Conflicts of Interest
by
John Martel

Published by POCKET BOOKS For orders other than
by individual consumers. Pocket Books grants a discount on the
purchase of 10 or more copies of single titles for special markets or
premium use. For further details, please write to the Vice-President
of Special Markets, Pocket Books, 1633 Broadway, New York, NY
10019-6785, 8th Floor.

For information on how individual consumers can place orders, please
write to Mail Order Department, Simon & Schuster Inc." 200 Old Tappan
Road, Old Tappan, NJ 07675.
POCKET STAR BOOKS
New York London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore The sale of this book
without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without
a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as
"unsold and destroyed." Neither the author nor the publisher has
received payment for the sale of this "stripped book."

The author is grateful to the mysterious and reclusive
singer-songwriter Joe Silverhound for permission to use words from "Be
Careful What You Pray For (You Might Just Get Her)" and "I Should Have
Taken My Time (Now My Time's Been Taken From Me)."

I belatedly thank Mr. Silverhound, whose lyrics tend to humble my
prose, for use of a verse and chorus from "Survivor," with which I
ended my previous novel. Partners.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental.

A Pocket Star Book published by POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon &
Schuster Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 Copyright 1995 by John
Martel All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book
or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New
York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0671890956

First Pocket Books paperback printing October 1996 10 987654321 POCKET
STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster
Inc.

Front cover photo by W. Cody/Westlight Printed in the U.S.A.
For Bonnie Thanks to Fred, Bill, Dudley, Patsy, Kristina, Grant,
Mark, Alien, Stu, Jim, all my tolerant law partners, and for their past
wise counsel, Kathy and Linda.
A may happen that small differences in the initial conditions produce
very great ones in the final phenomenon. A small error in the former
produces enormous errors in the latter. Prediction becomes
impossible.

--Henri Poincare Celestial Mechanics, 1882 Meteorologists are fond of
saying that even the gentle movement of a butterfly's wings at point A
can so impact upon Poincare's "initial conditions" that "enormous
errors" in predictability will result by the time a disastrous weather
system is empirically registered at point B. Accordingly, students of
Chaotic Dynamics call this phenomenon "The Butterfly Effect."

--Prof. Henry Daimler Lecture, 1982 If you don't know where you're
going, you'll probably end up someplace else.
--Will Rogers Part 1 the WORLD--TO BORROW FROM abe lincoln--WOULD
"LITtle note nor long remember" the trial about to start in an ancient
courtroom in Modesto, California. But Seth Cameron knew his imminent
battle with Sterritt Malm--one of California's top trial lawyers--could
mean an escape from the quicksand of professional anonymity that had
swallowed him up out of law school. Could mean one last chance at
recognition and prosperity; a singular, potentially transforming
event.

Little wonder his emotions oscillated between agitation and boredom as
he forced the feverish Chevy up I5--a seamless four-lane umbilical
connecting the Mexican border to Canada--plummeting toward a
confrontation that could change the lives of both people in the car he
had just stolen.

The boredom came with the territory: I-5's hydra like capacity to
seemingly generate two new miles ahead for every one mile left behind.
Nothing in front or in back but asphalt and blowing dust. Frequent
users like Seth knew that the biggest danger in driving the barren,
unbending roadway was in falling asleep and running into a cow or a
power pole.

The agitation part--with its compensating jolt of adrenaline--stabbed
at Seth whenever he considered the significance of the case he was
about to try. Not because of the money at stake--although it could go
to six figures if things went badly--or monumental legal issues--it was
just a bullshit product-liability case brought by his opponent's
bullshit brother-in-law, who claimed to have swallowed part of a bug
concealed in a can of garbanzo beans produced by Seth's client.

No, the case was significant because a victory against Sterritt Malm
would earn Seth an interview with Miller and McGrath--one of San
Francisco's top law firms--and a chance to put three hundred miles
between himself and Bakersfield, California. A chance to prove that he
was as good as any of those society hotshots on San Francisco's
Montgomery Street.

Hotshots like Sterritt Malm, the man waiting for him in Modesto.

"You've got to beat Malm," his sometime friend and law school classmate
Harrison Cooper had told him. Harry, like Seth, had labored in other
fields before entering law school.

Unlike Seth, however. Harry had finished second in their class, had
been offered jobs by several of the top firms in the city. He had
chosen Miller and McGrath over Stafford, Parrish and
MacAlister--Harry's "short list"--and was now but two years away from
the coveted election to partnership at M&M that would bring him tenured
wealth and prestige.

Seth had also been a top student, at least until his third year, when
an undergraduate named Trish Mayfair had ripped the heart out of his
chest. His brain had hemorrhaged in sympathy, and he had spent his
fifth semester in an angry, self-pitying haze, during which his thirst
for knowledge was sated with shots of Cuervo Gold. As his grades
spiraled into the tank, San Francisco big-firm recruiters who had been
soliciting a commitment during his first two years suddenly developed
communal lockjaw.

Upon graduation and with no offers in prospect, he drifted back to
Bakersfield where he joined longtime friend Tom Huckins, who had
graduated four years earlier, to form Huckins and Cameron. Tom handled
the business clients--mostly contracts, wills, small
partnerships--while Seth built a litigation practice of high-volume,
low-fee insurance-defense work, and anything else that walked through
the door. The fact that his father, a retired court clerk, was living
alone in Bakersfield and crazy as a run-over dog provided him a decent
rationalization for his embarrassing return to the last place on earth
he wanted to go.

You're taking a job in Bakersfield?

Yeah, my father's there. He's in bad shape.
* * Beat Sterritt Malm," Harry had repeated, "and I'll be able to get
you an interview, probably even an offer at M and M."

"That's it? Just beat one of the best trial lawyers in America?"

Harry had laughed.

"You're the best trial lawyer in America, Seth. What's the problem?"

The problem was that Malm was indeed one of the best, a dominating
trial lawyer and master of dirty tricks. Seth knew Malm would pull out
all the stops for his sister's husband, even if the guy was a jerk and
a deadbeat.

The problem was that Seth had no evidence to rebut the jerk's claim
that he had in fact swallowed the damn insect, which had "caused
Plaintiff, as a direct and proximate result of the ingestion thereof as
alleged more fully herein above to be rendered ill and to suffer, and
to continue to suffer grievous physical and emotional pain and
suffering."

The problem was that Sterritt Malm never lost.

"Schedule the interview. Harry," Seth had said as he hung up the
phone.

A glance at his watch double-clutched Seth's stomach. His intense blue
eyes--hungry eyes, deep-set beneath a brow too furrowed for a man in
his midthirties--scanned the rearview mirror for black-and-whites. As
if Malm and the high stakes weren't enough cause for anxiety, he was
now running twenty minutes late for the 9:30 a.m. start of the most
important trial of his life. Showing up late for court was
unforgivable--like giving an opponent a two-hundred-mile head start in
the Indy 500--and often produced an angry judge who could make it hard
for the tardy lawyer's client to get a fair trial.

Which is how Seth had rationalized stealing the Chevy back in Avenal.

Stopping over there had definitely been a mistake, though Rosie's
request had seemed reasonable enough at the time.

Her aunt Claire--the oldest of three sisters of which Rosie's mother
was the youngest--lived just off 1-5, right on their way. At
five-thirty the next morning, however, Seth had discovered that the El
Camino had died in its sleep follow inga prolonged illness.
Complications leading to a blown transmission leading to other
complications.

Desperate, Seth had hot-wired the 1982 Chevrolet parked next door.
Desperate circumstances, desperate measures. He felt a pang of
remorse, but harbored no lingering regret,.

other than wishing he had stolen a faster car, maybe one with
air-conditioning.

Rosie hated the idea, though Seth had explained that car rental
agencies--like bowling alleys. Bob's Big Boy restaurants, and 7-Eleven
stores--were among the facilities conspicuously missing from Avenal's
storehouse of amenities.

He had done what he had to do and hoped a check for $500 left in the
owner's mailbox, along with a business card and a promise to return the
car in four days, would discourage a call to 911. But precious time
had been lost, including the extra ten minutes it had taken to coax
Rosie into the car.

All clear in the rearview, so Seth kept the accelerator pinned to the
floorboard and gulped the last of the coffee-still warm and bitter
strong--straight from the plaid thermos.

He was glad Rosie was asleep. She hated the way he drove, even in cars
he hadn't stolen, which was also her excuse for refusing to ride behind
him on motorcycles or horses. Didn't bother him. Nothing wrong with
being alone once in a while.

The country-musk radio station started playing "Be Careful What You
Pray For, You Just Might Get Her," lifting a corner of his mouth into
the sideways smile that had knocked Rosie's socks off when they met two
years earlier.

The song was his current favorite, though he couldn't imagine why
someone would want something that wasn't good for them.

"Maybe I'm the guy to beat him," Seth had told his father the day
before they left for Avenal. But Joe Cameron, caught between the
crippling pincers of arthritis and Alzheimer's--complicated in recent
years by a renewed and furtive fondness for wine of any color or
variety--knew what. his son was up to.

"Don't stay here on my account," Joe had said in a tightly wound voice
that told Seth his father had descended into one of his dark moods.

"Get the hell out of town for all I care."

Seth winced at the old man's words, just as he had as a kid, when his
father had been abandoned by his wife, when he had discovered distilled
spirits, when he had metamorphosed from a gentle soul into a bullying
and emotionally abusive hothead in just one week's time--or so it had
seemed to a frightened six-year-old boy. Four years later, Jimmy
Maxwell, the superior court judge for whom Joe Cameron clerked--himself
a member of Alcoholics Anonymous--had personally put up the money to
send Joe off somewhere in Napa County to dry out, then made sure he
attended weekly AA meetings. After that, Joe had again become the
loving father who had raised Seth single-handedly into adulthood with
hardly a complaint or harsh word.

But Joe was once again switching personas more often than his
underwear, howling and snarling at the full moon, only older this time
and even meaner. A stranger, a venom-spitting bag of bones.

"Try to understand. Dad," Seth had said, opening a window to allow the
fresh air a beachhead against a room stinking with age and neglect,
then tossing off his leather jacket and sitting next to his father.

"It's now or never for me. It's my last shot at being somebody." Joe
Cameron's dull eyes stared straight ahead, but Seth continued.

"I'm suffocating in this place. Pop, and I can't spend the rest of my
life here, knowing that someday I'll look in the mirror and see an old
man looking back at me through burnt-out eyes, an old man who never
even tried to grab the brass ring."

That didn't come out right, Seth realized, looking into the burnt-out
eyes of an old man who had never tried to grab the brass ring: a career
civil servant, a court clerk whose only ambition in life had been to
marry a decent woman someday, feed and clothe his family, set a little
aside. Instead, at the age of forty, he had met Ruth.

Sure enough, his father's small head snapped around with the suddenness
of a bird taking flight.

"You want to be somebody," he said in a mocking tone.

"Sounds like a line from a hundred bad movies. Your problem, kid, is
trying to be somebody you weren't meant to be." His peroration was
interrupted by a coughing seizure that left him wheezing and winded.

"Think just because nobody can beat you here in the bush leagues you
can make it in the majors," he continued, just as Seth thought he had
finished. Color rising in the old man's face gave him a paradoxically
healthy look as he paused once more to catch his breath before adding,
"Think you'll make a big splash in the city and that'll bring her back.
Am I right or am I wrong?"

"Pop, let's not get into--" "Well, I am right and you're wrong, damn
it! Woman doesn't give a shit for either one of us. So forget all
this Grand Achievement crapola. Besides--though it gives me no
pleasure to say it--I've seen most of the great ones, including
Sterritt Malm, during my twenty-five years in Department 3 and kid, you
haven't got what it takes to beat him or any other world-class trial
lawyer."

"I know you've seen a lot of great lawyers, Dad, but you've never seen
me ..."

"And what about your law firm right here in Bakersfield?

What about Huckins and Cameron? You come crawling back to Big Tom, eh?
Wanting to start all over? What's he going to say? He'll tell you it
ain't no turnstile we're running here, playboy. Hell, you'll be
replaced by the time you hit Fresno. Have you even discussed this with
Big Tom?"

The reference to his partner angered and shamed Seth, who had always
envied the easy relationship between his father and Tom Huckins. Big
Tom. Big, handsome, red-necked, hard-drinking, womanizing,
don't-give-a-shit Tom.

Big Tom, his father's apparent idea of the perfect son, a real man: a
man whose life ironically embodied the very traits Joe had raised his
son to reject. Seth took a deep breath and moved to a chair directly
in front of his father.

He leaned forward, willing the old man to meet his gaze.

"Dad, can we stick with my life here? I called Harry Cooper because
I'm dying here, shriveling up mentally, physically, professionally,
financially, you name it. Has nothing to do with Tom Huckins."
"The hell it doesn't! You go off on this crazy frolic andI'm telling
you Tom might not take you back after you flop!"

Abruptly, Joe Cameron's expression turned to stone. He paused to catch
his breath again, then gazed, trancelike, out the front window toward
the street. He seemed to have forgotten Seth was there, but then
startled his son by seizing his wrist with a powerful grip.

"Don't you see it. Son? She hated both of us! Blamed you for
wrecking her figure and me for wrecking her hopes and dreams--or so she
said about a thousand times. Forget about her," he added in a
sandpaper whisper, " 'cause J won't take her back either, no matter
what she says."

The "she"--Seth's mother--had run off with a wealthy Los Angeles
clothing wholesaler nearly thirty years before and was never heard from
again--other than the annual birthday card to Seth with no return
address.

Nearly thirty years.

Joe Cameron ran a veined claw of a hand across the thin white hair on
either side of his creviced scalp.

"So let's forget all this damn foolishness, kid."

Seth struggled for patience.

"You got it all wrong. Dad," he said softly, searching his father's
withered face, now a road map of fissures and inflamed capillaries.

"I'm not trying to prove anything to Mom--hell, that's a lost cause. I
guess I know how she must have ... resented me. And I'm not running
out on you or on Tom or anybody else. I'll be here whenever you need
me. And with the extra money I'd be paid--over twice what I can make
here--I'll be able to marry Rosie, get you full-time nursing care the
doc says you need now or a place at Summercrest--" "Summercrest!" Joe
Cameron lifted himself to his feet, his face contorted as he limped off
toward the kitchen.

"Go wherever the hell you please," he growled without looking back.

"But I'm staying right here. In my house where I belong. And when you
see her, you tell her to just stay the hell put. I don't want her
back. You hear? Tell her to just stay the hell out of my life!"

Rosie awoke on the outskirts of Modesto to the music of K. T. Oslin on
AM radio and the bizarre sight of derelict skeletons of steel on both
sides of a pockmarked roadway:
wrecked automobiles, some twisted like cruller doughnuts, others
crushed flat and stacked six deep on railroad cars or on flatbed trucks
as long as aircraft carriers. The rusting junk was scattered across
acres of bleached dust out of which had once sprouted lush peach,
apricot, and walnut orchards, an endless, surrealistic car cemetery
stretching as far as they could see down Crows Landing Road; endless
and uninterrupted, except for Garcia's Fix-It, The Rodriguez
Carniceria, and a Quonset-hut elementary school. All the used tires
and hubcaps you could want.

Rosie yawned, saw that Seth was driving fast even for him, gave her
thick dark hair a quick brush, and inspected her teeth in the mirror
beneath the sun visor. Seth steeled himself for another discussion of
orthodontia for her slight over bite but she just leaned over to kiss
him and ask cautiously if they were lost.

Seth was too busy hating himself to answer. Instead of staying on 1-5,
taking McCracken Road up to 132, then straight east into Modesto, he
had tried to make up time by cutting off at Crows Landing, then north
up Crows Landing Road. He had immediately found himself in tight
formation with a convoy of trailer houses, then a tractor-trailer
behind a two-lane harvester. Finally, he had arrived somewhere on the
outskirts of Modesto, completely disoriented.

"I think we're in South Modesto Acres," said Seth, twirling the car
into a 180 turn in the middle of Yosemite Boulevard, his knuckles
luminous on the steering wheel, "but nothing's like I remembered it."

South Modesto Acres had been a primary destination for hundreds of
dust-bowl Okies over half a century earlier.

Grandpa Tom Cameron--with a wife and two adolescents to feed--had been
one of those migrating drought victims.

He and Grandma had lived and worked in the fields here for whatever
they could get, but made sure that Joe and his sister graduated from
high school, no small task for rootless itinerant farmworkers. Joe
Cameron had been proud of his heritage, but Ruth had reinvented the
Cameron family history and told everyone Joe was old Boston Irish. It
mattered little to Joe if it pleased Ruth, though neither Joe nor his
father had ever been to Boston, and he couldn't think why Ruth went to
such lengths. One of the last things he remembered before she left was
hearing her tell someone on the phone that her father-in-law had
lunched almost daily with Joe Kennedy in the old days.

The face of South Modesto Acres had changed since Seth had passed
through years before, but the area still housed the poor and
disenfranchised--now mainly Mexican transient laborers. Many were
illegal aliens, fearful of strangers, existing in this steaming ghetto
at the sufferance of the Immigration Service because of their
willingness to pick insecticide-laden fruit nobody else would touch; to
harvest the new grapes of wrath.

Seth glanced at the clock on the dash and muttered an epithet. It read
9:15 a.m.

"Look there, Seth!" said Rosie.

"There's a boy might know the way to town!" Seth had also spotted the
ponytailed Hispanic youth and jammed on his brakes. He leapt out of
the car and shouted at the young man across spirals of withered air
that rose from the Chevy's hood.

"Where the hell is Modesto?" he asked, noticing that the youth's left
hand was encased in a filthy cast.

"You know, the city center. El centra?"

The young man shielded his eyes with his good hand, then pointed the
opposite way.

"That way? Not possible! Es ver dad Seth ran both hands through his
damp hair.

"El centra? El Courthouse?"

These last words sent the boy scurrying into a nearby trailer house,
bare feet moving across the white dust as soundlessly as a cat. His
lair, like the hundreds of other four-wheel shanties, was separated
from the next by little more than a few feet of space and looked about
as sturdy as a Kleenex box. More wrecked cars were randomly scattered
around the area like grazing sheep, but these at least appeared to be
drivable.

"No green card," said Seth, his features pinched from smells as pungent
as a Mexican border town mixed with the acid-metal' stench of his
boiling radiator and a tallow works a mile off the road. Seth
remembered the Modesto rendering plant from years back. Wind blows the
wrong way, watch out, especially on a day like this with the mercury
already pushing the mid eighties Shirt soaked through. Always look
sharp in front of a jury. Son. Never call attention to yourself by
being either sloppy or too fancy. Fresh one in the suitcase if he had
time.

"Kid's got no work visa," he mumbled to himself.

"Afraid somebody will find out he's illegally conned his way into'
hell."

"It's sad," agreed Rosie, taking in the blight. No streetlights here,
no gutters, no cable TV, no sidewalks, no McDonald's, no Burger King,
no law, no stores. Just a scrawled sign in front of a shanty
announcing Yard Sale, but the people on the porch had neither much of a
yard nor much of anything for sale other than some colored bottles on a
packing box, a handheld kitchen mixer, a bike with one wheel, some
ragged clothes, a pair of shabby dolls.

Rosie leaned out the window and cautiously suggested they take the
boy's advice, it being their only hope of making it on time, but Seth
stood motionless outside the car, lost in his frustration.

He looked at his watch: 9:18 a.m.

Rosie jumped as Seth slammed his hand down on the hood of the car,
muttering something about being fed up with working jerkwater towns
like a fucking pencil salesman.

Then he climbed back inside, jammed the gearbox into low, and spun the
Chevy around toward where the youth had pointed and aimed it between a
pair of circa 1916 full-size lions guarding the Seventh Street Bridge.
Seth vanquished the Tuolumne River in seconds, then spotted a giant
water tank off to his right with the word Modesto in letters the size
of a man. A right on I Street and he suddenly found himself on
familiar ground, crossing old Highway 99, then driving under the
majestic steel archway that for nearly a hundred years had proudly
proclaimed: "Water, Wealth, Contentment, Health!"

Seth wheeled left on Tenth Street--The Drag--immortalized by George
Lucas (Modesto's only hometown celebrity) in American Graffiti. Now
the barren street looked more like a set from another small-town
classic. The Last Picture Show. Traffic lights were still working,
however, and Seth's were all red. He shot through every one.
"Seth!" said Rosie.

"This is a stolen car!"

Seth said nothing as he blasted through one more intersection, slammed
on his brakes, and broke into a smile.

"You're right, honey. So let's get the hell out of it." They were in
front of the Stanislaus County Courthouse.

It was 9:27 a.m.

"Seth, darling', this is a good omen. You run for it. I'll find a
parking place and catch up with you in court."

"A good omen? Did you also happen to dream that I beat Malm?"

Rosie laughed at Seth's allusion to her dreaming, a subject that had
once been no laughing matter in their relationship and one that could
still generate tension. The major embarrassment in Rosie's life was
her mother, Esther Wheeler, an L.A. psychic with a weekly column in a
trash tabloid. Esther was the daughter of an Iroquois shaman named
Amelia Moon. Her claim that she possessed the gift of precognitive
dreams had been bolstered by sporadic incidents of apparent
clairvoyance--she once helped the local police department locate a
child who had fallen down an air shaft--leading to immediate tabloid
veneration. Clawing her way up the highly competitive
psychic-celebrity ladder from her outpost in South Dakota had not been
easy, and Esther's early columns had indulged in the familiar
excesses--"Mamie Eisenhower Drinks to Forget Her Virgin Birth,"

"How Sal Mineo Was Really Killed--Savaged by a Pack of Wild Dogs," and
so on--exposing young Rosie to the taunts of her schoolmates and
sealing her lips about her own dreams, which were sometimes
frighteningly prescient.

Seth pulled his trial bags out of the backseat, then leaned across to
give Rosie a kiss.

"Well," he said in a teasing tone, "did I win or not?"

"Shoot, Seth," said Rosie, managing a smile as she eased the manual
shift into low gear, "I wouldn't dream of you losing. Not with your
record. See you inside."

Seth smiled back and put a cold hand over hers. His eyes--intense even
at rest--had become diamond edged and he seemed to have grown an inch
or so over his six foot height.
He was ready. 2 but THE NEXT POUR DAYS OF TRIAL HAD BEEN A DISASTER,
and as Seth stared through the ancient courtroom's single south window
into the suffused glare of the San Joaquin Valley's midday sun--barely
listening to the Voice of Reason's closing argument as it reverberated
off the cracked yellow-oak walls--he wondered where it had all gone
wrong.

Maybe the relentless heat in this godforsaken coal-fired furnace
Modestans called an All-American City had finally fried a brain already
weakened by thirty-five years of life in the Valley--America's
breadbasket--an area Harrison Cooper had described as "a great place
for grapes and peaches, but you wouldn't want to be a human there."

Seth's thoughts segued to Dante's Inferno. After all, losing is hell
to a trial lawyer, and Seth Cameron was about to lose a case that could
have been won. Not just any case either. The case. His ticket to
ride. The file hidden in his cake.

He forced his bloodless face back in the direction of the Voice of
Reason--that's what Sterritt Malm had already twice proclaimed himself
to be--and saw to his dismay that the jury was still riveting all
twenty-four of its approving eyes on Malm, and that its twelve sets of
ears were vacuuming up every staccato word that issued from the stocky
lawyer's electric mouth. Malm punctuated each point with a quick,
forward thrust of his head, putting Seth in mind of a free-range
chicken at suppertime. No, more like a banty rooster, pacing and
preening in front of the jury, his closing argument crackling with
righteousness as he railed against the foul misdeeds of Perfection
Foods, Inc." a company so bereft of decency as to have "willfully and
wantonly" permitted three of nature's ugliest creatures access to a can
of its garbanzo beans, thereby allowing one of them further access
into the very mouth of Malm's emotionally scarred client.

The Voice paused for a moment of reflective silence, then broke the
ensuing tension with a swift backward tango that brought him alongside
the defense counsel table. With an imperial sweep of his arm, as if
intending to introduce Seth's client representative--an angular but
decent-looking company vice president named Orville Baskins--Malm
resumed his peroration.

"In whom," he intoned, his open palm extended to within inches of
Baskins's flushed and penitent face, "do we repose greater public trust
than in those who process our food, our very life sustenance?" (The
personal-injury lawyer punctuated his last four words with a dramatic
closed-fist blow to his own heart.) "And do not you and I--and did not
plaintiff Arnold Johnson--have every right to assume that food
processors like Perfection Foods would have taken such precautions as
are necessary to ensure that when we purchase and consume their
product"--quickly now, without even looking behind him at the clerk's
table. Malm's manicured fingers closed around Plaintiffs Exhibit 1A,
B, and C--"we don't also consume ... these?"

Sterritt Malm continued to rail as he triumphantly crab-stepped across
the front of the jury box, thrusting the moribund insects to within
inches of each frozen-faced juror, causing them to recoil one by one
like The Wave at a football game.

Seth, too, stared in disgust--not at the bugs but at his
adversary--then turned his head away, back toward the window and its
consoling rectangle of light, which now, however, had taken on the
appearance of radioactive gelatin viewed through a dirty lens.

His mind drifted back to a similar feeling of solitary helplessness he
had experienced years before, staring out the window of his
second-grade classroom the day after his mother had driven off into the
night with Alfred Gamut.

Don't make life into a melodrama, kid. There's plenty of things to
worry about already without inventing more of 'em.

Fatherly consolation.
Through the courtroom window, Seth now focused on agaggle of
cinnamon-colored leaves, emboldened by the absence of even a trace of
air movement, clinging tenuously to the forked limb of a Modesto ash
that looked as petrified as the three disgusting potato bugs now being
displayed to the jury.

Seth shuddered and clamped his red-streaked eyes shut as Sterritt Maun
finished his closing argument to the attentive jury with a "Thank you"
as crisp as a hundred-dollar bill, then resumed his seat at counsel
table, though not without first smiling at Seth--a sneer really--his
chalk-colored bonded upper teeth sparkling beneath a thin upper lip
curled inside out with contempt.

Malm had reason to gloat. The jurors' faces could have been read by a
blind man. Malm would beat Cameron, and beat him badly. No one in the
suffocating courtroom could rationally doubt the outcome now; not the
dissipated pensioner who had wandered the courthouse for a decade,
chewing on a lifeless corncob pipe and shifting his arthritic body from
cheek to cheek on the unyielding oak seat; nor the enormous dowager who
occupied the same second-row seats every day of the year, frantically
fanning herself with a folded Modesto Bee as if bent on taking flight;
nor even the beautiful but pale, dark-haired woman in the back of the
courtroom. Not one among them could doubt that the flamboyant San
Francisco plaintiffs attorney was about to hand the star trial lawyer
from Bakersfield his first defeat in five years: a verdict that would
surely exceed $100,000.

Seth Cameron managed to appear untroubled by any of this and took no
apparent notice of Malm's arrogance. In fact, he nodded reassuringly
to Orville Baskins and affected inspired scribblings on the yellow pad
in front of him, his wiry frame draped over the defense end of counsel
table, farthest from the jury as dictated by tradition. But his
phlegmatic when belied the internal combustion engine raging in his
stomach, though it accurately depicted a brain gone stone dead, as
moribund as the three tiny corpses that Malm had cleverly left sprawled
across the evidence envelope at the far edge of counsel table in full,
revolting sight of the jury.
Those jurors not preoccupied with the bugs stared imp as16 sively at
Seth, waiting for the impression he would make on them, watching him
rise from his place at counsel table and stride toward the court
clerk's desk, ostensibly to peruse and organize the trial exhibits for
his own argument, but really just to buy time. Time? Time for what?
he thought, as he stared without seeing at the sheaf of documents being
turned page by page by fingers he hardly recognized. Time was his
enemy now: too early to be rescued by the lunch recess and too late to
offer any real evidence in defense of Perfection Foods.

What it was time to do was take his medicine.

The judge, a political appointee obviously enamored of Department 4's
illustrious visitor from San Francisco, scowled down at Seth, drumming
zucchini fingers on a grapefruit cheek and conspicuously glancing up at
the clock.

Seth had seen from the outset that Judge Swinerton was not the sort to
mask his feelings in front of the jury and that he possessed the
judicial temperament of Jack the Ripper; the kind of sycophantic judge
who, possessing few virtues of his own, sought to elevate his public
image by aligning himself with those who had achieved a status that
would forever elude him. Judge Swinerton was that breed of judge who
could make the practice of law miserable under the best of
circumstances, let alone with a dog of a case like Seth's that had been
barking louder every day.

Seth willed himself to concentrate as he stared glumly at Plaintiff's
Exhibit 2, a medical report describing how plaintiff Arnold Johnson, a
two-hundred-pound union carpenter, had opened a can of Perfection
Foods's garbanzo beans and spooned half of the contents into his mouth
before discovering that he may have consumed some unwanted protein in
the form of Stenopelmatus fusci, a small but exceptionally ugly insect,
whose partial remains--a grotesque torso--were buried among the
garbanzos together with two fellow uglies, equally dead, though in
apparent possession of all their body parts.

Seth then picked up the complaint itself, which charged that the "shock
to plaintiffs nervous system so exacerbated a preexisting pathological
fear" of things that crawl, that Johnson had been rendered "unable to
pursue his occupation for the past three years," i.e." forced to draw
unemployment and become dependent upon his wife's earnings for his beer
ration, an unquenchable regimen in which he engaged after every third
race at Golden Gate Fields. Seth knew all this because he had hired
Leviticus Heywood--a San Francisco 49er teammate for two months in 1978
and now a PI in the city--to tail the plaintiff for four days. But the
jury would never hear about it because the one law-school graduate in a
hundred who would consider such information to be "irrelevant and
prejudicial" happened to be wearing a size extra large black robe and
sitting as the judge in this case.

Yes, Johnson was a phony--and undoubtedly a family embarrassment to
Sterritt Malm--but Seth's observations of the jurors during Malm's
argument confirmed his fear that they now saw the plaintiff through
Malm's pleading eyes as an innocent victim of Perfection's imperfect
canning process.

"A broken man," the plaintiffs lawyer had called Johnson in a plea that
skirted the edge of transparent melodrama.

"A brittle insomniac," he had cried, "enduring unproductive days and
endless nights crawling with fears that have haunted him now for three
torturous years."

Seth replaced the exhibits with a minimal smile at Judge Swinerton,
then returned to counsel table with the last words of Elston
Winney--Perfection Foods's insurance claims supervisor--ringing in his
ears: "You've got zip on this one, Cameron. Zilch, naught, zero. Offer
this deadbeat a lousy fifteen grand. You'll be protecting your perfect
record and my job."

You know who it is that exalts courage over judgment, kid?

Dead men and other suckers. Courage is a vastly overrated commodity,
probably because it's in such short supply.

"Deadbeat is the operative word here, sir," Seth had replied into the
telephone.

"You see it, I see it, I'll make the jury see it, too. The guy finds
two or three dead bugs, vomits a few times, and expects twenty-five
thousand bucks in settlement."

"Correction, Cameron," the claims supervisor had said, his metallic
voice popping with sarcasm.

"Mr. Johnson finds two dead bugs and part of a third. The jury will
feel it was perfectly reasonable for him to infer that the missing
portion of subject insect number three was at that very moment well on
its way into his own small intestine. It makes me queasy just thinking
about it, and I don't even believe the son of a bitch. Offer him the
fifteen. He'll take it. The great Sterritt Winthrop Malm doesn't want
to travel to Modesto fucking California to try this two-bit case."

"He may want to be a hero to his sister."

"All the more reason for him to put a quick fifteen big ones in her
purse. Jesus, Cameron, I'm trying to save your ass here. We can't
even rebut his assertion that the bugs got into the can at Perfection's
plant. You inspected the place yourself and told me it reminded you of
that scene from The Naked Jungle where the ants try to chew off
Chariton Heston's ear or something."

Winney had him there. Seth had visited the plant outside Manteca on a
steam-cabinet August day and would never forget his disgust as he
undressed later at the motel and saw that two of the little nasties had
made a break for freedom concealed in the cuff of his trousers.

"What were your reasons for not settling?" Rosie had asked the night
before in their room at the Holiday Inn, not to rub it in surely, but
in the hope of reestablishing some factual basis for positive thinking,
something she had observed to be missing in action after three days of
mauling at the combined hands of Sterritt Malm and Judge Swinerton.

"Is it possible that this Winney person may have been right for
once?"

"Left," said Seth.

"Pardon me?"

"More to the left."

Rosie said, "Oh," and rotated her massaging fingers over to the steel
mesh that comprised Seth's left shoulder.

"I guess I just didn't figure on drawing a fawning airhead for a judge.
Or on Amie Johnson cleaning up so good. Or on Malm's high-budget
graphics. Hell, that color blowup of the bugs was scarier than Jeff
Goldblum's last scene in The Fly. Then he back-doored me with that
whore psychiatrist from Stockton: 'traumatic neurosis' for Christ's
sake!"
"I always figured the defense would buy its own psychiatrist to combat
stuff like that."

"Retain, Rosie, not buy," said Seth, smiling and reaching back with
both hands to caress her narrow hips.

"Yes, honey, I usually do buy my own expert, but I didn't want to
dignify his last-minute emotional-distress claim. It was a stupid
gamble that left me with a defense case like watching Lassie without
the dog."

Problem with some flies. Son, is they get complacent after a while.
Figure they can get out of any trouble comes up.

Spiders enjoy them best of all.

Meanwhile, Malm hadn't made a mistake for three days, and the jury had
lapped up his case like starving dogs. Rosie considered asking Seth if
he was scared, but knew better than to expect an answer. It was enough
that he had stayed sober.

It was Seth's turn now, but he could already feel the icy hand of
defeat at his throat. He realized he had stopped breathing--a bad sign
for a trial lawyer about to deliver a closing defense argument in an
indefensible case.

"Mr. Cameron!" Judge Swinerton's tenor voice flooded Seth's
consciousness in surrealistic waves of sound that made his own name
sound oddly unfamiliar.

"Your closing argument.

Please!"

The fat bastard is enjoying this, thought Seth, picturing the judge as
a helium float in a Law Day parade and himself with an AK-47.

"Yes, Your Honor." The casual sound of his own voice encouraged Seth
into a renewed resolve not to be deprived of his shot at joining a San
Francisco firm by three dead bugs and a self-important stuffed shirt
like Sterritt Malm.

Seth drew a deep breath and tried to remember the other times he had
felt devastated by an adversary's closing argument--words that seemed
to erect a wall of logic his own rhetoric could not hope to breach--yet
somehow, he had managed to win.

"I'll be right there. Your Honor," he said, then added to himself, as
soon as I think of something to say.

He listened to the familiar courtroom sounds: the clerk's muffled
whisper into her telephone, a juror's self-conscious cough the velvet
key-taps of the court reporter's machine catching up on exhibit
numbers, and a wheezing noise like a bicycle wheel in need of oil--his
own breathing. At least he was breathing again, although it felt like
something closer to hyperventilation. A shot of Tequila Gold splashed
across his mind. Just one. Between pounding temples, his frontal
lobes fought off an attack of vertigo and his pen had started writing
nonsense, started writing nonsense, his pen had started ... His mouth
was dry as asphalt. He wanted to lick his lips, but resisted the
impulse, knowing the jury was watching him now as he twisted like an
insect on the end of his adversary's pin, looking for the slightest
indication of uncertainty, of fear.

He hated those jurors with their smothering eyes all over him, staring
at his pock-scarred cheeks, expecting too much of him. He pictured
himself rising to his feet, but instead of delivering his closing
argument, simply wishing his client the best of luck and then walking
out of the courtroom into the warmth of the late-morning sun.

An old trial lawyer's aphorism pushed the negative thought out of his
mind: "If you don't have the law, try your case on the facts. If you
don't have the facts, try your case on the law. If you don't have
either the facts or the law, try the lawyer on the other side." Fine,
but try him for what? Having too much evidence? Think, Cameron, he
urged himself, this guy can't be perfect.

Maybe, mused Seth, as thought jostled anxiety for space in his pounding
head, maybe I can make something of the fact that the son of a bitch
really is perfect--or at least close to it--and like all "perfect"
people, he reeks of self-importance and takes himself too damn
seriously.

"Mr. Cameron," repeated the judge, his voice flint-edged with
impatience.

"We are waiting for you. Are you or are you not going to favor us with
a closing argument?"

"Yes, Your Honor, I'm sorry," said Seth, glancing toward the jury to
include them within the reach of his apology.

Then, with a supremely confident nourish the jury could not possibly
miss, he twice underlined the sentence he had scribbled earlier on his
yellow pad and began to will his anesthetized legs to stand and
deliver.

What he had written was: This is fucking hopeless.

In the back of the courtroom, Rosie's delicate features were strained
with anxiety, her eyes fixed on the immobilized back of her lover.
Though worried, she was confident Seth would find his magic, pull a
bunny out of his hat as he always did. But though she wanted to send
him positive vibrations, Rosie was haunted by ambivalence concerning
the desired outcome. She knew how much the San Francisco offer would
mean to Seth, a knowledge that produced feelings of guilt--as if her
thoughts might produce bad karma and influence the outcome. On the
other hand, she had herself to think about. She was, after all, just a
country girl, born and raised in the tiny town of Custer, South Dakota,
nestled in the Black Hills, ill prepared to fit in with the cultured
and well-dressed ladies of San Francisco. To Rosie, Bakersfield was
plenty big enough, and she saw no reason to move far away from the only
friends she had. And although from the looks of things, they wouldn't
be going anywhere, she couldn't forget the dream she had had the night
they were in Avenal.

Yet, despite her confusion and personal concerns, her heart ached with
compassion as she stared at the man she loved. For now, at least, all
she wanted was for Seth to get on his feet and somehow make the jury
forget Malm's masterful polemic, an argument that even she had been
unable to resist. Psychic powers were not needed to see that Seth was
in deep trouble, but her hopes were fueled by the sight of him rising
to his feet and the assured way he walked right up to the jury. Rosie
held her breath.

"Your Honor. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," Seth began,
remembering other hopeless trial situations when he had forced himself
to talk until he found a theme and gradually began to believe whatever
it was he was saying--the first step in reversing the pendulum's swing.
Then maybe one or two jurors would look as if they were also believing
him, and that would feed his confidence until a tiny spark would fan
into flame as more jurors seemed to be with him, and soon he might even
get into The Zone and find himself sitting out there in the audience
with the others, observing his own incredible performance with a
father's pride as words rushed from his brilliant lawyer's mouth like
little Phi Beta Kappa scholars, each one bearing its own unassailable
logic, and then ... "I have listened to Mr. Sterritt Winthrop
Maalllm," he began, "with great interest. In fact, this may surprise
you, but I have no real argument with most of the things Mr.

Sterritt Malm has come all the way from San Francisco to tell us.

"I can't, for example, prove that these little guys weren't there in my
client's garbanzos at the time and place Mr.

Johnson says he saw them. Shoot, he can say anything he wants; he was
the only one around. I wasn't there and neither was Mr. Malm. Nor is
there a single independent witness to counter Mr. Johnson's testimony
that part of the thorax of Plaintiffs Exhibit C was missing when he
first saw it, if in fact he saw it at all. Nor, for that matter, is
there anybody who can say that he didn't get sick from something during
those first two or three days. In fact, his work records--Exhibit
4--reflect that he has not done a single day's work since he met
Plaintiff's Exhibit 1A, B, and C, who, by the way, since they are the
silent but crucial witnesses in this case, deserve names. Let's call
them ... Huey, Dewey, and Louie."

Seth noticed that juror number eight--a miniature peroxide blonde of
indeterminate years--smiled openly at this, and that at least two other
jurors stifled incipient grins. Seth also observed that Sterritt Malm
tensed in his seat, started to object, but let the moment pass. Seth's
strategy was forming in his head, bounding along like a foxhound just a
few feet ahead of his tongue.

A strategy at last: gentle ridicule.

"Let me put it right out there, folks. What Mr. Sterritt Malm wants
here is for you to give his client a whole lot of money because Mr.
Johnson lost his zeal for hard labor after encountering Huey, Dewey and
Louie--" "Part of Louie!" interrupted Maun, exploding to his feet.

"I mean part of Exhibit 1C," he corrected himself, provoking a chuckle
from juror number three.
Seth continued, seeing that at least half the jurors were suppressing
smiles now, "Mr. Malm's point is well taken, ladies and gentlemen:
part of little Louie." Seth thrust his hands deep in his trouser
pockets and walked closer to the jury. His tone remained relaxed,
matter-of-fact, but now took on a serious edge.

"But that, folks, is the last thing Mr.

Malm and I agree on.

"In the first place, even if it happened, I just don't think it's right
for people to exploit an honest error by a food company like
Perfection, which, as you heard from its quality-control vice
president--Mr. Baskins here--does everything humanly possible to
provide food that is both appetizing and safe. Add don't forget that
Mr. Johnson doesn't even claim he was actually poisoned; he just says
he was scared to death that he might have been poisoned and then, in a
self-fulfilling prophecy, became ill. And what frightened this
two-hundred-pound man right out of his honest job? A Bengal tiger? A
werewolf at the full moon? Nope. It was Huey, Dewey, and ... part of
Louie, that ended Mr. Johnson's career as a contributing member of
society."

Yes, yes, thought Seth, feeling himself growing stronger, more
confident. They love it! He stole a glance back at Sterritt Malm and
wondered if the jury could see those aristocratic jaw muscles
twitching.

"In summary, ladies and gentlemen, I submit that what really scared Mr.
Johnson--and people like him who crowd our courtrooms every day looking
to get rich off the misfortune of their neighbors--was the idea of
having to work for a living."

Touchy ground. Easy does it. Boy Wonder.

"How else can you explain it? I realize that life is a matter of
taste, but personally, I think if my stomach were tough enough to
handle a half can of ... cold garbanzo beans, it could certainly
tolerate the sight of a trio of God's own creatures without all this
fuss."

This brought more smiles, and Seth knew he was making progress. Rein
it in, boy, Seth again cautioned himself. He was certain now that
Sterritt Malm had gone too far when he had thrust the bugs in front of
each juror. Perhaps the shock and disdain on their faces had been
directed not so much toward the insects as toward Malm for putting
them through the experience. Seth knew that jurors, like good
martinis, needed to be stirred, not shaken.

"Now, I am not going to bore you with a long dissertation on the law;
it is pretty much as counsel has described it. But there is one
important thing you should understand. Not even Mr. Malm is going to
insult your intelligence by asking you to give him one hundred thousand
dollars, or even five cents, because his client saw Huey, Dewey, and
part of Louie in a can of garbanzo beans. What he wants you to believe
is that Mr. Johnson personally consumed half of Louie and thereafter
became so sick that he developed the symptoms which Dr. Harris was so
colorful in describing and which nobody but God can prove or
disprove.

"So the thing to remember here"--Seth moved another step forward,
gently touching the jury-box railing with his fingertips and turning
his voice volume up a notch--"is that there is not one bit of proof by
the plaintiff---who does have the burden of proof on this point as the
court will soon instruct you--that Mr. Johnson did, in fact, eat half
of Louie.

"Now, you don't have to believe that Mr. Johnson is lying to you about
this, because he doesn't even know whether he did or didn't, and cannot
say that he did, and therefore has not proven that he did to a
preponderance of the evidence, as required by law.

"I suggest, therefore, ladies and gentlemen," said Seth, extending his
arms, palms up, then dropping them to his sides, "that this is a case
of no harm, no foul."

Four jurors involuntarily nodded in affirmation, sending a rush of tiny
electric needles up his spine. He had almost half of them now; the
pendulum was swinging back. God, what a great business to be in!

There was, however, the One Last Thing, and the thought of it dampened
his euphoria as he rushed headlong toward it.

"I'm not saying that I would not be pretty doggone mad myself if I paid
seventy-nine cents for a can of garbanzo beans and halfway through it
found these little guys--which Mr. Malm, you may have noticed, has
conveniently left sitting right here on this white envelope in full
view of all of you By the way, folks, that's one of the oldest tricks
of the trade. You see, that's supposed to put me in a terrible bind.

Either you won't pay attention to my argument because you'll be
distracted by these critters, or I'll have to be the one who puts them
back in the evidence envelope, which would signify--as he would point
out to you in his closing reply argument--that 'not even Mr. Cameron
can stand the sight of these terrifying creatures!"

" Seth saw at least eight faces beaming back at him now in
conspiratorial allegiance. The pendulum had swung back all right, but
only the One Last Thing would keep it there after Malm had had the last
word granted by law to all plaintiffs.

"Well, folks, Huey, Dewey, and Louie just aren't that terrifying.

In some parts of Africa, these little fellas might be considered a
delicacy." Seth turned to Plaintiffs Exhibit 1A, B, and C, picked up
Huey, and cradling him in the palm of his hand, held him out at a
comfortable distance from the jury.

"If you can afford it, you can buy chocolate-covered ants in the
gourmet section of your supermarket, and in some shops you can buy
grasshopper delicacies much bigger than Huey here."

Seth paused, then ruefully shook his head and said, "No wonder the
court system is clogged and companies are complaining about the
skyrocketing cost of providing products to consumers." At this, juror
number four--a retired accountant whom Seth figured to be elected
foreman-frowned and nodded in agreement.

Everybody's got a different button. Son, and you've got to be able to
find a way to press 'em all--which is why it's a lot of bunk to say
perspiration is more important than inspiration.

If you don't have 110 percent of both, you better stick to drafting
wills or partnership agreements and stay out of the courtroom.

"What's all the fuss about in this case? What's so bad about little
Huey here?" Then, with a final look into the glazed eyes of
Stenopelmatus fusci and an inward shudder, Seth wished himself bon
appetit and popped Huey into his mouth. The twelve jurors inhaled as
one, a vacuum gasp as palpable as a jet engine. Malm catapulted to his
feet screaming "Your Honor, Mr. Cameron is swallowing the evidence!

Make him stop!"

"It may be too late for that. Counsel," said the judge, whose eyes had
become golf balls in flight.

"Have you, in fact, swallowed Plaintiffs Exhibit 1A, Mr. Cameron?"

Seth gathered himself. What was crucial now was not what he said, but
how he said it. His mouth salivated formaldehyde, but it was that
crunching sensation--like soft-shell crab--that would be lodged in his
memory long after the last spiny segment had cleared his throat.

"I have, indeed. Your Honor, and would go for 1B and 1C as well, but I
see that we are approaching the lunch hour."

More jurors were laughing now, relieving the tension.

"That's not funny, Mr. Cameron," said the judge, glaring at Seth and
looking toward the bailiff as if for guidance.

"Mr. Cameron is in contempt. Your Honor!" cried Malm, dramatically
snatching off his spectacles.

"I rite him for misconduct and demand a mistrial. He has turned this
case into a travesty of justice." Malm was whining, just as Seth had
hoped and believed he would.

"With all respect. Your Honor," continued Seth, "I have only
eliminated a redundant exhibit. Counsel has established through expert
testimony that Exhibit 1A is identical to remaining Exhibits 1B and
part of 1C. Thus, no prejudice has been done.

"As for turning this trial into a travesty, this case has been a
travesty from the day Mr. Maun filed his frivolous complaint. I've
only exposed it."

Feeling total control now, Seth turned his back on the judge and faced
the jurors--all of whom had recovered from their surprise and were now
regarding him with amused respect--and said, "In conclusion, ladies and
gentlemen, I tell you two things: First, Plaintiffs Exhibit 1A could
have used some mayo and perhaps a pinch of seasoning.
"Second, I have done my job. Now go do yours." 3 "A PLAINTIFF'S
VERDICT FOR SEVENTY-NINE CENTS? be serious!"

"It's true. Harry," said Seth into the telephone just outside the
courtroom.

"Exactly the amount Johnson paid for his can of garbaczos. The jury
saw right through him. Out less than an hour--and that's counting two
interruptions by the bailiff to admonish them to hold down the
laughter."

"Laughter? You're making this up. Cowboy."

"Hell, you could hear them all the way out in the corridor.

Malm didn't even poll the jury after the verdict. Just lectured me,
grabbed his trial bag, and lit out."

"Incredible!" exclaimed Harry.

"His case sounded solid. How did you deal with his evidence?"

"Actually, Harry, I ate it. Part of it, at least."

"You what?"

"I ate little Huey, one of a proud but vanishing line of explorer bugs.
Exhibit 1A to be precise."

"Jesus," said Harry, "what ... what happened?"

"I threw up into my briefcase, but not until the jury--" "I mean, what
did the judge do?"

"The usual admonition to the jury to disregard, trying to unring the
bell, with the usual result that it rang even louder."

"Jesus."

"Anyway, podner, as I told the twelve tried and true in closing
argument, "I've done my job, now go do yours."

" "Fair enough. Cowboy. I'll take it up with an M and M hiring
partner right away. How soon could you make it to the city for an
interview?"

"I'm only four hours away. Just whistle."

"It shouldn't be a problem now. Not many trial lawyers have beaten
Malm, plus we've just lost two trial associates.
By the way, would you be able to bring any business clients with you
if you got an offer?"

"From Bakersfield? You've got to be kidding. Huckins and Cameron has
only one semi major continuing client.

Mostly we do probate, divorce, small partnerships, leases.

Pretty low-rent stuff by M and M standards."

"What does your semi major client do?"

"Runs an independent telephone company that services about forty small
towns in central California. I handle their disputes, Huck does their
business work."

"Can you bring them with you to M and M?"

"I don't know. Is it important? I thought M and M just wanted my
silver tongue."

Harry laughed, told him sure, that was what they wanted all right.

"But these are tough times, Seth, and the partners are looking hard at
a senior associate's ability to bring in business before electing him
or her to partnership. We eat what we kill here in the big city."

Seth said he'd think about it, and Harry emphasized that it wasn't a
condition: "It just might grease the skids a little.

But tell me, what did Malm say to you after the verdict?"

"He said I danced too close to the edge. Told me next time he'd knock
me off it. I told him that unless his balls were as big as his mouth,
he'd better bring lots of help."

"Pretty harsh words, even from an ex-kamikaze defensive corner back

"He didn't much like it."

The telephone went silent for a moment.

"Harry?"

"Yeah, Seth," said Harry finally.

"I was just thinking ... and hope you won't resent a suggestion?"

"I'm all ears."

"Well," said Harry, now choosing his words carefully, "I know you've
got to be yourself, but ..."

"Don't worry, old son, I won't wear cowboy boots or come up in the
elevator on my Harley. I'll be urbane and cultured, the best and the
brightest, the cat's meow."

"That's reassuring from a guy who thinks pretzels and beer are two of
the major food groups. But I had in mind the fact that everyone is
going to ask you about your victory against Sterritt Malm, and it
might be, well... prudent, not to mention the little matter of Exhibit
1A."

Another moment of silence passed between the friends.

"Guess I'm missing something here," said Seth.

"I won, didn't I? Isn't that the bottom line these days, particularly
with big-city partners? Don't they sometimes commit a little
creativity there on Montgomery Street?"

"Well, sure, Seth, but it's not just that," said Harry, his voice
strained with caution.

"Some people here might think you bent the rules a little there; you
know, maybe question the, uh, well ... the ethics of it."

"Ethics?" said geth, laughing again, but this time with a sardonic
edge.

"Where you work? Shit, Harry, I can understand them questioning my
sanity, but my ethics? Are you saying those M and M three-piece suits
who get paid four hundred bucks an hour to help takeover specialists
swallow up weaker companies using borrowed funds so they can sell off
the assets to repay the loans, trash the employees, then pocket the
profits are going to get seriously righteous over a country lawyer who
swallows one little insect?"

"Slow down. Cowboy. You can't blame them. Leveraged buy outs happen
to be where the money is now."

"That's what Willie Sutton said when they asked him why he robbed
banks."

"Don't get sanctimonious on me, Seth. They know they're not angels,
and they don't expect you to be one either. It's more a matter of,
well, style. I'm just suggesting you don't come on to them like some
off-the-wall maverick. The personnel partner is already taking a
chance, making an offer to someone while the senior partner's back at
Yale on a teaching sabbatical."

"Who's that?" said Seth, his temper momentarily cooled by curiosity.

"Anthony Treadwell. He runs the place."

"I've heard him lecture. He's one of the great ones."

"If you come to M and M, you'll hear him lecture a lot.

Up close and personal."

"I'm used to it."

"I'm sure you are. How is the old geezer?"
"You never know with Pop. The doc says it might be atumor on the
brain that turns him upside down every now and then. If I get on with
M and M, I'm going to put him up at a good home."

"We need an experienced trial lawyer here, Seth. I think it's a slam
dunk."

"Well, whatever happens. Harry, I thank you for your efforts."

Harry said nothing for a minute and Seth thought he might have lost the
connection. When Harry spoke, Seth had to strain to hear.

"I'm still trying to square things, Seth."

Seth's features folded into a frown, and he drew in a quick breath.

"That's history, pard. Forget about it. Give her my best."

Harry told Seth sure he'd do that and they said goodbye.

Seth stared at the receiver for a minute, then slammed it into the
cradle and spun out of the phone booth, almost knocking Rosie down.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Wasn't Harry excited about you winning?"

"Sure he was. Nothing's wrong. Everything's fine."

The peroxide juror approached Seth, congratulated him, enclosing his
hand in both of hers. She then acknowledged Rosie with a tight-lipped
smile and disappeared down the hall. Mr. Thorton, juror number five,
came down the hallway, also smiling and wanting to visit.

"Beats anything I ever seen," he said, shaking hands with Seth.

"Didn't know the law allowed it, but scarfin' little Huey like that
sure did get our attention."

Seth forced a smile for the unemployed construction superintendent, a
good-natured, rough-cut man.

"As long as it's not a clear violation of the penal code," Seth said,
reaching down for his trial bags, "Cameron's Law allows anything that
works. So, if re-creating the event works, I'll do it every time."

The foreman scratched his head, then smiled again.

"Well, I guess it's good this weren't no murder case."

"Even I have my limits," said Seth, trying to ease past the burly
juror.

"Sorry I can't talk with you now, Mr. Thorton. Tight schedule."
The big man respectfully stepped back, then shuffled away as Seth
started down the corridor in the other direction.

"Let's get out of here," he said to Rosie, "before the local gourmet
critic shows up wanting my recipe for Crepes Huey."

"He was just being nice."

"You're suggesting I wasn't?"

"Well, alls I know is that you just won the most important case of your
life and you're acting like you lost it. What did Harry say to put you
in such a black mood?"

"We'll discuss it later, okay? There's another elevator down at the
end of the hall."

They passed the municipal court departments, weaving through a throng
of dispirited people milling about, awaiting their fates: traffic
violators, drug pushers, wife beaters, small-claims litigants. Several
tried to catch Seth's eye, but he knew what they wanted and kept his
gaze straight ahead. A lawyer in a courthouse, carrying his telltale
briefcase, is a loaf of bread to a starving crowd. He has something
the citizens want: familiarity with the arcane and mystical secrets of
the intimidating world into which they have been unwillingly cast. He's
a walking Rosetta Stone. Someone who can help.

"Senor, por favor! Please?" Seth turned to see a tiny woman who
looked to be somevyhere between the ages of thirty and sixty, smelling
of fruit--peaches and apricots-with wiry hair stacked like an umbrella
and skin as hard and dry-looking as a sidewalk. Seth figured her for a
migrant cutting-shed worker. He picked up his pace in the direction of
the elevator, but she scurried along beside him, then suddenly closed a
callused hand around his wrist.

"Let go of me, ma'am," he said, still moving. Rosie paled and ran
ahead to summon the elevator.

But the woman's fingers closed tighter. Hand like a chicken claw.

"Please, senor abogado," she said.

"Only a minute." People were beginning to stare, some were
following.

"It's no for me," she continued breathlessly, "but to save a young
life. Please. I beg of you, senor." She would have dropped to her
knees, but a tall young man with a cast on one hand rushed up to
restrain her.

"We, Mama, noes necesario."

"Seth," whispered Rosie over her shoulder, "it's the boy from the car
cemetery!"

The ponytailed youth smiled apologetically and, with his good hand,
peeled his mother's fingers off Seth's wrist, one by one.

"My boy is muy loco for what he did," she cried as the boy firmly led
her away, "but we no have a lawyer and the judge he is going to deport
him! Please, senor, please!"

Seth was at the elevator doors, staring at them, willing them to
open.

"The judge will appoint a lawyer for your son, ma'am," he said over his
shoulder. When the doors finally opened, he pushed Rosie inside,
pushed the ground-floor and door-close buttons until his finger was
white and he felt the car's downward lurch.

"The judge will appoint someone," he repeated when the doors had
finally closed, but Rosie stared up at lights inching sideways across
the plastic numerals and said nothing.

"He'll plead political asylum," said Seth, inwardly cursing the
lumbering elevator's seeming capacity to defy the laws of gravity. He
exhaled, dropped his trial bags noisily on the floor. Rubbed his eyes
but could still see the woman's dark, pleading eyes, aimed straight at
him.

"The process will tie up deportation proceedings for so many years
they'll lose interest in him."

Silence.

"He'll be fine. Really."

Rosie sniffed, but offered a quick nod of her head, then the hint of an
amnesty smile.

"Come on," he said as the doors finally parted into blazing sunlight,
"it's time for Bonnie and Clyde to head back to A venal and turn
ourselves in." 4 A WEEK LATER, seth cameron, BURIED IN valley DUST
and convention, mired alternately in the ennui of bullshit client
meetings and the fierce tension of the courtroom, awoke and prepared to
shave for the 210th time this year alone. His mind was an elevator, up
and down, sometimes stuck between floors.

Rosie noisily hummed in the tiny kitchen as she served up his 210th
bowl of oatmeal--she had long ago denied him his beloved bacon and
eggs--and topped the steaming mush with raw oat bran (you got to have
your fiber, darlin'), rimmed with 2 percent low-fat milk. Tupelo honey
and raisins couldn't save it. Still tasted like sawdust.

The week had passed at the speed of a snail, and a dark, floating
anxiety had nested in his head. For one thing, as he put it to Rosie,
"the phone keeps on not ringing." For another, he felt guilty about
not being open with Tom Huckins about his conversations with Harry,
about his intention to accept an offer if he got one. Tom had his
faults, but subterfuge was not among them. On the other hand, Seth
rationalized, why get Huck all upset about something that might never
happen.

Then it happened, and when the receptionist announced that Harrison
Cooper was on the line, Seth's emotions started dancing like water
drops on a griddle.

Harry skipped the preliminaries.

"How about next Tuesday, Cowboy?"

"Time?"

"You'll start at nine-thirty sharp. I'll introduce you to Vie
Lydell--he's the personnel partner--and he'll start you on your round
of interviews. I shouldn't tell you this, but like I said, it's
practically a sure thing--barring, of course, the distinct possibility
that you make some sort of indecent proposal to Lydell's secretary or
urinate on his shoe. They're talking one hundred and fifty K to start
as a lateral senior associate, then partnership in a year and a half
after we sniff each other out."

"Sounds good. Have any idea how much a first-year partner makes
there?"

Harry hesitated a minute.

"I'm just guessing, but I assume we'd be bumped at least another
hundred." Another pause, then a quiet chuckle.

"I never realized that it was the almighty dollar that stimulated Seth
Cameron's thalamus."

"That's because you always had enough of those almighty dollars."

Harry laughed.

"There's never enough. Dostoyevsky called it 'coined liberty."

" "The man had it right."

"So may I assume that's a yes?"

"My saddlebags are packed."

"That's what I thought you'd say," said Harry.

"Plan on spending the night before with Trish and me. I'll tell you
more of what to expect over some home-cooked San Francisco cuisine.
Bring Rosie if she can get off."

Seth said he would be there, hung up, took a deep breath, and headed
across the hallway to Tom Huckins's office.

"Seth, of' pard! Meet Tammy. She's been telling me about her sexual
harassment case against the manager of Big Burger."

"Tammy" quickly fastened the top buttons of her blouse--though Seth was
sure not as quickly as his nimble-fingered partner had unfastened
them--then asked directions to the ladies' room. Seth shook his
head.

"Started your research already, Huck?"

"You know I'm a hands-on kind of lawyer. Cowboy.

Never too soon to begin dealing lusty blows for justice."

Tom straightened his tie, brushed back his curly, dark hair, and
glanced toward his scowling partner.

"Okay, Seth, so she's a dog."

"That's not the point. I think she's trying to be a client.

But since you mentioned it, she is in fact a real dog, which to my mind
should make it easier for you to be a real lawyer."

3S
"Come off it, pard. It doesn't interfere professionally and you know
I never met a woman I didn't like."

"Nor a mirror either," said Seth dryly, thinking. Just keep it up,
Tom. Make this easier for me.

Seth said it then, no preamble, just said it. Told him everything,
including that if he got the offer, he'd accept it. Tom's salacious
grin twisted into gaping disbelief, then tightlipped anger as reality
set in.

"You can't do this," said Tom, his handsome face suddenly strained,
unbelieving.

"We're just turning the corner here. Everybody knows you're nuts as a
bunny. Cowboy, but I could have you shipped to the funny farm if
you're crazy enough to waflc away from what we've built here. Seth
Cameron selling himself to a big-city firm? No way."

"Tom, nothing's for sure, but the fact is, I'm snakebit in this town.
More to the point. Doc Parley says Pop needs round-the-clock nursing
care now. Hell, Joe Cameron's so tight his ass squeaks even if he had
any money, which he doesn't. I can't afford it either on what we take
in here. So that's it. I told you because I thought you had a right
to know. I'm not asking for your permission or your advice."

"Well, you're going to get my advice whether you want it or not," said
Huckins, dropping into a seat behind his desk and staring thoughtfully
at a pencil he picked up and held between his huge hands.

"Look, Seth, we both have friends at firms in the city and L.A." right?
Are they as happy as we are? Hell no. They're always on guard.
Right? Always under inspection: which club to join, which fucking fork
to use, all that crap. That's not you, man. You belong right here
with me and Rosie and the guys. Where you can be your shit-kicking
self without some tightly wound asshole looking crosswise at you.
Hell, Seth, your game's pool, not polo. There ain't a drop of blue
blood running through that red neck of yours."

Seth just looked at him, knowing how Tom prided himself on his reverse
snobbery. He was one of those self-absorbed people who assumed that
all his buddies saw things the same as he did: that life amounted to no
more--or less--than waterskiing on Saturday, watching big-screen
professional football on Sunday, working hard all day, chasing hard36
bodies all night, getting shit-faced Friday night at Jason's, then
crawling out of bed Saturday noon and starting all over again.

Tom broke the silence.

"Am I right? Or maybe the hottest trial lawyer in the Valley thinks
he's a cut or two above the rest of us yokels."

Seth tried to generate a smile.

"Jesus, Huck, let's not make this into some kind of major class
struggle. Of course I don't think I'm better. What the hell's so damn
evil about wanting to try big cases and getting paid top dollar for
doing it?"

Tom pointed the pencil at Seth, heat flashing from his dark eyes.

"Nothing, Seth. But you don't just want top dollar.

You want top billing, top pussy, top everything. What's worse, you'll
probably get it. But then you're gonna find you got nowhere to go. And
I'll tell you this: You leave here, of buddy, you damn sure won't be
welcome back."

"Tom, I can't believe you're saying--" "Well, believe it, asshole!"
said Huckins, spinning out of his chair and moving with surprising
quickness to within inches of Seth.

"I left a good job to join up with you! You committed to me, you son
of a bitch!"

"Hell, Tom, you know I've never committed anything to anybody in my
life," said Seth, holding his ground.

"As for that 'good job," you can go back to searching titles for the
county at two grand a month anytime you want. They'll be glad to have
you."

"And the white-shoe boys will be glad to have you, too, will they?"

"We'll see."

Tom began pacing like the trial lawyer he had always fancied himself to
be.

"And do they know just what they'd be buying?"

"Nobody's buyin' me, Tom."

Huckins snickered and bounced his pencil off the desktop, then deftly
snatched it in midair.

"Well, you just keep thinkin' that if it makes you feel better."

Seth turned toward the door, but lawyer Huckins was just warming up.
"Do they know, for example, about your brief but highly publicized
career as a high school car thief?"

"They called it 'joyriding' and I wasn't the only kid--" "Or how in
your senior year you put Joe Hemphill in intensive care for three days
for stealing your beat-up motorcycle?"

Seth bristled, but refused to be drawn in.

Huckins flexed his psychedelic suspenders, glanced sideways out the
window, and made a clicking sound with his tongue.

"Hey, of' buddy, don't get me wrong," he said, flashing his most
sincere smile--the one usually reserved for the girls at Jason's on a
Friday night.

"I understand completely.

I'm only wonderin' if the blue-chip boys might construe crushing a
man's jaw over a hunk of used metal to be a mild overreaction."

Seth drew in a breath. That 'hunk of used metal' was the only thing in
my whole fucking life I'd ever been able to call my own."

"Okay, okay, I told you I understand. Might be they would, too. But
how about your illustrious NFL career? Do those San Francisco cricket players know you were thrown out of football for high-sticking and
other various and sundry dirty tricks?"

"That's bullshit, too. The 49ers just didn't renew me."

"How many games were you thrown out of before they didn't 'renew' you,
Seth?"

"Look, Huck," said Seth, turning again for the door.

"I

know this is hard for you, so I've tried to hear you out. But this
conversation isn't going anywhere."

"And neither are you, Seth," said Huckins.

"At least if you know what's good for you. Just answer me one last
question. Have they so much as seen your law school transcript?

Your last year?"

Seth stood frozen in the empty doorway.

Huckins smiled.

"I didn't think so."

Seth turned and stormed out of the building.

By the time he parked outside the Bakersfield Broadway Bowl and Bar,
Seth had calmed down. He had not expected Tom to be happy for him.
Too much fear at work. But Tomwas popular around town and a good
lawyer when his brain was on the north side of his belt line. He'd do
fine, concluded Seth, once he got used to the idea.

Rosie would be another story. They had left Modesto for Avenal after
the Perfection Foods verdict in the ecstatic mood of successful bank
robbers, stopping first to celebrate with splits of champagne and
dinner at Mallard's out on McHenry. Rosie had then slept most of the
way--Rosie being one of those people who could sleep standing up-while
Seth nursed a six-pack of Anchor Steam and put the stolen car on cruise
control. He didn't mind the quiet; it gave him the space to reenter
planet Earth and the time to allow the narcissistic intensity of trial
work to drain away.

But Rosie had awakened just south of the Los Banos turnoff to say that
if Seth got the offer, she wasn't sure she should give up her job as
hostess at the Bakersfield Broadway Bowl and Bar. She talked about
having roots for the first time in her life, about not wanting to leave
good friends and the Unitarian Church, which had been another source of
tension between them.

"Hell, Rosie," he had said, opening another Anchor Steam.

"They've got all kinds of churches in Marin County.

Must be a dozen of 'em."

"Unitarian?"

"Probably, Episcopalian anyway. Same difference."

Rosie groaned.

"Would you go with me? To church, I mean. You know, if I went with
you."

Bottle propped between his legs, rubbing his eyes, fatigue creeping
in.

"Rosie, you know I don't much cater to--" "Anything you can't see,
touch, or mix with tonic water."

"I just think you got to put your faith in yourself."

"I don't argue with that, Seth. Neither does any church worth the
name. Nobody expects you to leave your common sense at the door, but
it won't kill you to spend a few minutes a week considerin' the
possibility of something bigger'n us."

Long swig, deep breath, rubs his neck.

"You know, some higher power?"

"You been dreamin' again, Rosie?"
Rosie gave him a sharp look. Knew what he was driving at.

"That's a whole not her thing, Seth," she said, the glow in her eyes
now hooded into dark specks. It had been a mistake to tell him about
her grandmother, and a worse mistake to tell him that the gift often
skipped generations, making her the unwanted recipient of a capability
she neither understood nor desired, like a tattoo on her brain that
couldn't be wished away, that came unbidden in the night, dreams that
could often be explained as coincidence, often turned out to be flat
wrong, yet sometimes ... Seth had let it drop, then tried to persuade
her not to get all worried about something that might not even happen,
but Rosie would not be deterred.

"I bet Tom Huckins will tell you it's a mistake, Seth. He's always
sayin' about how the only real professional doctors and lawyers anymore
are in smaller places like Bakersfield;

that all they care about in big firms is how much you bill and their
lowest line."

"Bottom line."

"That's it."

Seth was stung by Rosie's quoting Tom Huckins as an authority on his
future. He had intended to sympathize with her concerns, but what came
out instead was that Tom Huckins was full of self-serving bullshit and
she was crazy to listen to him. Rosie responded to this demonstration
of sensitivity by passing the next twenty-five miles in silence.

Seth finally apologized, but insisted that she couldn't be serious
about staying in Bakersfield. Rosie sat there holding firm, speaking
in teary-eyed litanies about wanting to be with him but needing a life
of her own. Her pain escaped in a torrent through lips that trembled
with a heartrending sadness. By the time they reached Avenal, they
agreed to cool it until he had heard something specific from Harry.

Now he had heard something specific from Harry, and as he watched Rosie
roller-skating snake-hipped between the restaurant tables at the
Bakersfield Broadway, flashing her smile at admiring customers, he knew
he could never leave without her. The thought of losing her caused his
lean face-a face more interesting in its expressiveness than
handsomein repose to tense and age beyond his years. He sipped his
coffee and wondered how to persuade her that this could be her last
chance as well as his.

But what if things didn't work out between them in San Francisco? He
pondered their contrasting personalities, his poor track record in
relationships, inwardly wrestled with his options as he watched Rosie
snatch an empty carafe on the fly from between two people without even
toe-braking her skates swooping down like a gull, then soaring off. The
people loved it.

Rosie plunked herself down at Seth's usual table it was always quiet at
the Broadway during the late afternoon and began adjusting the laces on
one of her skates with the purposeful concentration of a detonation
expert defusing a pipe bomb. Seth could see she already knew.

"Tom called you, didn't he?"

Rosie busied herself tying a double bow on her second skate with a
vigorous flourish, almost as if she hadn't heard him. Then she poured
fresh coffee for both of them and leaned back in her chair.

"I'm a little scared, Seth," she said in a mournful whisper with an
emotional hitch in it that touched his heart.

"Hey, come on, babe," said Seth, watching her thick mane of dark hair
as it cascaded off her lowered head like Niagara, flowing down around
the steam off her coffee.

"Hell, I might flunk the interview. If I don't, just remember how much
you took to Mill Valley when we drove through it the day we had brunch
at Sam's in Tiburon." Rosie wouldn't meet his eyes, so he reached over
and touched her hand.

"I was thinking we might find a spot right there at the base of Mount
Tamalpais. You said something poetic that day about the rolling
silence of the place, that it reminded you of the Black Hills."

Rosie continued to stare glumly into black coffee no darker than her
eyes.

"It's just all happening so darned fast.

I feel like things are so good for us here, and all of a sudden we're
just fixin' to throw it all away. Sometimes you can be pretty rash,
Seth."

"Rosie, I hardly think of myself as a rash person."
"Oh? How about deciding to swallow Huey last week inModesto or
punching out Soapy Frederickson when he got fresh in here last New
Year's Eve or--" "Those were not rash acts, Rosie. Those were
deliberate and premeditated acts of carefully considered insanity."

Rosie had smiled at that in spite of herself. Seth could(l usually
jolly her out of a snit with a few words from Blackstone's Law
Dictionary.

"I do love it when you talk legal," she whispered.

But she wasn't finished with him. She hadn't dropped the big one
yet.

"What about your dad? We leave, he's all alone."

Seth looked away. The crashing of balls into pins and musty
bowling-alley smell was beginning to give him a headache.

"Thanks, Rosie, I really needed that little reminder.

As a matter of fact, I'm on my way over there now to tell him what's
happening."

"But what would he do? Seth, he's your father."

"I'm aware of that, Rosie, but I figure I'm about even with Joe Cameron
and maybe I should start thinking about myself. If I don't grab this,
I'll never get another chance.

Not at my age and level of experience. It's too late for Pop, and if I
blow this off, it'll be too late for me, too."

Now it was Seth's turn to gaze into his coffee cup.

"Doc Parley says he's got to have twenty-four-hour nursing care or move
out. Either way I can't afford it. If I get the job, I was thinking
about putting him into Summercrest."

"A home? You'd put him in an old folks' home?" snapped Rosie in a
voice loud enough to attract the sympathetic interest of a bowler over
on alley number one.

"Sorry, Seth," she added quickly, "I know it's been hard for you, and I
love you for it."

"Well, he doesn't. Most of the time now, he doesn't even like me."

"That's just his head gone bad, honey." Rosie glanced up at a
middle-aged couple coming through the front door, but they sat down at
the counter.

"Well, it's really none of my business anyway."

"It is your business, Rosie, but with the kind of money I'd be making,
I could afford to buy his way into the one place I know he'd be
happy."
"With the money you'd be making," said Rosie, her eyes suddenly
sparking. Seth watched her get up, could see her mind shifting
gears.

"And just what the heck am / supposed to do in San Francisco or Mill
Valley or wherever? I've hostessed here since 1988, Seth, and I'm
finally up for evening manager. Either way, I'm making enough to live
comfortable."

She started to skate away, but turned and gave him a look that could
bend a fork, adding, "You'll do just fine in the city. But have you
given any thought to me?

To us?"

Seth stared down at his hands. He could take on the world in the
courtroom, but he hated conflict with Rosie. True, they were
dissimilar people--he, the ambitious, quick-tempered, cerebral type;
she, the warmhearted earth-woman who could see beauty in everything,
even him. They had always managed to communicate, however, often
without speaking. Even the decision to live together had been reached
with absurd simplicity two years ago. Seth had spotted her skating
around the Broadway and had begun to dine there regularly, attracted
like a heat-seeking missile to her innocent, yet erotic aura. Rosie
couldn't help noticing Seth's frequent appearances for dinner, the Bowl
& Bar not being known for its fine cuisine. Soon they were
small-talking, and Seth was able to get a good look into eyes that were
both older and stronger than her youthful, fragile-looking body-eyes
swimming with goodwill, yet reflecting the same passion for life he
sometimes noticed in the mirror when he shaved.

Gradually they became friends. They talked about everything:

her notorious mother, her Iroquois grandmother, her life growing up in
the Black Hills, and her five-month marriage to a hard-boozing
rock-and-roll guitar player who gave her four months in L.A. and a
lesson in life she'd never forget. Seth told her about attending U.C.
Berkeley on an athletic scholarship, laughed about his abortive
professional football career after graduation, and his best friend, a
three-legged canine named Fat Dog. They discussed his views on world
affairs and politics, her insights into the spiritual nature of things.
Touched on issues of freedom versus loneliness, power versus security.
Shared favorite colors, songs, and wine. And laughter. Always
laughter.
He solved a minor legal problem for her aunt Claire, and Rosie's
gratitude made him feel as if he had won an appeal before the Supreme
Court.

Though Seth's lust endured over these early weeks, he began to see
Rosie Wheeler in a new light. He was in love with her.

They had never been on a date.

He could tell she knew about him. Bakersfield held few secrets. He
wanted her to know he regarded her as something special, not another
Seth Cameron one-nighter. Finally asked her to a movie.

They lucked into a parking place right in front of the theater, but
neither one opened a door. They just sat there in his El Camino and
stared straight ahead. After five minutes of this, Seth turned to her
and told her he'd like her to move in with him. Rosie's quick,
questioning glance went straight to his soul and stripped him of all
pretense. His heart hammered in his chest, and he was relieved when
she turned her gaze straight ahead again. Even now, two years later,
he could still see the contours of her child-woman face that night,
profiled in the back-lighting of the Strand Theater, as she pondered
his proposal.

"You know," he added, hardly breathing, "live together."

Seth would never forget that moment, that night, that warm, dry Valley
night; the reckless joy of possibilities, of wanting something so much
that fear and rationality never stood a chance.

"Okay," Rosie had replied at last, and they had driven straight to her
apartment and tossed most of her things into the back of his pickup.

An added bonus was the way Rosie and Joe Cameron had taken to one
another, maybe because Joe had never had a daughter and Rosie was on
the lookout for a surrogate father. Her presence had become
particularly helpful now that the seventy-nine-year-old man was having
more and more trouble remembering things. Like eating. Like his own
name.

Seth, on the other hand, had the gift of perfect memory, a blessing for
a trial lawyer, but a curse for a boy who, at the age of six, had
suffered an emotional wound that would never heal.

