep a distributor, miss."

Laura looked at the bed, which, luckily, she had bothered to make up
before leaving.  There was a thing sitting in the middle of it, about
the size of a coffee mug, with wires sprouting from it.  "Is that a
distributor?"  she asked quietly.

"Yep.  You been having trouble with yours?"

"In a manner of speaking.  It was stolen out of my car a few days ago,"
she said.

That precipitated action.  Debbie hustled Laura out of the room.  "Can
you go wait at your neighbor's?"  she asked.  "We'll have to call in a
crime scene unit, and the detectives.  They'll want to ask you some
questions."

Laura allowed herself to be led back to Lucy's, and to be deposited on
a kitchen chair.  Debbie said something quietly to Lucy while Laura
watched Evan, in a booster seat, tackle a plate of spaghetti.  Debbie
left, and Lucy wordlessly put a glass of red wine in front of Laura.
Laura picked it up, trying her hardest not to slosh it onto the
table.

"Do you want to call your boyfriend?"  Lucy asked.  "He's a policeman,
isn't he?"

Laura nodded.  "I'd rather not, though.  We're ... I don't think I
ought to call him."

"Okay.  You just sit right here.  Are you hungry?"

"No, thanks.  God, I'm sorry about this...."

"Don't be.  You can stay here tonight, as long as you want."

Laura shook her head.  "I have to go home.  If I don't tonight, I may
never."

The detective came, and Lucy led them into Mack's home office, where
they could talk behind closed doors.  Laura didn't recognize the
detective, who introduced himself as Jim somebody.  If her name meant
anything to him he showed no sign of it.  He asked her a series of
routine questions-when had she left home that morning, when had she
returned, when had she noticed the door had been jimmied?  She answered
them all by rote; the patrol officers had already been through all of
this.  Then he got down to cases.  "When was the distributor taken,
Miss Chastain?"

Laura answered carefully.  "Last night.  You can ask my boss.  I told
him this morning that I'd had car trouble."

"Never mind for now, but we will need confirmation eventually.  You
didn't report that to the police, did you?"

"No.  I thought it was a prank, maybe some kids trying to have a good
time in Buckhead, you know."

He made a note, then looked up at her again.  "Have you had any strange
phone calls or messages lately?"  She shook her head.  "Seen anybody in
the neighborhood, or at the office, who doesn't belong?"

"No.  No one.  Nothing strange."

"Try to think: is there anyone who might want to scare you?"

"Yes.  I'm a lawyer, and I'm working on a case that... well, I think
you know what I'm working on."

"Yes," he said, meeting her eyes evenly.  "Would you like me to call
Lieutenant Kowalski?"  The message was clear: I know all about you.

"No.  Please don't worry him," Laura said, with an effort to remain
calm.

"He'll find out about this anyway, Miss Chastain."

"I know," she said.  "But he won't want to be involved."

"Are you having trouble with your relationship with the lieutenant?"

"That's none of your concern," Laura said sharply.

"It might be," he said.  
"For God's sake--Amos didn't do this.  Are
you insane?"  The very suggestion galvanized her.  "This is some creep
who doesn't want me nosing around the Belew murder," she said.  "Do you
know Amos Kowalski at all?"  
"By reputation.  I have to ask," he said
defensively."  "The fact that the distributor was placed on the bed ...
well, it's suggestive."

Laura stood up."  "And I think the person who did it meant it to be. He
probably wanted you to think exactly what you're thinking.  Do you have
any more questions?"

"Not for now.  You can't go back until the crime scene unit is
finished."

"I know that.  Please let me know when they're done," she said, and she
left the room.

Detective Jim followed, and he spoke to Lucy.  "Okay if she stays here
awhile?"

"Sure.  We're just going to put this guy in the bathtub and have our
supper.  Laura's going to read you a story when you get your pajamas
on, Evan."

"I want my bezert first," Evan said.  "Who are you?"  he asked the
detective.

"Just a friend of your mom and dad's," Jim answered.  "You'll be okay,
Miss Chastain?"

"Yes.  Just let me know when I can go back home."

Lucy gave Evan a cookie for his "bezert" and kept up a stream of
cheerful talk while he ate it slowly, clearly avoiding the inevitable
bath.  His mother prevailed, though, and he was soon off to the tub.
Laura sat on the John and

drank wine while Lucy erased the evidence of bisghetti from his small
person.  Once he was in his pajamas, Lucy started fixing the grown-ups
dinner, and Laura read Evan the promised story.  He grew drowsy after
the third reprise of Mike Mulligan, and Lucy took him to bed.  It was
all very normal, with the exception of the intrusion of a cop who took
a set of Laura's fingerprints.  After he left, Laura and Lucy ate
dinner without once mentioning the break-in.

Finally, as she and Lucy were clearing up the dishes, Detective Jim
returned to tell Laura that her house had been secured."  "I called a
locksmith to repair the door," he added.  "He's there now."

"Thank you," Laura said, wondering if crime victims who didn't date
cops got this kind of service.

"You're welcome.  Sure you're okay going back alone?"

"I'll be fine."  Laura managed a smile.  "Don't worry.  It takes more
than this to shake me up."

Despite the brave words, though, Laura gratefully accepted Lucy's offer
of another glass of wine before she left.  Mack returned home, and they
had to tell him the story.  He offered to walk Laura home and see her
safely inside, an offer she accepted without hesitation.  "Thanks,
Mack," Laura said.  "And tell Lucy how much I appreciated
everything."

"She knows.  We're glad to help.  We were just saying that we wish we
saw more of you, Laura.  Maybe not under these circumstances, of
course."

"Of course!"  Laura agreed with a laugh.  "T11 try to keep the crime
wave to a minimum.  And next time I' 11 fix dinner."

"It's a deal.  Call us if you need anything.  Any time,
Laura--seriously."

"Thanks."

Once alone in the house, Laura took a minute to assess

the damage done by the crime scene team.  Everything had been
fingerprinted, and traces of powder remained.  A few things had been
moved, but nothing had been damaged.  The distributor, she noted, was
gone.  Tagged and bagged, she assumed, evidence in a case she felt sure
would never go anywhere.  She closed her eyes and pictured the man who
had done this.  He had a button missing from the cuff of his jacket. "I
got your message," she whispered to him, "and you can go to hell," she
added defiantly.

Although it was getting late, and she was tired, she set about cleaning
up the mess before she got ready for bed.  She was working her way
through the living room when she heard the sound of tires in the
driveway.  She involuntarily crouched down in an attempt to make
herself invisible.  Feeling a little foolish, she crept on hands and
knees to a window, and raised her head to peer out.

She saw the familiar silhouette of a Jeep Wagoneer in the drive.  Amos.
Of course the police department grapevine had lit up with this news.
She stood and waited for the knock on the door.  It didn't come.

Laura went into the dining room, where she had a better view of the
drive.  There was just enough light from the street lamps to show that
Amos was still sitting inside his truck.  She realized that he intended
to spend the night there.  She sighed and put down the dish towel she
had been using to clean, and went out the front door.

He watched her walk across the lawn, but he didn't get out of the
truck.  Without preamble, she opened the passenger door and got in. "So
you heard," she said.

"Yes.  Why didn't you call me?"  he said, looking at her.

"I don't know.  Yes, I do.  Because you'd do this."

"Do what?"

"Come over here to protect me."

"Sorry.  I didn't realize that was a bad thing to do," he said.

"It's not.  But you don't have to do it.  I'm fine."

"No, you're not.  You're being stalked by some creep.  Possibly a
dangerous one."

"I don't think so.  I think, he's just trying to warn me away from the
Belew case."

"Hunk so?  He's picked a fairly elaborate way to do it.  He could have
made a couple of anonymous phone calls, but he chooses to break into
your car and your house.  He wants you to know that he can get to you
whenever he wants to."

"Why hasn't he, men?"  
"Because he's playing with you.  He'll make a
move when he wants to."

Laura shook her head.  "I don't think so.  He's not going to come after
me."

"What makes you so sure this is connected to the Belew case?"

"What else could it be?"

"What else?  To me, it has all the hallmarks of a stalker with a sexual
motive."

"Amos, please.  I appreciate your concern, but that's not what this is
about."

"I've seen a few of these guys.  I know how they work.  He took the
distributor out of your car, Laura.  He disabled you, literally and
figuratively.  He made you helpless.  Then he puts it back on your bed.
What do you think this is all about?"

"I don't know, but it's not sexual.  He may want it to look that way,
but it's just about scaring me, and I'm not going to be scared off that
easily."

"Well, I am.  I'm officially worried, Laura.  And this isn't

about you and me, in case you're wondering.  I would be just as
concerned about any woman in your position."

"That's very flattering."

"Damn.  I'm wrong either way, I guess.  I just wanted you to know that
this has nothing to do with us.  With where we are.  In other words,
this isn't an attempt to get back with you."  "Thank you for being so
honest," Laura said, hoping that she didn't betray the hurt she felt,
but not succeeding.

"Shit, that didn't come out right.  I didn't say that I didn't want to
try again, Laura.  I just said that this is not an attempt to do that.
Can I catch a break here?"

Laura had to laugh.  "I'm too tired for any of this.  And you're going
to be, too, if you stay out here.  Go home, Amos.  I'll be okay.  I'll
call you if I hear anybody skulking in the shrubbery."

"If it's all the same to you, I'll stay.  You go back in and get some
sleep, though."

"Amos, you are not going to sit in this truck all night You'll be one
big cramp tomorrow if you do."

"That's my choice."

"And what about tomorrow night, and the night after that?  You can't
live in your car, you nincompoop."

"I've spent lots of nights in smaller cars than this," he retorted.

Laura sighed.  He was perfectly capable of staying out there in a full
upright position all week, and she knew it She capitulated.  "Come
inside.  You can watch over me better in there, anyway."

"You know I can't do that."

"For the love of God, I meant you could stay in the guest room.  I'm
not going to take advantage of this situation to try to patch things
up, either.  And if you don't come in, I'll

stay oat here with you.  And you know I can outlast you."  She glared
at him meaningfully.

He conceded, not as reluctantly as she expected.  "Okay.  In the guest
room."

' Tine."  She opened the door and got out, and he followed.  Once
inside the house, she took a businesslike approach.  "There are sheets
on the bed, and I'll put out towels for you.  You need anything
else?"

"No.  Did you throw away my toothbrush and razor?"  he asked.

"Of course not.  They're still here.  I haven't given up on us, even if
you have."

"I haven't."

Their eyes met, and for a moment Laura thought that the barrier would
fall, but they both looked away."  "Okay," she said.  "See you in the
morning."

They both got ready for bed in silence, behind closed doors.  Laura lay
awake for a long time, fighting the temptation to creep into the guest
room--and wondering if he was awake, too, and thinking along the same
lines.  She punched her innocent pillow fiercely, and squeezed her eyes
shut.  It was early morning--after three--when she finally succumbed to
sleep, and when her alarm rang at seven, Amos was already gone, the bed
neatly made, and no trace that he had been there at all... except for
the toothbrush next to hers.

Chapter 26

Craig's keen eyes didn't miss much, and they didn't miss the circles
under Laura's the next day.  "You look exhausted," he commented as she
sat down heavily in the chair across from his desk.

"Thanks, Fannin.  Just what a lady likes to hear," she said, but she
undermined her indignation by stifling a yawn.

"Late night, I guess.  I hope it was fun, at least."

"Not really."  Laura had already debated whether she should tell Craig
and Kenny.  She was initially inclined not to, but she knew that Amos
would tell Ken if she didn't, and that Ken would tell Craig ... and
they say women gossip, she thought.  It was probably best to make a
clean breast of it.  "I had a little trouble," she admitted, casting
around for a way to place the "trouble" in the best and least alarming
light.  "Somebody decided to break into my house yesterday."

"Your house?  That's weird.  I would think that all of the
stay-at-home moms on that street would be a more effective deterrent to
crime than a pack of roving Dobermans."

"Normally, I think you'd be right.  But this guy wasn't after the
Chastain family heirlooms, unfortunately."  She spilled the story, even
though that involved admitting she had lied about the trouble with her
car.  He listened with a steadily deepening frown on his face.

"Damn it, Laura," he said when she wound it up.  "First let me say that
I'm fairly hacked off that you didn't feel it necessary to be honest
with me in the first place--"

"But..."  she began.

He held up a warning hand.  "And, second, what makes you so sure that
this is about the lawsuit?  You might have a stalker."

"What else could it be, Craig?  I'm not enough of an egomaniac to think
that I'm high up on anybody's enemies list, or that I have some guy
obsessed with me to the point where he steals my auto parts."

"Don't be so sure about that."

"Come on!  I don't have any false modesty; I'm okay looking.  But I
don't think there's anybody out there who's worshipping me from
afar."

"In the first place, although I think you're better man 'okay-looking,"
it's not about how you look.  A man who would do something like this...
well, who knows what sets him off?  Or maybe I do know.  Have you
thought that it might be someone you know--well?"

"Oh, no.  You don't think it's Amos, too, do you?"

"Who else does?"  he asked.

"No one.  The detective just asked about my relationship --which he
would have known nothing about if it weren't with a cop, by the way. In
fact, I doubt he would

have asked about my love life if he didn't already have plenty of
information on it.  You know how much they talk."  
"Point taken; he
probably did know about you and Kowal ski.  However, I don't think
that's why he asked about it.  Any cop investigating any similar
situation is going to ask about the boyfriend first thing off the
bat."

"Maybe just to eliminate a possibility.  But no one seriously thinks
that Amos is capable of something like this.  It's too stupid."  "He's
a guy, Laura.  If he was desperate enough to get your attention, I
would say he's as capable as any guy of doing something completely
idiotic and boneheaded.  We all have it within us.  Even me."

"That I can believe.  But if this was all Amos's ploy to get back into
my good graces, why didn't he try to take advantage last night?  He
could have ... well, let's just say he was in a position to capitalize
on the turn of events."

"He came over, didn't he?"  Craig said knowingly.  
"Of course he did.
He loves me.  And of course he heard about the break-in."  Suddenly
tired of discussing her private life, she rose to her feet.  "You know
what?  I'm not going to discuss this with you anymore.  You ask Kenny
Newton.  He'll tell you that Amos would never pull a stunt like this. 
If Amos wants me back, he knows all he has to do is say so."

"Are you sure?  You can be pretty stubborn, you know."

"And so can he.  And so can you."

"Don't take it out on me," he said.

"Am I?  I'm sorry.  It's very frustrating for me," she said, sitting
back down.  "Every time I think we're getting somewhere on this case, I
get set back.  I find a great witness, and the FBI steals him.  Or he's
dead.  Or disappeared.  Or

he leaves a perfectly good job.  It's beginning to look like a
pattern."

"It could all be coincidental," Craig reminded her.  "Especially the
vanishing witnesses.  People of limited means tend to drift from place
to place, and they're hard to find.  Thugs get stabbed in jailhouse
brawls.  People--even doctors--get tired of their jobs and move on.  As
for the FBI, well, don't say I didn't warn you.  I don't think
Vasovitch's story was ever going to help us, anyway."  
"Maybe not with
the lawsuit, but I did hope that it might be kind of a break for
Diana."