Joe had married Seth's mother--his first marriage, her second--in what
he liked to call his "full maturity," which is to say he was forty
years old and, Seth suspected, still a virgin. Ruth Hollander had been
twenty-four, and virginity was to her but a distant memory. Beaten as
a child by her father, then by her first husband, Ruth had apparently
decided that marriage to a steady, middle-aged civil servant might
represent a salutary change of pace. And so it was-at first anyway--as
Ruth Cameron quietly endured nearly a decade of not being abused before
she disappeared one night behind a sheet of rain and the cover of
darkness in Alfred Gamut's mile-long Cadillac.

Seth, six years old, is awakened by a dream in which he is being kissed
by his mother. Several minutes later he hears a car pull up in the
alley and runs to his bedroom window in time to see a stranger roughly
pinning her against the car door. The frantic child tries to open the
window, but it's painted shut; stuck, just like his throat.

Now the man has jammed one hand up against his mother's chest while the
other is trying to find something up inside her skirt. She spins
around, but the stranger grabs her, bends her back across the front
fender of the car, and starts to kiss her.

This seems too real to be a dream so he keeps pushing against the
stubborn sill, his impotent mouth frosting the window as he sees that
his mother has been able to get a good hold on the stranger's head with
both hands and has wrapped a high-heeled foot around his back. But now
it's getting weird because she's kissing him back and rubbing him
between the legs with a spare hand that could have been used to sock
him one.

Then she kisses him on top of his head even though he's pulled up her
sweater and buried his face in a bare chest glowing like white neon
against her black sweater.

Now she breaks free, but ... she's laughing and running, not toward the
house, but around the front of that beautiful black car and now she's
opening the passenger door and, oh. Mama, don't please, don't. Mama,
don't leave! But the big, black car just swallows her up and drives
away.

The boy returns to his bed in confused silence, touching the
lipstick-marked cheek where his mother had kissed him in the dream, a
red mark of betrayal that will still be there when he awakens in the
morning.

Then he'll know it was no dream.

Alfred was a charmer from L.A. who had made his fortune in women's
"shoes. His genius had been in creating a system for getting crocodile
skins out of Africa. A village of poverty-stricken Africans had been
happy to club the child-killing reptiles for a bounty of two bits each,
and Alfred had paid the chief another quarter to get the skins upstream
to the town of Bukoa. From there they were shipped to Alicante, Spain,
where he paid two bucks apiece to have them finished into boots and
purses for which Imelda Marcos and her friends would later pay several
hundred dollars in the shops of upper Madison Avenue. Alfred made a
fortune until animal rights activists put a stop to it, and the crocs
went back to eating village children, whom the parents were again
having trouble feeding anyway now that the bounty was gone. Ecological
balance.

In any event, Joe and young Seth Cameron suddenly found themselves
alone. Gone forever was the smell of his mother's perfume when she
kissed him good-night and the fresh bran muffins when she awoke him in
the morning. No more ham and mushroom omelettes on weekends either, no
more sounds of her monotone humming each morning as she laid out
freshly ironed school clothes. No more freshly ironed school
clothes.

These were some of Seth's thoughts as he approached the family home,
hoping, but not expecting, to find his father in a lucid state.

Seth's car filled the empty driveway, unused by Joe since 1987 when he
had permanently surrendered his driver's license for having entered a
supermarket after hours. In his old Buick Roadmaster.

"You're friends with the DA, Seth," Joe had said, shamefully avoiding
Seth's eyes.

"Could you talk to him? I'm a prisoner in this house if I can't drive.
Stir. The slammer. Up the river."

"This isn't just a parking ticket. Dad, though I doubt I could even
fix one of those. I'll have a talk with him anyway."

Joe had winced at the word fix and nothing more was ever said on the
subject. Seth did talk to the DA, however, and he did fix it--fixed it
so his father would never drive again.

A by-product of Joe's incarceration had been the most beautiful garden
on the street, a typical clean, wide Bakersfield street, with tall
poplar sentinels on both sides and a five-foot strip of Bermuda grass
running between the curb and sidewalk in front of each house on the
block. Seth stopped for a minute to admire the new rows of impatiens
on each side of the walkway that led to the front steps, then paused
before the towering, espaliered bougainvillea Pop had planted when he
went into recovery in 1967. Seth entered and found his father asleep
on the couch. He smiled down at the old man.

Joe Cameron, a cruelly cuckolded philosopher king, trapped inside the
body of a civil servant. Started out as a runner for the San Joaquin
County Clerk's Office at the age of eighteen and was appointed court
clerk of Department 3 by the time he was just twenty-three, serving
under the illustrious Jimmy Maxwell, already known as the best trial
judge in the county. Joe Cameron, who had been a good father to Seth
after the four nightmarish years, which, for different reasons, neither
remembered very much about and which, for similar reasons, they never
discussed at all.

Dried out and sober, Joe had tried to make up for those lost years by
teaching his son the one thing he knew well:

trial tactics and courtroom survival rules. I've seen the best of the
best in my time. Son, and like Yogi Berra says, "You can observe a lot
by watching." Pop had also tried to instill the spiritual values he
had picked up in his twelve-step recovery program, but these lessons
made less sense to Seth-particularly the ones about doing unto others
and the meek inheriting the earth, for while meek Joe Cameron had been
busy doing unto others, Alfred Gamut had done him out of his wife.

Seth knew he should resent, even hate, his mother for what she'd done
to them, but he had come to see his father's lack of ambition as a
fatal, self-imposed weakness; and though he pitied the old man, he
could understand, even identify with, Ruth's impatience with the life
Joe offered her.

"I think I'm about to get the biggest break of my life, Pop," he
whispered to his sleeping father, then brushed a wisp of white hair
away from the old man's closed eyes.

"I

know you won't like the idea. You'll feel like you're being abandoned
again. Oh, yes, I know all about that night, Dad.

I couldn't tell you because at first I didn't understand it, and then
when I did, well, I figured it would hurt you even more if you knew
that I knew the truth. Well, I know all right, remember every goddamn
detail. Still feel her lips on my cheek, hear her laughing; she hardly
ever did that with us, you know. Laugh, I mean. Can still see that
long black Cadiliac driving off with your pride being' dragged behind
it like tin cans tied to a bumper."

Seth touched the old man lightly on the shoulder, but he didn't stir.

"You couldn't give her the luxury I guess she needed, Pop, but now
you're going to have it for yourself--whether you want it or not. If
things go well next Tuesday in the city, you'll be at Summercrest with
the richest old farts in California, and you'll all be dressed the
same. Old age and bad health, the great equalizers."

Joe Cameron's eyes slowly came unstuck, one at a time.

"Hello, kid," he said, reaching down and arranging his legs into a
sitting position.

"Brought your favorite. Dad," Seth said as he scanned his father's
face and posture, gauging the lucidity of the moment, pleased to see
the faded blue eyes unusually clear.

"Raisin-apple pie from Rosie."

"Hell with the pie. Son," said Joe, taking in the smell of fresh
cooked apples, "send me Rosie."
Seth laughed, then followed his father's slow passage through the
small living room into a sunny kitchen shaped like a freight car.

"I'm afraid she's a little upset with me right now. Dad."

"Well," said the old man with a laugh that crackled like green
firewood, "I'm sure you're guilty of whatever you're charged with."

Encouraged, Seth decided there would never be a better time.

"It's like this. Dad," he said casually, watching out of the corner of
his eye for his father's reaction.

"That opportunity I was hoping for in San Francisco may be coming
through next week, and I want Rosie to come with me. She's not sure
she wants to move."

Joe Cameron set the pie down on the cracked tile counter next to a
dark-stained sink littered with cups and saucers.

He gazed without blinking through a wood-framed window for a full
minute, over the rear porch with its broken hammock, and across the
overgrown backyard guarded by an ivy-choked chicken-wire fence he and
Seth had built to contain a puppy Ruth had brought home. Had papers,
she claimed, but neither the fence nor the papers had kept the pooch
out of harm's way, and in the center of the enclosed area, over a hole
Seth had tearfully dug as a child, refusing to let anybody help, a hunk
of granite still rested.

Joe stood frozen there so long that Seth assumed he had slipped away
from him again, but then he suddenly gave his head a jerk, said, "She's
a good girl," and shuffled back into the living room.

"I can't force her to go with me, Dad. It wouldn't be right .. . even
if I could." Seth's eyes fell on the picture of Ruth Cameron,
amazingly still perched atop a dinette bookcase jammed with worn
classics from Joyce to Faulkner, murder mysteries by Raymond Chandler
and lesser students of the genre, a crumbling set of Encyclopedia
Britannica, and a Kern County Local Rules manual. Seth realized he was
now a year or two older than the sad-faced, hungry-eyed woman in the
picture at the time it was taken.

Joe's eyes followed Seth's to the portrait.

"Don't lose her. Son," he said quietly.
"I'll try not to. Pop, but what I was wondering was, well, what with
me and maybe Rosie leaving town, if you've given any more thought to
moving out of here, maybe getting into a ... more manageable
situation?"

The old man's face was suddenly pinched and wary, but all he said was,
"I'm fine right here at home."

"Dad, tell me what the doc thinks is wrong."

"He said it could be just old age hittin' me harder than some."

"Anything else?"

"He said it could be something called senile dementia, probably the
same thing."

"Anything else?" Pop gave his head a little jerk to the side.

"Thinks it might be a tumor growin' on the brain."

Seth walked over and put his hands on Pop's gaunt shoulders.

"What do you think it is?"

Joe Cameron gave his son a smile that pierced Seth's heart, then said
in a hoarse voice, "I think it's bum luck."

Later, after dinner, exhausted father dozed on the sofa beside an
ancient glass coffee table on which was spread a half-finished game of
solitaire. Dutiful son, finishing up the dishes, heard Joe cry out,
"Who's there?"

Seth snatched a dish towel and hurried into the living room, drying his
hands.

"It's me. Dad."

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, his face lined with
suspicion.

"Do I look like I need a caretaker?

Go home to your wife."

"Dad, you know Rosie and I are not ..."

Before Seth knew it, they were fighting again. Just like that. Seth
said he was moving to San Francisco and that he was going to make
arrangements at Summercrest for Joe.

Joe said over my dead body, and Seth said that won't be long at all if
you don't get the hell out of this house where somebody can take care
of you, and Joe shouted something back and finally there was silence.

Seth slowly rose and went back to the kitchen. He poured two glasses
of wine from the place where he knew his father had been hiding it for
years and offered the glass to his father.
"Come on. Pop. Try to understand. It's a major opportunity with a
top firm. I'd be able to make some big bucks there, eventually try
some big cases against the best lawyers in the country."

Seth's father emptied the glass in three gulps, wiped his chin, and
laughed sardonically.

"And get eaten alive is what you'd do. I watched the great ones come
and go from my courtroom for more than forty years--" "And you can
observe a lot by watching, right?"

"Huh?"

Seth found himself staring at a housefly, which, unnoticed by his
father, had perched on the old man's right eyebrow, where it appeared
to be grooming itself.

"Never mind."

"There's only one thing standing in your way of being a top trial
lawyer, kid."

"Yeah?" So easily sucked in. The head snaps up hopefully.

"What's that. Pop?"

Pop eyed the empty glass and licked his lips.

"Reality," he said, flashing Seth a bitter smile.

Seth said nothing.

"They'd throw your bones to the jury."

"Dad, don't start that again--" "I'm just tellin' you flat out, kid:
you don't have near what it takes to make it in the big leagues."

Seth fought back anger as he stared into a stranger's eyes, eyes cold
with contempt.

"We'll see," Seth said softly, then soundlessly placed his untouched
glass on the coffee table and walked out of the house--his father
shouting after him that he'd soon come crawling home, that he'd be
begging Big Tom to take him back.

Outside, Seth took a deep breath and gave his head a shake.
"We'll see," he repeated to the empty street. 5 two WEEKS AFTER HIS
INTERVIEWS AT miller AND McGRATH, and just as Seth had abandoned hope.
Harry called with congratulations. They wanted him to "start
yesterday." Seth told him he'd be there just as soon as he dealt with
some "delicate personal matters," including sobering up from the
celebration that was already forming in his mind.

First on his list of delicate personal matters was a final chat with
Mrs. Delbert Spathe of Avenal, who, following a week of wrangling, had
agreed to drop charges of grand theft auto filed with the regional
prosecutor in return for "restitution" in the sum of an additional
$3,000--substantially more than the full blue-book value of her 1982
Chevy.

Seth knew the demand constituted extortion--particularly since her car
was returned after just four days with a brand-new radiator--but Miller
and McGrath wasn't hiring fugitives these days, and Mrs. Spathe was a
woman who knew leverage when she saw it.

Seth figured that the ultimate fruit of his crime spree--a trial
victory leading to M&M's offer--constituted a fair return and sent the
check care of the prosecuting attorney, a pleasant-sounding country boy
who mentioned that he happened to be Mrs. Spathe's son-in-law. Seth
knew leverage when it had a bootheel on his throat.

Next was Tom Huckins. Seth checked his watch. Nearly six-thirty; Tom
would be at Jason's.

Bakersfield still had fern bars. Jason's--the town's only hot singles
saloon--looked like a botanical garden, with no less than eighteen of
the plants hanging like shredded umbrellas from a fake cedar ceiling,
plus twelve fake Tiffany lamps, four backgammon tables, and by
five-thirty every afternoon, a roomful of small-talk junkies and
sad-faced girls lonely enough to pay attention to them.
Seth entered and spotted his partner holding court at the end of the
long oak bar, to the edge of which was attached a small brass plate
inscribed thomas v. huck ins esq.

"Holy shit, it's my partner, Seth Cameron!" shouted Huckins, his tie
carelessly pulled open and obviously well into his weekend.

"Back on the prowl again? Rosie out of town?" This brought macho
chuckles from Tom's pals. Trigger and Lo-Ball, a pair of local
Sheetrock contractors who listed Jason's phone number on what passed
for their business cards.

"Barkeep!" Tom shouted to Ken.

"Bring Cowboy here one of these god-awful kamikazes you make. And
bring me a couple more while you're at it."

"A beer will be fine, Ken," said Seth.

"Tom, can I talk to you a minute?"

"Sure, but make it quick, old buddy," said Tom, emptying his glass.

"See that little red-haired sweetie over by the juke? Definitely the
next Mrs. Huckins."

"I got the offer from Miller and McGrath," Seth said quietly.

"And I've accepted it."

Tom's hooded eyes slowly widened as the words registered.

His head gave a little jerk and Seth could see his jaw twitching.
Huckins then levitated from his stool in a manner that caused Trigger
and Lo-Ball to drift down toward the other end of the bar. There Tom
stood, bent slightly forward at the waist, one foot well behind the
other, shoulders hunched, eyes straight ahead, splayed palms on top of
the bar supporting his muscular six-foot-three-inch frame.

"Just like that?" he said finally, still not looking at Seth.

"You said make it quick."

"That was quick, all right. Given any thought to how I'm supposed to
service all our clients? Or are you taking them, too?"

"Just one, since you mention it. Central CalComm."

The last two words spun Huckins's head around.

"Don't tell me, let me guess. You've already talked to Benson.

Right? Told him how much better you'll be able to service all his
needs with a big-city firm behind you."

"Something like that."

Huckins's eyes sparked hatred.
"Another example of Seth Cameron pragmatic philosophy in action: dog
eat dog, every man for himself."

"It's always up to the client, Tom. You know that."

"I'll tell you what I know," said Huckins, his speech slurred.

"It's un-fucking-ethical is what I know. I may be a lot of things, but
I'm goddamn ethical."

Seth chuckled, took a quick swig of his beer.

"Tom, you are to ethics what AstroTurf is to grass."

Ken paced behind the bar, listening to fragments of the conversation
and watching Huckins's darkening expression.

After Seth's remark, he scooped up the three dollars Seth threw down
for lys beer and headed for the other end of the bar where Trigger and
Lo-Ball were watching the exchange from a safe distance.

"Central CalComm doesn't mean that much to me," Seth added, "if you
feel so damn strong about it."

Huckins tossed off another kamikaze, then slowly turned to stare at
Seth through narrowed eyes.

"I always knew you were a cold and ambitious bastard," he said finally
through clenched teeth, "but I put up with you because you were my cold
and ambitious bastard."

"So you thought," said Seth.

"You son of a bitch!" No warning, just the huge fist bursting into
Seth's face, sending him flying across the floor into a wall that
stopped his backward motion and allowed him to keep his footing. The
bar fell silent and everyone froze where they were: Lo-Ball with his
hand in the cigarette machine, Ken drying a glass, the redhead coming
out of the ladies'. Seth slowly wiped the back of his hand across his
mouth and looked at the blood there.

"Jesus, Tom," he said with a wry smile, "maybe you should have been the
litigator all along."

But Huckins wasn't smiling. Huckins was circling, closing in, that
same club of a right fist cocked at the end of a wrist that looked like
a two-by-four.

"Lighten up, Huck," said Seth, weaving from side to side against the
wall.

"Jason doesn't have a dance license." .

Huckins's answer was a roundhouse right to the head, but this time Seth
ducked down and to the right just as his partner's fist grazed his left
ear, then passed through the Sheetrock wall, just missing a picture of
Jason himself posed with a Hollywood starlet and local golf star Steve
McClean.

As Huckins struggled to extricate himself from Trigger and Lo-Ball's
wallboard handiwork of eight years earlier, Seth slammed him with a
quick left-right combination, then buried his left hand deep into the
bigger man's solar plexus.

Huckins groaned as blood spurted from his nose, then collapsed against
Seth.

"Seth!" shouted Ken, as the smaller man, hunched over like a
gravedigger, supported his dazed adversary by the shoulders and readied
a deadly right-hand uppercut.

"Don't do it, man!"

Seth, heart pounding so hard his vision was distorted, panting through
slack mouth, eyes narrowed into burning slits, squinted in the
direction of the voice. No one moved.

Then finally, slowly and awkwardly, he steered Huckins into a nearby
chair.

"You're right. Ken," gasped Seth, then slowly turned and dabbed at his
cut lip with a cocktail napkin that read jason's: where good friends
meet.

"Bring some coffee over here for Huck. Some ice, too."

"The hell with him, Seth," said Ken, hurling a towel into the sink
behind the bar.

"I saw what happened. Probably shoulda let you finish the fucker. Far
as I'm concerned, he can go somewhere else for his goddamn coffee."

Seth leaned against the bar for a few seconds to catch his breath, then
swayed toward the door.

"Show some class, Ken," he said, turning and flashing the bartender a
withering look.

"Tom's drunk and you helped him get that way. Man couldn't scratch his
own ass with a handful of fishhooks right now. Here's a twenty. Pour
the coffee, then send my ex-partner home in a cab."

Seth reentered the Bakersfield Broadway Bowl and Bar just ahead of the
dinner rush and fell into a chair at his usual table. Rosie ordered
coffee for both of them, then sat down beside him and enclosed one of
his hands in both of hers.

"You don't look so good, darling'. What happened to your face?"
"Tom had an attitude about my decision, so I smashed his fist with my
mouth."

"I'll get you some ice, honey. It'll help the pain."

"Sounds good, assuming it comes with a double shot of Jack Daniel's."

Rosie said that could be arranged and took a metal key to her famous
fuchsia-colored roller skates, which, as Seth had long ago observed,
emphasized her trim ankles and gave her added height, the lack of which
was the sole flaw in an otherwise perfect fashion model's figure. Seth
put his head back to ease the pain in his neck and looked up past racks
of hanging fluorescent lights at the ugliest cracked plaster ceiling he
had ever seen--not that he had often confused the Broadway Bowl with
the Sistine Chapel.

"Tom's just scared," she said.

"If that's scared, I'd hate to see him angry."

"Did you ... ?"

"Yeah, but it could have been worse. He'll live."

Rosie gave him a worried look, but decided to change the subject.

"How about your dad?"

"Tomorrow. I've had all the abuse I can handle for one day. He'll
just tell me I'm not good enough. The usual."

"If his mood is right, he's just as likely to wish you well.

Joe will go along when he's himself."

"I'm hoping you will, too."

"Go along or be myself?" she said, a ball-bearing hardness creeping
into her voice as she tied the laces on her right skate with a
flourish.

"Both."

"Well, both those things may not be possible, though I'm sure the
notion of me havin' a 'self," a life of my own, is something' that may
not have crossed your mind lately."

Seth told her she'd been reading Cosmopolitan magazine again and Rosie
said so what, then tried to cross her skate-elevated legs under the
table, bumping her knee on the underside and spilling coffee from both
mugs.

"I'm sorry, Seth."

"It's your table," Seth said, leaping to his feet and grabbing a
napkin.
"I mean about jumpin' on you. You've got enough problems without
worryin' about mine."

A dark silence consumed them as they sat back down. In fact, the
entire Bowl went quiet for one of those awkward moments of coincident
silence that seem orchestrated to embarrass.

Then somebody picked up a number ten for a spare and the click-thud
sound of the pin followed by the ball's hitting the canvas reverberated
across the tense stillness.

Seth figured that his Jack Daniel's was an idea whose time had passed,
along with Rosie's good mood.

"Try to understand, Seth," said Rosie, gathering herself as the jukebox
came alive and bowling balls resumed their rumbling attack on alleys
two through six.

"I'm just scared about quittin' my job. It may not seem like much of a
job to you, but these people are my family now. Plus, leavin' my work
at the church and all my friends. Aren't you worried about any of
that? People respect you here, Seth."

"We'll make new friends."

"In San Francisco? Too many people there for findin' friends."

"Come again?"

"Too many people. It's like if we take a hike in the foothills on a
weekday and we see somebody after an hour or so, we all smile and say
hi to each other. But if we go out on a weekend and see people every
five minutes on the very same path, we don't. Don't you know why that
is?"

"I know I'm about to find out."

"It's because they aren't special anymore. In fact, they can become a
darned nuisance. Same path, same nice people, but it's a whole not her
thing. I read somewhere the same thing happens to hamsters when you
put too many of them in the same space."

"Rats."

"I'm used to stronger language than that from you, but I'm glad you
agree."

Seth smiled at her.

"It won't happen to us, Rosie. Besides, we know Harry and Trish to
start with."

"They're your friends, Seth. And anyways, it's not just that. It's
the ... whole bigness of the place. Even Bakersfield is getting' too
big far as I'm concerned, and now you're fixin'to move to an even
bigger place? I don't know. I just don't know."

"I understand, baby," said Seth, lightly touching her hair.

"I really do. But help me out here because I can't go without you."

Rosie's eyes misted up at this, but her resistance held.

"Can't we wait till January at least? I'm due for a big Christmas
bonus this year and was countin' on buyin' a decent car."

"Afraid not, Rosie. It's now or never for me. Big firms like M and M
usually hire kids right out of law school so they can train them their
own way, then exploit them for at least six or seven years before they
have to cut them in on a piece of the action as partners. Hell, Rosie,
I'm already over the edge in terms of years out of law school. I'd
figured myself for dead. I happened to call Harry just as two senior
associates defected to another firm. They're even going to bring me in
at Harry's level, just as if I had joined them right out of school like
he did. I'll never have another chance like this."

More silence.

"Come on, Rosie," Seth said, reaching over and caressing one of her
shoulders.

"What's happened to the old spirit of adventure?"

Rosie made a face.

"Oh, it'd be an adventure all right, commuting to a new job I don't
have in a dyin' Oldsmobile that burns gas like a 747. Comin' home to a
place we also don't have and would have trouble rentin' because, as you
may have forgotten, we do have a functionally impaired dog."

She should have been the trial lawyer, thought Seth.

"I

haven't forgotten, Rosie, but I've got to go to San Francisco.

Like Yogi Berra says, "When you get to a fork in the road, take it."

" Rosie just played with her coffee mug, didn't help him with so much
as a smile.

"Don't you see, honey?" he added.

"This is my fork in the road!"

Rosie looked up at him through liquid eyes, and Seth took both of her
hands in his. Getting her to go to the city with him was turning out
to be his toughest case. No bugs to swallow this time; no tricks, no
miracles. Nothing left but to resort to the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but ... "You've got to come with me, darling'," he said,
licking a bloody lip that was still swelling.

"The thing is, if you don't, I'm afraid we'll lose each other." Seth
then stood up, looked away for a moment, and let his arms drop
helplessly to his sides. People in the restaurant area were watching
them now, but neither Rosie nor Seth seemed to notice.

"I'm scared too, Rosie. Scared of the unknown, scared of blowing my
last chance, but most of all, scared of losing you."

Rosie smiled, shook her head slowly, then rose to her eight-wheeled
feet, put her arms around him, and buried her head in his chest.

"Oh, Seth, you're just so doggone irresistible. I just hope they allow
old Oldsmobiles and three-legged dogs in Marin County."

Seth tilted her head back and kissed her as if for the very first time.
Ignoring the whistles and scattered applause, they stood looking at
each other, and Seth could swear light was radiating from her pale
face; light diffused by kaleidoscope tears into a shimmering aura that
made him feel dizzy; light he knew he must be imagining, but light all
the same.
Part 2 6 the SMALL GARDEN COTTAGE WAS EVERYTHING rosie AND Seth had
hoped for when they saw the ad in the San Raphael Independent Journal.
They unpacked the last moving boxes by late afternoon and stayed warm
their first night by burning them in the large fireplace. A grove of
rhododendrons partially shielded their view of the landlord's house at
the front of the large lot, and all that could be heard in the evenings
was birdsong.

Beverly Jans-Becker, the rental agent, insisted that $1,400 a month was
a bargain for a location at the very base of Mount Tamalpais in
"picturesque Mill Valley," close to shopping, schools, and public
transportation. Ms. JansBecker's rhapsodic sales pitch continued
unabated--even after they had signed the lease and she was climbing
back into the Marin County Realtor's standard vehicle, a Mercedes 190
sedan--still raving about the cottage's "convenient proximity to sunny
Stinson Beach, mystical Inverness, and enchanting Bodega Bay." They
smiled back at her and waved good-bye. Alone at last.

The owner of the cottage--an elderly widower--was so smitten by Rosie
that he had approved the new tenants without a credit check. He was
also a 49er fan, excited to meet his first real NFL player, even an
ac-player he had never heard of, even an ex-defensive player who had
played only one year for the 49ers and not very well at that. By the
end of Seth's first full week at M&M, they were settled in.

"Put on your dancin' shoes, Rosie," Seth announced over the telephone,
"it's party time."

"Tonight? You're actually takin' a night off? What's the occasion?"

"Since when do we need one on a Saturday night? But for starters, how
about your job offer at Luchesso's, my completinga full week at M and
M without grossly offending anyone, plus getting assigned to help on a
seventy-million-dollar case today, and--last, but fastest--my hot new
wheels."

Seth had just bought an '87 Porsche Targa from George Middleton, a
seven-year associate who had been told he would not be making
partnership at M&M. Harry had explained to Seth that nearly all
metropolitan law firms still observed the harsh "up or out" policy for
handling unwanted associate attorneys. Middleton was not going "up" to
partnership, and this meant he had to go "out" on the street to find a
new job.

He had not been fired, of course. Firing was a barbaric practice
reserved for lesser enterprises, unworthy of a professional firm like
Miller and McGrath. The time-honored solution at M&M was merely to
inform the associate that he or she would not be making partner,
coincident with the disappearance of any new assignments or salary
increases.

After a month or two of this embarrassing indifference, even the most
persevering associate would tender notice of his or her "resignation,"
after which the relieved firm would close ranks behind its discarded
employee with glowing letters of reference. Harry recounted an
occasion when Anthony Treadwell had dismissed an associate named Evans
Thompson on grounds of laziness, then later responded to one of
Thompson's potential employers with a consummate example of devious and
deliberate ambivalence. Treadwell's letter ended, "You will be very
fortunate indeed to get Evans Thompson to work for you."

Later that night as they were driving to dinner in Seth's new car,
Rosie expressed her concern over the three-way trade that had left
Middleton with her antique Oldsmobile and herself in possession of
Seth's relatively new El Camino.

"It was his own idea, Rosie. He's accepted an offer with a small firm
up in Eureka and thinks your car will fit in fine up there. Besides,
he needed the extra cash for the move.

It worked out great for everybody."

Rosie was unconvinced.

"It's not that I don't appreciate you givin' me the El Camino, honey,
but I still don't see why he had to leave in the first place. You said
he was a real brain."
"The guy was brilliant, but just being smart doesn't make it anymore.
He wasn't producing enough billable hours, plus he didn't have a
book."

"No book? How did he practice law?"

Seth laughed.

"I mean no book of business. He wasn't a rainmaker and showed no signs
of becoming one."

"Book? Rainmaker? Are we talking in code, Seth?"

"No, babe, it's law-firm economics. The concept has been changing, but
it's still alive and well at M and M. To make partner, you've got to
prove you can attract new clients in order to provide enough work to
keep yourself and at least two younger associates busy."

"Why two associates?"

"To keep the ratio of associates to partners at around two to one. The
idea is to get high billable hours from the young worker bees and to
have two worker bees for every partner.

Leverage that's where the profit is."

"Leverage?"

"Well, yes." Seth's tone turned cautious as he felt himself being
drawn in.

"See, they get the associates doing monkey work behind the scenes
running up between 2,000 and 2,400 billable hours a year for each
partner doing the front work. The profit's in the associates."

"The monkeys."

"Right."

"Am I correct that you're the monkey in this situation?"

"It's a figure of speech." Seth spotted D'Angelo's and scanned the
street in front for a parking place. He could use a drink.

"Anyway, as M and M makes more partners, it has to grow to keep the
two-to-one ratio, which means you need more new work coming in to keep
the new associates busy."

"Which means you've got to have more partners to bring in that new
work, right?"

"Exactly," said Seth, "which is where / come in."

"And this sounds like where / came in; talk about your chicken and
egg!" Rosie leaned back in her bucket seat and looked out the window.
Seth couldn't see her face, but didn't have to. She always got that
expression lips pooched out, dark eyes crinkled at the corners when she
was getting ready to say something weighty.
"You make a big-city law firm sound like some spreadin'forest fire in
need of constant feedin'. Have you considered what happens if the fire
runs out of fuel?"

"It doesn't," said Seth a little too quickly.

"Okay, it would burn out. As a matter of fact, a few San Francisco
firms have done that lately. Which is why associates have to show they
can produce new business for the firm if they expect to be made
partner. Middleton didn't produce."

"You don't sound very sorry about it."

"It's just the way it is, damn it! You produce or move on."

"But where will that put you when your turn comes?

Won't you be held to the same standards?"

"Sure I will. Hell, Rosie, I didn't invent the idea of survival of the
fittest, but I've got no problem with it. It's a bottom-line world out
there. Besides, I've got a year and a half to make contacts and show
them what I can do."

Seth spun the car around in the middle of the street and grabbed a
parking spot close to the restaurant.

"Enough economics, okay?" he said, giving her his best smile.

"Let's party. Then I'm going to take you home and make up for a week
of lonely nights."

anthony tread well IMPREGNABLE FEATURES TWISTED into a scowl--a look
that had intimidated opposing counsel and witnesses for thirty-five
years--as he stared at a three-month backlog of paperwork Miss
Tarkenton had set out across his conference room table in neat stacks,
each bearing its appropriate description: "Interoffice,"

"Rush,"

"Personnel," "Solicitations,"

"Correspondence," and so on.

"How was your last week at Yale, Mr. Treadwell?" asked the birdlike
secretary, handing him a cup of his specially brewed Javanese coffee.

The question seemed to cheer the senior partner, who came as close to a
spontaneous smile as the obsequious MissTarkenton could remember. He
unwound his six-foot-four-inch frame from his chair and produced a
small box from his briefcase. Miss Tarkenton's face lit up.

"It was most gratifying," he said.

"My students expressed their appreciation with this lovely Waterman's
pen set."

Miss Tarkenton's eyes dulled with disappointment, but Treadwell didn't
notice as he added, "The clean honored me with a farewell luncheon."

Just as quickly as it had appeared, the senior partner's relaxed
countenance gave way to an expression more familiar to Miss Tarkenton,
a pinched look in which deep lines across his forehead and around his
mouth seemed to converge on his stiletto nose.

"The coffee."

"Yes, sir?"

"Is it the identical blend? Father's special Javanese?"

"Exactly, Mr. Treadwell."

"Ah, well, the palate must be atrophied from that paint remover they
serve at the Faculty Club. Very well. Miss Tarkenton, I'll start
through this mess now. Be so good as to call me the moment Mr. Addams
arrives."

An hour later, Allston Addams, Treadwell's oldest and most trusted
colleague among the sixty-five partners at M&M, entered the beautifully
appointed office. The men exchanged a cordial handshake, and Addams
seated himself in a genuine late-nineteenth-century Voltaire fauteuil,
one of four that surrounded Treadwell's desk and four among only a few
dozen known to exist in the entire world. He accepted a Davidoff cigar
from the senior partner, and they proceeded to the business at hand.

At eleven-thirty, having provided details on the firm's activities
during the senior partner's absence, Addams suggested they retire to
the President's Club for cocktails and an early lunch, a setting he had
concluded would be best suited for reporting a troublesome piece of
news he knew would distress his friend. It might be more palatable
once the senior partner was seated at his personal table with at least
one single-malt Scotch under his belt.
* * There is one rather distasteful item," began Addams, after Henri
had delivered their second round of drinks and recommended the
Norwegian salmon.

"It involves a personnel matter, actually."

As he proceeded to report the hiring of Seth Cameron, Addams tried his
best to minimize the significance of the matter.

"Turns out I was probably wrong in opposing it, Tony. The young man
bills time like an animal and appears to be quite bright as well."

Anthony Treadwell stroked his mustache, but said nothing, causing
Addams to shift uncomfortably in his chair.

"I--we--realize," continued Addams with a vain attempt at making his
voice sound more matter-of-fact, "that a litigator has never been hired
without your prior approval, but with the department's workload and the
unexpected departures of ..."

Addams suddenly found the senior partner's laser eyes burning into him,
shrinking him, silencing him.

"Don't try to placate me, Allston. If you didn't have the balls to
stop it," Treadwell growled, "why didn't you just pick up the phone and
call me?"

Inhaling the rest of his martini, Addams marshaled his defense.

"The prospect--a young man named Cameron-was presented to us at a
partners meeting without advance notice. Tony," he began (Addams was
the only M&M partner privileged to use the diminutive), "and they
insisted that a decision had to be made immediately to avoid losing him
to another firm. Someone said that Rachel Cannon over at SP and M had
heard about his victory over Malm and was about to approach him."

Treadwell needed no elaboration concerning "they" and "us."

"They" were a cabal of young and midlevel partners-youngish men with
hard eyes and slide-rule mentalities-who for three years had been
pushing for a decentralization of power in a firm that had functioned
autocratically since its founding in 1906, the year of the Great Quake.
From Royston Miller to Samuel Peabody to Stanford Traeger to Anthony
Treadwell: an unbroken line of dominant presiding partners, a
papal-like hierocracy that had ruled efficiently-68 and most often
peremptorily--for eighty-six years and had carried Miller and McGrath
to its present prominence.

The "us" were the older or more conservative partners of the firm, many
of whom were no longer the producers they had once been. They clung to
a slim majority, however, and counted on Treadwell as their champion
and protector, for Anthony Treadwell was a man you could count on, a
distinguished professional whose listing in Who's Who in America was
engraved on a clock so strategically positioned on his desk that no
client could miss it:

tread well anthony winthrop lawyer; born Montpelier, Vt." Jan. 16,
1929; parents Winthrop Everett and Esther G. Treadwell; married.
Charlotte Bateman Treadwell; children. Prudence and Winthrop
Treadwell;

B.S. Harvard, 1950, J.D. Yale Law School, 1957 (Order of the Coif); It.
Commd'r U.S. Navy 195053;

Presiding Partner, Miller and McGrath, 1983present;

Adjunct Professor, Yale Law School, 1975Present;

Author: numerous articles and legal treatises; Past President,
California State Bar; Past Chair, American Bar Association Litigation
Section; Member, A.B.A. Board of Governors; Diplomate, American Board
of Trial Advocates.

Treadwell, the proud issue of an aristocratic Vermont family, had
succeeded newly appointed U.S. Senator Stanford Traeger as M&M's
presiding partner in 1983 and had ingeniously guided the firm through
one of the most difficult economic decades in the history of the legal
profession, somehow managing to maintain average profits per partner at
the high end of the American Lawyer's annual listings for California
firms.

But cracks were appearing in the united front that had faithfully
supported the autocratic senior partner. Profits were leveling off,
and younger partners were growing restless.

The profession had become a cutthroat business, complete with marketing
departments and hordes of business consultants with their
state-of-the-art computer and communication systems. Branch offices
proliferated as large law firms swallowed up smaller ones, only to be
swallowed up themselves by even bigger ones. Despite Treadwell's
success, some of his key backers--loyal contemporaries who were old
enough to have seen Neville Chamberlain returning with assurances from
Hitler on the Movietone News--had begun to counsel that he make
concessions to the rebellious young partners. They mouthed euphemistic
cliches like "youth must be served," but Treadwell knew they meant
"appeased."

The crumbling old guard was fearful that defections by unhappy younger
partners could threaten the funding of their own future retirements.
Some, in fact, had taken early retirement, uncomfortable with the
truculent antics now pervading what they had known as "the gentlemen's
profession," including rapacious struggles between law firms for each
other's clients and best lawyers.

"No one's questioning your leadership, Anthony," a moderate older
partner had said to him at the beginning of the year.

"You've made us all rich, for God's sake! The younger partners just
want a voice in management. Nothing will really change." The senior
partner had conceded that not even the Young Turks (or, as Treadwell
called them, the Young Turkeys) were questioning his leadership genius;
indeed, their proposal would guarantee him a three-year term as head of
an expanded management committee--an offer that would have been taken
as a vote of confidence by any other sixty-three-year-old law
partner.

But not by Anthony Winthrop Treadwell. He was a survivor, a student of
history who knew where appeasement could lead. Compromise was not in
his vocabulary, and democracy was not his style. Instead of accepting
the proposal or making even a modest concession, Treadwell had
tightened his authority, leading to the recent defection of one
prominent Young Turk, a star litigating partner. Two promising senior
associates followed their mentor, which had made room for Seth.
Treadwell, confident that he had squelched the "socialization
movement," had accepted the prestigious Yale bid, only to find upon his
return that a replacement litigator had been hired without so much as a
telephone call to New Haven.
"Try to understand. Tony," pleaded AUst on Addams, nervously
finishing his appetizer of blackened ahi tuna, "we did what we could.
It's all behind us now and we lucked into a seasoned trial lawyer who
is not only brilliant, but billing at a clip of two hundred and twenty
hours a month as well."

A glance at Treadwell told Addams he had failed.

"It may seem a small thing to you, Allston, but you are missing the
point. Here, as in many things, the event itself is merely incidental
to its true meaning. Hiring this yokel was a thinly disguised power
play by the young partners." Treadwell paused to dab at the edges of
his mustache with a napkin before adding, "The boy will have to go.
Pass the bread, please."

The door to Seth's office swung open without a knock, indicating that
either Harry Cooper or Anthony Treadwell was about to interrupt him;
Harry didn't knock because he was a friend, Treadwell didn't knock for
anyone.

"So what is Bakersfield's brightest up to today?" Harry asked, beaming
with enthusiasm.

"Developing new double-helix applications? Confirming the sixth quark?
Rewriting the Constitution?"

"Not today." Seth barely looked up.

"Preparing Charles Branch for his summary judgment motion in U.S.
Minerals."

"Cocktail Charlie? You're aware, aren't you, that Branch is an all-day
closet drinker. You'd better keep it simple, my friend, because you
damn sure won't be able to keep him sober."

"Keeping senior partners sober is not in my job description, Harry. As
for keeping this legal Rubik's Cube simple, nobody--not even you--could
do that."

Harry acknowledged the compliment with a smile.

"Well, it's not all bad. Charles Branch is a legend, you know, one of
the best trial lawyers in town before the grape got him. And working
for him beats being Treadwell's exclusive chattel."

"I'm the man's designated victim all right."

"I take it the two of you are not getting along well."

"You don't get along with Treadwell. You go along."

"You're learning fast. He can be an incredible bastard."

"Don't sugarcoat it. Harry. He's an arrogant prick, a slave-driving
shithead, and a flaming asshole. Also vulgar."
"True," said Harry, laughing, "all true. You neglected to mention,
however, that he's also a complete snob and feels that anybody without
a lineal connection to the Mayflower is an aborigine who should be
buried alive in an anthill."

"Then you guys must get along swell."

"On that score at least. Other than his record as presiding partner,
he's probably most proud of his Brahmin lineage and spotless azure
blood. His main liability right now is his refusal to let anybody else
know jack shit about what's going on around here. As a result, he's
isolated himself, and younger partners are finding ways to get around
him. And you're right about the way he pushes people."

"Tell me about it. Our first meeting? Gave me a stack of files that
required a U-Haul trailer just to get them into my office. Then he
takes off on a business trip; says I can handle it on my own."

"Ah, yes. The infamous True Valve case."

"You've heard. So, hell, it takes no more than an hour to see that the
corporate officers are dead-bang guilty of the alleged fraudulent sales
practices, so I go ahead and schedule a meeting with them to get to the
truth."

"Of course. You erroneously assumed Treadwell meant it when he said,
"Handle it on your own." Then mistake number two: attempting to
ascertain the truth."

"So you've heard the rest. The miserable little shitheads come in and
do the mating dance of the fly for about twenty minutes, then one of
'em pretty near admits everything but child molestation and tells me my
job is to 'pull the right strings' to get 'em off."

"Is that when--?"

"Right. I threw them out of the office, and when Treadwell returned,
he chewed my ass out for 'playing judge and jury' and blowing a major,
big-fee client."

"Jesus, Seth, he's got a point. This is America, you know.

Everybody's entitled to good representation."

"Not from me, of' buddy. Anyway, I figure he's assigned me to the U.S.
Minerals case because he knows it's a loser and he can blame me for
it."

Seth dragged himself out of his chair, walked over to the window that
signified his status as a senior associate, then stared into the
adjacent brick wall that signified his status as a non-partner.

"The bottom line is I'm in trouble with the main man around here. Is
he always this tough to please?"

"Don't feel bad. Treadwell offers up compliments as if they were his
life savings."

"Hell, I never put much store in compliments; I'm just worried he's
down on me for something and I don't know what it is."

"It's not you, Seth. It's what you symbolize. Try not to take it
personally."

"Why would I do that?" said Seth, shrugging his shoulders and falling
back into his chair.

"It's only my life."

Harry seemed to be out of encouraging words. Seth swung a leg up onto
his desk.

"Look, Harry, I've been here three months now, and it seems like the
only way I've disappointed Treadwell is by not missing an assignment or
by not losing a motion. The bastard wants me to fail. Harry. Why?"

Harry slapped Seth on the foot and mustered another encouraging
smile.

"I meant it when I told you not to take it personally. Sure, part of
it is the guy's upbringing and personality. Let's face it, Seth,
you're not exactly the prototypical Pacific Heights socialite."

"No shit?" said Seth, feigning an injured look.

"But mainly, it's just politics. You happened to join the firm while
Treadwell was off at Yale. First time so much as a janitor has been
hired around here without his approval."

"So why does he take it out on me? I wasn't even aware of the firm's
unwritten policy, much less consciously violating it."

"Irrelevant, Counselor. You're a symbol, remember? As you must know
by now, there's a rebellion under way. Somewhere between fifteen and
twenty junior and midrange partners are pushing for more say in the
operation of the firm;

specifically, they want more seats on an expanded management committee
and less authority in the hands of King Treadwell."

"So how does a nice country boy from Bakersfield become a symbol in
this high-level, internecine class struggle?"

Harry exhaled loudly, slapped his thighs, and stood up.
"Hell, I'm partially responsible I guess. It was bad timing, and
Treadwell took your hiring in his absence as a display of strength by
the Young Turks."

"And what better way for the sovereign to show he's still in control
than by ridding his kingdom of this leprous intruder."

"Exactamundo, my friend. Which is why he's finding fault with
everything you do."

"Is there something I don't know about?"

Harry shifted in his chair.

"Well, word has it he wasn't too keen on your recent appearance at the
firm banquet in cowboy boots."

"Harry, those aren't just 'cowboy boots," they're genuine anteaters." *
"Whatever. He's also saying you aren't thorough enough to be an M and
M litigator, that you take shortcuts which result in eliminating the
need for lengthy depositions and interrogatories."

Seth rolled his eyes and sniffed.

"Well, you asked me, damn it, and it happens those are major sources of
revenue at M and M. He expects us to spend whatever amounts of our time
and our clients' money is necessary to make life so miserable for our
adversaries that they'll eventually settle just to get away from our
sleazy, scorched-earth tactics."

Seth just stared at him, then said, "Any crimes and misdemeanors other
than my footwear and saving clients' time and money?"

"That's about it," said Harry, looking at his hands.

"Which means there's more."

"Not really, though maybe Rosie could dress down a bit at the next firm
social event."

"You mean dress up a bit, don't you. Harry? Jesus, she just got here;
give her a break."

"Sorry, Seth. I'm out of line here. Believe me, I'm trying to help,
and, well, Rosie's got an incredible figure and that skirt left no
doubt about it."

Seth started looking at some documents on his desk.

"Okay, Seth, you asked me, remember? Besides, there' is some good
news. You are not without supporters. Let's face it, you've done great
work in the time you've been here--atestament to my impeccable
judgment in recruiting you and you've tried more cases in your short
but illustrious career than any associate and most of the partners. In
other words, you are perceived as an asset."

"Assets can be liquidated," said Seth in a flat tone, "and these
eighty-five-hour weeks are starting to catch up with me."

"Everyone knows he's loading you up. He's trying to ride you into the
ground and out of the firm, just to show the Young Turks who's boss. So
for what it's worth, it's not your work or you. It's the old fickle
finger of fate."

Seth took a deep breath.

"Okay, pard, thanks for leveling with me. I'll buy something nice for
Rosie to wear next time."

"How's she getting along? It's tough adapting to life as an M and M
widow."

"Not too well. Tell Trish I appreciate the support she's been giving
her. I may be a pawn in a game I didn't create, but at least I know
how to play. Rosie's a different story.

She's missing her friends, her new job isn't going well, and she feels
even more out of synch with the firm's social scene than I do."

"Trish didn't care much for it the first year or so, either.

Then she decided she liked driving a 450SL and living in a four-bedroom
house in Piedmont."

"Yeah, Trish would go for that."

An uneasy silence passed between them.

"Look, Seth ..."

"Forget it. Harry. I'm the one out of line this time. She was never
right for me; I just didn't see it."

Harry fell back into his chair, ran a hand through his hair.

"I don't know what to say, Seth, except that I'm sorry it had to be you
that got hurt."

"All's fair. Harry, and I can hardly blame you and Trish for the way I
blew off my third year. I made my choices.

Besides, thanks to you, here I am in the majors after all."

Harry brightened.

"And by God, you're going to stay here. It'll just take some
patience."

"Patience is right up there with black-tie dinners on the list of
things I don't do well."

"Then keep on keepin' on the best you can."

"I'm okay. It's just going to take time for Treadwell and me to work
out some kind of compromise."
Seth's secretary interrupted with a summons from Treadwell.

"Speak of the devil," said Seth.

"No such luck," warned Harry, walking toward the door.

"With the devil, you can make a deal. There's no compromising with
Anthony Treadwell."

"We'll see."

Harry turned in the doorway.

"Let me know what happens and how I can help. Okay?"

"Don't worry about me, old son. I can take care of myself."

Harry shook his head.

"Still the lone wolf, huh? Just like in law school. No Kelp wanted.
Trust nobody but yourself."

"I trust you, buddy."

"I doubt it."

"That's not very trusting, Harry."

"You're right. Okay, I believe you."

"I doubt it."

Seth's emotions went ballistic whenever he entered the senior partner's
imposing corner office. Not just the anxiety of
what-will-he-try-on-me-this-time, but something about the intimidating
regal quarters themselves--the pristine opulence of the rosewood desk,
the Picasso originals, the huge conference wing that comfortably seated
ten people, the private bar with its ebony surface and display of
Waterford crystal, each piece etched with TreadweU's initials. Then
there was the unerring elegance of the man himself--always immaculate
in his tailored gray Brioni suits that seemed to have been sprayed onto
his slender body. The richness of the senior partner's manner and
possessions provoked both revulsion and envy in Seth.

"I want you to prepare an analysis of the issues in the Sharpe Steel
case, Cameron."

No greeting, no false courtesy.

"I know you are rather busy at the moment," Treadwell added, "so why
don't you take, say, three days."

"This is Friday. Would that be due on Tuesday or Wednesday?"
"Three days. Monday by five will be fine," said Treadwell, who still
had not looked up from his desk.

"I've heard of the case," said Seth cautiously, "but isn't Ted Arnold
already working on a draft?"

For the first time, Treadwell's cavernous eyes came to rest on
Seth's.

"I have his product. Now I want yours."

Pitting one associate against another was a big-firm technique for
building a case against both, since each would invariably come up with
something the other would miss. Poor Arnold must be in trouble, too,
thought Seth as he silently calculated the risks involved in mentioning
that he had already committed his weekend to another partner. Fuck it,
I'll get it done somehow.

"The Sharpe Steel file boxes will be delivered to your office by noon,"
said the senior partner, dismissing Seth by refocusing his attention on
the papers in his hand.

Seth stared at Treadwell, wanting to grab his skinny neck and squeeze
some color into that jaundiced face, break him in two like a
matchstick. But what he did was agree to have the memo done by Monday,
smile, turn, and walk the thirty feet of lush Birvan carpet to the
door.

"Oh, yes, Cameron," Treadwell said, still without looking up, "I don't
need to tell you how important it is to the firm--and to you--that
Charlie Branch wins that motion next month on the U.S. Minerals
case."

Seth stopped at the door and stared at the senior partner's down-turned
head for nearly a minute, but Treadwell ignored him.

"He'll win," Seth said, and walked through the door.

Outside, he encountered a ruckus between a surprisingly formidable Miss
Tarkenton, her head thrust upward like a cobra, and an angular old roan
so tall and thin he appeared to be tottering on worn plaid stilts. His
hollow eyes shone crazily, like naked lightbulbs, above an elongated
aquiline nose, and his mottled skin was stretched taut over jutting
cheekbones. Despite his appearance, however, the miserable wretch
managed to wear his fragility more like a sword than a shield, and
there was neither weakness nor apology in his lunatic whisper as he
demanded access to Treadwell's office through a mouth contorted with
rage.
Miss Tarkenton stood her ground.

"Nobody sees Mr.

Treadwell without an appointment, sir," she said, looking toward Seth
for support.

Seth, however, stepped around them, catching the smell of stale tobacco
and the cheap-perfume aroma of vodka as he passed. Let Treadwell
handle him, he thought, but the old man reached out a bony, spotted
hand and seized him by the lapel. Seth grabbed the dry talon, but
could not dislodge it. Only then did he realize that the old man had
but one arm. Their eyes met, and Seth was startled to see something
weirdly familiar in the tubercular features.

"Do I know you?" he gasped, his heart pounding against the walls of
his chest.

"Who the hell are you?"

The old man released his hold, flashing a smile like broken piano keys
as he smoothed out Seth's crunched lapel.

"Have a nice day, sonny," he said in a voice like a wire brush on
cobblestone. He gave Seth's chest a firm slap, then disappeared
through Treadwell's door even as Miss Tarkenton shouted at Seth to stop
him.

"Sorry, Miss Tarkenton," Seth said.

"I'm a symbol, not a security guard."

Inside the office, Anthony Treadwell was white with rage.

"You bastard!" he exclaimed through clenched teeth.

"I told you never to come here!"

"Well now, Mr. Society, is that any way to talk to your dear father?"
said the old man, flashing his black-and-white teeth.

"And as for the 'bastard' part, ain't that sorta like the pot calling
the kettle black?"

Seth arrived home at 2:30 a.m. and was greeted at the door by Fat Dog.
Seth gave him a quick rub and a special biscuit because he was too
tired to give him time. He undressed in the living room, then crept
into the bedroom, in part out of concern for Rosie, but mainly because
he was too tired to deal with her mounting expressions of loneliness
and discontent.

"Hi, Seth," she said into the darkness.

"At least I hope it's you."
Seth put his arms around her and apologized for breaking their date
for a late supper at Sam's.

"It was our anniversary. Our first date. Two years ago last night."

"Oh, Jesus. Is it September already? I'm sorry, babe."

She forgave him, conditioned upon a new commitment for Saturday night,
but Seth explained what Treadwell had just done to him.

"How about we celebrate it a week from Sunday," he offered instead.

"We'll pack a picnic lunch, take Fats, and spend the day at Stinson
Beach if the weather's good. If it isn't, we'll stay here and make
love all day."

"Umm. I'll brush up on my Indian rain dance," said Rosie. Seth
stumbled off to the bathroom, relieved to see that she seemed to have
fallen back asleep. Fat Dog padded after him.

Rosie waited in the dim light, however, watching Seth as he reentered
the bedroom. He set the alarm for five o'clock now less than three
hours off and fell into bed beside her without a word. He was asleep
in her arms within seconds.

Rosie gazed down at his fatigued face, fissured by deep new lines, and
touched his skin, cold as ice. Wished they had time to talk together.
Might have risked confiding a recent dream. Scary. A little
reassurance would be nice, even if cloaked in skepticism. He'd be
upset because he wasn't in it. Rosie back in Bakersfield, surrounded
by strangers and bags full of bills of various denominations.
Bizarre.

As she warmed him with her body, her frustration faded first into pity,
then love remembered. A sad smile crossed her face as she reconciled
herself to the reality that there would be no day together at Stinson
Beach or at home or anywhere else. His ambition had finally dug a hole
deep enough to engulf him. Them.

She wondered how long she could endure it here waiting for a future
that hoped for little more than the joy of the past.

It made no sense to her.

Nor did it make sense that she had come all the way to the Bay Area to
lose the only man she had ever loved and not even to another woman. 8
three WEEKS LATER, STARING INTO THEIR COCKTAILS AT THE President's
Club, Anthony Treadwell and Allston Addams preached to each other's
choir concerning the firm's culture and the need to prevent "further
erosion of its great tradition."

"We can ride out this recession if we just stay calm, stick with what
has served us well in the past," said Treadwell, snapping his fingers
in the direction of Henri.

"Of course we can," agreed Addams, "but I, well ..."

"Something's bothering you, Allston. Spit it out, for God's sake."

Addams tapped his lips with a pudgy forefinger, stared out the
velvet-canopied window, then glanced sideways to measure his friend's
mood.

"I was just wondering whether it wouldn't be best to eliminate all this
divisiveness by simply letting the young partners have their token
expanded management committee. Hell, Tony, you would still be running
the show ..."

Treadwell exhaled loudly, something between a grunt of disdain and a
forced laugh.

"Et to, Allston? Ready to give them an inch like the others?"

"It just seems ..."

"It seems you have forgotten where appeasement leads. No, sir. Our
dear ex-partner, Sen. Stanford Traeger--the manipulating bastard--kept
me off the helm for five years, and now that I have it, I'll be damned
if I'll surrender without a fight."

"I heard," said Addams, groping for a new subject, "that our former
partner is now heading up the Senate subcommittee that monitors our
infamous Stealth Program."

"Oh, yes. And wallowing in press coverage as usual."
"And his daughter--your godchild, as I recall--married now?"

"Sam something. A stealth test pilot of all things. Sam Barton.
That's it."

"Like marrying the boss's daughter."

"Elena. Gorgeous child."

Addams was grateful to see the senior partner's features relax and even
more grateful to see the waiter appear with another round of drinks.

"Thank you, Henri," he said, but the old man merely raised an eyebrow
in acknowledgment, more comfortable with the discreet silence that
usually accompanied his approach to tables at the President's Club.

Treadwell took a sip of his Scotch, made a face.

"Waiter," he said, refusing--as he had for nearly twenty years--to
address "the help" by name, "is this my Linkwood Twelve?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Treadwell, the 1959 from your private stock."

"Well, it tastes slightly off. Open a new bottle."

The waiter shuffled away, and Addams hastened to placate the senior
partner.

"About the Young Turkeys, you're quite right of course. I didn't mean
to suggest--" "Forget it," said Treadwell, tapping glasses with Addams,
his annoyance spent.

"I value your opinion. In fact, I'd be interested in your views on a
related subject: the graceful elimination of this young maverick, Seth
Cameron."

Addams, relieved and nattered to have the senior partner not only
mollified, but seeking his counsel, was encouraged once again to risk
speaking his mind.

"You're the general. Tony. Sack him if you want, but the kid's damn
good, and we'll take some heat if you do."

Treadwell shook his head and pursed his thin lips into a fine line.

"I am surprised the usual method has not worked with this hayseed."

The "usual method" for getting rid of an otherwise competent associate
for personal reasons was to assign the prey more work than any lawyer
could effectively handle.

Treadwell had been confident that Seth, like other targeted victims
before him, would either burn out in a few months and leave
"voluntarily" or stay on and inevitably be late with an assignment or
botch it altogether, thus giving the senior partner indisputable
grounds for terminating him.

"So far," Treadwell added, "our Bakersfield cowboy has not fallen off
his horse. But Charlie will be opposing the defendant's motion to
dismiss in the U.S. Minerals case tomorrow based on Cameron's
workup."

"And?"

"Charlie will lose, of course."

"What if he shows up sober?"

"Little danger of that, but even if he does, our position is fatally
weak on the law. When we lose this motion, I suspect we'll lose the
client as well, probably to Caldwell and Shaw as usual. My consolation
is that I've laid the foundation for blaming Cameron's shoddy
preparation, and Charlie Branch will be ill positioned to argue
otherwise."

San Francisco's City Hall. One of the majestic grand dames of the
city's architecture, once rivaled in her regal dignity only by
Maybeck's Palace of Fine Arts and Timothy Pflueger's Four-Fifty Sutler
Building. But somewhere along the way--like all beautiful women--she'd
begun to show her age: the Grand Stairway now worn smooth, her soaring
three-hundred-foot ornamental dome pockmarked and nearly opaque with
sediment, her once flawless face filigreed by cracks from settling and
small monthly quakes that don't even make the evening news.

Yet the old girl could still stop your heart, and as Seth exited the
elevator at the fourth floor, he experienced the usual potpourri of
trial-lawyer emotions: exhilaration, anticipation, hope, anxiety. In
just ten minutes, presiding judge Lucille McCarthy would call the
calendar and assign the U.S. Minerals case to a judge for argument on
plaintiffs motion for summary judgment, the result of which could
determine his fate at M&M.

Seth's work on the motion was finished: the analysis, the research, the
drafting. Now it was all up to Charlie Branch, whom Seth tried to
picture stalking these same hallways thirty years earlier, the walls
then smooth with the smell of fresh paint, the venerable lawyer then
young and eager, feeling these same mixed sensations.
At ten, Seth gave up waiting for Branch in the corridor and entered
the PJ's courtroom. As she called the calendar, Judge McCarthy first
elicited from each opposing set of lawyers estimates of time their
arguments would require before assigning a courtroom and judge. When
the clerk called out the U.S. Minerals case, Charlie Branch was still
nowhere to be seen, so Seth stood and announced, "Forty minutes. Your
Honor," then caught the look of surprise on the face of his opponent,
Simon Stephens, of Caldwell and Shaw. Knowing that Stephens would now
assume that M&M had sent a mere associate to argue a $40-million
motion, Seth perversely reinforced the illusion by giving Stephens an
assured smile across the room.

The key to this trial business. Son, is control--which means you
always got to keep the other guy off balance. It's never too early to
start playing games with his mind and never too late to crank up the
confusion level even more. Never stop, and if you run out of
ammunition, keep shooting anyway.

"I agree. Your Honor," said Stephens, barely concealing his relief,
"twenty minutes each side."

"Judge Webster, Department 28," announced the PJ, and Seth, close to
the front of the courtroom, affected as much confidence as possible as
he strode through the rail and picked up the court file from the clerk
for delivery to Judge Webster's clerk. Of all the feelings bombarding
Seth, however, confidence was not one of them.

Where in the hell was Charlie Branch?

"I don't think we've met," said Simon Stephens, coming up behind him.

"How's it going?" said Seth, shaking Stephens's hand as they began to
walk toward Judge Webster's courtroom. Seth was irritated that
Stephens's hand was both warmer and drier than his own and that
Stephens surely noticed it.

"Been at M and M long?" The game was beginning.

"I've been practicing for a few years in Bakersfield. Tried a bunch of
cases around the Valley and came to M and M as a senior lateral
associate."

"Bakersfield," said Stephens, as if trying to place it.

"Drove through it once. Ever appear before Webster?"

"No."
"Minority appointment. Looks like he's right out of the bush."

Seth said nothing.

"Your brief was interesting," said Stephens.

"Thanks. I'm hoping the judge has read it."

"Don't count on it," said Stephens, chuckling, "although I will say
that Webster is more conscientious than most of the spades that
affirmative action has shoved down our throats lately."

"Look, Stephens," said Seth, staring straight ahead as they approached
Department 28, "I'm from Bakersfield all right, and there may be some
hay sticking out of my collar. But if you look closely under that
collar, you won't see a red neck anywhere. So spare me the racist
bullshit."

Simon Stephens's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he recovered as he
opened the door to the courtroom.

"Looks like the new kid in town is a bit touchy."

"See you in court," said Seth, and headed for the row of pay telephones
down the hall.

"Mr. Branch must have gone directly to court from his home, Mr.
Cameron," said Branch's secretary.

"He hasn't been in yet this morning."

Seth delivered the court file to Judge Webster's clerk and noted with
relief that another matter on the calendar would be argued first,
giving Branch at least another fifteen or twenty minutes. He glanced
at Si Stephens, who looked up from his files and flashed a confident
smile. Seth wondered whether the Caldwell and Shaw star was right
about Judge Webster, for it would take a smart and courageous jurist to
comprehend and act on the theory that Seth had Grafted for Branch to
argue.

Ironic, thought Seth, that the fate of his partnership now rested in
the hands of a judge he had never seen and a lawyer he couldn't find.

He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time to race to the main entrance.
Branch would be arriving by taxi, his driver's license having been
suspended two years earlier for drunk driving. Hurry and get up here,
you brilliant old fart! As Seth swept down the main entrance steps, he
was relieved to see Charles Branch standing outside a taxi, engaged in
animated conversation with the cabby.

"Mr. Branch!" Seth shouted.

"Hurry, we're up next!"

But Branch did not seem to hear, and as Seth drew closer, he saw that
the lawyer and the cabdriver were arguing.

Seth took Branch firmly by the arm and started to lead him toward the
entrance.

"We're up next, Mr. Branch.

We've drawn Judge Webster, but you've got to hurry because the--" "He
ain't going anywhere," said the cabby, "unless you got twenty-eight
bucks to cover the fare from Piedmont."

Branch was staring at Seth with dazed relief.

"Thank heavens you're here, lad. I left my apartment without so much
as a farthing. Be so good as to pay this parasite so that we may get
on with the bishness of the day."

"Yeah," said the cabby, nodding to Seth.

"He's drunk, all right. Got a bottle right there in his briefcase.
I've been watching him in the rearview. You got the twenty-eight or do
I call that cop over there?"

"Yes, of course I do," said Seth, watching Branch struggling to put on
his topcoat, one arm now hopelessly entangled in a sleeve.

"Are you all right, Mr. Branch?"

"I'm just fine, lad, thank you. But do I really need this coat?"

"No, Mr. Branch," said Seth, his heart sinking.

"I don't think you'll be needing your briefcase either."

"You're right as rain, young man. I can pick a jury without this damn
coat or a briefcase. Now pay the man and let's go over to Stars and
have lunch."

Seth looked at his watch. His heart pounded as he reached into his
wallet and fished out three twenties and a ten.

"Take him back home, driver."

"Home?" muttered Branch, struggling against Seth's efforts to urge him
back into the taxi.

"The hell with home.

I'm starting a trial today."

Seth saw that they were beginning to attract attention. He took a deep
breath, removed Cocktail Charlie's homburg, put his hand on top of the
old man's head to protect it, then gave him a shove that collapsed him
into the backseat.
"Go!" he commanded the driver as he slammed the rear door, and the
driver went.

Minutes later he was apologizing to Judge Webster for the delay: "An
office emergency, Your Honor." Lying to a traffic cop was one thing.
Lying to a superior-court judge on the record was something else, but
"an office emergency" was not only the truth in this instance, it was
an understatement.

The problem was that he was now the emergency. He had assaulted an
elderly partner, had not had time to report the situation to Anthony
Treadwell, and had just been rejected in his request for a continuance
of the hearing. Fate and Charlie Branch were conspiring to hand the
senior partner the excuse Seth had so far managed to deny him.

"You've inconvenienced court and counsel long enough, Mr. Cameron.
We're going forward, and we're going forward now, with or without your
presence. For the record, this is a motion for summary judgment
against plaintiff U.S.

Minerals, which, I should say at the outset, Mr. Cameron, I am
disposed to grant. I see no dispute in the facts, and the law appears
to be with the moving party."

A bad start.

"State your appearances, Counsel."

"Simon Stephens of the firm of Caldwell and Shaw, Your Honor,
representing the defendant and moving party."

"Seth Cameron, Your Honor. Miller and McGrath, representing plaintiff
U.S. Minerals."

"Thank you, gentlemen. You may proceed, Mr.

Stephens."

Stephens was elegant, articulate, and merciless, just as Harry had
warned Seth he would be.

"Standard equipment included on all Caldwell and Shaw models," Harry
had said.

"We're great here at Miller and McGrath, but C and S is the best.
Average profit per partner according to the American Lawyer? Four
hundred thousand a year! They're amoral, but they've got smarts,
wealth, and plenty of power in the state capital. They've probably
handpicked half the superior-court judges." But not this one, thought
Seth.

"I've read your brief, Mr. Stephens," said Judge Webster, interrupting
Stephens just five minutes into his argument, "and unless you have
something new to add, I'd like to hear if opposing counsel can give me
one good reason why I shouldn't grant your motion."

"In that case, I'll leave it right there. Your Honor," said Stephens.
C&S lawyers also know when it's smart to sit down and shut up, thought
Seth.

"Mr. Cameron?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Seth said, realizing he would have to take risks if
he was going to turn the judge around.

"As a matter of fact, there are two good reasons why this court should
not grant the motion. The first is that you will be reversed if you
do; though frankly, it seems as if the court has already made up its
mind."

The judge scowled and leaned forward menacingly.

"I'm listening. Counsel."

Step one. Son: you've got to get their attention--even if it means
hittin' 'em upside the head.

"Mr. Stephens has correctly stated the law which should govern the
trial of this case--" "Then, sir, you are wasting the court's time. You
and the defendant have already agreed on the basic facts, so if Mr.

Stephens is right on the law, there won't be a trial of the case,
because I'll be dismissing your complaint today."

"I hadn't finished. Your Honor," said Seth, his expression friendly,
but his voice now hard-edged.

"I said we may agree on the law governing the trial of the case. The
problem for Mr. Stephens, and the second reason you should deny his
motion to dismiss, is that we just aren't there yet. If you take a
close look at Harrison versus Excelsior Stores, Your Honor,
specifically footnote eight, you will see that the appellate court in
that case required inquiry into any collateral evidence--even
privileged information under certain circumstances--which might create
a dispute in the facts during the pretrial phase of the case, evidence
which your discovery commissioner has erroneously denied us."

"Let me understand you. Counsel," said the judge.

"You're saying I should adopt your view on access to privileged and
work-product information based on one footnote in just one case?"
"Not 'just one case," Your Honor, but an extremely well87 reasoned
case out of our own appellate district which our Supreme Court has
refused to review."

Judge Webster leaned forward, slowly shaking his head from side to
side.

"Mr. Cameron. What you're suggesting is that I permit you to engage
in further discovery that you say could create a triable issue of fact
you admit does not presently exist?"

"Exactly. Then let Mr. Stephens renew his motion-which, incidentally,
he knows you will have to deny because by the time I finish taking
depositions there will be a triable issue of fact. More important,
justice will have been served by permitting my client its day in court
on the merits."

Stephens started to rise, but the judge silenced him with an imperious
wave of his hand.

"And if I did buy your footnote eight argument, Mr. Cameron, just what
would that fact issue be?"

Seth smiled broadly.

"I haven't the slightest idea. Your Honor, but the law clearly allows
us a chance to find out.

My guess is that defendant's ex-employee--who won't speak to us without
a court-ordered subpoena--has told Mr. Stephens a different story than
the one being spun in these so-called un controverted affidavits from
the defendant's present officers. We're just asking for a chance to
level the playing field here."

Stephens fought back, but the judge was intrigued. After another half
hour of fierce debate, Seth left the courtroom with a favorable
ruling.

"I'm pissed off," said Stephens in the elevator, "but also amazed. I'm
a third-year partner at C and S, and they barely allowed me to argue
this motion. They'd never let a rookie associate handle a matter of
this magnitude. I was sure I'd be up against Charlie Branch; in fact,
now I wish I had been."

"Mr. Branch," said Seth, looking straight ahead, "was forced to take a
short trip."

"You what?" bellowed Treadwell through a telephone downstairs in the
main lobby.

The conversation was not going well.
"Yes, I heard you," Treadwell continued, "but winning the motion in no
way mitigates your flagrant abuse of office policy. We'll discuss this
further when you report back here." He hung up.

"No, really, sir," said Seth into the dead phone, "I think a bonus that
large would be excessive. I was just doing my job."

At ten the next morning, Charles Branch entered Seth's office and
closed the door behind him. Here it comes, Seth thought.

"I don't know quite how to say this, young man," said Branch.

"I'll start by saying I am both terribly embarrassed and eternally
grateful. You saved me from a certain suspension, possibly even
disbarment. I will be forever in your debt and hope you will accept my
apology for my conduct and for putting you in such a position."

"Thanks, Mr. Branch. It's forgotten as far as I'm concerned."

"But I shall not forget it, Cameron," said the older man, smiling
sheepishly as he added, "although my memory of the incident is a bit
sketchy. You should also know that I straightened Anthony out
concerning the true facts. All of them. It was most gallant of you,
incidentally, to conceal my .. . condition from him."

"I just told him you were ill, and that was the truth."

Branch smiled sadly, saying, "You and I know that I've been
incorrigibly 'ill' for years now, but thank you juflt the same.
Whatever residuum of influence I have around here will be put in your
service."

The old warhorse, head held high, left as quickly as he had come, and
Seth grabbed his telephone.
"Rosie? The corpse has started breathing again." 9 sam barton IS
AWAKENED IN HIS ON-BASE STUDIO APARTment by a grating sound he can't
identify.

Is he dreaming?

Probably. Or maybe it's the lonely weeping willow in the backyard
sidling up Ho the carport, nudged by winter winds rolling down from the
mesa.

Probably. Or maybe just an attack of the malady Elena lovingly calls
"stealth pilot's paranoia."

Whatever, his pillow is still broadcasting an accelerated heartbeat
into his ear, so he considers getting up to check the patio door.
Within a minute, however, fatigue and rational judgment prevail, and
his heart returns to a test-pilot-perfect fifty-six beats per minute.
He rolls over and begins to doze-a rare error in judgment as it turns
out--for the sound he thought he had dreamed was made by a real knife
blade slicing through a real screen door. And clutching the handle of
the knife is a powerful gloved hand attached to a well-muscled arm, the
other end of which is connected to a very tall, very real person.

The man is dressed entirely in black, and his face is covered with a
ski mask, inside which his breathing is irregular. Behind him is a
shorter man, also clad in a mask and black clothing, nervously peering
into a room as dark as a shark's belly, trying to make out the location
of the target's bed.

Despite the cold night, both men are perspiring as the tall man
silently slides the patio door open and takes his first step inside.
This is nowhere in my job description, he thinks as he begins to feel
his way around an endless sofa.

In his bed, the stocky pilot is half-asleep again when he dreams
another sound, the sound of footsteps. His eyes pop open and his
heartbeat surges again, for it's clear now that he has company. A
burglar? Should he reach for the bedside telephone Fake having a
gun? Just let him take what he wants?

Although adrenaline has now catapulted him into acute vigilance and his
pounding heart is rocketing off his pillow into his temples, he's
afraid to move anything but his eyes.

Maybe if he doesn't move, the intruder won't even know he's there. But
then he slowly raises his head and sees that the large rectangle of
moonlight framed by the patio doors is now partially blocked by the
moving silhouette of a man--oh, Jesus, two men!--and they are not
stopping at his tape deck or his TV and are walking right past his new
CD player.

What they must have come for is him.

He tries to clear his head, tries to remember that emergencies are his
business. Analyze, then react. Analyze, react. He figures that
although he can see them because of the moon's back lighting they
probably can't see him. Big advantage there. Means he can move and
they won't know it.

He snakes his way over to the far edge of the bed. Good, they haven't
seen him, but now what? He must either slide under the bed--where he
could easily be trapped--or try to sneak to the front door, twenty feet
away.

He decides to go for it and silently slides off the bed, crawling on
his stomach toward the door and the safety of the public hallway. But
they're close now and he hears one of them say, "Look! There he goes!"
so he staggers to his feet like a flushed quail, running and stumbling
toward the door.

He hears grunts of pain from his pursuers and tables with lamps tipping
over, but nothing seems to slow their progress as they try to cut him
off before he can reach his one avenue of escape.

Reaching the door first, he jerks it open, but forgets the night chain.
In panic, he jerks again and again--no time to unbolt the chain--but
the damn thing holds and now a huge hand slashes over his shoulder and
slams the door shut.

They have him.

He tries to scream out, but the hard heel of a hand is jamming his nose
up into his skull. Despite the searing pain, he instinctively comes up
with a knee, which produces a shriek from the taller man, but the
shorter one counters with a paralyzing blow to his right kidney with
something that feels like an iron bar.
Though physically crippled by the attack, the pilot's head remains
amazingly clear, adrenaline everywhere. This isn't just
fight-or-flight energy: it's both, and he somehow finds the night chain
and miraculously manipulates it out of the steel plate. Then he spins
and pulls the front door open, slamming it into the shorter man's head
as he hurls himself into the public hallway.

His prospects are buoyed by the bright lights and double row of doors,
behind which any number of brave Samaritans surely await his call to
arms, but when he tries to cry out for help, nothing issues from his
throat but a gurgling cough, a ghost of his intention. He can barely
even breathe, realizes he's choking on his own blood. And now an arm
flies out of the doorway and snaps like a whip around his neck,
dragging him back into the hellish darkness of the room as he struggles
to resist, both hands clutching the doorjamb in a death grip. Slowly,
one hand surrenders to the big man's superior strength, then the
other.

He is back inside the room.

Desperate now, nothing to lose, he thrusts his head back into the face
of the taller man. Now it is the assailant's nose that cracks, and the
sandy-haired man, feeling renewed hope, spins out of the grasp of the
tall man and races back the other way--across the room toward the
wide-open patio door.

He is wild with fear now, yet strangely exhilarated, panting like an
animal. The smaller man tries to block his path, but the pilot is
crazed, unmanageable, invincible, and the man gasps to his large
companion, "Use the knife, for chrissake!

I can't... hold the son of a bitch ..."

The taller man stumbles back into the fray, still holding his nose in
pain, but does not reach for his knife.

"You know we can't," he grunts, spitting blood, "can't use a knife for
this. Hold him ... for ... just another second." Then, while the two
shorter figures continue to wrestle like bears against the moonlit
screen, the tall man brings the steel pipe down hard toward his
quarry's head. But the pilot has found the stocky assailant's eye with
a thumb and twists free of his thick arms just as the steel bar brushes
past his ear. Lucky, yet the bar smashes into his shoulder with such
force that it partially paralyzes the right side of his body. Weakened
now, he lurches to one side, hopping pitifully like a three-legged dog
toward the patio, now just fifteen feet away.
But he makes only ten of them before he's again staring into the
blood-soaked mask of the taller man. Instinct tells him to go for the
vulnerable face again, and his gouging fingers seek out the broken
nose. But all he gets this time is the mask, which he rips away,
exposing the face underneath, shining with sweat and blood, yet
unmistakably ... "My God!" gasps the sandy-haired man, his eyes round
in amazement.

"You?" But the pipe comes flying toward him again, and he knows there
is no stopping it this time, no use even trying. Then he is strangely
conscious of becoming unconscious, of a dull concussion, of scattered
lights, thinking his last thoughts, of the wife he had loved, of the
children he hadn't yet had, would never know ... The two men in black
rest for a moment, hands on knees and gasping for air, looking down at
the sandy-haired man and assessing their own injuries. Then they each
grab an arm and drag the body roughly through the back patio door, down
the cold, hard concrete steps, and into the driveway where their car
waits idling under the gentle, swaying shadows of the moonstruck
weeping willow.