"Who is not, may I interject, our client."

"Yes, Craig, I know.  I know what you want me to do: sit quietly and
wait until the city answers the complaint.  But you know I'm not built
for sitting around."

"I know.  And I have an idea for you."

"Really?"

"Don't get excited; it's got nothing to do with Lawrence Belew.  I was
thinking that you might take on an additional case or two.  You can
handle it and still do justice to Jervis's suit."

"I'm not sure I want to.  What kind of cases?"  she asked, warily.

"Criminal defense.  Things you can wrap up pretty quickly. Efficiently.
Same terms: you kill it, you eat it.  Or you eat ninety percent of it,
to be more accurate."  
"It sounds like you might have one or two cases
in mind."

"I might," he admitted.  "Atlanta is becoming prime territory for
criminal defense--the high end, I mean.  We're rapidly becoming the
jackass capital of the world, and there's one thing you know about
jackasses: they have a sense of privilege and entitlement that's always
going to get them into trouble.  I've got a live one right here that
I'll have to

turn down, just because I don't have time to take it It's a woman--her
husband is a commercial real estate developer-who assaulted a cop."

"I don't believe you," Laura said.

"Yep.  He tried to ticket her for running a red light.  She tried to
explain that she was on the phone and didn't notice that the light had
changed, and that tickets are for the little people, but that cut no
ice with the officer.  So she got heated, abused him verbally, and when
he tried to arrest her, she maced him."  
"Good grief, Craig--I
couldn't defend someone like that.  Someone who would attack a police
officer for doing his job is indefensible."

"I just use it as an example.  There are a ton of folks moving into
this town who think that having a couple of hundred thousand dollars in
the bank and a lease on a spiffy car means that they're part of the
elect.  There's no limit to their arrogance or their
self-righteousness.  I only bring it up to show you that you don't
always have to defend real bad guys; there's plenty of gold in them
thar stupid people.  The way I see it is, if they're ruining my town, I
might as well make a little money off of them while they do it.  It's
like shooting fish in a barrel, except that I don't have any more room
in my creel.  But if you don't like the folks who come to me, find some
cases on your own--take a couple pro bono for all I care.  I hate to
see you spuming your wheels.  Believe it or not, I'm sincere.  I don't
want you to regret throwing your lot in with me."

"I don't.  If I did, I would already have left.  You've been very
supportive.  And I'll take your suggestion under advisement.  I'm not
sure, though--"

"That you want to come back to the dark side," he said, finishing her
thought.

"I wouldn't have put it that way."

"Of course not.  You're too tactful.  Okay, this has been fun, but I
have work to do.  Think about it; that's all I ask."

"I will," she promised.  And she would.  Craig had been nothing but
supportive of her, and it occurred to Laura that this might be his
backhanded way of asking her for a little bit of help.  The only thing
that had stopped her from accepting his offer on the spot was a nagging
feeling that if she put her full weight down in Craig's office, she
might never leave--and she didn't see herself as a criminal defense
lawyer for the long term.  Once, maybe, she would have jumped at the
chance, but she'd seen too much as an assistant district attorney to
make crossing over to, well, the dark side appealing.

There was, however, the nagging problem of her chronic under employment
to deal with.  It wasn't money; not yet, at least.  Laura was a good
saver, and she had a good cushion built up when she left Prendergrast
and Crawley.  Still, the taxes on her quarter acre of Buckhead real
estate would be due soon, and there was the mortgage payment every
month she couldn't stay in this state of suspended employment forever.
On the other hand, she might not have to.  The city might decide to
settle Jervis's case rather than fight it.  With the summer campaign
season almost upon them, the politicians wouldn't welcome a public
scrap over police procedures.  And that reminded her: she needed to
call Jervis.  Strange, she reflected as she trudged upstairs, how
unimportant he had become in this whole mess.  The poor man was never
going to be much more than a pawn in someone's game, and Laura didn't
exempt herself.  Naturally, though, he wanted to know what was going
on, and she did owe bun the occasional update, not that she had much to
report.

Jervis was, unfortunately, a very good argument against

taking up defense again as a career.  He was just the kind of
pathetic, low-return loser Laura knew she'd end up dealing with.  But
what she needed to do was get this phone call over with and then try to
find something to keep her busy for the rest of the day.  She looked up
Jervis's number and dialed it.  No one answered.  Even Jervis,
apparently, had a richer and more fulfilling life than his hapless
lawyer.

Laura logged on to her computer, checked her e-mail, and then searched
the on-line case law for a precedent that she thought might come in
handy down the road if the city responded the way she thought it might.
Time for research that she might need was a real luxury, she told
herself.  Or a real waste of time.  She did love research for its own
sake, though, so she was content to burrow into legal arcana for a
while.  So much so, in fact, that when the phone rang she was actually
irritated to have to turn her attention to it.

It was Kenny, calling from Alabama.  "Whaassup?"  he said.

"Stop it, Ken.  You know I hate it when people say that," she
admonished him.  "Please tell me you're calling with a big fat break in
the case.  You found Clay, and he told you everything, right?"

"Not exactly, although I did find Clay, in a roadhouse outside of
Atmore.  He's alive, which is an improvement over the last one.  And I
did manage to persuade him to come clean.  He admitted that he'd been
paid to go to the cops with that story about meeting Jervis."

"I love you," Laura said, sincerely.

"Not so fast.  The only clue he could give me to the identity of the
briber was--get ready--'a big white cop."

"You're kidding.  Did you get some specifics, at least?  How did he
know he was a cop?"

"Clay is pretty good at spotting cops.  In fact, he tried to

take off out of the juke joint when he saw me coming at him.  All he
can tell me is big--I figure at least six-two-and blond.  Which is a
little more than I had, but not a lot.  His description pretty well
fits any number of guys--me included."

Laura tried to hide her disappointment, but it was hard.  "Did you get
the feeling that he could pick the guy out of a lineup?"

"Probably.  Assuming we get to that point," Kenny said cautiously.

"I guess I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up."

"Naw, you've got to keep hoping.  Something will turn up, sugar.  Just
gotta be patient a little while longer.  This guy--our big white
friend--has shown himself to too many people, and not the most
tight-lipped folks in the world, either.  Any word from Carlton on the
jailhouse knife artist?"

"No.  Nothing."

"We'll just have to sit tight, then.  I'm off to Mobile for the night.
I'll be back late tomorrow night, and I'll talk to you day after.  Keep
your chin up!"

Good advice, Laura thought, but becoming almost impossible to follow.

Chapter 27

Laura returned to staring at the computer until the phone rang again.
Expecting to hear Roland Jervis on the line, she picked up with a
polite, but reserved, greeting.

"Miss Chastain?"  an unfamiliar female voice inquired.

"Yes?"

"My name is Natalie Parsons.  I'm calling you at the request of Diana
Arnold."

"Is everything okay?"  Laura asked, immediately concerned.

"Diana is fine, but there is a problem that she thought you could help
us with.  I should explain who I am.  I am-or was--Lawrence Belew's
office manager.  I've stayed on in the office to close things out.  I
usually only come in for a few hours every day now; there hasn't been
much reason for me to be here lately, frankly, except to deal with the
mail.  But when I got here today, there were two cars and a

van in the parking lot, and four people waiting at the door for me."

"Yes?"  Laura said, wishing that this precise woman would just get on
with it.

"I'm sorry," she said, as if she could read Laura's mind, "I just
thought I should explain who I was and why I was calling.  These
men--and there's one woman--say that they're with the FBI."

"Do they have identification?"  Laura asked.

"Yes, and I suppose it's authentic, but I can't tell.  I called Diana,
and she suggested that you might be able to help."

"What do they want?"  Laura said.

"They have a search warrant.  Or they say they do; I've never seen such
a thing, and I'm not sure it's legitimate."

"Ms.  Parsons, I appreciate your problem, but I don't think I can be of
much help," Laura said, feeling powerfully guilty as she spoke.  The
last thing she had intended to do was to bring the FBI down on Diana,
but now she could see that it had been inevitable.  "I'm not
representing Diana legally, and I don't think I'm in a position to. And
she might not be in a position to challenge the warrant, either, unless
she's the executrix of Lawrence's estate."

"She is."

"Didn't Lawrence have attorneys?  Personally, or for his firm?"

"Of course.  He was always represented by Martin, Shat tuck and
Forrest.  I've called them.  His attorney, Dave Stern, is on the way.
But frankly, Miss Chastain, I haven't called to consult you as a
lawyer.  Mr.  Stern can handle that.  I called you because I think that
Diana is going to need you, as a friend."

"Where is she?"

"She's on her way here.  She's very upset, Miss Chastain.

I'm afraid that I'm not of much help in these ... emotional
situations.  I know Diana, but not intimately.  I tried to persuade her
not to come; I don't think that it's going to be good for her to see
them take away her brother's things."

"No, you're right," Laura said.  A bolt of guilt shot through her gut.
What had she been thinking?  She should never have encouraged Diana to
get involved in any of this.  The woman was extremely fragile, still
deeply mourning her brother.  All Laura had wanted to do was to help
Diana, but now she had the feeling--inexorable and overwhelming-that
she, and Diana, had just moved officially out of their depth.  The
least she could do was to go down there to Lawrence's offices and help
contain the damage she had, with all the best intentions, caused.
"Lawrence's offices are on Piedmont, right?"  
"Yes.  We're in a small
converted house near the MARTA tracks."  She gave Laura the address.

"I'm just up the road," she said.  "I'll be there as soon as I can."

Laura sped downstairs, and looked for Craig.  The door of his office
was shut.  She found Arlene at her desk.  "Tell Craig that the FBI is
executing a search warrant at Belew's office.  I'm going down there
now."  She rushed past without giving Arlene a chance to say
anything.

Belew's offices were a little over a half mile away, and Laura was
there in minutes.  She saw the vehicles Natalie Parsons had described;
their occupants must have gone inside the building.  Laura parked and
went in through the front door.

The house, a small Cape Cod cottage much like Laura's own, had been
gutted and turned into a studio like space to accommodate Belew's
operation.  A small reception area opened into one large, open-floored
room that housed several

workstations, all unoccupied.  There were two offices, delimited by
frosted-glass and wood walls, at the rear of the room.  Four
dark-suited agents stood outside the doorway to one of them.  In the
doorway itself stood a petite brunette woman in her mid-fifties.
Natalie Parsons was calmly and coolly standing down the might and power
of the federal government.  Laura paused for a moment to admire the
sight; then she crossed the room quickly.  "Hello," she said.  "Ms.
Parsons?  I'm Laura Chastain."

"Yes.  Thank you for coming.  These are the people who say they're FBI
agents."

"I see," Laura said.  "May I see your identification, please?"

The three men and one woman wordlessly produced badges and ID cards,
which were--as far as Laura could tell--the real thing.  "And your
warrant?"  she continued.

The warrant was undoubtedly the real thing.  Laura took as long as she
could in reading it, brow furrowed, but she could tell at a glance that
it was in order.  She glanced at Natalie.  "I'd like to speak with Ms.
Parsons alone for a moment.  Excuse us."

Natalie walked into the office, and Laura followed, shutting the door
behind them.  "The warrant's good," she said.  "Lawrence's attorney can
try to stay it, but I doubt he'll be able to."

"What is it that they're after?"  Natalie asked.

Laura tried to explain as succinctly as she could.  "They want pretty
much all his business records.  They're going to take the paper files,
and the computers--anything located at this address that might be
useful in their investigation.  They want to find the name of the
person who approached Lawrence about shill bidding on contracts.  Did
you know, anything about this scheme of Lawrence's?"  she asked.

Natalie shook her head.  "No.  I'm not surprised, though, that he and
Carl would have tried to pull something like that.  But are you saying
that it got him killed?"

"Maybe.  I don't know.  I know that it wasn't just a carjacking,
though."

"I knew that all along," Natalie said.  "Lawrence wouldn't have
resisted a robbery of any kind.  He would have given up the car keys
and walked away.  He wasn't very aggressive-physically, at least--and
he didn't care about material possessions.  He just liked
programming."

Laura nodded.  "It felt wrong to me, all along, and I think it did to
Diana, too.  I think all we can do is damage control.  This is all my
fault, really.  I'm the one who wanted to go to the FBL I should have
taken it to the Atlanta Police Department."

"Don't blame yourself.  This might all be for the best."

"I don't know.  What I'm afraid of is that the feds will find some
connection between the contracting scandals and Lawrence's death.  They
might make a deal with the killer in order to get his testimony."

"Can't he be tried for murder in Fulton County, too?"

"Yes.  At least, I think so.  It depends on what federal charges--if
any--are filed against him.  But to be honest.  I've never dealt with
any conflicts of state and federal law."  
"I think someone has
arrived," Natalie said."  "We'd better go see who it is."

The newcomer was Lawrence Belew's five-hundred-doll aran-hour attorney,
Dave Stem, a senior partner at Martin, Shat tuck and Forrest, As Laura
opened the door he was peremptorily demanding to see the warrant
"Hello, Dave," Laura said.  
"Laura," he said with a nod."  "What are
you doing here?"

"Friend of the family."

He turned his attention back to the agent in charge.  "Are

you aware that Mr.  Belew's business records and personal effects are
all evidence in the investigation of his murder?"  he asked.

"Yes, sir," the agent replied.

"And that your seizure of these items might interfere in the
investigation being conducted by the Atlanta Police Department?"

"We plan to cooperate fully, as we always do, with local authorities,"
the agent replied.

"Hah!"  Stern said.  "That's a good one.  Who's working on this in the
U.S. Attorney's office?"

"Patrick Dillard swore out the affidavit for the warrant"

"Maybe I'll just give him a call, then," Stem said, whipping out a
silver cell phone, like Doc Holliday slinging a gun at the O.K.
Corral.

"If you like," the agent said.

Laura watched all this play out with some amusement, but with little
hope that Stern's bluster would result in the suppression of the
warrant.  While he was engaged in debate with someone at the Federal
Courthouse, Diana Arnold arrived.

She stood at the end of the room and looked from person to person.
Laura could tell that she was overwrought, ready to collapse from
tension and exhaustion.  She and Natalie both hurried to her side.

"Mr.  Stern's here," Natalie said, reassuringly.  "He's trying to stop
them."

"But, Diana," Laura said, as they led the trembling woman past the
silent group of agents and into the office, "I don't mink he's going to
get great results.  The warrant's in order."

"But Ms things--they can't take his things," Diana said.

"I'm afraid they can.  But so could the Atlanta Police

Department.  If Lawrence's death was in any way tied to his work,
whoever was investigating it would have to have access to
everything."

"And we have the copies," Natalie said soothingly.

"Copies?"  Laura said.  
"Of course.  We always backed up everything to
tape.  All the tapes are in storage in a fireproof vault."

"Not at this address?"  Laura asked.  Natalie shook her head.  "Then
they're not covered by the warrant.  Let's not mention them, okay?"

Stern came into the office and greeted Diana.  "Here's the story," he
said.  "I can try to stay the warrant, and I might
succeed--temporarily.  They will prevail eventually, however, so all
you will have accomplished is running up some substantial legal fees.
While that would be to my benefit, I can't recommend that you do it
Natalie, how much work is ongoing?"

' "There were no major new projects under way.  Lawrence liked to take
it easy over the summer, and travel a bit, so he didn't bid for a lot
of new business in the spring.  But there's the ongoing contractual
service that we perform on the systems that are up and running."

"Can you manage the business without the records?"

"I was just telling Diana and Laura that we have copies of
everything."

"Okay, men.  Let them take what they need."  He placed a hand on
Diana's shoulder.  "It's all for the best."

They left the office, and watched as Stem spoke quietly to the agent in
charge.  Then the FBI began its deliberate and methodical work.  Diana
seemed calm, or at least resigned, and it was over in a couple of
hours.  Diana looked at her watch and remarked dully that she should be
going.  Stem had already returned to his office.  As Laura left, she

looked over her shoulder to see Natalie standing in the denuded office
bice Dido in the nuns of Carthage.

Laura returned to the office, but with less than half a heart.  Between
Kenny's news and the rout at the hands of the feds, she felt as if
she'd had pretty much of a day already.  Maybe it was time to take
Craig up on his standing advice to go see a movie, or at least to have
a nice lunch.  She parked in front of the buildings, and pulled Craig
out of his office.  "Let's have a long lunch hour," she said.  "I need
company."

"Not too long," he said, "but I don't object to getting out on a nice
day like this."

They walked down the street to a chic bistro located in a small
cottage, one of the last houses left on Maple Street.  Seeing it gave
Craig the opportunity to wax nostalgic about his childhood in Buckhead.
"Believe it or not," he said, "people actually lived here.  Walked to
shops, walked to work.  Hell, my parents only had one car.  And I could
ride my bike anywhere--down to Wender and Roberts to get a milkshake.
They had a real soda fountain...."

Laura was happy to let him reminisce through lunch.  He knew an Atlanta
that she never had, one far different from the noisy and ill-tempered
neighborhood she had accepted as the norm.  His idealized Buckhead was
not unlike the Nashville neighborhood she had grown up in.  Nashville,
she reflected, was a nice town.  It hadn't been infected by all of the
status-seeking and nouveaux riches that had ripped through Atlanta.
Maybe she could find a job in Nashville-that is, if Marshall didn't
change his mind and take her back.

They returned to the office around one-thirty, but Laura didn't go
inside.  "If I get any calls, just have Arlene call me at home," she
told Craig.  "I'm going to work in the yard and do some cleaning."

"Good idea.  Blow the cobwebs out.  We'll see you tomorrow."

A few hours later, pleasantly tired, Laura fixed a salad for dinner.
She made enough for two, thinking that Amos might show up earlier.  He
was, she assumed, planning to come over, although they hadn't talked.
But he didn't show before she finished her supper, so she put away the
salad and the dishes.  She went into the living room and curled up on
the sofa with a book, trying not to check her watch.  Eight o'clock,
nine o'clock--no Amos.  At ten, she decided that he wasn't coming, so
she locked the doors and started back to her bedroom.

Then she heard the sound of his car in the driveway.  She was relieved,
not because she was frightened to be alone, but because she thought he
had decided not to come.  She waited for him to come through the back
door, as he usually did, but she heard a knock on the front door
instead.  She opened it quickly.  "Good grief," she said, "you don't
have to knock.  You have a key."

"I didn't think it was appropriate to use it," he said.  "Can I come
in?"

"For pity's sake, Amos, of course you can.  Look, if this is going to
be silly, I'd just as soon take my chances with the prowler.  You can
go on home."

"Til stay," he said tersely.

"Fine.  Just don't act like you've never seen me before in your life.
Have you had dinner?"

"Yes," he said.  "And I'm tired, so I'll just go straight to bed."

He walked past her and a moment later she heard the door to the guest
room close.  She started to go right back there and knock on the door,
but an awful thought crossed her mind.  She looked at her watch; it was
almost eleven.

Where had he been--on a date?  Was he already seeing someone else? She
had a fleeting vision of him laughing and talking with some faceless
woman, someone who appreciated all his fine qualities and didn't argue
with him.  With the horrible picture still in mind, she prepared for
bed, casting a baleful glance at the shut door of the guest room as she
passed it.  Altogether, she thought as she pulled the sheets over her
head, this had not been a good day.

Chapter 28

When her alarm went off at seven the following morning, Laura raised
her head long enough to register that it was raining.  She promptly
pulled the covers back up around her neck and made a decision to stay
in bed.  She was discouraged by the events of the previous day--or
days.  Frustration had been building for a while without release;
yesterday's confrontation with the FBI had brought all that frustration
to the surface.

Laura had felt something slip from her grasp there in Lawrence Belew's
offices.  She had lain awake half the night inventorying her position:
Jobs: zero; boyfriends: zero; bank account: shrinking.  The dismal
prospect of defending every mace-toting shrew in Atlanta haunted her,
but that's what she would most likely end up doing, gunslinging for
Fannin.  It would have its good moments, but Laura also intuited that
she'd forever have the sense that she was in the wrong

place.  She belonged in the district attorney's office.  She assessed
the chance of Marshall's taking her back as another zero.

She finally managed to switch off her brain and get a couple of hours
of patchy sleep.  It came as a rude shock when the phone rang.  A quick
glance at the alarm showed that it was after nine--time for gainfully
employed people to be at work.  It was Arlene, calling from Craig's
office.  "Laura?  Are you ill?  Did I wake you?"

"No, no.  I was just moving a little slowly this morning," Laura
fibbed.  "What's up?"

"You got a call that I thought might be important.  It's from a Ms.
Norton.  She says she's a lawyer with the firm that's representing the
city in the Jervis matter.  She wants to speak to you urgently."

Laura straightened up.  "Give me her number; I'll call from here.  I'll
be in a little later."

Laura returned the call right away, trying to make her voice sound as
if it didn't belong to someone who was wearing pajama bottoms and a
ragged T-shirt.  Amy Norton answered on the second ring, and Laura
identified herself.

"Thank you for calling so promptly, Ms.  Chastain.  I'm with Porter,
Samuels and LeBow.  We're representing the city in the Roland Jervis
matter."

"Yes, I know," Laura said.  "Is there something I can do for you?"

"I'll cut straight to the chase: the city wishes to settle the matter
without a trial.  I'm authorized to make you an offer."

"I see.  Are you prepared to name your figure now?"

"How does one hundred and fifty thousand sound?"

Laura chuckled.  "Low.  It sounds very low.  My clienl; was placed on
trial for his life, Ms.  Norton.  I believe he

values his life a little more highly than that."  Laura made this
statement in the full knowledge that, if the city had offered him even
fifty thousand, Jervis would have snapped it up without hesitation.

Amy Norton seemed to know that, too.  "Really?  Perhaps you'd like to
present it to him before you decline it."

"Certainly.  I'll get in touch with him right away.  We'll call you
this afternoon."

"I look forward to it."

Laura dressed hurriedly and went to the office.  Craig knew about the
call, and he greeted her with a grin.  "Well?"  he said.

Laura named the figure."  "Of course I said no," she added.

"What are you thinking?"  
"We counter at half a million, and settle at
three hundred or three-fifty," she said.

He nodded.  "Sounds fair.  I knew they'd come back with something.  The
mayor doesn't want this circus to go on all through the campaign
season."

"No, and neither do I," Laura said.  "I'd take less, Craig, but I know
you'd be more aggressive.  It bugs me that this is coming out of the
taxpayers' pockets, you know."

"Naturally.  But I wouldn't lose sleep over it.  Should I remind you
that the power to litigate is one of the most important safeguards of
our freedom?"

"Please don't," she said, holding up her hand.  "I don't have a problem
with what you do, Craig.  But I've made up my mind on something.  I
can't be a defense attorney anymore, and I don't want to practice civil
law.  I want to be a prosecutor."

"What brings this change of heart?"

"Look at what's happened: I've been put into a passive position, Craig.
Yesterday brought it all home to me--Ken

ny's witness is a dead end and the FBI isn't asking me for help.  I'm
an outsider.  And when I settle Jervis's case I'll have no more
connection to Lawrence Belew's murder.  I'll be just another
citizen."

"So you'll wait for Marshall to take you back?"

She shook her head."  "I don't think he will.  I was thinking of going
back to Nashville and trying to hitch on with the district attorney's
office there."

Craig looked surprised."  "Really?  My, my.  You have been doing some
thinking."

She stood up.  "I've had a hell of a month, Craig, and I thank you for
it.  But it's all winding down now, and I have to make some plans."

"You'll do pretty well out of the Jervis case.  Assuming you get three
hundred grand, your take will be ninety thousand --"

"And yours will be thirty, plus expenses.  I've done the math, too. And
I can sell the house in no time, at a profit."

"You seem pretty determined."

"I am.  Don't take any of this the wrong way, Craig.  You've been
great. I've had fun, and I've learned a lot."

"There will always be a spot for you here.  Would it make a difference
if I offered you a partnership?"

The offer was unexpected, and flattering to a high degree.  Craig was a
solo artist; he hadn't had a partner in more than fifteen years.  "You
don't want a partner, Craig--at least, not one like me.  We'd be at
each other's throats in no time."

"Because I push you."

"Push my buttons, you mean."

"Will you think about it?  Don't do anything drastic."

"I will--think about it, I mean.  And I can't do anything drastic until
I've settled Jervis's case, anyway.  I guess I

need to call the client and tell him the good news.  He'll have a
coronary when I tell him how much they offered."

But she never made that phone call.  The phone started ringing as she
stepped into her office.  She eyed it for a minute, Dorothy Parker's
"fresh hell" quip in mind.  The telecommunication network certainly
hadn't been doing any favors for Laura Chastain lately, and she wasn't
eager to get one more piece of bad news.  But she overcame her
reluctance and picked up.

It was difficult to make out what Diana Arnold was trying to say.  Her
voice, usually soft and melodious, was torn by sobs, and she seemed to
be having difficulty breathing.

"Diana?  Slow down," Laura said.  "What is it?"

"There's this woman who called me ... Oh, God, Laura, it's awful.
You've got to tell me what to do."

"Who is she?  What did she say?  Are you at home--I'll come over
there."

"No, not here.  I'll come to your office ..."  The rest of her words
slid into unintelligibility.

"Diana, what did you say?  I don't think you should be driving.  I'll
be right over there."

"You don't understand.  She's not here.  I have to go to her.  She saw
it, Laura; she saw everything...."

"What do you mean?"

"She saw them kill Lawrence."

Laura, still standing beside her desk, actually had to grab the edge of
it to keep from reeling.  "You mean to tell me that someone has turned
up, saying she saw the murder?  Who?  Where is she now?"

"She's in some hotel.  She called me.  I don't know how she got my
name, I guess it was from the papers, but she told me where she's
staying.  She wants me to come get her.  She says she's scared."

"This could be bogus, Diana," Laura said.  "There are people out there
who'll do things like this for kicks, or out of sheer meanness."

"I think she's for real," Diana said.  Her speech had recovered more of
its normal tone; she was putting her brain in control now, to Laura's
relief.  "She's willing to tell us who did it--she says she has
names-but she says we have to protect her.  She's scared of whoever did
this.  And I think she's hurt--I think the guy who killed Lawrence hurt
her."

"Where is this hotel?"

"Buckhead, near you."  Diana gave the address.

"Okay, you come here, and we'll go there together.  Did you tell her
you'd come?"

"Yes, but I told her that I wouldn't come alone.  She said no cops,
though.  She was adamant; I think there might be a cop involved.  I was
hoping that Kenny would come with us this time, too."

"Ken's in Alabama.  He won't be back until late tonight.  I can ask
Craig to come...."

"I guess he'd be better than nothing.  But we're wasting time here. I'm
leaving the house right now.  I'll be there in about half an hour."

Laura replaced the receiver, still trying to process everything she had
just heard.  An eyewitness emerging now-weeks after the crime, and just
when every lead had gone stone-cold dead--seemed unbelievable.  But
Laura remembered something that Amos had told her, more than once.
Sometimes the only break you get is the lucky one.  Laura mistrusted
luck, especially now.  She feared a trap of some kind.  Whoever this
woman was, she had her own agenda, and it would not necessarily be the
one shared by Laura and Diana.

Laura pounded back down the stairs and burst into Craig's

office.  "Ho!"  he said.  "You look like you just won the lottery.
What's happened?"

Laura paused for a second.  Did she really look as if she'd won the
lottery?  Maybe she was placing too much faith in this unknown woman.
She tried to speak calmly as she told Craig about the phone call.
"Diana's on her way.  We need you to come to the hotel with us."

Craig nodded.  "Happy to, but I think we should call the police anyway.
I know what she said--no cops.  I'm not saying we need to bust in on
her with badges and guns.  But if something goes wrong, I want the cops
on my side."

Laura considered what he had said, and nodded.  "I'll call Carlton.  I
can't give him any specifics, of course, but I'll tell him that we may
have something for him later.  Will that do?"

"It'll do fine.  I'll cancel my lunch meeting.  How long will it take
Diana to get here?"

Laura looked at her watch.  "It's ten-thirty.  She'll be here by
eleven.  Oh, Lord, I never got a chance to call Roland about the offer.
That lawyer wants a meeting, too."

"Call Roland and give him the ten-cent summary.  Then tell the lawyer
that your client needs some time to consider the offer.  Schedule a
meeting for tomorrow afternoon."

"Aye, aye, sir!"  she said with a mock salute.

"What a difference a phone call makes, huh?  Hey, when are you calling
the real estate agent about listing your house?"

"Stuff it.  That was just thinking out loud."  She hurried out before
he could enjoy himself further at her expense.

It was hard not to be brusque with Roland Jervis, who, God bless his
pea-picking heart, was unable to understand why his lawyer would tell
him not to accept the largest sum of money that had ever been waved in
his direction.  "I

could use that money, miss," he said plaintively.  "I live here in my
mama's house and it could sure use a new roof.  Summer's coming, too,
and I'd like an air conditioner."  
"Listen, Roland, I'm going to get
you a lot more money.  But if you take this, remember our deal--Mr.
Fannin and I get sixty thousand dollars, phis our expenses.  That
leaves you with less than ninety thousand, before taxes.  We can do
better."

"If you say so," Roland answered warily, with caution born of long
experience with broken promises.  It hit Laura like a thunderbolt that
he didn't completely trust her.  She hung up promising herself that she
was going to nail the city's attorneys to the wall on this one, just to
prove to him that she was on his side.

Amy Norton was more forceful in her objection to the delay.  "This
isn't an open-ended offer," she huffed.  "We can't hold it open
indefinitely awaiting your client's pleasure."

"My client's pleasure, Ms.  Norton, would be a realistic offer.  We'll
see you tomorrow."

When Laura met her in front of the building a few minutes later, Diana
was visibly shaken.  Her normally flawless hairdo and makeup were gone;
she'd pulled her hair back into a sloppy ponytail and her face was
blotchy with tears.  "I can't take much more of this," she said.  "It
shouldn't be this way.  What if you're right, and this is just some
kook out for money?"