In Mill Valley, Rosie bolted upright in her sleep, screaming words Seth
could not understand, except for the last few:

"Stop! Stop! Please don't do this!"

Now wide-awake, Seth tried to soothe her out of her nightmare, stroking
her damp hair and reassuring her that it was a dream. But in the
partial light of the moon, Seth could see Rosie's feverish eyes burning
into him. She seemed to be hyperventilating, and Seth felt her pulse
pounding in every part of her rigid body. It occurred to him that they
had not yet found a doctor in Marin.

"Just a dream, babe," he whispered.

"I'm right here."

Rosie fell against him, perspiring and sobbing, moaning into his chest.
Finally, she found her voice and began repeating the same words over
and over: "They killed him, Seth, they killed him."

"Come on, honey," Seth said, holding her close to him, "everything is
okay. It's only four-thirty. Let's try to get back to sleep now.
You've had a nightmare."
"No, Seth," she said, reaching for a Kleenex, calmer now.

"It was real. They killed him."

"But a dream all the same."

Rosie blew her nose and sat up, herself again.

"Maybe so, but it was like those other times, Seth, you know, when the
things ... when it turned out to be real."

"Even so, darling'," said Seth, determined not to start something at
this hour, "there's nothing we can do about it, and it's got nothing to
do with us anyway."

Rosie turned toward him with a heartbreaking sadness in her dark, wet
eyes.

"That's just the problem, Seth. It's got everything to do with us.
With you!"

"Oh, Jesus, Rosie.iLet's not start that again. Okay?"

But Rosie just shook her head from side to side, then buried it against
his shoulder. Soon, they fell back asleep, and when they awoke the
next morning, nothing more was said about it. two MONTHS LATER, A
SUCCESSFUL FOURTEEN-HOUR WORKday behind him, Seth popped two
Dexedrine--just enough to get him home safely--and savored his
victories.

Skimming across the fog-cloaked Golden Gate Bridge, the silver Porsche
easily vanquished the sudden grade leading into the Waldo Tunnel. On
the other side of the tube, the tarp of fog had lifted and the crisp
December air was so clear that off to his right Seth could see all the
way across the Bay, its dark waters as still as lead, and well beyond
into the East Bay hills. With another ten-degree turn of his head, he
was able to spot the brightly lighted Imperial Building itself, home of
M&M. To his left, above the hills of the Marin Headlands, the full
moon had painted a false dawn that glowed like northern lights. On an
impulse, Seth turned off the headlights and drove at full speed, bathed
in its glow.
The advantage of commuting at three in the morning--you beat the
crowd.

He considered popping the Targa to get that Harley feeling, but at
eighty miles per hour and no hat or jacket the romance would turn cold.
He settled for the thrill of high-speed invisibility, listening to Bob
Seger belting out "You're Still the Same" on the custom sound system
for which the departed Middleton, in his halcyon days, had shelled out
six bills.

Jesus, what a day this has been, Seth thought. Sharpe Steel had been
put to bed at last, with a smashing victory fueled by his research and
analysis, an approach that had made poor Ted Arnold's memo look like
See Spot Run by comparison.

With a single, break-through idea, Seth had not only repelled another
attempt by Treadwell to embarrass him, but had earned the gratitude and
future allegiance of the partner who had argued the winning motion. In
the process, he had also eliminated Ted Arnold--a member of Seth's own
associate class--from the race for partnership. Making partner was
like musical chairs: when the music stopped, not everybody would have a
seat at the partnership table. Ted had been a bright enough guy, but
he suffered the disability of a wife and three kids. Distractions
could kill you in the jungle.

Like that unexpected appearance in his office by Trish Cooper today.
She should have known better than to put him on the spot like that. He
had wanted to ask her if she hadn' trucked up his life enough already,
but decided it was enough to just say no.

Seth switched his headlights back on.

On the plus side, though nobody had noticed, today marked Seth's
six-month anniversary with Miller and McGrath. He had planned to take
Rosie to D'Angelo's for a celebration, but Treadwell had hit him with a
rush job on an appellate brief--a reassignment from the late Ted
Arnold.

As the twin cones of the Porsche's beams hit the carport, Seth began to
give in to the fatigue that had been his nagging passenger from the
moment he left his office. He was dismayed to see a light still
burning in the bedroom. Thoughthe sharp smell of pine and jasmine
revived him a little on his way to the front door, he hoped neither
Rosie nor Fat Dog entertained any expectations.

"Well," she said after the perfunctory kiss, "we're home from work
early today."

"Very funny," said Seth, glancing at his watch and looping his tie over
a peg in the closet.

"It's been a killer."

"So what else is new."

Seth bent over to stroke Fat Dog.

"We're a regular bundle of sardonic wit tonight, aren't we? How was
your day?"

"Also the usual. Andre's thinks they can start me as soon as the
weather warms up and people start going out to eat again." Rosie had
quit her job at Luchesso's a month before when Luchesso made it clear
she was on his menu.

"And Lorraine called. Says your dad is getting to where he should have
a full-time day nurse. She also said it would be cheaper and safer if
you'd just go ahead and put him in Summercrest."

"Hell, Rosie, he won't go and I'm not going to make him.

What did you tell her?"

"That you would say, "Hell, Rosie, he won't go and I'm not going to
make him."

" "Would you call her tomorrow and ask her if she'll go ahead and get
him a full-time nurse?"

"She said it would be expensive."

"I can afford it. We'll go to Bakersfield Sunday afternoon."

"Good. I'll bake him some Christmas cookies."

"Christ, it's almost Christmas?" Seth began to undress, fatigue
suddenly overwhelming him.

"Hear that. Fats?"

"That's right, and guess what else."

"I give up."

"Happy six months with the firm! You started exactly six months ago
today--which means twelve more to go for partnership. I made you a
strawberry pie."

"You remembered! Thanks, babe. That was real thoughtful.

I'll take some to work tomorrow."

"Today."

"Right. Today."

"I put six candles on it."
Seth kicked off his shoes--wing tips he had purchased last
month--pulled off his tie, and slid out of his new Brooks Brothers
trousers.

"Thanks, babe," he repeated, and fell into bed. But Rosie did not
reach for the light on her side, signaling to Seth that she had
conversation on her mind.

Seth pulled a blanket over his shoulders and turned away from Rosie and
the light.

"Can't this wait till morning? This day was a real bitch."

"It is morning, and no, it can't wait," she said in a tremulous voice.
She paused for a minute, then seeing no reaction, continued, "I don't
know if this situation is working out for us, Seth."

Seth groaned inwardly, dreading the conversation he knew she had been
wanting to have, the pain she had been loading into words to be shot
point-blank into his burnt-out brain.

He tried to clear his head.

"Every day is a bitch for you, Seth. You're locked in some game with
your Mr. Treadwell that's killing you, and there's nothing I can do to
help. I never see you. We don't talk."

Rosie folded her arms and waited, then added, "I don't hardly know you
anymore."

Seth turned over and sat up. He told her he knew it had been hard on
her and how much he appreciated her patience, but that all they had to
do now was hang on--like she said--for just twelve more months, in
return for which he'd have the coveted partnership in M&M. Was it too
much to ask, he pleaded, to hold on just a bit more? Hadn't she
admitted just last week that the Living in the Here and Now philosophy
of the sixties and seventies was an anachronism?

That the Deferred Gratification style of the eighties and nineties made
more sense?

"That's exactly," said Rosie, slapping her hands hard into the bed,
"what I expected you to say. Every time I try to discuss our
relationship you start in spinnin' words I don't even understand until
I feel like I'm the crazy one here.

Words about makin' it, words about success and power and deferred
whatever. I'm so tired of words. They're just dam poor excuses for
themselves."
"But it's the truth, Rosie. I'm beating Treadwell and everybody knows
it, even Treadwell himself. I've got heavy support now after winning
the U.S. Minerals case. Every other partner I've worked for is behind
me. All we have to do is hold on. I've become an asset."

"You used to be a person," said Rosie, her dark eyes flashing.

Seth wisely said nothing, but after a moment of silence, Rosie added,
"Seth, darling', don't you see? We're not gonna make it. You may make
it, but we won't."

Seth ran rigid fingers through his hair.

"Rosie, I'm not saying you're wrong, but I'm tired and it's late ..."

"It is late, Seth, maybe too late. Don't you see? We've lost touch
with each other. I spend more time talkin' with the lady at the dry
cleaners or the guy at the butcher shop than I do with you."

"Are you still upset because I forgot our three-year anniversary?"

"Two. Two years."

"Two. Listen, babe, I'm so tired ... I don't even know what I'm saying
until I hear the words. My left brain and right brain aren't on
speaking terms anymore. Let me get a little sleep, and I promise we'll
talk it through on our next outing."

"Next outing? When was the last outing? We're livin' in the most
beautiful area in the world, Seth Cameron, and we've taken exactly one
weekend off together to see it."

Rosie paused to take a deep breath before dropping the bomb.

"And we haven't made love in over a month."

Seth threw back the blanket and spun off the bed.

"Oh, that's great. That's just great. With all the hassle I get at
the office, I really appreciate coming home to this. Damn it, Rosie,
this isn't a good time!"

Rosie stood up, too, facing him across the bed.

"I'm sorry, Seth, but there's never a good time to talk to you
anymore.

Don't you see? That's part of the problem." Rosie seemed to be
fighting back tears. She took in a choppy breath and folded her arms
across her chest; then, in a more conciliatory tone, she added, "I know
you're under pressure, it's just that I see them kinin' you and you're
too busy to notice."
"But I'm winning, damn it," said Seth, his face now pa leas death,
"and doing what it takes. I drove home this morning in a car that used
to belong to a guy who didn't do what it takes. Then there's Ted
Arnold, who spent nights and weekends with his wife and kids and now
he's got to figure out how he's going to feed them because Treadwell
sent him packing today. Even Harry might be headed for trouble."

"Harry Cooper?" exclaimed Rosie, momentarily derailed.

"Trish Cooper snuck into my office today to get me to help her with
Harry's drug problem."

"Drug problem?"

"I knew Harry had been doing pharmaceuticals to keep up. Turns out
he's also been doing cocaine. Big time."

"Oh my God. Harry?"

"And when he does take a few hours off, it's been for all-night trips
to Tahoe or Reno. Trish says the money he doesn't lose gambling is
going up his nose."

"What are you gonna do? What did you tell her?"

"I told her it's none of my business, that Harry would have to find his
own way out of this. People have to save themselves, Rosie."

Rosie covered her face with her hands for a minute, then walked around
the bed that had separated them. She stood in front of him, slim and
steady as a fence post, planted her hands on her hips, and fixed her
eyes on his as she began to speak.

"Seth, if people have to save themselves, that goes for us, too. If
they can break Harry, they can break anybody, includin' you." She
paused for another spasmodic deep breath, then added, "Look at you,
darling'. You're skin and bones from not getting' enough sleep and
decent food or from those little red pills I see you take when you get
up in the mornin' and probably keep takin' all day. You're plain wore
out, Seth. And I'll be darned if I'll stay here and watch Treadwell
run you around the track like a juiced-up quarter horse until you
drop!"

Seth's face went red, but for his lips, which were white and tightly
drawn.

"Nobody runs me around, Rosie. Nobody!

I'm beating the son of a bitch and doing exactly what / want to do.
This is the big leagues, damn it! This is what I came here for!"
"You came for this? Sleepless nights? All the time quarrelin' with
me? Maybe an ulcer? Maybe worse? That's what you came for?"

"I came here to show them I belong here, Rosie. Here, where the action
is. Where the power is. Arguing a motion with millions at stake
against the best lawyers in town pumps you up like nothing you could
imagine. I can't believe you'd want me to quit and crawl back to
trying nickel-and-dime cases in that dead-end whistle-stop it took me
thirty-five years to get out of."

"At least you used to try those 'nickel-and-dime cases," Seth.

You dealt with people and juries, not just money and tons of paperwork
and motions. Now all you talk about is big-buck cases that eat you
alive sixteen hours a day. Maybe Tom Huckins was right after all.
You've become less like a lawyer and more like a plumber for a bunch of
economic animals!"

Seth grabbed a towel and headed for the bathroom, but turned at the
door and said, "You call it what you want, but you should be damn glad
somebody's working around here!"

"And what's that supposed to mean?" shouted Rosie.

"I've carried my share here since I quit my job. Do you want me to go
on back there to be groped some more by Luchesso? Is that what you
want?"

Seth whirled in the hallway and stormed back into the bedroom.

"You never told me he touched you. And you stayed there four months?
How could you let him do that?"

Rosie looked at him in disbelief.

"Have you been on the moon, Seth? You don't stop a two-hundred-pound
man from grabbin' you unless you carry a gun. And you don't up and
walk out on your job when your lover is the kind of person who might
jump all over you for not carryin' your share of the load!"

"What you really mean is when your lover isn't jumping all over you and
when being groped by a fat greaser is better than no groping at all."

The cruel force of the words jerked Rosie's head back as if she had
been slapped. When she had stifled her tears of rage, she spoke in a
tone that sounded to Seth like someone else.
"You've always been selfish and quick-tempered, Seth Cameron she said
in that cold, alien voice, "full of anger and suspicious of everybody.
Still and all, I've loved you with all my heart." Her voice faltered
on the last words, and her eyes seemed to soften.

"But Seth, I can't take this anymore." She was whispering now.

"The city is going to kill you and ... I'm not gonna stay here for the
funeral. I'm sorry, honey, but I think it's time for me to--" Seth
spun around and threw up his hand as if trying to ward off an onrushing
projectile. He heard himself screaming, "Don't--" "--head on back
home."

Rosie's last words--echoes from a nightmare past--continued to rush
toward him across the room, a building mass of bitter
hurt--E=me2--words that smashed into his heart at warp speed. He felt
his knees start to buckle, his breath jammed somewhere in his resin
throat. He took an unsteady step toward her, like a person who had
been shot, then tried to gather himself.

"You don't mean that," he said, his eyes red and glassy.

"Don't say things like that. You can't leave, Rosie. You just can't.
Don't you see? I'm making it here!"

Rosie stared at him, shivered, but said nothing.

"You won't have to work at all once I make partner," he continued, his
face flushed and contorted.

"We'll take trips, go on vacations!" The words were splashing out of
him now, like liquid from a broken vessel.

"I'm going to be rich, honey. We'll travel. We'll buy a place, have
kids, and ..."

Pitifully pale, shoulders and head sunk, he slumped onto the bed and
put his arms around her hips, his head buried in her breasts.

"Please. Oh, Jesus, don't ... leave, Rosie," he said, then looked up
at her.

"We can work this out."

Rosie saw the glint of tears forming in his eyes, heard the catch in
his throat. She had been prepared for everything but this. She sat
down on his lap, put her arms around his neck.

Overhead, the sound of a jet. A dog barked somewhere.

Fat Dog answered.

Seth realized he was crying, his body convulsing, pulling Rosie closer
to him, feeling her hands in his hair, mumbling nonsense like a crazy
man.

Yeah, I'm going crazy. This is what it's like to go crazy.
Nightmares while you know you're awake. Am I awake?

Afraid so. Sleep. I've got to sleep.

"I promise," he heard himself say, "I promise you, I promise--" He
heard Rosie saying, "Shhh, shhh," and was aware that his body was
trembling from the cold. Cold from what? Of course, the window. From
having his face against the damn window, the window that wouldn't open,
painted shut, wouldn't open. Would never open.

"I promise, oh, God, I promise ..." She's leaving and it's stuck shut.
Everything's stuck.

"And I'm sorry about everything ... and forgetting everything ..." If
he could speak and hear his own words, he was okay. / speaR, therefore
I am.

"I'm sorry I said all those things about you and ... Luchesso. I
didn't mean it." A kiss on the cheek. Was it just a dream? No dream,
shithead, she's leaving. She's good as gone, boy.

"I'm sorry and I promise ..."

"Shhh," Rosie whispered, and kissed him lightly on the shoulder. Seth
raised his head and tentatively kissed her cheek, then her lips. She
touched his face, cold and white as marble, pressed her cheek to his,
then kissed his eyes, his dry lips. Seth kissed her back, pulled her
closer to him, then gently lowered her onto the bed. SIX MONTHS BEFORE
seth's UP-OR-OUT PARTNERSHIP VOTE, Anthony Treadwell sat with Allston
Addams over cocktails at the President's Club, lamenting his decreasing
support, the state of the profession generally, and miscellaneous other
aggravations.

"It's not just us, it's rampant all across the country," Treadwell
said, crossing his long legs with a pained expression.

"Clients up to their ears in expanded in-house legal staffs bent on
robbing us of our bread-and-butter work, destroying our ability to
leverage our associates."
"And when they do deign to send us something, they complain about our
rates," added Addams.

"Then we've got all these brash young female associates the Turkeys
shoved down my throat, a bunch of no-talent Rachel Cannon wannabes."

"Most of whom will be married and producing babies by the time they're
capable of producing good law work."

"And associates who would rather do pro bono publico work than tie into
a good set of interrogatories," continued Treadwell.

"Then you have the sharks like Caldwell and Shaw, stealing our top tax
partner last month."

"With a guarantee of five hundred thousand dollars plus performance
bonuses!" added Addams.

"Let's face it, Tony, we'll lose more than a tax partner to C and S if
we don't increase our own profit per partner."

Treadwell responded with a contemptuous grunt and snapped his fingers
at Henri. Addams's eyes widened, for not once in more than twenty
years had he seen Anthony Treadwell order a third drink before lunch.

"I see that Yale wanted you back this year," said Addams, trying to
shift to a more pleasant subject.

"You turned them down?"

"Of course I turned them down," said the senior partner, his words
rushing out in a torrent of frustration.

"Don't think I've forgotten that the last time I left San Francisco my
dear young partners installed a computer system we can neither afford
nor understand and hired a maverick lawyer--they call him Cowboy I
understand!--with no discernible family background, whose baggage
includes a bimbo girlfriend who I learned just last week worked in a
bowling alley. Wearing roller skates, if you can believe it!"

"Though she did look lovely at the spring banquet last month," said
Addams, feeling his second drink.

"Of course she looked lovely. That's what bimbos do, for God's sake.
But can you picture her at a client's dinner?

Entertaining a senator and his wife?"

Addams shook his head and seized a hunk of bread.

"I also learned last week that Cameron won the last case he tried
before coming here by eating an insect, for God's sake, in front of the
jury!"
"Incomprehensible," muttered Addams, shaking his head.

"Reprehensible," added Treadwell.

"That's the kind of thing I would have investigated had I been
here--family background, service organizations, and so on--before
approving him."

"Of course you would have. Tony. And we should have."

"Well," said Treadwell, sipping his Linkwood Scotch, "thank heavens
it's not too late to teach the Young Turkeys a lesson on that score, at
least."

Addams stole a glance at the senior partner.

"Tony, I, uh, had rather hoped you had given up on that particular
project.

You know I agree with you concerning the circumstances of the young
man's hiring. But it's been a year now, and I doubt that anyone even
remembers how he came to be here."

"/ remember."

"All right. So do I. But my point is, we don't want to go to the mat
with the Turkeys on a fight we can't win. Cameron's partnership might
well be that fight. The kid's a hell of a lawyer. Tony. Relentless.
Obsessive, in fact. Approaches a simple custodian-of-records
deposition as if his very life depended on it." Addams sighed, then
added, "And he's got Charlie Branch and several other partners lined up
solidly behind him."

"Charlie Branch, that drunk!" exclaimed Treadwell, sucking down his
third drink and slamming the empty glass down on the leather-topped
table.

"Don't underestimate Charlie either. Tony," pleaded Addams.

"Let's face it. He retains the mystique of his past accomplishments
and the admiration of the younger partners."

"Branch and mystique be damned!" said Treadwell.

"I

tell you the maverick bumpkin hasn't beaten me yet, and once I get him
out of my hair I'll retire Branch. Then I'll get rid of Lydell for
good measure."

"Vie Lydell? But ..."

"For conveying the offer to Cameron!"

"Oh."

Henri approached, his spine in the deferential configuration of a
question mark, and handed Treadwell a message.
"From your secretary, sir," he muttered.

"She said it might be urgent."

The message read:

Elena Barton is here, unscheduled, of course. I thought you should
know. Marianne Tarkenton.

"It is bad news?" asked Addams.

"Is there any other kind?" growled Treadwell, crumpling the note and
rising to his feet.

"Traeger's daughter, in my office."

"But ... what about lunch?"

"Lunch?" said Treadwell, pushing his empty glass across the table.

"I've just had it."

"Elena! What a pleasure!" said Treadwell, embracing his goddaughter
in the reception area of the penthouse floor.

"Why didn't you tell me you were back from your trip so we might have
had lunch."

"I came back early on an impulse. Uncle Tony," said Elena.

"Well, my dear, the good news is that you're here. To what do we owe
this good fortune?"

Treadwell knew very well why Sen. Stanford Traeger's daughter was in
his office, and it wasn't good news at all.

Her husband, Capt. Sam Barton, a U.S. Air Force top-gun test pilot,
had been killed in the crash of an experimental X-215A stealth bomber
about eight or nine months earlier.

Traeger had warned Treadwell to be prepared for Elena's visit, that she
might want him to bring a lawsuit against the government and
Intercontinental Aerospace--Con Space--manufacturer of the doomed
aircraft. She had told her father that she intended to vindicate her
husband's good name by erasing the "pilot error" stigma from the Air
Force's records, "no matter the consequences." Treadwell did not have
to be told the "consequences": a suit by Traeger's own daughter
attacking the X-215A--even if entirely groundless--could pose a major
embarrassment to him as senior member of the U.S. Senate Armed Services
Committee's subcommittee charged with oversight of the Stealth Program
Add the fact that the subcommittee Traeger chaired had endorsed Con
Space at the end of its fierce, four-year battle with chief competitor
Winston-Ethridge Aeronautics for a $200 billion government contract,
and the recipe for a personal political disaster was complete.

"My God," Treadwell had said, careful to keep the smile on his face
from creeping into his voice, "that would be embarrassing!"

Traeger had then added that although Elena had unknowingly allowed the
time for suits against the government to expire, she still had ample
time to sue Con Space

"Talk her out of this latest foolish notion. Tony," Traeger had said,
anticipating his ex-partner's reluctance.

"Try to get her to understand she has no case. Remind her that test
pilots knowingly live in death's shadow. Tell her," he added before
slamming the phone into the cradle, "that's what the hell they get paid
to do."

Traeger did not have to add that doing his bidding was what Treadwell
and M&M got paid to do.

"But first just let me look at you, dear girl," said the senior
partner, taking both of Elena Barton's hands in his.

"Ah, yes, more beautiful than ever, even under the circumstances."

Elena smiled back and kissed him on the cheek.

"It's good to see you. Uncle Tony, and I'm sorry I didn't call first,
but it suddenly hit me: I need a lawyer. Can you give me some time?"

Not even Treadwell's dread of the dilemma confronting him could erase
his pleasure at the sight of Elena Barton.

He scanned her face, delicate features framed in long, softly curled
blond hair, then gazed into eyes like pale jade stone set in eggshell.
This young woman, thought Treadwell, is even more beautiful than her
mother, who, before her death, had been the object of Treadwell's
unrequited lust for twenty years. Even in mourning, Elena possessed a
rare blend of seductive innocence, a virginal quality that tragedy and
the passage of time had not yet stolen. How many men have had this
gorgeous child? Treadwell wondered, then banished the thought as he
realized how much he would like to have been one of them.
"I'm sorry you need a lawyer, my dear, but delighted to see you, if
that's what it takes. I assume you'll be wanting to speak with Mr.
Addams, the head of our trust and probate group."

"No, Uncle Tony ..."

"Excuse me, dear, you remember Miss Tarkenton?"

The women exchanged pleasantries. Miss Tarkenton took beverage orders,
and Treadwell seated Elena in a client's chair.

"Shall I ask Mr. Addams to join us, Elena?" Treadwell asked, then
allowed Elena to explain the purpose of her visit.

"Elena, my dear," said the senior partner, his voice hypnotically
soothing, "I would think you'd want to put this ugly matter behind you.
And I must tell you that an attempt to reconstruct the crash of a
top-secret aircraft--as we would have to do in order to establish a
product failure--would be a fool's errand, doomed to failure. We
wouldn't get to first base."

He studied Elena's flawless features, gauging the effect of his words,
watched her as she began to dig through her purse. Was she going to
cry? Not like her, he thought, remembering her stoic demeanor at Sam
Barton's funeral.

And Traeger had said that Elena was even more headstrong than usual
concerning this particular quest.

Traeger, the bastard. Treadwell would never forgive his duplicity in
1978, but he had had to put it behind him. After all, the senator sent
M&M even more business now than he had brought in as presiding partner.
More importantly, the new clients were always referred directly--and
therefore credited--to Treadwell, probably out of Traeger's
understandable guilt. In any event, it was clear that Treadwell would
have to do whatever Traeger wanted--and what Traeger wanted was
assurance that this case would never see the inside of a courtroom.

Treadwell was pleased that at least he wouldn't have to lie to his
godchild--it really would be next to impossible to bring a successful
suit against a manufacturer in a case where normal pretrial discovery
methods would be thwarted by high-level security protection.
Elena found what she was looking for in her purse, and it wasn't a
tissue.

"Look at these, Uncle Tony," she said, her eyes glowing.

"I've been collecting handwritten statements from other test
pilots--top guns--who fly the same aircraft.

They all say Sam was incapable of pilot error, that he was the best of
the lot. One of them. Jerry Murphy, will even say he has real
concerns about the safety of the X-215A!"

Temporarily checkmated, Treadwell altered his tactics.

"My, you have been busy," he said, forcing an encouraging tone.

"We just might have a job for you here, my dear."

They shared a laugh over this, and Treadwell promised to brainstorm the
situation with some of the "experts" in his office and give her "a more
knowledgeable evaluation" the following day. Elena thanked him, kissed
him on the cheek, and left him alone to stare at the oil paintings of
founders E. B. Miller and Gerald McGrath, framed in elaborately carved,
gilded frames, hanging proudly in his conference area.

"And you fellows thought the Depression was rough," he said aloud to
the silk-brocade-covered wall. atherton, california, IS HOME TO MANY
OF THE WEALTHIest executives and socialites in northern California.
Two million dollars nets the buyer a small lot and a demolition
project. The horsey set prances just to the southwest in Woodside, on
large parcels with private stables and training rings for
Thoroughbreds, Morgans, and other equestrian objets dart. Social
wannabes who can't abide stuffy Atherton, Woodside, or nearby
Hillsborough jet-set north across the Golden Gate to Ross or Kent
Woodlands in hip Marin County, known for a more relaxed,
peacock-feathered lifestyle.

Old-money, A-list clubbies, who could afford Atherton but need to stay
close to the opera and symphony for fear of losing their prestige
seating on opening nights, reside in fragile seventy-five-year-old
Victorians that cost something considerably north of $4 million on
high-security streets in the Pacific Heights district of San
Francisco.

The rest of the world lives in Oakland.

Nestled in the heart of Atherton, in an enclave called Lindenwood--the
first neighborhood in California to require that all electrical and
telephone lines be buried underground and out of sight--is the
ten-thousand-square-foot, fourteen-room home of Charlotte and Anthony
Treadwell--picked up cheap ten years earlier for only $3.8 million and
change.

A fixer-upper.

Inside the rambling mansion, seated in a dining room the size of a
small restaurant. Charlotte and Anthony Treadwell discussed their
respective days. Winthrop--named after his grandfather, an East Coast
industrial baron--was out for the evening attending a fraternity
meeting at nearby Stanford where he studied banking and finance.
Prudence, twenty-eight, a member of the Boston Junior League and
already well-married to an investment banker from a good family, had
called the day before to announce that the miracle of amniocentesis had
assured fulfillment of her most important function as a dutiful
daughter: the imminent birth of a grandson to carry on the aristocratic
Treadwell lineage.

But that was yesterday. Tonight, it was clear to Charlotte that
something was wrong. Not that Anthony ever tried to conceal his moods
from Charlotte. For one thing, he had learned many years before--as
soon as his young bride decided to let him in on it--that she was even
smarter than he. Also more ambitious.

"You seem particularly troubled tonight. Tony," she said, refilling
his glass from a bottle of 1962 Chateau Margaux.

"Want to talk about it?"

Treadwell tried to eat, but the Chateaubriand tasted flat,
indistinguishable from the eggplant. He shook his head, then pushed
his plate away and stared into the bloodred liquid in his glass as if
seeking a solution there.

"He's back," Treadwell said simply in a resigned, half-whispered
tone.
"When?" she said, her glass stopping short of her lips.

"Where?"

"He first showed up in my office seven or eight months ago. Caused a
bit of a ruckus. Said he needed money.

Wanted to go into business."

Charlotte grunted.

"Doing what? Starting a fireworks stand?"

"I gave him ten thousand. I didn't tell you because I thought we were
rid of him." Treadwell grabbed one of Charlotte's cigarettes--he only
smoked hers, and never during the day--lit it, and inhaled deeply,
feeling the deadly comfort of warm smoke invading his lungs.

"He called this morning. He says he 'wants to talk' before he leaves
town for good."

Charlotte rose from her chair and hurled her linen napkin onto the
table.

"How much will your dear father extort this time. Tony?"

"I asked him that," said Treadwell after taking a long drink from his
crystal wineglass.

"He said he had enough to get by."

"He said that? Strange. What do you make of it?"

"I have no idea. He is acting strangely, though--even for him. If I
had to guess, I'd say he's now managed to blame me for everything."

"Bob blames you?" she exclaimed.

"Doesn't that just make perfect sense: drunken mother confesses to
drunken husband that he's not the real father of seven-year-old Tony.

Drunken father runs out and shoots Romeo Bob's arm off with a
twelve-gauge shotgun. How perfectly logical for Bob to blame the child
nearly sixty years later!"

Charlotte, her anger spent, rested her hand on her husband's shoulder,
then fell back into her chair, a flawless Louis XIV-style
reproduction.

"What are you going to do?"

Treadwell looked up at his wife and managed an unconvincing smile.

"I've agreed to meet him next week."

"Isn't that risky?"

"I'm meeting him at Ranjits, in Santa Cruz. He's staying near there
and nobody will recognize me."

"I don't like it," said Charlotte.
"Oh, yes," Treadwell added casually, staring down at his fingernails,
"Elena dropped by today."

The mention of Elena's name caused Charlotte's eyes to narrow as if hit
by a cold wind. When Treadwell had finished, she sat for a minute in
fuming silence.

"Well, dear, you do have a problem," she said finally.

"The problem is that your precious Elena has always known exactly how
to get around her worshiping uncle Tony, which means you'd better damn
well figure how you are going to appease Stan when you fail to talk her
out of her lawsuit." Abruptly, she rose to her feet again and swept up
the china dinner plates.

"I'll get the salads."

"Now don't be silly. Charlotte. Sit back down for a moment.

I don't worship anyone. Except you, of course."

Bullshit, she thought, but let it pass.

"I'll find a way to talk her out of it," Treadwell continued.

"Indeed, if she realized the difficulty of the position she's putting
me in, she'd back off in a minute." Treadwell poured himself another
glass of wine, then thoughtfully continued his peroration.

"Perhaps that's it. I'll combine the impossible odds against winning
such a case with an appeal to her loyalty to her father and to me. I'll
simply explain the difficulty of my position."

"Good luck, dear," said Charlotte, granting him a half-smile belied by
the same cold, narrowed eyes.

"Then you can tackle peace in the Middle East, AIDS, and race
relations."

"Could you be a bit less sarcastic and a bit more specific?

Or better yet, a bit helpful?"

"Elena is counting on the rivalry that existed between you and Stan
before his election to the Senate. She knows how he tricked you into
letting him become presiding partner ahead of you for 'just one year'
to bolster his campaign resume, then held you off for four more years
while he nurtured his investments into a small fortune and bided his
sweet time until the governor finally appointed him to fill an
unexpired term."

Charlotte paused, folded her napkin into a perfect rectangle, then
leaned forward.
"She knows you'll always hate him for that. She also knows that a
victory against his pet Stealth Program would give you an unexpected
last chance to prove yourself a better man. Am I making sense?"

This was the old Charlotte, thought Treadwell, offering only a
noncommittal shrug. Uncannily perceptive, unrelentingly blunt.

"Add to that," she continued, "the fact that Elena hates her father
even more than you do for the shabby way he treated Beth before she
died. Don't you see? Using you to humiliate him the way he humiliated
Beth is part of her motivation in all this!"

Treadwell raised an eyebrow, but concealed his astonishment at
Charlotte's insight.

"You may have a point, my dear," he said.

"It's quite true I wouldn't mind embarrassing the pompous little
egomaniac, but I trust you realize I would never allow myself to be
drawn into a father-daughter conflict for something as ephemeral as
principle and vengeance."

Translated," said Charlotte, her face relaxing again, "you won't risk
the loss of that East Coast business he refers to you with the
regularity that only guilt could motivate."

Treadwell decided to acknowledge the validity of her analysis with a
bow of his head, and Charlotte, always gratified to think of herself as
the power behind the throne, got up and kissed him on the cheek.

"Dealing with it, however, won't be easy," said Treadwell.

"If I do fail to discourage her, the Young Turkeys will have an excuse
for offering me up as a sacrifice to appease Traeger. I could be
out."

But Charlotte was already a step ahead.

"I've always believed, dear, that if there must be a sacrificial
lamb"--here she paused to smile shrewdly and top off their glasses of
Margaux--"it's good to make sure it's somebody else, not you."

Treadwell considered her words, then looked up from his plate and broke
into the first genuine smile Charlotte had seen in weeks.

"You've done it again, my dear. It should indeed be somebody else," he
said, saluting her with his raised glass, "and I have just the man for
the job." 15 "well," SAID elena THE FOLLOWING DAY IN THE SENIOR
partner's office, "do I have a good case?"

"You have the next best thing," said Treadwell with a reassuring smile
at his goddaughter, radiant in a pastel sheath dress and off-white
Chanel jacket that complemented her eyes.

"You have a good lawyer. I am happy to say that we recently associated
an experienced personal-injury attorney;

a young man, but with more actual jury trials under his belt than most
of the senior partners here. And," the senior partner added, having
rationalized away any material distinction between canned garbanzos and
supersonic aircraft, "he specializes in product-liability cases."

Elena frowned, but Treadwell continued before she could speak,
"Naturally, dear, I'll be right here to keep an eye on things. But
frankly, I've never tried a PI case, whereas Seth Cameron--that's his
name--is a qualified expert in such matters."

"Well, if you really think he's the best choice ..."

"There's not a doubt in my mind that he is suited in every way for this
project," said Treadwell, imagining how Charlotte would appreciate the
ironic touch.

"When can I meet Mr. Cameron?"

"Right now. Make yourself comfortable, dear, and I'll make certain
he's available."

Treadwell excused himself and descended two floors to Seth's office.

"Good morning, Cameron," he said in a friendly tone that signaled
imminent danger to Seth.

"Good morning, sir."

"Cameron, I have a difficult assignment for you. A matter of the
highest sensitivity, requiring the utmost delicacy and discretion."
Minutes later, after Treadwell had briefed Seth, including the
potential problem with Senator Traeger, he left to fetch Elena. Seth
slipped in a quick call to Rosie, eager to report his assignment to a
matter of such political importance to the firm.

"I think I've won the old bastard over," he said.

Seth listened, scarcely breathing, to Elena's story.

His eyes wandered between her full lips and her eyes as she spoke,
then--whenever she glanced away--to her shapely, white-stockinged legs.
He occasionally managed a lawyerlike, even skeptical-sounding question
or comment-How would we be able to prove the aircraft was defective?

How could we penetrate the wall of legitimate top-secret security that
surrounds the X-215A? You realize, of course, that the time for filing
against the government has expired?--but was mainly content just to
observe the intriguing woman across from him.

She told him everything, of her life with Capt. Sam Barton-whom Seth
found himself envying even though the man was dead--of the difficulties
of her transition from life as an Atherton debutante to the world of
the military wife; of the vicious politics and backbiting among the
wives, and the paradoxical bond of vicarious pride in their husbands'
status and the imminency of tragic loss that bound them together.

She haltingly recalled the day it was her turn to be visited by the
others: sad-faced women who really didn't like her, who spent their
days gossiping about her. Women who lived in fear and loathing, who
had sat waiting alone into the morning hours, worrying that their own
late-returning husbands were lying somewhere in the twisted wreckage of
a crashed aircraft, only to hear them creep into the house at dawn,
reeking of vodka and cheap perfume. Women who then had to deal with
the guilt of feeling their relief adulterated by malevolent
disappointment.

This odd community of friends had consoled her at Sam's death and had
promised (as she had done herself in the past) to stay in touch, only
to disappear forever from her life. She understood. She was no longer
one of them; the common fear that had bound them had been severed by
its final, fiery incarnation. Besides, although it would never be
hinted in her presence, Capt. Sam Barton had been charged posthumously
with pilot error. He had blown it, screwed the pooch, fucked up.
He--and thus she--no longer wore the mantle of the elite.

"Must have hurt," Seth said quietly, to which Elena replied with a
shrug of her small shoulders that seemed to say. Good riddance.

Still she talked, displayed her meager proofs, tried to convince him.
Tops in his class of top guns ... not a single accident in six years of
test-flying any airplane they could put on the tarmac ... told me this
one scared him, scared him silly every time he flew it ... thought he
knew what was wrong with it, but no one would listen ... got it down on
the desert somehow that night, but he had to be identified by his
dental work ... Against these images of splattered blood and shattered
bone, white-gloved hands fumbled on a purse's catch, removed a
handkerchief. A sweet, musk smell wafted across the laminated desktop,
a smell that Seth thought fit her perfectly:

innocent, yet fecund, ripe with possibilities.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cameron," she said, her eyes glistening with tears.

"I loved him so much. It's ..."

"I understand. Please. Call me Seth." He felt an impulse to leap the
pine barrier that separated them and sweep her up in his arms, comfort
her, assure her that her champion would dispatch the Con Space dragon
or die in the effort.

Instead, he stared down at his pen, saying, "Has Mr.

Treadwell explained how difficult these cases are? That suing the U.S.
government's major aircraft contractor is like taking on the U.S.
government itself."

"Nothing good comes easy," she said, burning him with those pale green
eyes, challenging eyes in which Seth, in his reckless, captivated
state, saw the hint of a double entendre.

"And besides," she added, "I haven't told you the best part.

Crispie--Captain Jack Christopher--has heard that the X-215A has some
kind of mechanical defect that is under investigation. This wasn't the
first crash, you know."

She handed him a list, names and dates of other X-215A crashes, the
pilot's name alongside each one. First Thomas Penrod, then Grant
Wilbur. Now Barton.
"Your husband was the third pilot to die in the same type of plane?"

"And all on the same routine test mission. They fly some kind of
triangular pattern; Penrod crashed not far from where Sam went down.
Wilburn somewhere up in northern California. All top guns. All
explained away as pilot error."

"Who's Christopher?"

"Sam's best friend and now the senior test pilot in the X-215A program.
Another pilot--Gerald Murphy--told me he had heard Sam explain the
problem with the X-215A to the base commander."

"What happened?"

"Nothing. The upper brass were trying to make Sam out to be a
crackpot. After Wilburn crashed, Sam told me he'd take his theory
public if anybody else bought the farm."

"But then Sam bought it himself."

She nodded.

"Gerald Murphy could be helpful if he'd testify. Said he's heard other
things and wants out of the program. Another stealth test pilot--David
Ames--became so terrified after Sam's death he went A.W.O.L. and never
came back."

"This fellow Murphy. You say he's heard other things?"

"About the aircraft."

"Like?"

Elena leafed through her handwritten notes.

"Like--to use his words--'that Intercontinental Aerospace threw the
X-215A together with Scotch tape and baling wire to beat the
government's bid deadline. Then to win the bid, they sacrificed many
of the X-215A's safety features to gain speed and make it less
detectable by radar."" "And these men would be willing to come forward
and testify in court?" asked Seth, as if he didn't know better.

Now he had her.

"I know Crispie would come in and talk to you, Mr. Cameron," she said
confidently.

"Afraid that's not enough, Elena. We need witnesses. In court."

Elena rose to her feet, walked over to Seth's window, and stared out at
the building next door. His guilty 35-mm eyes framed her face,
devoured her profile--the delicate nose, the loose curls tumbling over
small breasts, which rose quickly now with each breath. He tried to
clear his head, to remind himself that everything was at stake here,
yet the voyeur lens panned relentlessly downward to take in a pair of
hands, his own hands, enclosing the tiny waist, then sliding downward
to that perfect platform of firm flesh jutting out from her low back,
pulling her hips into his ... "I think Crispie would," she said,
staring at him with liquid eyes. She turned, moved a step toward him,
her hands clasped together in front of her.

"Sorry?" said Seth, flushed with guilt and desire.

"Crispie would what?"

"Testify. Sam was his best friend, Mr. Cameron. At least talk to
him. Something might develop."

Which was exactly what Seth was afraid might happen.

The woman was determined, irrepressible. He began to feel like the
proverbial goat staked at the edge of an African village to test the
rumor that a lion was about. Thoughts poured in on him like a meteor
shower. She just might have a case after all, and she knows it. She's
beautiful and knows that, too. I've got to get her out of here. How
can I get her to stay?

But one thought slashed through all the rest, penetrating his brain
like an ice pick.

He's beaten me. The son of a bitch has beaten me. harry cooper WALKED
IN AS elena LEFT, BEAMING WITH the news that he had "scored big time"
at Tahoe over the weekend and that his "thoroughly appeased" wife was
now driving a new Mercedes. His glasses began to steam up as he
rambled on about how he had been working for years on a pass-bar system
at the crap tables that had finally paid off.

"The system is slow, Seth. Excruciatingly slow, but it works!
Seventy-six thousand in a little over ten hours. Ifthey hadn't paid
me the ultimate compliment of inviting me to leave, I'd have made
more."

"Or lost it all back," said Seth, not looking up.

"No way. This system will beat any crap table in the world."

Seth told him he was Harry fucking Houdini all right, but he was
swamped right now so buzz off. Harry just laughed a man's laugh and
said, yeah, I noticed and just who the hell was she?

"A client. Sort of."

"You doing entertainment law now? She's got to be a movie actress. Com
on, who is she?"

"She's trouble, that's who she is."

"If she's trouble, I'd like to get into it."

"Harry, I'm busy."

"Okay, sorry. But fact is, Seth, I'm already in trouble. Big trouble.
I owe Treadwell an appellate brief tomorrow. I'd planned to do it this
weekend and ... well, something came up. I guess I just snapped Friday
night and had to get out of here. Next thing I knew I was at Harrah's
Club."

"Next thing you knew."

"Seth. Give me a break. This could kill me with Treadwell."

"Let me guess. You want me to intercede and exercise my immense
influence with Anthony Treadwell in your behalf."

Harry reached out and grabbed Seth's shoulder.

"This is no laughing matter, Seth."

Seth looked up into Harry's feverish eyes.

"I'm not laughing, Harry, but what do you want from me? In case you
haven't noticed, I'm alone at the top of Treadwell's shit list."

"You could give me a hand tonight."

"Give you a hand."

"Jesus, Seth. I feel like I'm in a fucking echo chamber.

Yes, damn it. A hand with the brief. Together we could kill it, you
know, just like the old law-school study-group days."

"You mean where I'd do the work and you'd get the credit?"

"Seth, cut me a little slack here. It's got to be on Treadwell's desk
tomorrow morning."
"In that case," said Seth, looking back down at his work, "you'd
better get on it."

"Seth, don't do this. I've got only fifteen hours to salvage my whole
damn career. My working tools to meet this challenge are a body
desperately in need of sleep and a brain like burnt toast."

"And who's going to salvage my career. Harry?" said Seth, abruptly
rising and kicking back his chair.

"You of all people know what he's up to, what he's doing to me. I'm
sleeping three, four hours a night, working my ass off while you're
whoring around in Nevada stoned on Peruvian marching powder, elevating
irresponsibility to an art form.

Then you come stumbling in here and have the balls to--" Spinning
around. Harry pounded both fists onto Seth's desk.

"Seth, it's not just my career, it's my fucking life!" He slowly
straightened and dropped his arms to his side, trying to catch his
breath. In a hoarse whisper he added, "I'm begging you, man!"

Seth stared at the piles of depositions and documents littering his
desk, then shut his eyes and rubbed his temples for a full minute.
Harry stood there, hardly breathing, watching Seth across the desk.

"Maybe I owe you one. Harry," said Seth, slamming his book shut, "but
let's not make it a habit. Never again. Deal?"

A jagged smile cut across Harry's sallow face.

"Deal," he said, and started to extend his hand until Seth's burning
eyes stopped him.

"I'll get the opening briefs," he added, reaching for the door
instead.

"And thanks, Seth."

It was all over by five the next morning. Actually, it was over for
Harry by midnight, two hours after he snorted a final elephant-line of
cocaine. Harry had offered Seth a "wee toot," then had become
irrational when Seth refused.

"Since when are you qualified to judge me," he had said.

"You with your bennies to stay wired at night, then shooters and
red-birds to bring you down at bedtime!" Seth said, bullshit, that's
different, and Harry said, yeah, a difference without a distinction,
then accused Seth of being a hypocritical asshole, sending Seth to the
door. Harry had then somehow manage da credible apology, and they
returned to the books until Harry faded ten minutes later.

Seth's first draft went to word processing at around three-thirty, and
he returned a final, marked-up draft to the sleepy-eyed night operator
on his way out the door two hours later, leaving Harry passed out at a
library table.

It was a good brief. Harry would be a fucking hero. the caicos
islands HE SCATTERED NORTH OF haiti IN THE British West Indies, hidden
like lost pearls from a broken string, lost but not forgotten. Two
hours from Miami by Atwan Airways, Kew, the major city, boasts over a
hundred banks in an area with a population smaller than many
universities in the U.S. Once the haunt of corsairs and various
picaroon vessels, the Caicos now offer the new pirates of commerce a
special treasure: offshore banking facilities and a discreet tax haven.
Although wealthy insiders go to the Caicos to scuba dive among the
incomparable coral reefs and barnacled skeletons of unlucky sloops and
schooners, most--including an enormous, perspiring American
entrepreneur named Aubrey Olmstead--go there to make and protect their
money.

Olmstead was perspiring on this particular occasion in a bar called the
Noche Diablo--located halfway between Kew and the northeast tip of the
central island in the chain-owned by a gay Baptist West Indian named
Claude. Olmstead was perspiring partly because the Noche Diablo had no
air-conditioning, partly because he was so overweight he once had to be
lifted from the debris of a shattered platform rocker in a cargo net,
and partly because the man across from him--to whom he referred only as
"Father"--was either unable or unwilling to grasp the seriousness of
the problem that had brought them together in this godforsaken
place.

"You call it 'overreacting' if you want," said Olmstead, wiping his
pumpkin of a head with an embroidered handkerchief, "but if the rumor
is true, and Con Space does replace our M-31 canopy system because
another X-215A had to be scraped off the desert floor with a blotter,
we'll have the tax division of the Justice Department on our necks
again, screaming we're nothing but a shell, a tax-evasion vehicle."

"Aww-brey, my dear fellow," said Father in his clipped pseudo-British
accent, an effete Abbott to Olmstead's Costello, "even the government
stumbles upon the truth occasionally."

"Damn it, man," said Olmstead, swatting in vain at a harassing fly,
"this is no joke! If Con Space hadn't installed our jury-rigged M-31
system on the X-215A, the feds would have seen our tax scam for what it
is, and we'd be meeting on McNeil Island today instead of this one."

"It might be ever so much cooler," said Father, who, despite a humidity
level bordering on rainfall, wore a Halston silk shantung jacket
without evidencing a trace of perspiration.

"Fuck you. Father."

Father's eyes narrowed as he leaned toward his companion.

"Easy now, my fat friend; perhaps it's time for a reality check. In
the first place, your reference to 'our tax scam' suggests you've got a
very bad memory or a mouse in your pocket. The credit and blame for
TDA's conception are entirely yours, Aubrey, and let us not forget
it."

"As long as you don't forget that my 'conception' has rewarded you damn
well, Father dearest, about five million American, tax-free, at last
count!"

Father reached for his Mount Gay and soda.

"A pittance compared with your own just rewards, my dear friend. At
all events, just as it was your brilliant scam, it is well to note that
it is your 'jury-rigged M-31," not 'ours." My sole involvement has
been to funnel your ill-gotten money to ranking officers at Con Space
to ensure the exercise of good judgment in selecting your M-31 canopy
system for the X-215A. In addition, I have willingly accepted the task
of attempting damage control, necessitated by the bungling of your
so-called genius, Ivor Tellman, God rest his tortured soul."

"Well, bra-vo/" grunted Olmstead, his frog like face beaming with
sardonic appreciation.

"Are you wearing a wire or something. Father? Should I deny I even
know you?"

"Most people find that quite advisable. No, old boy, just keeping the
record straight between us."

"And just how do you propose to 'control the damage' if yet another
X-215A falls out of the sky like a rock?"

"We'll have to face that if it happens. Stop listening to rumors,
Aubrey. After all, the Air Force has attributed blame to pilot error
again--it can't afford to do otherwise-without so much as a whisper
about your precious TDA and your rather dicey M-31. Not to worry, old
sport."

TDA--Tollman Design Associates--was Aubrey Olmstead's masterpiece, the
crowning achievement of a thirty-five-year career of scams ranging from
street cons as a youth to complex pyramid schemes. It consisted of a
limited partnership, purportedly formed to research and develop Prof.

Ivor Tollman's concept of a high-performance, heat-resistant aircraft
canopy system and associated electronics. One share in TDA required a
minimum investment of $50,000, but only $20,000 in cash. The balance
of $30,000 was satisfied by a non-interest-bearing loan available from
Zenith Financial, a Caicos corporation also controlled by Olmstead. The
carrot--for any wealthy investor looking for tax shelter--was that for
every $20,000 he invested in cash, he got an immediate write-off of
$50,000 passive income--a quick tax gain of $30,000! Likewise, a
$500,000 "investment"--$200,000 in cash--would trigger a full $500,000
write-off, and so on. To make the deal even sweeter, the terms of the
note required repayment to Zenith only out of future dividends, an
unlikely occurrence, as TDA at the time had neither a real product nor
a true intention to build one. Nevertheless, the investors freely took
their giant deductions, and Olmstead kept their cash advances--over
$100 million so far--less 5 percent to Father and generous salaries to
a skeleton staff of "research scientists" headed by Tollman, a bona
ride MITgenius who had dabbled for years in chaos physics and
high-torque failure analysis. Everybody won, so nobody cared.

Except the tax division of the U.S. Justice Department.

A year earlier, a portly young assistant attorney general named William
Torville had figured out enough of the scheme to seek an indictment,
only to learn that TDA's spun-off manufacturing corporation--TDA,
Inc.--had hastily come up with an authentic product and sold it to the
U.S. Air Force and Intercontinental Aerospace for use in its
experimental stealth program.

"I hear you. Father," said Olmstead, swatting again at the pesky fly
with one hand and spilling his lemonade on the other, "but that damn
crash has safety engineers swarming all over the plans for every
component of the X-215A. The anti stealth wolves in Congress are
howling, and the rumor is that the engineers have got to do something
even if it's wrong; that at least twelve suppliers are going to be
axed, and we're one of them."

Father ordered another Mount Gay, then leaned as close to Olmstead as
the table and his companion's corpulence would permit.

"Your paranoia is becoming quite insufferable, Aubrey."

"Paranoia? I've heard rumblings out of Con Space that our canopy
electronics might be directly implicated this time.

So save your smart-ass remarks!"

Without warning. Father's right hand shot toward Olmstead, then opened
in front of the fat man's bulging eyes to reveal a crushed fly.

"You really worry too much, old boy," he added as he dropped the
carcass onto the table.

"Trust me to be quick enough to stay a step ahead of these fools."

Olmstead lapsed into a fuming silence, rattling the ice in his glass
and glancing petulantly at the slow-moving bartender.

Father appeared lost in thought, staring out toward the sea, which had
borne the early white settlers of the Caicos: the turtlers, the
buccaneers, the shipwrecked mariners.

"At least Tellman did the gentlemanly thing under the circumstances,"
said Olmstead.

"If he hadn't put a bullet through his own head, I'd have done the job
myself."

"Really? I rather thought you had shot him," said Father, but then
paused and gave his head a quick shake.
"No,that's not at all your style. Tell me, Aubrey, who did you engage
to kill TDA's master of off-the-shelf electronics?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I was very fond of Ivor."

"So I've heard," said Father with a wry smile.

Before the red-faced Olmstead could respond, a waiter served their
drinks and danced away.

"Now don't get hurry, Aubrey," added Father.

"I'm not one to judge someone else's ... personal preferences.

You've made me so rich I wouldn't care if you were seen buggering an
ape at high noon in Westminster Abbey. As for your desire that I keep
the conscientious Mr. Torville off your generously endowed ass, I'm
telling you that I'll see to it."

"Good. Because if you don't," said Aubrey Olmstead, calling for the
check, "you could be spending the balance of your miserable life rent
free, all expenses paid, courtesy of the U.S. government. Let's not
forget that either."

"Well, Aubrey," said Father, nickering a smile as he rose to leave,
"the possibility of having you as a roommate provides strong motivation
for me to succeed." the USUALLY SOMBER MAIN CONFERENCE ROOM AT miller
and McGrath was jammed to the walls with tired but wired associates
noisily grabbing coffee and looking for a seat.

Punctuality was prized at M&M, and the weekly litigation lawyers' staff
meeting was an occasion where the lack of it was never more obvious. So
obvious, in fact, that a lawyer not seated by eight sharp was well
advised to stay away altogether and pray that his or her absence would
not be noted--decent odds, as M&M's success of recent years had.

swelled the litigation side of the firm to twenty-seven partners and
eighty-two associates.

The weekly meeting--called Show and Tell by the asso124
dates--provided the firm's trial lawyers an opportunity to hear what
others were doing and to exchange ideas on how they might do it better.
Treadwell ran the meeting, of course, keeping everyone alert with a
brilliant blend of education, motivation, and castigation.

The first case under discussion was a sure loser about to be taken to
trial by a young partner named Yancey, who described the bleak facts in
a crisp, five-minute presentation.

His case would be won--or more realistically, lost--on a single
document that the defendant's comptroller, a Mr.

Gamer, steadfastly denied he had seen. A three-day deposition had
failed to crack the stonewalling maneuver.

"Now, how might our Mr. Yancey hope to prevail in this apparently
untenable situation?" Treadwell always asked for solutions in a manner
that implied he already knew the answer.

And to prove his years as an adjunct professor at Yale had not been
wasted, he scornfully shot down each suggestion, one by one.

"Brilliant, Mr. Butler. An answer worthy of a first-year night-school
lawyer aspiring to a career searching title reports."

"This isn't Twenty Questions, Mr. Jackson. What we're seeking here
are solutions, not recycled statements of the problem."

"No, Miss Farrell, and if you will read Hedgewood versus Atkinson
you'll see that the Supreme Court rejected that tactic two months
ago."

"Ah, good morning, Mathews. Thank you so much for joining us. If you
had been here to hear all of Mr. Yancey's factual recitation, you
would know that he already tried that approach."

And so on, until finally, "Zy that it? No way out for our brother
Yancey? No way for him to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat? How
about you, Mr. Cameron? In view of the fact that you are now late
with two assignments to me, perhaps you've been spending your time
thinking about what Mr. Yancey might do to break this formidable
opponent."

Seth looked up, his eyes flashing, but he made no move to rise. The
room went silent.
"Well, Mr. Cameron? Let's hear it. What should Yancey do in this
untenable situation?"

As Seth slowly rose to his feet, he continued to meet Treadwell's eyes.
Although the senior partner was grinning, their mutual hatred had never
before been so publicly displayed.

"Yes, sir, I've been thinkin' hard on this one," Seth said at last,
"and I'd suggest that the best solution here would be for Yancey to
challenge Mr. Garner to a duel."

An outburst of laughter followed, and the smile disappeared from
Treadwell's suddenly florid face.

"That's about what I would expect from you, Mr. Cameron. Please be so
good as to stop by my office after the meeting, will you, sir?" The
laughter in the room dissipated into another sympathetic silence.

Forty-five minutes later, Treadwell closed the meeting by announcing
that prospects for obtaining a reversal in the National Biometrics case
had taken a promising turn, "thanks to a creative new approach recently
articulated in a fine appellate brief drafted by one of our senior
associates.

Stand and take a bow, Mr. Cooper."

Harry, his' face flushed in what the audience took as a manifestation
of humility, pulled himself into a standing position as the audience
applauded, then quickly sat down. As the congratulatory din subsided,
one person, behind and off to Harry's right, continued a slow rhythmic
clapping for several seconds after everyone else had stopped.

Harry did not have to turn to see who it was.

As the meeting broke up. Harry spotted Seth in the hallway talking to
Bill Yancey.

"--then I'd hit him with the March-sixth letter."

"That should do it, all right," said Yancey, "but what if he denies
seeing it?"

"He won't," said Seth.

"Not if you set him up like I told you. Remember, he'll be too afraid
of looking even more negligent for not having seen it."

"Thanks, Seth," said Yancey, starting to walk away.

"I'll give it my best shot."
As Harry approached Seth, Yancey stopped and turned back

"I'm curious, Seth. Why didn't you just say this when Treadwell--"
"Good luck. Bill," said Seth, signaling the end of the conversation.

"Right," said Yancey, and walked away, shaking his head.

Harry took Seth by the arm.

"You won't say anything, will you, Seth? I read our brief after I rose
from the dead the next day, and it's clearly your style, not mine. We
both work for Treadwell. The man's a lot of things, but he's no fool.
Did you hear the way he put it during the meeting?

"By one of our senior associates."

" "I heard."

"So? What if he asks you?"

Seth gave Harry a droll smile.

"I'll tell him the truth."

"Shit!" said Harry, turning away and slapping his forehead.

"You know what that will do to my chances for partnership in
January!"

"Don't worry. Harry," said Seth coldly.

"The truth I'll tell him is that I've never expected any favors in
life, and I don't grant any. Particularly here at M and M, where no
good deed goes unpunished."

Harry exhaled and smiled.

"Don't scare me like that, Seth, though God knows I deserve it. No
shit, I'm really sorry about making you late on your own assignments.
Maybe I can make it up to you."

"Forget it. Harry, it's my own damn fault. I should know better by
now. Anyway, I owed you one. Now we're even."

Treadwell sat straight as a rifle behind his rosewood fortress.

"That was cute, Cameron. I hope you enjoyed your little joke at my
expense."

"This place could use a few more chuckles."

"Is that so? You would do well, Cameron, to try to understand that
this is a law firm, not a vacation destination, not a bird sanctuary,
and certainly not a comedy house!"

Treadwell then delivered the anticipated lecture on the importance of
submitting projects on schedule and concluded by saying, "You might
also remember, Cameron, that he who chuckles last, chuckles best."
The senior partner then asked if he had heard from Elena Barton.

"It's been a week now," said Seth.

"No calls. I suspect by now she's talked to a possible witness named
Jack Christopher, a buddy of her husband's who heard some incriminating
things from another pilot about the X-215A. The guy's undoubtedly
scared to come forward. That should end it."

"Her silence is certainly a good sign," said Treadwell, smiling and
nodding affirmatively for the first time in Seth's presence, "a good
sign."

"Yes, sir, a good sign."

"By the way, Cameron, I'd like you to take a look at the brief I
mentioned in the meeting today. Harry Cooper's.

Imaginative work and on time. I know you two are close friends, and I
think it might help you to see the kind of work we expect around
here."

Seth held the brief in his hands, quickly leafed through the twenty
pages, then glanced up at Treadwell's mocking smile. He knows, all
right. The son of a bitch knows.

"I've already seen it," Seth said finally.

"Harry's a smart lawyer."

"And creative."

"And punctual. Will that be all?"

"For now, but let me know if you hear anything else from Mrs.
Barton."

"What if she calls and tells me she wants to proceed with her case?"

"Should she elect to file, we'll send her off to a south-of-Market
lawyer," said Treadwell, curling his Up disdainfully.

"Who else would take a case this hopeless? But the more relevant
question for you, Cameron, is whether you can succeed in obviating that
bleak necessity. You are aware of the stakes."

"I think so. If I don't succeed, you'll be sending me off, too, won't
you? That's what this conversation is really about, isn't it?"
Treadwell just smiled and said, "Let me know if you hear from her."
17 two WEEKS LATER, seth DID HEAR FROM HER. unannounced, as usual,
Elena Barton appeared in his office.

"Elena, I wasn't expecting you."

"I wasn't expecting me, either," she said, melting Seth's
disappointment with a smile.

"But my father asked me to meet him for lunch."

"Traeger? Senator Traeger is here?"

"A fund-raiser," she said, seating herself and crossing her perfect
legs.

"He wants to have lunch with me, which is strange, given the fact that
we haven't spoken in years. I'm curious though and can't come up with
a decent excuse not to meet him. You're a lawyer; maybe you can."

Sure, several, he thought. How about you're being held captive in a
hotel room by a sex-crazed lawyer.

"Don't tempt me," he said, not believing she had initiated this game or
that he was playing it. Get yourself together, man.

"Wish I had known you were coming, Elena. The junior associate doing
the investigation and research on your case is out today, and frankly I
haven't talked to him lately." You want excuses; you've come to the
master.

"My own fault, Seth," she said, finally calling him by his first
name.

"I didn't really expect you'd have Con Space on its corporate knees in
just two weeks."

"On the knees takes longer," Seth said lamely, trying to gather himself
as she smiled.

"Seriously, Elena, I hope you haven't forgotten what I said earlier
about how tough this thing would be."

"Of course it will be difficult. That's why Tony assigned you to
handle it."

You're closer to the truth than you know, Elena.
"Well," she said, rising and extending her hand, "it's showtime with
Senator Dad. You'll let me know when you come up with something?"

"Of course," said Seth, rising quickly.

"Although," he added as casually as he could, "you must assume that no
news is bad news."

He felt a tremor in her hand, and her smile vanished.

"You don't think I have a case, do you." It was a statement, not a
question.

"I'm afraid not," he said, walking her to the door.

"Sam's good name is all he left me. Please don't give up."

Seth could think of nothing to say.

Returning from lunoh, Seth found a message from Marianne Tarkenton,
summoning him to Treadwell's office for a brief meeting with Senator
Traeger. Seth buffed his shoes with a paper towel and combed his hair.
Meeting daddy.

Elena was gone. Traeger was even shorter and less attractive than he
appeared on television. His small eyes were so close together a single
silver dollar could have covered both of them, and his smile, which
flashed on and off like a neon beer sign, revealed two dozen of the
smallest teeth Seth had seen in a human mouth. When the mouth opened,
words splattered the air in staccato bursts, holding even the
formidable Treadwell at bay. This guy could not possibly be Elena's
biological father, thought Seth, and little wonder the senior partner
resents this ugly, dominating little man, remembering his conversation
with Harry Cooper.

"Tony tells me you're just the man to straighten out my daughter on
this latest fantasy of hers," spoke The Mouth, his pig eyes appraising
Seth.

"I'm doing my best, sir," said Seth with a sideways glance at
Treadwell.

"Excellent. Tell me about your meeting with her before lunch."

"I told her we weren't finished with our investigation and
research--neither of which have actually even begun, of course--but
that I was not at all encouraged by what we had found so far."

"What was her reaction? How was it left?"

"I tried to position her to assume the ball was in my court.
Told her she'd hear from me if we found something positive, but not to
be surprised if she didn't hear from me at all.

My tactic has been to first win her trust, then encourage passivity on
her part. My hope is that she'll eventually forget the whole thing."

"Excellent approach," said Traeger, flashing two rows of miniature
teeth, "don't you agree, Tony?"

Treadwell swiveled a quarter turn in his chair, formed a steeple with
his fingers, then directed his response to Seth.

"No, Stan, frankly I don't agree. Why, in God's name, Cameron, didn't
you simply tell her that we hod completed our investigation and that
she had no case?"

"Two reasons. First, she's still too close to the loss of her husband,
too angry. She'd just go out and get a second opinion."

"So?" said Treadwell.

"So the next lawyer she went to might ... tell her the truth."

"The truth?" said Traeger.

"What do you mean, 'the truth'?"

"That's the second reason. Even granting the difficulty of penetrating
the government's security net and dealing with the causation issue,
your daughter may actually have a case against Con Space

Seth saw Traeger's eyes nicker to TreadweU's glaring face, but Seth
kept talking.

"There are, admittedly, several major hurdles between filing a
complaint and getting to a jury, but as you know from your own days
here as a trial lawyer, Senator, if you can get your case to a jury,
anything can happen. Barton was the third to die in little more than a
year of testing the X-215A. A jury may think it strange that three of
the best and the brightest were all guilty of pilot error. Plenty of
hungry lawyers here in town would be willing to give it a try."

"That must be avoided at all costs, young man. Her psychiatrist has
informed me that her emotional recovery from this damn mess could be
delayed for years if it's not put behind her."
"I understand, sir. I'm just saying that although she's obviously an
incredible woman, she's still looking for the catharsis that clearing
her husband's--" "Catharsis?" said Traeger with an outburst of
laughter.

"And to think I've spent all that money on a world-renowned grief
counselor for Elena when I had an expert right here in my old firm."

Seth looked puzzled.

"I had the impression you two weren't all that, well ..."

"Close? Your impression is correct. She thinks it's part of the
insurance, and you won't tell her otherwise. Now let's skip all this
psychobabble bullshit and get rid of this problem."

"I only meant that all other things being equal--" "Mr. Cameron," said
Traeger, moving a step closer to Seth, "life has taught me that all
other things are never equal. And apart from my fatherly concern about
Elena, I want to be sure you understand that we are dealing here with a
matter of grave national significance. Now, let's say some
pettifogging ambulance chaser managed to prove to the world that the
United States government couldn't make planes any better than Detroit
can make automobiles. Can you imagine where that would put our
national defense effort?"

The senator paused, then lowered his voice and smiled
conspiratorially.

"Between us, young man, Reagan's Star Wars project was always pure
fantasy--just like the movie-and I'm a loyal Republican, for God's
sake! But the X-215A is reality and only a few years away from mass
production.

It's got the B-2 whipped in every department, and we can bring it in
for only a quarter billion per copy. The world out there already knows
enough about it to be scared stiff of its capabilities, which means we
own the ultimate weapon;

the ultimate deterrent, Cameron!"

Seth wasn't sure how he had triggered all this or what he was supposed
to say next. Traeger seemed satisfied, however, and Treadwell
interceded, assuring his ex-partner that Seth had "gotten the message"
and would maintain control of the matter. On cue, Seth added his own
assurances that he understood both his assignment and its importance,
shook hands with the senator, and was excused.
"He'll be all right," said Treadwell.

"What do you think?"

"I think," said Traeger, "that the boy wants to fuck my daughter."

Late that night, Seth visited Rosie at Andre's, where she had been
taken on as hostess. He quickly downed a pair of Cuervo shooters. She
took a break and he told her everything that had happened.

"It sounds like you think she has a case," said Rosie.

"If it were properly prepared and tried by someone with experience."

"By someone like you, right?" said Rosie, but Seth said nothing.

"What's she like? Mrs. Barton?"

"She's okay," Seth said too quickly, then ordered another shooter and
switched back to safer ground.

"Sure, I'd like to be able to try a case like hers. Who wouldn't?"

"And instead, you're gonna make sure nobody else does?"

"Jesus, Rosie, a little understanding would be nice right now. My
whole future--our whole future--is riding on the success of this ...
assignment."

"Well, pardon me if I don't start chirpin' like a cricket over a
partnership you can only win by losing a case before it's even
started." She shoved a stack of menus into a drawer with more force
than necessary before adding, "This big-city law business is way more
'n I can figure. It surely don't fit you, Seth."

"We all have to play a role sometime."

"There's nothing wrong with playing a role, so long as you know you're
playing one."

"Could you spare me the seventies mystics? You make this whole thing
sound like some evil conspiracy."

Rosie's eyes confronted him with an unblinking accusation.

"That isn't for me to say, but you seem to be leading someone who
trusts you down a primrose path. You may be pigheaded and reckless,
Seth Cameron, but you've always valued the truth."

Seth tossed down his shooter and slammed the shot glass down on the
bar, saying, "So much for understanding."
"I think I'm understanding it exactly. That's the problem."

Seth said thanks for everything, threw a twenty on the bar, and drove
back across the bay to Stars, where he drank four more shooters before
Jeremiah Tower himself sent him home in a cab. tension REIGNED BOTH AT
HOME AND AT THE OFFICE FOR THE next several weeks, but by late
September, with less than three months before the vote on his
partnership, still without a word from Elena, Seth began to breathe
again. The breathing came in short gasps, however, because Treadwell,
sensing that Seth might have disarmed the Barton bomb, had turned the
pressure up yet another notch. Seth was now handling the caseload of
three associates, supporting three partners, and supporting himself
with increasing dependence on three substances, all ending with the
same three letters and all providing various degrees of stimulation on
demand:

caffeine, Dexedrine, and Benzedrine. He was literally speeding through
projects, yet somehow maintaining the quality of his work. He kept the
pills well hidden, even from Rosie, but could not conceal an increasing
discomfort in his stomach he feared might be an ulcer. His groans
would awaken her sometimes at night, when the pain stabbing at him in
his sleep felt like someone was trying to cauterize the hole in his gut
with a soldering iron. She would kiss his cold, damp forehead and beg
him to see a doctor. He would agree, then "feel much better" the next
day. As the song goes, Seth was "running on empty"--coffee, Maalox,
and bennies all day, then booze, red-birds, or yellow-jackets to bring
it all down at bedtime.

To make matters worse, Joe Cameron's day nurse had quit in utter
frustration, and Seth had had to travel to Bakersfield to size up the
situation. The day-care agency was refusing to send any more
"victims," as they put it, and Seth's visit to his father merely
confirmed the agency's concerns.

Pop would have to be put in a home.

A half day of interviews and a $6,000 deposit settled it. A week
later, however, Seth received a fax from Summercrest reporting that one
of the attendants had suffered a mild concussion and a
twelve-centimeter hematoma from an empty wine bottle hurled by his
father. The director's carefully worded communication gave no hint as
to how the reluctant exile had acquired the bottle of wine, but added
that his "post-assault behavior left little doubt concerning the
previous disposition of the contents of the aforementioned bottle."
Seth took this to mean Pop was earnestly drunk.

The director had then suggested another nursing home "better equipped
for exigencies of this nature" and promised return of Seth's deposit
"under separate cover."

This meant another trip to Bakersfield to resettle Joe in a more
heavily armed camp (as Joe described it) called Havenhill, and to
engage in bilateral negotiations with the old man's dual
personalities.

"Havenhill? Don't make me laugh," said Pop.

"To start with. Son, there ain't a hill within twenty miles, and I
guarantee the place ain't a haven."

Doc Parley went over the tests with Seth in private, explaining that
Joe was suffering from an inoperable brain tumor that both explained
his bouts of irrationality and rendered it impossible for him to be at
home.

After his return to San Francisco, Seth began to slip behind at last,
and Treadwell sensed that it was time to finish off his weakened
prey.

"Well, Cameron," he said, entering Seth's office early one morning and
speaking in his usual cold, military tone, "when can I expect the
memorandum of points and authorities on the Jerome Frank case?" The
assignment had been given only two days earlier, but Seth had spent all
night in the office and had just delivered his first draft to the
word-processing department.

"By the way," added the senior partner, his face puckered disdainfully,
"you look like the wrath of God. I hope you don't have any client
meetings today."
"Nope," said Seth, thinking how much worse he'd look if Rosie hadn't
brought a fresh shirt and his shaving kit into town after finishing her
shift at Andre's.

"As for your memorandum, I told you I'd have it by noon today and I
will."

The passage of time had seen a further deterioration in the
relationship between the two combatants, with all pretext of
congeniality now abandoned.

"Heard anything from Elena Barton lately?" asked Treadwell.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Treadwell," said Seth without looking up
as he continued to highlight a deposition transcript, "but not a word.
She's apparently forgotten the idea." He could not resist adding, "As
I expected she would."

Treadwell gave him a skewed smile.

"You don't know her like I do, Cameron. Elena Barton forgets nothing
she really wants, and she wants this lawsuit. She'll be back. She's
not a quitter."

Seth rose to his feet and glared at the senior partner through
unfocused, red-rimmed eyes. Something in the ragged intensity of the
look caused Treadwell to take a step back toward the door.

"Then she's a lot like me, Treadwell."

Treadwell forced another smile as he turned to leave, saying, "You're a
crude and offensive bumpkin, Cameron, but you are indeed persistent.
I'll grant you that."

"Then grant me some fairness, for Christ's sake!" said Seth through
clenched teeth as he charged around his desk and advanced on the senior
partner, blocking his path to the door. Seth's pale face was so
strained with fatigue he looked slightly deranged as he added in a
hoarse whisper, "I've done every fucking thing you've asked of me!"

Their faces were but inches apart.

"What are you going to do, Cameron," said Treadwell, calm again, "hit
me?"

The two men glared at each other through narrowed eyes for several
seconds before Seth turned his head away and gasped, "No, you bastard,
that's one thing I won't do for you."

"A wise decision. Now get that temper under control, and you may yet
be a good trial lawyer. Somewhere else, of course."

"Wrong on both counts, Treadwell," said Seth, surprising the senior
partner with a broad, demented smile.
"I'm already a good trial lawyer, and I'm not going 'somewhere
else."

" Seth then reached up and patted the senior partner on both shoulders,
adding, "I'm going to stay right here. I'm going to be your partner,
old man!"

Treadwell recoiled from Seth's touch, then stared at the grinning
associate with a mixture of repulsion and fascination.

"Not while I'm alive," he said finally, brushing past Seth and leaving
the door open as he stormed out.

The senior partner was still fuming when Allston Addams entered his
office fifteen minutes later. After hearing about the exchange, Addams
tried again to convince his friend and benefactor that he had all but
lost his case against Seth Cameron and those responsible for his
hiring.

"His support runs all through the partnership now. Tony, and you've
got less than three months before the vote. The partners don't like
what you're doing. They know he's taken your best shots--even
apparently handled your problem with Traeger--and he's still on his
feet ... though barely. Tony, please--just let it go."

"A lot can happen," said Treadwell, staring at his steepled fingertips,
"in just three months."

The senior partner worked late that night, later than even the most
diligent associate. He had spent the afternoon with computer director
Barbara Erickson, who had been both surprised and flattered by his
sudden interest in the various technical applications under her
supervision.

"Just part of my hands-on management style," he had told her as he took
in every aspect of her department's activities, from the computerized
litigation support system to the firm's fail-safe calendar
procedures.

After a last-minute check around the office for stragglers, Treadwell
took the night elevator down to the twentieth floor and unlocked the
door where the master calendar-programming computer was housed. He sat
at the console and soon managed to get on-line. After ten minutes of
cautious false starts and recourse to the manual, he pulled up all
calendar entries under the name of Seth Cameron. Next, he located an
entry under Seth's file that read: 10/15/93 Barton vs.
Intercontinental Aerospace:

One-year statute of limitations expires today.

Treadwell carefully reviewed the checklist he had created after his
meeting with Barbara Erickson and pushed the key marked block, then ran
the cursor over the entire entry.

Once the words were completely shaded, he took a deep breath and hit
the delete button, then answered yes to the computer program's final
fail-safe inquiry.

Treadwell found himself staring into a blank screen. The calendar
entry had completely vanished--and soon, with or without the return of
Elena Barton, Seth Cameron would disappear as well. vent ana LOCATED
TWENTY TWISTING, BREATHTAKING MILES south of Carmel on Highway 1 near
Big Sur, is one of California's best-kept secrets: a hideaway for those
rare couples who have earned enough money to afford it while somehow
preserving sufficient sensitivity to appreciate it. The rustic, yet
elegant, resort can be either paradise or hell--the best of places, the
worst of places--depending on the state of one's relationship, for
there is absolutely nothing to do there ... except breathe the fresh
ocean air, take in the most beautiful views ever created by nature,
soak naked in one of the giant hot pools, partake of the restaurant's
excellent cuisine, or just sit in front of a crackling fire and
contemplate life. Those who become threatened by the silence and
dreadful freedom of the place can be seen racing for their cars and
rolling down the highway to Nepenthe, a bar and restaurant overlooking
the Pacific that has served over the years as an offbeat hangout for
celebrities as diverse as Henry Miller and Kim Novak.