"She may be," Laura said, "but if she is, we'll file charges against
her.  Would you rather have the police handle it?"

"She said if any cops showed up, she wasn't going to talk."

"Yes, but she also gave us the hotel she's staying in, and

her room number.  We can get her name easily, and I bet if the police
arrested her and charged her with attempted extortion she'd spill her
story.  I've already called Carlton Hemingway --just to alert him that
we might need him later on.  He'd be more than glad to pick her up.
Your call."  Laura was worried.  Diana seemed more fragile, less
resilient than the first time they had gone through this whole mystery
witness drill.  That expedition had turned into just another dead end,
or, at best, a tantalizing hint at the truth that might never be fully
understood.

Diana appeared to weigh Laura's words carefully; then she shook her
head.  "No.  I want to see her myself.  I want to look her in the
eyes."

"Okay.  Craig is coming.  He's waiting inside; I'll get him."

Chapter 29

A few minutes later, the three of them were in the lobby of the Hyatt,
just up the street.  "Strange place for a witness to hole up," Craig
remarked, surveying the plush lobby.  "I'd think it would be easier to
hide your identity at an expressway motel where they don't ask
questions."

"Maybe she's an employee or something," Laura said.

They took the elevator up to the tenth floor, and found the room number
that the woman had given Diana.  "Okay, Diana," Laura whispered, "you
knock, and answer when she asks who it is.  Craig and I will stand off
to the side, where she can't see us through the peephole.  But tell her
that you brought your lawyers.  Tell her we're here to help her."

Diana managed a wan smile and a grim joke.  "Sure.  She'll buy
that--lawyers are known for being helpful."

They took up their positions, and Diana knocked sharply

on the door, as if she had gathered up the last shreds of her resolve
and channeled it into her knuckles.  Laura heard the door open, and saw
a triangle of light fall across the hall carpet Then she heard Diana
gasp.  "My God," she said, obviously horrified.  "Sweet Jesus, who did
this to you?"

Laura and Craig hurried to join Diana in the doorway.  Standing just
inside the door frame, silhouetted against the half-lit room, was a
tall, slender blond woman.  She may have been young; she may have been
beautiful, but it was impossible to discern either.  Her face was a
swollen mass of bruises.  A large laceration on her forehead, rimmed
with dried blood, looked as if it could use a few stitches.

"Who are these people?"  the woman asked, her Texas accented voice
muffled by her swollen lower lip.  "I said no cops!"

"They're not cops.  They're lawyers."

"Great.  I wanted you to come alone."

"And I told you that I wouldn't All I promised was no police, and I
kept my promise.  Now you keep yours," she said, and Laura was proud of
her.

"All right.  You might as well come in."  She stood aside far enough to
allow them to enter the dim room."  "Here's the deal: I don't tell you
nothing until I get certain assurances."

"What assurances can we give you?"  Laura asked..

"Like, that you'll get me protection and that you get this person I'm
about to tell you about arrested.  This person who killed your
brother," she said pointedly to Diana.

"I don't understand how we can offer you protection if we're not
allowed to involve the police," Laura said.  "We don't have those kinds
of resources."

"Well, you better get you some resources, then," she said, " 'cause I'm
not putting my butt on the line before I know I'm safe."

"Okay," Craig said, "we'll hire a bodyguard for you."

Unexpectedly, (he woman shrieked with laughter.  "Bodyguards!  That's a
good one!  You don't know shit, do you?"

"No," Laura said in a measured voice, "and we're not going to if you
keep playing this game.  You don't want police involved, but you don't
want private security, either.  You have to give us something to work
with here."

"Okay, okay.  Can't you get me, like, a private eye or something?"

"Yes, that we can do.  We have a man we trust," Craig answered, "but
he's unavailable until tomorrow.  I can find another guy, but it'll
take a while."

On hearing this the woman's bravado dissolved.  "How long's 'a while'?
I ain't got a lotto time.  He's gonna be hunting for me by now."

Laura beckoned Craig and Diana aside for a hasty conference.  "How long
do you think it will take you to find someone?"

Craig shrugged.  "It depends.  Maybe an hour, maybe a day."

"What if we offer to get her out of town?"

"It might work.  Any ideas?"  
"I have a friend who lives on a farm up
in Rabun County.  It's isolated, and I'm sure Emily would stash the
girl away overnight, just long enough for Kenny to take over."

Craig nodded."  "Offer it to her.  But if she turns it down"-he looked
at Diana--"we leave.  If she's yanking our chains, we'll find out"

Diana agreed, and Laura explained the plan to the woman, who had seated
herself on one of the two beds and fired up a cigarette.  She demanded
explanations of who this Emily was, and where this farm was, but
Laura's answers seemed to satisfy her.  Finally, she nodded.  "Okay.
But if I so much

as see a cop before you tell me this person's been arrested, I'm just
gonna say I was lying to you guys.  You got that?"

"Yeah, I got that," Laura said.  "Now get this: If you are lying, if
you're using Mrs.  Arnold to settle some private beef of yours, I'm
going to make sure you do time.  Got that?"  Laura had been an
assistant district attorney long enough to know how and when to call a
bluff.  She met the girl's eyes--what she could see of them through the
puffy black circles that surrounded them--and saw no wavering glance
away, no flicker that could betray a lie.

"All right.  I hear you.  Y'all might as well sit down, 'cause this is
gonna take a while, and it ain't a nice story.  My name is Michelle,
Michelle Blake.  At least that's my professional name.  I'm a model,"
she said, and then she laughed sardonically.  "I guess I should say was
a model.  Looks like I might have to find a new career.  Anyway, when
you look like I do, but you aren't all that great at school, you don't
get a lot of choices.  But it's cool, because I like clothes, and I
like to travel and all.  I came to Atlanta about this time last year
'cause you can get work here, and it's cheaper to live here than in New
York or LA.  And it's not like I have delusions about what I can do.  I
don't have the look they like for the runways and the magazines.  But I
do a lot of catalog and advertising work, stuff like that.  A lot of
lingerie, because I have the body for it.  That's not being conceited;
it's just the truth.  Anyway, it's not as glamorous as everybody
thinks.  I mean, I do okay.  I had an okay apartment, and a decent car,
but it's not like I was living on Habersham Road and driving a Jag, you
know what I mean?

"I'm pretty realistic, too.  I know that there are always new girls
coming along, and that my time wasn't going to last forever.  So I
figured my best bet was to find some guy who wanted to say he was
dating a model, and who'd take

care of me.  You know, many me.  A guy who pulled down some serious
bucks.  I didn't want some chump.  So my girlfriends and me started
hanging at the clubs in Buckhead.  God, you get a lot of losers. 
You'll leave with a guy who's got, like, a BMW or something, and then
he takes you home to some thousand-bucks-a-month apartment.  No thanks.
 I can do better than that on my own, you know?

"So anyway, I'm getting pretty sick of these losers, and I'm ready to
move up.  And then I met this guy who was, like, no kidding, a player."
She laughed.  "You don't get the joke, do you?  He was a ballplayer, a
real pro jock.  I didn't recognize him, 'cause I'm not into sports or
anything like that, but my girlfriend did.  I was, like, omigod, you're
kidding.  And it was great because he was really into me.  We just
sorta clicked and all.  This was around Christmas, and he gave me this
great bracelet.  Then for Valentine's Day he took me to a suite at the
Ritz-Carlton for the weekend.  He said we couldn't leave town because
of his playing schedule and all, but I didn't care.  It was sweet I
mean, you just don't know--everybody just kissed his ass all the time. 
No waiting at restaurants, straight into the V.I.P room at the clubs.
Awesome.

' "The only bad thing was that he kind of had a bad temper, but he was
okay to me.  And I could understand how it bugged him when fans tried
to talk to him when he was, like, eating and all.  I saw him yell at
people a few times, and he shoved a guy once.  And maybe now and then
he yelled at me a little.  It bugged him sometimes when I hung on him
in public, or when I said something stupid.  Shit like that.  But he
never really lost it with me, you know?  Everyone said look out, he's
gonna blow up one day, but he never did.

"So we're out one night a few weeks ago.  We had dinner

someplace--don't ask me where, 'cause I can't remember.  We were
really pretty wasted.  We wanted to go to one of the clubs in Buckhead,
so we get in his Navigator and we're driving there.  I don't know
exactly where, except he takes some shortcut he knows.  I should tell
you he's got this bodyguard along.  I don't remember the guy's name; he
wasn't the regular one.  He was a big blond guy.  I think he was some
kind of cop.

"So we're in the Navigator, and this bodyguard is behind us in his car.
We're coming out of this side street--like I said, don't ask me the
name of it--but it was real dark and quiet, with a lot of businesses
along it that weren't open.  Not like most parts of Buckhead, you know?
But he hated traffic, so he knew all these little side streets.  So we
pull out into some intersection, and this guy in a Lexus hits the
Navigator.

"Well, my boyfriend goes nuts.  I'm, like, calm down; it wasn't even
that big of a bump or anything.  I mean, we're in a Navigator.  But my
boyfriend--you notice I'm not saying his name, 'cause I have to make
sure you're going to make good.  I get up to that farm, and then you
get his name.  Anyway, he gets out, and the other guy's already on the
street, and he's, like, apologizing and looking at the damage-of which
there wasn't hardly none, at least not on the Navigator.  I should say
that the guy who hit us was your brother.  I know because I saw his
picture in the paper, lots of times.

"My boyfriend is, like, crazed at this point.  He yells, and then he
just hauls off and hits your brother.  I didn't want to get out of the
car.  I'm thinking, hellooo?  Where is this bodyguard?  He's supposed
to take care of shit like this.  Well, by the time he finally shows, my
boyfriend has your brother on the ground and he's just kicking and
stomping

him.  It was awful.  Finally, though, the bodyguard gets him under
control.  But your brother was dead.  I could tell; he was just laying
there.  So, you see, there was nothing I could do.

"I'm thinking, shit, he's not getting out of this one.  I mean, this is
way beyond shoving some guy in a bar.  He's killed someone.  But this
bodyguard just puts my boyfriend back in the truck and tells us to go
home.  I'm thinking-honest--that he's gonna call the cops and all, and
maybe try to work something out so it won't be so bad and my boyfriend
doesn't have to go to jail and all that.  So we just do like he says
and go home.

"When we get there, I see that he's got blood all over his clothes, and
that just totally freaks him out.  He takes off his clothes and says
for me to wash them.  I'm, like, I'm not your damn maid, and he goes
live on me, and says I'm an idiot, that he can't let the housekeeper
see these clothes-he lives in, like, this really big house that you
would not believe--so I have to wash them.  So I take them to the
laundry room, and I'm thinking, this could be bad for me.  I mean,
there's a law against hiding evidence and all, isn't there?  So I put
the clothes in a garbage bag, and I run the washer with some other
stuff in it so he'll think I've done what he said.  I thought that was
pretty smart.

"Well, he's scared shitless for a while.  I never saw that bodyguard
again, and I was scared to ask what happened.  Then I see on the news
that this black guy--your brother-is missing, and I'm like, shit.  The
bodyguard musta gotten rid of the body.  And then they blamed some
other guy, and my boyfriend's, like, whew."

Diana, who had been listening in quiet shock throughout this
recitation, could take no more.  "You little whore," she said, her
voice shaking with fury.  "You watch my brother

die, and you say nothing?  You're as guilty as your boyfriend and his
bodyguard--" 
"Hey, I'm here now, and I'm all you got," Michelle said.
"I'm no saint, but I can help you, so if I were you I'd lay off calling
me a whore and all."

"She's right, Diana," Laura said.  "We have to make the best of a bad
situation."  She met Diana's eyes meaningfully.  Promises or not, she
was going to serve this girl up to Meredith once they had "my
boyfriend" in custody.  "Why are you here now, Michelle?"

"Look at me!  What the hell do you think?  He did this to me, and I'm
gonna make him pay.  And don't say that it's my word against his, or
that his slick-ass lawyer's gonna get him off the hook like he always
does, 'cause that dog don't hunt."  With a painful smile, Michelle
reached beneath the bed and pulled out a large black plastic garbage
bag.  "I got him by the short ones.  Here's the clothes he wore when he
did it.  Now, tell me what you're gonna do for me.  When am I going to
this farm, and who's gonna be my lawyer, so I don't get charged with
anything?  "Cause until I know, you don't get his name."

Craig stood up slowly.  "No need to tell us, Michelle.  I know who it
is."  He looked at Diana, and on his face there was an expression of
heartbreak.  "It's Shawn Tolliver.  And I'm his slick-ass lawyer."

Chapter 30

Michelle seemed stymied by Craig's announcement He had taken away her
most valuable chip.  Laura would have enjoyed the moment, but Craig was
obviously distressed.  She felt for him.  He wasn't a bad guy, but he
was going to take a lot of criticism for representing Tolliver once
this story got out.  Judging from the expression on his face, Laura
knew that he was going to be his own first and harshest critic.

Diana spoke first.  "I was right.  Knowing is better than not knowing.
It's better to know, no matter how horrible."  She turned to Laura.  "I
needed to know who did it, and now I can see that Lawrence gets
justice.  I know the name, Shawn Tolliver.  He's a basketball player,
right?"

"Yes, he is," Laura said.

"He has a history of violent behavior," Craig said, "but nothing this
extreme.  My God, Diana, I wish I had never

represented him.  He should have been in jail, several times over.
Believe me, I never thought he was capable of anything like this."

"You're not responsible," Diana said, although her voice was wavering.
"He is, and he alone.  I wish ... I wish ... this is hard for me.  I
don't think you're a bad man, Craig.  You're just part of the system,
doing a job.  It's all wrong, though."

"It is," Craig agreed.  "Even if he'd never done anything this
depraved, he still had a history of bad behavior, and the league let
him continue playing.  Advertisers still hired him.  And I kept on
defending him."

"Is he still going to be on the team, after this?"

"No," Craig said.  "I, for one, will submit an amicus brief
recommending the harshest sentence available.  And I'll represent your
family in a civil suit against Tolliver at no cost--if you'll let
me."

"I don't think we'll want to sue.  We just want this to be over."

Laura stood by, frowning, during this exchange.  Diana was taking it
well--better than Laura would have--but she also looked as if she might
be in too much shock to fully comprehend the facts.  And there were
more facts, Laura knew, that she was going to have to take in.  "Diana,
can I talk to you for a minute--alone?"

"You can go in the bathroom," Michelle said.  "Sorry I couldn't afford
a suite so y'all would have someplace nicer to talk."

They went into the bathroom, and Laura shut the door.  "I have to tell
you something.  Maybe I should have told you before, but I didn't want
to hurt you more.  I know what happened to your brother now."

"So do I," Diana said.

"No.  You only know part of it.  Michelle only knows part of it. Craig
and I have suspected the rest of it for a while.  You see, Shawn
Tolliver didn't kill Lawrence.  He hurt him very badly; I'm not denying
that.  But it was the bodyguard who actually killed him."

"I don't think I understand."

"Craig got a second pathologist to look at the autopsy report.
Lawrence's injuries were very bad, but this man-he's a professor at
Emory, a very respected doctor--thought that he survived the initial
attack.  He would have been unconscious, in a coma, more than
likely--but alive."

"Where are you going with this?"  Diana said, sitting down on the edge
of the bathtub and putting her face in her hands.

"I think that bodyguard took Lawrence from the scene.  Maybe he thought
he was dead.  Maybe he thought he was going to dispose of a body and
cover up Tolliver's crime.  But at some point he realized that Lawrence
was alive.  Diana, he's the one who killed Lawrence.  I suppose it's
not ever going to be crystal clear.  Maybe Lawrence would have died
from the injuries that Tolliver inflicted on him.  Maybe not.  But at
the very least, this man, this bodyguard, would have been guilty of
depraved indifference homicide, because he denied medical treatment to
an injured person.  But we think it went beyond that.  We think that he
actually struck Lawrence in the head a second time, and that was the
blow that killed him.

"I know this is horrible, much more so than you even imagined.  And I'm
sorry I didn't have the courage to tell you this before.  But we
weren't sure.  What would have been the point in telling you something
that was so terrible, without knowing whether it was true or not?"

Diana shook her head."  "I can't ever tell Mother this.  Who was this
man, Laura?  How can we find him?"

"Michelle may not know his name, but she can give us some information.
Are you okay, Diana?"

"I'm not angry at you, if that's what you mean.  I understand your
dilemma.  But I want to strangle that little skank in there, and Shawn
Tolliver, and this other man, whoever he is.  They're street trash, and
I hate them.  I hate them!"  She rose to her feet, her fists clenched.
Laura was almost relieved to see her roused from her earlier, passive
state, but she knew that Diana was just now taking the first step on a
long and painful trip that was going to last the rest of her life.

"We'll take care of them, starting with Michelle.  That one's going to
jail."

"But we promised her--"

"We promised?  What authority did we have to promise her anything?  I'm
not an assistant district attorney anymore.  I don't have the power to
make deals.  And you can't waive prosecution in a murder case.  No,
she's put her foot right in it But we have to play her a while longer.
Can you keep up the pretense?"

"I can."

"Then let's go get as much as we can out of her.  I'll call Emily and
drive her up to the farm, but only when I have a good idea who this
bodyguard might have been."

They left the bathroom.  Craig was standing with his back to the room,
looking out the window, his head down and his shoulders sagging.  More
than one journey was starting here in this hotel room.

Michelle was smoking a cigarette, and flipping through the channels on
the television with the remote.  "What was that all about?"  she
said.

"Michelle, I'm going to take you to the farm, but we need to know more
about the bodyguard.  He's implicated in this, too, so you understand
that you won't be safe until he's been arrested, too, don't you?"

"But I already told you I don't remember his name!  How can I remember
something I probably never even knew?"

"Think hard," Laura said, "because if he knows you're talking to us,
you're in danger from him."  That got through to the little narcissist.
She put down the remote and gaped at Laura."  "You said he was big. Did
you mean tall, or husky, or both?"

Michelle fluttered her hands in the air, sketching a wide profile.
"Both, I guess.  And he was blond--blondish, anyway.  Not as light as
my hair."

"How tall?  Think about him in relation to Shawn--how much shorter was
he?"

"God, I guess Shawn's--what?"

"Six-seven," Craig said.

"This man musta been over six feet, but he was a good bit shorter than
Shawn."

"How did you get the idea that he was a cop?"  Laura demanded.

"I dunno.  The way he acted, I guess.  He was all bossy, like he was
body guarding the damn president or something, and not just some dumb
jock.  He was, like, 'make way' and 'coming through' all night long.  I
got kinda sick of it.  The regular guy isn't that bad."

"Think hard.  Was he introduced to you at some point?"

"I guess."  
"Try to remember.  Did you shake his hand or anything?"

"No way, it was at the house.  Lemme see.  He showed up, and I was
still getting dressed, so I came downstairs and I was looking for my
purse, and Shawn says, "Michelle, this

is so-and-so."  Oh!"  she said suddenly.  "D.  His name began with a
D. Does that help?"

"Maybe," Laura said, her heart pounding faster.  "Was it Don?"

Michelle considered this for a moment."  "Yeah.  Don!  That was it.  He
was kind of a creep, too--he stared at my rack a lot Yeah, that was
him."

Laura needed no further details to recognize Don Archer.  It hadn't
made complete sense to her that a bodyguard-for hire would have taken
his duty to the extreme length of killing someone to protect a client.
Someone who did something like that had to have something more at
stake.  Don Archer did--or, at least, he did when he realized who the
unconscious man lying on the street was.  He must have recognized him,
and he must have believed that Lawrence could harm him.  And the only
reason that he would think that, Laura concluded, was that Don was the
mysterious white man who had approached Lawrence about acting as a
front for a bid-rigging scheme.

Laura looked at Craig.  "Don Archer.  He's the head of the mayor's
security detail."

"And you think he was acting as a bagman for the mayor and his
cronies?"

"It makes sense, doesn't it?  If he recognized Lawrence as a threat, he
would have had a motive to get rid of him."

Craig was unconvinced.  "I still see it going down the way we
originally assumed it did.  The bodyguard--whoever he was--removes what
he thinks is a dead body, with the idea of disposing of it.  When it
turns out that the victim isn't dead, he's got a problem.  He can't go
to the hospital, can he?  He certainly can't go to the cops."  
"Then
why didn't they just call you?  If it was just another spot of trouble
for Shawn Tolliver, why did you never hear

anything about it?  Someone went to some extraordinary
lengths--whether to save Tolliver's ass or for some other reason. Would
a disinterested person have gone to this extreme?"

"I don't know," Craig said.  "I say it's time to let the cops sort it
out.  Get Hemingway and Devereaux over here."

"Hey," Michelle said, operating under the mistaken impression that she
still had some leverage," "I said no cops."

Laura turned to her in exasperation.  "Who's going to lock up Tolli'ver
and Archer?  Did you think that we were going to make a citizen's
arrest?  You have to give them your statement before they run around
arresting people.  Unfortunately, they won't take my word on it."

Michelle looked sulky, but she remained silent while Laura called
Carlton and gave him their location.  As a sop to Michelle, and in the
hopes of putting her in a more cooperative frame of mind when the
detectives arrived, she also called Emily.  The answering machine
picked up on the land line, so Laura fished out her address book and
dialed Emily's cell phone.  "Emily?  It's Laura.  Can you hear me
okay?"  
"Hang on.  Let me put this chicken down.  Now I can hear you.
What's up?"

Laura explained the situation.  "I was hoping we could stash her with
you for a few hours--no more than one night--until we make sure that
the bad guys are under lock and key."

"No problem.  Are you going to stay, too?"

"Probably not.  I think I should come home once I've got her settled.
I'll have things to do first thing in the morning.  But someone will
come for her."  
"I'm happy to accommodate you.  Any friend of
yours--"

"I wouldn't go that far.  I owe you big, Em."

"One barbeque dinner should even the tab."

When Carlton and Alex arrived, the room seemed impossibly crowded.
Michelle was sullen, and demanded room service before she talked.  She
picked at a salad as she retold her story.  When she was finished,
Laura added the conclusions she had drawn about the identity of the
bodyguard.  A look of surprise and concern flashed across Devereaux's
face, but he said nothing.  Then he and Carlton began probing Michelle
for details.

"You say you can't remember where the collision took place," Carlton
said, "or where you had dinner."  
"Nope.  Well, we rnighta had dinner
at Nava.  Yeah, probably.  Shawn likes that place."

"Okay, can you remember the route you took when you left the
restaurant?"

"No way," she said, picking the last shrimp out of the salad bowl. "Ask
Shawn.  He should remember."

Carlton and Alex exchanged glances.  Laura bit her lip and managed to
remain silent.

"Okay, then," Devereaux said, "tell us more about this bodyguard."

"What do you want to know?  He was tall, but not as tall as Shawn--but,
like, who is?--and he gave me a creepy feeling.  He wasn't the usual
guy who went out with Shawn.  His name was Don.  She says it's some guy
named Don Archer.  Can't tell by me, anyway."

Devereaux was puzzled.  "But Don Archer doesn't moonlight.  It's
verboten for the officers on the mayor's security detail."

Laura cleared her throat.  "It was verboten for you, too, without
permission, but that didn't stop you."

"That was different," he said, a bit huffily.  "I'm not as high up as
Don, not as visible."

"Maybe he was just doing it as a favor for Darryl Michaels," Laura
suggested.  "They're pretty good friends, aren't they?"

"Maybe," Devereaux said thoughtfully.  "What kind of car was the
bodyguard driving?  You've got to remember that, at least" 
"I dunno,"
Michelle said."  "It was black, or maybe blue.  It wasn't a BMW or a
Mercedes, I know that.  I can recognize them at fifty feet," she added
with pride.

Devereaux looked at Carlton.  "Doesn't Don still drive that red
truck?"

Carlton shrugged.  "I guess so.  But he could have borrowed a car for
the job.  Darryl would never let him go out in that stupid truck."

"It wasn't a truck," Michelle said, very helpfully.  "And I already
said it wasn't red."

Devereaux's face remained thoughtful, but he nodded to Carlton.  "Okay.
I think we have enough to get an arrest warrant for Tolliver.  And
we'll pick Don up for questioning."

"Hey!"  Michelle exclaimed.  "She told me they would be arrested."

"They will be," Carlton explained.  "Tolliver as soon as we get a
warrant and locate him."

"He'll be down at the arena about four o'clock, getting ready for a
game," Michelle said eagerly.

"Great.  We'll take Don in and ask him some questions, and if we don't
get good answers we'll hold him overnight.  But you're going to have to
come in tomorrow to identify him in a lineup.  Right now, your ID is a
little on the vague side."

Michelle tossed her hair.  "Whatever.  As long as you get Shawn.
Preferably in front of his teammates--hah!"

"That's it," Laura said.  "Can I take her away now?"

"Please," Devereaux said.  "And I hope it's not too long atrip."

A trip around the block with the lovely Michelle would have been too
much under normal circumstances, but Laura steeled herself for two
hours of her company in the name of a higher cause.  They took her back
to Craig's office, where Diana got back into her own car."  "Will you
be okay?"  Laura said.  "Is there someone we can call to come get
you?"

"I'll be all right," Diana said.  "I'm a little numb now.  I may go to
Julian's office and ask him to come home early."

"I'll call you tomorrow," Laura promised.  She and Craig watched as the
Volvo drove away.  "Come on," Laura said to Michelle.  "My car's right
here."

"Eeuuw," Michelle said, surveying the shabby vehicle with distaste.  "I
thought lawyers made a lot of money."

"We do," Laura said.  "Lots and lots.  Oh, Lord.  Craig!"  she called,
rolling down the window."  "I forgot the settlement conference with Amy
Norton."

"What time?"  he asked.

"Two o'clock tomorrow.  Her offices."

"I'll take it," he said.  "Just go on.  And don't worry.  I'll get a
good deal."

"You'll probably get a better one than I would have."  
"Sure.  You can
buy a new car," he said pointedly."  "Then Michelle won't be ashamed to
ride with you."

Chapter 31

After putting in more hours of driving in one day than she normally
would in a week, Laura gratefully took the Buckhead exit from Georgia
400 and headed for home.  She was happy to have made it home before
dark, and in time to have dinner and watch some brain-numbing
television before an early bedtime.  She considered a side trip to the
grocery store, or even to a convenient drive-through window, but she
was simply too tired to deal with it She had some pasta and sauce at
home, and that would have to do.  When she arrived at her driveway,
however, she realized that her plans were going to change.

Amos's Jeep was parked in front of her house, and he was sitting on the
front steps.  She checked her watch; it wasn't possible that he had
arrived to play watchdog for the night this early.  Maybe he had heard
about Don's arrest.  In her excitement, she hadn't thought about what
the arrest

might mean to her personally.  She didn't want or need vindication,
and she had no desire to say "I told you so" to Amos, but her stomach
fluttered a little at the thought that he might be seeking a
rapprochement

She parked in the driveway and walked toward him.  He rose and
approached her, and before they closed the distance between them she
could see that this was not a friendly visit.  Amos's face was tight
with anger.

"Okay, what is it now?"  she asked.

"You had Don Archer arrested?"  he asked tersely.

"No.  The Atlanta Police Department arrested him.  I'm just a lawyer in
private practice.  I don't have people arrested."

"Stop playing word games.  You told Carlton and Devereaux that it was
Archer who was at the scene when Belew was assaulted, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did, based on information from an eyewitness.  Shawn Tolliver
should also be in cuffs right about now.  You seem to have a problem
with mat."

"As a matter of fact, I do have a problem, and a big one.  Don Archer
wasn't anywhere near Shawn Tolliver that night."

"Not according to my witness.  She says that not only was he on duty
protecting Tolliver that night, he intervened in the fight with Belew.
I can only assume that it was Archer who cleaned up the scene and
removed Belew's body--or I should say removed Belew, because we know
now that he was still alive."

"So you think Don's good for the murder, too?"

"It looks that way," Laura said.  "What's this to you, anyway?  I know
Don's a buddy of yours, but this isn't your call, Amos.  Alex and
Carlton are handling it."

"I know that.  Where's your witness?  At Emily's?"

"Yes, although I can't see what that has to do with anything."

"Devereaux's gone to pick her up?"

"Yes.  Would you care to clue me in about what your interest in this
is?"

"You've got the wrong guy.  Don's not involved in this.  You've put
your foot in it now, Laura."

Laura was dumbfounded.  "What are you talking about?  I haven't put my
foot in anything.  I gave this girl's story to Carlton and Devereaux,
and I got her away from Tolliver and Archer, that's all."

"You say she identified Archer?"  
"I didn't have a picture of him in
my wallet," Laura said sarcastically, "but, yes, she described him as
the bodyguard who was out with Shawn Tolliver the night he got into a
beef with Lawrence Belew.  She didn't know his name, but she said it
began with a D. Big blond cop, name beginning with D. What she didn't
know was that Belew was set to turn over evidence to the FBI in a
corruption investigation that looked likely to involve Don's boss.  It
added up. And," she hastened to add, "the arrest wasn't my call.  Alex
connected those dots."
"He connected them wrong, then.  Archer doesn't
do security work.  The mayor doesn't allow anyone on his bodyguard
detail to moonlight.  I've heard Don beef about it a thousand times."

"Maybe he was breaking the rules this time.  Alex got in trouble for
moonlighting as a bodyguard--why couldn't Don?  Did you think of that?
If Don was breaking the rules, Amos, why should he confide in you about
it?  Besides, it looks like Don was in on the bid-rigging that the FBI
is looking into."

"Don's not capable of keeping something like that to

himself.  He's too stupid to be.  He's just a big dumb chump who's
over his head.  The mayor picked him just for that reason.  Don's a lot
of things, but crooked isn't one of them."