Rosie had set up the trip well in advance, having secured Seth's
blood-oath commitment that nothing would interfere this time. She was
typically up-front concerning her agenda:

she was unhappy and again considering a return to Bakersfield.

Although her job at Andre's involved less tension than Luchesso's, it
paid considerably less money as well. She had little in common with
the M&M wives and missed Seth's companionship, though the differences
they brought with them to the city now seemed magnified. Even her
dreams had abandoned her.

At first, Seth had waffled, wondering why they had to go so far,
particularly to a place that wouldn't take Fat Dog.

He came around in the end, however, pledging to let nothing stand in
the way of the trip, and promising to "sit her down and give her a good
listening-to." Still, Rosie could hardly believe it when Friday
afternoon arrived and they were actually packed and on their way across
the Golden Gate, then winding south down Highway 1.

They had stopped in Carmel at Clint Eastwood's Hogs-breath Cafe for a
supper of cheeseburgers and beer, warmed their feet on the hearth of
the outdoor fireplace, laughed together for the first time in weeks. By
the time they reached Ventana, they were both too tired to do anything
but fall asleep in each other's arms.

The uncommon silence and a soft light spreading across the spacious
room awakened them the next morning, and Seth built a fire while Rosie
made coffee. They decided to try the coed hot pool before breakfast
and were delighted to find themselves alone. Playful games soon turned
to deferred passion, and they took full advantage of their privacy by
making love at the edge of the healing waters. After an icy shower,
they returned to their room and started over again on the rug in front
of the fireplace.

This time, however, they were not alone, for visions of Elena Barton
invaded Seth's mind, then raged unchecked down his spine, culminating
in a convulsive release that left him physically drained but filled
with guilt.

"What's she like, Seth?" Rosie had asked that night at Andre's.

"Mrs. Barton."

"She's okay," he had said.

They got dressed and joined a half dozen other couples for a
continental breakfast in the main room, where two massive fireplaces
warmed the spacious area with a sweet oak smell. They exchanged
friendly glances with other couples, but few words were spoken. Ventana
was not a place for making new friends or setting up a golf date.

After breakfast, they headed out on one of the mountain paths to have
their talk. Rosie started by telling Seth the ways in which the city
had changed him, noting, for example, how his cowboy boots had gathered
dust in the closet.

"You used to be a pretty crazy person, Seth. You did what you wanted.
Now you're more crazed than crazy, all the time worryin' about what
they want."

"Sometimes you have to do what other people want in order to get what
'you want. It's called compromise, Rosie.

It's called adapting to a new environment. It's the way people
survive. You should try it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Bad start.

"Never mind. It's just that I had asked you to dress a little more ...
appropriately for the M and M wives' tea last month. Trish told Harry
you showed up in a miniskirt."

"It was not a miniskirt."

"Well, it was described as looking like it had been spray-painted on
you."

"It wasn't a hoop skirt if that's what your old girlfriend Trish
meant."

"And you had to wear that sweater I hate."

"It's colorful. Makes me feel good."

"It looks like something that came with batteries."

Rosie started to snap back, then paused to calm herself.

"It never bothered you before. Back home you used to say, "If you got
it, flaunt it'; you used to be proud of me, not ashamed."

Seth had no answer.

"See what I mean?" she continued.

"I feel lately like you're all the time either ignorin' me or judgin'
me. Somethin' in between would be nice once in a while."

"I'm sorry."

Rosie let it go and switched to concerns about his health.

"That Treadwell person is kinin' you, Seth. Last week, I found
another bottle of pills you're takin' and I don't even know what's
wrong with you. Is it speed? Is that how this 'adapting' works? You
go on drugs?"

"It's just Benzedrine. Coffee's not always handy."

Rosie gave him a look.

"And the caffeine was hurting my gut."

"Amphetamines will hurt it worse."

"Well, thank you. Doctor Eden. While we're on the subject of just
saying no, how 'bout that pot you've been smoking?

Have I ever bugged you about that? I suppose you'll say it's a peace
pipe, integral to your religion?"

Rosie, miraculously inoculated at birth against temper tirades,
reddened at Seth's demeaning reference to her Native American
heritage.

"You bastard," she said, clenching her fists.

"I don't even know you anymore."

"See? It's not fun being' judged, is it?" Seth ran fingers through
his hair.

"So how about a little live-and let-live around here?"

The anger in their words stained the air and they withdrew into an edgy
silence, fiddling with the grass at their feet, confused and
troubled.

Ten minutes later, Rosie made the first move, suggesting they start
over. Seth took her hand and they headed up a new trail, this one
carpeted with pine needles with a creek running far below. Rosie was
calm again, measured and reasonable, as she moved into the main item on
her agenda:

reassurance concerning their future. She held nothing back, spoke of
her hopes for a house and a child of their own someday, and wondered
aloud about Seth's view of their future, now that he had apparently won
his battle with Treadwell and would soon be elected to the
partnership.

They stopped to rest on a huge rock, worn smooth by time, where Seth
listened to Rosie and stared through the tall pines at the shimmering
Pacific and the cloudless sky overhead. He tried to stay focused on
her words, but he had been living a day at a time for so long it was
almost inconceivable for him to think in terms of five, ten, or twenty
years ahead. He felt flat and exhausted, without sufficient resources
to deal with Rosie's candor, yet unable to deny her right to honest
answers. His face felt cold, and he put a hand to his stomach.
Rosie was looking at him, waiting. He stood up, squatted down to pick
up a rock, carelessly tossed it into the trees, sat down again.

"I don't know what to say, Rosie. My ideal dream home has always had
wheels on it. I need some time to digest all this."

"That's why we're here, Seth. This may all seem sudden to you, but
I've been wonderin' these things for almost three years, and now I need
to know where you stand. Where we stand."

Seth rose, hands thrust deep in pockets.

"I hear you, honey. Give me another hour or two to think about what
you've said. You're asking me to decide our entire future in just one
weekend." * "More than that," said Rosie, taking his hand and turning
him around to face her, "I'm asking' Seth Cameron to make the first
emotional commitment of his entire life."

They separated, and Seth headed off on a trail winding northward, high
above Highway 1, rarely out of view of the vast Pacific. Ten minutes
into his walk, he was excited by the sight of two rare California
condors soaring high overhead in and out of a film of stratocumulus
clouds that had moved in from the west. Less majestic crows and
magpies exchanged insults in the dense forest on either side of his
path.

He picked up his pace, seeking a place where the lush pine and oak
would not impede his view of the Pacific. Panting for air, he finally
broke into an opening atop a large knoll and found a natural seat on
the trunk of a fallen madrona. The burning in his stomach had eased,
but Rosie was right: he was in terrible shape. She was right about
other things as well, but her comment about emotional commitment had
seemed pretty harsh. Sure, he was careful. You had to be.

As for his inattention to their relationship, he had no answer for that
one. Did she really blame the work, or had she sensed his confused but
tenacious longing for Elena? Elena, a disquieting song that he
couldn't get out of his head, like a catchy commercial for a product
you know is bad for you. Bad? Not really. A woman like Elena would
be a tremendous asset to a partner in a white-shoe firm like M&M. What
am I thinking? Was the clairvoyant Rosie reading these thoughts? She
had not mentioned a psychic dream in almost a year--thank God--since
the nightmare about the man being murdered. Am I killing her dreams as
well as her hopes?

He leaned back into the tree's natural saddle and again scanned the
horizon beyond the vast sea, but saw no answers there. All he saw was
that the two "California condors" had circled much lower now, and that
they were actually a pair of common turkey vultures.

On Monday, Seth was back in the office, facing a new day and, with
luck, his last month as an associate at Miller and McGrath.

The weekend at Ventana had ended without resolution, but with a
compromise that Rosie had accepted, influenced in no small part by the
tranquil surroundings and Seth's renewed amorous attentions. On Sunday
afternoon, she had granted him a four-month, pressure-free reprieve, to
permit him to settle into his new and hopefully more relaxed life as an
M&M partner, before demanding a decision about their future.

Rosie had resisted using "the M-word" all weekend, but marriage was a
mutually understood objective, as was a dramatic change in Seth's
lifestyle and focus. Otherwise, it was also understood that Rosie
would return to Bakersfield.

Seth had gratefully accepted the arrangement and had even extracted
conditions of his own. Rosie had agreed to make more of an effort to
fit into the firm's social fabric, and to help Seth meet a partner's
responsibility to attract new clients and entertain old ones. After a
conversation that ranged from awkward to acrimonious, they negotiated a
new "dress code" for partnership events, and Rosie volunteered that she
would like to begin studies at Mann Community College in January.

Seth conceded that the pills had played no small part in the way his
life was careening out of control, but they both realized he could do
little to change things before the partnership vote. As a symbol of
his new resolve, however, he had slept in until six that morning, and
his first act upon arriving at the office had been to remove Elena
Barton's telephone number from his Rolodex. She was, it now seemed, no
longer a factor in his professional life, and now she must be excised
from his personal fantasies as well.
But Seth was wrong on both counts, for late that very afternoon,
following months of silence, Elena Barton appeared at his office and
casually asked about the status of the case.

Summoning his poise, Seth told her that he had assumed she had lost
interest and, therefore, had done nothing more.

Elena seemed upset and assured him that she was as determined as ever
to clear Sam's name. She had reluctantly avoided the "legal aspects"
of her life on the advice of her grief counselor.

"The other reason I'm checking in," she said, relaxing into a smile,
"is that any one-year period of mourning ended yesterday, and I've come
to buy my lawyer a drink."

Seth's first reactions--surprise and disappointment, mingled with the
unwanted pleasure of seeing her face--gave way to shock and anxiety as
her words sunk in. One year! A seismic shudder of anxiety sent Seth's
heart pounding against his rib cage.

"One year period of mourning ... ended yesterday!" Shaken, he took a
deep breath and managed some casual conversation as he moved to a
cabinet, removed her file, and checked the date of Barton's death
recorded on his first memorandum. She was right. The date of accident
was October 15, 1992. A glance down at his calendar confirmed his
worst fears: the one-year statute of limitations for filing Elena's
suit had run the day before!

He lunged back toward his desk, vaguely aware that Elena was saying
something. Eyes darting back and forth across his desk, he rummaged
through the mass of papers on his desk until he found the printout of
his master calendar memo for the previous week.

There was no entry for Barton vs. Intercontinental Aerospace!

He grabbed the case file again--Elena's presence now forgotten--the
date of death still read October 15, 1992. He collapsed into his chair
as his mind raced frantically. Why didn't the expiration date show up
on my master calendar memo? Did I forget to enter the date of death
when Elena first came in? Did my secretary forget? Could I have
written down the date incorrectly when I first met her, then carried
the error over onto the calendar? But shit, it's not just in the wrong
place, it's not anywhere! No mention of the case!

"Seth?" Her voice drifted in as if from a great distance.

"Is something wrong?"

He started to reply, but his mouth was already dry as resin and his
overloaded brain was too busy trying to reason away the apparent
reality. Maybe you don't count both the first and last dates in
computing when the statute-of limitations period expires. If that's
the case, screw the master calendar, I could still file a complaint
today!

"No," said Seth, forcing a smile and glancing at his watch.

"I'm sorry. It's just that I remembered something I'm supposed to be
doing right now. I wasn't expecting you, remember?

Can you maybe kill an hour shopping and return at five?"

"Killing an hour shopping is easy. Stopping after the hour is up is
the problem. If I'm not back by five, call 911 and give them my
description."

Seth couldn't think of a witty rejoinder as he escorted her out the
door to the elevator. He started to ask his secretary to go get him a
plaintiffs personal-injury form, but thought better of it. Can't trust
anyone with this for now. Instead, he called an independent
court-filing service, ordered a rush pickup for an immediate filing,
then pounded down two flights of stairs to the law library, snatched a
wrongful-death complaint form from the files, and hurriedly filled it
out. In the space for "Plaintiffs Counsel," he inserted his own
name--an interim device to avoid embarrassment to the firm if the
complaint later had to be dismissed--then sealed the document in an
envelope together with the filing fee, handed it to the receptionist,
and ran back to the library.

Deep in the stacks, he grabbed a copy of the annotated California Code
of Civil Procedure and pawed through the index. Half-blinded by
anxiety, he stared at a page that he had inadvertently ripped right out
of the book.

Words. Confusing, obfuscating, legalese bullshit words. Why can't
they just fucking say what they mean? After five frustrating minutes
in the Code of Civil Procedure and the Government Code, he found his
answer, an answer as clear and definitive as death itself. The statute
of limitations had run on the fifteenth, yesterday. Elena's case had
irrevocably expired, as had his dream of partnership in Miller and
McGrath.

Or anywhere else in the free world.

"Are you certain?" She smiled, as if she thought he might be testing
her.

"It just sounds like a technicality, Seth. You lawyers are supposed to
be able to leap technicalities with a single bound."

"Elena, I'm sorry, but this is no joke. The statute has run."

"There must be some mistake! The law can't possibly be so
unforgiving!" * Seth could not meet her eyes.

"Law is by definition 'unforgiving," Elena, and my disregard of it is
both irreversible and inexcusable. Your only recourse now is to the
firm's malpractice insurance. You should consult an independent lawyer
about that. A real lawyer," he added bitterly, then swept an arm
across his desk, sending pens, papers, paperweights, and a desk clock
flying. He kicked his chair out of the way, sending it smashing into
the adjacent wall, then turned his back and stared out the window.

A grim silence followed Seth's outburst of self-flagellation, broken
finally by the soft, childlike sound of Elena's giving way to tears.
Seth wanted to turn, take her in his arms, beg her forgiveness. Put
his life in her hands.

But he couldn't bear to face her. Nolo contendere.

"I'll call in the morning," she said at last, and silently left his
office.

I've seen 'em all, kid. I've seen the wise ones, the cool ones, and
the smart-ass punks who'll fight like a tiger, then turn around and
beat themselves. 20 but IT WAS tread well NOT elena, WHO CALLED THE
NEXT day to request Seth's immediate presence. Elena was there,
wearing a dark midcalf dress, a gray scarf and hat, and a mood as
somber as the first day he met her. Allston Addams was there, too. A
witness to the execution.

"Elena--Mrs. Barton--has informed me of your dereliction, Cameron, and
of her justified intention to sue this firm for malpractice. It
appears to her to be the only remaining means by which she might
achieve her objective. In the circumstances, I can hardly dissuade
her. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Seth glanced at Elena, but she stared resolutely at the floor.

"Nothing," Seth said.

"All right, then," Treadwell said crisply, turning to Elena.

"Would you excuse us now, dear. I'll call you at home later."

Elena left and Treadwell started in.

"You've caused nothing but trouble since the day you arrived, Cameron.
Despite this, I've given you every opportunity to show us you belong
here, but--" "Spare me the lecture, Treadwell," Seth said, rising to
his feet.

"I'm out of here."

"Cameron, Cameron," said the senior partner to Seth's back, "you are so
predictable."

As Seth passed through the reception area on the way to clear out his
desk, he saw Elena waiting at the elevator.

"Elena," he said, "I'm real sorry about all this. I'd like to talk to
you. Later, of course."

An elevator door opened.

"There's nothing you can say or do now," she said, then brushed past
him and entered the car. He took her by the arm, but she spun away.
He held the door to keep it from closing.

"Elena. Please. I know I screwed up, but I'd like to explain how it
all happened."

Elena said nothing.

"Christ, woman, give me a break. I've lost everything!"

Fire suddenly swept through Elena's lifeless eyes.

"You dare speak to me of loss? A year ago a friend reported the death
of my husband. Yesterday, you reported the death of his honor. Now
release the elevator."

Seth was out of words, and the doors closed between them.

Typical of M&M'efficiency, a young man from administrative services was
waiting in Seth's office with Bekins boxes.

"I've been asked to help you with your things," he said with the
detachment of a priest offering to administer the last rites. He's
done this before, thought Seth.

It was finished in under twenty minutes, and now it was Seth heading
for the elevator. He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see
Harry Cooper puffing down the hallway.

"Jesus, Seth, I just heard. What the hell?"

"Yeah, Harry, what the hell."

"I'll call you tonight. Is there anything I can do to help?"

Seth shook his head.

"We all have to help ourselves, Harry." Seth took his friend's
extended hand and added, "Good luck on your partnership vote next
month," as the elevator doors closed on Harry's forlorn face. 21 the
HIGH-PITCHED RINGING SOUND ROCKETED OUT OF Nowhere and ricocheted
around his brain, pushing against the back of his eye sockets like
pressure trying to release itself.

He could neither stop the sound nor identify its origin, so he knew he
must be dreaming.

But now an explosion, closer to the surface of his consciousness.

A door slamming? Footsteps? Where was he?

"Seth! Wake up."

The ringing stopped but the pressure was still there. He was being
shaken. He was waking up.

Rosie's voice cut through the fog.

"Didn't you hear the phone, Seth? It's Leviticus Heywood. He says he
worked for you as an investigator on the Huey case and at M and M."

Seth muttered a pessimistic appraisal of his ability to form a complete
sentence and added that he didn't want to speak with anyone, save
perhaps a doctor.

"He says it's important," she insisted.

Seth was aware of his legs being roughly grabbed, then swung around so
that his bare feet were now on the cold hardwood floor. He hurt
everywhere, so at least he must be alive. Another comforting thought
because, despite everything, he wanted to be alive. It was the
business of living he wanted nothing to do with. Like talking on
telephones. Dealing with people, calendars, regulations, computers.
Failure.

"Yeah," he managed into the telephone Rosie had jammed into his hand.

"You sick. Cowboy? You sound awful."

"Just a mild stroke. Lev. What's up?"

"I've got this client in San Fran. Good lawyer. I do all her
family-law and personal-injury investigation work. She's interviewing,
looking to hire an associate. You interested?"
Seth rubbed his temples, took the coffee cup Rosiehanded him. Tried
to remember where he had been last night, how he had gotten home. His
jaw ached and he noticed that his knuckles were skinned and bruised.

"Can I call you back in a few minutes. Lev?"

Rising unsteadily to his feet, he hung up the telephone and told Rosie
it was Leviticus Heywood, a guy he had worked with, and Rosie reminded
him she had just told him that. Her ubiquitous smile was nowhere in
sight. Nor in prospect "I smell coffee," he said hopefully.

"It's in your hand," she said, and there it was.

"I thought you'd given up interviewin' here. You said you were a
piranha in San Francisco; that fourteen rejections in five weeks was
enough." * "A pariah."

"Whatever. A dead duck once they checked your references."

"All roads lead to Treadwell."

Seth drank from the cup, but the process of awakening only intensified
the pain in his head and jaw.

"Has it really been five weeks?"

"And three days," she said, beginning to make up the bed with him still
half in it, "though you've slept and drank your way through most of
them. When you weren't watching daytime TV."

He went to the kitchen and splashed cold water on his face.

"You look terrible," she said.

"I think you lost."

"What?"

"The fight you must have been in to end up lookin' so poorly."

He didn't remember a fight, but couldn't deny it.

"So what will you tell this Leviticus person?"

Seth looked at his reflection in the kitchen window, raked his wet hair
back, collapsed in a dinette chair.

"I know what you're thinking, Rosie, but I can't go back to the Valley.
Not yet."

Rosie stared at him for a minute, then opened the back door that led
out into the garden.

"Your cereal's in the pot," she said, and left him sitting there, his
head in both hands.
* * Let's not waste time bullshitting each other, kid," AUyn
Friedlander told Seth the next day, only moments after they had been
introduced.

"Leviticus here has filled me in on your misadventures with the
blue-blood barons of Montgomery Street."

Seth could think of nothing to say, so he nodded into the ensuing
silence.

"He also says you're a tough guy; bounced around the NFL for four
years."

"Three seasons, actually."

"Says you were tough, but too small."

Lev shook his head.

"I said he was too slow. The kid had white-man's disease."

"You're both right," said Seth.

"I was small, but slow."

Allyn let out a cackle.

"Then you must have been a fighter to survive three seasons."

"He made Jack Tatum look like St. Francis," said Lev, "but you know
what they say about livin' by the sword?

The man took so many chugs to the head, couldn't keep the defensive
signals straight anymore. Nothin' left but to quit and become a
lawyer."

Seth had to smile, seeing Lev selling him so hard. Courage and grit
must be near the top of this particular job description.

"At least," Seth rejoined, winking at Allyn, "I left the league on two
feet."

"Okay, boys," said Allyn, "let's cut the macho bullshit and talk some
business." Rings dazzling on ropelike fingers, hands like baseball
gloves, an incongruous turquoise squash-blossom necklace adorning the
multilayered throat. A piece of work. Swinging her cigar like a baton
between them every time she made a point, Allyn Friedlander's gruff
directness and formidable size--Seth figured her for just under six
feet and 180 pounds--was neutralized by eyes that out dazzled the rings
and a broad smile that, like a prison riot, broke out at unlikely times
and seemed even to surprise herself.

Seth liked the rough-cut woman immediately, but the weeks of Cuervo
meditation following his departure from M&M had rendered his stomach
particularly vulnerable to the ominous cloud of gray-blue smoke that
engulfed him every time she waved the cigar. Nonetheless, he fought
off the impulse to wave back, for his ego had been savaged to the point
where even the act of boarding a bus in the morning--the Porsche was
back in the body shop--was seen as a test of competence and courage. He
also refrained from telling Allyn Friedlander that Lev had filled him
in on her as well.

"I got to know her when I was a cop before I went private and started
doing her investigation work," Leviticus Heywood had said.

"She chain-smokes industrial-strength cigars, chews nails for
breakfast, and washes them down with high-test caffeine."

"She sounds lovely,"" Seth had said.

"She's always looking to bag the big-time case, the Big Score, but her
practice has been the typical Mission Street stuff: divorce work,
defending junkies, DWIs, anything that can make it up two nights to her
office. No elevator," Lev added unnecessarily with a shrug of his
shoulders.

"Sounds lovely," Seth repeated.

"Any other glowing reasons I should want to work for her?"

"Three that come to mind. First, she's as smart as they come. Savvy.
New York transplant. Might even teach a hotshot honkie cowboy a thing
or two if he keeps his eyes and ears open. Second, she was a lady
trial lawyer long before the women's movement made it commonplace;
balls as big as her heart. I figure she wouldn't be afraid to ..."

"Take a chance on a screw up who nobody else in town will give the time
of day to?"

Lev had shrugged again before adding, "You need a job?"

"Hell, Lev, you know I do."

"That's the third reason."

"Look, kid," said Allyn Friedlander after Lev had run off to pick up
his wife, "we all make mistakes. Problem is we trial lawyers can't
hide our fuck-ups like builders can or bury 'em six feet under like
doctors do." She paused to knock a two-inch ash off her cigar.

"So a mistake--even a big one--doesn't bother me so long as it doesn't
bother you.

Know what I mean? So forget about it, okay? It's old business.
You've obviously got a brain, and Lev says you're ah ell of a trial
lawyer. My only question is whether you can contribute to the moral
and monetary welfare of the law offices of AUyn Friedlander; namely
me." This said, accompanied by another vigorous brandishing of her
cigar, she leaned back in her swivel chair and slung a long leg up onto
her desk before adding, "If I hired you."

"What would I be doing for you?" asked Seth as Friedlander paused for
a moment, winded from her peroration.

"If you hired me."

"All the things I don't want to do myself. That straight enough?"

Seth said it was.

"It's lunchtime," she said, abruptly slamming a wooden gavel down on
her desk so hard Seth nearly jumped to his feet.

"No intercom," said AUyn as her secretary floated into her office.

"You called, madam?"

"Meet Mr. Cameron, Ramon. You hungry?"

"You bet. Boss Woman," said Ramon, eyeing Seth as he spoke.

"I was referring to our honored guest, Ramon."

"So was I, Great Mother."

AUyn rolled her eyes.

"Don't mind Ramon. He fantasizes a life in stand-up comedy. He's
using me as a temporary steppingstone."

"I live only to serve thee. mighty Queen of Jurisprudence."

"Oh, Jesus," she said, replacing the gavel.

"So, Seth, how's about a kosher submarine?"

"Sounds good."

Scribbling their orders on a piece of paper, she stuck it on a large
paper clip tied to a string and, without looking, pitched it out the
window down into the alley below. She noticed Seth's look and
explained that a boy named Miguel walked by just before noon every day
and would deUver their order by twelve-fifteen.

"I also hate telephones," she added.

"Now, if you're through asking questions, shall we get to work?"

Seth rose to his feet and stared out the window, down the alley into
the dusty din of traffic and predominantly Latin humanity milling on
Mission Street. A carpet company across the street announced it was
Going Out of Business!

in letters so large people might believe it this time. Every shop
within his vision had a 40%-60% sale sign. A Hispanic street sweeper,
probably a misdemeanor probationer working off soft time, speared
discarded advertising handouts from the sidewalks and gutters nearly as
fast as the woman across the street could distribute them. Seth's mind
drifted back to his encounter with the boy from El Salvador the day he
and Rosie were lost in the outskirts of Modesto, heading for his
confrontation with Sterritt Malm.

So full of hope. A hundred years ago.

"Hello? Earth to Cameron!" Allyn Friedlander's gravel voice jerked
him back to the here and now. He stared out the window for another few
seconds anyway, his gaze drifting northward toward Montgomery Street,
where the Pacific Towers loomed above its older neighbors. If Allyn
Friedlander could have seen Seth's face at that moment, she would have
observed lips suddenly tightened into a straight line and his hand
pushing against his stomach. She would have seen those bloodless lips
move slightly as he silently vowed that somehow, someday, he would find
his way back onto Montgomery Street.

And once there, he would deal with Anthony Treadwell.

"That was an offer, kid," she added.

"I know," he said.

"Let's get to work."

Odd that it would be the money that set Rosie off. Odd, because money
was usually the last thing on her mind. Even now, as they stood
glaring at each other in their Mill Valley kitchen, it was not the
paltry amount of Seth's new salary that had shattered her determination
to fake an enthusiastic response to his "good news," but the fact that
not only was he staying on in the city, but for even less money than he
had been making in Bakersfield. That cooked it for Rosie.

Less money for the privilege of working for a divorce lawyer on Mission
Street!

"It's a living."

"It's surviving, not living."
"Well, Jesus Christ! What happened to my barefoot girl from the Black
Hills? Does the granddaughter of the Sioux need more wampum all of a
sudden?"

"That's crude, Seth, even for you. Besides, they were Iroquois."

"Well, I got nothing against Indians--Sioux or Iroquois-but I read
somewhere that ninety tribes own casino licenses now, which in my book
doesn't do a hell of a lot for their spiritual image."

Rosie's dark eyes flashed.

"Perfect, Seth. Here we are in a country that makes three hundred guns
every hour of the day and you want to jump on Native Americans for
playin' bingo."

Seth glowered back.

"My point is simply that we'll still have more money than most
Americans, certainly most Native Americans."

"And my point is that it doesn't matter how much we've got if you hate
what you're doing. What is it you really want, Seth Cameron?" she
added, throwing her hands in the air, then slapping them to her hips.

"Do you have a clue?"

"Sure, I know what I want, and so do you."

"No, I don't know. Alls I know is we're miserable here, you're drunk
most of the time, and now you're commencin' to take a job doin' work
you'll hate, for less money than you could make back home where we have
friends and could live for half what it costs us here!"

"Since when did you worry so much about money?"

"I'm worried about you. And us."

"A second chance," Seth whispered.

"What?"

"You asked me what I want. That's what I want. A second chance."

Rosie stopped what she was doing and turned toward Seth, her eyes
searching his face as if for the first time. The sadness in those
beautiful eyes as she studied him broke his heart. He felt his own
eyes tearing as she reached up and, like a blind person, gently traced
the lines etched in his face.

Her fingers were warm on his skin and he turned his head so that he
could brush his lips against the palm of her hand.

But Rosie gave a quick shake of her head and slowly withdrew her
hand.

"You'll never leave this place, will you, Seth?" she said in a voice
like muffled gunfire.
"No matter how I feel or what they do to you and no matter how little
they pay you or what you have to do for it. You'll never quit until
you find whatever it is you came here for."

Seth rubbed his face with open palms, but said nothing.

Rosie straightened, brushed imaginary lint from the front of her skirt,
and took a deep breath.

"Seth, darlin'," Rosie said, a tremor invading her voice, "I talked to
Aunt Claire a while ago. She's decided to move directly. Back to
Bakersfield."

Seth took a step toward her, but Rosie turned sideways and moved back
as she continued speaking.

"I was thinkin' I might pay her a visit next month, seem' you're
settled in a new job now. Maybe see ... you know, what's available
there."

Seth started to speak, but Rosie stopped him with the slightest motion
of her hand.

"I've been in the slow readin' group, Seth, but now that it's plain
where your heart is, I think it's time for me to stop listenin' to
mine."

"Rosie, I--" "And maybe start listenin' to my head."

She turned and was down the hall before Seth could begin to breathe
again. seth's NEW OFFICE WAS A CONVERTED SUPPLY ROOM BARELY large
enough to accommodate his worktable--Allyn had said a month earlier
that a desk was on its way--and two cast-off client chairs. The only
similarity with his old office was that his view through the west
window featured the east brick wall of the adjacent building. He
shared Ramon with Allyn, an arrangement that would never have worked
out but for Ramon's incredible job skills and his obvious infatuation
with Seth.
Files were spread everywhere in the cramped quarters, mostly divorce
matters and collection cases, plus a smattering of insurance
subrogation claims, a plethora of pro bono landlord-tenant disputes,
and three fender-bender personal-injury suits that Seth prayed would
get to trial without settling.

Allyn kept the infrequent trials for herself, the sole bone of
contention between them during their first nine weeks together. Thus
Seth's days were spent appearing at show-cause matters before the
family-law magistrate, taking quickie depositions (for which he had no
time to prepare), writing dunning letters to debtors, and fighting
eviction notices for deadbeat tenants. He told Lev he had no idea how
she had kept it all going before taking him on.

"What's keeping you going, my man?" Lev replied.

"Not that I feel responsible, you understand, but you're working in a
shithole doing shit work and it escapes me how this ever gets you back
on Montgomery Street. Not that I feel responsible."

"I'm still in San Francisco, Lev, which means I'm still in the game.
For now, I'm just surviving, one day at a time."

"That's what prisoners I interviewed out at San Quentin used to tell
me. Cowboy. Then one day they'd die."

"Don't worry about me. Lev. I'm going to save dying for last."

Lev opened his notebook to copy names and addresses from the file Seth
had asked him to work on.

"Uh-huh," he muttered, and began scribbling. As he wrote, Seth studied
his friend and concluded the years had not been kind. The ex-49er
halfback had gained weight in all the wrong places, and his massive
brow sprouted beads of sweat now with the slightest exertion. His
features forged a contrast in force and kindness--carbon-black skin
tightly drawn over a montage of flat surfaces that surrounded eyes too
large and gentle for the rest of his face. His short-cropped hair was
nearly white.

The two men had met during the 1978 season, but Seth had been surprised
Lev remembered him. Seth had been a rookie corner back on the taxi
squad and Leviticus Heywood was a star. Their relationship that year
was purely physical:

Lev's foot planted briefly in Seth's chest as he ran over him during
practice.
As for Lev's current skepticism concerning Seth's professional future,
Seth could have thrown the futility issue right back in the face of a
Vietnam vet who had been a hot running back for the 49ers--a
first-round draft pick, then runner-up rookie of the year, headed for
the Hall of Fame-until a torn anterior cruciate ligament in his knee
early in his second season ended his football career and his hopes for
fame and fortune. After a hitch in the S.F. Police Department's
burglary detail, he went private in 1986 and, like Allyn, had survived
since that time mostly on divorce tails and intersection crashes. From
Heisman Trophy runner-up at Southern Cal and NFL stardom to peekaboo
work and a one-bedroom box of a house in South San Francisco, all
accomplished in eight short years. Seth had managed to get his friend
two lucrative assignments at Miller and McGrath--making Lev the only
black man Seth had ever seen at M&M during daylight hours--but with
Seth's demise, Lev was back to the ragbag business.

Seth wondered if Lev knew he was really talking about himself when he
had characterized Allyn Friedlander as someone looking for that One Big
Score that would be her ticket out of the purgatory of mediocrity to
which she had been consigned.

Or if Lev knew he was also talking about Seth Cameron.

the DAY SHE CAME WAS LIKE ANY OTHER. seth WAS BURIED in frenzied
efforts to get Ramon's attention to complete a filing on schedule while
at the same time frantically looking for some lost documents so he
could prepare for the deposition of a father in a bitter child custody
case, plus screaming at a landlord who had just filed a three-day
notice against his client on one line, while screaming at his client
for not paying his rent on the other.
A day like any other. The day she came.

Elena Barton was the last person on earth he expected, yet when he
heard a voice say his name, he didn't have to look up to see who it
was. He turned slowly in fact, concealing his eagerness and savoring
the moment of first sight, momentarily forgetting his embarrassment at
his surroundings.

At what he had become.

"Hello, Elena," he said, sounding as cool as she had. Hard to imagine,
but the woman was even more beautiful than he remembered. He rose to
his feet and worked his way around the table to turn a chair for her to
sit down. The chair got caught in the leg of the table, and when he
gave it a jerk, the leg of the chair broke off. She tried not to laugh
and he said, we're redecorating, can you tell? and they laughed
together, the tension relieved.

"There's a coffee shop downstairs that makes a tolerable caffe latte,"
he said, and soon they were sitting in a booth, facing each other,
taking each other in. Elena's pale green eyes were just as he had
remembered them, though softer now, forgiving. He found it hard to
keep his head clear.

Glancing around, Seth saw that all eyes in the restaurant-men and women
alike--were on her, wondering who she was, this woman with a face that
drew attention to itself without effort. What was she doing here?

Then, finally, she told him.

She told him that no capable lawyer would take her case against Miller
and McGrath. She told him of her anger and frustration, of her
feelings of isolation and helplessness.

Then she told him that another X-215A had just crashed and killed It.
Lee Andrews--"labeled pilot error again, of course"--and that had given
her a new idea.

"Four crashes in less than two years can't all be pilot error, Seth.
Sam was right--there's something terribly wrong with that airplane.
I've talked to the senior test pilot. Remember Crispie--Major
Christopher--Sam's best friend? I told you about him ... before.
Anyway, my thought is that if we could just get some kind of evidence
against Con Space now that they've had this new failure, we could force
them to admit Sam's crash wasn't his fault. What do you think?"
The waitress brought their coffee, giving Seth a minute to think

"You understand," he said, the words nearly choking him, "that we have
no recourse to the courts whatsoever."

"But we have access to the public, Seth," she said, leaning toward
him.

"Our lawsuit may be dead, but we can still threaten a public relations
battle they won't dare fight right now. Look at how quickly the media
goes into a feeding frenzy these days."

"That's usually murder cases."

"I'm sure my father will seriously consider doing me in."

Seth couldn't miss the spark in her usually soft eyes, the firming of
her chin, when she mentioned her father.

"It's impossible, Elena. With no lawsuit, we'd have no subpoena power.
Besides, the stuff that would help us is probably all classified top
secret and beyond the reach of a subpoena anyway."

She nodded to show she knew that, but didn't he at least owe her a shot
at it? An effort at coming up with something creative? She was
fighting back tears. Didn't he know an investigator who could go
undercover or something?

Seth looked down at his coffee cup because he couldn't bear to meet her
gaze. Someone behind him spilled a glass of water and shouted for a
towel.

"Please, Seth. Just say you'll try. Sam's good name is all I have
left of him."

He stirred the nutmeg into the whipped cream into the coffee, then
carefully laid the straw beside the cup.

"There may be one way in. The recent widow--Mrs. Andrews--would she
bring a suit?"

Elena shot him a pained look.

"Not a chance. Shirley Andrews is the daughter of an Air Force
general. Whole family's gung ho and she's moved back in with her
parents now. She stopped speaking to me when I make the mistake of
telling her I was trying to hire Miller and McGrath after Sam's death.
Wouldn't even take my calls last week."

Seth hesitated, seemed to go inside himself for a minute.

Elena sipped her latte, her eyes locked onto his.

"I do owe you, Elena," he said at last, "and I'll look into it. Give
me Major Christopher's telephone number and I'll talk with him. But
first, I'll have to clear it with Allyn Friedlander."
"The boss?"

"She could be held responsible if anything goes wrong, plus she keeps
me busy ten hours a day."

"But you will talk to her?" Elena said, putting her small hand over
his.

It was the touch of a supplicant, not a seductress, but it sent an
electric current up his spine and into his temples, stinging his face.
He could hardly bear the intensity in her eyes, which--was it the
light?--seemed to have turned a deeper shade of green. He felt a
dampness across his back.

Her voice was pleading, as gentle as Vivaldi, yet sounding an alarm
somewhere deep in Seth's intuitive nature, a crazy sense of
irresistible danger.

He drained his coffee cup with his free hand, then tapped on the
tabletop with the straw.

"All right, let's go up and talk to her." allyn WENT ALONG, BUT NOT
BEFORE TELLING seth HE should see a shrink; anybody in his right mind
could see that Elena Barton was a disaster looking for a place to
happen.

"Hold your horses, Cowboy," she told him.

"First, nobody, I mean nobody, is that gorgeous. Even Ramon's
salivating.

Second, she's got the desperate but determined look of ET. trying to
get home. Third, you're messing with the military industrial complex,
and fourth, you're too damn busy. You're up to your chin in swamp
water and she's handing you an anvil." But Seth stood his ground and
promised to do whatever he did for Elena on his own time. In the end,
Allyn agreed, but insisted on complete deniability.

"If the shit hits the fan. Cowboy, I don't even know you."

Rosie was tougher.

"I can't believe you're doin' this, Seth.

Not even a dumb of' cat jumps up on a hot stove twice."
"I owe her, Rosie," he had said, sitting down to the dinner table But
Rosie just said "umm-hmm" and reminded him that she had seen Elena
Barton's picture in the newspaper.

Seth's efforts to convince her that this was a chance to salvage a
measure of self-respect fell on deaf ears. A meal taken in silence.

Lev had been the easiest.

"Give me a chance to screw the U.S. government and I normally do it for
free." Then he smiled his big harmonica smile and added, "In your
case, however, I'll need expenses and two hundred and fifty dollars a
day."

Within a week, Elena returned with Maj. Jack Christopher in tow. He
had flown "out military transport on short notice;

figured he owed Sam that much, he said, and would do whatever he could
to help. The problem was he was unable to add much to what Seth's
search of reported news events had already revealed.

Yes, Sam was one of the best, probably incapable of pilot error. No,
Sam never told him what he thought was wrong with the X-215A, just that
he was fairly sure what it was.

Yes, Gerald Murphy--another test pilot in the unit-claimed to have
talked with Barton about a specific problem with the aircraft, but
Murphy was now refusing to say anything for fear of compromising his
request for transfer to the Nellis Gunnery School at Las Vegas. No,
Murphy wouldn't meet with Seth. No way. Yes, Christopher would keep
his eyes and ears open. No, he could not compromise his top-secret
clearance by providing any documentation on the aircraft. Yes, he
realized that if Sam were right, he could be the next to die, but that
was his job. And so on.

When pushed concerning possible problems with the X-215A, Christopher
just shrugged and said, "The bird is tricky, but that's why we have
test pilots."

"But Elena here tells me that Sam was sure something was wrong," said
Seth, "that he was pushing the brass to ground the X-215A until the
true cause of the failures was corrected. She thinks he was nearly
certain what was wrong.

Didn't he even give you a hint?"

Christopher crossed his long legs, glanced uneasily at Elena, and
exhaled.

"Sam wasn't always ... rational."
"What do you mean?" asked Seth, dreading the answer.

"Sam was a great pilot, but he was also an obsessive worrier," said
Christopher, lighting a cigarette and glancing at Elena again.

"Hell, Lanie, you know that better than anyone.

He had the talent of a top gun, but not the temperament.

After Grant Wilburn crashed--Grant was the second one to go down,
Penrod was first--Sam became obsessed with finding out why. He was
driving everybody on the base bat shit

Seth looked at Elena for a reaction, but she was staring out the
window.

Seth tried a small fender bender the next day in municipal court, but
went back to work on Elena's case as soon as he could. Got nowhere.
Managed to pry the name of Con Space senior technical representative
out of Crispie, but when he finally got through to Harold Bostwick, he
received the standard reply: "We are not free to discuss any aspect of
top-secret classified information."

Three weeks later, still nothing and nowhere to go. He dreaded making
the call to Elena, becoming the agent of yet another wounding
disappointment. He stared at a sheaf of newspapers Ramon had collected
for him from October 15 to mid-November 1992: the Times, the Post, and
the two local dailies, the Chronicle and the afternoon Examiner. He
read and reread the various news accounts about the crash-small
articles on back pages. When Ramon interrupted to get his signature on
several dictated letters, Seth signed without even reading them or
looking up.

"Well, aren't we Mr. Warmth today," said Ramon in a hurt tone.

"Here's the subpoena in the Dickson custody case."

Seth grunted a thanks.

The third time through the clippings, however, a short article in the
business section of the Chronicle caught Seth's attention. One of Con
Space suppliers and its chief executive officer had been under attack
by the Justice Department for securities violations and income tax
evasion. Nothing had come of either the SEC or the Tax Division
investigation.
Ramon came back in with fresh coffee and a cookie "to soothe the
savage beastie," which Seth accepted with a nod.

"Oh, wonderful!" said the secretary in a sardonic tone.

"It's coffee and my very favorite raisin-oat bran cookie! How can I
ever thank you enough, Ramon dearest."

Seth looked up.

"Sorry, Ramon. Did you say something?"

"I said you'd better review that subpoena, you heartless slave
driver."

Seth raised his head.

"Subpoena?"

"Yes, you asked for a subpoena."

"Subpoena!"

"Are you all right?"

"That's it! Of cdurse! A subpoena! That's how we do it!"

He grabbed the article and headed for Allyn's office.

"Ramon, you are wonderful."

"Dinner tonight, then?" said Ramon to the empty doorway.

"Shall we say, eight?"

"I have an idea," Seth began as Allyn lit a fresh cigar.

He laid out a plan to file a stockholders' suit against TDA, Inc." the
incriminated manufacturing company, seeking damages from its
billionaire chief executive officer for subjecting his company to
charges of illegal activities.

"It works for both of us, Allyn! You could hit big time if even half
of the stories about this con man are true, and I'd get the subpoena
power against a major supplier that might lead me to something on Con
Space

Allyn thumbed through the clippings, humming occasionally and ignoring
the ash that extended precariously from her cigar. Seth watched her,
wishing for the first time in years that he had a cigarette.

"Where's your business plan?" she said at last, staring at him over
her thick glasses.

"Business plan?"

"Is there an echo in here? Yes, a business plan, as in how much is
this going to cost me versus how much I stand to make if we hit? You
know, risk-benefit analysis? I'm running a business here. Cowboy."

They argued the matter for another twenty minutes as Seth became
increasingly impatient. Abruptly then, he placed both hands on her
desk, leaned as close to her as the stench of the ubiquitous cigar
would permit, and unleashed a white-water torrent of words: "Jesus,
Allyn. You want a fucking risk-benefit analysis, here it is. You fund
the costs of litigation up to fifty thousand dollars. That's your
risk.

"Anything over that I fund on an IOU against future salary. I do all
the work on my own time except for what you want to do yourself. This
guy has cost his company nearly ten million dollars in legal fees
alone, plus another one hundred million dollars or so the SEC claims he
ripped off his stockholders. Your fee if we settle or win a verdict
could run into tens of millions and you keep every cent.

That's your goddamn benefit, okay?"

Allyn slammed her gavel down hard, but Seth didn't blink.

"Some coffee, Ramon!" she said.

"Make it high-test."

She began shuffling through the clippings again as a siren screamed out
on the street below. Seth's eyes burned from the cigar smoke, but he
kept them locked on hers, looking for a sign. The large clock behind
her desk struck three o'clock.

"Oh, all right, Seth," she said finally, leaning so far back in her
huge leather chair Seth was sure it would collapse, "let's sue the
fucker. I'll draft a simple but unconscionable agreement between the
two of us, and you go ahead and draft a complaint against ... what's
his name?"

"Olmstead," said Seth, leaping to his feet.

"Operates out of the Caicos Islands. Aubrey Olmstead."

For the first time since he had arrived in San Francisco, Seth left his
office at four in the afternoon. And for the first time since his
firing, he felt the spine-tingling hope of redemption. His strategy
seemed laid out as clearly as stones on a desert floor. The derivative
suit would be filed in three days. Subpoenas would follow. If Elena
was right, he would find fire under the smoke of four deadly X-215A
crashes. A private threat to go public, and Con Space would cave in to
his simple demands that they pressure the U.S. Air Force to correct the
record on Sam Barton's file the hell with the others and hand over a
modest hundred thousand or so to buy Elena's eternal silence.
Then he would put himself back on the market. Well, yes, he would
say, there was a problem at M&M, but it was strictly a personality
thing with a key partner. I'm sure that the most senior trial lawyer
there--Charles Branch--would be happy to provide you with the firm's
perspective. In confidence, of course. The statute problem? A
tempest in a teapot. The client is completely satisfied; got just what
she wanted without the anguish of reliving the experience in a public
courtroom. Here is a copy of her letter of appreciation, and I'm sure
she would also be happy to talk with you.

His mind raced with the possibilities. But first things first:

a surprise celebration dinner for Rosie she would never forget.

They'd start with a bottle of decent champagne at home, then special
reservations at Star's at six. He would assure Rosie he was himself
again--off the tequila--and lay out his plan for getting back on the
fast track, but this time starting without two strikes against him.
That would be the hardest sell--out would come the bottle of champagne
at this point--convincing her it would be different next time around.
Change her mind about leaving. She would be a part of the new firm
from the start, and no more all-nighters at the office either. She'd
be skeptical, but she would listen.

He stopped at the little flower stall on Lombard to pick up two dozen
Sterling roses, her favorite.

He could tell she was gone long before he saw the note-tell it the
minute he walked in the door--but he ran from room to room anyway,
shouting her name. Checked all the rooms, every empty dresser drawer,
every barren closet shelf. Ran to the kitchen and saw there the note
with his name on the outside. Stared at it for a minute, eyes blurred
by his pounding heart. He knew what was written inside, and from
inside himself came a gravelly roar, a convulsive animal protest
against the reality of what he also knew: he was alone again.

The flowers fell from his hand as he picked up the note.

He turned it over and over, then pressed it against his cheek and let
the tears come.
* * He awoke the next morning at nine. Allyn would be pissed, though
she ought to be impressed that he still had a pulse after the amount of
tequila his liver had been processing the past fifteen hours.

He climbed the two flights of stairs, panting at the top like Sir
Edmund Hillary astride Everest. He headed straight for the coffee,
then locked himself in his office to reread Rosie's note for the
fortieth time.

Dearest Seth:

You knew I would have to go sometime and now your settled and ever
thing in your new job so it just seems to me times good as any. Or as
bad as most.

Anyways, I love you Seth and always will, but I can't watch any more.
It hurts to much.

I know now you cant stop what your doing so please don't call me it
will just hurt us both. Cause I cant change any more either.

Love always, Rosie Wheeler The brief letter he scribbled to Aunt
Claire, enclosing a check that cleaned out his savings, asked her to
anonymously parcel out the money to Rosie whenever she needed it to get
resettled.

Seth turned to the mail. A square envelope from Miller and McGrath
announced Harry Cooper's election to partnership.

Despite everything--including a sudden stab of pain in his stomach as
the words sunk home--he was glad for Harry and vowed to write him a
note.

Grabbing another cup of coffee, he began to draft a shareholder
derivative complaint against a man he had never met, in behalf of a
class-action client he had yet to find.
A MONTH LATER, seth FOUND HIMSELF MIRED DOWN IN allyn's "Ragbag" of
trivial disputes and lost causes, still getting nowhere with his
investigation of Con Space or Aubrey Olmstead's TDA, depressed over
Rosie's departure, and generally miserable. Desperate to ward off a
growing sense of deja vu failure on Elena's problem, he persuaded Allyn
to fund a trip to New Orleans, where he had arranged a meeting with the
deputy U.S. Attorney in the tax division of the Justice Department who
had tried to indict Aubrey Olmstead. To his amazement, Allyn had
decided at the last minute to go along.

"I won't get in your way, kid," she told him the day before his
departure.

"I just want to see Bourbon Street and try some of that crawfish gumbo
and etouffee I've heard so much about."

"You didn't like my famous Etouffee Cameron?" Seth had been a
short-order cook as part of his athletic scholarship program at Cal,
and with Rosie gone, he had taken up cooking as a practical
avocation.

"Just want to check out your imitators."

Allyn turned out to be more useful than either of them expected, first
serving as a referee between Seth and William Torville, a condescending
and priggish graduate of Harvard Law whose IQ obviously exceeded his
not inconsiderable weight. It was enmity at first sight as Seth
listened to the young deputy pontificate on the quality of the evidence
he had compiled during his campaign to obtain an indictment against
Olmstead. He showed them documents, employee records, and witness
statements demonstrating "beyond peradventure of doubt" that the TDA
limited partnership was a tax-evasion shell with no conceivable
commercial purpose.
But just two weeks before his presentation to a federal grand jury,
TDA's manufacturing company, TDA, Inc." had miraculously come up with
the M-31 canopy system, which, when accepted by Con Space for
installation in their X-215A, provided the company and parent
partnership with instant legitimacy, and his case with a swift and
simple burial.

"The contract lent substance to an otherwise blatant tax scam?" said
the corpulent deputy, oozing self-importance and indulging in one of
Seth's least favorite mannerisms:

ending each declarative sentence with a rising intonation.

"A week later," Torville continued, "I was told that someone very 'high
up' had scuttled my investigation? To avoid 'further embarrassment to
the Department'?"

"You mean," said Seth, "that with all this evidence, you just quit
without knowing who was ordering you to do it?

With this slam dunk of a case, you just walked away and--" Allyn jumped
in.

"I don't think you should assume that Mr. Torville has quite the same
authority as the U.S. Attorney General, Seth. No offense intended, Mr.
Torville."

"None taken," said the deputy, his round face burning.

"By your remarks at least?" he added with a withering glance at Seth
and ending with an inflection that soared upward like a flying
buttress.

Torville went on to explain that three months after TDA's amazing
deliverance, Con Space shocked the industry by winning the biggest
government contract in U.S. military history.

Con Space bid and prototype X-215A design simply decimated the XB-3
submitted by Winston-Ethridge, the world's leading supersonic-aircraft
manufacturer."

Seth bolted out of his chair.

"Jesus, Torville, isn't it obvious what happened? Olmstead got Con
Space to take on his M-31 system in return for Olmstead using some kind
of juice to help Con Space beat out WinstonEthridge!"

"It's, uh, not entirely beyond the range of reasonable possibilities?"
said Torville, the concession choking in his throat.

"Olmstead is an extremely wealthy and unsavory character, indeed
dangerous? Nothing he would do would surprise me?"

"Is that why you backed off?" said Seth.

"Were you afraid of him?"

"Ms. Friedlander," said Torville, rising to his feet.
"I consented to this meeting because I speculated that there might
exist the possibility of synergism--that's common ground,
Cameron--wherein both our objectives might be furthered?

After meeting King Kong here, I doubt that we could ever have anything
in common."

"I couldn't agree with you more," said Seth, grabbing his coat, "and I
can't tell you how much I'm comforted by the knowledge. By the way,
you talk like some goddamn Valley girl."

Outside, Allyn shook her head and glared at Seth.

"What," he said, but she ignored him and started writing. Seth saw
that she was reproducing with amazing accuracy the government's entire
witness list including many addresses and telephone numbers. When she
had finished, she turned and headed for the parking lot. They walked
in silence, Allyn a step ahead all the way, not looking at Seth. Only
when they were inside their rented car did she turn to face him.

"Seth Cameron, you may be a hotshot trial lawyer inside a courtroom
where everybody's fully expecting a buttoned-down alley fight and knows
what the rules are, but you don't know shit about how to get what you
want out here in the real world."

Seth started to reply, but Allyn wasn't finished.

"Despite your best efforts to fuck it up, however, that tightly wound
asshole told us how to get inside this conspiracy.

Did you pick up on it?"

Seth thought for a minute, then said, "The Caicos Islands."

"Bingo!"

"Then I can leave tomorrow?"

"Absolutely. You can leave tomorrow for San Francisco, California.
Somebody's got to hold down the fort. I'm going to the Caicos."

"But--" "But nothing, "King Kong,"

" she said, smiling for the first time since leaving Torville's
office.

"This is going to require a modicum of finesse and tact you have yet to
demonstrate.".

Allyn tossed her notebook into her briefcase, slammed it shut, and
added, "In other words, this is woman's work." 26 two NIGHTS LATER
seth WAS AWAKENED BY A JUBILANT Allyn Friedlander, calling from Kew.

"We've got him. Cowboy," she shouted, "we've got the bastard."

"That's great," mumbled Seth, trying to focus on the bedside clock that
read 2 a.m."

"but which bastard, how did we get him, and who the fuck is this?"

"Olmstead," she said in a slurred voice that told Seth she was drunk.

"That bastard. Okay, here it is."

Allyn laid out Olmstead's involvement in the tax scam in a raucous
voice that Seth could have heard from his kitchen.

"Two questions," said Seth, still trying to clear his head.

"First: How could an investor get the whole deduction past the IRS
without proving a valid note for the balance due?

Second: How in the hell did you find out all this stuff?"

An uncharacteristic giggle issued from Allyn.

"Olmstead set up a dummy Caicos lending institution called Zenith
Financial, which issued the note and a check drawn on First Southern
Bank of Kew, a chartered bank in the Caicos Islands.

This gave the note authenticity."

"Doesn't that make Southern Bank another deep-pocket defendant?"

"Give that kid a cigar!" More giggling.

"The bank had to know what was going on. The investor signed the note
to Zenith and handed over Zenith's check for, let's say, six hundred
thousand dollars to TDA. It's all just paper, of course, because the
investor only agrees to pay back the note out of dividends from TDA,
which would never happen because TDA had neither a product nor an
intention to build one. And since everything was controlled by
Olmstead, the money from the 'check' just went in a circle--back into
Zenith account with First Southern Bank to be 'lent' to the next greedy
schmuck."

"And Olmstead keeps the four-hundred thousand-dollar cash down payment
himself."

"Multiplied over and over again. Hundreds of millions of dollars, and
his only real overhead was Dr. Ivor Tellman, an authentic but
alcoholic MIT professor who, incidentally, later killed himself.
Tellman had a few technicians and ran a small research lab that
photographed well for offering circulars."

"But TDA did build a product, the M-31 system."

"Which came about only because--you ready for this?-Olmstead learned
frftm his very silent partner in TDA--a phantom power-broker--that your
best pal Torville was about to get an indictment against them. You
were probably right on target when you speculated that there had to be
some kind of deal between Con Space and TDA."

"And don't forget the United States government," said Seth.

"The insider who rigged the deal must be one powerful mother."

"Father."

"What?"

"The power guy. He's known only as Father. It's a code name. Nobody
but Olmstead knows who he really is."

"Which brings me back to my second question," said Seth.

"How and where did you get all this stuff?"

"Straight from an ex-bookkeeper for Olmstead's companies named Cecil
Kimbrough. He was on Torville's list."

Seth swung his feet over the edge of the bed as he considered the
source.

"I would think anyone as powerful as Olmstead would control
ex-employees very carefully, either by reward or intimidation."

"Correctamundo, my skeptical friend," said Allyn with another
high-pitched giggle.

"But I out promised Olmstead, then I out threatened him."

"You're drunk, Allyn."

"An unavoidable consequence of the promise phase of my short-lived
relationship with dear Cecil," she said, a wistful tone in her voice.

"You slept with the guy?"
AUyn's insane cackle pierced Seth's ear.

"You know what they say, Seth: "Promise them anything, but give them a
summons and complaint."" "A summons? You threatened to sue the poor
schmuck?

What did you do? Write out a summons on a cocktail napkin?"

Allyn explained that she had matched Kimbrough drink for drink until
she could get no more information out of him, then ordered black coffee
and hit the hapless Don Juan with a copy of Seth's draft complaint and
a summons.

"Unorthodox," said Seth, "even for you."

"But effective," said Allyn, laughing again.

"And as soon as I sober up and get back home, we'll be able to put
together a real stockholders' complaint against Olmstead."

"That's very nice, Allyn, but it might be a more effective class action
if we had a representative client."

"Thought you'd never ask. Dear Cecil supplied me with a copy of the
list of stockholders of the spun-off manufacturing company. At least a
dozen are from the Bay Area."

"Okay, but what about my case? Did you learn anything about Con Space
Problems with the X-215A? You know, the reason we started this
stockholders' suit in the first place?"

Seconds of silence hummed through the long-distance wire.

"I'm sorry I'm not more enthusiastic, Allyn. It just seems to me the
tail's beginning to wag the dog here."

"I understand, kid," she said lightly, "but what you've got to
understand is that your case is a dog."

Seth said nothing.

"Okay, Seth. I'm sorry. But I don't expect this guy would have known
anything about the M-31 system anyway."

Even if you had thought to ask, thought Seth.

"Safe trip home," he said, and hung up.

He was angry, yet knew he couldn't blame her. He had violated his code
and fallen into a trap foreign to him-counting on another person. If
something was going to happen with Elena's case, he was going to have
to make it happen himself.

He picked up the phone again and dialed Lev's number.

"Lev, this is Seth. Call me at the office when and if you wake up and
get this. I've got an idea." 27 the REQUEST WAS NEITHER UNEXPECTED
NOR RUDELY DEUVered, yet it set Seth's heart ricocheting around his
chest cavity like a squash ball. It wasn't the question itself, so
much as the mongoose eyes of the questioner--an Air Police sergeant
guarding the gate at New Mexico's Symington Air Force Base--compounded
probably by the three cups of black coffee with the viscosity of a
winter racetrack that he had inhaled at Bertha's, just outside the
gate.

The request was: "Your identification please, gentlemen."

He and Leviticus had spent an hour at Bertha's, staring at black velvet
art and absorbing caffeine, refining their plan to penetrate a
top-secret air base, secure an interview with the Con Space technical
representative most responsible for the maintenance and safety of
America's most protected weapon, then get him to commit a federal
felony by revealing enough top-secret information about the X-215A to
enable them to extort Con Space into settling a case on which everybody
knew the statute of limitations had already run.

"That's it?" Lev asked the week before.

"That's all we need to do?"

"The Con Space tech rep won't come to us," said Seth, "we've got to go
to him."

Lev was unpersuaded.

"Whoa, Cowboy-Even if it could be done--which I seriously
doubt--espionage against my own government is way outside my strike
zone. I have no idea how to get us inside Symington Air Force Base."

So Seth was all the more surprised when Lev had spread out three cards
on the table at Bertha's: a fake press card, identifying Seth as Jason
Arnold, a reporter from Scientific Aeronautics; a New York driver's
license with the same name;

and a phony American Express credit card. Lev had another set for
himself--the handiwork of a friend who owed him one.
"We swallowed the whale," Lev had said, "let's not be chokin' on the
tail."

"Why did you decide to do this?" Seth had asked him as they paid
Bertha's bill and put on their coats.

"I don't even know why I'm doing it."

"Yes, you do," Lev had said.

"It's your last shot."

"Okay, but why are you doing it?"

Lev stood for a moment as still as a boulder of scarred granite. He
seemed to be wrestling with his thoughts--half-angry,
half-embarrassed.

"I guess it's partly for you, asshole," he said finally.

"Old times' sake and all that shit. Gettin' me in the door at M and

M."

"Too bad Treadwell got me out the door before I could do more."

"Fuck that place. You were the only guy there who didn't walk around
like he had a broomstick rammed up his ass.

Also the only one who treated me with real respect. You get to know
the phony stuff by the time you're seven years old.

"As for what's in it for me? Hell, man, this beats trackin' some
husband with his dick out. Call it fourth and ten on the thirty with
twenty seconds on the clock and you're three points behind. I ain't
interested in no tie game. I don't think you are either."

So here they were, only sixty seconds into the caper, being hauled into
the gate office by an air policeman--trained to distrust his own
mother--who was now looking doubtfully at the fake cards.

"Yes, Sergeant," he heard Lev say to the lanky AP, "we're reporters for
Scientific Aeronautics. This gentleman with me is Jason Arnold."

Jason? Why not Benedict? thought Seth.

"I'll have to check with Mr. Bostwick, gentlemen, so just have a seat
there," said the red-haired guard in a tone that signified an order,
not an invitation.

"Is he expecting you?"

"Not exactly," said Seth, feeling his stomach flinch under the
sergeant's gaze, but pleased and surprised at the confident tone his
own voice had managed.

"We travel a lot and got a break in our schedule on the way back
east."
"Thought we'd drop by and try to give the Stealth Pro177 gram a
boost," added Lev, but Seth could see that the sergeant was
spring-loaded to the negative position and that what he was hearing
over the telephone from Bostwick wasn't helping.

"Not only is he not expecting you," said the air cop, an even harder
edge in his voice now, "he's never even heard of you."

"May I speak with him?" asked Seth in an indignant tone, extending his
hand toward the phone.

"He's damn sure heard of our magazine." As he leaned forward, he felt
an uncomfortable coldness across his back as a light breeze from the
security shack's open door touched his soaked shirt. This is crazy, he
thought, and wished he were sitting back in his cottage in Mill Valley
with Fat Dog, watching the fog slip in over the Marin Headlands,
turning the valley below him into a goose-down lake.

But Seth picked up on Lev's theme and managed to persuade the tech rep
not only that their magazine's editorial point of view was
Stealth-positive, but also that a favorable article might help to
balance the current attacks being leveled at the program by Congress
and the press.

Seth handed the phone back to the AP, who directed the relieved
impostors toward Hangar G. "This is going to be delicate," Seth said,
nervously glancing from side to side, "so let me take the lead,
okay?"

Lev stared straight ahead over the steering wheel as the words hung in
the air.

"For a guy who played defense," he said at last, "you can sure be
offensive."

They rode in silence past rows of olive-colored Quonset huts and
scraggly trees that seemed to have lost their struggle for survival
against the cruel New Mexico winter.

Lev was still smarting.

"Would you like to drive, too. Mistah Seth, sah?" he added, looking
straight ahead.

"Come on. Lev, I just meant ..."

"Forget it. Cowboy," said Lev, spinning the car neatly into a parking
place and slamming on the brakes harder than necessary.

"It's your gig. I'll try not to screw it up."

Con Space on-site facility looked like a typical construction
shack--walls covered with flow charts, blueprints every178 where,
drafting tables, computer printouts, and Kmart furniture. Both
uniformed and civilian personnel sat in close quarters, milling through
a snowstorm of paperwork, shouting into telephones and at each other. A
bespectacled airman second class directed them to a huge desk at one
end of the temporary building, behind which sat an intense, round-faced
man caressing his telephone.

A glistening bronze plate identified Harold Bostwick, who glanced up
and motioned them into chairs while he continued his conversation,
giving Seth an opportunity to scrutinize him, probe for openings,
clues, and cues: a cheap but ostentatious watch, a fraternity ring, a
Countess Mara tie adorning an inexpensive, monogrammed dress shirt,
coffee in a cup and saucer--affectations suggesting to Seth's practiced
eye a man of frustrated vanity who had not achieved his expectations
and was probably angry about that and a lot of other things--his job,
his thick lenses, the image in his mirror every morning. A nose
besieged by spidery tributaries spread out across a puffy face,
betraying an affection for the grape. It all fit.

Such a man must be flattered, Seth knew, for he would consider himself
to be swimming--or treading water--in an undeserved sea of mediocrity.
Such a man usually held deep resentments toward his superiors and might
be vulnerable if handled just right. And such a man might possess
little tolerance for an interloper should he be able to expose and
apprehend one.

"Well now, gentlemen of the press," said Bostwick, dropping the
receiver onto the cradle with two fingers, "what can I do for you?" As
he addressed them, he rubbed his hands together as if intending to make
a fire and offered up his version of a smile, in which an upper lip
like a sausage curled northward under a nose the size of a minivan.

Seth eased his way in by offering further assurances concerning their
magazine's favorable bias, and Harold Hostwick, sensing an opportunity
for recognition, began to take the hook, interrupted only by a sporadic
sprinkling of sanctimonious reminders such as, you understand,
gentlemen, that I can only discuss information already in the public
domain, to which Seth would respond we understand completely, sir, and
Lev would nod sympathetically, and Bostwick would keep on talking. The
only problem was, he really was confining himself to public and
self-serving technical data vouching for the X-215A's superiority and
safety. So, after twenty minutes of Bostwick-ese, Seth decided to take
the matter head-on.

"There has been speculation, sir, that these X-215A crashes--four of
them now, and all within less than twenty months--were actually the
result of some kind of technical defect, not pilot error. Would you
like to take this opportunity to put that rumor to rest?"

Tactfully done, thought Seth. But the tech rep commenced a liftoff
from his chair that caused heads to turn all over the shack, and Seth
realized it had not been tactful enough. As Bostwick lurched forward,
a renegade ray of sunlight invaded the shack through a waffle-sized
window and glinted off his thick lenses, behind which now lay bulging
goldfish eyes as suspicious as an IRS agent's.

"Are you guys researching a scientific project or doing an expose?"
demanded Bostwick through teeth that looked like the grille of an
Oldsmobile.

"This interview has just ended."

Seth stared at the red-faced man and realized Allyn had been right in
her stern lecture after his confrontation with Deputy U.S. Attorney
William Torville.

Cases aren't really won in the courtroom, Seth; they're won in the
streets. Out in the field, where you have to learn the patience and
skill to scrape together support for your client's view of reality;
where the witnesses you have to have can still be had--if you're clever
enough and patient enough.

You want good testimony? Don't expect it to come knocking on your
office door. Out there in the streets--years before you get into the
courtroom--that's where your fate as a trial lawyer is being decided.

Although Seth could see she was right, it didn't make this part of the
process any easier. He just wasn't cut out for it.

He preferred the straightforward encounter within the walls of the
courtroom, where both sides know they are in a bare-knuckle fight, the
roles clear-cut and understood:

In this corner--a lying or exaggerating witness who can say damn near
anything he or she wants to say without fear of a lightning bolt
striking the courthouse. In the other corner-possessing the home-field
advantage and the sworn duty to do anything he can legitimately get
away with to expose the witness's deception--the trial lawyer.
Everything up-front, the battle lines drawn, the rules dear. Shake
hands and come out fighting.

Field investigation was just the opposite. Now it was the lawyer
engaging in deception and the witness who had the home-field
advantage.

And the home team had just ended this game with a shutout.

"You've got us all wrong, Mr. Bostwick." Seth loved this part,
too--the begging.

"We're on your side. But I'll just make a note here that you preferred
not to respond to the allegation."

That did it. The tech rep was positioned squarely on the fence--with
suspicion on one side and the possibility of good press and even some
personal recognition on the other--a tension that seemed to drain his
vitality. It was like watching water run out of a bathtub. The huge
head settled into the gap between his shoulders, which in turn slumped
down and forward around his chest. Then the upper lip slowly curled
upward again and the whalelike body sank back in its chair.

"Now, boys," he said, "I think you got me wrong, too. Let me put it
this way. It's not that I don't want to comment, it's just that we're
not allowed to discuss cases where litigation is a possibility. You
know how those fucking lawyers are."

"Assholes," ventured Leviticus, "every damn one of them."

"Well, good news on that front you might not have heard," said Seth.

"The statute of limitations has run on the first three crashes,
including Sam Barton's, and the widow from the most recent one is the
daughter of a career Air Force general."

Bostwick had heard, and Seth could tell by the way he slowly nodded his
head that resistance was diminishing.

Extra innings.

"Okay, boys, I see no harm in being quoted as saying that the X-215A
was state-of-the-art perfect just before the Barton and Andrews
accidents."
"I don't doubt that for a minute," said Seth, "but how do we convince
our readers? Take Barton, for instance. People say he was the hottest
top gun on the base."

Bostwick's mouth worked its way into a wry smile as he said, "Then
people don't know shit about Sam Barton."

"What do you mean?"

The smile disappeared.

"Forget about that. All your readers need to know is that I was there
that day before Captain Barton took off. I personally supervised the
master preflight check on the X-215A that he crashed. It's required by
our contract."

The harsh ring of Bostwick's phone set Seth's heart pounding again. Too
much coffee. Too much deception.

Hook him up to a polygraph, ask him his own name, and he'd blow up the
fucking machine.

As Bostwick spoke to the caller, Seth affected a casual review of his
notes, while Lev affected an equally casual study of Bostwick's
diplomas and extravagantly framed Defense Department efficiency
awards.

"Yes, sir," said Bostwick, "yes, sir, I'll be right out there."

Seth's heart stopped pounding and began to sink. Just as we were
getting somewhere. Bostwick shook his head apologetically as he hung
up the phone.

"Sorry, boys, but we've got a snafu in the hangar and I gotta run.
Another time, maybe."

"I'm sorry, too, Mr. Bostwick," said Seth, desperately reaching for
words as the tech rep reached for the door, "because ... well, frankly,
sir, we're, uh, returning east today, and we'll have no choice now but
to go with the rumor." Bostwick stopped, his hand on the doorknob.
Seth tried to take the desperation out of his voice.

"I know this will disappoint our editor, since he sent us here to try
to put all that anti stealth crap to rest."

Lev played along by folding his notepad and giving Hostwick a consoling
look as he extended his hand in farewell.

The tech rep turned, his close-set eyes batting with indecision.

"Oh, shit, you can come along, I guess. The hottest. thing out there
today is an F-15, and the old Soviet Union had a full set of plans and
specs to that bird by the time it was tested." Bostwick lurched back
to his desk and pulleda drawer open.

"Here. Put these badges on next to the ones you got there."

The three men quickly covered the twenty feet from the shack to a steel
door, where another robotic AP--whose hard eyes belied his tender
years--checked badges and waved them through. Once in the hangar,
Bostwick told Seth and Leviticus to wait just inside the door while he
solved his problem. Lev let out a low whistle as they looked down into
a blindingly lighted, cement-lined bunker, carved deep into the earth.
Only three aircraft, all different, were scattered around the vast
floor--bigger than a football field-each attended by a half dozen or so
guards and workers.

Seth was surprised as Lev identified each plane, together with details
as to airspeed, thrust, and armament.

"So what do you think. Cowboy? Worth the trip?"

"Not yet, but he knows something about Barton we'd best find out," said
Seth as they watched Bostwick leave an office at ground level and
waddle back toward them along a steel catwalk.

"Is it okay for us to go down below as we talk?" Seth asked the tech
rep.

"No harm in it," said Bostwick, "but stay close to me."

The men descended four stories to the floor of the hangar.

"What are those structures that look like railroad tracks spanning the
opening?" asked Leviticus.

Bostwick smiled his baboon smile.

"They're railroad tracks," he said dryly, then explained how a
steel-reinforced concrete mat could be activated to seal off and
protect everything below ground level in an emergency.

"I assume," said Seth, "that the X-215A is out on a training mission or
something?"

"Or something," said Bostwick.

"Let me put it this way:

you can assume that if the X-215A were here, you guys wouldn't be. Now
where were we? Oh, yes, the night of the Barton crash."

The tech rep then explained that it was Con Space standard practice and
contractual obligation to check all systems before each test mission
and that he did so personally just before the fatal flight. Seth asked
him if he would show ---- the jury the record" the maintenance records
for October 15, "just to prove the point."

A ripple of laughter exploded from deep within the tech rep.

"Hell, boys, why don't I just give you a complete set of plans for the
X-215A and be done with it."

"I know you can't do that," said Seth, forcing an accommodating smile,
"but we aren't asking for secrets, only some corroboration of our
editor's theory that the bird is as perfect as you say. Let's face it,
sir. This Sam Barton was a top gun, the best the Air Force had, and
the liberal dissidents on the Armed Services Committee have got the
muckrakers calling for Con Space head."

"We can handle it," said Bostwick in a tone so lacking in conviction
that Seth decided to take off the gloves. He looked at his watch,
shrugged his shoulders, and snapped his notebook closed.

"I understand your position, Mr. Bostwick, and I hope you understand
ours. We'll have to inform our readership that you were unwilling or
unable to document Con Space claim that the X-215A was flight ready
before takeoff on the night of the crash."

The tech rep's eyes narrowed into razor slits for a second, but then
The Lip curled into another contrived fake smile as he said, "Boys, how
about a cup of coffee."

Seth said sure, and within five minutes they had struck a deal. In
recognition of the need for national security. Scientific Aeronautics
would accept Bostwick's undocumented word, in return for which he would
provide them with an off-the-record statement that would erase any
doubt in their minds concerning the X-215A's airworthiness on the night
of the Barton crash. If they deemed it insufficient for their
purposes, of course, they would be free to go their separate ways.

"Okay, boys, here it is. I'll tell you just what I told the inspector
general. I give you my word as a gentleman that the maintenance
records and my personal daily reports could back it up." Bostwick
paused for dramatic effect, then took a swig of coffee and continued,
"We started the final preflight at five-thirty the afternoon of the
fifteenth. Before that--at four--I checked with all systems chiefs, as
usual.
Each one of them is required to check every element of the aircraft
they're responsible for and sign off with me. There are eighteen
systems chiefs, and every damn one of them is the best in the business.
After they finish, I do it all over again. Now, here's what you're
looking for, boys: everything was one hundred percent perfect, and you
can quote me on that. If it isn't perfect, it doesn't fly until it is.
Just like the space shuttle. You have my word on it."

"What time was Barton's takeoff?"

"I wasn't on the flight line. My security clearance stops right here
at the hangar. Can't say."

"Who can?"

"Nobody will. Flight-line information is the highest level of
confidentiality in the U.S. Besides, there's been a complete rotation
of the flight-line personnel since then."

"Have you heard of anything unusual?"

"Hell, man, this is the military. You can't pay attention to
rumors."

"What are the rumors?"

Lev put his pad away and added, "Off the record, of course."

"Well, I hear the takeoff was delayed."

"What's normal takeoff time?" asked Seth.

"I understand that pattern goes out around twenty-two hundred."

"Ten o'clock?"

"Right."

"How long was the delay?"

"Don't know. An hour, maybe two. It happens."

"So what started a rumor?"

"Well, let me put it this way, Mr. Arnold," said Bostwick, cautiously
framing his words.

"Captain Barton maybe needed a little more preflight himself."

"I don't follow," said Seth.

"Was he sick?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Could you be more specific? Off the record, of course."

Bostwick's eyes flickered between the two reporters.

"Let's just say he needed a coffee break, okay?"

Seth and Leviticus gave him a blank look that irritated the tech rep
even more.
"Jesus, you guys are dense. Nixonwould still be president--thank
God--if you guys had been working for the Washington Post. Okay, here
it is, but strictly off the record. Deal?"

"I swear to you as a gentleman," said Seth, "that what you tell me will
never appear in any magazine."

"All right, here it is. I've heard rumors about Barton's blood alcohol
that suggest he was flying high long before he took off."

Seth shot Lev a worried look that said the tech rep seemed to be
reporting the truth, at least as he knew it.

"Barton was drunk?"

"That was off the record, Mr. Arnold, and I'll say no more about it.
The Air Force suppressed it out of deference to the widow."

Lev looked at Seth and shrugged his shoulders. Seth felt beaten,
exhausted. His pancreas was reacting to the new dose of caffeine by
secreting fresh insulin, and he could feel the rapid drop in his blood
sugar all the way down to his ankles. He needed to sit down and was
relieved when Lev leapt into the brief vacuum of silence; Lev, playing
bad cop.

"Still, sir," said the investigator, removing his empty pipe from his
coat pocket and thoughtfully chewing on the stem, "they are saying that
all this 'pilot error' explanation is just a cover-up, that your bird
is trying to do too much with too small a budget compared with
Northrup's B-2 program or Winston-Ethridge's XB-004. They say the
X-215A is so burdened with anti radar coatings and other devices that
it's forgotten how to fly. They say what you're doing is blaming the
dead pilots who can't speak for themselves."

Bostwick was glaring at Leviticus now, but the investigator seemed not
to notice as he added, "Even the folks in Congress who still think the
U.S. needs a deterrent force are beginning to doubt the X-215A can get
the job done."

"That's ridiculous," said the tech rep, apparently relieved to be on
safe ground again.

"Let's say the Russkies get frisky again after they get around to
dumping Yeltsin. Our detection satellites give us a thirty-minute
warning of their incoming ICBMs, which is all we need to take out
Moscow within minutes after they hit Washington, D.C. The X-215A's
SRAMs--short range nuclear attack missiles--will score a hell of a lot
more accuracy than any long-range robotic rocket system can deliver,"
Leviticus shook his head, saying, "What about the Asat system like the
one based at Tyuratam?"

Seth glanced at Leviticus with new interest.

"It's true," Bostwick conceded, "that the old Soviet Union's air
defense early-warning system was one of the best in the world--" "No,
sir," said Leviticus interrupting, "not one of the best. The best. And
not was. Still is. In addition to satellite bases, they've got their
high-frequency OTH radar--that's 'over the horizon," Jason--plus eleven
tracking radars at six sites around Russia, and six more phased-array
radar sites from the Kola Peninsula in the northwest to the Caucasus in
the southwest, with approximately seven thousand air-surveillance
radars."

Now it was Bostwick, not just Seth, trying to conceal his amazement as
Lev continued his rapid-fire litany.

"Then you got to throw in their twelve hundred and fifty interceptors
and God knows how many thousands of surface-to-air missiles with ranges
up to one hundred eighty-six miles--" "Hold on there," interrupted the
technician, involuntarily drawn into an attempt to regain the
initiative.

"You may be right about Russia's defense capability--I'm not saying you
are, understand--but that's exactly the defensive array our performance
specifications were designed to beat, for God's sake!" The red-faced
technician then continued to reveal technical information about the
X-215A's capabilities that, to Seth's continuing amazement, Leviticus
seemed to comprehend.

"But you can't deny," responded Leviticus, like a fisherman in familiar
seas but angling for something in deep water he can't see, "that when
you gave up afterburners to beat the enemy's infrared sensors, you
sacrificed half your engine thrust."

Bostwick bit, freely discussing the X-215A's capability to fly nearly
twice the speed of sound because of its "twin high-thrust turbofans and
its blended airframe designed to provide a low profile with minimum
drag and high speed with low kinetic heating."
Seth was totally lost, but Leviticus maintained his self-assured, yet
casual probing. Seth realized he was watching the ace investigator in
his courtroom. He also realized that Lev was trying to bait the tech rep into betraying a flaw, some weakness in the perfect killing
machine.

But over Bostwick's shoulder, Seth saw a person approaching, a familiar
person, the last person in the world Seth wanted to see right now: Maj.
Jack Christopher. And the pilot was walking straight toward them! To
be recognized now that Lev was finally getting somewhere ... Desperate,
Seth took advantage of Lev's girth, casually strolling around the
investigator, using him to partially eclipse Christopher view as the
major passed within twenty feet of them, headed toward the steel
stairway. Just as it seemed to have worked, Christopher's head turned
in their direction. Now he was staring straight at them! Seth whipped
out his handkerchief and covered his lower face as Christopher
addressed Harold Bostwick.

"Hey, Hal. How's the wife getting along?"

Seth feigned a sneeze attack into his contrived mask.

"Oh, hello. Major Christopher," said Bostwick.

"She's fine now, thanks for asking."

Leviticus, hearing the officer's name and realizing the reason for
Seth's charade, said, "Gesundheit," and made himself even larger than
usual. Seth prayed that the major would keep moving toward the exit
stairway, but to his dismay, Bostwick beckoned him over.

"Oh, Major," he said, "I'd like you to meet a couple of--" But Bostwick
was interrupted by a maintenance specialist shouting at Christopher.

"Major!" came the voice of divine intervention.

"We need to see you right away. We've got a hot one over here on this
F-15 you're taking up this afternoon."

Crispie shrugged an apology as he turned and hurried toward the
aircraft, and Seth began to resume normal breathing.

"Sorry," he said to Bostwick.

"Hay fever." Another bullet dodged, he thought, but wondered if Lev
would be able to get Bostwick's mouth moving at Mach 2 again.

Without hesitation. Lev resumed his probing.

"Lockheed is way ahead of you with its F-19. Then you have
Northrup'sB-2 with four F-118, GE-100 nonafterbuming engines with
nineteen thousand pounds of thrust. You got ramjets?

Slush hydrogen?"

Bostwick took the hook again.

"Don't need it, Mr. Smith.

The F-19--which, by the way, the Air Force denies even exists--has only
two sixteen-thousand-pound-thrust engines.

We've got four of them, each developing thirty thousand pounds of
thrust and with no higher fuselage profile than Lockheed's. Let me put
it this way: our X-215A is as thin as a razor blade up front where it
really counts. It's even flatter than Grumman's stealth design, plus
it's lighter and twice as fast as Northrup's B-2, not to mention more
controllable in terms of vertical stabilization."

At this, Leviticus began chewing on his unlit pipe again.

Seth saw that though he had Bostwick in verbal overdrive again,
something was bothering the investigator.

"Take the highly publicized B-1B bomber," the suddenly garrulous rep
continued, "please!" Lev and Seth accommodated the tech rep's attempt
at humor with a courtesy smile.

"It's junk! Antiquated junk. Sure, it has a reduced radar
cross-section--the frontal silhouette or radar signature we call
RGS--so that a formation of one hundred of them looks about the same as
one B-52. But our bird has an even smaller RGS than the B-1B, with a
hell of a lot more power, Every part of her body--inside and out--flows
into everything else so there is only minimal radar reflection back.

Plus she flies as cool as a Popsicle--hydrogen, you know-so a
Sidewinder-type missile has nothing to grab on to."

Leviticus raised his eyebrows to show he was impressed, then casually
tapped his pipe and added, "But what about your bubble-canopy design?
The slightest glint from that shiny Plexiglas surface could be a real
grabber for radar."

Bostwick looked as if he had been hit between the legs.

His eyes narrowed and flickered between them, his chin jutted out, and
he shot Lev a hostile look. He then composed himself and looked at his
watch.

"Sorry, gentlemen," he muttered, just as Seth spotted Christopher
coming toward them again--"but I'm really running late."

"Would that be the M-31 canopy system designed by TDA?" said Seth.
"Really, gentlemen, I've got to get back to the office."

Lev spotted Crispie, too, and quickly extended his hand to the tech
rep. Seth knew they had to escape, but something in Bostwick's last
stonewalling remark--"running late"-nagged at him, even more than the
obvious nerve they had struck on the canopy.

"Running ... late." Hadn't the tech rep said something earlier about
the unscheduled flight leaving "late that night"? Seth's heart was
pounding through his chest as he saw Christopher turning toward them,
but his mind raced with new possibilities and hope. Suppose the flight
did take off an hour or two late as Bostwick had heard, rather than the
ten o'clock timft reported by the Air Force? What if the flight took
off so late that Sam Barton died after midnight-on the sixteenth--so
that the statute of limitations had not run on Elena's case after all?
Jesus!

"Just one more thing," Seth said as casually as possible.

"If the rumor about Barton is true, the X-215A gets a clean bill all
the way around. When did you hear he took off?

Closer to an hour or to two hours late?"

Bostwick seemed relieved at the change of subject and appeared to be
racking his memory, but Crispie was now swiftly closing the gap between
them. Seth saw perspiration break on Lev's brow for the first time
today.

"Oh, yes, I remember now," said Bostwick.

"I heard the flight left at twenty-three thirty hours, an eleven-thirty
takeoff."

Seth could hardly believe what he was hearing and could not stop
probing, even though Crispie was closer now and seemed to be eyeing
Seth curiously.

"And how long," Seth asked quickly, his throat tightening as the test
pilot was now only twenty yards away, "was the flight?"

The tech rep replied that although the flight was unscheduled, it was
undoubtedly the standard sortie, probably "an hour, maybe an hour
fifteen." Seth knew they should run for it, that Christopher could
have them arrested, that both of them could end up in federal prison.
But his brain was on afterburner, and new hope for a rekindled
professional career had incinerated his judgment. He took Bostwick by
the arm and started marching him toward the stairway with Christopher
now only ten yards behind them and closing.

"And how long," he asked the tech rep, "would it take to get from
takeoff at Symington Air Force Base in New Mexico to the crash site in
Arizona ... under normal circumstances."

"Depends on how he got there," replied the tech rep.

"We aren't told the exact test-flight routes, but there's a standard
triangular flight pattern. If he had gone straight to the crash site,
he would have been there in ten to fifteen minutes."

"But what," asked Seth, praying that the hangar floor would open up and
swallow Christopher, "if he was on the last leg of a triangular flight
path when the crash occurred?"

With Christopher now only several steps behind them, the trio started
up the stairs. After a seemingly endless amount of head-scratching,
earlobe pulling, and panting, Bostwick answered the question.

"Well, it would have taken roughly forty-five minutes or so, say to ...
oh, about twelve-fifteen the next morning."

Bostwick turned back to see Christopher coming up behind him, as the
"reporters" began taking steps two at a time.

"Oh, hello again, Major. I'd like you to meet these gentlemen from the
... That's funny, sir; there they go, late for their plane I guess."

Neither Seth nor Leviticus spoke until they had returned their
visitors' passes and traveled a full mile from the base.

Only then did their eyes meet, followed by a high five and raucous
sounds of unrestrained joy.

"Are you sure," asked Leviticus, "that you filed a complaint on the
sixteenth?"

"It was the first thing I did, still hoping I was on time.

Turns out I was on time--;/ we can prove what Bostwick just told us."

Another high five.

"Okay," said Seth after they had traveled a few miles in silence,
"let's hear it. How?"

"How to you, too, Chief."
"Come on. Lev. How the hell did you do it? How do you know all that
stuff?"

Leviticus went silent for a moment, his big fists tightening around the
steering wheel. Seth waited, knowing it would not come out until Lev
was ready, and when it did come out, it would be understated, the
square root of the total equation.

"I wanted to be a pilot during Nam," Lev said several minutes later.

"I had two years of junior college--as did a few of my more fortunate
friends--but they got into the aviation cadet program and I didn't."

Lev swung the rented Ford out and around two slower cars, and Seth
wondered if the act of passing on the two-lane roadway was temporarily
preoccupying the investigator or if that was the end of the subject.

"By 'more fortunate' you mean 'less black," don't you?"

Seth said finally.

"Bingo."

"So what did you do?"

"I did what I could," said Lev, expertly passing another car with only
a few feet to spare, "to get close to jets. Became an Air Force jet
mechanic."

"Hell, Lev, that must have been tough to get into, too."

"Oh, yeah," said Leviticus, the words propelled with ironic laughter,
"rigid entry requirements--like half of us had to be a different height
than the other half."

Seth laughed.

"But you weren't talking golden oldies from the mid seventies back
there to our friend Bostwick, Lev.

You seem to be up to speed on everything that flies."

"I never lost interest in jet aircraft. Never will. I devour
everything I can find. I live for the next volume of Jane's out of the
U.K. I guess a shrink would say it's become more of an obsession than a
hobby."

"But why didn't you tell me, for God's sake? Before, when I was ...
asking you to stay in the background."

Leviticus stared straight ahead as he said, "Would it have made any
difference?" A trace of coldness had returned to his voice.

Seth's mouth was already forming a facile response, but he thought
better of it and said nothing.
* * Back in San Francisco the next day, Seth and Leviticus reported
the good news to Allyn. She responded by producing a bottle of Jack
Daniel's from her lower right-hand desk drawer, but then turned
serious.

"One word of caution," she said, waving the ubiquitous cigar.

"Be careful what you ask for--" "You just might get it," said Seth,
finishing the aphorism.

"So what's your point?"

"My point is that this is not your everyday lawsuit you are launching
here. These are not nice people. Remember what Torville said? And
Ceth Kimbrough? Consider the power this guy Olmstead and his pal
"Father' must have to be able to rig the biggest governmental contract
in history. And are we sure that Dr. Ivor Tollman really committed
suicide? And then there's the U.S. Air Force, which will not take
kindly to your public criticism of their most cherished secret
weapon."

There followed a moment of tense silence while AUyn and Lev studied
Seth's face.

"So what's your point?" Seth said.

The three friends burst out laughing, and Allyn poured them another
drink. Seth removed a copy of the summons and complaint from his coat
pocket and slapped it into Leviticus's hand.

"Serve the bastards," he said, and returned to his office. weeks
LATER, ramon's MELODIOUS VOICE ANNOUNCED that a Mrs. Johannson was
calling "about your father." Pop had made a break for it, and although
he had quickly been captured, subdued, and resettled, he was unhappier
than ever and demanding to see his son.

"Dr. Parley suggests we move him into the full-care ward, Mr. Cameron.
He doesn't think your father has much more time."
Seth said he would come right away, and Allyn agreed to cover his
schedule.

His first destination upon reaching Bakersfield late that afternoon was
not Havenhill, but Poplar Street, where he found the large For Sale
sign tilting at a thirty-degree angle and looking as neglected as the
house to which it had failed to attract interest. Not a nibble since
the property was listed a month after Pop was transferred to
Havenhill.

"Flat market," was the broker's reply whenever Seth inquired.

"Sure money's cheap, but nobody's buying."

The front yard had become an uneven mattress of leaves and branches
from a fall windstorm earlier in the day. He picked up some dead
sticks from the walkway and threw them over the picket fence at the
side of the house. Leaves had also blanketed the small front porch,
and he used the side of his foot to sweep most of them down into a
border of geraniums that were already surrendering to autumn and
neglect.

He realized he didn't even have a key, but he had seen enough.

"Fuck 'em all," he said out loud, then jerked the real estate sign,
post and all, out of the ground and threw it over the fence, too.

"I'm sure you realize, Mr. Cameron, that the cost of full-time nursing
back at Mr. Cameron's home will be twice what you've been paying here
at Havenhill."

"I'm sure, ma'am."

"I realize you think your father should be able to live wherever he
wants to--" "I'm more interested in seem' he gets to die where he wants
to. I'll take him with me now, if you don't mind."

After a fitful night in his old bed on Poplar Street, Seth was relieved
to see Mrs. Alice Jenkins at the door at seven the next morning. She
had been the best of Pop's previous day-care nurses and had just become
available. Seth had forgotten that Mrs. Jenkins was herself a
cripple, one foot covered in a boot attached to a primitive six-inch
metal prosthesis.

"You're a courageous woman, Mrs. Jenkins."
"Oh, he's not so bad. We're both a little afraid of the other so it
works out just fine. Most of the time."

They went together into Joe's bedroom. Seth was again shocked at how
much his father had failed. The old man had shrunk to no more than a
hundred pounds, and extending his hand to Seth seemed to require great
effort. Seth looked into his father's surprisingly clear blue eyes and
felt a cold shudder rippling down his spine as he saw something he had
never seen there.

Pop had decided to die.

"I'm glad you're here. Son," said Pop, trying to pull himself more
upright on the double bed.

"Maybe you could persuade the warden here to mark the occasion of my
return with a child's portion of Chianti."

"I think a modification of the house rules would be in order," said
Seth, wrapping his left arm around his father's bony neck and
shoulders.

"How about it. Nurse Patched?" said Joe.

"Hell, I know you'll water it down anyway." Pop seemed either to have
forgotten he had been away or to be thinking that Alice Jenkins had
been there all the time he was gone.

"To mark the occasion," said Mrs. Jenkins, flashing a good-natured
smile as she left them alone.

"How's it going. Pop?"

"Can't complain. Well, I could complain, but that would only fuel your
plans to dump me back in some other old folks' home."

Seth smiled and shook his head. This seemed to be the Good Pop
Cameron. The one he would remember.

"You can stay here as long as you want to. Pop."

The withered face relaxed a bit.

"I know the warden is expensive, but you can refinance the house. It's
yours now anyway." Seth saw no point in reminding him that the house
was already mortgaged to the hilt.

Joe used his elbows to shift into a more comfortable position.

"My goals are simple, kid, two to be exact. The first is to die here
in my own home with whatever dignity I can muster."
Mrs. Jenkins entered and handed each of them a glass of wine Pop
took his in both hands and eagerly lifted it to his lips, despite a
tremor that threatened to spill the contents.

"What's the second?"

"To do it as soon as possible," said Pop, wiping the back of one hand
across his mouth.

"I've lived too long."

"Don't talk like that, Pop."

"It's true. You'll find out someday. The nurses have to clean up
after my messes, then force-feed me so I'll do it all over again. All
that's left of me is a receptacle for pain and a vessel for the
conversion of food into shit."

He then told Seth that Rosie had visited him "in that other place," but
he couldn't remember how many times.

"Has she been here today? I don't think my head is working so good."

"Not yet," Seth said.

"She's working in a bank," said Mrs. Jenkins.

Seth's eyes flickered surprise. Aunt Claire had refused to tell him
what Rosie was doing or where.

"Where?"

"Valley National. My bank. I see her all the time, standing there
pretty as a picture, surrounded by money. Main branch."

Joe Cameron--momentarily forgotten--began to cough, pausing only long
enough to accept the cough medicine offered by the nurse and to demand
more.

"I remember now," said Alice Jenkins, smiling broadly, "he's heard that
cough syrup has alcohol in it."

"Seth, tell this old bat to bring me another glass of wine or I'll
write you out of my will. Come on. Lady Patched, hit the kitchen. I
hope you're not paying much to this one, Seth."

Seth laughed uneasily as Joe's mood seemed to be changing.

"Maybe just a half a glass?"

Mrs. Jenkins sighed and shook her head. Seth knew she would water it
down and take her sweet time doing it.

"What the hell, Seth, I'll be a prisoner in my own house.

Sometimes I get spells when I can't even walk to the toilet by myself.
Can't even walk for Christ's sake!" Joe was starting to wheeze,
gulping for air.

"How can I blame you for not coming around here? Hell, I don't even
want you to."

"Easy, Pop."
"Fuck easy! You had it easy right here, but you had to go off and try
to be a big-time L.A. lawyer."

"I'm in San Francisco."

"That's what I said!" Seth saw that his father's eyes were darting
around the room as if trying to focus on things that weren't there.

"She went to L.A.," he shouted, the eyes narrowed, his head slowly
nodding.

"What the hell difference does it make who went where anyway?" The old
man was seized by another convulsive coughing spell that racked his
entire body. Seth glanced uneasily toward the kitchen where Mrs.
Jenkins stood like a guard at attention in the doorway, looking on
sadly. He removed his handkerchief and wiped spittle from the old
man's contorted face.

"Point is," Joe continued after he had begun to breathe normally again,
"you all disappeared and the only reason you've come back is to put me
away in some goddamn home."

"That's not true. Pop. I just got you out of one."

"So why are you here? Did they kick you out of that fancy firm you
went to? Are you here to beg Big Tom for your old job back?"

Seth felt helpless, as if he were watching his father oozing deeper
into quicksand and had no rope to throw to him.

"I'll get you a glass of wine."

"Couldn't make it in the major leagues, could you!" Joe shouted to
Seth's retreating back.

"Didn't I tell you, damn it, I told you! But no. You had to go be a
big shot, didn't you! You and that alley-cat mother of yours!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cameron," said Mrs. Jenkins, viewing Seth with
concern as he entered the kitchen, pale as chalk, holding his stomach
as if he'd been shot.

"He gets like this all of a sudden. It's the tumor. I know he doesn't
mean all those things."

Seth shrugged.

"Most of them are true."

"He'll be asleep in a minute or two. The cough syrup I gave him was
from before. It's laced with lithium and phenobarbital. Doctor says
it's the only way to deal with him when he gets like this."

"Maybe I should try some," said Seth, and slumped into a kitchen chair
beside her.
As soon as Pop dozed off, Seth headed for Valley National Bank. There,
looking like a bird in a cage, he found Rosie.

Rosie Wheeler! A bank teller!

Looking far too beautiful for the role but seemingly relaxed, she had a
smile for everyone, just as when she had been at the Broadway Bowl. A
hundred years ago. Rosie was so absorbed in her duties she didn't see
him until his turn in line came up and suddenly there they were.
Face-to-face.

"Hi," he said.

She said, "Hi," back, but the smile disappeared. She said sorry she
couldn't talk to him while she was working, and no, she couldn't see
him after work either because she was busy and it wouldn't be a good
idea anyway.

"Please don't make a scene, Seth," she added when Seth persisted, much
to the chagrin of the restless man waiting behind him.

"We are not allowed to socialize. There are people in line behind you,
and my supervisor is behind me. Please."

Seth smiled his best "thank you, ma'am" smile and nodded his head
vigorously in case the supervisor was watching them, then took out his
pen and grabbed a deposit receipt from the dispenser. He scribbled a
note on the receipt and shoved it in front of her. The note said:

I've got to see you. Please, Rosie. PLEASE!

Rosie slid the receipt back and pointed to it with her pencil, as if
indicating a problem with the way he had filled it out.

"Seth," she whispered between locked teeth, "please don't do this to
me. I worked hard to get this job and I know how you can be. Please,
just walk away."

The man in back of Seth cleared his throat. Again.

Seth turned to see a glowering giant in jeans and a T-shirt.

Seth smiled at him and at Rosie, but the intensity of his voice matched
hers.

"I loved you, Rosie. I still do."

Rosie exhaled, glanced toward the ceiling, raised and lowered her
shoulders.

"And I loved you, Seth, but ..."

"But not enough to stay with me."
"I'm calling my supervisor," said Rosie, and started to turn.

"Rosie, the statute never ran on Barton. I've served Con Space

"What? It didn't run?"

"None of this had to happen. All I need is for you to come back. I'll
be back on Montgomery Street in two years.

Maybe sooner."

Rosie gave Seth a look that mirrored failure.

"I'm happy for you, Seth, but the statute of limitations was not the
problem for us, and a change in the status of the case is not the
solution."

Seth saw tears forming in her large dark eyes. She said, "Good-bye,
Seth," then turned away from him and addressed a mousy little man with
a saber like nose looming over a mustache as thin as a straw.

"Mr. Turner? I'm having a problem over here."

The nose turned and pointed in their direction, and the man who had
been clearing his throat behind Seth said, "It's about time, lady. This
guy belongs in the cooler."

"Stay out of this, pardner," said Seth over his shoulder as he picked
up his pen and the failed note.

"Okay, babe," he said to Rosie.

"I'll go."

"No way, buster," said the man.

"You've fucked up my afternoon, now that there supervisor's gonna fuck
up yours.

You ain't goin' nowhere!"

Everything happened quickly after that. Seth remembered feeling
something like a forklift coming up under his arms, then wrapping
around his chest, then his own right elbow finding its target deep in
the man's solar plexus while his foot crushed the guy's left instep.
But he would never be sure who connected with the first real punch, or
when it was that the security guard intervened with a stunning blow to
the back of his head. Or who all it was dragging him toward the
entrance like a common drunk.

Or how life could fall apart so fast on a person.

Within hours, Seth found himself on Highway 99 heading toward San
Francisco, thanks to a deputy district attorney who had been a friend
and law school classmate. His last words delivered without a hint of
a smile, were, "Straight out of Dodge, Seth. Okay?" Seth needed no
urging.

Once behind the wheel, however, the silence of the road forced him to
deal with the demons of remorse in a head crowded with visions of his
father's unrelenting condemnation, the looks of disgust on the faces of
the security guards as they had shoved him into the police van, the
blood of a total stranger on his sleeve, Rosie's vain and plaintive
cry.

The pitiless miles of highway stretched beyond his
head-lights--infinite, inexhaustible. Time seemed to have stopped to
take pleasure in his pain.

He remembered lines from an old Joe Silverhound tune:

& When he's the one, havin' all the fun, The devil takes his time.

Mostly, he thought of Rosie. If ever she had needed confirmation of
her wisdom in leaving him. God knows she had it now.

He stopped by the office to check his mail. At the top of the pile was
a document called "Answer to Complaint" in the case of Barton versus
Intercontinental Aerospace. And at the top of the pleading was the
name of the lawyer who would be defending the case.
Anthony Treadwell. 29

"I CAN'T AFFORD TO PACK A ONE-TRICK PONY AROUND HERE,"

Allyn said as she pushed through Seth's door two weeks later and tossed
another thick file onto the stack covering his desk.

"Never considered myself one," said Seth, engrossed in something, not
looking up.

"By my count I've got about forty-five active files working."

Allyn leaned against the paint-chipped doorframe and lit a cigar.

"Now you've got forty-six; which is maybe how many it takes to divert
your attention from the Queen of Lost Causes." She took a deep puff.

"And Outflowing Capital."

"Pardon me, Allyn," he said, putting down the deposition he was
reading.

"Is there a criticism in there somewhere?"

"Forget about it. Cowboy. I'm having a mood. My hair looks like it
got caught in the ceiling fan, and my allergies have my nose feeling
like a saxophone. Plus Ramon and I are trying to balance the checkbook
today. Anyway, take a look at this file."

Seth took a look.

"I thought it might interest you."

"Only if it requires no care and feeding within the next week or
two."

"You might want to take a closer look then," she said, "since the trial
starts day after tomorrow."

"A trial?" said Seth, snatching up the file again.

"You're giving me a jury trial? Must be a loser."

"Wasn't it you who said a world-class trial lawyer can win any case
against an inferior trial lawyer no matter how bad the facts?"

"Sounds vaguely familiar. So who's the world-class trial lawyer in
this case?"
Allyn made a face.

"Modesty jokes don't suit you, Seth.

You'll be up against an old friend of yours. Didn't you win a big
motion against Si Stephens of Caldwell and Shaw?

Well, I thought I'd give Mr. Stephens a chance to get even.

Besides, I've got that Johnson child-custody hearing in Oakland
starting Thursday."

Seth's new client was the widow of a doctor who had ingested large
volumes of alcohol and Librium, a potentially lethal combination. Her
death-benefits claim for the policy limits of $500,000 had been
rejected by the insurance carrier on the grounds of the suicide
exclusion: the decedent was in poor health and, as a physician, must
have known the blend was deadly; ergo, suicide.

"I filed for the policy limits," Allyn concluded, "plus punitive
damages for their bad-faith refusal to pay."

"Did he leave a suicide note?" asked Seth, nipping through the file.

"Fortunately, no. But Pacific Sigma Insurance investigators have dug
up a parade of witnesses who will say the doc was gambling and severely
depressed."

"And Stephens will argue that the widow Brownstein destroyed any note
he might have left."

"Exactly, because Stephens knows no one can prove a negative."

"I'm beginning to see why you gave me this one."

"You said 'give me a trial."

" Seth nodded soberly.

"Well, I beat him once, I can do it again."

"You beat him once, but don't underestimate him. He's a self-centered
stuffed shirt like all of them at C and S, but he's damn good with a
jury and as treacherous as they come.

Pacific Sigma is a big client even for C and S, so they'll pull out all
the stops."

"Any other encouraging words?"

"No use sugarcoating it. Cowboy, your case has problems.

Stephens will blow every one of them up the size of a Buick and shove
'em up your cute little ass in full view of the jury."

"I won't turn my back. Besides--" "Just listen to me for once, kid.
Caldwell and Shaw got the label "Hall of Shame' the old-fashioned
way--the yearned it. They build their cases with unlimited budgets.

They've got money--partners average over a half million a year--and
plenty of power to go with it. It's common knowledge that Eldridge
Shaw runs the mayor's office."

"So? He won't be picking my jury."

"That's right. Cowboy, but he's probably already picked your judge. So
try to bluff Stephens into a settlement on the courthouse steps."

"How much you looking for?"

"Any goddamn thing you can get."

Seth was halfway through the file when Ramon announced that a Mr.
Tucker was waiting to see him. Seth had noticed the poor soul dragging
himself up the stairs and had assumed he was just another street guy
bumming a handout.

Knew that Ramon had standing orders from Allyn to give anyone who could
make it to the second landing a cup of coffee and a card to the
Episcopal Homeless Sanctuary over on Eighth and Howard.

"He says it's about the Barton case. He's read about it" Within
fifteen minutes, Seth had impatiently culled the pertinent facts from
Ben Tucker, a man who claimed to be fifty-seven but looked at least
twenty years older. A persistent smile failed to conceal a certain
sullenness around his eyes, like a needy but mistreated dog. His was a
scar-spangled face, eyes like bombs bursting in air, a nose that
preceded him into the room like a flagpole. Even the smile had a
bemused, ironic quality, the corners of his mouth turned down and
blocked by deep grooves in his skin, engraved concentric half-circles
that spread from his mouth like ripples on a disturbed pond.

In November of 1989, Ben Tucker had inherited a six-unit motel near
Trinidad, California, from a distant aunt. To hear him tell it, his
aunt's death by drowning was the first break he had ever had in his
life. He had been out of work and nearly penniless when contacted by
the probate lawyer, but had hitchhiked to Eureka to claim his prize,
then borrowed against the run-down property in order to feed and clothe
himself. Used the rest of the money to patch up the place. By the
summer of 1990, he was beginning to turn as mall profit, when a "hunk
of metal the size of a horse" came out of nowhere and set his legacy
ablaze.

"I reckon I shoulda expected it, sir," said Tucker from behind his mask
of pain.

"Never had nothin' and guess I never will. But then I read about your
case and figured you might take me on."

"Why me?"

"

"Cause the Eureka newspaper back in early '92 said it was a secret jet
airplane that crashed on a beach called College Cove near where my spot
is and scattered parts of itself over the whole area. Hell, by next
mornin', the army was all over Trinidad and Arcata, commencin' to rope
off places and all hush-hush about it. They said the part what hit my
motel was a piece of the damn motor."

Tucker produced the cupping from the Eureka Times-Standard, which
speculated that the craft was an experimental stealth jet. Seth's
interest rose slightly when he read that the pilot was identified as
Capt. Grant Wilburn, a name Seth recognized as the second X-215A
fatality.

"How much do you estimate your damages to be, Mr.

Tucker?"

"Lost one unit and damaged another, which put me into the red. Got no
insurance and behind on loan payments. I'll lose the whole thing if I
don't get some help, but nobody will take me on 'cause to them it's
just mouse meat damages and goin' up against some big defense
contractor with big bucks."

"I was asking how much you've lost, sir?"

"I'm not rightly sure, but probably about twenty-five thousand dollars
to fix 'em up, plus I lost some rentals."

Seth paused, trying to conceal his irritation at the interruption.

"I'm afraid I can't help you either, Mr. Tucker. You obviously can't
pay an hourly rate, and there's not enough involved to justify taking
your case on a contingency."

"But you got one filed already, ain't you? Cain't I just sorta
piggyback?"

"The Barton case involves the identical plane, but the similarity ends
there. We're going for over a million dollars in damages in that case.
Yours is small change by comparison, plus a different crash at a
different time with a different pilot I'm sorry, sir, but we can't
take your case. There's just no profit in it."

"No profit. Story of my life."

"Look, I'm sorry, but I've got a trial starting tomorrow, Mr. Tucker,
and have to get back to it."

"A trial," he said to the floor, "one's got some profit to it, I
reckon."

Seth looked at his watch. Tucker got the point.

"I guess I'll be goin'."

"I can't help you, Mr. Tucker. Good luck and goodbye."

Tucker sat staring at callused hands.

"I ain't had a run a good luck in my life, Mr. Cameron, 'ceptin', of
course, the inheritance, and it turned sour, too. So save that wish
for somebody else. Much obliged for your time anyhow." He rose
slowly, steadying himself on Seth's desk, then made his way out of the
office.

Seth sat back down and picked up the Brownstein file, trying to find
his place. The pages were now a jumble in his distracted mind. Damn!

"Ramon?"

"Don't worry, he's not even down to the entrance yet," said Ramon,
smiling through the door.

"Well, your door was open!"

"Well, close it and give me some privacy, okay? And when he gets back
up, sign him to the standard one-third contingency and tell him I'll
call him as soon as I finish the Brownstein trial."

Two days later, as Seth and the portly Mrs. Brownstein were hailing a
cab to court. Harry Cooper--his expression as flat as a sheet of
foil--appeared on the sidewalk in front of Seth's office. Ignoring
Mrs. Brownstein, he ushered Seth aside to tell him that Trish had left
him and was threatening to file for dissolution of their marriage.

"You're coming to me for advice on relationships?"

"I've got to talk to someone, Seth." Harry's breath was spiced with
the sweet, telltale perfume of raw vodka.

"If they find out at the firm that--" "Look, pard, I'm starting my
first meaningful trial in more than a year and I'm up against C and S.
You of all people know what this could mean to me. So I can't talk to
you right now, understand?" A taxi pulled up.

"Call me later if you want," he said, watching as Mrs. Brownstein
laboriously urged herself through the cab's rear passenger door, "but
if you're still into the blow and playing bingo in Reno, save your
dime."

Harry began to examine his shoes and to move his lips without saying
anything. Seth gave his head a quick shake, then followed Mrs.
Brownstein into the cab. As they sped off, Seth refused to look back
at what he knew would be Harry's most forlorn pose.

The first day of trial had its typical peaks and valleys, but as Seth
began working on his closing argument late that night, he permitted
himself some guarded optimism. If Mrs.

Brownstein could just hold up on cross-examination the next morning, he
could hit big.

The phone rang. It was Elena, her voice crackling with excitement.

"I tried you at home. I have to talk with you.

You're still working?"

"I'm in trial."

"Seth, I've got something, maybe the break we've needed!"

"Calm down, woman. You sound like one of those singing squirrels."

Elena took a deep breath, then told of having dinner that night with
Gerald Murphy's wife. Murphy, according to his wife, had explored
every avenue in an effort to escape the X-215A test program after Sam's
death. He didn't want to go "over the hill" as It. David Ames had
done the day after Sam's crash. Elena paused, then digressed to
explain to Seth that the U.S. Air Force public information office had
issued a terse statement claiming that Lieutenant Ames had been
"suffering marital problems," presumably to discourage the press from
branding one of their top guns as a cowardly deserter. Murphy didn't
want his own marriage sullied, nor did he savor spending the rest of
his life looking.

over his shoulder in some South American village--but he did want to
spend the rest of his life.
"As a last resort," Elena continued, "he had applied to be an
instructor at the Nellis Air Force Base gunnery school--just like
Crispie told us. Only now, with the help of a good friend in
Headquarters Records, he has his orders and they've just moved to
Vegas!"

"Is there a point in there somewhere, Elena?"

"Murphy and Sam were close. I just reached him by telephone at Nellis.
He'll talk to you!"

Seth almost came out of his chair. He grabbed another legal pad and
started writing.

"I'll fly to Vegas the minute this trial is over."

"I just told Crispie, and he's as excited as we are. He said that with
Murphy out of the stealth program now, he might open up to you."

"What else did Murphy tell you? If he can help us pin down Bostwick's
rumor that Sam took off as late as eleven-thirty p.m. and that the
standard flight pattern would put the crash area more than thirty
minutes away from Symington Air Force Base, we'll have wiped out
Treadwell's statute-of-limitations defense."

"He did say something about the route starting out toward someplace in
Washington near the Canadian border, then down over an Air Force base
at some little town in California. Sounded like a fortress or a
castle."

"Could he have said Castle Air Force Base? That's not too far south of
Modesto."

"Yes, that was it."

"Perfect! That puts Sam in the Arizona desert after midnight.

I'll take Murphy's statement the minute my trial is over. By the way,"
he added casually, hoping to blow it by her, "I hope you don't mind
sharing top billing, but I've taken on a codefendant named Ben Tucker.
He lost a unit in his motel to an earlier X-215A crash."

The silence told him she minded.

"Is that wise?" she said at last.

"Doesn't that demean the seriousness of my case? A unit in a motel,
Seth? Are you serious about this?"

Seth felt heat rising in his face, anger at himself that he had picked
this particular moment to bring up something he knew would be touchy.
He took a deep breath and spent the next ten minutes rationalizing his
moment of weaknessin taking on the poor bastard, explaining how it
would benefit her case to have an identically designed and manufactured
X-215A crashing on the identical flight pattern.

"Captain Wilburn didn't even make it to Arizona, Elena.

Crashed near Eureka on his way south from the Seattle marker. Anyway,
Tucker is old and broke and will engender a different kind of sympathy
from a different kind of juror.

Trust me, Elena, this makes for terrific synergism."

Her voice grew sleepy and softer, the level of skepticism receding with
her energy.

"Well, I guess if you think it's best ..."

"Combined with Murphy, we're on a roll here."

"All right. Anyway, it's after midnight, Seth. You'd better get some
sleep."

Seth copied Murphy's telephone number onto his calendar and took a
bottle of pills out of the desk drawer.

"Sleep? I'm in trial," he said, added a goodnight, and hung up.

Three days later, the jury retired to begin deliberations in the case
of Brownstein versus Pacific Sigma. Allyn had come out for the closing
arguments and now approached Seth with an uneasy deference.

"Your argument was surgery, kid. You had Stephens and the Pacific
Sigma folks sweating bullets." Allyn started to say something else,
but stopped herself and began to scan the ceiling of the courtroom
instead.

"You lose something up there, Allyn? Finish what you have to say."

"Well, it seemed to me you danced close to the edge of the proof a few
times, at least as I recall the evidence."

"Yeah? Well, so did Stephens."

"If I remember correctly, Stephens isn't my associate, working in a
firm with my name on it."

Seth jammed the last of his files into a trial bag.

"Is that all you've got to say?"

"No. What I've got to say is thanks for turning a sow's.

ear into a silk purse. You're good. Cowboy. Really good."

"As good as Treadwell?" asked Seth, snapping both trial bags shut and
looking at her with eyes that still sparkled from the intensity of his
closing argument.

"Well? Am I?

You've seen us both."

Allyn's thick eyebrows knitted together as she realized he was
serious.

"You're already as good as Treadwell, Seth," she said, then added
gravely, "In five more years, you could be even worse."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Allyn abruptly shook her mop of tight ringlets, jumped to her feet, and
slapped her enormous thighs.

"Oh, shit, forget it. Cowboy, it was a joke. You were terrific! Tell
me how you found out that Doc Brownstein sent a desperation beeper
signal to his office just before he died."

"I went through his medical group's records covering the night of his
death. Wasn't it you who told me cases are won in the field?"

"So I did. Let's go grab a drink while these jurors decide to give you
policy limits plus a million in punitive damages."

"I'll be with you in a minute."

In the corridor outside the courtroom, Seth joined a small group--an
attractive Japanese woman, a black man, and four others--whom Allyn had
seen sitting in the back of the courtroom. After fifteen minutes, she
became tired of waiting and waved him over.

"You about ready? I've got work to do back at the office."

"Sorry, Allyn, I can't have that drink. I've got to find Si."

"What the hell's going on here?"

"I'll explain later. Come along if you want to."

They found Stephens at the cafeteria. After an exchange of perfunctory
reciprocal praise, Seth got down to business.

"You know it and I know it, Si. You're going to get hit with three to
five million in punit ives

"You been smoking that Mission Street loco weed, Seth?"

Seth just smiled.

"All right, Si. But don't forget to tell Pacific Sigma you had a
chance."

"A chance?"

"To buy out now--before the jury comes in--for policy limits plus two
million five."

"You'd make a bad comedian, Seth. Keep your day job as a lawyer."
"I plan to," said Seth, then turned and began walking toward the door.
One, two, three ... come on, Simon ... four, five, blink, you bastard
... six, seven ... "Hold on, Seth." Seth held on, turned just
slightly.

"Yeah?"

"Maybe I can get you the policy and another five hundred thousand
dollars."

Seth smiled and shook his head.

"I'll have to report your offer to Mrs. Brownstein, but I won't
recommend it and she won't take it."

"Oh, really? Well, then, tell her that the offer expires in exactly
fifteen minutes or when the jury comes back-whichever's first." * Seth
started walking again.

"I bet you're a good card player, Simon, but keep your day job."

Allyn followed Seth out the door.

"You will take the million if you have to?" she asked, barely
containing her excitement.

"Sure," said Seth disappearing into the men's room, "but I don't reckon
I'll have to."

Seth emerged three minutes later and took AUyn by the arm.

"Let's go break the bad news to Mr. Stephens."

"Bad news? You haven't even talked to Mrs. Brownstein yet."

"Don't like to pester my clients with details."

"Seth!" Allyn shouted as she pursued Seth back into the cafeteria,
panting and careening around corners on her midsize heels.

"A million-buck offer is hardly a detail."

"Trust me on this one, AUyn."

"I can't 'trust' you. Cowboy," said Allyn, stopping Seth in his tracks
with one arm, then turning him around to face her.

"Brownstein could sue me for the million if your bluff backfires.
Stephens is right. You've gone loco."

"Nobody's going to sue you. Si will take my deal, Mrs.

Brownstein will be rich, and so will you."

"Bullshit! Si Stephens is a savvy trial lawyer, not some easy roadkill
like you used to run over when you were working the Valley courts."

"Give it a rest, Allyn," said Seth, setting off again for the
cafeteria.

"I'm working here."
With surprising speed, Allyn moved in front of him.

"You'd do well to remember that you're working for me! It's my case,
my malpractice policy, and it's my law firm!"

"Your law firm? You call this thing we do a 'law firm'?"

Allyn shuddered as if he had struck her. Her broad shoulders sagged
and her face paled. Seth tried to reach out to her, but she backed
away from him.

"It may or may not be what a hotshot like you calls a law firm," she
said through trembling lips, "but it's my life. God damn it!"

Seth had never seen Allyn Friedlander like this, never thought her
capable of tears. He reached out, and this time she stood her ground.
He took her gently by the shoulders.

"Allyn, listen to me. I'm sorry I hurt you. You may be the best
friend I've got. So tell me the truth: Do you really want this 'life'
you talk about? Two-bit cases? Staying one step ahead of your
overhead? Trying to balance the checkbook every month with red ink?
Offering cut-rate legal plumbing in a rat-infested, walk-up-and-save
building?"

Silence.

"Then hang in with me. If it goes bad, I'll spend the rest of my life
paying you back. You've got my word on it. Plus there's always the
jury," Seth bent his head down under her eyes so she could see him
smile as he added, "You know I hardly ever lose."

Allyn just gave her head a small shake, but still said nothing as Seth
moved on to his rendezvous with Simon Stephens.

"Your offer is rejected, Si. Mrs. Brownstein will, however, be
willing to accept the policy limits of five hundred thousand dollars
plus one point eight million dollars."

Now it was Stephens who smiled and shook his head. Seth kept
talking.

"Face it, Si. Your alleged expert had a whole lot of trouble
explaining why a man bent on killing himself would try to call someone
to help him stay alive."

"I think the jury will believe Brownstein just chickened out. Happens
all the time."
"You know what else happens all the time, Si? Insurancecarriers get
hit for millions of dollars in punitive damages because the common
folks on the street hate them. And guess who's sitting in the jury
box, Si? Twelve common folks from the street."

Si smiled again and kept shaking his head.

"The company won't buy it, Seth, but I'm duty-bound to report it to
them.

I'll be right back."

But Seth seized Stephens by the arm and spoke into his surprised face
with an intensity that caused the smaller man to pull a step away.

"I'm not horse-trading for a higher number, Si. We won't even
entertain a counteroffer, understand?

Our negotiations end with a simple yes or no to a total demand of two
million three. If it's a no, then it's in the jury's hands, and that's
just fine with me."

Something passed across Stephens's eyes, something his laughter arrived
too late to disguise.

"I'll tell them," he said through a frozen smile.

"Oh, Si," shouted Seth to the retreating figure, "the offer expires in
exactly fifteen minutes, or when the jury comes in--whichever's
first."

Stephens paused for a moment without turning, then moved on out the
door.

Seth exhaled and winked at Allyn, who had followed him into the
cafeteria and had caught most of it. He went over to order coffee for
both of them.

"Thanks for coming back," he said.

She managed a smile.

"In for a dime, in for a dollar."

"Have some coffee."

"All I can say is that you must have a lot of confidence that you'll do
better than a million when the jury comes in."

"Well, now," said Seth, staring grimly into his coffee as if seeking
refuge there.

"About the jury. I'm afraid we can't count too much on them."

"What?" Allyn Friedlander was on her feet again.

"Those people you saw me talking to in the hallway? The Japanese woman
is Dr. Senko Mitsui, a jury consultant, the best in the business. She
owed me a favor from my Miller and McGrath days. The others you saw
with her are a perfect demographic match for the real jury. They sat
through the whole three days of evidence, then came up with their own
verdict."

"A shadow jury? You used a shadow fucking jury?"

"A downsized economy version, but effective. They came to a verdict of
policy limits with no punitive damages."

"No punies?"

"Zilch."

"Zero? The shoe?"

"Planted right on -Mrs. Brownstein's generously endowed ass. They
didn't like her, so they bought Stephens's note-burning scenario. To
top it off, the jury consultant says the obvious choice for foreman on
the real jury is a blatant anti-Semite."

Allyn stared at Seth in silence, then planted her fists on the table
and leaned in close to his face.

"You could have told me that a few minutes ago in the hallway."

"Yes, that's true," said Seth, putting a hand on hers.

"Don't touch me, you bullshit artist!" she said, but didn't remove her
hand.

"Jesus, Seth, why do I sit here putting up with this?"

"Because I'm probably the best friend you've got, too.

Plus, deep down, you know I've got a shot at pulling this off."

The big woman stared out the window. Her lips trembled, and Seth
thought she was going to cry again, but she was struggling to hold back
an ironic smile.

"A shadow jury was ingenious. Cowboy. But if the real jury is going
to shut the door on you, would you mind telling me what the hell kind
of game you're playing with Stephens?"

"Poker. Didn't you see his eyes when I told him I wouldn't accept a
counteroffer?"

AUyn just shook her head slowly, too drained by the roller coaster of
emotions to argue.

"Big balls are part of your charm, Seth, but--" "Hold the flattery for
later. Here he comes."

A pale Simon Stephens entered the cafeteria and extended his hand to
Seth.

"Okay, Counselor, you can tell your client she's got her two point
three million ... and a damn good lawyer."
"I'm sure she'll value your opinion on that, Si," said Seth with a wry
smile.

"We'd better tell the judge to release the jury."

"I'll go tell him," said Stephens, smiling back.

"But for the record, you bastard, I told them I thought you were
bluffing about not being willing to listen to a counteroffer.

Were you?"

"If I said no, would I be bluffing you now? You know better than to
ask to see my hole card before the money's in the bank."

"Touche," said Stephens, grabbing his coat and heading for the door.

"But I'll get you next time. I guarantee it."

"Always a possibility."

The woman and the younger man sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping
their coffee.

"Congratulations, champ," said Allyn.

"I'm sorry about hurting your feelings."

"Don't be. Everything you said is true, and we can damn sure use the
money."

"For 'lost causes."" Allyn smiled, but ignored the remark, too happy
with the sudden inflow of a fee that would exceed a half million
dollars.

"I still can't believe it Hell, and to think I would have grabbed less
than the policy limits in settlement if I had had the chance."

"Scary, isn't it," said Seth, shooting her his crooked smile.

Allyn smiled and shook her head.

"Stephens was right about the bastard part."

"And you're a stingy old miser who probably won't even bonus me for
achieving this minor miracle."

"Hey, I'm lavishly funding your Normandy-like assault on the forces of
airborne evil, aren't I?"

"You are now," said Seth, smiling.
"I'm going expert shopping." 30 stars, THE GLITTERING JEWEL OF san
francisco RESTAUrants, sits in relative obscurity in an alley a block
from City Hall and even closer to the Federal Building. Thus situated,
it provides the perfect informal venue for what passes for
decision-making in San Francisco's local politics. The mayor of Stars
is internationally acclaimed chef Jeremiah Tower, who efficiently
greets guests while keeping a close eye on the open kitchen to ensure
that the cuisine never disappoints.

The "mayor's" board of supervisors consists of an equally competent
cadre of maitre d's whose job is to seat visiting celebrities and local
power brokers according to their status and need for relative
privacy.

The inconspicuous location--the front door is in an obscure alley--is
Stars' only understated element, for this is where Assembly Speaker
Willie Brown brushes velvet-clad elbows with Pacific Heights socialites
before opening night at the opera, where Baryshnikov dines when in the
city (causing a near-riot one night when spotted by Russian tourists),
where judges huddle around their drinks, and where beautiful young
singles huddle around each other.

Seth managed a table in the Club area, where the churning, fecund
maneuvering could be observed from an elevated platform of relative
tranquillity and where conversation could be undertaken without
shouting. Not a typical setting for a client meeting, but Elena Barton
was not a typical client Besides, it was time for a celebration.

"It sounds as if things are going beautifully, Seth," she said,
extending her glass of Veuve Clicquot--the house bubbly--in a toast.

"Here's to your great victory."

"And to continuing good luck."

"I'd say good instincts."
"Credit Dr. Mitsui for my good instincts. By the way, our interview
of the real jury foreman confirmed they were going to give her only the
five-hundred-thousand-dollar policy.

Just as our shadow jury had predicted."

"Was your opponent crushed when he heard that?"

"You don't crush Caldwell and Shaw lawyers, maybe just, ding 'em a
little."

"They're still the best, are they? I'm a little out of touch."

"They're tops all right. The ultimate firm."

"Sounds like the place you should be," she said, then caught herself.

"I'm sorry."

Seth gave his glass a swirl, reading her mind reading his.

"They don't hire rejects. Only beautiful women do that."

She laughed excessively at this, then gave further substance to her
wish that she had not gone off on this awkward subject by changing
it.

"Isn't that Luciano Pavarotti over there?"

"Looks like him."

"Pavarotti and Placido Domingo are my favorites!"

"They're okay, I guess, but I'd give the edge to Hank Williams and
George Jones."

She nodded, but wasn't really listening.

"What's on your mind, Elena?"

She looked up, slightly flushed.

"I guess I just need to say that I feel responsible for your .. .
problem at M and M. If I hadn't gone to Uncle Tony in the first
place--" "Hey. That's all history now. Besides, Treadwell had decided
I didn't belong on Montgomery Street long before you entered the
picture."

"You'll make it back there."

"Hope so. Also hope I fit in better next time."

"You will. Just play the game."

"Afraid I never learned the rules."

For the next few minutes Seth sat dumbfounded while Elena recited "the
rules" as if she were reading a grocery list. Get on joint
partner-associate committees, even if they don't do anything,
particularly the practice development committee or anything related to
finance. Get a mentor and make sure he's got a book of business so you
know he'll have the client clout to get you admitted to partnership
when the vote comes. Make sure you get credit for victories, even
small ones, using the firm newsletter or getting out a memo about
something you "learned." Get your name out there and keep it out
there.

Seth stared at her in amazement.

"How do you know all this stuff?"

"Have you forgotten that I was an M and M kid? Grew up there. Learned
the politics of success from the master himself. " "Daddy."

"And Uncle Tony, too, of course. I'd sit there and listen to them by
the hour. Something had to stick."

"Any other tips for the master of the politics of failure?"

"Sure. Be sure to ask dumb questions of other senior associates, never
a partner. Speak up at firm-wide meetings, but never dominate or try
too much humor. Con the new, junior associates into helping you with
projects when you get behind. Whenever you finish an assignment, even
a small one, leave a note to the partner in the file suggesting the
next steps. The partner will love you for it." She paused, sipped her
champagne.

"I guess no one tells associates these things."

Seth saluted her with his glass, imagining what it would mean to have a
woman like this at his side.

The appetizers arrived, crab toasts with lobster sauce for Elena, and
corn meal pancakes with salmon for Seth. He wondered briefly what
Allyn and Ramon would think about this $200 "client meeting."

"More champagne?" asked the waiter.

"Bring us another glass. Lee, then open a bottle of Mondavi reserve
cabernet to go with the lady's duck con fit I'll have the
lavender-honey roasted lamb loin. Hold the fava beans."

Their glasses touched again, and Seth felt himself drawn into her
gray-green eyes. It killed him the way her lips were always parted a
little, as if she were about to speak, full lips surrounding a row of
perfect, chalk-white teeth. Is this another woman come to wreck me?
The piano soared through the theme from Dr. Zhivago.

Then she did speak.
"You seem to have more than a passing knowledge of gourmet dining. I
thought you said you were from Bakersfield."

"I'm a decent cook," Seth said, smiling.

"Comes from years of being on my own. I'll give you a private
demonstration some evening if you'd like."

Elena gave him a look that sent a tremor through his groin.

"Your place or mine?" she said, and burst out laughing.

"Pretty subtle, huh?" said Seth, forcing a smile.

"Somewhere between a boiler explosion and a train wreck."

"Well, I am from Bakersfield."

Elena turned serious.

"I've heard that it's a bad idea to mix business and pleasure,
particularly between lawyer and client. Are you afraid to get it out
in the open. Counselor?"

Seth put his glass down.

"You want it out in the open?

Okay. I've been living alone for nearly six months now and I'm horny
as a hoot owl. On top of that, you're the most beautiful woman I've
ever seen, on or off a movie screen.

So I'd like to go to bed with you as soon as possible. That open
enough?"

Elena stared into her own glass for a moment as the corners of her
mouth gave way to an incipient smile.

"I suspect that you're obsessed with urges less primitive than sex."

"None come to mind at the moment."

"How about power for starters?" she said playfully, then turned
serious.

"I'm curious, Seth. What is important to you?"

Seth straightened in his chair, thought for a moment, then nodded his
head.

"Getting," he said.

"Getting? Getting what?"

"Lots of things. Getting a second chance at Montgomery Street. Getting
even with the son of a bitch who booted me off it." Seth paused and
smiled again.

"I think I may already have mentioned getting you in bed."

I'm talking too much, he thought. Running off at the mouth like a damn
goose with diarrhea.
Elena's face gave away nothing, and Seth resolved to knock off the Joe
Romeo crap. This one would have to come to him, when and if she wanted
to.

"So tell me," she said, her eyes now steadily fixed on his despite the
distractions around them, "about the case."

Seth resisted trying to speculate concerning this typically sharp turn
in Elena's thought processes and was almost relieved that she had
broken the tension. Back on solid ground, he gave her a detailed
update. He told her that he had set up a meeting with Gerald Murphy at
Nellis Air Force Base. He reviewed his trips to New Orleans and
Symington, then concluded by explaining that with the fee from the
Pacific Sigma case in hand, Allyn had approved the retention of Dr.
Henry Daimler, one of the country's foremost avionics experts, now
teaching part-time at the University of California.

"Avionics?"

"The field of aviation electronics," said Seth.

"Dr.

Daimler speculates that Sam--and the others--died from some kind of
electronic systems failure."

"How far do we get in court with speculation?"

"Fair question. The answer is not very, but I'm meeting with him
tomorrow and hope to persuade him to come up with a specific theory on
how the X-215A's electronics failed."

"How do you 'persuade' an expert to do that?"

"Pay him three hundred and fifty dollars an hour for starters.

The rest is an acquired skill, called gentle persuasion by some,
shameless manipulation by others."

"What do you call it?"

"The successful seduction of your own well-paid whore-if you'll excuse
the language."

"You're excused. Here's to a successful seduction," she said, then
added with a coy smile, "of Professor Daimler."

Seth acknowledged her repartee with a smile of his own, and they
toasted, eyes locked over the rims of their brandy snifters. Seth
asked Elena what she would like for dessert.

"How about one of those private demonstrations you mentioned?"

He couldn't resist.

"Your place or mine?"
Her eyes never wavered from his as she completed the exchange.

"Mine."

While Seth slumbered in the silk-sheet luxury of Elena Barton's
four-poster in San Francisco's Pacific Heights, Aubrey Olmstead
glowered at his silent telephone and paced the floor nearly four
thousand miles away in the Caicos Islands.

At 4:30 a.m." he heard the sound he had been waiting for, and his huge
fist snatched the phone out of its cradle in mid ring

"Yes?"

"Good morning, Aubrey," came Father's soothing baritone.

"Bullshit good! You send me one of your cryptic goddamn messages, then
you fucking disappear on me. What the hell does "One of the sheep has
strayed' mean and what have you done about it?"

"Aubrey, Aubrey. I sent that elliptical message only to alert you to
exercise particular caution as regards our ... sales activities during
the next few days, not to launch you into one of your paranoid orbits.
If I had wanted you to know precisely what is at hand, I would have
told you. Rest assured that our little problem will be taken care
of--indeed is being taken care of in Las Vegas even as we speak."

"Well, then, Mr. Fixit, here's another 'little problem' that's popped
up today. That Mission Street punk's suit against Con Space has
provoked a new government investigation!"

For a moment, all Olmstead could hear in the telephone was his own
labored breathing.

"TorviHe?"

"Who else? The fat little prick issued a subpoena today to my
ex-bookkeeper."

"Will he talk?"

"Not now."

"Oh, Jesus, Aubrey, you didn't ..."

"No, of course not. We just scared the shit out of him and sent him to
Uruguay to work under the close supervision of one of my associates."

"Ah. The "Aubrey Olmstead Witness Protection Program."
" "Something Kke that. But now there's Torville and this fucking
Cameron, who's scheduled to start trial soon against Con Space A
public fistfight like that could get very sticky."

"Not to worry, clean boy. Mr. Cameron will be on the canvas before
the first round even starts."

"What if he won't stay there?"

"Then he'll be put under the canvas. Disposal is my job, Aubrey. Your
job is to keep the money coming and to relax for heaven's sake!"
"Christ, Father, we can't just go around killing people ..."

Aubrey Olmstead stood alone in the middle of the room, aware that his
perspiring hand was clutched around a plastic dial tone. sat her gate,
LOCATED AT THE NORTH END OF telegraph Avenue, is not really a gate at
all, but an ornate wrought-iron arch that majestically marks the
entrance to the University of California at Berkeley. Walking beneath
it the next morning was for Seth like passing under a waterfall of
nostalgia:

girls he had dated or tried to date, drug vendors, pangs of anxiety
enroute to final exams. People's Park, clashes with police, bongo
drums, runaways begging for spare change, atheists and Jesus freaks
screaming at each other and at other demonstrators loudly exhorting the
memory of Mario Savio. He wouldn't have missed it for anything, nor
could he imagine anything that could make him do it over again.

Seth was surprised at the modesty of Prof. Henry P. Daimler's office
when he finally found it buried in the east wing of the Bamngton
Memorial Science Building. The professor's cubicle was even smaller
than Seth's own and every bit as poorly furnished. Two leather chairs,
finely corrugated with age, took up the only space not jammed with
bookcases overflowing with technical treatises. Sandwiched between
the bookcases was a small student's desk that seemed incapable of
accommodating the professor's long legs. The austere milieu was capped
by an odor like rotten eggs drifting in a tiny window from one of the
labs below.

"Come in, Mr. Cameron," Daimler said in a surprisingly youthful voice
for a man in his seventies. He was six feet four inches tall, and his
manner suggested an apology for taking up so much space. A mangled
tweed suit hung from his lanky frame like moss from an ancient oak, and
a trumpet of a nose protruded from a friendly face that was largely
concealed by a full red beard, slowly surrendering to gray.

His hair, though also in retreat, was flaming red, which, when combined
with his height and pale, elongated forehead, created the image of a
volcano in full eruption.

"Have a plum? Some grapes? This," he added with a diffident smile,
"is my version of lunch."

"No thank you, sir. Just ate."

"I have a more comfortable office in Los Angeles," the professor
continued with the comfortable air of a man disseminating information,
not boasting.

"I teach only one day a week here, so this is what I get. Have a seat
and tell me more about this case of yours."

But Seth was not to be rushed. This was a time for investigation and
appraisal. His father, who had seen many fine expert witnesses come
and go in his courtroom, used to say there is no one--not even a trial
lawyer--who can turn a losing case into a winner, or a winner into a
loser, faster than an expert witness.

He's got to be smart, of course, and have all the right credentials,
Joe had said, but down-to-earth, too; not always talking down to
folks.

"In a minute, sir," Seth said, his critical eye taking in everything: a
UC honorary Ph.D. certificate, photos of a forty-something couple with
teenage kids--presumably grandchildren--propped on his desk, the
unpolished shoes, the tie of many colors, the gray, unkempt beard, the
incongruously bright red hair--does the professor wear a rug?

Probably not, but jurors might think so, which is just as bad.

"Tell me about your work."
Fifteen years at MIT, another twenty at Cal Tech, a Ph.D. in physics,
and an endless list of publications--articles and books on molecular
physics, materials failure, nonlinear dynamics, and avionics--comprised
a curriculum vitae that would qualify the professor to testify in any
court in the land. Seth had already studied Daimler's paper on stealth
avionics, a definitive work on aircraft electronics known to have
influenced President Carter in his decision to kill the Rockwell
International B-l bomber. Professor Daimler was also an authority on
chaos dynamics and its application to materials-failure analysis.

Seth was fully satisfied with Daimler's academic pedigree, and the
soft-spoken way in which he described it. His trial lawyer instincts
also sensed that under the expert witness's mild manner lay a
formidable strength and will. The game now was not only to make sure
Professor Daimler was the right man for the job, but to manipulate him
into becoming an advocate for the case. Seth knew from his father's
early stories that the best expert witness in the world cannot be of
help unless he will come into court, raise his right hand in the air,
face the jury square in its collective eye, and persuasively sponsor
the trial lawyer's theory of the case. Make 'em want to help you,
Seth. Spin your sad tale of widows and orphans, evil corporate empires
and wrongs to be righted. Help your expert get up on that white
stallion, kid, then hand him a sword.

The Investigator was finished; time for the Manipulator to jump in with
a quick peroration on the nobility of Elena Barton's purpose in
bringing the suit--no money-grubbing litigant in our corner, no sir.
(Seth didn't burden the monologue with his own motivations.) Time to
speak of undetected government dereliction, the agony of other stealth
widows, and the countless lives that could be saved by forcing an open
review of the X-215A's deficiencies.

The professor nodded sympathetically at each point. Progress was being
made.

As Seth then steered the expert into a general discussion of stealth
technology, he was relieved to see the professor scratch his head with
a vigor no toupee could have survived. Good, concluded the
Investigator, no rug.
Prof. Henry Daimler steepled his fingers, then gave Seth aw
here-do-you-want-me-to-begin look over his Ben Franklin spectacles.
Seth told him wherever he wanted to start would be fine.

"The ultimate stealth aircraft will look either like a carrot or a
pancake," he began, speaking in a voice ripe with experience, and
conveying the authority of a pioneer. He explained how Con Space like
Northrup with the controversial B-2 bomber, had opted for the
pancake-design configuration, which meant that the forward fuselage
"ended up looking like it has been run over by a steamroller."

In his most recent paper, Daimler had researched the accessible public
data on stealth designs by Northrup, Grumman, Con Space,* and others
and had correlated various designs with currently available accident
data.

"Sort of an epidemiological approach," he said with the weary smile of
an academician delivering a bad scientific joke.

"The bottom line is that stealth aircraft are, by definition and
necessity, inherently unsafe. Sure you don't want an apricot?"

The Investigator was ready to conclude that the professor was a trial
lawyer's dream--imposing but likable, articulate but not overly
cerebral, and though a high-profile critic of stealth technology,
ostensibly objective. Seth took in a deep breath and decided to go for
the jugular. No use wasting time with a man he was paying $350 per
hour.

"So unsafe," Seth said, picking up a yellow legal pad, "as to rule out
the probability of pilot error as the cause of a crash?"

The professor tapped the side of an index finger on pursed lips and let
out a melancholy sigh. Seth made a note to eliminate these revealing
mannerisms before his deposition.

"Not without an opportunity to examine the craft, I'm afraid."

Seth had feared this response.

"You know they won't let us do that and the court probably won't make
them. How far can you go without it?"

Daimler gazed at his liver-spotted hands for a full minute before
answering.

"Well, Counselor, my recent paper to the Institute of Advanced Aviation
Research in Boston takes the position that pancake designs simply
cannot safely ac226 commodate the ten to sixteen miles of electrical
wiring a stealth aircraft requires."

"Good. Why is that?"

"Too many elements. You've got fly-by-wire electronics, systems to
reduce the aircraft's RCS, ECM equipment, infrared and other detection
gear to beat ground-based bistatic and OTH backscatter radar--" "Hold
on, sir, you just lost me and most of the jury.

You've got to speak English in a courtroom or you're no good to me. Why
don't you pretend you're explaining the things you've just told me to
your grandson in the picture there."

"All right," said Daimler, and tapped a pipe with an empty bowl on the
heel of his hand. He then jammed it into his mouth, and deep furrows
fanned out in all directions from his eyes as he drew imaginary smoke.
Seth could feel the energy of his concentration. Then Professor
Daimler lifted his plate of fruit and thrust it in front of Seth.

"I'd tell him it's like trying to cram six pounds of these grapes into
a five-pound bag. Some are bound to get broken."

"That's better," said Seth, relieved to see that Daimler did not suffer
from the need to protect himself from contradiction by speaking in an
unfathomable interiingua. Seth had found that this narcissistic patois
turned off nine jurors for every three it impressed.

Daimler shrugged, seemingly disappointed at Seth's bland reaction to
his idiomatic pearl.

"We get a little isolated here in academia. Become conversationally
handicapped."

Seth smiled.

"Verbally challenged?"

Daimler smiled back.

"Linguistically dysfunctional."

Good. He's got a wit and can laugh at himself.

"I'll catch on," he added. A grape vanished into the dense beard.

"We'll work on it," said Seth, knowing better at this early stage than
to pamper or patronize an expert. Make them want to please you.

"Based on what I sent you. Professor, can you provide an opinion as to
what happened to Sam Barton out in that Arizona desert?"
"That just sounds like a different approach to the same problematical
question, and I'm sorry to tell you I can't really say what happened
out there. My guess--which I suppose carries little weight in a court
of law--is that the root cause for the X-215A's problems has to do with
taking reckless shortcuts in its efforts to surpass Northrup and its
B-2 bomber. In the process, Con Space built an unsafe aircraft."

Back to generalizations, thought Seth, trying to remain patient.

"Then can't we draw a fair inference. Professor, that this very lack
of safety probably caused the crash?"

"I'm afraid not' Seth glared at the old man and tapped his pen on the
yellow pad.

"Peach?" said Daimler into the silence.

"They're from South America, I believe. Wonderful."

"Look, Professor," said Seth, color rising in his fatigued face, "I
need some help here. I've got a widow whose husband's career and
reputation have been disparaged by a not-give-a-shit U.S. Air Force.
I've got four deadly crashes in less than two years with the best
fliers in the world at the wheel. I've got six pounds of grapes
crammed into a five-pound bag, and now I've got an expert who won't
attribute the crashes to what he's described himself as a fucking
'unsafe aircraft!"

" Professor Daimler looked sympathetically at Seth and responded in a
voice so serene and supportive that it made Seth feel like a patient in
therapy.

"I don't believe," he said, grinning, "that my description made any
reference to fucking."

Seth fell back in his chair and exhaled.

"I get carried away sometimes."

"It's all right," said Daimler in his soothing, almost hypnotic
voice.

"Rub people the wrong way."

"We all do at one time or another."

"Sorry."

"No apology necessary."

"Let's start over."
The good trial lawyers know when to quit. Son. The great trial
lawyers don't even know how.

"Tell me how the B-2 is different from the X-215A."

"Of course. For one thing, the X-215A flies nearly twice as fast as
the notorious B-2 stealth bomber. The trade-off is a radar signature
several times larger. Con Space bet its money that the development of
impulse radar by foreign military powers would soon render speed more
important than stealth."

"Impulse radar?"

"It will be able to profile a sparrow and render the
half-billion-per-copy B-2 obsolete before it's fully operational.

This inspired the Armed Forces Subcommittee on Aviation Technology to
move into a further design evolution of manned delivery systems,
resulting in the X-215A."

"So," said Seth, "it was their earlier mistakes on the Bl and B-2 that
spooked the committee, then Congress, into funding the X-215A."

"Exactly, and now the X-215A might be a clunker, too."

"On the phone, you mentioned electronics as a possible cause of Con
Space problems."

"Just a guess, but I think their problem is improper interfacing of
numerous electrical wiring systems, compounded by the extremely limited
storage space imposed by the flattened-out fuselage and crowded
canopy-cockpit area."

"Too many grapes for the size of the bag."

"Exactly."

"How did the grapes break on Sam Barton's flight?"

The professor smiled and reached for his pipe again.

"How many different ways of asking the same question do they teach you
fellows in law school?"

Seth reached over and grabbed a grape off the plate.

"As many ways as necessary to get the answer we need."

The professor sighed and picked up his pipe again.

"I'm not trying to be difficult, but... okay. A grape is fine until
its skin breaks. I suspect it starts with a failure to the harness
that encloses and shields the wiring from contact with other wiring or
other objects."

"What could cause failure of a harness?"
"It could be some kind of maintenance mishap, though that seems
unlikely to have happened on four separate occasions, unless of course
it was sabotage--which wouldn't help your case much. Failure could
also result from friction caused by rubbing or chafing."

"Then?"

"Once the harness deteriorates, sparking can occur between wires, or
between a wire and some protruding object like a bolt or screw,
resulting in systems failure or even a fire. But whether that happened
and how it happened, I must repeat, is pure speculation on my part."

I'm sitting with the expert of all fucking experts, thought Seth,
staring glumly at his nearly empty yellow pad, and he can't do a
goddamn thing for me. Another wave of sulfuric acid drifted into the
room. Seth tasted a bitterness in his mouth. He was beginning to feel
sick.

"As you know. Professor, the court won't let you speculate, so I'm
afraid we've got problems." Seth closed his briefcase and thanked Dr.
Daimler for his time.

"I'll be talking to one of the X-215A test pilots tomorrow, and I'll
tell you what I learn at our pre deposition meeting on Thursday."

"Who will be taking my deposition?"

"A lawyer named Anthony Treadwell."

"Sounds familiar. Is he good?"

Seth turned at the door.

"He's good."

As he passed under Sather Gate again, Seth experienced a deji vu
feeling from fifteen years before; a sense of having just flunked a
final exam. seth's WELCOME AT THE ENTRANCE TO nellis air force Base
the next day was in pleasant contrast to his earlier experience with
Lev in New Mexico. Captain Murphy had put his name on the visitors'
list, and Seth was given a full salute and V.I.P treatment from the
moment of his arrival.
"This is Corporal Hawkinson, sir," said the guard.

"He'll be your driver. Please park your vehicle right over there,
sir."

Five minutes later, Seth was escorted into a large office in the
headquarters complex. The walls were covered with squadron emblems,
plus a family portrait of a seated but erect uniformed officer, beset
by two gleaming, erect, towheaded boys and one gleaming, erect,
bleached-blond wife whose mushrooming bouffant hairstyle threatened the
otherwise perfect composition of the scene. There were crossed
regimental swords, an Air University diploma, photos of diverse
high-ranking officers and gray-haired civilians chatting amiably in
front of airplanes of various vintages. An airman first class
indicated a chair and offered Seth a cup of coffee, which he gratefully
accepted.

"Do all pilots have offices like this?" asked Seth.

"Only if they also happen to be a base commander," said the airman, who
vanished before Seth could ask the obvious question.

He didn't have to wait long.

A tall, distinguished-looking man extended his hand.

"I'm Gen. Clement Farnsworth." Seth noted the steel gray hair,
chiseled features, and one white eyebrow as the general continued.

"I'm the base commander of Symington Air Force Base. I'm here at
Nellis as part of an accident-investigation team. I'm afraid you won't
be meeting with Captain Murphy today."

"He had an accident?"

"A fatal one it seems."

"He's dead?"

"I'm sorry to report to you that Capt. Gerald X. Murphy crashed on
takeoff this morning at oh seven hundred hours," said Farnsworth with
the cold precision of an information officer reading an accident
report.

"It was a routine mission in a time-proven F-16. The captain was just
putting in his minimum flight time." His report completed, the general
seated himself behind the desk, and his tone shifted to that of a
chaplain breaking bad news to a family member. Warm and soothing.

"May I ask your purpose in coming here to see Captain Murphy?"

A knock on the door interrupted Seth's dazed thoughts.
"In!" shouted the general in a different voice, so different that
Seth thought for a moment someone else was in the room. It was the
coffee, hot enough to burn Seth's mouth, although he hardly noticed.

"But I just spoke with him. Last night."

"He crashed this morning," repeated the general, resuming a soothing
tone that overlooked the irrelevance of Seth's remark.

"I know it must be a shock. Were you friends?"

"No. I had only spoken to him on the phone."

"May I ask why you came here to see him?"

"Just wanted to chat."

"About?"

"I'm a lawyer, sir. I'm on a case."

"Was Captain Murphy involved," asked the general, swiveling casually
behind the desk, "in your case?"

It dawned on Seth that he was being interrogated. He thanked the
general, picked up his briefcase, and got to his feet. General
Farnsworth rose as well and moved swiftly toward the door.

But he didn't open it. He blocked it.

"I asked you," he repeated, but in a voice now hard-edged, "whether
Captain Murphy was involved in your case."

"And I told you," said Seth, mustering a steely tone of his own, "that
I'm a lawyer on a case. That means I can't discuss privileged
information. Now, General, I'll be leaving."

The two men exchanged a challenging look, neither blinking.

Finally, the general stepped aside, saying, "All right, Mr. Cameron,
you're free to go, of course. But you are not, I say again, not free
to return--either to Nellis or to Symington. Particularly
Symington."

Seth didn't move.

"Why do you mention Symington?"

"Because I know you and your spade friend were nosing around there,"
said Farnsworth, his voice menacing and razor raw.

"Show up there again and I'll shoot you myself as a spy." He flashed
Seth a sinister smile as he swung the door open, adding, "Military
law."

Seth's momentary anxiety was swept aside by anger. He slammed the door
shut with the heel of his hand and stood nose to nose with
Farnsworth.

"What the fuck is going on here. General? What are you afraid of?
You say you're he reinvestigating Murphy's accident. What caused it?
Who caused it?"

Farnsworth's unblinking eyes were like clear ice crystals within a face
that had become a frozen mask. Abruptly, he brushed past Seth, walked
back to the desk, and hit the intercom button.

"Farnsworth here. Two APs. On the double."

Turning his back on Seth, he stared out at a squadron of marching
airmen. For a minute, only the cadence count of the squad leader could
be heard--hut two hareep-hor, hut two hareep-hor--but then the general
turned and calmly said, "You're in way over your head, boy."

Seth met his eyes.

"Like Murphy was?"

"Your innuendo is insulting and outrageous, Cameron. It happens that
Murphy caught a bird in his air scoop. It happens."

"A bird?" said Seth, pointedly gazing at Farnsworth's epaulets.

"I'm betting it was an American eagle."

A sudden loud blow to the door caused Seth to jump out of the way as
two burly uniformed men powered through it like offensive guards.

"Please come in, gentlemen," Seth said, stepping between them, "I was
just on my way out."

seth WAS AWAKENED BY pat dog's MORNING HEADER OFF the bed. The mutt
had never gotten the hang of backing his way down, and his missing
foreleg made a graceful headfirst landing impossible.

Fat Dog was probably supposed to have been a golden retriever, but
something had gone wrong--possibly a male basset hound--during mating.
Then, not far into life, a car attack left him an orphaned pup with
three legs, which is the way Seth found him at the Bakersfield SPCA,
just in time to commute his sentence. In Seth's case, after
Rosie'sdeparture. Fat Dog wasn't "man's best friend"; he was his only
friend.

"We're in trouble. Fats," said Seth as they ate breakfast together.

"I just lost my key witness on the statute of limitations and defective
manufacture. Treadwell is going to shoot my learned avionics expert
down in flames this morning. If things don't pick up, it's beans for
me and whatever you can catch for you."

Fat Dog yawned.

"Not that you couldn't afford to lose a few."

Four hours later, Seth and Professor Daimler strolled across Market
Street and north into the financial district.

The wind rushed down Montgomery Street like an invisible wall,
penetrating Seth's suit coat, assailing his damp shirt, and adding to
the discomfort of a head aching from fatigue and anxiety.

"Cool here in the city," said the professor.

Seth understood the importance of small talk now--the smaller the
better--as they approached the moment of truth.

Preparation time was over; it was time to pass or fail.

"These buildings have turned our streets into a series of Boeing wind
tunnels," said Seth, indicating an inside-out umbrella to make his
point.

"Plus they block out the sun, which keeps the air cold. Adds up to an
uncomfortable chill factor. Sad."

"Yes," agreed the professor.

"Sad."

Seth had been surprised to learn that Treadwell would take the
professor's deposition himself. Was it at Traeger's insistence? Con
Space Hard to imagine the Great Man taking a deposition, a task
usually assigned to a younger lawyer, even in very large cases. Also
hard to imagine Treadwell doing anything he didn't want to do. So what
was the message?

"Have you been here before?" asked Daimler as Seth deftly guided him
into the tower elevator bank without a glance at the directory.

"Used to work here," said Seth, and the professor let it drop.