"Okay, if it wasn't Don, who was it?"  In the face of Amos's certainty,
her confidence in her own theory was beginning to shake.

"Use your head, Laura.  Who would go this far to protect a slime bag
like Tolliver?"

"How should I know?"  she asked irritably, and then realization dawned.
"It's Darryl Michaels, isn't it?"

"Right first time.  Too bad.  you didn't take the time to think it
through before you brought the hammer down on Don."

"Stop trying to make this about me," she protested.  "I asked Michelle
if it was Archer, but only after she had described him to a tee.  And
she recognized the name right away."

"This is why you'd make a lousy cop.  Witnesses like this girl aren't
reliable--they're too eager to please.  She had a beef with Tolliver
that she wanted to settle; she didn't give a shit who else she stepped
on.  She would have told you it was the pope if that would have helped
her get to Tolliver."

Laura threw up her hands in frustration.  "Excuse me, but all I see
here is a mix-up.  I'll call Alex and he'll get Don released and
they'll pick up Michaels.  Will that make you happy?"

"That would actually make me real happy, if it could go down that way.
Unfortunately, this thing is way beyond the point where it can be fixed
with a phone call.  Michaels knows about Archer's arrest, and this
Michelle's story, by now.  It's all over the department.  He also knows
that Devereaux's on the way to pick up the witness in Rabun County.

Alex broadcast the location on the radio.  It's only a matter of who
gets there first--and Michaels is going to be in a much bigger hurry
than Alex, you can bet on that."

"You're just speculating.  I'll call Emily and tell her to look out for
Michaels, but I think Alex will be there in plenty of time--even if
you're right, and Michaels is on his way up there.  I should have
stayed up there."  She pulled her cell phone from her purse and began
to dial Emily's number.  Amos turned away and began to walk toward his
truck.  "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to Rabun County.  Tell Emily to take the girl into Clayton,
to the sheriff's office, and to wait for me there."

"Wait.  I'm coming with you."

"No, you're not," he said firmly.

She shrugged.  "Suit yourself.  I'll go on my own."

She could see him struggling to contain his anger.  "Just for once in
your life do what I want you to.  Just call Em, tell her to get the
hell out of there, and go inside and wait You've screwed this up
enough."

It was Laura's turn to get angry.  "I've screwed it up?  This thing was
screwed way before I put my two cents in.  And you can't order me to
sit down and shut up.  I'm going to Emily's with or without your
permission.  Which I do not need, by the way."

He started to say something, and stopped himself.  "Get in the damn
truck.  I'd rather have you where I can keep an eye on you.  I'll drop
you at the sheriff's office in Clayton, That's as close as you're going
to get to mis, understand?"

She considered her options.  She could just drive herself, but she was
bone-tired and the thought of making that drive for the third time in
one day was daunting.  Plus, Amos could turn on the flashing beacon he
was allowed to keep in his

truck and make the trip a whole lot faster than she could.  And if she
went with him she had a chance of talking him out of his anger.

"I'll ride with you," she said tersely, "but I'm not going to take a
lot of abuse from you," she warned.

"I'm not abusing you," he said.  "When I start abusing you, you'll know
it."

He was perfectly serious, but Laura couldn't help laughing.  For a
minute, it seemed that he would, too, and their eyes met with some of
the old communication and understanding that they' dalways had.  But he
turned away, quickly, and walked around to the driver's side of the
truck and wrenched the door open.  She followed and climbed into the
passenger's seat.

As he pulled into the driveway to turn around, she dialed Emily on the
cell phone.  To Laura's great relief, Emily answered after only two
rings.  "Em?  Thank goodness.  Listen, I'm on my way back up there,
with Amos.  Something's gone wrong.  This Don Archer isn't the guy
Michelle saw.  Is she there, in earshot?"

"Yes," Emily said.  "Do you want to talk to her?"

"No.  Just ask her if the name of the cop was Darryl Michaels."

"Okay.  Hold on."  Laura could hear the murmur of Emily's question, and
Michelle's muffled reply.  "Yes," Emily said, returning to their
conversation.  "She thinks that's it.  She's not one hundred percent
sure, though.  She says she would recognize him if she could see
him."

"She may get the chance," Laura said grimly.  "He might be on his way
up there.  Amos thinks you and Michelle should get out of the house
now, and go into Clayton.  We'll meet you at the sheriff's office."

"That seems a little extreme," Emily protested.  "Isn't

the detective on the way here?  What will he do if we're not here when
he arrives?"

"We'll get in touch with Devereaux," Laura promised.
"He'll know where
to find you.  Better safe than sorry, Em-go on into town."

"Will do.  I'll take some protection, though, in case we meet this geek
on the way."  
"What, a gun?  I wish you wouldn't.  The guy's ex-Secret
Service.  I don't think you can take him on, Emily."

Emily snorted.  "Secret Service?  All he's ever done is shoot at a
piece of paper.  Don't worry about me; I can take care of myself."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Laura replied.

When she had disconnected, she turned to Amos.  "That's taken care of.
Is there a way to get in touch with Devereaux?  We should tell him to
detour to the sheriff's office."

"Yeah.  But I don't have a radio.  I didn't expect to be on duty
tonight," he said in a tone that sounded accusatory to Laura.  She let
it pass without comment, although the injustice rankled with her. "Call
the APD dispatchers," he continued.  He reeled off the number. "Tell
them to get a message to Devereaux.  And give them your cell number so
they can contact us."

Laura did as instructed, and sat back.  They had progressed down
Piedmont Road and were headed toward Interstate 85 North.  "I think it
might be faster at this time of day to take 400," Laura offered.

"What?  And go all the way around Lake Burton?  This way's faster once
we get outside of the Perimeter."

"Suit yourself," Laura said, although she disagreed.  The ulterior of
the truck fell into silence; she thought of the many times she and Amos
had made this drive, talking and listening to music.  She didn't dare
turn on the radio or CD

player herself, but she hoped that he eventually would-anything to
break this soundless tension.

Amos was keeping his eyes on the road.  She stole glimpses of his
profile, hoping to catch him looking her way so she could say something
to lighten the atmosphere, but he never moved.  She noticed that he was
wearing a shirt she had given him for his birthday, and her heart gave
a happy little leap.  At least he hadn't burned all reminders of her.
He looked so good in that shirt; it was a pale gray-green, just the
same shade as his eyes.  This line of thought, she realized, was
getting her nowhere--or worse.  She could feel tears beginning to form.
She turned away and looked fixedly out the window.

The day had held on as long as it could, but the last rays of the sun
were being wrung from the air.  The Jeep was mingling with the last of
the evening's commuter traffic, but even mat grew lighter as they
passed through Gwinett County.  Bridges and overpasses loomed ahead of
them, then cast them into deeper gloom as they drove beneath them.

Laura was tired and hungry, and she could have used a pit stop at one
of the gas stations they were hurrying past, but she didn't care to
ask.  She was surprised when Amos did.  "You need to stop?"  he said as
they reached Cornelia, the point where the road headed north toward
Rabun County.  There were several inviting-looking gas stations on
either side of the road.

Pride almost made her say no, but she thought better of it.  "If we
have time," she answered humbly.

"I don't see why not.  Everything seems to be under control.  Don't
take forever, though," he warned as he pulled into a service station.

Laura hurriedly did what was necessary, and then, on her way out,
bought a couple of canned drinks and some snacks.

She climbed back into the track and held out the paper sack as a
propitiatory offering."  "Got you a couple of Slim Jims," she said.

"Thanks.  I'm not hungry," he answered, and soon they were traveling
again in silence.  Laura ate some pretzels as quietly as she could.
They had gone only a couple of miles when her cell phone rang.

"Hello?"  she said.

"This is the APD dispatcher.  Is Lieutenant Kowalski there?"

"Yes.  He's driving, though.  Want me to give him a message?"

"Tell him we can't contact Devereaux.  We've called the Rabun County
Sheriff, and they're sending a car to the address Detective Devereaux
gave us."

"I'll tell him.  We told the people at the house to go into town and
wait for us at the sheriff's office.  They should be there by now."

"They hadn't seen them when we talked to the deputy a few minutes ago.
Probably nothing to worry about."

"Yes.  Maybe they stopped to pick up some dinner or something," Laura
said, only half believing her own explanation.

"Tell the Loo to call in when he gets there and makes contact with
Devereaux."

"I will.  He will, I mean," she said, and the dispatcher
disconnected.

She turned to Amos.  "They can't get in touch with Devereaux.  And
nothing's been heard from Em and Michelle at the sheriff's office."

Amos didn't answer her, but he reached beneath the seat, took out his
beacon, and affixed it to the roof of the Jeep.  The garish light from
the beacon illuminated the gloom

surrounding the truck, and Amos flattened the accelerator and the
truck began slinging around the curves on the mountainous road.

"Amos?  Are you worried?"  Laura asked quietly.

"Yes," he said.  "Michaels is a genuine Spock.  The thought of him
running around up here makes me very nervous.  He's likely to be
heavily armed and pretty goddamned determined to accomplish his
mission."

"Emily's got a gun with her," Laura offered.

"She's a deadeye shot on a target range, but I don't think she's ever
dropped a man.  And I've seen Michaels operate a gun.  He's probably as
good as she is.  And he's probably made a kill or two."

Laura listened in anguish.  "If you knew he was this bad why did you
hang around with him?"

"I don't call playing afew games of ball 'hanging around," and, yes, I
thought the guy was wrong, just not to the extent of being a
cold-blooded murderer.  Unlike you, I'm not quick to suspect just
anybody of being a killer."

"That was unnecessary," Laura said with heat.  "I didn't suspect Don at
all, not until this girl described him in detail and said his name
began with a D."

"But then you popped right up and asked if it was Don, didn't you?"  he
accused.

"Yes.  I did.  But I think you would have made the same connection.  I
mean, why, for the love of God, would anyone have removed Lawrence
Belew from the scene and then killed him?  I assumed--I believed--mat
Don recognized Belew as someone who was lining up to testify against
the mayor.  And he is the head of Mayor Broad's security detail."

"Which means nothing.  I've worked security from time to time, and
there's not a politician I would willingly take

a bullet for--much less pop some innocent bystander to protect."

"But you're not Don Archer."

"Believe me, Archer's not going down for the mayor."  "Maybe not, but
Devereaux sure thought it added up."  "News flash: Devereaux ain't the
sharpest tool in the shed.  In fact, Carlton can run rings around him.
Devereaux's in his job strictly because he's senior and well connected
in the department.  There's a real shortage of detectives in the
Atlanta Police Department; they'll take anyone who can fog a mirror.  I
turned down a request from Devereaux to be placed on my squad."

"Nice of you to tell me all this earlier," she remarked.  "Why should I
have?  It didn't seem to be relevant."  "No?  Not even when you and I
were chasing all over town tracking Devereaux's 'eyewitnesses'?  Tell
me something: did you think at that time that Devereaux might have been
dirty?  Did you think he'd manufactured the witness testimony?"  she
asked.

"It crossed my mind, but I thought he was more likely just lazy and was
letting stuff drop into his lap without asking the right questions."

"Do you think he's dirty?  Oh, my God, Amos--do you think Devereaux and
Michaels are working together?  You know that Alex worked for Michaels,
don't you?  That's why he was suspended."

"A lot of cops worked for Michaels.  So what?"  "Well, then what was
Alex doing snooping around the crime lab when he was technically
suspended?"

"I would say he was sore about being taken off a case.  Look, I know
Alex and Michaels well enough to say that they're not in this together.
If Michaels wanted a partner, he'd pick someone smarter than
Devereaux."

"I suppose you could be right.  And Alex did act kind of funny when I
told him that Michelle had identified Don.  He said he was sure it was
someone else."

"Maybe he suspected Michaels.  Who knows?  Anyway, Devereaux wouldn't
have broadcast his destination if he and Michaels were working
together.  He wouldn't have needed to."

"So Alex is headed straight into a confrontation with Michaels?  I
don't think Alex is prepared to face down Michaels, not if he's the bad
guy you say he is."

"I doubt Michaels would kill a cop," Amos allowed.  "He'll sure as hell
get him out of the way by other means, though, if he has to."

"You don't think he would hurt Emily, do you?"

"Not unless he has to.  That's why I wish she hadn't armed herself. His
mission will be to get that girl, with minimal collateral damage. But
he'll take on some if he has to."  
"You really mink he's dumb enough
to start killing civilians?"

"Dumb?  No.  Desperate enough, maybe."

Laura shook her head.  "Why did he let himself in for this, anyway? Out
of loyalty to Shawn Tolliver?  I doubt it.  Why didn't he just turn
Tolliver in on the night it happened?"

Amos shrugged.  "Who knows?  He may have planned to get it all sorted
out; maybe he didn't know how badly damaged Lawrence Belew was."

"He killed Belew, you know.  Shawn Tolliver started the job, but
Michaels finished it off."

"What makes you so sure of that?"  Amos asked.

"The pathology.  Belew suffered one set of injuries that could have
killed him, but didn't.  Then, some time later-maybe a day and a half
later--someone dealt him a blow

to the head that wasn't survivable.  That's what finally convinced
Craig Fannin and me that this thing was way beyond just some lazy
police work."

"I never heard this," Amos said.

"I didn't know until after you and I... until we stopped communicating.
Craig had a second pathologist check out the report.  The guy at the
crime lab missed a few things.  And then he mysteriously packed up and
left town before we could find out why he didn't spot what another
pathologist did right away."

"Maybe he was incompetent," Amos said.

"Or maybe he was lying, and maybe he left his job with no forwarding
address because he was scared.  You know that it was probably Michaels
who had one of the so-called eyewitnesses killed in the city jail,
don't you?"

"It makes sense now.  When Kenny told me about it, though, I figured he
was wrong.  I thought it was just a jailhouse beef."

"I think you didn't want to believe it.  You were very determined to be
angry at me, I think."

"That's ridiculous," he argued.  They were now headed directly toward
Clayton on Route 441, and, although they weren't having any fun, they
were talking, which was an improvement over the leaden silence that had
prevailed earlier.

Laura disagreed, spiritedly.  "No, it's not ridiculous.  I think you
picked a fight with me over this, and I don't think it was fan-."

"You're wrong, but this is hardly the time to discuss our
relationship," he said shortly.

"You're right.  We're almost to Clayton, anyway."

Amos speeded up as much as possible for the final few miles, passing
cars recklessly and causing Laura's heart to

pound.  Finally, they rounded a big curve in the road, and they were
in Clayton, a pretty little mountain town that was just beginning to
suffer from the sprawling consequences of its own charm.  Amos headed
straight for the square, where the sheriff's office was located.  He
parked, and they both hurried from the truck into the office,
hoping-expecting--to find Emily there.

She wasn't.  The deputy on duty looked at them in surprise; he had
heard nothing from Emily or Devereaux.  Amos took Laura's phone and
called the APD dispatchers again.  He spoke briefly to them and handed
the phone back to her with a frown of concern.  "They weren't able to
contact Devereaux."  He addressed the deputy, and introduced himself as
a police officer.  "How many men on duty tonight?"

" "Bout seven," came the laconic answer.

"Is the sheriff around?"

"He's at home.  I can call him."

"You'd better.  Is there a man you can spare right away?  We've got to
get out to Emily Bailey's farm.  You know where that is?"

"Sure.  What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure.  Miss Bailey has a witness in a murder case with her,
and there may be someone trying to get to the witness.  There's a
detective from the Atlanta Police Department who's supposed to be out
there picking her up, but we can't contact him."

The deputy's eyes widened.  "I already got a car out that way; I'll
radio him that you're coming."

"Tell him not to go in.  This guy's armed and should be considered very
dangerous, understand?  Just tell him to look for an Atlanta Police
Department car--should be an unmarked navy Crown Vie with Fulton County
plates."

"You got it," the deputy answered.  He picked up his radio and began
making contact with his patrol car.  
"Amos?"  Laura asked.  "What are
you planning to do?"

"I'm going out there," he said.  He removed his gun from its holster
and checked it over.

"I am, too," she said.

"Like hell.  You stay here."

"I know that farm," she argued.

"I don't have time to argue with you," he said.  "If you come, you stay
in the truck."

"That's fine.  As long as I'm there."

The deputy interrupted their discussion.  "I got a man headed out
there.  You want to wait for him to report in?"

"No, I'm heading out.  Tell him I'm in a black Jeep Wagoneer with
Fulton County plates.  I'll rendezvous with him out there.  And get
hold of the sheriff and roll a couple of extra cars for insurance.
Ready?"  he asked Laura.

"I'm ready," she said, although her spine had turned to ice.  "Let's
go."

Chapter 32

Emily's farm was just a few miles on the far side of Clayton, at Rabun
Gap.  Laura and Amos followed the main road that led north out of town,
then headed east on a smaller road until they came to the
gate--permanently open--that marked the entry to the farm.

Amos drove past the gate, not even pausing.  "You passed it!"  Laura
exclaimed.

"I know I did.  There's a dirt road that leads to the barn, isn't
there?"

"Yes.  Just past the paddock," she said.  "You're going there?"

"That's the plan.  I can hide the truck by the barn and then walk back
across die field to the house.  That way I can scope it out without
alerting Michaels that I'm here."

Laura pointed out the track that led to the barn.  Before he turned
off, Amos switched off his headlights.  "No need

to advertise that we're here," he said as he drove carefully along the
rutted track.  There was a sliver of moon to light the way, although it
slipped behind the light clouds from time to time.  Luckily, the dirt
road was straight and reasonably easy to follow in the dark.  The big
barn loomed up on the right after a couple of hundred yards, and Amos
pulled close to it and stopped the truck.

"Okay," he said.  "You stay in the truck, and I mean it.  You see or
hear anything, you call the deputy back in Clay ton, and then the
Atlanta Police Department.  Got it?"

"I understand," she said.

He reached up and switched off the dome light before he opened the
door.

"Amos?"  she said as he swung his legs onto the ground.

"Yes?"  
"Please be careful," she said, trying to control the anxious
tremor in her voice.

"I always am.  There's probably nothing wrong, anyway.  just an excess
of caution, as you lawyers would say."  He started to leave, but then,
unexpectedly, he turned back to her and quickly kissed her.  Then he
was gone, before she could speak.  She sat in the dark and silent
vehicle, still feeling the imprint of his lips on hers.

There was enough light, from time to time, for Laura to see her watch.
The minutes dragged slowly by; she felt as if she'd been sitting in the
truck for at least an hour, but her watch showed that only five minutes
had passed.  That was enough time for Amos to have reached the house,
at least.  If everything was okay, he would soon return.

More minutes ticked by.  Finally unable to stand it, Laura quietly
opened the door and slid silently to the ground.  She had dressed
casually for work, so she was still wearing a pair of loafers.  They
made a slight crunching noise on the

loose gravel roadway that sounded to her like fireworks exploding. She
stopped and stood stock-still until the silence resettled around her. 
Then she began carefully picking her way to the end of the barn. She
found that she could walk pretty quietly after all, and she managed to
reach her goal without alarming herself too badly.

Conscious that she might now be visible from the vantage point of the
house, she flattened herself against the front of the barn and slowly
moved across it until she reached the far corner, where she could see
across the paddock to the house on the hill opposite.  She couldn't
exactly see the house, of course, but she could see that there were
lights on in the windows.  She peered carefully through the dark,
hoping to catch sight of some movement, maybe even to make out Amos's
silhouette against the faint light.  There was nothing.

Laura started to slip back to the truck, fully intending to return
obediently to her post, when she heard the unmistakable report of a gun
being fired.  She cried out involuntarily and dropped to her knees,
waiting for more shots.  None came.  There were no more sounds at
all--no screams or cries, nothing.  Fighting off panic, she struggled
back to her feet.  She tried to stop the monstrous pictures that were
forming in her head--Amos, his body torn and bleeding, or Emily, prone
on the floor of her own house.

She couldn't leave this to her imagination.  She needed to do
something.  She looked around, seeking some concrete way to act.  She
was standing directly in front of the heavy barn doors, shut for the
night.  The familiar smell of horse and leather wafted out, calming
her.  Almost without thinking, she pushed the door open and went
inside.  The daytime familiarity of the barn was gone, but she could
still see well enough to know where she was going.  One of the horses

nickered softly at her approach; she whispered soothingly to him as
she passed by.

Moving carefully, but with a purpose now, she passed the other occupied
stalls and made straight for the box stall on the end where the disused
equipment was stored.  Without hesitating, she moved directly to the
old tractor, and lifted the seat.  The key to the tack room was there,
just as it should have been.

She took the key and felt her way carefully to the door of the tack
room.  She fumbled with the key, but managed to get it into the lock
after a few tries.  The inside of the tack room, luckily, was
illuminated by a window, which made it easier for Laura to move
unerringly toward the cabinet.  She swung open the door, and sighed
with relief when she saw that Angel's gun was still there.  She checked
the cylinder; the gun was loaded, as it had been when she had seen it
before, with five shot shells.  She looked in the cabinet, hoping to
find some more serious cartridges, but she turned up only a box
containing more shot shells.  It stood to reason that Emily wouldn't
leave anything lethal out in this accessible a place.  Laura emptied
the contents of the box into the pocket of her slacks.

Now that she was armed, Laura felt more confident.  She left the barn,
sliding the door closed behind her, and slipped over to the paddock.
She ducked under the rail and, holding her breath, darted as quickly as
she could across the open space.

Once she reached the far side of the paddock, she stopped and assessed
her position.  There were two ways to reach the house: she could loop
back to the main road and go up the driveway, but that would put her in
full view from the house.  The second way was to take the path that led
from

the back door down to the valley.  She decided on that route; she was
sure that was what Amos would have done.

The path was steep, and climbing it with gun in hand was more awkward
than Laura expected.  She managed to make it, keeping fairly quiet,
although every twig mat snapped and every pebble that rolled down the
path sounded loud as a cannonade to her ears.

Things got easier once she reached the garden behind the house; the
damp grass allowed for soundless walking.  Laura also had the benefit
of knowing the house and its grounds well.  She approached the rear of
the house with some confidence that she couldn't be seen except from an
upstairs window.  The only lights, however, were downstairs, so she
felt that it was worth risking crossing the open space behind the
house.

Once she reached the near side of the house, she slipped inside the
hedge that surrounded the house on three sides, then paused and took
stock.  She hadn't had time to plan what she would do once she got to
this point.  Reconnaissance, she figured, was the order of the moment.
She took a deep breath and crawled to the closest window, then willed
her rubbery legs to stand.

She could just see inside the dining room.  There was no one in sight,
but she could hear voices through the open window.  They appeared to be
coming from the living room, on the opposite side of the house, across
the central hallway.  She could hear someone crying, and someone
moaning, and a quiet baritone that she hoped belonged to Amos.  She
wiped her sweaty palms on her slacks, shifting the gun from one hand to
the other.  She needed to get a look inside the living room, and this
meant another trip across the open space of the backyard.  She crept to
the corner of the house, steeled

herself, and broke into a steady jog to clear the distance.  Once
across, she dove into another protective hedge.

As she crept along the side of the house, the voices she had heard
became clearer.  Michelle was crying, keening, almost.  She could hear
Emily cursing someone; every profanity she uttered was deeply
reassuring to Laura.  But there were disturbing sounds of someone in
agony; someone in the room was hurt.  She held her breath and listened
closely.

Amos was talking, quietly and calmly, so low that she couldn't make out
what he was saying.  Every so often, a voice--presumably
Michaels's--would interrupt him.  Michaels spoke louder than Amos, but
without heat.  He seemed to be in control of the situation.  Laura rose
slowly, quietly as she could, hoping Emily's ranting would cover any
noise she might make.  She allowed herself a quick look only; the last
thing she wanted was to pop her head above the window frame and look
straight into Michaels's eyes.

The living room was long and relatively narrow, and the players were
dispersed along its entire length.  On a sofa at the end closest to her
she could make out Michelle, curled into a ball and wailing piteously.
In front of the sofa, Emily was kneeling by the side of a man in a
uniform.  This must be the Rabun County deputy who had been sent to
investigate, and the shot she heard must have wounded him.  He was
pale, and breathing heavily, but Emily appeared to have arranged some
sort of bandage on his lower leg.

Standing at the far end of the room, with his back to her, was Darryl
Michaels, and beyond him, sidelong to the window, was Amos.  Neither
could see her.  She ducked back down and listened for a moment.

"I only want the girl, Kowalski," Michaels said.  "I'm taking her."

"No, I don't think so," Amos said quietly.  "I can't let you do
that."

"Don't be an idiot, Kowalski.  You see what happened to Barney life
here when he tried to be a hero.  I like you, man, and would hate to
shoot you.  But I will."

"Go ahead," Amos said, "but you're not getting the girl"

"Like hell.  Who's gonna stop me once I get past you-the old lady?  The
super model?  Or maybe Barney's just faking it down there.  How 'bout
it, Barn--you up for another round?"

Emily let loose with a couple more earthy characterizations.  "You're
going to have to go through me, too, you son of a bitch.  You better
not plan on leaving me alive, because if you do I won't rest until
you're in jail getting gang-raped twice a day."

"Emily," Amos said quietly, "that's not helping."

"Who says I want to help?"  she said.

"Darryl," Amos said, "it's over.  You can waste everyone in this room,
but that's only going to make it worse.  The sheriff's on his way with
backup, and the Atlanta Police Department and the GBI won't be far
behind.  You're not getting out of this.  The best thing you can do is
give up now.  You're not looking at too bad a situation--you've got a
story to tell on what happened to Lawrence Belew.  That's not all down
to you.  You give up Tolliver and you might be able to swing a deal.
But if you start making a lot more people dead, it's not going to be so
easy."

"Let me be the one who decides what's good for me, Kowalski.  And don't
bet on me not making it out of this, my way."  
"If you make a move
toward that girl, I'm going to jump you," Amos warned.  "You'll have to
kill me."

"Damn!  Who knew you were such a dumb ass?  Look, Robocop, I got your
gun.  I got Barney's gun.  What're you planning to do, slap me down?"

"Try me," Amos answered.

Laura had heard enough.  She knew what she had to do: she would go in
the back door.  Emily's house was built like many old farmhouses in the
South.  A wide hall ran through its center, opening to the front and
rear.  If she went in the back, she could creep through the hall,
position herself just outside the living room.  She had the advantage
of knowing exactly where Michaels was standing, but she had to hurry
before he moved.

She slid back through the hedge and into the rear yard one more time.
Her head was clear and her mind was made up.  She had realized
something: the shot shells, far from being a disadvantage to her, were
a good thing.  Much as she would like to send a silver bullet spinning
through Michaels's cerebellum, neatly coring him and shutting him down
once and for all, the chance that she could do it--at least on her
first shot--was slim.  But the snake shot would scatter, and she knew
that she could hit him in the face.  It wouldn't matter that the shot
might not be fatal.  She could blind him.  She knew it, and she could
visualize it

She reached the back door; the heavy wooden door was open, so she only
had to deal with the lightweight screen door.  She closed it silently
behind her and walked carefully, trying to be noiseless, through the
hall and past the stairs.  Two steps, and she was outside the living
room, her back to the wall with the gun in both hands.  Just like on

TV.

She took only a moment to listen; she could tell by the volume of their
voices that Michaels was still standing just inside the doorless
opening into the room, and that Amos was still just beyond him,
blocking him from moving toward

Michelle.  She took a deep breath, turned, and stood in the doorway,
gun aimed squarely at Michaels.

He was holding a sleek nine-millimeter pistol, aimed vaguely in Amos's
direction.  "Drop it," she said.  He turned and looked at her in
disbelief, and then he smiled.

"For the love of God," he said.  "Look who's here ... and with a gun.
Listen, sweetheart, your boyfriend already charged in here with a
cannon, but he could see it wouldn't do him any good.  He had the sense
to drop his piece.  Now why don't you just give me that little gun?"
Laura didn't answer; she couldn't.  Her brain was frozen with fear, but
she held the gun steady.  Michaels smiled.  "I bet I know how to get
you to drop it.  How about I give your boyfriend one in the knee?"  He
raised his gun, pointing it toward Amos.  "Come on, Laura.  Don't make
me shoot Kowalski.  I like him.  I don't like to shoot folks I like
..."

He didn't finish his sentence.  Laura felt a searing rush of anger and
hatred for Michaels, but all the fear was gone.  She pulled the
trigger.

The report was deafening, but Laura managed to keep the gun raised and
fairly steady.  There was a lot of screaming, some of it possibly her
own.  She took aim again, but her target had disappeared.  Michaels was
on the floor, crouching with his hands covering his face.  He was one
of the screamers; Laura lowered the gun and watched in horror as blood
seeped between his fingers.

Then Amos was by his side, picking up the gun Michaels had dropped.
Laura continued standing in the doorway, frozen, until Emily arrived at
her side, gently prying the gun from her hand.

"How about that," Emily said in disbelief.  "Got him with varmint shot.
Who'd-a thunk this little popgun could do the job?"

Laura leaned back against the door frame, unable to speak.  Everything
was happening in slow motion, as if the room and everyone in it were
underwater.  Amos was Hying to help Michaels.  Blood was everywhere.
There were sirens somewhere in the distance.  Laura stumbled to the
stairs and sat down, covering her still-ringing ears.  She felt sick,
and faint She put her head down.

Then she heard Amos; he was sitting next to her and his arm was around
her.  She couldn't make out the words but the tone was reassuring.  She
raised her head and looked at him.  He had so much blood on him--how
did that happen?  The left sleeve of his shirt--the lovely green shirt
she had given him--was torn, and wet with blood.  Rivulets of red ran
down his wrist.  Realization dawned.

"I shot you," she said.  "I shot you!"

"Collateral damage," he said.  "You didn't hit anything vital."

"But I shot you!"  she cried.

"Baby, shot scatters.  I just got in the way of it.  You got most of it
where it belonged.  That's all that matters.  We'll talk later about
what you were doing skulking around with a gun in the first place.  But
we're okay now.  We're okay."