Seth greeted the penthouse receptionist, who offered them a seat,
coffee, and a sympathetic smile. The clock struck ten as they sank
deep into a leather couch across from a leather-faced woman whom Seth
judged by her machine to be the court reporter. Coffee arrived at five
past the hour, but no Treadwell. The minutes passed as they waited for
the summons to Treadwell's office.

Just like old times.

At ten minutes past the hour, Seth told the receptionist to inform Mr.
Treadwell's secretary they would not wait past ten-fifteen.

The game was on.

At precisely ten-fifteen. Miss Tarkenton quick stepped into the lobby,
proffering apologies for the delay, and escorted them into Treadwell's
office. She gave no indication of remembering Seth.

Seth felt a chill as he reentered the senior partner's lair for the
first time in months. He quickly scanned the main office, the
conference area, the wet-bar area. No Treadwell.

Checkmate.

"He'll be with you momentarily, gentlemen," said Miss Tarkenton as she
showed them into the conference wing of the senior partner's huge
office.

"Another cup of coffee?"

Seth fumed and glanced at his watch.

Stay cool, Son. Remember, mind games only work if you let 'em.

At 10:22, the door was flung open, and the senior partner briskly
entered, followed closely by two younger lawyers.

The sight of Treadwell rocketed Seth's heartbeat. Must be the coffee,
he rationalized.

"My apologies, gentlemen," said Treadwell in his robust baritone,
offering a huge, well-manicured hand to Professor Daimler. As tall as
the professor was, Treadwell's height and presence made him seem the
taller man, creating the formidable impression of a skyscraper viewed
from the street.

"Clients pay you four hundred dollars an hour," he added, "and damned
if they don't expect to speak with you occasionally."

The associates laughed on cue and introduced themselves.

Seth remembered one of the associates--an exceptionally bright lawyer
named Jim Woodsen--but not the other. Onlya perceptive observer would
have noticed that the ritual was completed without Seth and Treadwell
shaking hands.

When all were seated and the reporter's fingers were poised over her
machine, Treadwell turned his massive head toward Seth for the first
time.

"Well, now, Cameron," he' said, managing a half smile that did little
to soften the disdainful tone of his voice, "how do you find life as a
Mission Street lawyer?"

Seth met the senior partner's laser gaze.

"It's quite different, Mr. Treadwell; you know, with the quill pens
and no telephones."

Woodsen unsuccessfully stifled a laugh, drawing a glance from
Treadwell. * "The other difference is we represent people there."

"How nice for you. And I take it that this fellow Benjamin Tucker is
one of those people. Frightening claim: twenty-five thousand dollars!
What's next, Cameron, a small-claims court suit for a broken vase
caused by an X-215A sonic boom?"

Woodsen, trying to compensate, laughed a little too loudly.

"Well, Cameron, to show our good faith, we'll stipulate to your request
for consolidation of the two cases, assuming you'll produce the
plaintiff here in San Francisco for deposition."

"Agreed," said Seth.

"Mr. Tucker has suffered a mild heart attack, but we'll produce him as
soon as he's out of the hospital."

"Very good. I see you have no statute problem with Tucker's humble
claim, since it's only for property damage, but I assure you there is
at least one similarity between Montgomery Street and Burritoville: you
can't file a wrongful-death lawsuit after the one-year statute of
limitations has run."

"And I assure you, sir, that I have not done that." Seth picked up his
pen.

"I believe we're here for a deposition?"

"Just so," said Treadwell, and turned toward the expert witness.

"I won't detain you long. Professor. Mrs. Bartholomew, please swear
the witness."

The interrogation quickly deteriorated into something between a chess
game and a mud-wrestling match as Seth keptTreadwell at a safe
distance from his forensically inexperienced witness, making frequent
objections to give Daimler time to become more comfortable with the
process.

Treadwell retaliated with artfully phrased leading questions and
frequent threats to seek sanctions for Seth's "obfuscation and
obstructionism." Not until three in the afternoon did Seth feel that
Daimler was sufficiently ring-wise to allow Treadwell to get to the
real issues in the case.

It didn't take the senior partner long to find what he wanted.

"So you really can't say what caused the crash, can you?"

"Only that it was, in all probability, an electronic failure."

"How can you say even that?"

"Because Captain Barton's flaps were up, according to the accident
report."

"So?"

"No pilot would intentionally crash-land a high-speed aircraft with
flaps up."

"Why not?"

"He would come in too hot--which is probably what happened, according
to the available information. The flaps are electronically controlled,
thus it's logical to assume that an electronic failure of some kind had
occurred."

It won't get us home, Henry, Seth had told the expert earlier, but if
it's the best you can honestly do, then that's what we'll have to go
with.

"So, Professor, you admit at least that Barton was alive when he
tried--and obviously failed--to make a safe crash landing in the
desert?"

"Objection," interceded Seth in order to give Daimler time to consider
the question.

"What possible grounds, Counsel?"

"The question assumes there is such a thing as a safe crash landing, a
classic oxymoron. But go ahead and answer, Professor, if you can."

"Alive, perhaps, but not necessarily functional."

"Now there," said Treadwell sarcastically, and glaring at Seth, "is the
kind of bullshit response that only Mr. Cameron could have put into
your mouth. He was alive, was he not Professor? Nothing was wrong
with the cockpit life support systems, was there?"

"Objection," said Seth.

"Argumentative. Please control your attitude and your language, Mr.
Treadwell, or this deposition is finished right now."

Treadwell raised an eyebrow.

"My, my, Cameron. Have you had a religious experience since the days
when you filled this very office with epithets that would make a
stevedore blush?"

Seth nodded toward the reporter.

"Never when there was a lady present."

The associates exchanged a snickering glance. Treadwell raised another
eyebrow.

"Oh, I see," he said.

"Well, then. Professor, what pray do you mean, 'perhaps not
functional'?"

"Once the electronics failed, the oxygen mix could be affected, thus
impairing the pilot's ability to judge distances and altitudes if he
happened to be at a high altitude at the time of failure. So if
hypoxia didn't get him in the air, the absence of flaps and other
controls got him on the ground.

Either way, it was probably an electrical failure of some kind."

Treadwell's eyes nickered between the witness and Seth.

He checked his notes, glanced up at his associates, then stared back at
the witness with metallic consternation.

"Of some kind," he repeated.

"You've never seen the plans to the X-215A, have you?"

"Of course not."

"Never flown in one?"

"No."

"Ever so much as seen one?"

"Only pictures."

"And you can't say what the specific failure was?"

"That's true."

"And that's because pinpointing it would require speculation on your
part, am I correct, sir?"

"No, sir. It's because you won't let me see the aircraft."

"Well, apart from whether the Air Force should let every Tom, Dick, or
Harry come in and examine our nation'snumber one military secret, the
fact is your conclusions stated here today are based on pure
speculation, are they not?"

Professor Daimler looked hopelessly at Seth, then down at his hands.
Everyone in the room knew what his answer had to be and that an
affirmative reply on the record would set up a certain summary judgment
in favor of Con Space

Treadwell and Woodsen exchanged a smile, and when Seth looked at
Treadwell he was stunned to see the senior partner winking at him.

The secret, kid, is perseverance. Never give up, even when your back
is bleeding against the wall. When all else has failed, stall for
time. Something might happen. When time runs out, stall some more.
Never quit thinking. Never quit trying! Never quit!

"Objection," said Seth.

"The question's been asked and answered. I instruct the witness not to
answer again."

Treadwell exchanged a laugh with his associates, then sneered at Seth
as he spoke to Daimler in a condescending tone.

"You may go ahead and answer. Professor. Counsel knows that a judge
would severely sanction him for such a frivolous objection, and that
even if the objection were valid, he can't instruct a witness not to
answer except when the witness is also his own client."

Treadwell's words hung in the electric air as Seth and Henry Daimler
exchanged a look.

"Professor Daimler," said Seth in a quiet voice, "you look like a man
in serious need of a lawyer."

Daimler innocently raised his eyebrows.

"But I have a lawyer, Mr. Cameron. You, of course."

Treadwell slammed his hand on the table, and his eyes bulged into
white-hot coals. Coming out of his chair, he leaned across the table
as if to strike Seth.

"I'll have your ticket for this little prank, Cameron. But first I'll
see that Judge Singer sanctions you and that dyke you work for--" That
was as far as he got, for Seth had grabbed his tie and pulled him down
to within inches of his own face.

"I

told you once, podner, to watch your language in the presence of the
lady here. Now, you've obviously got a bur under your saddle, but
you've got to turn it down a notch right now or this deposition is
over. And if you ever say another derogatory word about Allyn
Friedlander, I'll have to hurt you."

Woodsen recovered from the shock of the moment and grabbed the senior
partner's tie, together with the attached senior partner, and hauled
Treadwell back into his seat, gasping like a grounded bass.

"Let the record show," said Treadwell, swiftly regaining his composure,
"that I've been assaulted by this hillbilly gladiator who purports to
represent the witness."

"Would you like a recess, Mr. Treadwell?" asked Seth, returning the
wink.

"Time to reflect on your own decorum?

I believe the record will accurately demonstrate your words and
actions, including the fact that in lunging at me, you crossed well
over the center line of the table."

The court reporter gave Seth a motherly, reassuring nod.

"I need no recess," said Treadwell, straightening his notes and his
tie.

"First, Professor, let me assure you that I will eventually have my
answer to the last question, and I will have substantial monetary
sanctions as well. But let us proceed.

"If, hypothetically. Barton's crash was not pilot error. Professor,
and your 'theory' about defective electronics is correct, wouldn't Con
Space logically have taken the necessary steps to correct the problem
after the first two crashes?"

"It's not that easy. Counselor. Today, almost everything in stealth
aircraft is done optoelectronic ally through fiberoptic, digital data
buses. Forty percent of the cost of the X-215A is in
fiber-electronics, so--" "All right. Professor, that's enough. You've
answered the question."

"--if invasive sparking is occurring at critical points along the
electrical wire harness that protects the sixteen miles of wiring in
the X-215A, God knows where you'd find it."

Treadwell scowled, while the unstoppable Henry Phineas Daimler, Ph.D."
professor of avionics and chaos dynamics, and now a confirmed advocate
as well, forged ahead.

"You must understand, Mr. Treadwell, that your client is undoubtedly
troubleshooting. Probably around the clock and probably since the very
first crash, but as of October fifteenth 1993, they obviously hadn't
found the problem, had they?"

For no apparent reason, Treadwell suddenly smiled.

"October fifteenth, you say. Professor. I think we've finally found a
point of agreement."

Seth shot Daimler a look with the force of a kick under the table, then
tried to think of an objection. Failing that, he decided to testify
instead.

"Excuse me, Mr. Treadwell, but the time and date of the accident is
beyond this witness's knowledge and expertise."

"That's true," said the chastened professor, "I have no evidence
concerning the specific time of the crash."

"Nor," said Treadwell, "do you have a shred of evidence that it
occurred after midnight--on October sixteenth." It wasn't a
question.

"No, sir, I don't."

"The X-215A is not a body on which you can perform an autopsy and
pinpoint the time of death, is it?"

"No, sir, it isn't."

"Thank you. Incidentally, while on the subject of things 'entirely
beyond your knowledge and expertise," I have seen confidential Air
Force records establishing that crash landings without major incident
are quite common in flat areas such as the desert. Professor. Isn't
it a fact that our prima donna stealth pilots have simply lost touch
with the fundamentals of flying in general and emergency procedures in
particular?"

"You're wrong there, sir. I've seen those records. They report on
standard jet aircraft crash landings, not stealth aircraft. The
X-215A, for example, hurtles through pitch darkness at several hundred
miles per hour, fifty feet off the ground. Once a stealth aircraft's
electronics fail, the pilot has no instruments to tell him how high he
is, no sensors to warn him of what's ahead, and no workable flight
controls to allow him to react to what he can't know anyway."

Treadwell slammed his trial book shut.

"All right, that's enough! I'm finished with this witness. Would you
step outside for a moment, Mr. Cameron?"
Once in the hallway, the senior partner gained control of his anger,
but his voice radiated enmity.

"All right, hotshot, let's have it. Just what in the hell are you up
to anyway?"

"Just a shade under six feet, why?"

"Don't be impertinent with me, you country bumpkin. What do you think
you're doing?"

Seth chuckled.

"Boy, this is like old times, isn't it, sir? I had forgotten that
having a conversation with you is a lot like driving in heavy fog. You
want to be more specific?"

"Don't play games with me, Cameron. I want to know what in God's name
you're after."

"Fame and fortune, sir, same as everybody else around here.

As concerns this case, I think my complaint on file is pretty clear. It
seeks damages in the amount of ten million dollars for Mrs. Barton and
twenty-five thousand dollars plus lost rents for Mr. Tucker. I'm
afraid Mr. Tucker's claim is set in cement, but I might be able to
slide Mrs. Barton's demand down a few dollars, given the fact you're
her godfather."

"Is that a fact?" said Treadwell, turning back toward his office.

"Well, I suggest you slide right on down Montgomery Street and across
Market, back into that boar's nest you call a law office."

"Planned on it, sir. I'll even save a spot for you there-for when the
Young Turks do to you what you did to me."

Treadwell spun around and impatiently shook his head.

Abruptly, he turned back toward his office, then stopped again. He
seemed like a man who couldn't decide whether or not he bad left a
burner on before leaving his house.

Finally, he addressed Seth in a tone of quiet concern.

"Is it possible that you don't realize the enormity of this foolish
little frolic you've undertaken?"

"The jury will decide if my lawsuit is foolish, Mr. Treadwell."

"You're missing the point, Cameron," said the older man, becoming angry
again.

"You're not just trying a lawsuit here. You're trying the patience of
the most powerful government in the world!"

Seth smiled into the senior partner's wrath.

"If you want to threaten me, Mr. Treadwell, you'll have to take a
number."

Treadwell's reaction was that of a man accosted by a deranged
beggar--repugnance mingled with demeaning sympathy For a few seconds,
as he pointed a finger at his tormentor, lips moving wordlessly, his
frustration seemed to border on confusion. But then he gathered
himself, straightened his shoulders, and strode into his office.

Later, back in Seth's cubicle, the professor sipped his coffee and
sympathized with his new lawyer.

"What do you think the judge will do?"

"He'll fine me a thousand bucks or so and order you back to answer the
question."

"So why did you do it?"

"Time."

"Time?"

"Time to think. Time to come up with something."

"I hope you do. You know where to find me if that happens."

"Thanks, Henry. Oh, yes. The law requires Con Space to pay for your
time as an expert, but send me a bill for our earlier meeting."

"Not to worry, young man. A man shouldn't start his meter running
until he knows where he's going. I'm just sorry I couldn't be of
help."

Seth stared out the window after Daimler had left. Fatigue was
overwhelming him. He considered some pharmaceutical help, then
rejected the idea. What he needed was sleep. And a cigarette. He had
quit eight years earlier, but what he wanted was a cigarette.

"Why did you do it?" the professor had asked. Why had he done it?
Time. I needed time to come up with something, had been his glib
reply.

He wondered if Ramon had any cigarettes in his desk as he absently
thumbed through the sparse notes from his first meeting with the
professor. Flattened fuselage, too many grapes, sparking, improper
interfacing, fire, canopy-cockpit area .. .

Something was nagging at him.

Canopy-cockpit area. What was it? Something trying to resurface.

Then, from a thousand miles away came a memory, formless at first, then
clearing into a vision: the flushed face and blustering voice of an
overweight tech rep.
BOSTWICK! Yes! Harold Bostwick! It's the fucking canopy! Leviticus
and Seth had been so excited about Hostwick's statute-of-limitations
revelation, they had forgotten the tech rep's abrupt stonewalling when
Lev had brought up the subject of canopy design.

Seth leapt over his desk and raced down the stairs, sprinted up Third
Avenue to Market, then down to the Montgomery Street BART station. He
got there just as Henry Daimler was about to board a trans-bay car.

"Sir!" gasped Seth, spinning the startled professor around.

"Could activating the canopy--the one made by TDA--create friction and
damage to the electrical harness?"

The professor's mouth slowly widened into an embarrassed smile as he
reluctantly nodded his head.

"Only every time the pilot enters or exits the aircraft."

"Then ... could that be what's--" "Come over here and sit down, young
man. Catch your breath and pay attention. I've just started my meter
running."

Seth nursed his '82 Honda Civic over the Golden Gate early the next
morning--he had sold the Porsche to handle the increased cost of Pop
Cameron's round-the-clock home nursing care--and took one hand off the
steering wheel to rub swollen eyes drawn to a surreal, angry dawn
blooming over the Berkeley hills.

He'd need more cash now; Treadwell would ask for at least $3,000 in
monetary sanctions, and the judge would probably give him half that.
Well, it would be worth every nickel, for now Daimler would be equipped
with an answer to the $64,000 question Seth would now allow Treadwell
to ask. Most important, he now had a strategy, a theory on how it all
happened! And with a jury trial just a few months away, it didn't hurt
to have a strategy and a theory.

Midway across the bridge, he reflected on Treadwell's warning at the
end of the day. Something about the look of genuine incredulity on the
senior partner's face had shaken Seth more than he had shown. How much
does Treadwell know? Seth shivered and turned the car heater up a
notch.
He snapped a Joe Silverhound cassette into the tape deck, took a deep
breath, and cranked up the volume. The country sounds drifted out
across the gray, choppy waters that merged at the horizon with a
tortured, Vlaminck-painted sky, all blacks and whites and reds.

How strange it now all seems The way you rearranged all my dreams In
just one day You staged a matinee For all our troubled friends to see
That we were soon to be So all alone, all alone Seth reached back down
and switched the music off. He didn't want to think about Rosie right
now, and that song always put him in mind of Rosie. Songs could do
that to a person, even when that person should be celebrating the dawn
of a new day and a gut feeling that things were about to turn around.
That signs of worry would soon be appearing on Treadwell's pallid face
as he realized the tide was turning against him and that his balls were
being slowly but firmly squeezed. That he had been wrong about the kid
from Bakersfield--the one doing the squeezing. Then, it would only be
a matter of time before Anthony Winthrop Treadwell, one of America's
leading trial lawyers, would be saying uncle in the soft whisper of an
Italian ca strato

Cause for celebration. Cherish the moment and savor the new
possibilities. Then along comes some fucking song from out of the
past, carrying vague misgivings and themes of where-didIgo-wrong.

Seth passed through the toll at the south end of the bridge and pushed
the little Honda through the Marina, up Lombard, down Van Ness. Green
lights all the way, except for those that were orange and a couple on
the red side, and ten minutes later he was in his office.

Waiting there was Treadwell's motion seeking $4,000 in sanctions, about
$3,000 more than Seth had to his name, and Allyn Friedlander, who
looked even worse than he did.

"A woman named Jenkins just called from Bakersfield, Seth. She said to
tell you it's Pop and you'd better hurry."
34 something WAS ALREADY GONE.

Seth felt the change as soon as he got out of his car. Not just the
bougainvillea needing water, its leaves limp from neglect, nor the
presence of outsiders inside the house--Doc Parley, Alice Jenkins, the
Hispanic couple from next door-nor even the appearance of the house
itself, which had not changed materially since its construction in
1953, when Joe and Ruth had placed their hopes and postwar dreams
within its freshly painted walls.

No, the change was not physical, but ethereal, born of the cosmic
ether, yet as real to Seth as the concrete steps his legs now wearily
mounted. He knew that the heart of a house that had survived Ruth's
departure, then his own, would not survive another.

"Hello, Seth," Dr. parley said, gravely extending his hand.

Seth had girded himself for It's only a matter of time and was relieved
when the doctor smiled reassuringly and said he had called for an
ambulance.

"I didn't tell him; he won't want to go, though I think he might have a
chance in the I.C.U. He's been asking for you."

Seth's first reaction upon entering the bedroom was relief at Joe's
appearance. His skin seemed tighter, the pallor gone. His eyes,
though sunken, were clear, even radiant.

"Hi, Pop."

"Glad to see you. Son," said Joe Cameron, his voice crackling like
footsteps on dry leaves.

"To clear the air, let me say that I know what's going on here, and I'm
ready to die."

"No way. Pop, but don't talk now. Are you in pain?"

"Nothing I can't handle for a few more hours."

"Do you want something? Doc's right outside."
"Don't want any more morphine. I've already spent too much of my life
in a muddle-headed condition. Enough's enough."

Seth looked around the room, feeling strangely awkward.

Joe broke the silence.

"How's Rosie?"

"She's fine. Pop."

"You solve your problem yet? She comes every week, but never talks
about you. Don't let that one get away. Son, you--" The old man was
sei2ed by a fit of coughing, which brought Doc Parley to the bedroom
door. Seth cradled his father's head--it seemed no larger than a
cantaloupe--and held water to his lips.

"Did you just hear a rattle, Seth?" Joe said.

"Not funny. Pop," said Seth, smiling.

A longer silence. Seth had never heard such silence, broken only by
traces of whispered conversation from the living room, the hall clock,
his own heartbeat. Joe stared straight up at the ceiling and seemed to
be falling asleep, or ... Where was the damn ambulance? Pop was
breathing though, probably just dozing off. After a few minutes, Seth
restlessly returned to the living room.

And there she was.

"Hello, Seth."

"Rosie. I'm glad you're here."

"I don't want to be in the way."

"Pop would want to see you. Come on in."

"Don't think of the sun!" his father's voice blurted out from the
bedroom.

"It ain't right!"

Seth and Rosie entered the bedroom.

"No, Pop," said Seth, stroking the cool bald head, "it surely ain't
right. Just rest now."

Pop continued to sleep, and Seth started to call for Doc Parley, but
the old man's breathing was strong. When his eyes opened after a few
minutes, they were clear again.

"Hi, sweetheart," said Pop.

"It's about time you came back. And if it takes me dying to get you
two in a room together, it's worth it."

"Hi, Pop," said Rosie, "but you can forget the part about dying. I
hear there's an ambulance on its way, and Doc Parley says you're going
to be okay."
Joe pushed himself up on his elbows, suddenly furious.

"No, damn it, I don't want to go back to the hospital. Aren't any of
you payin' attention? I don't want to live any longer!"

Exhausted by the effort, Pop fell back onto his pillows. He turned to
Seth and pleaded in a pitiful, hoarse whisper.

"Don't let them take me back there! Please, Son."

"Just for a day or two. Pop. Then I promise I'll get you out and back
here. Okay?"

Joe Cameron grabbed his son by the arm with surprising force.

"I don't have a whole lot of control over decisions right now. Son,
but I guarantee you that if I go, I won't be back. So listen up."

"Pop, please--" "Let me talk. The warden tells me I've been saying
terrible things to you on and off for a long time. I wish I could say
I don't remember them, but in a funny way I do--like when I was
drinking hard and things would crowd into my head the next day, all
blurry but unavoidable?"

The old man started coughing again, so hard this time he bounced on the
bed as if prodded by a 220-volt current.

Seth tried to silence him but he pushed himself up on his elbows again
and spoke in a firm voice, looking Seth squarely in the eyes.

"I was all wrong about those things I said about you, kid, and I'm
sorry. Truth is, I guess I was envious. All those years watching
trial lawyers come and go in my courtroom .. . well, you get to
thinking you could be as good as most of 'em, you know? Like maybe I
could be one myself? Ruth would probably still be here if I had gone
and done it, made something of myself, but by the time I saw what she
needed me to be, it was too late. I started night courses when you was
a baby. Got through the first year, maybe shoulda tried harder, but
there was ..."

"Me," said Seth.

"I don't blame anyone but myself. All of a sudden I'm forty, I'm
married, I got a kid, and well, a man just gets stuck. By the time she
left us, I was just too old and busted up. Faced with a choice of
trying to pass the bar or just goin' to one ... hell, it was no
contest. You know the rest."

"I had no idea. Pop. I'm sorry."
"Quiet. I'm the one trying to apologize here. See, Doc Parley
explained that when that damn tumor shuts down part of my brain, all
this bad stuff pours outa my mouth, just like that."

Joe tried to snap his fingers, but could barely rub them together.

"Anyway, they should have taken me out and shot me a long time ago. I
wish I could take back all the things I said, like you not having what
it takes to make it in the major leagues. You proved me wrong and I'm
..."

"Pop, listen ..."

"No, you got the rest of your life to beat your gums. I just want you
to know how proud I am that you made it.

Miller and McGrath is one of the best and--" Pop started coughing again
and fell back on the bed.

Rosie took one hand, and Seth held the other.

"Don't say anything more, okay? Please."

"Well, I'm right, aren't I?"

"Miller and McGrath is definitely one of the best. Pop.

The major leagues."

Seth felt Rosie's eyes burning into him, so he kept his eyes on his
father.

Two paramedics burst through the door and, without a word, methodically
strapped the old man to a gurney. Seth was pushed out of the way as
they whisked Joe into the ambulance, then drove off with Doc Parley in
the back.

Following close behind, Seth was relieved that the hospital was only a
few miles away. Rosie said she would need her own car, so she followed
with Nurse Jenkins.

They had already taken his father inside by the time he parked. Doc
Parley--passive, yet solid as a marble statue-stood waiting at the
emergency entry. He didn't have to say a word, but he did anyway.

"He's gone, Seth. He said to tell you to call your mother and tell her
no hard feelings."

Seth said he'd contact the hospital later to make arrangements and
quickly drove off just as Rosie was pulling up.

Within twenty-four hours, Joe Cameron was laid to rest without fanfare,
in accordance with his written instructions.
The For Sale sign went back up on the lawn, just in front of the
bougainvillea.

Seth was surprised at the number of people who showed up at the
memorial service. Ruth, of course, was not among them. Seth had no
idea how to locate her and reasoned that thirty-one years of silence
communicated its own deafening message.

Tom Huckins was there, and Rosie of course. Tom left without saying a
word. Seth had to catch up with Rosie on the front steps of the
mortuary.

"Rosie. Can't we just talk for a minute?"

"Sorry, Seth," she said, continuing to walk.

"I've got to get back to the bank."

"Can I take you to lunch?"

She picked up her pace.

"Not a good idea."

"How about after work?"

"Also not a good idea."

"Rosie, could you slow down to a trot? This is embarrassing."

Rosie stopped, but Seth couldn't get her to look at him.

"Give me a break, will you? In the past year I've been jerked around,
fired from my job, abandoned by the woman I love, and had my life
threatened. I'm in a case that's like swimming upstream through water
moccasins, and I've just lost my father. My brain's burnt toast, and
my stomach's thrashing like a lobster in boiling water." He considered
taking her by the shoulders, then thought better of it.

"Seems like a little slack could be cut here."

Rosie glanced up at him, then brushed her hair back from where the wind
had blown it across her pale face.

"I'm sorry, Seth, but everything's different now. My life is
changing."

"As in how?"

"Well, for one thing, my parents are gone now, too-Esther died last
spring--and this has been a--" "Jesus, Rosie, I'm sorry. Why didn't
you ..." Seth's voice drifted off. No need to finish that one. As if
seeking divine intervention, Seth gazed skyward at some slate-colored
strato-cumulus formations drifting in from the northwest.
"Nothin' to be sorry about. Mom and I weren't all that close."

"Still."

"Truth is, Seth, Esther Wheeler was sort of a fraud. My grandmother
knew it, never said it in so many words, but she knew it."

"That was your Iroquois grandmother?"

"Yes."

"You've never told me about her."

"You never asked."

"I'm asking now."

Rosie gave her shoulders a little shrug and started walking again, but
more slowly, encouraging Seth.

"Well, her name was Amelia Moon. I reckon she was the most important
person in my life when I was tryin' to grow up."

"She lived in Custer?"

"No. Canada. Lived up on the Six Nations Reservation. I had just
picked up scraps of information about her as a kid, seem as how Esther
was embarrassed about havin' an Indian for a mother. Until she got
famous in L.A." that is, and saw there was profit in being' the
daughter of an Iroquois shaman."

Seth laughed, and Rosie loosened up. Told him about her Great
Adventure as a restless fourteen-year-old whose meager hoard of
information about her grandmother had begun to add up to a legend. How
she had risen early one morning, told her mother she had a job in town,
then hitchhiked all the way to Ontario. Stayed just three days and
nights before Amelia Moon put her on a bus back to Custer, but was
never the same again. Neither was her bottom, after Esther finished
working it over with a three-foot willow branch.

"Told me next time I so much as mentioned my grandmother's name to
anyone, I'd be living up there with her on the Six Nations
Reservation." Rosie submitted to her mother's wishes, but she would
never forget those precious days with Amelia, would protect them in her
memory as if they were petals from the last rose on earth. She had
learned much from the gray-eyed old shaman--skin the color and texture
of a walnut shell, a smile so radiant you didn't notice the missing
teeth or the poverty around her. Learned about her grandfather, a
practicing Atsina medicine man, and more about her father, Sam Wheeler,
a handsome structural steelworker from Oklahoma whom Rosie didn't
remember and who was also high on Esther's list of
people-we-don't-talk-about. Learned that he had some Mohawk in him,
which made Rosie half-Indian herself.

Family secrets.

Sitting cross-legged and wide-eyed, Rosie heard the old men singing to
their grandfathers' drums and listened as Amelia told her to harvest
dream material before it was lost to the ether, to become "hollow
bones" for the spirit to work through, and of the need to live in
accordance with the Law of the Great Mystery. Of the need to fear
nothing.

But mostly Rosie would remember her last morning at Six Nations.

"You must go now," Amelia had said.

"Your mother is burning with worry and anger, and my own time in the
Earth Walk is now finished." Rosie knew what she meant, knew that her
grandmother had visited the dream place the night before and seen the
end there. She cried and hugged the old woman, who pressed bus money
into her hand then stepped back. As Rosie climbed into the back of a
pickup truck that would take her to the bus stop, she heard Amelia's
weakened voice say something about protecting the gift--which Rosie
took to mean the bus money-and holding the bills high above her head as
the truck sped away, her face still wet with tears, she waved her
thanks.

Rosie paused, and Seth didn't know what to say.

"Point is, Seth, Esther's passin' freed me up to admit to some stuff
I'd been denyin'. You know, take a good look at who I really am, where
I come from?"

"Sounds like you've been busy."

Rosie seemed to brighten for the first time.

"Well, I guess I have. I've been studyin' on my family history.
Learnin' things about my grandparents. Myself. Went back up to Six
Nations in Canada for two weeks this summer."

"That's good, Rosie. That's real good. So we've got a lot to talk
about."
Rosie gave her head a quick shake.

"I'm sorry, Seth, but I'm not ready."

"Ready for what? Jesus, woman, I'm talking about dinner here, not
Niagara Falls."

Rosie shrugged, looked past him, through him, toward the darkening
horizon.

"I'm sorry, Seth, but I'm not ready to risk slippin' back into that
person I was when I was with you."

"There wasn't anything wrong with that person."

Rosie took him by the hand.

"It's hard to explain, Seth.

But when I was with you, I wasn't sure how important I was."

She suddenly dropped his hand.

"No," she said, frowning and pooching out her lips, "that's not the
right word."

Started again.

"I just needed to know if without you or any man in my life I was
really ... valuable." She paused, gave Seth a sideways look, and
added, "So I guess I'm just not ready to hang out with you right
now."

Rosie started walking again, more briskly now to underscore the point.
Seth briskly followed.

"Rosie. I'm not sure what all that means, but I've changed, too, lots
of things have changed."

"Nothin's changed between us, Seth."

"You're wrong, Rosie." Seth moved ahead of her, put his hands on her
shoulders.

"If I win this case, I'm back on Montgomery Street--on our terms this
time, Rosie, I swear to you."

Rosie shook her head in exasperation.

"If there's change in you, Seth, I'm afraid I haven't seen it," she
said, gently turning out of his grasp, "other than you used to honor
the truth more."

Seth winced.

"That thing with Pop? Isn't that an inch or two below the belt, Rosie?
I had a situation there. A delicate balance, a Hobson's choice."

"Sounds like something your friend Treadwell might say."

You're already as good as Treadwell. In five years you could be even
worse.

He started to speak, but Rosie wasn't finished.
"You've chosen to be a raider after some lost ark, Seth.

I'm happy just being' a bank teller in Bakersfield."

"There's nothin' wrong with--" "But at least I'm becoming a person, not
just a reflection of you or some figment of other folks' imaginations
like I was in the city."

She started to walk again, but Seth spun her around.

"Okay, let's say that's good, but can you look at me and tell me you
don't still love me?"

Silence.

"And I've never stopped loving you, Rosie. So what's missing?"

"I don't know, Seth. Maybe just you loving yourself."

"Come again?"

"And believin' you always had my love--without having to earn it."

"That's crazy. Of course I know you loved me. You still do."

"Seth," she said, putting her hand on his, her eyebrows slanted in
concern.

"Dear Seth."

Seth couldn't remember anybody speaking to him with quite that tone of
voice. Or touch. Though he had never had a sister, it seemed a
sisterly sort of expression. Which wasn't bad, except that it was
coming from Rosie. Now she looked him straight in the eye.

"If you really believed I loved you, Seth, then you wouldn't have to
swim through poisonous snakes to be happy."

"Slow down, Rosie, you've lost me."

"I know. We've lost each other."

Seth watched her walk away, watched her until she turned the corner at
Jefferson Street, then he forced himself back to the vestibule, where a
few of his father's old friends--a fellow clerk, two bailiffs, and a
superior court judge--continued to visit.

Talking about the good old days.

At the edge of town, Seth stopped at a pay telephone and called Elena.
She answered on the first ring and not only accepted his invitation to
dinner that night but offered to cook it. That cheered him some, but
he hit the freeway in a torrent of emotions, certain of nothing except
that he had seen the last of Bakersfield, California.

One hour and eighty miles up the road later, mired in anguished
thoughts of Pop and his scene with Rosie, he forced his mind to other
things and, eventually, the case.

With trial nearly upon him, he knew he would need three things to win:
support for Daimler's harness-chafing theory, some new evidence to beat
the statute of limitations, and protection from whoever was trying to
stop him from revealing whatever it was he didn't even know.

He resolved to make Elena accompany him to Washington, D.C." and
persuade Senator Traeger to send the boys with the butterfly nets after
General Farnsworth. The joy of victory at trial would be considerably
dampened should the general kill him before he had a chance to savor
it. Surely the government must have a federal funny farm for burnt-out
crazies like Farnsworth.

Meanwhile, he had decided to retain one of Daimler's associates. Dr.
Alan Millstein, to run a test to simulate the chafing and harness
failure. He would have to subpoena the harness and the TDA specs on
the activating mechanism, but both were off-the-shelf components and
would present no government secrecy problems. Daimler and Millstein
were guardedly optimistic that the tests would provide empirical
corroboration for the professor's testimony on the proximate cause of
Sam's crash.

Things were looking better; he was sure of it.

He was also sure he had never felt worse.

2S5
Part 5 "it's DEFINITELY NOT stars, seth, BUT I THOUGHT YOU might like
a home-cooked meal after what you've been through."

Harry Cooper had been right about one thing: Elena Barton looked like a
movie star. Even in jeans, Reeboks, and a simple blouse, she was a
certified knockout. She knew it, too, Seth observed without judgment.
She had all the moves.

Like giving him her best side for a five count--as if she didn't know
his eyes were locked onto her perfect profile, the delicate nose, the
full lips--then spinning her head around to face him with a suddenness
that framed her face in a flurry of radiant hair as if an off-camera
wind machine had sent it flying.

As she cleared Seth's unfinished plate, she kissed him lightly on his
cheek, and that soft hair brushed his face like autumn gossamer.

"So what's the verdict from Chef Cameron?"

"The pet rale sole was great."

"Just great?"

"With your lemon-caper sauce, it was perfect."

"Just perfect? You didn't finish your pasta. Was my marinara sauce
lacking?"

"It was fine."

"What was wrong with it?"

"The truth?"

"You're my lawyer."

"Okay, next time I'll show you a place in North Beach where you can get
fresh organic Italian tomatoes. I'd say you were also a little heavy
on the oregano--I use just a pinch--and maybe you were a little light
on the garlic. Try mincing at least three cloves."

"I used one. Anything else?"
"I prefer Romano over Parmesan. Since you asked."

"I did. And if you're this good with a hobby, I'm glad you're on my
side in court."

"I get a little fanatical about things. There's nothing wrong with
your cooking. The main reason I didn't finish it was because I'm just
too damn tired to enjoy anything."

"Anything?" she said, smiling and stroking his hand.

"Well, I reckon 'anything' was an overstatement. But I do need to talk
to you before we ... relax."

"You're getting that lawyer tone in your voice."

"Sit down, Elena. Turn off the music."

For twenty minutes, Seth reviewed the events of the past several days:
Daimler's testimony, the Las Vegas disaster, Farnsworth's threat,
Treadwell's warnings, everything. Elena listened without moving except
to occasionally bite her lower lip or close her eyes against the force
of his words.

She cried when he told her that Murphy had died. Probably murdered.
Probably Farnsworth.

"On top of all that, Treadwell's budget is unlimited," he concluded.

"He's got a support team consisting of the U.S.

Air Force, plus two smart associates, two paralegals, and at least one
other partner working full-time. I've got me working part-time with
occasional help from Leviticus. I'm burning out, and I need to know
what in the hell I'm into. You've got to help me find out."

Elena dried her eyes, then rose and poured them each a cup of coffee.

"Our lawsuit is making everybody look bad, Seth: Con Space the Air
Force, Daddy, the entire government. If we win, everybody else
loses."

Seth shook his head.

"It's not just that. This is not the first time a suit like this has
been brought. We're not breaking new ground here. No, there's
something more. Something really important."

Elena shuddered.

"You must be right. Murphy. Dead.

Three young kids. What could be that important? Murder? It's
unthinkable, but ... scary. If you want to pull out--" "That's not it.
What I want is some protection, and the only man I know who's high
enough up in government to provide it happens to be your daddy."
"That's out of the question, Seth. We haven't exchanged a cordial
word in years."

"Time to get cordial."

"Impossible." Elena wrapped herself in her arms and fell into a chair
across from him. She looked vulnerable, almost childlike.

"I don't want to go into it, Seth, but let's just say he loved me a
little too much when I was a little girl." Tears formed in her eyes. A
hand went to her mouth, as if to keep from saying too much, straying
too far into the past.

"He .. .

things happened. I got away from him as soon as I could.

Left home and married Sam."

"Was Sam in the Air Force?"

"Not yet. Junior college, but he got into the aviation cadet program
as soon as we were married, and you know the rest. He was a natural,
became the youngest astronaut ever.

Anyway, we had been neighbors--sort of grew up together--I guess you
could call us childhood sweethearts though he was a little older than
me.

"Sam was my hero since I was seven. Still is, which is why I've got to
clear his name." Elena started to cry again. Seth came up with a
cocktail napkin.

"My mother stood up to Daddy for the first and only time in her entire
life by signing the parental consent. I was sixteen."

"Where's your mother now?"

"He dumped her when he found out that she had signed.

She moved back to North Carolina, lived with an old-maid sister, then
caught cancer and died. I hate him most of all because of that. And
he hates me as well." She laughed a short laugh.

"I don't know which he hated the most: the fact that I ran away and
embarrassed him at a law firm that doesn't permit runaway daughters, or
the fact that I married 'that soldier," as he always called Sam. He
couldn't stand the thought of me being married to a serviceman, even an
astronaut who became a top gun. Laudable tolerance coming from a
member of the Armed Services Committee, don't you think?"

Seth nodded.

"Now he hates me even more for bringing this suit. He thinks it's my
revenge. Maybe he's right, but you can see that there's no way I can
ask him to help us."
Seth shook his head.

"Find a way. This case is important to both of us--for different
reasons. Important, but not to die for."

"I can't do it, Seth."

"Yes, you can and you will," he said, then added as if he meant it, "or
I am out."

Seth snatched up his coffee as if to signal the discussion had ended,
but he could feel her eyes on him as he emptied his cup. After a
minute, she delicately blew her nose into the cocktail napkin and went
to the kitchen. Seth heard the sound of pots and pans, then ten
minutes later the buzz-click from the dishwasher.

Another five minutes passed before she emerged, drying her hands on a
monogrammed kitchen towel.

"All right, I'll call him in the morning. Now let's go to bed."

Seth lay on his back, waiting. She came out of the bathroom in a white
terry robe, which she loosened but kept on as she straddled him.
Expertly massaging his chest and neck, she kept her eyes steadily on
his. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, then up into his tense
neck, gently rocking back and forth, never taking her eyes off him.

Seth reached up with both hands and pulled her head down. Their lips
locked together. Elena's tongue explored his mouth while Seth's hands
moved inside the robe onto her stomach, then slowly up onto her small,
firm breasts. He pulled the robe down over her shoulders so that it
pinned her arms to her sides and set his teeth gently around the edges
of one rigid nipple--his tongue flicking the tip)--then the other. He
heard funny little gasps from her as he closed his lips over as much of
one of her breasts as he could take in.

Fill my emptiness, Elena. Make me forget that I've lost nearly
everyone important to me.

Elena's rocking motion gained intensity. She pressed her vulva into
his pelvis and he felt her wetness spreading across his stomach.

The woman I loved.

Elena struggled free of the robe and secured his arms to the bed with
surprisingly strong hands. He closed his eye sand felt her satin hair
again, caressing his chest now, then lightly whipping against his
stomach, surrounding her hot tongue as it moved lower and lower and ...
Elena's head snapped up as if she had been shot, her eyes blazing.

"You don't want me!"

Seth tried to hold her, to console her--and himself--with whispered
reminders that it had not been an easy week. But Elena was
implacable.

"I think you'd better leave," she said, pulling oh her robe and
reentering the bathroom.

Seth dressed, then said goodnight to the bathroom door.

"Wait," said a muffled voice from behind the door, and she came out,
hands in the pockets of her robe. She had been crying.

"Blamed my fading beauty. Pretty insensitive, huh?" she said, taking
a tentative step toward him.

"Call it what you want. Doubt I was your first disappointment."

"My second. I was married to the first. Sam had been so stressed out
during the last year over the X-215A, well ..."

She put her arms around his waist and laid her head against his
chest.

"Damn it, Seth, I've fallen in love with you. But I think we'd better
try to keep it professional for now. Too many things going on."

Seth put his arms around her.

"Too many things."

"You won't leave me, will you?" she said, the little girl again.

"Or the case?"

It was a beautiful, clear night over the Golden Gate Bridge, moon
craters visible, the Bay still and shiny as a sheet of foil. But Seth
drove home without noticing, utterly defeated. 36 SiX HOURS LATER,
seth FED fat dog, GRABBED A MUFFIN and a bennie, and hit the road
again. For variety, he took the Richmond-San Raphael Bridge across to
the East Bay, driving straight into the rising sun, its rays spreading
like brush fires down Mount Diablo twenty miles away. At least that's
the way it looked to him. A tourist from Des Moines might have seen
the bands of blazing light as God's own awakening.

He then turned south, down U.S. 880 to Berkeley and his meeting with
Professor Daimler and Dr. Alan Millstein.

The experts had agreed to meet at seven-thirty to accommodate Seth's
debtor's hearing in San Francisco Municipal Court at nine, a new-client
meeting at ten, a divorce mediation at eleven, and three depositions in
the afternoon. Allyn was on the warpath and didn't even know yet about
his intention to fly to D.C. with Elena.

"Dr. Millstein is a little quirky," Professor Daimler had warned, "but
he's the best failure analyst alive. His Ph.D.

is from MIT and his dissertation was on "The Predictability of
Non-Linear Phenomena." Don't expect 'too many grapes in a bag' clarity
from Alan."

Actually, Seth liked the diminutive, thirty-something consultant from
the start, except for the fact that he was meeting with the last of the
big chain smokers in the smallest office in the University of
California system. Not even the reek of sulfuric acid from the labs
below was a match for the plumes of noxious smoke issuing from
Millstein's lungs.

Batting his reddened and glistening eyes. Henry Daimler suggested that
Alan explain his role.

The consultant nodded affirmatively, lit another cigarette, and lifted
off.
"Okay. First, let's see, uh ... okay, well there's this sub264 field
of science called chaotic dynamics in which a bunch of smart guys
without real jobs but blessed with foundation grants sit in university
laboratories and, you know, sweat bullets over such weighty issues as
the predictability of physical phenomena, you know, like whether we
should wear a raincoat tomorrow? Okay?"

Listening to Millstein was like white-water rafting on the Colorado
River. Seth had never heard words propelled so fast from a human
mouth.

"See, Newton thought the universe was one big fucking clock--a
'clockwork universe people called it--but a smart guy named Poincare
came along and said, "Bullshit: we live in chaos." He posited that the
reason there's no clockwork predictability in nature is because of what
he called a 'sensitive dependence on initial conditions."

" "Which means?" asked Seth.

"Simple example: A foundation-blessed colleague of mine hung a magnet
at the end of a short stick which was rigged to swing like a pendulum
over a table on which were mounted three randomly fixed magnets. Got
it? He pulled back and released the pendulum--which obviously went
ape-shit the minute it entered the opposing fields of the magnets
beneath it. He then spent a year or so--time you might argue could
have been better spent in AIDS research, solving the homeless problem,
or trying to get laid--staring bug-eyed at the swinging magnet's
erratic path in hopes of tracing some kind of repetitious pattern.
Okay?"

"And he found there was order in chaos?"

"Order?" said Millstein, looking surprised.

"Fat chance.

Order is the dream of lawyers, my friend, but chaos is the law of
nature."

"Okay, so he didn't find order in chaos."

"At the risk of sounding like a lawyer, yes and no. Yes, some patterns
emerge if one doesn't get hemorrhoids first;

but no, he mainly proved that Poincare's 'sensitive dependence on
initial conditions' is still with us. In other words, since you don't
know the exact release point of the magnet--the initial condition--you
can't predict where the hell it will eventually go. The problem
derives from the underlying nonlinearity of the equations describing
the motion."
"Alan," interrupted Professor Daimler, "he doesn't like it when you
use MIT jargon."

"He's right, Alan," added Seth.

"Could you be a little more practical?"

"Practical?" asked Millstein as if confronted with a demand for his
passport in a foreign language.

"Practical," said Seth, "as in, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"Sorry. Okay. I can do practical. Here is a practical example of
where these birds are coming from. The reason that weathermen fuck up
nearly every day on TV is because of-you guessed it--Poincare's
'sensitive dependence on initial conditions." They can't predict the
speed and direction of wind that will hit Milpitas tomorrow morning
because they can't know exactly how it all got started yesterday.

"Weatherfolks call this the 'butterfly effect," meaning that because a
weather system can be started or impacted upon by the gentle movement
of a butterfly's wings up in Petaluma or Portland or
wherever--Poincare's 'initial conditions'--nobody can accurately
predict what it will look like by the time it blows into hapless
Milpitas a day later."

"So," said Seth, "you are telling me there can be no predictability of
the harness failure unless we know exactly what the initial stresses
were?"

"I'm not saying that. I'm just giving you a crock of theoretical
bullshit so the other side's expert won't be able to tie you in
forensic knots. You see, there's another group of smart guys out
there--also without real jobs but with a more optimistic slant on all
this--who hypothesize that if you plot various elements of chaos in
nature long enough, you really can observe patterns emerging. Get it?
Predictability! Order out of chaos! Brought to you by brilliant
theorists who must never have tried commuting during the Christmas
shopping season or standing near an. elevator in an office building at
quitting time or attempting to complete the most simple task at any
branch of a U.S. Post Office."

"Given your skepticism about predictability, Alan," said Seth with a
wink at Daimler, "can you predict why I'd want to pay you to be
involved in this case?"
"First, because I'm cheap. Second, because I'm fun. Third,because
Poincai-6 was talking about predictability of 'things in nature." A
high-density plastic harness might be a lot of things, but it damn sure
ain't nature."

"So you can predict failure?"

"But of course, monsieur, assuming you can give me the specs on the
harness and the canopy activation design. We will then make our own
fucking airplane--at least an adequate simulation of the major elements
of said fucking airplane--then we'll punish it until it fails. For
backup, we can set up a digital computer model. One will corroborate
the other. Our brilliant comrade, the good professor here, will then
take the witness stand and charm the birds out of the trees without the
slightest concern about cross-examination."

"Sounds good, pard," said Seth, looking at his watch.

"I'll subpoena the specs today. Meanwhile, thanks for the coffee and
the lesson on chaos. Very interesting."

Millstein seemed to drift off for a moment, then gave Seth a look
through narrowed eyes that to Seth looked both shrewd and slightly mad.
Seth was beginning to sense that Alan might have a few screws loose and
others a bit too tight.

"You think that's interesting? How about this: If Poincare is right in
insisting that the fundamental cause of chaos of things in nature is a
'sensitive dependence on initial conditions," what does this tell us
about us two-legged representatives of nature? What if there's a
'butterfly effect'--some early trauma--lurking in each of our lives
that renders confident predictability of our behavior impossible?"

"Sounds like psychobabble to me, Alan."

"So? I think Freud and Poincare would have danced to the same
cha-cha-cha. You can take it to the bank."

"All right, Alan," said Professor Daimler, seemingly embarrassed.

"Seth's got a busy sched--" Millstein shrugged.

"Okay, but think about it, Seth," he added, a small puff of smoke
accompanying every word that flew from his mouth.

"Isn't it possible that the flapping of destiny's wings in your distant
past might have set in motion a nonlinear force that could cause you to
do something completely unpredictable at a crucial point in your life,
something that could bury you in chaos?"

"I can't remember when I haven't been buried in chaos, Alan," said
Seth, smiling, "and I think you've got butterflies on the brain."

"Maybe," said the little man, inhaling deeply, then locking onto Seth's
eyes like a heat-seeking missile, "but sometimes, from far back in my
past, I hear the rustle of those wings.

Don't you?" senator traeger TURNED OUT TO BE SURPRISINGLY
COOPerative.

Elena was amazed at his conciliatory tone and his willingness to come
out to Dulles International to meet with Seth.

"He was friendly, Seth, almost fatherly, for God's sake!"

"I'm not one to get involved in private family matters," said Seth,
"but it won't hurt to keep in mind that he wants something from you."

Elena's face hardened.

"He always did. But since he won't get it, why do you expect him to be
willing to help you?"

"I'm not traveling empty-handed," Seth said, and Elena knew better than
to pursue it.

The cease-fire between father and daughter was short-lived. The trio
met in the Red Carpet Room and Traeger offered friendly, if somewhat
guarded, greetings. Seth thanked him for driving to Duties and
explained that he had to turn around and head back to San Francisco on
the redeye to cover three hearings the next morning.

"I'm happy to help out," said the senator.

"Now what's all the mystery about? Elena wouldn't tell me what was
important enough to cause the two of you to fly back here.

I'm hoping it's got something to do with calling off the dogs."
"That's exactly what it's about, sir, calling off the dogs."

The senator beamed.

"Wonderful, Seth. You're dismissing your case?"

"No, sir. Different dogs. We're talking different dogs here."

"I'm not understanding you. Counselor," said Traeger, lowering his
voice and glancing around to check out the people closest to them. A
Japanese couple conversed in Japanese two tables away. Another man sat
in a wheelchair, engrossed in Sports Illustrated and sipping a martini.
None were in hearing distance, but Seth also kept his voice low.

"The reason I'm here is that in the space of a few weeks I've been
threatened by an Air Force general. Senator, and ominously warned by
your old partner, Anthony Treadwell.

I need you to intercede in my behalf. I need you to talk to the
secretary of defense about one of his bat-shit base commanders, and I
need you to find out from Mr. Treadwell what's got everybody so
stirred up."

Traeger's manner changed; his posture, even his face.

"I

had hoped you had come back here to talk sense, not fantasy."

Traeger looked as if he were going to get up and leave, but then turned
to Elena, who had been sitting quietly between the two men.

"Elena. Darling. I beg you to end this farce. You're not just
embarrassing me, your suit could mortally wound the entire Stealth
Program, which, for reasons I'm not at liberty to disclose, is going to
be desperately important to this country before this decade is out."

Elena stared at him as if he were a total stranger.

"The press will be in a feeding frenzy if this thing gets to trial," he
continued, becoming more agitated.

"I'd probably have to excuse myself from future hearings on the B-2
and

X-215A!"

"Daddy is afraid baby will take away his toys," Elena said to Seth with
an iciness Seth had never heard from her.

"Elena--" "No, Senator," she added scornfully, "I'm no longer a little
girl, and I'm not one of your Washington whores who will cater to your
every demand, and I'm not my mother, who always just looked the other
way. So you can--""Give it a rest, Elena," said Seth, "this is not
helping."

Too late.

"You go ahead and do your damnedest, you ungrateful little bitch," said
Traeger, spitting out the words at a volume that attracted the
attention of everyone in the cocktail lounge. The senator glanced
around, then lowered both his head and his voice.

"The only reason either of you are in this thing is for the publicity
and the hope that the Air Force will pressure Con Space into making a
fat settlement with you." Turning on Seth, he added, "Well, it won't
work, damn it! I've dealt with opportunists like you and I've dealt
with strike suits like this."

"This is no strike suit. Senator, and I'm prepared to prove it to
you."

"You're wasting your time, Seth," said Elena.

"Even when we get our justice, he won't understand it."

"Justice?" said Traeger with a sardonic laugh as he reached for his
coat.

"Justice is nothing but a blind woman who mates with the guy who has
the best lawyer. And Con Space has the best lawyer in America."

Seth shrugged, then convinced Elena to wait in the other room. He
hadn't flown all the way back east to have a rerun of Family Feud
preempt his own carrot-and-stick program.

Time to summon The Manipulator.

The carrot.

Seth first persuaded the senator to put his coat down and listen for
five minutes. He then offered exaggerated affirmations concerning his
open-mindedness to the true facts. He offered another drink. He
offered apologies for Elena's outburst and listened sympathetically to
Traeger's further lamentations on fatherhood. After the senator began
to relax somewhat, Seth carefully returned to the matter of the
lawsuit.

You know who's the easiest guy in the world to manipulate, kid? A
manipulator. You know why? Simple. A manipulator is that way because
he's so needy. I've seen it time after time on the witness stand. Just
give a con man what he needs, and you can manipulate him right out of
his counterfeit soul.

Seth nattered the senator and professed understanding of his concerns,
warned him that even Elena could be at risk.
Then, to establish his good-faith belief in the merits of his case,
Seth gave him a five-minute version of his opening statement.

The senator was impressed and did not try to conceal it.

"Daimler will say all that? I usually disagree with everything the man
says, of course, but his reputation is beyond question, See here,
Cameron, strictly off the record. Suppose I personally looked into
that harness and canopy situation.

Hypothetically speaking, suppose further there was something to your
theory and that Con Space converted to another, canopy system and
replaced the harnesses. Pronto.

Would you agree to drop your suit?"

"Sure, so long as they would also bring Sam Barton back to life. You
were a trial lawyer yourself. Senator, one of the best in the city
from what I hear. You know I can't just walk away from this."

The stick.

"What I will do, sir, is agree not to hand you this deposition
subpoena. I have no desire to embarrass you further.

All I ask in return is that you try to keep me alive, at least until
this thing is resolved one way or another."

The senator's eyes darted between Seth's face and the subpoena in his
hand.

"After all," Seth added with a half smile, "I am one of your
constituents."

"Of course, I'll look into it," said Traeger at last.

"Farnsworth you say? Hell, he's heading up the whole X-215A test
program at Symington. I have heard he's a bit erratic; sees himself as
the new Oilie North."

"Will you talk with him?"

"Damn right I will, and I'll talk to the secretary of defense as well.
I'll do it tonight. Frankly, Cameron, I can't say I've liked you, but
this goes beyond personalities. I can't have my program in the hands
of some self-styled Rambo if what you say is even half-true. 111 also
chat with Tony. Maybe I could influence him to make you an acceptable
offer."

"Always willing to listen to acceptable offers."

They shook hands and parted.

Outside the cocktail area, while the senator was paying the bill and
putting on his coat, Seth swept Elena out of her chair and guided her
toward the opposite end of the terminal.

"I've got the wheels greased, Elena. I don't want you to go throwing
sand in them."

"He'll help?"

"He said he'd get on the telephone right away."

True to his word. Sen. Stanford Traeger stopped at the very first
bank of telephones and placed a call.

"Aubrey? Father here. We've got a problem." seth AWOKE TO A
TYPICALLY CRISP AND LONELY LATE November morning and prepared a gourmet
breakfast for himself and Fat Dog. Since Rosie's departure. Fats had
become his dining companion whenever he had time to practice his secret
passion. Today, they would indulge in Seth's version of a Denver
omelet--using the milder Gruyere cheese and only Maui onions (he had
found a reliable supplier)--and macadamia-banana waffles. Fat Dog's
personal favorite.

After breakfast, they headed to the small park nearby for a Frisbee
workout. The mutt was not much of a jumper-particularly after an
omelet and two Belgian waffles--but compensated for his disabilities
with passionate determination and the timing of a mongoose. Tears
blurred Seth's vision as he watched the game little pooch slip and
stumble in the damp, thick leaves that blanketed the grass. Cold air
could do that to a person's eyes.

Fat Dog signaled his weariness in the usual manner:

caught the plastic sphere with a perfect grab--he always ended on a
high note--then careened straight for home, his rear end oscillating
wildly from the eccentric forces imposed by the missing front leg.
We're alike. Fat and we, Seth thought, a couple of beat-up junkyard
dogs, too dumb to quit. He walked slowly, past awakening houses with
wood-burning stoves already sending up sweet-smelling fingers of smoke
against the silent majesty of Mount Tamalpais, which, with its crown of
rare, fresh snow, looked like a torch created to brighten the lead
sky.

He walked slowly because his energy was failing him. At nine in the
morning he was already fatigued to his bones.

He resolved to whip himself into shape after the trial.

He'd start jogging alongside Richardson Bay as he had done with Rosie
once long ago, when they had sent the feeding egrets scurrying off to
deeper water, sucked steam fog off the bay into their bursting lungs,
laughed back at the gulls, rejoiced at the sun's arrival. Long ago.

He forced his thoughts back to the case, to the statutory wall standing
between him and a jury trial. Was Crispie telling everything he knew?
Perhaps Bostwick would come around. Maybe they could find somebody
else at Symington who had witnessed the takeoff. Funny that the only
people on the flight line that night were--according to the Air Force
anyway--either dead, transferred to a "high-security overseas theater,"
or, like Bostwick, just plain lying. He had to find somebody willing
to tell the truth. Somebody in New Mexico, where it all began.

Conning his way into Symington Air Force Base a second time turned out
to be another one of those pretrial challenges for which there had been
no preparation at law school--not as daring and heart-stopping as his
first incursion with Leviticus, but requiring more skill and
patience.

First, Seth had to persuade AUyn to advance $2,800 and expenses for a
trip she had characterized as "an epic waste of time" and "a fool's
errand even by your standards, Seth."

She had finally reached for her checkbook, but Seth knew he had
exhausted any residual credit from the Pacific Sigma windfall. Worse,
Seth saw that AUyn had lost her enthusiasm for the case, and like a
priest whose bishop has renounced his faith, he would find it harder to
sustain his own.

With the money secured, he had to figure a way to get inside the base.
He decided to have Elena convince Crispieto grant Seth an interview.
This turned out to be harder than he had expected.

"Please don't ask me to do this," she had said, her eyes pleading.

"He's just going to say no. He thinks you're a little pushy, Seth, and
now with Jerry Murphy getting killed--" Seth bristled.

"I'm sure he's said worse than that about me.

But now it's your turn, Elena. It is your case, remember?"

Their discussion began as they walked down Divisadero from her Pacific
Heights apartment, toward Union Street in San Francisco's Cow Hollow
district. He had arranged a special lunch, knowing this would not be
easy.

"But what can you hope to accomplish," she asked, "even if he did agree
to see you?"

"Jesus, Elena, I won't know until I've accomplished it."

He always felt awkward, walking beside her; as if he should be holding
her hand or she should be taking his arm. Made him irritable somehow
as he shuffled along, hands in pockets, kicking at sticks and rocks on
the sidewalk.

"That's the way this business works," he added, his breath scalding the
crystal December air as he spoke.

"Winning trial lawyers shoot until they run out of ammunition, then
they keep on shooting. I'm not quitting on you just because we're out
of bullets, but now it's your turn, damn it."

An uncomfortable silence consumed their thoughts. Seth was seeing a
vacillation he didn't admire in anyone, let alone the woman of his
dreams and an otherwise gutsy person who had the most to gain from his
success and nearly the most to lose from his failure. He tried not to
expect others to share his take-no-prisoners approach to
problem-solving, but hated it when his clients drained energy he
preferred to save for the enemy.

"Look, Elena," he said, taking her by the arm, "this case is history if
we don't find something before the hearing on Treadwell's motion to
dismiss under the statute of limitations."

That got her attention.

"When is the hearing?"

"Two weeks from now. The declaration of Symington's base commander
swears the crash occurred before midnight.

With no counter declaration the court will have to deem the fact
admitted."

"What about that tech rep? Bostwick."
"Good of' Bullshit Bostwick. He probably told us the truth when he
talked about rumors of a late takeoff, but he stonewalled me at his
deposition. Getting back on that base and finding someone or something
else is our last hope."

They surrendered to another long silence before she agreed to try, but
not without questioning how he expected to accomplish anything.

"I have a secret weapon."

"As in?"

"I'm going to talk Lev into going with me again."

"Oh," Elena had said, unimpressed. Nonetheless, she did her part, and
a week later, Crispie agreed to a "final and very brief meeting. His
terms--which did not inspire confidence in the outcome--required that
Seth first agree in writing not to inquire into any matters pertaining
to the "national interest."

That, thought Seth, will probably include everything from the price of
drinks at the Officers' Club to his shoe size.

But Seth had reason to smile as he and Leviticus boarded Southwest
Airlines flight 642 to Albuquerque. At least he had accomplished steps
one and two--getting there and getting through the gate--now he just
had to figure out what to do once they were inside.

"What's our strategy. Cowboy?" Lev asked as they settled in their
seats. Seth told him that Alan Millstein had succeeded in constructing
a nearly identical model of TDA components, plus an interfacing with a
three-meter section of electrical wiring protected by the same harness
that was used in the X-215A.

"That's good," said Lev, noticing the look exchanged between Seth and a
petite flight attendant, "but what's our strategy today?"

"No different than yesterday," said Seth, buckling his seat belt, and
Lev let it go until they were at cruising altitude.

"Refresh me, Seth, what was our strategy yesterday?"

Seth took a deep breath.

"Okay, first we'll contrast Sam Barton's record of proficiency with the
X-215A's record of failure, then bring in Henry Daimler--hopefully
supported by a failure in Millstein's model--to lay out his harness
theory We'll wrap it up by having the widow Barton shed a few salty
ones, then count on the jury's sympathy and traditional distrust of
government contractors. Of course, we have to get past the statute."

"I believe," said Lev dryly, "that's why we're on this airplane?"

"Right. We'll beat the statute by persuading either Hostwick or
Christopher to tell the truth. If that doesn't work, we'll have to
find somebody who saw the late takeoff."

"And our strategy for doing that is what I'm asking."

Seth glared at Lev.

"I'm working on it."

Lev shrugged, tilted back, and drifted into sleep.

Seth doodled on a pad and sipped coffee he really didn't need from a
flight attendant who leaned in across the sleeping Lev in a way that
revealed her interest and a pair of promising breasts.

Lev was awakened an hour later by rough air and noticed that Seth
appeared to be finished glaring at him.

"You have a strategy."

"I do," said Seth, and summarized what he called Plan A and Plan B. Lev
listened quietly, his intelligent eyes unblinking, his expression
inscrutable.

"So," said Seth as he finished, "what do you think?"

Lev pinched the bridge of his nose and considered for a moment what he
had heard.

"I think you should give some thought to having someone check out the
soundness of your mind."

By the time they were on the ground at Albuquerque International,
however, Lev agreed that though the plan was flawed, he couldn't come
up with a better one.

"It'll work," said Seth.

"It should work," said Lev, looking straight ahead so Seth couldn't see
his eyes.

They picked up a rental compact and headed toward the base, past mesas
that rose several stories above the mesquite-blanketed prairie, then
flattened out so level a football game could be played on top. Seth
had no problem finding good country-music stations, and Lev had given
up insisting there was no such thing. Both men's thoughts were turned
inward, tense and expectant. Later, they exchanged some small
talk--the 49ers' newly constructed team. Lev's wife's decision that it
was time for them to start a family, Seth's admission he had obtained
the flight attendant's telephone number--then they turned quiet again.
As they approached the base. Lev broke the silence.

"Yeah, it's bound to work."

"It'll work."

"But why do I always have to do the hard part?" Lev asked.

"Because you're bigger."

"Did you say because I'm a nigger?"

"No, I said because you're smarter. And more handsome."

"You left out debonair."

They were swiftly escorted through Gate 6, the same one they had
entered before. The only delay this time was waiting for their
assigned "drivers," a staff sergeant named Grover Draper--who looked as
if he could bench-press the Ford staff car he was driving--and a
hard-looking airman first class who did not bother to introduce
himself. Both wore the white arm-bands of air policemen as well as
sidearms-conveying a message in typically subtle military fashion:

Don't try anything funny.

Five blocks and two right turns later, Seth recognized the Con Space
headquarters Quonset and leaned forward.

"Would you mind stopping here for a second, Sarge? I'd like to say
hello to an old friend."

"Sir?" said the sergeant with no perceptible slowing of the vehicle.
The airman riding shotgun suppressed a smile.

"Hal Bostwick. Works for Con Space Great guy. Works right inside
that building there--" "Sorry, sir."

"--the one we just passed at the speed of light."

Sergeant Draper's eyes, reflected in the rearview mirror, betrayed no
reaction to Seth's sarcasm.

So much for Part A of the Great Plan.

"My orders are to take you directly to the Officers' Club, gentlemen.
No exceptions. Sir."

"No exceptions," said Seth, then asked the sergeant if he would be more
at ease if they submitted to leg irons. This remark drew no reaction
at all from the stoic air cop though the jaw of the hard-eyed airman
first class began to twitch with a noisy click that reminded Seth of
the warning sound of a rattlesnake.

"That won't be necessary, sir."

Five minutes later. Sergeant Draper turned them over to a master
sergeant, who escorted them to a small conference room where, he
assured them, the major would join them in just a few minutes. The
airman first class's jaw had stopped clicking, but he gave Seth a final
hard look as he followed Grover Draper out the door. Seth nudged Lev,
who asked the master sergeant where the men's room was, then headed off
rapidly down the hall.

Plan B was under way.

"I thought there were two of you," said Christopher as he came into the
room a few minutes later and offered one of his guarded, below-the-eyes
smiles.

"Where's Mr.

Heywood?"

"I'm afraid he's a little under the weather. Major. He's in the head
disposing of the last of his airline lunch. Doesn't travel well. He'll
be back in a minute, but we can begin without him."

While Seth was getting the anticipated party-line responses from
Crispie, Lev was scrambling outside the Officers' Club, randomly
approaching anyone who looked as if they might know something about the
crash. After several failed attempts, he spotted two enlisted men
raking leaves behind the club. One of them turned out to be from Los
Angeles and recalled Lev's short-lived career with the 49ers.

"Hell, I remember you," said Airman Second Class Bobby Baxter, whom Lev
sized up as one of those characters one meets in the service who makes
it his business to know everybody else's.

"Fucked up your back, right?"

"Knee," said Lev, giving it a whack.

"Second year."

"Oh, maaan? And after being' Rookie of the Year?

Shee-it!"

"Runner-up."

"Still." Baxter turned to his partner, displaying a formidable set of
teeth.

"This man was bad. Verrry bad."
"The older I get," said Lev, quoting Connie Hawkins,"the better I used
to be. I'm just a mule for the government now, boys, like you, but
without the uniform and the glory.

I'm looking into how we can improve the safety record around here."

One thing led to another, and Lev was soon on his way back inside the
club looking for a Corp. Mitchell Simmons, described by Airman Baxter
as a club bartender who was one of the last people to see Sam Barton
alive. Lev found Simmons setting up the bar.

"Yes, sir, I knew Captain Barton," said Simmons, a pleasant,
light-skinned black man with freckles and reddish hair.

"He didn't come in much, but everybody knew who he was.

The captain was considered a troublemaker--kinda like me."

"Troublemakers don't land jobs working at the Officers' Club, Mitch."

"Oh, I ain't a fuck-up while I'm here pickin' the white man's cotton,
Mr. Heywood. I'm Mr. Personality. Corporal Straight Fucking Arrow.
You can put it down right there in your notes and take it back to the
Pentagon: "Mitchell-that's two Fs--Simmons. A credit to his race and
to the Air Force he so courageously and unselfishly serves." Got
that?"

"Got it," said Lev, smiling.

"Anything else?"

"Yeah. I'm overdue for promotion to staff sergeant.

Where the ruck's the guy cutting' the papers?"

"I'll check it out," said Lev.

"Now tell me about the last time you saw Captain Barton."

In another wing of the Officers' Mess, Seth was getting nothing out of
Jack Christopher.

"Look, Seth, you know I'd do anything for Elena. Anything.

But you're putting me in a hell of a bind here."

"You told me before that Sam was the best pilot in the unit."

Christopher squirmed in his seat.

"All right, I'll testify to how great he was, but just between you and
me? The fact that he was a hotshot astronaut didn't make him any
better than the rest of us. Walking in space didn't mean he could walk
on water."

"Did he think he could?"
Crispie shrugged uncomfortably and looked out the window.

"He thought he knew a lot of things he didn't. He was a shit-disturber
and a lot of people were listening. He was getting a little
messianic."

"Sounds like he was carting his balls around in a wheelbarrow," said
Seth, hearing the resentment in Crispie's words, and giving him some
rope to see what he'd do with it.

"But that doesn't make friends. Power always engenders envy."

"/ was his friend."

Seth relaxed.

"Good. You'll have a chance to prove it.

Now, what about the takeoff time? That's where we really need you,
Crispie, and I think you could help if you wanted to."

Crispie glared at him.

"I've told you I wasn't there. I don't know!"

Seth tapped his pen on the table, out of ideas, and hoping Lev was
doing better than he was.

"I guess," he said, laying his pen down, and summoning a tone of
sympathetic understanding, "that what happened to Gerald Murphy out in
Vegas has everybody a little on edge."

Christopher reddened at the implication.

"You've got an attitude, Cameron, and I'm fed up with it I'm not afraid
of some fantasy repercussions your mind has concocted. I'm a stand-up
guy. As for Murph, hell, anybody can buy a bird in the air scoop, it
happens--" "--all the time," finished Seth, wondering if his sarcasm
had supped through.

"That's it. Counselor," said the major, pushing himself away from the
table. Seth's sarcasm had slipped through.

"And by the way, where the hell's your associate? Rush himself down
the toilet?"

"Probably down on his knees in the head, praying to the White Ceramic
Goddess. Dry heaves. Look, Jack, I'm sorry if I got out of line." The
apology was rendered with a lowered head, a trick Seth had picked up
watching male elk battling for supremacy on The Wild Kingdom.

"I'm trying to help Elena, too," Seth continued.

"I get carried away. Maybe you could fill in just a few last blanks
about Sam's skill as a pilot." Seth was not at his best when he was
begging, but he noted that Crispie's shoulders relaxed and the skin
around his eyes was not stretched quite so thin against his protruding
cheekbones.

"For Elena, okay?" Seth added, hating himself almost as much as he did
Christopher.

"Then I promise I'm out of your hair for good."

Meanwhile, Lev tried to stay calm in the face of news so astonishing he
could scarcely believe it.

"You're sure about this, Mitch? Barton and some other commissioned
dude walked out of here the night of the fifteenth around eleven-thirty
p.m.?"

"Exactly eleven-thirty p.m. I don't know what the date was, but I know
it was the night he crashed."

"But if you don't know the date, how do you know the time?"

"Simple. That's what time I always close the bar."

Lev's jaw tightened and his pen froze against the yellow pad.

"Barton was here until you closed the bar?"

"The two of them left same time I did."

"And you can't remember," asked Lev, temporarily forestalling the
question to which he most feared the answer, "who the other guy was?"

"I can picture the guy--seen him a couple a times--but don't know his
name. I think he was a captain, but I'm not sure. Didn't hang out
here."

Lev took a detailed description of Barton's companion, then affected
the most casual manner he could muster as he asked, "Did either of them
have anything to drink that night?"

"One of them was loaded," said Mitchell Simmons without hesitation,
"but the other one wasn't drinking."

Lev took a deep breath.

"Which one was drinking?"

"Listen, Cameron," said Christopher, rising to his feet.

"I've answered that and all your other questions two or three times
now. I don't know what the hell you're up to, but I want to know where
your man is."

"Crispie, just one more minute and I'll be--" But the major was
grabbing a phone.

"Christopher here.
Send two men to the men's head and bring me a black man you'll find in
there. If he's not there, call the AP's and have them surround the
building. Find him! Yeah, black and in civilian clothes. Probably
big. On the double!"

Seth started to rise.

"Stay right there, Cameron. We're going to wait here for your
partner."

Lev watched Corporal Simmons scan the handwritten statement. Just sign
it, Simmons, Lev thought to himself, you don't have to fucking memorize
it! He had drafted the statement meticulously, even using the
bartender's own words, but Simmons was studying the single sheet of
paper as if it were a property settlement agreement. Lev glanced at
his watch and surreptitiously swept away beads of sweat that were
erupting on his forehead. Crunch time. Getting the signature on the
page. Closing the sale.

He glanced at the clock. Twenty past the hour. They'd be looking for
him by now. Sign it, Mitch, for Christ's sake!

Make my day.

Simmons looked up sheepishly.

"I don't think I can sign this, Mr. Heywood."

Shit! Sweat broke across his brow again.

"What's the problem, man? I laid it down just like you told me."

"No, sir. You say here that the two guys left 'around eleven-thirty
p.m."

" "Hell, Mitch, that's what you told me. I didn't put in there about
the call you took from the base commander for the other guy 'cause it
didn't fit in anywhere, but otherwise, it's just like you gave it to
me."

"Wrong, Mr. Heywood. My orders are to close at exactly eleven-thirty
p.m." not 'around' eleven-thirty p.m. I'd be crazy to leave a minute
sooner, and even crazier to stay a minute later."

Lev started breathing again, at least until he glanced through the
north window and saw four air police scanning the courtyard outside,
moving toward the bar. He also heard loud voices and doors slamming
down the hall. Sounds rumbling closer.
"No problem, Mitch. Here, I'll take out 'around' and put in
'exactly." Okay now?"

Lev saw one of the outside AP's moving toward a doorway into the club.
Another one was trying to peer into the bar through the tinted glass.
Footsteps were approaching fast from down the hall. Simmons seemed
oblivious to the voices all around them.

"Looks cool to me," said the corporal, initialing the change and
signing his name to the end of the statement.

Lev eyed the paper, but suppressed the impulse to snatch it out of the
bartender's hand.

"So," said Simmons, sliding the paper back across the bar to Lev, "do
you miss the action? You know, being' out on the field."

"I get all the action I need," said Lev, quickly folding and pocketing
the statement.

"Sometimes more."

"Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Heywood?"

"Matter of fact, I could use a drink."

"Sorry, my man, that's the one thing I can't do for you.

We ain't open till four. Can't serve civilians anyways 'less they got
a commissioned chaperon."

An outer door crashed open and Corporal Simmons's head snapped up.

"What the hell?"

Lev leaned in close to the bartender and grabbed him by the arm.

"Listen, Mitch. I'm in a situation here. You got to make a choice
right here and now between me and the Man.

As for the whiskey," he added, reaching over the bar for a bottle of
Early Times bourbon, "I don't want to drink it, I'm gonna wear it."

Simmons's confusion froze him in place behind the bar as Lev sprinkled
the bourbon across his chest, rubbed some on his face as if it were
shaving lotion, then took a quick shot right out of the bottle.

"You don't know me, Mitch. You've been working in back. Got it? You
just came out here and found one drunk nigger demanding more booze.
Here's your chance to take care of business and be a fuck-up at the
same time."

Lev watched as the bartender's mind assimilated this radical turn of
events.

"You been shuckin' me, Mr. Heywood?"
"Only about the government credentials. Four guys been killed already
in that flying coffin, Mitch. Barton was the third. I'm just a
working man trying to save number five.

Help me out here, brother."

A small, intense-looking AP burst through the door, followed by a
gangling, freckle-faced kid who looked sadly miscast as an air cop.
Before they could speak. Lev began shouting in a slurred, angry
voice.

"Who shays you can't find a cop when you need one?