Chapter 33

The little hospital on Route 76 hadn't ever seen this much action.
Three gunshot cases--two serious--and one hysterical lingerie model
seriously taxed the limited resources of the staff.  Deputy Andy
Partain, the most gravely injured, was treated first, but it was soon
decided that he would have to be sent to Atlanta via helicopter. Darryl
Michaels, heavily sedated and under guard, seemed likely to lose the
sight in his right eye.  But, as his condition seemed stable, it was
decided that he would be sent to Atlanta by ambulance in the morning.

Amos Kowalski was being treated, but the doctor said that he could be
released.  He had a peppering of number nine shot in his left arm, and
some in his left chest.  He cursed fluently as they picked it out of
him.  Laura, who could hear what was going on from her seat outside the
curtained area where they were working on him, winced with each new
outcry.  The sheriff was there, attempting to

piece together the story by talking to her, but Laura had been dosed
with something that left her capable of doing little more than smiling
at him.

"This is just about the damnedest thing I ever did see," he said.  "Tm
getting accustomed to the meth heads shooting at each other up here,
but I have to say this is the first time I've had a lawyer turning my
county into a free-fire zone.  What the hell were you thinking, Miss
Chastain?  That man in there was dangerous, and heavily armed.  He
could have killed you and everyone else in that house."

"He tried to shoot Amos," Laura explained, simply.

Emily intervened.  "She knew what she was doing, Jim.  She took him
completely by surprise.  Michaels got there just ahead of your deputy.
And Andy did the right thing; he offered himself as a hostage, but he
didn't surrender his weapon until Michaels shot him.  Kowalski
surrendered his right away, and tried talking to Michaels, but it was
no use.  We would have been stuck there until your SWAT team came.
Probably still be there, if Laura hadn't taken matters into her own
hands.  She did everything wrong, of course, but she had an advantage
over Michaels.  He figured she wasn't much of a shooter, and he also
didn't know she had shot shells in the gun.  Maybe he thought she
didn't have much of a chance of hitting nun--which she probably didn'
t. Not with a bullet, at least.  But she was about ten feet from him,
and you get a good spread with the shot at that distance.  All she had
to do was hit his neighborhood.  And she did it like a champ.  She got
him on her first shot.  Unfortunately, Kowalski caught some of the
load.  He's got some shot in his arm and chest.  But you aimed too
high, sugar--always go for the chest Not the head."

"I did aim for the chest, just like you and Amos told me to.  I
missed."

"That's okay.  I'm right proud of you."

Laura frowned.  Somewhere beyond the pink cloud that enveloped her was
the sense that she had done something wrong.  She concentrated hard. "I
shouldn't ever have involved you, Em," she said at last.  "I should
have put Michelle somewhere in Atlanta."

Emily shook her head.  "He would have found her.  That was a dangerous
man, sugar.  Amos told me that he broke into your car and your
house."

"I guess he did," Laura said vaguely.  "I wonder why."

"He was a bully, sweetheart.  He thought he could scare you away."

"Huh," Laura said.  "Craig thought Amos did all that.  Imagine.  Amos
taking my distributor.  I told Craig he was nuts.  Go see if he's okay,
Em.  Is he mad at me?"

"He better not be.  You saved his onions."

Laura nodded.  "A guy tried to get him with a golf club."

"Shug, I don't know what you're talking about.  As soon as they dig all
the shot out of Amos, I'm going to take you both back home and put you
to bed.  We all need to sleep for about three days.  You can have that
one," she said to the sheriff, gesturing toward Michelle.  "She's a
vegetarian.  I can take a lot, but there's a limit."

"I reckon the Atlanta Police Department'll pick her up, Emily," the
sheriff said.

There was a small commotion at the other end of the room.  They all
leaned forward and craned to see what was happening.  Another deputy
was leading in a rumpled and ill-tempered Alex Devereaux.  "Found him
in the trunk of his car, Sheriff," the deputy announced.

"Alex!"  Laura said, beaming as if greeting a new arrival at a party.
"Are you hurt?"

"Just my dignity," he answered.  "What the hell happened?"

"I could ask you the same," the sheriff said.

"Michaels had a beacon in his car; he pulled me over.  I should have
known better.  He popped me on the melon and stuffed me in the trunk.
Where is that son of--"

"He's in there," the sheriff replied, "but he won't be in any shape for
you to see him for a while.  This gal shot him in the face."

"Laura did?"  Alex asked, disbelieving.

Laura nodded.  "And I shot Amos," she added tearfully.

"She didn't mean to," Emily amended.  She explained the shot shells.

"Good work," Devereaux said.

"You better have somebody take a look at that bump on your head," the
deputy admonished.

Amos emerged from the treatment room, his arm heavily bandaged.  The
sight of his bloody shirt set Laura off again.  "For the love of God,"
he said.  "Who doped her up?  She was fine, just a little upset."

"She'll sleep it off," Emily said.  "Come on.  My car's outside."

"Got any beer at home?"  Amos asked.

"You bet your tail I do," she said.

"Then why are we standing here?"

Emily pulled Laura to her feet and led her outside into the warm night
air, propelling her gently, with a hand in the small of her back,
toward the car.  Amos opened the back door, and between them they got
Laura in.  Amos followed her into the backseat, and put his good arm
around her.  Laura put her head on his shoulder, and she was asleep
before they left the parking lot.

Epilogue

Darryl Michaels's allocution hearing was late getting started.  Laura,
unused to being a mere spectator in the courtroom, shifted nervously on
the bench, occasionally turning to look back at the door.  She had been
dreading this day for a while now, and she wanted it to be over.  Then
life could get back to some semblance of normality.

She turned at the sound of the door opening.  It was Craig, wearing a
dark suit and a deep frown.  He slid into the bench behind her."  "I
thought I was going to be late," he whispered.

"I don't know what the holdup is," she replied.  She admired him for
coming; she knew that he felt a deep sense of responsibility for what
had happened, and it wasn't going to be easy for him to see the Belews.
Her professional association with him had ended when the city had cut a
fat settlement check to Roland Jervis, but they still talked a couple
of times a week.  She suspected him of nurturing

hopes that she would come and join him, at least for a while, but she
hadn't decided what she wanted to do.  The money from the settlement
was providing some breathing room to work things out, and she was
spending a lot of time with her family, visiting friends, shoveling out
stalls in Emily's barn.  Maybe when September rolled around she would
have a better idea of what she wanted to do.  For now, though, she was
content to smell the roses.  Or, in the case of the stables, something
else.

There was more noise at the back of the courtroom, and Laura turned in
time to witness the arrival of the Belew family.  Diana, solemn in
black, caught Laura's eye and waved, but neither of her parents
appeared to notice her presence.  Helen Belew was, as always, perfectly
dressed and composed.  Laura had some idea, though, of what that pose
was costing her today, as she anticipated hearing the man who had
killed her son sentenced to a maximum of twenty years in prison.

That was the deal Michaels had struck in exchange for testifying
against Shawn Tolliver, who had declined a similar deal and who would
soon stand trial on a charge of felony murder.  Michaels was going to
be Marshall's star witness.  It was anybody's call how next month's
trial would go, but one thing was sure: Atlanta was going to be the
center of the nation's attention as the star athlete and his "dream
team" of attorneys played out their case in front of the jury.

The bailiff appeared, and it seemed as though things were finally going
to get under way.  Laura was looking at her watch when Amos slipped
into the bench beside her and took her hand.  "Sorry.  Got caught up in
something."

"So has the judge, apparently," she said, sotto voce.  But no sooner
had she spoken than the side door opened and Michaels was escorted in.
Laura had not seen him--except

for the occasional picture in die newspaper--since that night in Rabun
County.  She gripped Amos's hand a little tighter as Michaels walked to
his place, surveying the observers who had gathered in the closed
courtroom.  The surgeons had been unable to save the eye Laura had
injured, and it was covered with a black patch that gave him a fierce
piratical look.  He fixed his one good eye on Laura for a long moment,
and then gave a short laugh before turning away.

Laura's heart pounded.  The rage and hatred she had felt that night had
dissipated, leaving guilt and remorse in its wake.  Laura knew that
Amos, although he hadn't said so, was hoping that coming here and
listening to Michaels recite the litany of his crimes would exorcise
those feelings.

After what seemed like another eternity, Judge Root swept into the
courtroom, followed by Marshall Oliver and Meredith.  He gaveled the
proceedings to order, and his clerk began to read the extensive list of
charges, starting, to Laura's dismay, with the breaking and entering of
her house.  The judge asked for his plea.

"Guilty, Your Honor," Michaels replied in a firm, even tone.

"Please explain why you thought it necessary to break into Miss
Chastain's house."

Michaels turned his head and looked at Laura.  "She was making a
nuisance of herself.  It was to intimidate her.  I was trying to make
it look like she had a stalker, so her boyfriend would get her back in
line.  I thought if he thought someone was following her around, he
might get her to stop working for a while."

"Because she was pursuing a line of inquiry that might have
incriminated you?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"I don't know Miss Chastain's boyfriend, but based on

my experience I don't imagine that he would have had a lot of luck
persuading her to stop doing anything."

There was a mild ripple of laughter in the courtroom.  Laura gave Amos
a sidelong look.  He seemed to be sharing in the amusement.

"Read the next charge," the judge instructed.  Next up was bribery of
witnesses and suborning perjury.  "Let me get this straight, Mr.
Michaels.  You bribed three witnesses-Albert Jackson, Jermaine Clay,
and Terence Walker--in order to build a case against Mr.  Roland
Jervis, who was arrested and charged with killing Lawrence Belew."

"That's right."

"And you bribed a pathologist at the GBI Crime Lab to overlook certain
evidence."

"I asked him to fudge on the time of death a little," Michaels
admitted.  "None of this would have been necessary, Your Honor, if
Jervis hadn't been stupid enough to get in that car.  Once he did,
though, I kind of had to run with it.  I needed it to look like he was
the guy who had done it.  But what kind of idiot would get in an
abandoned car and take it for a ride?"

' "That's enough, Mr.  Michaels.  You're hardly in a position to
question anyone's actions at this point.  Now, one of these witnesses
..."

"Albert Jackson, Your Honor," his clerk prompted.

"Albert Jackson was killed in the Fulton County Jail.  Do you have
anything you would care to say about that?"

"No, Your Honor," Michaels said.  He hadn't been charged with that
murder, the killer had disappeared, and there was no evidence of any
kind Unking Michaels to the crime.

Judge Root sighed.  "I can imagine that you don't.  And

this, I believe, brings us to the charges relating to the death of Mr.
Belew."

The clerk read those charges, voluntary manslaughter and the lesser
included charges of kidnapping, reckless conduct, and assault and
battery.

"How do you plead, sir?"  the judge asked.

There was a long silence before Michaels replied," "Guilty."

"Please explain the sequence of events that led to your crimes."

Michaels, who had probably been coached by his attorney, recited the
story of the fatal encounter, but with a bare minimum of detail that
did not satisfy the judge.  "Tell me why, when you arrived and found
that Mr.  Tolliver had assaulted this man, you didn't seek medical aid.
And why you didn't call the police.  And why, for the love of God, you
removed Mr.  Belew, still living, from the scene, only to murder him in
cold blood later."

"Objection, Your Honor," the defense attorney said.  "The
characterization of the killing as 'cold-blooded' is prejudicial to my
client."

Judge Root glared, but said nothing.  Michaels began speaking again. "I
did all of those things at the request of Shawn Tolliver," he stated. 
"Shawn thought that Belew was already dead.  I realized that Belew was
still alive.  Tolliver got in a panic when he realized how bad he'd
hurt the guy.  He figured it would be all over for him if the guy woke
up and identified him.  So he promised me money--a lot--if I helped him
out.  It was Shawn's idea to kill him.  I didn't want to, but he raised
the ante."

"To what, Mr.  Michaels?"

"One million dollars."

"And for one million dollars you agreed to end a man's

life, and to cover Mr.  Tolliver's tracks, and to interfere with the
prosecution of justice.  Am I right?"

"Yes, Your Honor."  
"For one million dollars.  Was it worth it, Mr.
Michaels?"

"No.  It wasn't."

"I don't know what disgusts me more, Mr.  Michaels-your willingness to
do these things, or your seeming lack of remorse for having done
them."

"I am remorseful, Your Honor."

"Really?  You fail to convince me.  But I see that I'm making the
district attorney nervous.  No, Mr.  Oliver, I'm not going to upset
your applecart.  You'll have your trial, and your star witness.  Are
you ready to hear your sentence, Mr.  Michaels?"

"I am."  
"Very well.  You are sentenced to serve a period of twenty
years in confinement in an appropriate facility.  You will not be
eligible to be considered for parole before ten of those years have
been served.  Your friends in the district attorney's office have
recommended that your time be served in a minimum-security facility.
You are fortunate, Mr.  Michaels.  I don't imagine that a former law
enforcement officer would have an easy time of it in a harsher
environment.  Do you have anything else to say, Mr.  Michaels?"

"No, Your Honor."

"Then we are adjourned."

Judge Root left, and the sheriff's deputy who had escorted Michaels
into court reattached the manacles and led him from the room.  As he
went, he turned and looked once more at Laura, and winked with his good
eye.  She shuddered involuntarily.  Amos put his arm around her.  "You
okay?"

"I don't know.  It was pretty tough seeing him again."

"Hearing what he had to say for himself must have made

it a little easier," Marshall said.  He and Meredith had walked back
to where Laura and Amos were sitting.  It was the first time Laura had
seen or spoken to her ex-boss since he had fired her.  "So, Laura, what
are your plans?"

"I don't have any right now," she said.

"There's a slot open in my office.  Think about it," he said; then he
turned on his heel and walked away.

Meredith chuckled.  "Smooth as ever, huh?  But seriously, Laura, I wish
you would come back."

"Would I get a shot at prosecuting Tolliver?"

"No," she said, and then, seeing the dismay on Laura's face, "only
because there's not going to be a trial."

"He took a plea?"  Amos said.

"Yeah.  The league found its moral compass and kicked him out of sports
for life.  The dream team didn't think that was exactly a good omen, so
they very discreetly sounded us out about a deal."

"But I thought Marshall wanted a show trial before the election," Laura
protested.

"He did, but he's also no dummy.  There's no telling what a jury of
twelve celebrity-soaked jurors will do.  And Michaels's testimony was
shaky; Tolliver couldn't be linked to any of the cover-up.  I told
Marshall to take the offer.  It was a gift, really."

"I guess so," Laura said.  From the corner of her eye she saw the
Belews leaving the courtroom.  "Do they know?"

Meredith nodded.  "Marshall went to them first.  You want to know what
Mrs.  Belew said?"

"What?"

" "It's time to bury my son."  "

Laura watched the door close behind the family.  "I think he's earned
some peace," she said.  "We all have."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lelia Kelly lives with her family in Georgia.  She is currently working
on her next Laura Chastain legal thriller.  Lelia loves to hear from
readers; you may write to her co Pinnacle Books.  Please include a
self-addressed, stamped envelope if you wish to receive a response.