Thank God you're here. Officer. Explain to thish poor excuse for a
bartender that I'm a tax-payin' citizen. A citizen in serious need of
another little taste."

"Come with us, sy."

Mitch Simmons extended his hands, shrugged his shoulders, and had no
trouble manifesting total surprise and confusion.

Lev slapped a twenty down on the bar.

"Can't do it, Ossifer. Got to go see Major Chrishtopher. Know him?"

"He wants to see you, too, sir," said the shorter air cop, stuffing the
twenty back in Lev's coat pocket as they each grabbed one of his
arms.

"Found him drunk in the bar, sir. He's apparently been helping
himself."

"So it smells," said Christopher, displaying a rare trace of wit.

"I trust," said Leviticus, mustering the appearance of indignation as
he shook his arms free of the AP's grasp, "that I've not in con ...
inconvenienshed you. Felt a little shaky after I got sick and--" "And
got drunk again," said Seth in a disgusted tone.

"Ash a matter of fact," added Lev, scanning the room dizzily, "I think
I'm gonna get sick again."

"Escort these men out of here," said Christopher.

"Take them directly to their car. Then find out who was supposed to be
on duty in the bar."

"There's good news and bad news," said Lev as he accelerated the rental
car out of the base parking lot, all windows down. He removed a folded
paper from his inside coat pocket.

"Here's the good news."
Seth devoured the contents of Simmons's statement without taking a
breath, then let out a hooo-ahh that turned heads along the service
road as he planted a kiss on Leviticus's cheek, nearly sending them
into a construction trench off to their right.

"Shit, Cowboy, knock it off! I can't keep this car on the road with
you tryin' to romance me."

"How the hell did you do it?"

"Luck and patience, though the sphincter factor got pretty extreme
there for a few minutes."

"It's almost too good to be true. This means Barton couldn't have left
the ground before midnight on the fifteenth, let alone die before then.
The affidavit version of this statement will kill TreadweU's statute
defense!"

Seth leaned back in the passenger seat and took a deep breath,
oblivious to Lev's sudden brooding silence.

"Now I can get to a jury," Seth continued.

"How will this Simmons be as a trial witness?"

"Couldn't ask for better. He's a good kid. Conscientious, sharp,
likable."

"Now all that's left is proving that Sam crashed because of a defect in
the X-215A."

"Well," said Lev, eyes fixed straight ahead, "that brings me to the bad
news. The too-good-to-be-true part?"

"What?"

"Your man was flying high long before midnight, Seth."

"But this statement says--" "I'm talkin' what it doesn't say. Cowboy.
Barton had sucked up at least three vodkas and some wine before he left
the club at eleven-thirty."

Seth's eyes closed as his mind reluctantly digested the unwanted news.
He knew Lev too well to hope he might be kidding.

"He was drunk," Seth whispered through clenched teeth.

"Well, he was drinking all right," said Lev, grasping at straws.

"We're fucked," Seth whispered.

"Yeah, we're fucked," agreed Lev, his natural optimism succumbing to
the weight of reality. 39 seth WEARILY CLIMBED THE TWO FLIGHTS OF
WORN STAIRS TO check his mail before heading home to Mill Valley.
Nothing important. He listened to his telephone messages. Routine,
until the last one, se corded at 11:30 p.m." an hour earlier. It
sounded like Huckins--a very drunk Tom Huckins.

"Hey, Cameron, how're they hangin'? Hope you're getting' rich and
famous there in the big fuckin' city with all those big fuckin'
clients, includin' the ones you stole from me. Well, me and of'
Lo-Ball was just sittin' here havin' a few and thought you'd like to
know what a great piece of ass you passed up when you decided you were
too good for the rest of us.

Yep, she's something' special all right. Best I ever had.

Ha, ha, ooh-yes! Well, you fucked me good when you bailed out of town,
Cameron, but I fucked your ex-old lady good tonight so maybe we're
close to even. Well, keep on keepin' on, old son. Ha, ha, heeeeooo--"
Seth continued to stare at the phone long after he had dropped it into
the cradle. He felt dead, immobilized. He tried to see it as one of
Tom's childish pranks, but fatigue fueled his fantasies, and he cleared
his desk with a sweep of his arm, then drove his foot through a wall.
He fell into his chair, then pushed himself right back out of it and
began to pace the small office like a caged animal. Rosie? Tom?

Ridiculous. Finally, his immediate anger spent, he resolved to put the
cruel joke out of his mind and head for home. A good night's sleep
would put everything back into perspective.

But already his mind was plotting revenge, formulating responses. A
letter? Tit for tat on Huckins's own message machine? Your ex-wife
wasn't so bad, either, Tom, except for the fact that I was the last
guy in town to fuck her and she gave me the clap.

No, damn it! He wouldn't give the son of a bitch the satisfaction of
taking him seriously.

He turned the lights off and headed down the stairs. But as he reached
the landing at the first floor, he spun around and stumbled back up the
creaking stairway.

"Rosie?"

"Yes?" came a whisper, followed by a sleepy "Who's this?"

The sound of Rosie's voice sent a sharp pain into Seth's stomach. This
is crazy, he thought. Static in the phone line didn't help. A bad
connection. Probably a sign, but there was no turning back or starting
over.

"It's Seth, Rosie."

"Seth! My God, it's one-thirty in the morning! Are you all right?
What's happened?"

He imagined her at the other end, could almost see her propped up on
one elbow--she'd be on the left side of the queen-size bed they had
bought together--tossing her thick black hair over her right shoulder
so the phone could be pressed against her left ear. He pictured the
beginning of white softness showing just above the open neck of the
T-shirt she liked to sleep in, the lower breast straining against the
cotton material through which he could imagine the faint outline of the
pink areola and nipple.

The soft, pale skin around the dark eyes would be creased now into
crow's-feet as her gentle features strained toward consciousness and
comprehension of the meaning of this abrupt interruption. Do you still
sleep in a T-shirt? he wanted to ask her.

"What is it, Seth?"

From behind her, his imagining eyes took in her back, traced the curve
from her upper shoulder as it glided down to her shallow waist, then
flowed up over her right hip before descending again into the secrecy
of her bed covers.

"I'm all right, I guess," he said lamely, suddenly aware that he had no
plan.

"Sorry about the hour."

She accepted his apology and politely asked if she could go back to
sleep now that it had been established that he was sorry but otherwise
all right. The way she put it made Seth feel so ridiculous that he
came right out with it.

"I just had a message from Tom Huckins. Claims he ... says that the
two of you, well--" "He said what?"

"Slept together."

"He told you we slept together?"

Seth felt his anxiety diminish in inverse relation to the volume of her
expressed anger, and already another compartment of his mind resumed
plotting revenge against the drunken bastard. The ex-wife-and-clap
message was too good for him. More direct action was called for.

"I can't believe," she said, sounding more controlled, "that Tom would
tell you that."

Through the static, Seth's trial-lawyer's radar picked up an ambiguity
in her words--not a red flag exactly, but a flag nonetheless.

Now he'd have to test his instincts. Prove them wrong.

"I'm sorry I bothered you with it, Rosie," he said, pacing to the limit
of his telephone cord.

"Tom's never been all that intimate with the truth."

Silence.

"None of my business anyway." He switched the phone to his left hand,
dried the right one on his pants leg.

More silence.

"That's true," she said at last, "so why are we having this
conversation at one-thirty in the morning?"

"I needed to know it wasn't true."

The empty sound of distance between them and the occasional burst of
static was wearing thin, and he suddenly heard himself shouting into
the phone.

"For Christ's sake, Rosie, just tell me it isn't true!"

"I can't tell you that, Seth. I'm sorry."

Seth stared at the offensive instrument in his hand, then jammed it
against his chest and slowly collapsed into his chair. A low groan
issued from between clenched teeth, and his head banged into the wall
behind him.

"Seth?" came a small voice from a million miles away.

He clamped his eyes shut as if he were about to be hit by something.
His head rolled slowly back and forth against the wall.

"Seth?"
"Oh, Rosie," he whispered.

"Rosie ..."

Straightening, he fought for control. He wanted to throw the telephone
through the window and himself behind it, but he held on to it with
white-tipped fingers, held on for dear life.

"The son of a bitch did it to get even with me," he said.

"He used you to get even with me."

"No, Seth," she said after another intolerable silence. "/ used him to
get even with you."

Seth would later recall Ken tactfully cutting him off after he had
inhaled four shooters at Stars. He miraculously located his car and
began to creep up Franklin Street, where he thought he'd see fewer
traffic cops than on Van Ness.

The country music station blared a Joe Silverhound tune that pretty
much summed things up.

/ got into my car, headed straight for the City Driven by self-pity,
wonder'n why, And right there at my side, rode that demon called Pride
Talkin' 'bout fallen angels and an eye for an eye Well, I turned on my
radio, I tried to find Some music to drown out the noise in my mind I
should have taken my time Now my time's been taken from me.

Seth snapped the radio off to better concentrate on staying between a
pair of white lines that kept moving on him.

He managed to find his way out to Union Street and into a friendly bar,
where he proposed marriage to a waitress who accepted his order for an
Irish coffee, but he was then eighty-sixed by the bartender to whom she
was already married.

At some point after he left Union Street--or perhaps it was later,
after the pepper vodkas at the Washington Square Bar and Grill--a gray
wave moved in, and he gratefully sank beneath it, leaving the demons to
languish harmlessly on the surface of his consciousness.
Still later, after he had thrown up in the tiny men's room and washed
his face, he saw a man in the mirror he barely recognized. From
somewhere behind the dark-circled eyes, he heard a voice asking him how
long he thought he could keep this up.

He closed the toilet seat--the smell of his own vomit was making him
sick again--and sat down hard on it. His head was already starting to
spin again, and he knew he'd better stay put. Piano sounds drifted in,
intermittent vocals slipping through the filter of bar chatter.

"It had to be you, it... be you ..." He let his head sink into his
hands. "... wandered around, finally found, somebody who, could make
me feel blue ..." Inexplicably, thoughts of warm Valley nights in
Bakersfield entered his fevered mind, temporarily soothing the
turbulence, a fanciful fleeting memory, comforting as a mother's
embrace, but light-years away and heading in the opposite direction.
the SHRILL RING OF THE TELEPHONE PIERCED THE SILENCE OF the dawn and
sent Fat Dog plunging off the bed in a graceless clump. The mutt
gathered himself, then expectantly rested his chin on the edge of the
bed. But Seth slumbered on, corneas darting and rolling under
fluttering lids while his restless unconscious integrated the first few
rings of the phone into a nightmare in which he was boxing a man twice
his size. The giant kept hammering the side of his head even though
the bell was signaling the end of round one. An indifferent,
black-robed referee gazed the other way over at a hockey match in which
Seth's head appeared again, shrunken and dismembered, and cast this
time in the role of the puck.

Fat Dog lost interest and gimped out of the room in quest of water.
The ringing persisted until it penetrated Seth'sskull like a pair of
ice tongs and sent his hand groping for the source of the invasive
instrument. Round two.

"Yeah," he gasped into the receiver.

"Seth Cameron?"

"I think so." His mind struggled toward the surface of consciousness.
He was drenched in sweat.

"Sounds familiar."

"This is Barbara Heywood."

Seth opened one red-rimmed eye and pointed it toward a clock that read
six-thirty. He winced from the fulgurant pain lacerating his temples,
then eased his back into an upright position against the cold plastic
headboard. It smelled like someone was burning rubbish next door, but
his window was closed and nobody lived next door. His mouth was so dry
he could barely swallow, let alone talk. He forced the other eye open
and stared across the room into a mirror above the dresser. Reflected
there was forlorn but unassailable evidence that he was indeed Seth
Cameron.

"Heywood," he grunted.

"That one sounds familiar, too."

"Lev's wife," came the shaky voice. Seth's head was too muddled to
tell if the woman was angry or frightened.

"I

met you once in the city."

"Sure, I remember," he lied.

"Sorry. What can I do for you?" He wondered why he was apologizing to
someone who was calling him at six-thirty in the morning.

"They've got Lev!" she said with an intensity that slapped Seth into
consciousness.

"He's in jail!"

"What?" Seth's feet hit the floor.

"Who's got him?

What jail?"

The story came out in fragmented bits and pieces, but added up to
something about a pair of federal marshals waiting for Lev to come home
the night before.

"They waited out front for hours. Lev got home at one o'clock in the
morning and parked in the carport. I heard him drive up so I ran to
the door, but they came right out of their car and grabbed him as he
was walking toward me."

"Did they identify themselves?"

"They had shown me badges earlier, but not him. Just started beating
him up. I rushed out and started screaming, but one of them grabbed me
while the other one--Lev was down by then--kept on kicking him in the
side. I think they hurt him pretty bad."

"Where is he now?" Seth was already clumsily trying to dress himself
with one hand.

"He just called me from the Federal Building. I've been half-crazy all
night" Seth heard the voice give way to heartbreaking sobs.

"He said to call you, tell you they must have planted the coke on him
while he was on the ground."

"Cocaine?"

"They've also charged him with resisting. He broke one of the guys'
nose and some ribs."

Seth hung up grabbed a handful of uppers, rinsed the taste of rubbish
out of his mouth, and stumbled to what was left of his car. He had no
memory of an early-morning confrontation with the corner of his garage
at the end of his unaccountably successful drive home. The left fender
was crumpled like a discarded candy wrapper. Worse, the Honda wobbled
badly on a misaligned right front wheel, the result of a detour onto a
high curb as Seth was trying to drive away from the Washington Square
Bar and Grill.

By the time he crossed Richardson Bay, the sun was starting to burn off
the fog, and the reds were consuming the last cobwebs inside his head.
Although the amphetamines had hit his heart like a cattle prod, he kept
a light foot on the accelerator as he lurched down 101. He glanced at
the hills off to his right, taking in the patchwork quilt of pastel
greens, mustard, taupes, and deep blues, unrolled like a carpet against
the tangerine sky. His head was completely clear by the time he hit
the bridge, and he became conscious of tankers beneath him, honking and
blaring as if to scare away the last stubborn fingers of low-lying fog
obscuring their vision. The mist had already lifted to the northeast,
where bands of circling gulls hovered over a fleet of herring boats
clustered in the choppy black and white waters near Sausalito.

Across the bay, smoke from the petroleum complex at Richmond curved up
over the red horizon in pursuit of the rising sun. Another day in
paradise.

As Seth approached the tollbooth, he shifted his attention to passing
through the gate without having his car impounded as a road hazard.
The bored operator paid him no attention however, other than to demand
the toll, which was when Seth found that his wallet was completely
empty.

Which was when he also remembered stopping on the way home at Stella's
on Caledonia Street in Sausalito--something about a game of pool and
throwing bills and change at somebody, the bartender maybe. He
couldn't remember why he had done it, but suspected a connection
between that event and the kaleidoscope bruise already splotching its
way across his left cheek.

He turned right into the bridge parking lot, paid the $3 toll at the
office with his Visa card, and aimed the Honda back onto Doyle Drive,
over to Lombard, then south toward the Federal Building. He felt
uncomfortably wired now and even behind sunglasses had to squint
against the blinding glare. Every traffic light he approached seemed
to turn red, and every lane he chose was slower than the one he had
just wobbled out of. The world outside his rolled-up windows seemed to
bristle with air-raid intensity, and the street din blasting his ears
became indistinguishable from the blazing visual bedlam around him; the
blare and the glare had become one, and he was getting sick again. Too
many reds, too little sleep, and rogue thoughts of Rosie crowding into
his head like floodwaters through a damaged levee.

He slipped into the slow lane, but his heart was pounding up through
his throat, gushing like an errant oil rig, sending torrents of blood
northward to batter his temples and collide with more images of Rosie,
often in various forms of undress with Tom Huckins.

And positions.

He started hyperventilating and had to pull into the Standard station
at Van Ness and Pine. He skidded to a stop, waved away a black dude
wanting to wash his windshield for change, lurched into the cashier's
station, bought some candy in a paper bag, then threw away the candy
and started blowing into the bag, a trick he had learned from an
associate at M&M.

Back on Van Ness, he ignored the curious looks of other drivers as he
tried to steer the defiant Civic with an elbow, holding the top of the
bag with one hand and shifting gears with the other. At a long
stoplight at Ellis, he had a chance to blow several times into the bag
and began feeling better-until he heard shouting from the car next to
him and saw the two skinheads laughing at him.

"Hey, Dizzy," shouted the driver, leaning forward in his seat, "play
"Misty' for me, okay?" More laughter.

"When you finish with the bag, ruck-face," shouted the passenger, "I
got something else here you can blow on."

That almost cooked it for Seth, but luckily the light turned green, and
Seth--reminding himself he was on his way to solve a problem, not
become part of one--let the freaks take off ahead of him in the fast
lane. He watched as carbon smoke surged from the exhaust pipe of the
ancient Chrysler New Yorker, almost obscuring the messages, america for
americans, white is right! and several other anti black slogans
displayed on the rusted-out rear bumper.

As he continued to blow into the bag, his breathing became more
regular, at least until he saw the traffic light turn red at the next
intersection. The freaks had the yellow but didn't take it. They
weren't finished with him.

He felt his anger rising again, but was in no condition for a
confrontation and tried to make his way out of the middle lane. No
luck. He had become a link in the chain of commuter traffic that
crowded all three lanes of Van Ness Avenue every morning. He dropped
the sack on the floor, rolled the window all the way up, and resolved
to ignore them.

"Hey. man, what happened to the bag?" shouted the driver over the
booming bass line from his radio.

"Did it go pop?"

Seth rolled his window down and tried to smile.

"Don't rile me, boys. Let's be cool, okay?"

This drew derisive laughter from the passenger.

"We're cool, man. We just miss the bag. You keep your brains in
there?"

"Or your balls," shouted the driver, "if you got any, that is."

More laughter and gunning of the Chrysler's engine.

Seth turned again and took in their taunting faces, holding on to
rationality, holding off the orange fog that was slipping in at the
edges of his blurred vision. The bald passenger was mid twenties and
wore some kind of sleeveless leather ve stout of which bulged a white
shoulder emblazoned with an iron-cross tattoo. He also wore a tiny
gold or brass nose-ring and an expression forged in hatred. Cruel eyes
under thin white eyebrows, set in a fleshy, pale face. Seth couldn't
get a good look at the driver except to see that his misshapen head
needed a fresh shave and that he displayed an unusually long middle
finger. Seth tried to look away from the grinning, maniacal
faces--Just let it go--but a magnetic revulsion drew his eyes back,
inspiring additional creative remonstrations from his tormentors. He
felt his mind racing away from him, like a runaway train hurtling into
a dark tunnel.

"What you lookin' at, asshole?" shouted the driver.

"You want a piece of us?"

"Hell, no, he's too chicken-shit," answered his passenger, drumming
loudly on his car door with the flat of his right hand and now turning
his attention to a woman driving a Mercedes behind Seth.

"Hey, pussy," he shouted at her.

"Wanna party?"

The woman cringed, looked down, stung mostly by the cruel hand motions
that accompanied the words. Seth, watching her in the rearview mirror,
felt helpless and impotent.

As if he were watching the unfolding incident through one-way glass.
Something fluttered across his memory, rising out of the deadly
nightshade shadows of his childhood.

Watching. Cold glass.

"Come on, cunt," the passenger continued.

"Bet you'd like to come in here and taste about eight inches of white
power and ... holy shit!"

The passenger was interrupted in mid insult by a hand clamped across
his face, then sliding down under his chin.

He stabbed at the door lock, but not quickly enough, and suddenly found
himself being dragged from the car. In what appeared to be a single
motion, Seth had leapt from his car, snatched the right front door of
the Chrysler open, and seized the wide-eyed man's face and leather vest
in an iron grip.

"Jesus!" said the driver as he slammed his foot against the
accelerator, preferring the risk of running a red light to dealing
with this weirdo. Not until he was fifteen feet into the intersection
did he realize he had lost his passenger.

The passenger punk turned out to be considerably bigger than Seth, but
was never in it. Experienced street-fighters know that size and skill
often mean little against wild aggression and the first devastating
punch, which Seth delivered hard into the skinhead's surprised face.
The blow sent him flying backward, but Seth held on to the vest to keep
him from falling to the pavement so he could hit him again.

The next blow drove the freak backward into the woman's Mercedes, still
idling behind Seth's Honda. As the skinhead started to slide down
toward the pavement, Seth caught him and buried his fist deep into his
gut, followed by an uppercut that shattered the punk's jaw. Blood
splattered from his mouth as he fell to the asphalt street.

Less than ten seconds had passed. The light was just now turning
green.

The driver abandoned his car in the middle of the intersection and
raced toward the melee, but not before Seth had delivered a savage kick
to the fallen passenger's side.

"Are you crazy, man?" shouted the driver, jumping Seth from behind and
pinning his arms to his side. But Seth didn't need his arms to
continue delivering kicks to the passenger or to throw his head back
into the face of the driver, fracturing his nose with a dull, crunching
sound. The driver staggered backward, and Seth turned his attention
back to the passenger, who had managed to crawl halfway under the
Mercedes. Seth grabbed his feet and began pulling him back out.

Horns were honking all the way back to Ellis Street. A small crowd
gathered in the crosswalk at Van Ness and Eddy, but they were
immobilized, transfixed by the horror they were witnessing. Seth
noticed none of this. His disembodied mind was deep in the tunnel now,
where nothing existed but the violent orange haze, shot through with
flashing bolts of fiery red, and the leering face of the skinhead.

The driver started back toward Seth, holding his hand to his bleeding
nose.

"Help me, you fucking idiots!" he shouted over his shoulder to the
bystanders.

"The crazy bastard is killing him!"
Seth turned back in the direction of the voice, and the driver quickly
took refuge behind the two people closest to him.

The passenger rolled over and groaned, and Seth started back to finish
him, but the fragile-looking young woman had stepped out of the
Mercedes and was bending over him.

She looked up at Seth through dark eyes that were shocked but unafraid.
His raging mind's eye took her in, trying to program the impact of this
unexpected obstacle confronting his body's unfinished business.

"Please," she said.

"Stop this. I heard the things they were saying, but nothing justifies
this."

She put a sweater under the punk's head and added, "You really are
killing him."

Her words reverberated in his head, momentarily immobilizing him like
bullets from a stun gun. He became aware of people around them, people
staring at him. His mind was reconnecting with his body, and he began
to identify several alien sensations: a stabbing pain in his left hand,
a taste like diesel oil in a mouth so dry he couldn't swallow, a
runaway heart pounding in his temples, a heaving chest partially
exposed through a torn shirt. His mind's eye surveyed the damage his
body had done, and he shivered as a cold wind slashed at his soaked
shirt. Wiping his mouth, he turned toward the bystanders. They drew
back from his gaze as if blown by a heavy gale.

He became aware of the sound of horns from cars now stacked all the way
back to California Street. He looked again at the dark-eyed woman, who
had turned her attention back to the passenger. She pulled her long
black hair back over her shoulder to keep it out of the punk's eyes.
Just like Rosie would do. Behind him, Seth saw that two people were
now ministering to the driver, who was down on his knees in the
pedestrian crosswalk. Others took advantage of Seth's hesitation to
join the dark-haired woman helping the passenger.

They warily circled around the other side of Seth's car or up onto the
traffic island to avoid walking too close to him.

The intersection looked like an automobile crash scene.

People were moving everywhere now, as if someone had shouted, "Action
on the set!" Somebody shouted, "Call an ambulance," sending bystanders
in different directions. Others seeing the excitement was over,
drifted away, not wanting to become involved in any aftermath.

Seth took advantage of the confusion to walk to his car and simply
drive away.

Later, when the police asked for a license number, only one citizen had
thought to try to get it, and he was an old man who had forgotten the
last two numbers and wasn't so sure about the three letters either. But
when one of the officers asked for a description of the car, two men
confidently obliged.

"Yessuh, Officer, it were a 1988 or '89 Oldsmobile," offered the first
bystander.

"You right, Clifford, it surely were an Oldsmobile, all right," agreed
his companion, "but I'd put it at an '87."

Seth parked his crippled Honda a block from the Federal Building and
dropped his head onto the steering wheel. He noticed blood on his
shirt, but his coat would cover up most of it. After a minute, he
reached into the glove compartment, removed an amber-colored plastic
container, and got out of the car, slamming the door so hard the window
nearly broke. He lost his balance and fell against the side of the car
as if he were drunk. He grabbed at a stabbing pain in his stomach, and
his entire body tightened like a fist around his burning gut.

He was still angry, but now only at himself. He shook three bennies
into his mouth and tried to summon enough saliva to get them down. A
couple of pills spilled on the sidewalk because he had lost the use of
his left hand, which now hung limp and broken at his side. It was
beginning to hurt, and he looked at it with disgust, then spit the
pills out of his mouth and sent the rest scattering out into the
street.

Remembering some in his pocket, he awkwardly fished the red bullets out
with his good hand and threw them into the street, too. This attracted
the attention of a few onlookers, seemingly his fate today.

"What the hell are you looking at, boy?" he said to a particularly
nosy kid.

"You shouldn't waste good drugs like that, man," said the kid.
"Better them than me," he said, and headed for the Federal Building.

He had Lev out on bail by ten, thanks to AUyn Friedlander's checking
account and Seth's impulsive bullshit bluff about Lev's wife owning a
video camera.

While he had been practicing his craft inside City Hall, the sky had
turned slate colored--like his face. Menacing clouds were leaking
inkblots on the northern horizon. The rain would soon hit San
Francisco. He could smell it.

"You don't look so good. Lev," said Seth as they drove away from the
Federal Building. The amphetamines had mercifully worn off, but had
left him even more ragged than when he had first awakened. A. P.
Giannini was right, kid, but he didn't go far enough. There's no such
thing as a free anything.

"You want me to take you to Emergency?"

"I'm okay."

"You don't look it."

"You said that twice now," said Lev sullenly.

"It's been a long night."

"It's about the case, isn't it."

Lev took in a deep breath of fresh air, then exhaled noisily.

"The bastards were cagey. Nearest they came to it was when the honkie
said, "You better stay closer to home, boy."

Then the black guy starts to laughin' about the 'homeboy' bit, and
while the white guy's trying to figure out what he had said that was so
funny, I took the opportunity to bust up his ribs a little."

"I heard."

"Which he didn't much care for."

"I can imagine."

They rode in silence for a few minutes, then Lev took a good look at
Seth.

"You don't look so pretty yourself. Cowboy."

"Had a few last night."

"What's the matter with your hand there?"

"Nothing serious."

Lev was silent for a minute.

"You're drinking lately like a man just out of prison," he said, slowly
shaking his head.

"And your fly's open."
"Alcohol-abuse counseling," said Seth, zipping up as he waited for a
light to change, "from a guy charged with cocaine possession."

Lev suddenly flared.

"I thought you were going straight to the office last night to turn my
statement into an affidavit."

His bloodshot eyes were flashing.

"Instead, you go out fucking around while I'm getting my kidneys
bent."

"You're right. You're going to drop me off up there at the office and
take my car home. But stop by Doc McKuen's office. She'll check you
out, take some gory photos so we can make a good plea-bargain, and--"
"I know the drill, Cowboy. I'm in this business, remember?"

"Right. Sorry." There he was, apologizing again.

"I'll draft the affidavit today, I promise."

"You best draft it now. Cowboy. If they'll do this to a guy who turns
up a key witness, think what they'd do to the key witness his self As
for your car, no thanks. This thing's in worse condition than either
one of us."

"Jesus, Seth," said Allyn as he dragged himself onto the landing, "you
look awful."

"So I've been told."

Ramon moved back as if confronted by a leper.

"Did you get Lev out?" Allyn asked.

Seth said, "Yeah, he's out," grabbed some coffee, and gave her a
sanitized version of what had happened on Van Ness Avenue. She gave
him the name of a good hand specialist, followed by a stern lecture.

"A man who can't control his temper," she concluded, "can't hope to
control a courtroom."

"Thanks for the doc's name," he said, looking at the ceiling.

"Okay, end of speech. More bad news. Tucker died yesterday.

Heart."

"How did you find out?"

"Turns out he had a daughter. She'd like you to continue on,
representing his estate."

"Estate?"
"Well, all that's in it is what's left of the motel and the lawsuit I
told Ramon to go ahead and prepare the paperwork."

"Thanks. Poor bastard never had a decent break, but not even bad luck
will be able to find him now."

Allyn shrugged, and Seth locked himself in his office with Mitch
Simmons's statement. He scanned Lev's handwriting for a few minutes,
then began to draft Simmons's declaration in longhand:

I, Mitchell Simmons, declare under penalty of perjury that the
following is true and correct. That I am a corporal in the United
States Air Force and that at all times relevant hereto, my primary duty
assignment was bartender and food service manager attached to the
Symington Air Force Base Officers' Club, located in the State of New
Mexico. I was on duty in this capacity on the night of October 15,
1992.

Seth paused for a moment. Despite everything that had happened during
the past twelve hours--Rosie, Leviticus, his broken car, his bruised
face, the pain in his left hand-he couldn't help but smile with
satisfaction at the thought of Treadwell opening his mail and seeing
that his motion for summary judgment had been shot down.

New Mexico. The key to ending the statute-of-limitations threat had
been waiting there right where it had all begun.

In New Mexico. seth SIPPED HIS COCKTAIL AND STUDIED elena barton while
she, her lips parted in a beguiling half-smile, scanned a copy of the
Simmons declaration and pretended she wasn't conscious of being
studied. They were seated together on her living room couch, one of
those sand-colored wrap301 around jobs featured in magazines and on
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.

Seth had thought twice--several times in fact--before inviting himself
over. He wanted to celebrate the imminent defeat of Treadwell's motion
with someone, but Allyn was busy. Lev was home nursing his cuts and
bruises, Rosie was out of his life, and Harry Cooper had become a pain
in the ass with whom he would just end up crazy drunk in some sleazy
south-of-Market singles bar. God knows there had been few occasions
for celebration in this crazy case, and though Stars' renaissance
bartender Ken was a good listener, Seth was tired of drinking alone.

So he had called Elena Barton, using his hot new evidence as bait. He
was astonished to find her at home, and eager to see him.

He was also uneasy. It wasn't just that Elena was untouchable again
(under his renewed commitment to start behaving like an attorney with
his client); after their last sexual debacle, that was grounds for
relief, not anxiety. It was more basic than that--even that. The
debacle was just the effect, not the cause. The cause was what Allyn
had seen from the beginning. He was a man in love, but he was also a
man in way over his head.

Elena Barton was beautiful, wealthy, and refined. He was a Bakersfield
refugee, a Montgomery Street reject with a foul temper and a cast on
his hand to prove it; a south-of-Market lawyer with an overdrawn
checking account, working for peanuts in a Mission Street firetrap. He
was, to put it bluntly, unworthy of Elena Barton's attention, let alone
her love.

For now at least.

As he watched her reading the affidavit, he could tell by the sudden
swell of her breasts that she must have come to the part about Sam's
not leaving the club until 11:30 p.m.

She met his eyes, smiled, leaned forward on the couch, and kissed him
on the cheek. A client's kiss, to be sure, but a kiss that shot a
burning sensation through his confused groin.

But as Elena read on, a small, V-shaped worry crease appeared between
her eyes. The eyes swept back to the top of the document, then down
again.
"But can we prove," she asked, "that Sam was drinking Shirley Temples
the whole time he was at the club?"

Seth was not surprised at her perceptiveness, although in a perfect
world he would have preferred her unquestioning joy and approbation.

"And," she added before he could answer, "doesn't this give us more
than we really wanted? Didn't Bostwick suggest that the takeoff was
around the time Simmons now says Sam was still at the club?"

Seth started to respond, but Elena wasn't finished.

"After leaving, Sam would have had to change clothes, then preflight
the X-215A. Then there's the flight plan, tower clearance--" "Mice,"
Seth said quietly, "not elephants."

"Pardon me?"

"Every case that makes it to trial is full of these kinds of
inconsistencies. They aren't trivial, but they're not decisive either.
We call them mice." Seth paused, swirled the ice in his empty drink,
and added, "We had an elephant--the statute of limitations--now we've
got mice."

"Oh."

"We can live with mice," he added, regaining the initiative--a slippery
thing to hold on to with a woman like Elena.

"With the statute out of the case, the judge will have to let it go to
the jury, and once they hear your story, the sky's the limit."

"Oh. Well, then," she said, the worry lines erased with a smile,
"another kiss for my conquering hero."

It started innocently enough--a kiss on Seth's other cheek--but Seth
reached up and touched her hair, then her face. She didn't pull back,
just stared at him through wide, questioning eyes, like a deer looking
into headlights.

"Seth?" she whispered, her hands against his chest.

"Our .. . arrangement."

But Seth gently kissed her unyielding lips. Then again, and again,
until her lips slowly softened and began to press back against his. She
closed her eyes as Seth slid a hand up under her sweater, and barely
audible animal sounds escaped her lips as he lightly caressed her bare
breasts.
Both aroused, their kisses became ravenous--probing tongues amidst
colliding teeth between fused lips as Elena now clawed at his back with
one hand and pushed against his erection with the other.

Suddenly, Seth was upon her--her skirt bunched up under his chest, her
panties pulled to one side--thrusting himself inside her. Even in the
deranged passion of the moment, Seth could not take his eyes off
Elena's face, her perfect features now contorted with the imminency of
orgasm, wildly beautiful. He, too, was aware of a pressure that would
not wait. He didn't care, because he felt her body tighten against his
and saw that her eyes were suddenly open again and burning into his,
"Seth, Seth! I ... oh, Seth ... love ... you, love ..."

Their bodies shuddered together, then collapsed into the couch.

Little more than a minute had elapsed since her friendly kiss on his
cheek.

Lifting himself into a sitting position, Seth watched Elena smooth her
skirt down, then disappear into the upstairs bathroom. Seth awkwardly
pulled up his trousers with his one functional hand and stumbled into
the kitchen to pour himself a fresh JD over ice. He returned to the
couch and tried to take it all in. The suddenness of what had happened
amazed him, the violence of it. Like the 7.2 earthquake in '89, only
nobody got hurt in this one.

Not yet, anyway.

Fifteen minutes later, Elena rejoined him, barefoot, in fresh shorts
and blouse. Her embarrassment was out of character, but it suited her
for a change and helped him to feel relaxed with her. She poured
herself a drink and sat down beside him. She put a hand on his and
started to speak, stopped, then started again.

"I hope you don't think--" "That you meant what you said?"

"No," she said, resting her head against his chest, "for better or for
worse, I meant it. I do love you, Seth. But until this is behind us
..."

This was a day full of surprises.

"You're probably right," he said, trying to fill the silence, yet not
betray his utter amazement at her casual declaration of love.
"Loving you would be a full-time job and the damn case might get in
the way."

"Then let's get the case--the damn case--finished. Meanwhile, Seth,
I'll try harder to stick with the attorney-client relationship until
then. Otherwise, I'm afraid I'd be attacking you at every recess."

"It would give the bailiff something to do."

She kissed him again, softly, but not a client's kiss. He put his arms
around her, hungry again. Her eyes still seemed strangely vulnerable,
yet shone bright as those green marbles you see at the bottom of a
lighted fish tank. She sighed and flattened her body against his
renewed hardness.

"I think we need the bailiff right now," she said.

"Yeah," he whispered into her lips, "I'm afraid we've got ourselves a
problem here."

"As in mouse or elephant?" she said, taking his hand and leading him
upstairs.

In the morning, Seth dropped his Honda off at the shop for realignment
of the right front wheel--the battered fender would have to await his
next paycheck--and caught a bus to the office via San Francisco's
notorious Tenderloin, passing the Elk Hotel, the Hotel Jefferson, the
Hotel California.

He stared out the window as the bus went past Aunt Pearl's Jam
House--haven to the hip and the yup who crowded into the bar each day
after work, past Boeddeker Park-haven to pimps and drug dealers who
crowded into the park each night after dark. Past the Tea Room Theatre
("All Male Movies!"). Watched the stream of lonely denizens as they
filed up Taylor Street toward St. Anthony's Kitchen and Cecil
Williams's famed Glide Memorial Church, at black prostitutes and other
survivors of this open-doored prison jammed by people down on their
luck. No tourists here.

Even locals bypassed the Tenderloin--never know when somebody with
nothing left to lose might try a car-jacking, or just jump in front of
the car to collect insurance money.

The Tenderloin was a place where dreams came to die.

Other parts of the city had changed from the days when he and other
reckless high school youths had driven up from Bakersfield to try to
catch sparks from the embers of the fiery romantic sixties. The
Haight-Ashbury, once the center of "sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll," was
now a gentrified community where it was easier to buy a good
cross-training shoe than LSD. One of the last gay bathhouses at Eighth
and Howard now housed the Episcopal Sanctuary for the Homeless, where
gaiety was notably absent. Where was Sister Boom-Boom now? Fee
Waybill and The Tubes? Acid rock had long since given way to
acid-tongued rappers, while beatniks-cum-hippies-cum-yuppies were now
parents, even grandparents, decrying the excesses of the young.

Seth left the bus at Market, elbowed past street hustlers, and headed
south toward the Mission. Anthony Treadwell would be surprised to know
that this area was changing, too, with several Establishment law firms
moving into luxurious high-rise buildings at the east end of the
Mission. Calling someone a "south of Market Street lawyer" was no
longer an insult calling for a challenge to a duel.

"My, don't we look cheery," said Ramon, greeting him at the head of the
stairs.

"Did we win the lottery?"

"Bingo."

"That, too? You've been busy."

"As a bee. Do I smell coffee?"

"Coming right up. Queen Mother ran over to Oakland on a show-cause
matter; wanted me to remind you about the Lopez hearing at ten. The
file is on your desk. Toward the top of the stack on the right."

Seth looked at his watch: 9:10. Fifteen minutes by bus to City Hall;
another fifteen plus bus time to organize his argument in Lopez; time
to slip in a call to either Elena or Alan Millstein.

"Hello, Seth!" said the expert witness.

"Yes, it's going beautifully. I was at the lab last night, saw the
first signs of fatigue in the harness. Textbook fraying over an
oval-shaped area approximately one centimeter." He paused, and Seth
could picture the little guy lighting up a new cigarette off an old
one, seemingly inhaling and making sounds at the same time like a
bagpipe player. Seth swore he could smell the tar through the
telephone.
"Should see a breakthrough--breakthrough, get it?--any day now. Then
the fun begins. Fourth of July. Bring your marshmallows."

"You still think it'll spark?"

"Did you happen to see the closing ceremonies at the L.A. Olympics?"

"I'll settle for a spark or two. When do you think it'll happen--if it
happens?"

"Hard to say. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next year."

"The trial starts in less than six weeks."

"Oh, yes, the trial."

"That's why we're doing this, Alan. Remember?"

"Just kidding, old boy. A little forensic humor. Not to worry. Any
day now. Fingers crossed."

Seth smiled as he replaced the phone in its cradle. He had not felt so
good in months. Full of energy again despite limited sleep and the
absence of pharmaceutical support.

Controlling the energy was the problem. His mind seemed hot-wired, his
thoughts undisciplined.

Where's that Lopez file? Maybe meet Elena after the hearing for lunch
at Stars. Bad idea--just enough cash left to get the car out of hock.
Better start drafting my witness list, then prepare for the hearing on
Treadwell's motion. Express mail with Simmons's declaration should be
here by the time I'm back from City Hall. Got to see her tonight. I'll
hit Allyn up for an advance. Better start working on Daimler's direct
examination when I get back. Said she's been as lonely as I have. No
one else since our last time together and before that no one since Sam.
Explains why my back looks like I slept on a cat-o '-nine-tails.
Shouldn't take long to draft a supplemental memorandum of points and
authorities incorporating Simmons's declaration. Got to give Lev a
call, see if I can drop something off for him on the way to Elena's
tonight. Bet Barbara is pissed at me for involving him. Better take
her some flowers. Send some to Elena, too.

Seth bounded up the stairs at noon after his hearing and was greeted
again by Ramon. This time, his perfect white teeth flashed a wide
smile.

"Looking for this?"

Seth snatched the express envelope from the secretary's hands and raced
into his office. Tearing it open, he pulled the declaration out,
skipping to page two and the signature line.

Blank. Unsigned.

His heart pounded against his rib cage, and his legs began to give way
beneath him. He collapsed into his chair and forced himself to take a
deep breath as he glanced at the cover letter from Symington's public
information officer on top of the declaration.

The letter reported the "untimely death" of Mitch Simmons, returned his
document "with apologies for whatever inconvenience this regrettable
event may have caused," then made reference to an attached newspaper
article, which the writer observed was "self-explanatory."

Airman Falls to His Death Associated Press The body of Air Force
Corporal Mitchell Joe Simmons was found early this morning by employees
of the Albuquerque Continental Hotel where the decedent was staying.
The victim had fallen or jumped from his hotel room on the fourteenth
floor.

Corporal Simmons, stationed at nearby Symington Air Force Base, was due
to be discharged in August.

Officials there could not speculate as to why Simmons had reserved the
room earlier yesterday using his credit card number, but one informed
source revealed that he had recently seemed moody and depressed.

An autopsy revealed a blood-alcohol level of .24, nearly lethal in
itself.

The decedent is survived by his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Everett Simmons
of Moultrie, Georgia. Despite the circumstances of his death, a
spokesman from the base commander's office informed the Times that
Corporal Simmons would be buried with full military honors. 42 the
LEGAL STAFF OF allyn friedlander AND associates sat staring at each
other on the second floor at 618 Mission Street, drinking high-octane
coffee laced with cheap brandy as tate-afternoon shadows played across
the office. A chatter of voices rose from across the alley as
employees of the department store next door headed for the warm
security of home or the noisy hope of a singles bar, then gradually
died out and gave way to the sounds of car engines and air brakes.
Someone was cooking a chicken upstairs, probably the Avon lady who kept
them in new toothbrushes.

"So," Allyn said, "I see you've added smoking to your growing list of
vices."

"A temporary lapse," said Seth with a shrug.

"My discipline is in sharp decline at the moment. Also my hopes for
getting this case to a jury."

"Don't you think you should try to settle now?"

"Treadwell will come up with some decent money when we get to the
courthouse steps."

"I thought he said he wouldn't," she said.

"That's right."

"He might be telling the truth."

"I guess it happens."

A quiet darkness settled in the office, but neither Allyn nor Seth
reached for a light switch. Ramon had left an hour earlier as had the
small building's other second-floor tenants.

"What about the finish of Bostwick's deposition yesterday?"

"He continued to deny everything but his name. Parroted the official
statement that Sam crashed around ten-thirty the night of the
fifteenth. Denied telling Lev and me otherwise."

"Can't say I blame him, given the fact that everybody who tries to tell
the truth in this case ends up seriously dead."
"I can blame him."

"How's Leviticus?"

Seth's video bluff had not held up, and Lev had been arraigned on
charges of possession and resisting arrest. Trial was set for next
month and bail had been set at $20,000, requiring an unusually high
bond.

"He's back at work, thanks to you and your bottomless bank account,"
said Seth.

"Said he might pop in this evening to consult with his lawyer."

"And who might that be? You don't know shit about criminal defense."

"I was hoping you'd do it."

"And I," she said, smiling, "was hoping for Lev's sake you wouldn't."
She grunted as she lifted a black-stockinged foot up onto her desk.

"Sure, I'll do it, though it looks to me like you'll have plenty of
time to give me a hand-once Treadwell's motion for summary judgment is
granted next week."

They drank and smoked in silence. The cigarette was making Seth dizzy,
but he smoked it anyway.

"Too bad about Simmons and your affidavit," said Allyn.

"My TDA stockholders' suit request just produced two boxes full of
files on Tollman Design Associates from your pal at the tax
division."

"Save your eyes. We're dead."

Allyn lit a cigar, poured fresh coffee and brandy, then turned her head
toward a creaking sound from the stairwell.

"Must be Lev," said Allyn.

"That's not Lev," said Seth, easing out of his chair.

"You expecting anyone?"

"No."

"Got a gun in here anywhere?"

"Shit, no. I would've killed Ramon years ago if I had a gun. Why?"

"Like you said, people seem to be dying like flies around this case."

"Hello? Anybody here?" came a voice decidedly not Lev's.

"Jesus," said Seth.

"Just what I need right now."

A gaunt face appeared in the doorway.

"Hi, guys."
"Hello, Harry," said Seth.

"Allyn, you remember Harry Cooper?"

"Hi, Harry. How're things at the Big Uneasy?"

"M and M? Same old shit, AUyn," said Harry, eyeing the brandy.

"Bum a cup of coffee?"

"Help yourself."

They watched as Harry laced his brandy with a shot of coffee.

A few minutes of small talk, carefully avoiding any mention of the Con
Space matter, then Harry came out with it: big case, big client,
dispositive motion, reply brief due tomorrow, long story, big trouble.
Deja vu.

"So," he concluded, "I need a little help."

"Hell, Harry," said Seth, "you're a partner now. You got twenty,
thirty ex-U.S. Supreme Court clerks at M and M sittin' on their fat
asses, every damn one of 'em a hell of a lot smarter than me."

"You don't understand, Seth. The kid I assigned blew it, and I've been
traveling a lot lately, and, well ... I've been a little under the
weather. I've tried to pull the brief together, but nothing's working.
Now I'm out of time. It's a bet-the-ranch motion, Seth. But you and I
working together like we used to--" "Sorry, Harry. Got my own load
right now."

"No, Seth, you're not hearing me. I've got big trouble here." Harry
leapt to his feet, poured another shot of brandy into his empty cup.
Forget the coffee.

"I'll pay you. Full rates." He looked at Allyn for support, but she
was looking out the window.

"I'm not looking for any favors," he added, then slugged down the
brandy.

"Double your full rates. Whatever!"

Seth stood, too, then reached out and took the cup from Harry's hand.

"No, you listen for a change, pardner. First place, I told you last
time I bailed you out it was the last time. Second place, I've never
been one for asking favors, nor giving 'em out either. Every time I
get involved in someone else's problems, I'm asking for trouble, which
I don't need more of right now. Third place, you don't need a lawyer,
old son, you need a doctor. Now we're a little busy here, so--""So
just buzz the fuck off, is that it? Just go see Treadwell in the
morning with my hat in my hand and admit I'm too fucked up to be a
partner at Miller and McGrath?"

"Harry," said Allyn, interceding with as soothing a voice as she could
muster, "why don't you just get a continuance?"

"Don't you think I've tried?" said Harry angrily.

"I've got Caldwell and Shaw on the other side. Need I say more?

They know they've got me by the balls."

"Then move the court for a continuance tomorrow."

"Jesus, lady, do you think I came in on the last load of West's Law
Digest?*I've had two already!"

"That's enough. Harry," said Seth, "I'm asking you to leave now."

"Well, fuck you very much, too, old pal. I won't forget this."

"Neither will I, Harry. Good night."

Allyn and Seth listened to the retreating footsteps, heard the door
slam downstairs.

"He seems pretty upset," said Allyn.

"That wasn't talcum powder on his tie."

"So?" Allyn said cautiously.

"That's not aspirin you've been taking."

Seth reddened.

"I'm clean now, Allyn. Besides, I was taking what I took to stay in
the game. Harry takes what he takes to escape it."

"I understand, but--" "And to say Harry's a coke freak who's squandered
a brilliant mind is to give him the benefit of the doubt."

"Okay, but you were pretty rough on him."

Seth stared down at his hands as if he wanted to use them.

"There's a history," he said, then walked across the hall and into his
office.

Though it was cold, Allyn opened a window.

Seth stared at his dictating machine, trying to think of something to
say in his brief, something to head off the inevitable disaster.

Nothing came to mind.
He had already broken the news to Elena, who dealt with it by the
simple expedient of denial.

"You'll find a way to win," she had said.

"I know you will."

Her refusal to deal with the message--except by putting more pressure
on the messenger--irritated him, and the conversation had not ended
well. He had hung up the phone, picked up the unsigned declaration,
and torn it to shreds.

Twenty minutes later he still had not dictated a word and almost
welcomed the sounds of footsteps on the stairway, heralding the
prospect of an interruption. He turned off the recorder and looked up
to see his open doorway nearly filled by Leviticus Heywood.

"Is the lawyer in?"

"Depends. You some kind of dope fiend? You look like one."

"Maybe I'll take my business to Miller and McGrath," said Lev.

"I hear they really take care of their people."

"They took care of me, all right. How's it going, pard?"

"Okay. I just heard about my man Simmons."

"Yeah. Pretty unsporting of the kid to get murdered and fuck up my
case."

"You probably would have managed it on your own anyway."

Lev lumbered in and overstressed Seth's client chair, then sat there
rubbing his hands together. Seth could see he was troubled.

"Allyn's going to beat this rap for you. Don't worry. She's damn
good."

"That's not what's buggin' me. Cowboy." Lev rubbed one of the huge
hands across his face.

"You know I good as wrote that kid's death warrant."

Seth couldn't think of a consoling word that held water.

It was painfully true.

"The kid was a talker," he offered lamely.

"All you did was listen."

Lev grunted.

Allyn stuck her head in and suggested they move over to her office
where they could all sit down at the same time.

"What's wrong with my lap?" said Lev.
"Thanks, good looking," she said, then with a mocking wink at Seth,
added, "but it would be unethical for us to get romantically involved
if I'm going to be your lawyer."

"Don't give me that," Lev said.

"You're just like all them other Jews; can't stand us black people."

They all laughed and moved across the hall where, after they had
devised a strategy for defending Lev, Allyn handed Seth a document.

"What's this?"

"You better read it."

Seth scanned the three pages, then looked up at Allyn through
red-rimmed eyes.

"Where did you find it?"

"I couldn't resist looking in those tax-division boxes."

Seth fell into a chair.

"Jesus."

"I almost didn't show it to you."

"I almost wish you hadn't."

"What's goin' on?" asked Lev.

Seth held up the document.

"It looks to be an in-house Con Space memo. Here's a paragraph from
page two:

"

"The TDA system is an ingenious compilation of three independent
off-the-shelf components. The canopy itself is made of standard high
heat-resistant--five hundred-degrees Fahrenheit--Plexiglas with an
Austin-designed activation mechanism and a Stellar Electronic Array.
The problems we are encountering could be a function of incompatibility
of the Stellar electrical system and the Austin activating mechanism.

Components of the latter could be implicated during opening and closing
of the canopy in a chafing action with elements of the former,
resulting in compromise to the integrity of the protective wiring
harness."

" "So your guy Daimler was right-on."

"In the margin of what I just read," continued Seth, lighting a
cigarette with a match that wouldn't sit still, "are some handwritten
notes, probably somebody from Justice: "Why did Con accept TDA's
system? Pressure? Time? Political?

Does Father fit in here somewhere?"

" "This is terrific!" said Lev.

"So what's with the long faces?"

They just stared at him.

"Oh, yeah," he said.

"Sorry. Slow reading group."
A siren from an ambulance over on Market broke the silence in the room
as the friends stared into their coffee mugs. Seth closed the window.
Every sound was an irritant.

"When's your reply brief due?" said Lev.

"Tomorrow," said Seth, adding a dash more brandy to his coffee.

The siren sound died.

Lev sniffed, fanned the smoke from his face, opened the window. In the
alley below, a pair of cats were mating, fighting, or both.

"I busted my ass to get that statement," said Lev.

"You did good," said Allyn.

"I can picture the boy like he was in the room here. Good kid.
Smart-ass, but hell, he was young. What a waste."

Seth suddenly jammed his cigarette into an ashtray and jumped to his
feet.

"Maybe it doesn't have to be a waste."

"What?" said Allyn.

"Instead of Simmons's declaration, how about we use his statement, then
have Lev sign a declaration which attests to the accuracy of the
statement?"

"You'd never get it into evidence," said Allyn.

"Not at trial. But the judge would have to read it at the hearing on
Treadwell's motion. He'd see the problem."

"Hell," said Lev.

"I'm just a step ahead of jailbird status, but I'll sign anything you
put in front of me if you think it'll do any good."

"You'd just be delaying the inevitable," said Allyn, wagging a
nicotine-stained finger at Seth.

"Yeah?" he said, heading for his office.
"So what's your point?" 43 "mr. cameron's OPPOSITION PAPERS ARE AN
AFFRONT TO this court. Your Honor!" said a vexed and irate Anthony
Treadwell, coming out of his chair on the heels of Seth's argument,
"and I move that Mr. Heywood's double-hearsay declaration be stricken
from the court's file." Treadwell looked elegant, as usual, in a
Gianfranco double-breasted wool suit, a $400 Borrelli shirt, and one of
his trademark Hermes ties with matching silk pocket square. He
commanded attention--even when he wasn't obviously vexed and irate--one
of those gaunt, small-boned men who somehow conveyed the inner force of
a super collider Seth hated this attribute, not just because Treadwell
possessed it, but because he didn't.

Judge Singer raised his glasses to his forehead and peered down at
Seth.

"Mr. Cameron, while I prefer that cases be resolved on their merits
before a jury, I'm disposed to grant Mr. Treadwell's motion. I'm
simply unable to comprehend your argument."

"Let me try to be more clear with Your Honor," said Seth, rising again
in his own finest, a decent Brioni knockoff from the local factory
outlet.

"I'm afraid we're passing like ships in the night."

"That may be true. Counsel," said the judge with a kindly smile, "but
mine is sailing into harbor, and I'm afraid yours is heading out to
sea."

"I'll try to come about. Your Honor," said Seth, gathering himself for
another attempt.

"As I said before, Mr. Heywood's declaration is not really hearsay.
It's a declaration concerning facts within his direct knowledge,
raising a clear factual issue for the jury as to whether the crash
occurred the night of the fifteenth or the early-mo ming hours of the
sixteenth."
"I believe," said the judge, wearily rubbing his eyes, "that it's the
attached statement of Corporal Simmons with which Mr. Treadwell takes
most vigorous issue."

"But the statement," said Seth, steadily meeting the judge's gaze, "is
but a part of the declaration, incorporated therein as if set forth in
full. In short. Your Honor, Mr.

Heywood is simply declaring under penalty of perjury that this is
precisely what he heard the corporal say to him. Thus, apart from the
statement--which you will note was indeed signed by the decedent--you
have the word of a licensed private investigator."

Treadwell snickered at this and triumphantly waved a document in his
extended hand.

"Precisely, Your Honor! The word of a private investigator who has
recently been indicted--as this certified minute order will show--on
counts of cocaine possession and resisting arrest!"

"Objection, Your Honor!" said Seth.

"Documentary impeachment of a declarant is not only inappropriate, but
too late. This is the first I've seen of this document."

But Judge Singer was already studying the order.

Treadwell flashed Seth a contemptuous smile and said, "You don't mean
to tell the court that you're surprised, do you, Counsel? As a matter
of fact, your office represents the man, doesn't it?"

Seth stared back at the senior partner and could think of nothing to
say or do that would not get him fined for contempt of court or busted
for assault and battery.

Be prepared for a life of uncertainty and devastating surprises, his
father had cautioned when Seth finished his first year in law school
and proudly announced he would become a trial lawyer after winning the
school's moot court competition.

A trial lawyer? No, no, anything but that, Seth. A trial lawyer lives
his life dancing on the edge of contingency. The only two things he
knows for sure when he sets foot in a courtroom are that he doesn't
know enough and that something will go wrong. He just won't know what
or when. Young Seth had laughed and said that must be what makes it so
exciting. Exciting? Tell me what's so exciting about a bleeding gut
and a liver like a rubber doorstop.
"Is that true. Counsel?" said the judge as he perused the minute
order.

"Your firm represents the declarant, Mr. Heywood, in a pending
criminal case?"

"Yes, Your Honor, but--" "Never mind. Counsel," said Judge Singer,
removing his glasses and giving Seth a stern look.

"Although I am deeply troubled by this unseemly coincidence, it's not
my province at this time to rule on such matters as possible bias or
improper influence. On its face, the declaration is admissible and
requires that I deny your motion, Mr. Treadwell."

The judge then turned to glare at Seth.

"I do so with great reluctance, however, and warn you, Mr. Cameron,
that this just gets you past this motion, bound as I am to resolve all
doubts in favor of a trial on the merits. Come trial later this month,
however, the standards for admissibility change, and you had better
come up with clear evidence that the crash occurred on the sixteenth.
If not, I'll gladly grant Mr.

Treadwell's motion for nonsuit and move on to other pressing matters on
my calendar."

"Understood, Your Honor," said Seth, starting to breathe again.

As the judge left the bench, Treadwell scowled and shoved his notes and
case authorities into his briefcase. As he started toward the rail, he
gave Seth a hard look and said, "Surely you must have a paying divorce
client or some equally worthy matter to attend to, Cameron. It's clear
to everybody but you that your pathetic little case is dead."

"You don't say."

"Seriously, Cameron, do you think Judge Singer will allow this case to
fall into the hands of a jury? I know that's what you're counting on,
but it won't happen. Give it up now, for God's sake, and I might be
able to get you twenty-five, maybe thirty thousand."

Seth snapped his trial bag shut.

"Add a zero," he said without looking up, "and we can talk."

"There will be no zeros, Cameron, and no further settlement discussions
after today. Con Space can't risk the publicity of paying you one cent
more than nuisance value. On the other hand, they'll pay me millions
to see that this case never reaches that gaggle of emotional idiots we
call a jury."
"And you don't mind taking the money."

Treadwell's features compressed into a scowl.

"You just don't get it, do you?" he said, slamming his briefcase down
on the table in front of Seth.

"These people are ..."

Treadwell stopped himself, and Seth thought he saw a trace of
desperation hidden inside the anger.

"Let me put it to you this way, Cameron, and you can make of it what
you will. The pressure they're putting on me to win is nothing
compared to what they'll put on you to lose."

"You don't say."

"I do say, and I wish to hell you would listen while there's still
time."

Seth thought he had become immune to threats, yet Treadwell's words,
and the despairing way he uttered them, reverberated in his head, then
dropped into his gut where they smoldered like particles of nuclear
waste. The two men stood in the silence of the empty courtroom, their
eyes locked together.

"I'm not sure who 'they' are, Mr. Treadwell, but if you know, perhaps
you could tell them for me to go fuck themselves."

Treadwell shook his head despairingly.

"I think you would do well to reconsider your situation here,
Cameron--as well as your mode of expressing yourself."

"Mr. Treadwell, I think you're confusing me with someone who gives a
rat's ass about your opinions."

The senior partner reached for the handle of his briefcase.

"You're being childish."

"I'm really glad we're having this exchange of ideas."

"Is that all you have to say to my offer?"

"No. I have a question. How did you find out that Heywood had been
busted?"

Treadwell snatched up his briefcase and reached for the swinging gate
leading out into the courtroom gallery, but Seth grabbed him by the
arm.

"Or maybe you knew it was going to happen ahead of time. Maybe they is
you."

Treadwell snorted as he tried to twist out of Seth's grasp.
"For that typically subtle demonstration of innuendo, Cameron I'll
have you back on a nag in Bakersfield punching plastic flamingos for a
living!"

Seth's cobalt blue eyes bore into Treadwell as he tightened his grip on
the senior partner's arm.

"Do your worst, but if I find out you knew in advance what those
federal meatballs were up to, you'll wish I had never left Bakersfield
in the first place."

Treadwell slammed the gate open with his briefcase and stormed out.

The gate swung back and whacked Seth above the knees, but he didn't
even feel it. In fact, he felt nothing at all, except for the
realfaation that for better or worse, he was going to get his trial.

Now all he needed was some evidence.

"Now all you need is some evidence," said Allyn an hour later after he
had dragged himself to the top of the stairs and given her a
thumbs-up.

"I bet Treadwell went ape-shit."

"Ballistically ape-shit," said Seth, and told her everything, except
for his latest threat.

"Sit down, Cowboy. I couldn't resist going through the rest of the tax
division's file. Look what else I found."

She handed him a police accident report from Destry, Arizona, a small
town forty miles from the crash site. Seth quickly scanned the routine
entries in a sketchy report and chuckled as he saw, beneath Description
of Vehicle I, the entry USAF airplane. There was a blank, of course,
under Description of Vehicle 2, as well as under Estimated time of
collision.

"Tell me there's more."

"Shut up and keep reading."

The shocker was at the bottom of the last page in a square labeled
Witnesses. Seth had to strain to make out the names there.

"Can you make it out? Looks like Thomas and Ruth Lochers or Luckens or
something."

"It's hard to read," said Allyn.

"What's more puzzling is that there's no explanation as to what the
hell the witnesses were supposed to have witnessed. The dumb cop
didn't even put down their addresses. ""But these reports are typed
off notes. His notes would have more information!"

"Brilliant," said Allyn, blowing smoke in his face.

"I'm out of here."

"Slow down. Cowboy. You've got the Jensen trial starting tomorrow,
remember?"

"You could cover me."

"And who would cover me on the Lansing divorce case starting day after
tomorrow?"

They sat in silence for no more than a minute before the obvious
solution came to them.

An hour later, Seth pulled up in front of Lev's house.

Allyn had flat-out refused to accompany him to help deal with Barbara
Heywood.

"No way," Allyn had said.

"I'd feel the same way if I had a husband who had been beaten, framed,
and was about to be convicted of a felony."

His heart sank when a hostile Barbara Heywood answered the door and
informed him that Lev was out of town on an assignment. Seth was
leaving when a familiar voice boomed out from behind her, "Hey, Cowboy,
what brings you out to the fog belt?"

"Hi, Lev. I tried to call " "I've been on the phone. Trying to dig up
some work."

Barbara played with her hands and started to leave as her husband swung
the door open, saying, "Don't just stand there, Cowboy. Like a beer?
Cup of coffee?"

"No thanks, but I need to talk to you. Both of you."

Seth explained what Allyn had found, how important it might be if they
could find the witnesses, and why he couldn't do it himself or trust
anyone but Lev to do it. Lev was silent, stealing an occasional glance
at his wife, while Barbara's narrowed eyes shot back and forth between
the two men. When Seth was finished, both Lev and his wife sat gazing
straight ahead into the heavy silence. When it was obvious that Lev
would not speak first, Barbara did.

"A man under indictment can't leave the state," she said without
looking up at Seth.

"Even if he wanted to," she added pointedly with a sharp glance at her
husband.
But Seth was prepared for that one, remembering that Barbara had
been a legal secretary for the San Francisco public defender's
office.

"I've called the U.S. Attorney. He'll clear it."

"Will he also clear any medical and/or funeral expenses resulting from
the trip?"

"Now, honey " "Lev, damn it, you promised!"

"But this is a piece of cake, honey. I find the cop whose name's on
the report and sweet-talk my way into his notes.

If I'm lucky, I catch up with those nice folks and find out once and
for all exactly when this bird went down."

"I don't give a "damn if you're going to meet the Grand Mufti of
Jerusalem surrounded by U.N. peacekeepers!" she shouted.

"You're finished with this case ... or I'm finished with you!"

Lev winced at the stinging words. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Seth
knew that the only decent thing for him to do at this point was to
apologize and walk out the door.

Instead, he planted himself directly in front of her and looked her
squarely in the eye.

"Hear me out, Barbara. Our trial starts in two weeks and these people
are our last hope for getting this case to a jury. They're also Elena
Barton's only hope for clearing her husband's name, and my only hope
for exposing this airborne killing machine for what it is."

"And what about my hopes, Mr. Silver Tongue? Hopes for having a
husband who's all in one piece. Did he tell you the doctor says he may
lose his kidney? And how about our hopes for having a family?" She
turned back to Lev and seemed about to break up as she added through
trembling lips, "How about our hopes for being able to ... to love like
we used to " "That's enough, Barbara," said Lev, rising and taking her
by the shoulders.

"Listen, honey, I know what I promised, but hell, woman, I can't spend
my life shadowing cheating husbands. How can I be a man for you when I
don't see one looking back at me in the mirror when I shave in the
morning?"

They seemed to have forgotten Seth was in the room, and Seth earnestly
wished he weren't. He felt like a motorist standing over the body of
someone he had run down in a car.

"Lev," he said, turning to leave, "thanks, of' son, but you don't owe
me anything."

"You right about that. Cowboy, but I owe them feds big time, and I'm
gonna help you pay 'em back."

Barbara's anger and pain overtook her and she began to sob.

"They ... they're going to ... kill you next time," she stammered.

Lev put his big arms around her and pulled her close to him.

"I'm an investigator, honey, not some goddamn second-story snoop. If I
keep doing this shit, I'm gonna die anyway."

Barbara Heywood wiped away her tears of anger and uttered her final
words on the subject with frightening intensity.

"You promised me."

Leviticus sadly nodded his head, then told Seth to wait in the car
while he packed some things.

"I'll need a ride. The damn feds impounded my car." He then marched
into the bedroom, leaving Barbara Heywood alone with the man who had
come to disrupt their lives.

Leviticus's flight did not leave for several hours, so they went back
to the office. Allyn heard them pounding up the stairs and was waiting
at the top.

"Where you been all week, you big bear?" she said.

"Hibematin'," said Lev.

"Come to save our unworthy asses one more time, huh?"

"A trained seal could do this gig," said Lev, smiling, "but Cowboy here
reckons he's down to his last roundup." He glanced through Seth's open
office door at a blackboard mounted on an easel and asked, "That your
witness list?"

"Such as it is," said Seth.

"That's it?"

"Yep."

"If that was a menu, I'd eat somewhere else. Where the hell's all your
witnesses, man?"
"We're going in lean and mean." Seth then explained that he would
first call either Crispie to talk about Sam's skill, or Henry Daimler
to review problems the X-215A had experienced before the crash, and to
give his opinion, hopefully supported by Alan Millstein's lab work,
that chafing against the protective harness had caused the failures. He
would try to get the incriminating internal Con Space document into
evidence through his expert, but knew he would fail, as he had been
unable to authenticate it. No names anywhere on it. Not even a date.
Torville hadn't a clue how the tax division had got it. Seth's one
smoking gun had never been loaded.

Next, he would call Harold Bostwick as an adverse witness and work him
over with a series of questions Professor Daimler had prepared. Then
he'd take one last fling at getting Bostwick to repeat what he had said
at Symington about the late-night takeoff.

"Fat chance," interceded Allyn.

"Right now, he's all I've got," said Seth with a shrug.

"What about the subpoenas in your stockholders' suit, Allyn?" asked
Lev.

"Catch anything?"

Allyn explained how she had finally tracked down Dr.

Ivor Tollman--the genius behind the TDA canopy system-in a cemetery
outside Cambridge.

"According to Olmstead, Tellman's final mean-spirited act before
'committing suicide' was to destroy all the company records. Olmstead's
answers to my interrogatory described it as 'the final, inexplicable
act of a mad genius in the grip of alcoholic paranoia." Dramatic,
huh?"

Lev grunted and rolled his eyes.

"Poetic."

"And convenient," added Seth.

"Olmstead's lawyer convinced the court on the basis of affidavits and
his answers to interrogatories that his client's scientific competence
did not extend to hammering a nail. Said we were just harassing him,
and Judge Singer bought it. Denied me his deposition."

"Do you think the feds have gotten to the judge, too?"

asked Lev.

"I doubt it. Singer's a state-court judge and a reputable one. He
just doesn't like witch-hunts or drawn-out fishing expeditions, which
is what he thinks we're up to. He'll come around."
"Not," said AUyn, "if you don't come around with some evidence."

"I plan to spring the so-called 42-W flight plan on Crispie.

He's already mad at me, but I might be able to get him to say that the
crash site was at the end of the standard test route to bolster our
theory that the crash was after midnight."

"Lots of luck," said Allyn.

"Didn't you say the Defense or State Department was going to have
people monitoring the trial to file motions to suppress testimony
whenever matters of 'national security' were involved--like they did in
the Oilie North hearings?"

Seth shrugged.

"The jury will see that something big is involved here. I'll turn it
around to my advantage."

"What brand of blind faith you smokin' these days. Cowboy?"

said Lev.

"I think we should call Ripley, Allyn. Got a guy here who turns sows'
ears into silk purses!"

Allyn smiled.

"Seth was the kid in the joke whose parents gave him a roomful of horse
shit for Christmas to try to dampen his overly optimistic view of
life."

"I know that one," said Lev, chuckling.

"Parents come in and see the kid all smiles and excitement, throwing
shit all around the room, shouting he's sure there's got to be a pony
in here somewhere."

"Cute," said Seth as their laughter died.

"You guys would have killed 'em on Hee Haw. Anyway, that's my case."

"That's it?" said Lev.

"I'll end with Elena, of course, but yeah, that's it."

"That's it," repeated Lev, deciding not to mention Sam's drinking.

"Where is she, by the way?" asked Allyn.

"I haven't seen her lately."

Seth jammed his hands deep into his pockets and shrugged his
shoulders.

"I haven't either. Her service says she's out of town."

Allyn knitted her brow.

"Out of town? With trial starting in two weeks?"

Seth grabbed a cigarette and irritably snatched Allyn's lighter off her
desk.

"The message says she'll be back next week, okay? No problem."
Allyn and Lev exchanged a look.

"Why would I think there's a problem?" she said calmly.

"Okay, so you're missing a client--" "In more ways than one I'll bet,"
interrupted Lev, drawing a scowl from Seth.

"Your client's missing," Allyn continued, peeling the cellophane off a
cigar.

"But that's no problem because the judge will dismiss the case on the
statute before you get to her part in the trial anyway."

"Lev might get lucky in Arizona," said Seth.

"Or maybe the other officer who left the club that night with Sam will
come forward." * "And maybe," said Allyn, "all the frogs in Marin
County will grow wings and fly to Dover."

"Or there'll be a pony under all that horse shit," added Lev.

Seth rose and turned toward his office.

"This is not a useful conversation, folks."

"Then there's that other little problem," said Allyn as if she had not
heard him, "that your technical causation case is so flimsy Treadwell
will shred it like a piece of Kleenex.

But maybe that's not really a problem either, given the further fact
that Sam was flying drunk and the way you look right now, you probably
won't live long enough to see the trial anyway."

Seth started to reply, but he was suddenly too tired to deal with her.
Besides, deep down he knew she was right:

his dog of a case was barking louder every day.

Across the continent in Vero Beach, Florida, Aubrey Olmstead and
Senator Traeger met in a motel room as ugly as their moods.

"This had better be important, Aubrey," said Traeger, placing his
cellular phone on a green plastic table with wrought-iron legs. He was
momentarily distracted by the dissonance of noisy colors in the room.
Wondered what manner of person would decorate a plaid couch with
striped pillows. Sniffing with distaste, he added, "I'm missing a
high-profile vote in the Senate today."
Olmstead cracked his knuckles and his red balloon of a face went to
purple.

"Is staying out of federal prison still important to United States
senators?" he said, the folds of his neck shaking with each word
spoken.

Traeger's features puckered in disgust, but he took a deep breath and
returned Olmstead's serve with a soft lob.

"I'd say that most of us consider that to be a valid working principle.
So can we get on with it please?"

The senator no longer tried to conceal his revulsion at the sight of
Olmstead's obesity. Olmstead was just as obviously appalled at having
to look at Traeger, whose bulging fishbowl eyes and harpoon nose
combined to create the impression of a person mugging too close to a
camera lens. In short, they were murderously sick of one another, and
like many people locked together by business or marriage or some other
cheerless enterprise, their Siamese dependency had risen to that level
of resentment where nothing penetrated the cornea of one partner's eye
but the physical flaws of the other.

Olmstead watched as Traeger rose from the discordant couch as if
fearful of contracting something, then slowly patrolled the garish
room, picking at one of the pillows, straightening a Keane print in a
yellow frame, pinching the floral-patterned drapes. Olmstead knew that
the persnickety senator was somehow blaming him for the room's blazing
cacophony of bad taste.

"I've had enough of your arrogance, Stanford," he said at last, "and
I'll thank you to sit down, turn off your goddamn cellular phone, and
quit glancing at your Rolex President.

I'm not impressed. I give them out for Christmas presents."

Traeger looked at his corpulent partner with new interest.

"My, my. Have we been taking a course in assertiveness training,
Aubrey? All right, I'm sitting. Now, what's the problem, old
sport?"

"The problem, you pompous bastard, is your daughter, specifically your
inability to control her actions. Are you aware that she and her
maverick lawyer start trial in fourteen days? "Twelve," said Traeger,
glancing at his Rolex President.

"Trial starts, to be precise, on the eighteenth. A Wednesday."

"Oh, for God's sake, Traeger, stop being so goddamn arrogant!"

Father raised an eyebrow.

"Is it arrogant to be precise?

If you and your inept professor had been more precise, we wouldn't have
this ... situation. People like Tollman give fools and bunglers a bad
name."

"Let's stop this, Stanford," said Olmstead, flapping his arms in the
air with obvious effort.

"Trading recriminations is getting us nowhere The fact is, we do have a
situation on our hands. I barely escaped having to testify, and if
Ivor Tollman hadn't been ... hadn't killed himself, he would have
killed us at trial."

"But he is dead, so stop being so damn paranoid. Farnsworth and his
aide-de-camp are thoroughly secure, and Cameron isn't onto anything but
my daughter, who knows even less than he does."

Prurience overcoming anxiety, Olmstead's eyes brightened.

"So your formidable daughter has been mastered at last. The shrew has
been tamed!"

"Hardly. If curiosity doesn't get Cameron killed, my bitch daughter
will finish him off. Poor bastard has figured out even less about
Elena than he has about what happened the night of October fifteenth.
I've done all I can, short of dropping a hydrogen bomb on San
Francisco." Traeger handed Olmstead an Albuquerque newspaper.

"Here, you may have missed this. This Simmons fellow blabbed to an
investigator, but we got him before he could testify. What the hell
more do you want from me?"

Olmstead studied the paper, then neatly folded it and put it down.

"This is reassuring," he said coldly, "but I note that this occurred
before I received a telephone call from your daughter's lawyer asking
me to meet with him."

"So?"

"So Cameron is still not getting the message. Surely you know. Father,
that to kill a snake, you don't cut off his tail;
you go for the head." 44 "showtime, BIG GUY," SAID seth. leviticus
WAS DOZING on a cot in the file room. He yawned and stretched his huge
arms.

"Is it time already?"

"Almost. Here's your copy of the police report, roundtrip tickets to
Phoenix, five hundred in cash, some subpoena forms, and a few thoughts
I had in case you find the Lukens or Lockhoms or whoever the hell they
are."

"I'll find them if they're still alive."

"I know you will, and try to keep 'em that way. The average life span
of witnesses in this case is on a downward trend."

The phone rang and Seth heard Allyn's booming "Friedlander here." After
a short pause, her next words caused his heart rate to jump.

"Yes, Mrs. Barton, he's here. Seth? It's for you."

He took a calming deep breath, noticing how she always did this to
him.

"Hi, Elena. Back in town?"

"No, darling, I'm job-hunting--in Albuquerque if you can imagine it I
still have some connections back here and decided I'd better start
finding a way to keep myself busy after all this is behind me."

Including we, he thought, but said nothing. She picked up on his
silence.

"I'd be working in the San Francisco branch of a company headquartered
here, so don't think finishing the case means I'm finished with my
lawyer."

Seth's shoulders relaxed, but as he shuffled his emotions-frustration,
loneliness, irritation, and lust--it was distrust that rested on top of
the deck.

"You've been gone two weeks."

"I've been visiting friends for the holidays."
Friends. Another silence ensued that struck Seth as crucial to
whatever future they might have together, but a silence he couldn't
bring himself to break. The ball was still in her court.

"I do believe. Counselor," she said finally, "that you're missing me.
Well, I'm missing you, too, darling, but I felt the need to get away
for a while, see some of the girls again.

They're all rooting for us."

"I guess I'm a little tired, Elena. It's good to hear your voice." He
heard the uneasiness in his voice, a grudging tone that bordered on
whining, like some disappointed kid.

He tried to snap ouJ of it.

"I do miss you. When you coming back?"

She told him she'd be back soon and a few other reassuring things. He
told her about the police report and Lev's trip, which reminded him
they'd better be heading for the airport. She said good-bye, then told
him she loved him-the first time she had said the words since that
night.

He said hurry back and hung up. As he stared at the dead phone, it
occurred to him he had never told Elena he loved her. Had he ever told
Rosie? Anyone?

"Good news from our patron goddess?" asked Allyn, putting on her
coat.

"Has she deigned to make a cameo appearance at her trial?"

"You never liked Elena, Allyn. Why?"

"I don't trust her."

"Okay, you never trusted her either. Why?"

"We're not talking the mystery of Stonehenge or the Shroud of Turin
here, Seth. All you got to do is look beneath the layers of Max Factor
to see the truth about Elena Barton. She's using you, kid."

Seth dismissed her remark with a wave of his hand.

"She said I shouldn't forget to pass on her profound admiration and
respect for you."

"Yeah, well, fuck her, too," said Allyn, smiling.

"She'll be back in time. She's ready to testify. I've already put her
through a mock cross-exam. She held up well and I worked her over real
good."

"I'll bet you did," said Allyn, provoking a lusty hooahh from Lev.
"Seriously, Seth," she continued.

"You might as well hear this, too. Lev. This is the last check I
write. Something about this case has pitted us against the government,
a very powerful corporation, and the entire U.S. Air Force."

"You want out right now, Allyn?"

"I didn't say that. I'm just finished underwriting your suicidal
tendencies."

"How about you. Lev?" said Seth.

"Lucky for you, I'm not as smart as I am pretty. I'm still in."

"Then," said Seth, putting a hand on each of their shoulders, "it
shapes up to be a fair fight." late THE NEXT AFTERNOON, seth RECEIVED
A CALL FROM Alan Millstein.

"Seth? We've got wiring!" he shouted, followed by an incomprehensible
waterfall of words, which, when played back and sorted out, told Seth
that the X-215A mock-up had produced a worn patch in the protective
harness through which Millstein had spotted--as shiny and welcome as a
lost wedding ring--an exposed piece of copper wiring.

"Good work, Alan! Any sparking yet?"

No, there had been no sparking, and to Seth's dismay, Alan was not
hopeful there would be any by the start of trial. Still, it was a
breakthrough, and they agreed to meet at the North Beach Cafe for a
late dinner to go over a revised draft of his testimony.

Three hours later, Seth hurriedly crossed Market Street, dodging
electric streetcars and eccentric street people, then threaded his way
up Montgomery through the day's cold leftovers: beggars, overtime
white-collar workers racing for the last bus home, and a few
disoriented tourists.
He angled up Columbus and into North Beach. Glancing at his watch as
he passed Tosca, he wondered if he had time to slip in a quick white
nun.

He looked through the window at the people inside, a different crowd
from in the old days, when Jeanette Etheridge welcomed ballet dancers,
actors, and opera singers to her salon of a saloon. Now her clientele
was younger, noisier, and more brash, but still drawn in part by the
prospect of seeing local celebrities or being mistaken for one.

They looked warm and full of themselves, bathed in the boisterous,
smoky light. Seth felt a twinge of envy, an urge to forget everything
and become one of them, even if just for an evening. Besides, his
stomach had begun to trouble him again, and a white nun might settle it
down.

He found a seat at the far end of the bar next to a slightly drunk but
reasonably well-dressed old man who looked vaguely familiar. He also
looked dead, sitting there so still his body lacked dimension. He
looked like a photograph of himself.

"Can't understand the popularity of those things," the old man said,
turning his head no more than necessary to eye Seth's drink. He wore a
sparse beard that did little to conceal a weak chin or soften a nose
that loomed ahead of him like a hood ornament. The skin surrounding
the failed beard was sallow and thin as paper.

"Might settle my stomach," said Seth.

"That's a good one, kid," he said with a derisive cackle.

Seth glanced sideways and looked into eyes cold as metal and a smile
like lingering death.

"White nuns can do a lot of things, but settling a stomach surely ain't
one of them.

For that, you need what I'm drinking--moose-milk."

"Which is?"

"Scotch whiskey and whole milk."

"Haven't we met?"

"Don't think so. I'm fairly new to these parts," he said, lifting his
glass slowly to his lips. He put the glass down on the bar just as
slowly, then raised his cigarette to his mouth with the same deliberate
movement. Watching him was like watching a candle burn.

"I'm also open," he added, giving his empty glass a single shake, "to
the hospitality of strangers should you be so inclined."
Against his instincts, even his will, Seth bought him a drink.

"Them nuns like you're drinkin' there was invented in the late sixties
just around the corner in a place called Swiss Louie's, across from
Finocchio's." At least the guy had shed his hostility, thought Seth.
Maybe it was worth five bucks.

"Louie had some tuaca demi-sec he'd got from Italy--this was even
before it showed up in U.S. liquor stores--and a spankin' new
nickel-plated cappuccino machine. He poured some of that tuaca into a
glass of steamed milk, and his friend's daughter--named Spawn as I
recall--told Louie he should call it a white nun and he did."

Seth grunted to be polite, but his attention had been drawn to a beauty
at the bar who was eyeing him over the shoulder of her date.

Undaunted, the old man added, "I was there that night."

"I thought you said you were new to these parts."

The old man swung around on his stool, revealing a stub of an arm.

"I don't recollect sayin' I ain't never been here before. I lived here
for as long as you've lived anywhere, boy." He took so long to get the
drink to his lips, Seth wasn't sure he was finished talking.

He wasn't, adding he had been living in Athens, Georgia, hated Jimmy
Carter, and felt sorry for his brother. Billy, who couldn't even take
a quiet piss in public without making the front pages. Didn't seem
fair.

Whoever put a quarter in this guy should be shot, thought Seth, then
realized it had been himself. He wondered if the girl was as nice as
she was pretty.

"Gettin' back to them nuns, young man, the problem is they go down too
fast, too easy. Next day you got to improve to die."

"Well, sir," said Seth, watching the girl leave with her date, "I guess
I can't blame the nuns for a bad habit."

To his surprise, the old man let out a roar of approval and said,
"That's a good one, son, but I stand on my recommendation of
moose-milk."

"I've seen you before," said Seth, taking a close look for the first
time. Then it hit him. This was the old man who had accosted him
outside Treadwell's office and sent Miss Tarkenton into a frenzy.

"I know you."

"Well, I don't know you."

"It's funny. The last time I saw you, I felt the same way, like I'd
seen you before somewhere."

"Where was that?"

"Going into the office of a guy I used to work for named Anthony
Treadwell."

"Never heard of him," said the old man, looking past him with a vacant
stare and tossing off his drink with an uncharacteristically quick
motion, "and I ain't never seen you before neither." With that, he
slid off his stool and lurched toward the door, his shoulders tilted
downward at a sharp angle, favoring the withered arm, yet thrown back
so rigidly it looked as if he might have forgotten to take the hanger
out of his coat. The man was a true walking antique.

An original.

"Comes in a lot," said the bartender in answer to Seth's question.

"Gets drunk and brags about his son being the biggest hotshot lawyer in
the country. Pays his bills and doesn't bother anyone."

Of course! He had been talking to Anthony Treadwell's father.

Seth spun out of his seat and hit the door, but the old man had already
been swallowed up in the tidal wave of people jamming the area that had
once proudly called itself the Barbary Coast. Thirty-two years before,
just up the street at the Condor, a then tiny-breasted girl named Carol
Doda had descended out of the Condor's musty ceiling on a hydraulically
powered piano, and topless dancing was born in San Francisco. Later,
that same piano would ascend one night after hours, crushing its
copulating victims against the ceiling like something out of The
Twilight Zone. Coitus interruptus.

Those were the days.

Two tough-looking street burns stood near the doorway, and Seth started
to ask them if they had seen which way the man went, but they quickly
averted their eyes, jammed their hands in their pockets, and shuffled
off toward the curb. The sight of them set off an alarm in Seth; deep
inside, somewhere in the vicinity of the white nun.
What was bothering him?

Of course. Real street burns don't look away, they look straight at
you and demand "spare change,"

"a little help," "bus fare," or whatever con is working best that
night. So why would these tough-looking characters dress up like
street people? Halloween was over.

But not his paranoia, he concluded, and resumed his walk up Columbus.
When he reached Broadway, he started to heed the Don't Walk sign, then
broke into a run at the last minute and narrowly missed getting
flattened by a pickup whose driver informed him--and everyone within
shouting distance--that he was a flaming asshole. As Seth turned back
to flip him the mandatory bird, he spotted the same two men, artfully
dodging through heavy traffic against the light.

These were not street burns.

He glanced both ways, but as he was neither speeding nor shooting a
stop sign, there was no sign of a cop anywhere.

What he did see was that his pursuers had now shed all pretext and that
both of them--one a lanky black man who moved with frightening speed
and grace; the other a stocky fellow with an innocent face and red hair
spilling from a black baseball cap worn backward--were closing on him
rapidly.

He hurried up Broadway, threading his way through the wall of tourists,
cripples, self-conscious-looking men in three-piece suits, assorted
derelicts of all colors, races, and persuasions, and big-tit ted
dancers catching a smoke in doorways next to smarmy sex-spielers under
signs that announced "Topless-Bottomless" and "Man-Woman Sex Act."

He wondered if any of these places had back doors, not relishing the
thought of ending up trapped and bleeding in a filthy men's room stall
next to some masturbating wino.

He was hit with the crazy thought of Rosie Wheeler reading about a San
Francisco lawyer found dead in a strip joint on Broadway.

He kept walking.

Halfway up the block he glanced around and saw that only the baseball
cap was behind him now. Where did the tall one go? A horn honked up
ahead, and Seth turned backin time to see the black man caroming off
the hood of a Yellow Cab and gracefully rebounding onto the sidewalk in
front of Finocchio's, where the usual long line of tourists awaited
their turn to enter the national mecca of female impersonators. The
tall man had apparently crossed Broadway and back and now stood calmly
staring at Seth from less than fifty feet away.

Seth considered his options, now limited to taking his chances in one
of the strip joints or racing out into the Broadway traffic to attract
a cop. Both were ruled out by a sharp pain in his back. The redhead
had quickly closed the distance and was shoving a pistol barrel deep
into his ribs.

"Into the car there, Cameron," said the voice behind him, adding in a
soft tone completely lacking in malice, "or your guts will fly down
Broadway like smoke from a train."

They know my name, thought Seth, noticing the black Ford for the first
time, double-parked just in front of a tour bus discharging laughing,
middle-aged midwesterners. The tall man jogged toward Seth along the
line of tourists waiting to enter Finocchio's, then bounded off the
curb and opened the rear door of the waiting car. So it's my turn
now.

"In!" said the redhead with another jab for emphasis. His breath was
so musty Seth could have picked him out of a lineup blindfolded.

"Who are you?" asked Seth, holding his ground, buying time.

"I'm the guy who shot you through the heart in front of Enrico's if you
don't get your ass in the car. Now!"

Despite his anxiety, Seth marveled at the indifference of the people
all around him. Do people seem to ignore you? he had heard a
self-improvement hypester ask on a TV commercial.

Perhaps it's because you haven't made a sufficient effort to get their
attention.

"Well, hello!" he said, noisily greeting a couple at the end of the
Finocchio's line, now just a few feet from him.

"Don't you remember me?" he said, holding out his hand.

"Seth Cameron. And say hello to my friend, Red."

The gray-haired couple stared at them with looks of confused goodwill.
The gunman appeared equally confounded as he jammed the .38 between his
belt and his back and accepted the proffered handshake of the grinning
gray-haired man.

"You're gonna love this show," Seth said enthusiastically, "won't they.
Red?"

"Red" agreed they'd love the show, then sternly reminded Seth they were
late for their meeting. Seth took a good look at his assailant and saw
the malevolent spark in cold eyes set in an otherwise innocent face.
The kid couldn't be more than twenty-five, but those eyes had seen it
all.

"The hell with the meeting, Red, let's see the show with these good
people, have some laughs."

The redhead smiled and took Seth by the arm with a grip of unmistakable
strength and meaning.

"If you saw this show again, Seth," he said, his boyish face beaming
with innocence, "you could die laughing--like a lot of these other
'good people."

" Something in the kid's voice convinced Seth that he was not bluffing,
so he took a step toward the car and waved a cheery goodnight to his
"friends" in line, then jerked his extended arm back hard into the
profusion of red hair and felt his elbow connect with flesh and bone.
Red groaned as his head snapped back, and Seth bolted into Enrico's.

"Sorry, sir--" said the maitre d' at the door, but Seth shoved his way
past him, skirted the short bar to his right, then darted into the
kitchen before Ward, Enrico's famous three-hundred-pound,
six-foot-three-inch bartender, could grab him. Seth glanced back as
Red hurtled headlong into Ward's chest, but then rebounded and
skillfully spun out of the big man's grasp. Seth paused at one of the
huge Wolf stoves, dumped a large pan of oil onto the floor, then flew
out the rear kitchen door amid sounds of bodies crashing into walls,
counters, and one another. He spun around onto Kearay and began taking
the steep steps toward Vallejo Street, three at a time, At the
twentieth step, he heard a shot, followed by a rush of compressed air
near his ear. Jesus! He'd never make Vallejo, can't outrun a bullet.
Must be the tall guy. Five more steps, an open door to his left. Could
get himself cornered, but options are limited. Chest heaving, bursting
with adrenaline, go for it. Another shot whistled past his head and
thudded into the doorjamb as he raced through the opening. Slamming the
door shut behind him, he was relieved to see a dead bolt and that the
door appeared to be solidly constructed. As he struggled for air, the
sound of applause, laughter, and live music greeted him. Where the fuck
am I? He must be directly over Enrico's now, but where's the singing
coming from? He slid forward along the wall, peered around the corner.
He was backstage at Finocchio's!

The thugs would be breaking through the back door within minutes; his
only hope would be to get to the front door and back out onto Broadway.
There was no one in the dressing room--everyone was onstage for the
finale.

He checked the lock on the back door again, then moved forward as
casually as he could into the main room toward the front door at the
rear of the theater. But his heart sank as he saw the driver of the
Ford standing at the counter near the front door, one hand inside his
coat.

Seth looked around. Not a window in sight. He turned around and
hurried back toward the stage. When he reached the dressing room, he
could hear Red or the tall man or both forcing the back door and knew
it wouldn't hold them for long. His only hope was a window inside the
dressing room.

But there was no window. No skylight. No side door.

Nothing but four walls; walls through which drifted the sounds of
music, laughter ... and the splintering of the back door.

Red left the tall man to stand guard at the shattered door, searched
the dressing room and found it empty, then headed back to the front
door to alert the driver that they had their prey trapped somewhere in
the building. Returning to the stage area, he began to move through
the crowd, front to back, a row at a time, his dull blue eyes
scrutinizing every patron.

Halfway through. Red spotted his man, huddled in the rear north corner
of the theater, three rows up in a modified balcony area, trying to
make himself invisible. Red strode quickly to the front door.
"I've got him," he said to the driver, indicating Cameron's location
with a jerk of his head.

"There. Right in the corner.

The guy who keeps stroking his forehead to cover his face."

"Then get him the fuck out of here," said the driver.

"This place gives me the willies."

"Relax."

"They're fucking crazy! All of 'em."

"Haven't you seen actors before? It's just a show, man."

"I don't mean the actors," said the driver.

"I mean the audience. Weird fuckers."

"Cameron's weird, too, so watch out."

"Watch out yourself. He's already aced you once tonight."

Red's chin jerked up defiantly.

"Big talk for a guy jackin' off in the car while Ernie and I do the
heavy work. What did you want, asshole, a public massacre?"

"Just get him out of here, okay?"

Red slipped back into the theater, then made his way along the rear
wall until he was behind his man. He bent down until his face was
within inches of the man's ear.

"Don't move. Don't turn around. And don't get cute again, or I'll
blow away everyone in this fucking theater if I have to."

The man didn't move.

"Now get up and move to the front door, and nobody gets hurt."

The man moved.

At the door the man broke his silence, saying, "Please don't hurt me.
My wallet's in my back pocket. Take it, it's all I have."

"Shit!" said Red.

"Who the fuck is this?" shouted the driver.

Red flashed a badge and apologized to the terrified man, explaining
that they were searching for a dangerous murderer.

"It was a case of mistaken identity. I'm very sorry, sir. Okay?"

The shaken man nodded and took off down the stairs to the sidewalk,
having had enough excitement for one night.

"So where the hell's Cameron?" said the driver.

Red snapped his fingers.

"Only one place left. The head!"

"Think you can handle it, Kelly?"
"Fuck you, Johnson. I'd like to vaporize the bastard and you, too."

There were two rest rooms. Neither was gender denned, in keeping with
the current trend, so he tried the one on the right first. Nothing but
empty stalls.

He then quietly entered the one on the left. Bingo! Red bent down and
saw the identical loafers he had seen on Seth--burgundy Ferragamos,
just like a pair he had at home--and the same teal-colored, cuffed
trousers that had caught his eye at Tosca. Taking no chances this
time, he took out his gun, kicked the stall door open with his foot,
and leveled the weapon at... trousers draped from the toilet bowl and a
pair of empty shoes.

Meanwhile, hearing the commotion, the driver raced up the front steps
and into the room to provide backup.

"What the fuck?"

The driver started laughing.

"Yeah, Kelly," he said, jamming his own .38 back into a shoulder
holster, "you vaporized him, all right. Bet the poor fucker didn't
even have time to wipe his ass before he disappeared up inside it."

Red was not amused. He checked the other stall, then glided over to
the door of an adjacent supply closet. Even in his rage he was all
professional--knees slightly bent for balance, gun arm extended and
steady, hammer cocked-as he grasped the doorknob, then yanked it open
with his left hand.

Nothing.

Turning, he seemed to notice the driver for the first time.

"What the fuck you doing in here?"

The driver winced.

"I thought--" But Red was already running for the front door, only to
see a woman in an ill-fitting skirt, blond wig askew, wobbling off the
curb into a cab on well-muscled legs. Her tray of empty glasses had
been left in the doorway at the top of the entry stairs, and an angry
floor manager was shouting after her.

"Seth," said Allyn the next morning.

"This thing's gone far enough. Nothing's worth getting killed for."
Seth, still as granite, peered at her through blood-splotched eyes and
said nothing.

"I've seen you play Russian roulette before, Seth, but never with five
bullets in the chamber. Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"They weren't out to kill me," he said softly.

"Oh, really! Then it's my duty to inform you that whatever's been
keeping you tethered to reality has now been completely severed."

Seth slowly shook his head.

"Guys this good could have taken me out on the sidewalk and gotten away
clean. They were sent to scare me, not kill me. Killing witnesses is
one thing, but killing either Elena or her lawyer would be too damn
obvious. They just want to scare us enough to force a quick
settlement."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I hope to God they succeeded."

Seth said nothing.

"You got heart, kid," she said with a wry grin that turned down at the
corners of her mouth, "I gotta give it to you."

Allyn poured them both a cup of coffee, and they sat quietly for a few
minutes. Seth could feel her eyes searching his face.

"Yeah, you got heart," she repeated, "but is winning so fucking crucial
to your life plan? Ending up a Treadwell clone? Or like Austin
Barrington did over at SP and M? Is 'making it' back on Montgomery
Street so goddamn important?"

Seth flashed her a wry smile.

"It's one of the two most important things in life," he said, blowing
into his coffee.

"And the other one's slipped my mind."

Allyn smashed her half-smoked cigar into an empty coffee cup.

"That's real funny. Cowboy. You may not have noticed, but people are
being murdered! Remember? This ain't a food fight, kid. Lev's been
beaten up and may go to prison! Remember?"

"I ran into an old friend last night at Tosca. I think I have an idea
that will buy us some added protection insurance."

"You think! Jesus, Seth, listen to yourself!"

Silence, a swollen silence badly in need of aspiration.
Allyn fuming. Now a fire truck going so fast up Market it's rattling
every window in the place.

"Just who," said Allyn, unrelenting and on her feet again, "appointed
you legal gatekeeper of the fucking planet?"

"I'm just trying to--" "I know what you're trying to do, maybe better
than you do."

"Seems I'm surrounded lately by clairvoyant women."

"And I by smart-ass men who need to prove themselves.

Let me tell you something, kid. I was married once, and--" Seth's
eyebrows shot up.

"What?"

"You're surprised! guess. Because I talk like a sailor on shore leave
and walk like a stevedore? Because I'm the toughest divorce lawyer
west of the Pecos?"

Seth smiled, shook his head.

"I know your heart, Allyn.

And nothing you do or ever did could surprise me."

She sat down again, relit her cigar. Seth watched her, wondering if
she was going to say more about her ex.

"It was twenty-five years ago," she continued after filling the small
room with the cheroot's pungent aroma.

"He was a little younger than me--a headstrong devil. God help him, a
little bit like you. God help me. He was past draft age, but managed
to volunteer his way into the army just in time to be one of the last
soldiers killed in Nam. I couldn't talk him out of it. I shoulda been
able to."

"Like you said, Allyn, sometimes--" "He was MIA for a while, which was
the hardest part."

"Sorry."

"Yeah, well, fuck it. My point is that macho may be harmful to your
health. They should brand boy babies with a warning label instead of
circumcising them." She coughed, then took another deep puff on her
cigar.

"So I'm saying this for your own good. Cowboy. You may think you're
bulletproof and I hope you're right, but you take the thirty Treadwell
offered ... or you're on your own from now on."

Seth's head jerked up.

"Afraid I can't do that, Allyn."

"Bullshit!" she said, mutilating the tip of the cigar in an ashtray.
"You can do it but you won't do it! Hell, you wouldn take sixty
either, or even a hundred and sixty! Do you know why?"

"I know why."

"Because you want that son of a bitch in a courtroom, right? You want
to prove you're a better man than he is-am I right, Gunga Din?" She
took a deep breath and shook her head in disgust, then straightened the
bent tip of her cigar and relit it.

"You'd like to kill the son of a bitch in cold blood is what you'd
really like," she went on after exhaling a stream of smoke in his
direction.

"Beating him in court is just the next-worse thing you can get away
with doing to him."

"No," said Seth solemnly, "it's the worst thing. Treadwell would
choose dying in an anthill over losing to me in a courtroom."

"And you're willing to risk dying just for a chance at him!"

Seth slowly rose from his chair, looked out the window.

The fire trucks were starting to return to their stations.

False alarm.

"That airplane is dangerous," he said.

"It needs grounding."

"Save that line of bullshit for Barbara Heywood. I know your heart,
too, Seth Cameron."

Seth turned, planted his hands flat on her desk, and leaned in close.

"We're almost there. I never thought of you as a quitter, Allyn."

"Don't try to manipulate me, kid. I'm too smart for you.

You've used me, my office, and my bank account, but it's over now. I
think it would be best if you moved on. I'm serious about this, Seth.
Take the thirty tomorrow or clear your office."

Seth straightened as if he'd been hit from behind.

"And don't give me that hurt look. People like you do okay no matter
where they land. Truth is, Seth, you're a user."

"I pay my way."

"Like the nickels out of my bank account you've been paying Lev to risk
his life for you?"
"I'll pay you back every cent I've borrowed, and I'll take care of Lev
soon as I'm able."

"Like you took care of Rosie Wheeler?"

"You never even knew Rosie."

"True, but I'll bet she's got a view on whether you'd rather spend your
time loving her or killing Anthony Treadwell."

"Rosie never complained," he said, a little too quickly, "at least not
until the end."

"That's a testament to her perseverance, not your nobility."

"Nobody made her come, and nobody made her stay."

"Maybe, but your anger and ambition made her leave.

Not to mention that hormonal attack that seized you every time you got
within shouting distance of Elena Barton."

"I suppose you think I'm using her, too?"

"Of course. She's your ticket to ride back to Montgomery Street. Plus
you think she's going to fill some empty room in your life."

"Meaning?"

"You think she's so hot that if she believes in you, you might be able
to believe in yourself. Like Annie Hall in reverse."

Seth gave her a look that said, "Thank you. Doctor."

"At least that's the way I see it," she added.

"You said once you thought she was using me."

"Let's just call it the Battle of the Titans," she said, pouring
herself a cup of coffee.

"Oh, what the hell do I know.

You were both looking for somebody to spare you from ever having to
change. Maybe it's a match made in heaven."

"Sure you're not leaving anything out? I got busted for shoplifting
when I was twelve."

"Actually there is just one more thing. I think it might be better if
you found your new quarters as soon as possible. I've got the safety
of Ramon and myself to think about here."

Seth's face showed nothing as he processed this new reality, though his
heart was pounding against the walls of his chest, making his breath
forced and uneven. His legs were turning to rubber. But his trial
lawyer's face showed nothing.

"Sure, if that's the way you want it."

Allyn looked away.

"I think it's best."

"I'll be out of here tomorrow."

"Thank you. No hard feelings?"
Seth picked up his coat and headed for the door. Then he turned and
said, "Don't worry about your money. You'll get it back, along with
half the fee after I win."

"Sure, kid."

Seth started to walk out the door.

"Cowboy?"

He turned again. First time he had ever seen her tears.

"Please give it up. Don't you see? They know who you are and where
you are. They've got you!"

"They've got me right where I want them, and come next Monday morning,
I'll have a jury to help me finish them off." "hello, cowboy," allyn

SAID, NOT EVEN LOOKING UP.

"Come back to collect your gear?"

She was cool all right. Must have recognized the rhythm of his
footsteps on the stairs. She never seemed to lose that cool either,
except maybe a little toward the end of his Pacific Sigma Insurance
bluff. Seth admired that attribute, mainly because he seemed to be
losing his own poise lately with the regularity of the sun's rising.
Well, he was about to test the constancy of her cool again. He wasn't
here to pick up his gear.

"I came back because I need to make a phone call."

"Two days on your own and you can't afford a phone call."

"I want you to listen in on this one," said Seth, then walked straight
to Ramon's desk and dialed a number from memory.

"Pick up your extension, AUyn."

Allyn shrugged, then lifted the receiver just as a mellifluous voice
announced, "Good morning, Mr. Treadwell's office."

"Put him on, please. This is Seth Cameron."
The pendulum on the wall clock over Ramon's desk ticked off a half
dozen round-trips before Miss Tarkenton sputtered a response in a new
voice, the sycophantic singsong suddenly gone.

"I'll see if Mr. Treadwell is in." The new voice then crackled cold
as dry ice and fragmented into shards of disdain as it added, "For you,
Mr. Cameron."

A longer pause, then TreadweU's baritone voice came booming through the
line, surprisingly cordial.

"Well, Cameron. Calling to reopen settlement discussions?"

"No, Mr. Treadwell, I'm calling to reopen your past; your aristocratic
background, your treasured lineage."

"Cameron, are you drunk? Isn't it a bit early--even for you?"

"I haven't been drunk since last night," said Seth, winking through the
open door to the puzzled AUyn Friedlander.

"Had a few drinks with a mean old bird with one wing and a bad stomach.
About six feet two, one hundred and fifty pounds, eighty years old or
maybe more, straight gray hair brushed back, stubble beard. A real
Okie from Muskogee.

You know anybody like that?"

Allyn's brow was sculpted in creases as she listened to the silence at
the other end.

"I'm hanging up, Cameron," said Treadwell.

"You're making no sense whatsoever."

"Yep, this old guy's a real embarrassment," continued Seth.

"Got us thrown out of two bars. No class at all. Ugly temperament.
Resembles you in other ways, too."

Allyn's eyes widened, and her lips mouthed, "My God!"

"Even so," continued Seth, "he looks better now than the first day I
saw him. In your office, Mr. Treadwell."

Silence.

"Maybe it's the moose-milk. That's his drink, right?"

Seth nodded a yes-it's-true to AUyn. Nothing but TreadweU's forced
breathing broke the deathly silence on the line.

"You bastard."

"Boy, talk about the literal pot calling the figurative kettle--"

"Stop all this mumbo jumbo, Cameron! Let's assume the purpose of this
call is to inquire whether the thirty thousand is still on the table. I
can get it there, perhaps a little more."
Silence.

"Maybe even fifty," Treadwell added, breaking the trial lawyer's first
rule of negotiation: Never bid against yourself.

Excited now, Allyn nodded her head furiously and gave Seth a thumbs-up,
but Seth swiveled Ramon's chair away from her and told the senior
partner that he hadn't called to negotiate for money.

"There won't be a settlement, Mr. Treadwell. We're going to the mat
together on this one, all the way to a verdict.

The only thing I want from you is assurance that I'll be alive to hear
what it is."

"I don't get--" "Call off the apes, Treadwell! I want them off me, off
Leviticus Heywood, and off everybody I know." Seth swiveled around to
face AUyn.

"I particularly want assurances concerning the safety of my client and
my boss, Allyn Friedlander."

"Cameron, I honestly do not know what you're talking about."

"Let's assume that's true--solely for purposes of discussion.

Three nights ago I was chased all over North Beach by federal goons who
apparently consider witnesses in this case to be fair game. At least
two innocent men have been murdered to keep them quiet. The guys who
chased me are probably the same toads who beat up Leviticus Heywood and
arranged the phony indictment that you're now going to arrange to have
dropped as part of our new arrangement."

"You've seen too many Oliver Stone movies, Cameron.

You've become a conspiracy whacko."

"Yeah? Then why don't you have a chat with your key witness. General
Farnsworth--if he can take time away from his grassy knoll."

"Let's assume all this is true," said Treadwell, " 'solely for purposes
of discussion." What makes you think I could do anything about it?"

Seth considered the question for a few seconds, then said, "I've never
liked you, Mr. Treadwell, but I've never underestimated you either. We
start trial in four days, and you're their last hope for stopping me
now. They--whoever the hell they are--are counting on you to do in
the courtroom what they couldn't do on the streets."

"Well, I want it understood for the record that I deny the truth of any
of your allegations--" "Spare me the legal bullshit, okay? There's no
court reporter here, and I know it's illegal to record a telephone
call."

"I was about to say I'd look into it."

"Do that. Then do more. I want you to stop them. Now! You were
smart enough to get rid of me, now get rid of them. If you can't, I've
arranged to have the revised standard version of your family tree sent
to Herb Caen at the Chronicle, with copies to your fellow board members
at the President's Club and to the officers of both the Pacific Union
and Bohemian clubs. I can even picture Caen's description in the
Chronicle: "The Lyin' Scion of Miller and McGrath."

" AUyn was smiling now. They could hear Treadwell tapping his pen on
his desk.

"I said I'd look into it," he said quietly.

"I appreciate it," said Seth, and hung up.

AUyn hung up, too, then ran through her doorway and nearly twisted
Seth's head off in a mighty bear hug.

"How did you ... ? What in the hell ... ?"

"Dumb luck. Plain dumb luck. Turns out Treadwell's the bastard son of
a decent, but hardly aristocratic, family in White Plains, New York.
His biological papa is this guy Robert Soames."

"You're losing me."

"More than sixty years ago, a young woman named Marian Treadwell had a
brief affair with a drifter named Robert Soames. Got pregnant and had
the kid, but old man Treadwell found out it wasn't his. He put baby
Anthony up for adoption, then took after Soames with a twelve gauge and
blew off his arm. Little Tony ended up in good hands-very wealthy
hands--but when old man Treadwell died five years later--one of them
spent in county jail--Esther brought a lawsuit and got the kid back.
The adoptive parents were desperate, made a deal with Esther that
allowed them visitation privileges, and little Tony ended up getting a
prep school education. After that, he went on to Harvard and Yale Law
on a testamentary trust fund, with a Navy hitch in between--ship's
officer, of course.

"Everyone involved is dead now except for old bad-penny Robert, who
knows the whole story. I got him good and drunk. Learned a lot."

"Like?"

"Like he's a loose cannon. Studied penology from the inside.
Convenience-store robbery. I suspect he's extorting our friend
Treadwell from time to time."

"Like you're about to do?"

"If it'll keep us all alive? Damn right."

"He's figured out how much of Treadwell's psyche is invested in the
patrician bullshit he's sold everybody?"

"Exactamundo."

"Do you think Treadwell knows the truth about what's going on in this
case?"

"I honestly don't know and I don't care, as long as he can stop what's
going on--and I think he can. Nobody's got more clout with his client
than a trial lawyer on the eve of trial unless it's a brain surgeon on
the eve of surgery. They'll have to do what he wants."

"Speaking of the eve of trial, is your client back in town?"

"Tucker? Afraid not."

"Very funny. You know who I mean."

"She's returning tomorrow. Has Lev called in here?"

"Not a peep," said Allyn.

"You think he's safe?"

"I told him to keep it local, stay away from anyone remotely federal or
military. He knows I start trial on Monday.

He'll either call or show up by then. He should be okay."

"How about Seth Cameron? Is he okay?"

"I reckon he's okay, except for being unemployed at the moment."

"Well," said Allyn, frowning, "I had committed your suite to the
president of Kaiser Steel, but I guess it's still yours if you want
it."

"Good. Where the hell's Ramon? I've got to file my jury instructions
by four this afternoon. I also need an advance on next month's salary.
Landlord's going ape-shit."

"It's great having you back, kid."
Part 6 47 the FIRST DAY OF TRIAL IS LIKE NO OTHER DAY IN THE LIFE of
a trial attorney. It's curtain up without a script and the first step
onto the high wire without a net. The lawyer can't know all the things
that will go wrong; he just knows they're all ahead of him. Waiting
for him to drop his guard. Waiting for him to relax.

This angst is compounded for the leadoff plaintiffs lawyer, who also
must function as his own stage manager (getting the exhibits and
witnesses to the courtroom at the right time); director (ensuring that
the witnesses know what to say when they get there); psychiatrist
(coping with his client's inevitable nervousness while artfully
concealing his own);

mind reader (the better to pick a favorable jury); and spellbinder, for
research shows that eight out of ten jurors never change their mind
after the opening statement, no matter how long the trial goes on
afterward.

The case of Barton and Tucker vs. Intercontinental Aerospace involved
an additional element, adding to the anxiety level: a daily Examiner
newspaper series that had aroused national interest in the case and
threatened to stir up yet another media feeding frenzy. The articles
had traced the widow Barton's struggle to erase the stigma of "pilot
error" from her deceased husband's name and had engendered outpourings
of sympathy that were creating a circus atmosphere in the Honorable
Jerome Singer's usually staid Department 16. As a result, everybody
was on edge: the judge, whose control of the courtroom would be under
constant siege by the sparring attorneys; the jurors, who would be the
center of national attention--Court TV was covering the trial-during
their terrifying fifteen minutes of fame on individual voir dire
examination; the lawyers, of course, working under the hot glare of
public scrutiny, and the critical eye of pseudo-experts hired by the
media to second-guess their every move. Even the bailiff was jumpy
today, unused to having to deal with a packed gallery--an unexpected
influx of reporters, artists, and curiosity seekers in addition to the
usual courtroom habitues.

The first thing an observer noticed upon gaining a treasured seat
inside the courtroom was the imbalance at counsel table. Miller and
McGrath's support team, consisting of client representatives, jury
consultants, and two younger lawyers, took up the entire row of seats
inside the rail just behind the counsel table where Anthony Treadwell
sat sorting through documents, flanked by Herbert Leffingwell-CEO of
Intercontinental Aerospace--and Clayton Bingham, known to Seth as an
ex-U.S. Supreme Court clerk and the smartest young partner at M&M.

Herbert Leffingwell was a handsome man of small stature, equally at
ease with a gavel at a board meeting or a pitching wedge on the Olympic
Club's Lake Course. During Leffingwell's deposition, Seth had tried
without success to erode the man's calm aura of control and knew he
would be a formidable witness on behalf of his company. Bingham sat
behind a computer terminal connected by modem to the Miller and McGrath
office mainframe, providing him direct access to Lexis and Westlaw,
pleading files, and deposition summaries--everything but a hand job.

At the other end of the counsel table--closest to the jury--Seth
Cameron sat alone, the way he liked it. An austere widow Barton sat
behind him. That was it. No file cabinets to house massive
documentary evidence; no computers to spit out arcane case citations on
demand; no paralegals to retrieve a devastating exhibit for use on a
surprise witness;

no investigator to unobtrusively lean close to counsel, then casually
stride from the courtroom, don dark glasses, and locate the perfect
rebuttal witness.

Seth sat, seemingly calm, with nothing in front of him but a yellow
pad, the first page of which contained a half dozen questions to ask
prospective jurors. He had no money for a jury consultant and couldn't
bring himself to ask Dr. Mitsui for another freebie. He would have to
rely solely on his instincts, experience, and the luck of the draw.
On the second page of his pad was a list of five subject areas he
would cover with Harold Bostwick, whom he had subpoenaed as a hostile
second witness. He needed no notes for Jack Christopher, his first
witness, and as usual, he had memorized his opening statement.

This would get him through the first day. If Bostwick wouldn't come
clean on the true time of Sam's takeoff, or if Lev failed to come up
with something in Arizona, one day's preparation would be enough. The
case would be dismissed on the statute.

Sitting rigidly behind him, Elena looked appropriately plain and
stricken, not easy work for a drop-dead gorgeous woman who was
experiencing difficulty lately calling up a clear image of her
husband's face and whose womb even now carried traces of her lawyer's
semen from the night before.

This most recent fiery departure from their attorney-client
"arrangement" had been fueled as Seth was selecting her wardrobe for
the trial. He was good at this--surprising for a guy from Bakersfield
whose idea of women's high fashion was a tank top. He didn't know
Donna Karan from Ann Taylor, but he knew how juries expected a
devastated widow to look, and he had spent the previous afternoon
inspecting everything in Elena's wardrobe closet. Then he had
inspected Elena herself from the hallway as she was changing out of a
navy business suit. Like a Peeping Tom, he watched her reflection in
the mirror over her dresser, wondering if women always changed bras
whenever they changed outfits.

Then those incredible eyes--even more compelling than the reflected
incredible breasts--caught him catching her act-yes, an act, for even
before he had time to be embarrassed, her catlike smile told him it had
all been a show for him, the ultimate voyeur tease. He entered the
room and then he entered her, right there against the wall near the
closet while she ripped his shirt open and bit his chest and told him
how much she loved him.

When this thing is over, Attila, she had said later, we've got to try
to make this last longer than it takes to cook a three-minute egg. He
knew that what she meant by this "thing" being "over" was after they
had won the case and he was back on Montgomery Street. Otherwise, he
knew there was no future with a woman like Elena Barton.

Tensions relieved, the fashion show had resumed. Seth had tried to
make her understand the importance of physical appearance; how jurors
respond emotionally to the parties before they start functioning on a
cognitive level. He knew that women jurors would not relate well to
Elena unless he toned her down into loose-fitting and inexpensive
clothes-no Hermes bag, forget the Calvin Klein dress--accenting instead
midcalf skirts, medium heels, and long-sleeved blouses up to the neck.
Presto! The wholesome and sympathetic victim. She had saved her
most vigorous protest for Seth's ban on makeup, and Seth ultimately
accepted a compromise-allowing a light lipstick--to stave off a mutiny.
He stood his ground, however, on the need to slash her long,
soft-curled hair, transforming her from what he facetiously described
as the "Barbie" look, into what she bitterly described as the "Ken"
look. Seth then turned to her eyes.

"I thought you liked my eyes," she said, pouting.

"Of course I like them. That's the problem. They're too distracting.
They could engender envy in women jurors."

"I'll wear sunglasses."

Seth laughed until he realized she was serious, that she understood
almost nothing about how his game was played.

"That would be great," he said, trying to keep it light.

"And I'll wear a gold medallion on my bare chest. They'll love us."

When she reluctantly produced a pair of clear driving glasses, Seth
asked if she had any Pam in her kitchen. Then he carefully sprayed
each lens with a thin gloss and blew it dry. When she put the glasses
back on, she was surprised to find that she could still see out of
them, though Seth assured her that the stunning glow of her eyes had
been dulled to a lackluster finish, evocative of a tragic widow's
sorrow. Finally, he told her to cut her sleep back during the trial.
He wanted her tired and sad-eyed.

"Well?" she had said earlier that morning when he picked her up at her
Nob Hill condo. Unmasked and never more vulnerable, she could hardly
meet Seth's eyes.

"How do I look?"
"Your uncle Anthony will hardly recognize you," said Seth, pleased
that Treadwell would know from the moment he laid eyes on the new Elena
Barton that he was in for a dogfight.

"You didn't answer me."

The truth is she looked like her less attractive and considerable older
sister--if she had had one--but Seth told her she looked perfect.

"That bad, huh?" she said, reading his meaning.

Seated in court now, Elena looked dispirited, her vanity in ruins.
Seth, also miserable from the pain nagging in his stomach, managed a
reassuring smile, then looked past her to size up the panel of
prospective jurors.

What caught his attention was the tall man with one white eyebrow
seated in the rear of the courtroom. Although he wore civilian
clothes. Gen. Clement Farnsworth could not conceal his military
bearing. The memory of their confrontation at Nellis sent a shiver
through Seth, though he was sure the temperature in the courtroom was
over seventy degrees.

Two rows forward, on the other side of the aisle, sat Sen.

Stanford Traeger with some other gray-suits Seth didn't recognize.

Was the senator there to protect Elena or to unnerve her?

He then stole another casual glance at the defense armada.

Seth envied Treadwell's support team, but tried to convince himself
that the obviously disparate horsepower would help him with the jury.
Cheering for the underdog was the American Way. David versus
Goliath.

But the gallant effort at rationalizing his situation didn't extinguish
the fire that had returned to his stomach, nor did it fool his parched
throat or his bloodless face. Nor could he bullshit his rubber legs as
he passed behind Treadwell on his way to the watercooler, nor still the
trembling hand that held the paper cup to his lips once he got
there--curling the upper part of his body around his right hand to
conceal it. Adrenaline had him dancing on invisible strings.

Seth looked back at the defense table, wondering if Treadwell could
smell his fear and would somehow find a way to expose him in opening
statement. What was happening to him? When it came time for his own
opening statement, would his voice betray him? He quietly cleared his
throat, then repeated it, louder this time, to reassure himself. Seth
had not spoken to the senior partner since the telephone conversation
on which Allyn had eavesdropped, nor had they exchanged so much as a
glance today. Seth had nodded a greeting to Bingham earlier, but
Treadwell was completely ignoring him. The games had begun. Well,
fuck him and fuck Bingham, too, and the general and the senator and the
jury consultants and all the horses they rode into town on.

Fuck 'em all.

It calmed Seth to remind himself that Treadwell had kept his end of
their tacit bargain so far--charges against Lev had been dropped and
the threats had ended. Now they would finish it right here in a
courtroom, mono a mono.

A hush fell over the room as the court reporter and clerk entered and
took their seats. Everyone knew the judge could not be far behind, and
the room seemed to swell with a morbid anticipation. As the bailiff
rose to announce the entrance of the judge, the imminency of the
contest charged the room with an even higher level of tension, as
palpable as static electricity. It seemed as if the slightest noise or
movement now might cause a spark that could set the whole room
ablaze.

Seth felt a burning sensation on the left side of his face and turned
to find himself looking into Treadwell's fierce, dark eyes; eyes
glowing like coals, set deep in his elongated skull. He looked angry,
and Seth.would have given the world to be able to read his thoughts.

Treadwell was angry, all right, but not just at Seth Cameron. His
fevered mind raged at everyone, including himself.

Mostly himself. He had made fewer than a dozen mistakes in his
professional life, and more than half of them had been made in the last
three years, all having to do with that bumpkin from Bakersfield,
sitting there looking like he was about to shit his pants.

He should have fired the maverick on the spot--excised the cancer
before it could spread. Yet another error was in allowing Traeger and
Herb Leffingwell to bully and flatter him into personally trying this
two-bit case, which, by virtue of his mere presence, had gained
undeserved credibility and now, notoriety as well. Why hadn't they
understood this?

Well, that mistake would be on their heads, not his.

Still, here he was, in the winter of a distinguished career, matched
against a nobody in the most publicized case of his life--and it wasn't
even a major antitrust or securities conflict--a stinking
personal-injury case. Thank God for the statute of limitations, which,
if Judge Singer was true to his word, would make short shrift of this
mess he had been drawn into.

The power and anger in Treadwell's eyes forced Seth's head to rotate
away, leaving him flushed with shame. He grabbed a pen and scribbled
purposefully to cover his embarrassment, then made himself look back.
Treadwell's thin lips curled into a malicious smile as he elbowed
Bingham, who rose and approached Seth with the sad eyes of a basset
hound.

"Hello, Seth," he said.

"Here is the supplemental motion to dismiss that was invited by Judge
Singer. We'll argue it as soon as you've put on your
statute-of-limitations witnesses."

Seth nodded and took the document. Clayton Bingham started back to the
defense table, then turned and whispered, "I wish to hell you had taken
the thirty thousand, Seth. I'm sorry about this."

But Seth smiled radiantly at Bingham and gave him a hearty handshake
and a "thank you" that seemed to confuse the cheerless partner as he
headed back to his chair. Seth then flashed another smile toward
Treadwell, waving the motion as if it were a winning lottery ticket.
Obviously, Treadwell had picked this precise moment to serve the
motion, hoping to fluster him. But Seth knew the eyes of every
prospective juror were on the lawyers now--there was little else on the
stage to look at for the moment--and that a juror's verdict was rarely
arrived at on a single point, but on a composite picture made up of
nuance and cumulative impressions. Winning trial lawyers knew it was
never too early to start forming those impressions, so Seth's manner
suggested to the panel's observing eyes that the defense had just made
a major concession, the first of many to come!

Hell yes!
"All rise!" shouted the bailiff at last as Judge Singerentered the
courtroom from stage left and charged the bench as if shot from a
cannon. He, too, was making an early statement: Don't mistake my gray
hair for a lack of vigor.

I'm in charge here.

"Call the case," said Judge Singer, and the clerk rose for his own
fifteen seconds of fame.

"Number 15397--Elena Barton and the Estate of Benjamin A. Tucker versus
Intercontinental Aerospace! Counsel, state your appearances!"

After Seth had risen and announced his appearance in behalf of the
plaintiffs, he stole a glance toward the rear of the courtroom. Whom
did he expect to see there? Allyn was handling a major custody battle
in Marin County Superior Court. Lev was somewhere in Arizona. His
first witnesses-Crispie and Bostwick--were in the corridor waiting to
be summoned into the courtroom by the bailiff. Elena--at least someone
who looked like Elena--was right behind him. He felt a pang of
loneliness--aloneness--but was shaken out of it by the judge's voice as
he signaled the clerk to spin the cage and start picking out the names
of the first twelve prospective jurors.

Like bingo, but with more than a canned ham at stake.

Seven of the first twelve randomly selected candidates were women.
Good, thought Seth. Women tend to function from the right side of the
brain--the emotional side--less likely to be in sympathy with the
military than their male counterparts, and more likely to vote their
hearts if they should take a liking to the reinvented widow Barton.
Ditto the gay guy, Knowlton, and maybe the super cool black dude,
Spinner. That's nine out of twelve--all he needed for a verdict.

Who am I kidding? Treadwell has six peremptory challenges and research
data to ensure that he can use them wisely.

Seth would be on his own in the process of jury
selection--de-selection, actually, for the trial lawyer's job was to
use his precious peremptory challenges to eliminate those prospective
jurors who appeared to have the socio psychological traits least
amenable to his clients' side of the case. The trick was in accurately
identifying those traits, knowing there was no way he could combat
Treadwell's invaluable community-attitude surveys, focus-group
analysis, and courtroom assessment of the jury candidates by his
high-paid consultants.

The lead psychologist for the defense's jury consulting group sat
immediately behind Treadwell, and Seth was somewhat consoled to see a
concerned look on her face as she studied each juror's
persona--clothing, posture, and other body language. Seth watched her
glance from time to time at a three-ring binder and knew she was
correlating her observations with objective data from her field
people:

home address to ascertain general income level, voter registration,
prior service on other juries and how each had voted, details of
employment, and so on. Her job was to advise Treadwell on whether to
accept or challenge a potential juror.

He looked at the names of the first twelve people called.

Joseph Velasquez,. Midtwenties, bad haircut, and heels worn down at a
sharp angle. A victim of the recession. Velasquez would try hard to
get chosen for the five bucks a day plus a good lunch when
deliberations started. Probably little sympathy for a big company with
a net worth of a $100 billion. If a layoff victim, might also be angry
behind that stoic countenance. Seth knew that angry jurors were most
likely to render punitive verdicts.

Mary Nance. A real Lady Rolex on that withered wrist.

She'll turn out to be the wife of a banker or retired CEO of a big
company. Not good. The question is whether her advanced years might
trigger a maternal sympathy for Elena that could neutralize her
conservative background. So far, two sheep, no leaders.

Karen Fountain. Layers of grunge. Our token hippie.

Treadwell will nail her right away. Loud, but still a sheep.

Ronald Knowlton. Looks intelligent, probably gay. Perfect.

Could turn out to be a leader.

Edward Stanton. Big trouble and definitely foreperson material.

Three-piece executive type. Wing tips. The works.

Could be Herbert Leffingwell's twin. Probably sits around the club at
lunch bitching about how all this litigation is crippling our American
corporations' efforts to compete in361 temationally. Hard eyes.
Probably views death as a risk that test pilots get goddamn well-paid
to take. Horny old bastard keeps staring at Elena, trying to catch her
eye. I'll make sure he does.

Thomas Brown. Probably our mandatory retired postal worker. Looks
like a sortie. He'll feel sorry for Elena but will follow the herd.

Sophie Byers. Good-looking in a peroxide sort of way, early thirties,
charm able She won't be drawn to Elena, but will tolerate her in her
current drab incarnation. She'll like me more than Treadwell.

Maurine Stengler. iPossible trouble. Eats nails for breakfast.

Hard to read which way this will cut: could be a Rush Limbaugh
conservative, but her obvious mean streak might cause her to punish Con
Space with big punies if she did go plaintiff. Possible plus: she's
old enough to have a daughter Elena's age.

Ruth Jackson. Looks like a graduate student at S.P. State.

Smart. Black. Angry? Perfect.

Barbara Bateman. Executive suit, expensive shoes, no-nonsense walk.
Won't like Elena, might even see through the disguise--but might also
see her as a victim of the male-dominated military complex. A leader,
could vie with Stanton for foreperson honors.

Susan Wanger. Boozer. Hard times. Surprised she's registered to
vote. Treadwell will have to dump her. Another sheep.

Calvin Spinner. Black man, blue-collar. Got the cool walk.

Wedding band. Solid citizen. Looks smart and may be resentful that
he's under utilized i.e." potentially punitive juror. Good.

All in all, a pretty typical San Francisco jury. No wonder Treadwell's
jury consultant looks worried.

Seth would give a year off his life for a five-minute peek at the
three-ring binder she was studying. No chance. Con Space had probably
shelled out over $300,000 for the total project, including focus
groups, mock trials, community surveys, video witness analysis, issue
focusing, an investigation of all prospective jurors, and maybe a
shadow jury hiding somewhere back there in the crowd. Why couldn't
they have just given the money to us instead and we would
have gone away. Fucking corporations.

Seth knew that the jury consultants gave Con Space a tremendous edge,
first in knowing what kind of approach would work best in this
particular community, then refocusing their approach to the issues and
presenting arguments in a way most harmonious with the local folkways
and mores, then eliminating any prospective jurors whose background and
emotional baggage might generate "cognitive dissonance" with the recast
arguments.

So much to know. Seth fought off a panic attack. His instincts,
though good, were nothing against the team of sociologists and
psychologists plotting at the other end of the table.

"Mr. Cameron, you may commence your examination of the prospective
jurors."

"Thank you. Your Honor. Just one moment, please."

Seth checked his notes, realized he could talk to these people forever
and never know their true hearts and minds.

For that, he'd have to start with hard information he didn't have. He'd
need to know how they voted, what magazines they subscribed to, what
their bumper stickers proclaimed;

need to know the kind of information sitting at the other end of the
table in that black, three-ring binder.

He turned to Elena, not to ask her opinion, but to create the
appearance that she was involved, to remind the onlookers that this was
her case, not his. They might not like him by the end of the trial,
but they damn sure had better like her, and care about the fact that
when the trial was over and they had returned to their lives, she would
have to live with their decision for the rest of hers.

"I'm about to do something weird," Seth told her.

"I just wanted to let you know so you won't appear shocked."

"What are you going to do?"

"Something weird. Something to try to show these people our case is so
good, anyone in their right mind would see it." He turned back around,
took a deep breath, and rose to his feet. He looked each juror dead in
the eyes--one by one--and when he had finished, turned back to the
judge.
"Your Honor. My client and I have no questions for these good people,
and we accept them just as they sit. As far as we're concerned, you
can swear them and we can get on with the trial."

Treadwell and Bingham exchanged a look of incredulity.

Seth saw a rare shadow of confusion cloud the senior partner's
expression and knew he was trying to think of a way to object to a
maneuver he had neither seen nor heard of in over thirty years of trial
practice.

"Mr. Treadwell," said Judge Singer in a manner that told Seth he had
never seen the ploy either and didn't much like it, "please feel free
to question the prospective jurors and to exercise your legitimate
right to any peremptory challenges you may wish to make."

"Yes," sputtered Treadwell gratefully, "if you will just give us a
moment or two."

Seth stole a look at the jurors in the box. Most were quietly
observing the confusion at the defense end, but several others gave him
a look that suggested relief and gratitude.

Finally Treadwell rose, his poise and gracious facade restored.

"Your Honor," he said, looking at the jury, "the defense is likewise
quite satisfied with every person in the box."

As the jury was sworn, Seth whispered to Elena, "Look at the steam
coming off old Leffingwell! I didn't think anything could shake him up
like that."

"What's the reason for it?"

"About three hundred thousand of them, swirling right down the toilet.
Plus he knows we've now got ourselves a reasonably level playing
field."

"What happens next?"

"Now," said Seth, smiling his first genuine smile of the day, "we play
the game." 48 opening STATEMENTS CONTAINED NO SURPRISES FROM EITHER
side. Seth conveyed the impression that he was dealing in hard facts:
previous X-215A failures, Sam Barton's safety record and unquestioned
skill as a pilot, the TDA canopy system and its cramped juxta
positioning of components too close to a wiring harness that contained
the electrical nerve system of the entire aircraft.

But what he was really doing was working the jurors' emotions, speaking
in a hushed voice about the terror of Sam's last few seconds of life as
he realized the certainty of his imminent, fiery death; how he must
have thought about his beloved wife and the children he would never
know. Then Seth spoke about the early-morning knock on Elena Barton's
door by the squadron CO, confirming her worst fears before a word had
left his tightly pursed lips; about the widow's subsequent isolation,
loneliness, and fear, about her determined but frustrated efforts to
clear her husband's name of the stigma of "pilot error" and the cold
intransigence with which the Air Force had stonewalled her modest plea;
on and on until even juror number five--executive Edward Stanton--was
involuntarily signaling Seth that he was moved by Elena's situation,
and angry at whoever was responsible for it Then it was TreadweU's
turn, and within minutes, he neutralized Seth's subtle emotional pitch
by revealing it to be just that.

"Mr. Cameron will urge you to engage in rank speculation," he said,
then explained the plaintiffs must prove their case to a preponderance
of the evidence, "real evidence, as you will be instructed by Judge
Singer, ladies and gentlemen--real evidence, not emotion, nor passion,
nor even sympathy." He characterized Seth as a master of psychology,
then proved himself one as well by challenging them to resist the pull
of soap-opera emotion and to base their verdict on the evidence,
evidence that would fail to establish a single flaw in the X-215A.

Treadwell closed with a clever patriotic appeal, even got away with
citing places like North Korea, Africa, and Bosnia as a call to
vigilance, a summons to encourage those who "labor day and night to
design the means of ensuring our security and the security of our
children's children."

It was corny, but Seth noticed that Stanton, Ms. Stengler, Mrs. Nance,
and even Ronald Knowlton seemed to eat it up. Well, trial work was a
swinging pendulum, and after the morning recess, he'd call Crispie as
his first witness and hopefully get it swaying back in his direction.

Judge Singer declared the morning recess, and when the jury had left
the courtroom, Seth took a heavy hit from the Maalox bottle he kept in
his briefcase.

"Stomachache?" said Elena.

"Just a little indigestion, thanks."

"You were wonderful, darling. My knight, my hero. Do you still love
me, now that I'm a frump?"

"You're a gorgeous frump."

Elena took his hand in hers.

"I love you, Seth. Let's get this behind us. I'm already tired of our
'arrangement."

" "Soon, Elena," said Seth, and was surprised to spot Simon Stephens in
the back of the courtroom, impossible to miss in his tailored Brooks
Brothers three-piece suit and restrained Talbot tie. Seth took a step
toward him, but Stephens gave him a thumbs-up and lost himself in the
crowd surging for the exit.

"Who's that?"

"A friend, sort of. A guy my age pulling down a half million a year
with Caldwell and Shaw. Probably has a hearing next door at the law
and motion department."

"Here comes your secretary."

"Hey, Ramon. What brings you here?"

"The Queen Mother of Jurisprudence said I should get this to you
pronto."

Ramon handed Seth a message from Lev that read simply:
Hold 'em off. Cowboy. The cavalry's coming. * Tell us, if you will,
Major Christopher, about Sam Barton's capability as a pilot."

After the recess, Seth had quickly carried Crispie through the
preliminaries: the stealth program's operational goals, the background
of the X-215A and its competitive forerunner, the Northrup B-2 stealth
bomber, and the rigid selection process that had led top guns from
various bases around the country to Symington Air Force Base in New
Mexico to test the Con Space aircraft.

"Objection," said Treadwell.

"Assumes facts not in evidence--that he had capability. The evidence
seems quite to the contrary. The question also calls for hearsay and
the witness's opinion."

"Of course it does. Your Honor. I'm asking Major Christopher to give
his opinion as a qualified expert concerning Captain Barton's known
reputation as a skilled test pilot.

Sam Barton's capability is obvious from the assignment he was given--an
assignment that ultimately cost him his life."

"Further objection," countered Treadwell.

"If it's so 'known' and 'obvious," then 'expert' testimony is not
permitted under the rules of evidence. Moreover, there is no
foundation for this witness's expertise. And finally, Your Honor, Mr.
Cameron is now arguing to the jury."

"As, obviously, is Mr. Treadwell, Your Honor. I'll happily stop if he
will."

"You both will," said Judge Singer.

"Objections overruled, and the jury is admonished to disregard the
comments of counsel."

And so it went with almost every question Seth asked.

Treadwell had obviously decided to play hardball, a puzzling strategy
in Seth's mind, given the fact that juries distrust constant
objectors--wonder what they are trying to hide-plus Judge Singer had
quickly made his feelings known about technical objections. Midway
through the direct examination, not one had been sustained, though
Crispie did seem unnerved by them and testified without the conviction
Seth had hoped for.

"Was he a careful pilot?"

"Objection. Vague and leading."

"Overruled."
"Yes, he was."

"Was he known to be cool under pressure?"

"Yes."

"Technically skilled?"

"Of course he is. Was. We all were. Are."

"You had simulated air battles as top guns, did you not?

Dogfights, electronically scored?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who had the highest kill rate and best scores in the unit?"

"Objection. Compound question."

"Overruled."

"Captain Barton was the unit leader at the time he was ... at the time
of his death."

"Did Captain Barton teach part-time in the Air Force aviation cadet
program?"

"Objection. The captain died trying to fly an airplane, not in a
classroom."

"Overruled."

"Yes. Most of us taught one or two ground-school subjects."

"Would you tell the jury what subjects Sam Barton taught?"

"He taught flight safety and emergency procedures."

"Was that because he was known to be the best pilot at dealing with
emergencies?"

"Objection! Leading."

"Sustained."

"I'll reframe the question," said Seth.

"Why was Sam elected to teach those subjects?"

"Objection. Assumes facts not in evidence--that there was a selection
process and that decedent was in fact 'selected."

Also compound--there was apparently more than one subject."

Judge Singer looked at the ceiling and blew air out of puffed cheeks.
He was either bored or angry, Seth couldn't tell which, but he could
tell it was time to pull in his horns.

"Counsel's objection is technical," he said to the judge, "but well
taken. With the court's permission, I'll reframe the question."
"Thank you, Counsel," said Judge Singer, settling back in his chair.

"Major, would you please tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury what
procedure, if any, was used in determining which pilot would teach
which course?"

By the time Seth finished with the subject, there could be no doubt
that Capt. Sam Barton was one of the most courageous, cool, and
competent test pilots to strap himself into a jet since Chuck Yeager
broke the sound barrier. Time to roll the dice.

"By the way. Major, what time did Sam Barton take off that night?"

Treadwell leapt to his feet, spewing a compendium of every objection
known to the common law system of jurisprudence.

The ones that hit home were hearsay and lack of foundation regarding
the witness's knowledge concerning the subject matter.

"I haven't a clue," said Crispie, even before the judge had a chance to
sustain the objection.

"Your Honor," said Seth, "if I could have a bit of leeway here--" But
Judge Singer had heard Christopher's answer and told Seth to move on.

When Seth tried to move on to questions about the X-215A, however, two
Defense Department lawyers behind the rail rose to their feet,
triggering a request by Treadwell for a conference in chambers. Judge
Singer nodded his assent.

When Seth, Treadwell, Bingham, two government lawyers, and Gen. Clement
Farnsworth emerged twenty minutes later, Seth was allowed to read but
one carefully drawn question to the witness.

"Major Christopher, do you have an opinion as to any defect in the
X-215A which more probably than not contributed to the crash in which
Captain Barton was killed?"

Crispie glanced at General Farnsworth and snapped out a "No, sir."

"Why are you looking at your commanding officer, Major? Are you afraid
you'll be reprimanded if you tell the truth here?"

"Objection!"
Or killed? thought Seth.

"Sustained!" said Judge Singer, glaring at Seth.

"The jury is instructed to disregard counsel's remark and counsel is
admonished to refrain from making such comments."

"Thank you. Your Honor," said Seth in the time-honored response of an
advocate who has just been disemboweled.

"Tell me. Major, what you know about the supplier of the canopy
system--" "Objection, Your Honor!"

"Counsel!" said Judge Singer.

"Were you not in chambers with the rest of us?"

"Let's leave the question of aircraft mechanics. Major," said Seth.

"The standard test-flight route is called Triangle 42-W, is that
correct?"

General Farnsworth elbowed a Defense Department lawyer, Crispie looked
up at the judge, and Treadwell rose to object--all at once. The judge
and counsel again retired to chambers, but Judge Singer was showing
irritation at being told how to run his court by Washington
bureaucrats, and this time Seth was given permission to proceed.

"The question is relevant," Judge Singer told them before returning to
open court, "perhaps even determinative on the statute-of-limitations
issue. Moreover, I fail to see how national security can be endangered
by discussion of a route of flight. If secrecy is so damned
important," he added, glaring at the Defense Department lawyers, "they
can change it tomorrow. Proceed, Counsel!"

Back in open court, Seth had the question read back to the witness.

"That's correct," said Crispie.

"This route goes from New Mexico to a point in the state of Washington,
then south to Castle Field in California, then generally east back to
Symington. Correct?"

"Correct."

"And would that route have taken the captain over the approximate point
of the crash in Arizona?"

"Yes."

"And that would normally be on the final leg of the triangular
route?"

"Yes."
"So if Sam Barton took off--hypothetically--around eleven-thirty p.m.
and flew the standard Triangle 42-W pattern at the speed normally flown
in the X-215A, would he not have crashed in Arizona after midnight, on
the sixteenth?"

Treadwell objected, but to no avail, and when the arguments were over,
Christopher answered that it would indeed have been after midnight.

"Into the morning of the sixteenth?"

"Yes."

Seth thanked him and turned him over for cross-examination.

Treadwell took his time, scribbling some final notes off Bingham's
computer monitor. He then took Christopher through a cross-examination
that, to Seth's surprise and dismay, appeared to have been rehearsed.
Crispie affably cited competitions that Sam had not won, several he
himself had won, a ground-loop accident Sam had suffered as a cadet,
and the fact that Sam could have taken off as late as 10:30 p.m.--"the
official reported takeoff time"--and still easily have made it to the
crash site well before midnight.

Mice, not troubling nonetheless.

But now Treadwell changed moods, turned serious, took a wide-legged
stance between Seth and the witness.

"With whom did you dine the night of October fifteenth, Major?"

"I had dinner commencing around eighteen-thirty hours with Captain Sam
Barton, sir."

"That would be around six-thirty in the evening?"

"That's correct. I was OD on the fifteenth."

"That's officer of the day?"

"Yes. Sam joined me for dinner in the dining room of the club."

"Do you have a clear recollection of the event? What you ate? What he
ate? How long you dined? What you drank?

What he drank?"

How could the son of a bitch not have told us about this? thought
Seth, seeing what was coming next.

Indeed, what came next was a clear and credible recitation of Sam
Barton's last supper: Caesar salad, rack of lamb, and ... nearly a
bottle of red wine! Before that, two vodkas, maybe three!

"He didn't tell me he was flying that night, of course, or I would have
intervened before I returned to duty. Sam was my best friend."

I'd hate to be your enemy, thought Seth, then remembered he had become
just that. Seth could hear the jurors' gasps of incredulity.

Treadwell finished with a flourish, forcing the ostensibly reluctant
witness to support the public information officer's takeoff time of
10:30 p.m." then to cite regulations against drinking before flying
and the impact of alcohol on supersonic reaction time. Treadwell even
risked an aside to the jury that perhaps Con Space should be the
plaintiff here, not the defendant. To Seth's objection, Treadwell
angrily retorted that Barton was obviously "FWI --flying while
intoxicated--risking not only a three-hundred million-dollar aircraft
and his own life, but the reputation of a fine defense contractor!"

On redirect, Seth did his best to soften the blow without showing how
badly he had been hurt: yes, it could have been just two vodkas; no,
Sam didn't appear drunk or impaired; yes, it was an opaque bottle--a
Gabbiano Chianti--so he couldn't be certain the bottle was more than
half-gone; and so on. But all the pretext of confidence Seth managed
could not obscure the fact that he had been wounded badly, perhaps
mortally.

He was afraid to look at the jury; he felt their collective disdain.
Also Treadwell's eyes, burning into him from behind, laughing at him.

Seth didn't like calling Harold Bostwick next, particularly considering
what had happened with his first witness, but the judge had ordered him
to put on his statute-of-limitations witnesses first. As Treadwell had
argued, why burden the taxpayers and the court's calendar with a
drawn-out trial if the plaintiffs' case isn't going anywhere?

Seth's spirits rose somewhat, however, as Bostwick entered the
courtroom. The tech officer responded to the bailiff's summons as if
he were heading for the gas chamber.
Gone was the arrogant strut, the imperious manner; he approached the
witness stand as if he were dragging a heavy-duty tractor tire. This is
a man packing a load of anxiety, thought Seth, noting how the thick
fingers of the tech rep's right hand trembled as the clerk administered
the oath.

Bostwick's obvious discomfiture led Seth to a snap judgment:

he'd skip the preliminaries and go for the jugular before Bostwick
could get comfortable.

"Do you recall our visit at Symington early last summer?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you remember telling me on that occasion, in the presence of Mr.
Leviticus Heywood--a licensed, independent investigator--that Captain
Barton's flight probably took off after eleven in the evening, so that
the crash probably took place early the next morning?"

"Objection!" shouted Treadwell.

"Lack of foundation that this witness knows anything about the time of
takeoff one way or the other, thus the question is either calling for
his opinion, or for hearsay. Also compound and complex."

"I hear you, Mr. Treadwell," said Judge Singer, "but Mr.

Bostwick is an officer of the defendant company and has been called as
a hostile witness. I'm going to allow some latitude here."

"Thank you. Your Honor," said Seth.

"Do you remember the question, Mr. Bostwick?"

"Yes, but I don't know anything about the time of takeoff one way or
the other."

Seth moved a step closer, concealing his disappointment.

"I think there must be an echo in here. Those were Mr.

Treadwell's words. I want yours. Did you or did you not say words to
that effect to me."

Bostwick shot a glance at Treadwell. Seth jumped on it.

"You don't need to look at your lawyer. You just need to tell the
truth, Mr. Bostwick."

The senior tech rep took a deep breath, then loudly exhaled and said,
"Well, you're trying to confuse me. I never told you any such
thing."

Seth saw he was beaten on the statute and shifted gears in hope of
salvaging something out of this wreck of a day.

"As senior technical adviser on the X-215A project, Mr.

Bostwick, what do you think caused the crash."
"I think the captain just lost it. Nothing wrong with the bird."

Seth picked up the Justice Department's incriminating Con Space
document Allyn had found--and which Judge Singer had rejected for want
of authentication--and leaned in close enough to ensure that Bostwick
could see it.

"Isn't it a fact that you investigated the canopy system, thinking it
might be creating friction on the insulation harness that protects the
X-215A's electrical wiring?"

To Seth's surprise, there was no objection from Treadwell.

"There has never been the slightest hint of a problem with-the canopy
system," said Bostwick without hesitation, suddenly articulate.

"In fact, my routine investigation has established the absence of any
friction to the wiring harness that could have caused sparking."

Seth started to head for his seat, then stopped in his tracks, the
answer sinking in.

"Who said anything about sparking, Mr. Bostwick?"

"Well ... I just assumed, I guess ... you know, that you meant that it
could be ..."

Bostwick's voice dropped off, smothered in a blanket of confusion.

"The cause of the crash? Is that what you thought, sir? Is that what
you think?"

"Oh, hell no! It was pilot error caused the crash, like I said. My
birds are perfect or they don't fly!"

"Your birds, Mr. Bostwick?"

"You know what I mean," said the witness sullenly.

Seth let it go. He could have made Bostwick look even more arrogant
and defensive than he was, but he needed to bag more than a nest of
mice; he needed to bag an elephant.

He went off into neutral territory for twenty minutes-eliciting
information about the importance of electronics in "fly-by-wire"
aircraft systems--during which he glanced at the gallery and was
somewhat cheered by the sight of Leviticus Heywood taking a seat in
back.

After another fifteen minutes of Bostwick's self-serving assurances
about the airworthiness of the X-215A, Seth decided it was time to test
a long-shot possibility that might get him his elephant.
"Isn't it a fact, Mr. Bostwick, that the X-215A's canopy system is
basically a combination of off-the-shelf components?"

Bostwick paused for a moment.

"That's true, Mr. Cameron, but there has never been the slightest hint
of a problem with the canopy system. In fact," Bostwick continued with
the precision of a recording, "my routine investigation has established
the absence of any friction to the wiring harness that could have
caused sparking."

Seth allowed himself to glance toward the jury. At least half of them
were giving him a puzzled look. He cocked his head to one side.

"There's that 'sparking' thing again, Mr.

Bostwick, and I don't remember saying anything about the wiring
harness. I asked you about the canopy system."

Bostwick reddened, looked over at Treadwell, then back at Seth. Panic
had seized him again.

"I thought ... well, hell, I know what you were driving at! We've made
no major alterations that bear on the airworthiness of the X-215A!"

Slowly now, Seth moved toward him. Then, in a soft voice, almost a
whisper, he said, "Tell us about the minor alterations you've made, Mr.
Bostwick." As he spoke, Seth again held the memo tantalizingly close
to Bostwick's bulging eyes.

Treadwell started to rise, but the judge gave his head a quick shake
that told the senior partner to save his breath.

His witness had inadvertently opened an otherwise closed door.

"Well, we do a lotta things, strictly out of precaution, you
understand."

"You got rid of the TDA canopy system, didn't you." It was a
statement, not a question. It was also pure bluff.

"Well, most of it."

"And did you change the size of the protective harness around the
electrical wiring as well?"

"We may have beefed it up a little."

"You made it thicker?"

"Yeah, but just by an eighth of an inch."

"To protect against friction?"

"Yes."

"To provide protection against electrical failure?"
"As a precaution, not that we--""Protection against electrical failure
is particularly important in a fly-by-wire aircraft, because the pilot
changes the control surfaces electronically, rather than by cables
connected between, say, the stick and the rudder. Right?"

"Yes."

"And you made these 'minor changes' after the Barton crash, the third
X-215A to crash?"

"No, I think we did it after the fourth one."

"Lieutenant Lee Andrews?"

Bostwick nodded.

"As a precaution."

"And since that time, there have been no more crashes?"

Bostwick jerked his head down and to the side.

"Is that a yes, Mr. Bostwick?"

"Yes!" shouted the witness.

"But that doesn't mean a damn thing!"

"We'll let the jury decide that, sir."

Seth had achieved the trial lawyer's goal of gaining control of the
witness and, temporarily at least, silencing his adversary.

Let's go for the home run.

"You'll agree, won't you, sir, that if you had a short circuit in the
wiring adjacent to the canopy activation components, the pilot could
lose control of the aircraft?"

"That's confidential information, and I won't answer it."

Seth bore in, seeing that Bostwick was close to blowing.

"There's no objection, Mr. Bostwick. Answer the question!"

The tech rep cast a pleading look at Treadwell, but saw no rescue
there, only anger. Bostwick then looked up at Judge Singer, but found
no solace there either.

"Mr. Bostwick," said the judge, "you'll have to answer the
question."

"Answer the question, Mr. Bostwick!" said Seth, moving as close to
the witness as he could get.

Bostwick recoiled, closed his eyes, and in a barely audible voice--and
to Treadwell's manifest horror--began to repeat his canned litany.

"There has never been the slightest hint of a problem with the canopy
system. In fact, my routine investigation has ... established ..."
Seth turned toward the jury. Most had caught on. MaurineStengler was
shaking her head in disgust. Mrs. Nance was frowning. Mr. Velasquez
looked angry.

"The absence," said Seth, joining Bostwick in a unison recitation of
the last few words of his carefully memorized response, "of any
friction to the wiring harness ..."

Bostwick realized what Seth was doing, but the final few words came out
anyway, from both the witness and the examiner:

"... that could have caused sparking."

Seth turned toward the jury.

"One last question, sir, then I'll let you go. How much money would it
have added to the three-hundred-million-dollar cost per copy of the
X-215A to have included that extra one-eighth inch of harness
protection for pilots like Sam Barton and Lee Andrews before the
crash?"

After a long silence, Bostwick mumbled an inaudible response.

"We can't hear you, Mr. Bostwick."

"I said it would have cost around sixty bucks more."

Mrs. Nance gasped out loud. Two other jurors shook their heads in
disbelief.

"Did you say ... sixty, Mr. Bostwick?"

"Sixty dollars is what I said. Am I finished?"

"That's one way to put it, sir," said Seth, scanning the jurors' faces,
then glancing up at the clock.

"Your Honor, I have nothing further. I see the hour is late. Might we
argue that motion we discussed tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, Counsel, I think we've had enough for one day.

The jury is excused until nine-thirty tomorrow morning. You are
admonished not to discuss this case among yourselves or with anyone
else. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, and good day."

Seth shoved his notes into his briefcase, eager to talk to Lev, but saw
Senator Traeger and General Farnsworth crab-stepping along the bench
seats toward his end of counsel table. Mutt and Jeff.

"Hello, Elena," said the senator.

"Hello, Cameron. I'd like you both to meet General Clement
Farnsworth."

"I've had the pleasure," said Seth.

"What can we do for you, gentlemen? We're a little busy here."
"I'll just take a moment," said Traeger.

"May we sit for a moment?"

"I'll see you back at the office, Seth," said Elena, and started to
leave.

"I'd like you to listen to this, too, Elena," said Traeger.

"After all, it is your case. Such as it is.

"I've been watching from the back, as has the general here. Please
consider us to be neutral, albeit interested, observers.

I'll come right to the point. Your case is full of holes, Cameron, as
you well know. You have a fatal statute-of-limitations problem and a
drunken pilot. But you do have a certain leverage, let's face it. You
have the ability to embarrass your government's defense effort and to
play into the hands of the liberal press and other idiots who would
like to see it dismantled."

"I may be one of those idiots. Senator, so you might want to alter
your approach here."

"So be it. I'll appeal to you lawyer to lawyer then. The look on the
jurors' faces says it all. You lied to them, Cameron, and not even a
woman scorned is as vengeful as a jury misled. In your opening
statement, you played upon their sympathy and extolled the virtues of
Sam Barton. My God, he sounded like a saint. But suddenly they find
that the deceased was drunk on duty, trying to fly a supersonic,
three-hundred-million-dollar aircraft, and they are angry, Cameron.
Very angry. You can see it on their faces."

"I believe you said that, sir."

"All right. I pitched in to help you after your trip to Washington,
perhaps even to the point of compromising my public trust, but it's
time to resolve this mess.

"I want to help all of us out of a difficult situation and broker a
settlement between you and Con Space that will be fair to everyone.
Particularly to my daughter."

Elena blurted out something between a disdainful grunt and a laugh.

"When," she said, "have you ever shown a glimmer of fairness?
Particularly to your daughter!"

"You're hardly in a position to talk, young lady!" shot back the
senator.

"You claim you wanted to clear your husband's name, but all you've
accomplished is to reveal him to have been a common drunk."
"You know nothing about Sam!"

"All right, I take it back. He was an uncommon drunk, whose exploits
deserve condemnation, not exoneration. I'd suggest you let your lawyer
do the talking, Elena, though he's also done nothing but botch things
since the very beginning."

"You've got a nice touch. Senator," said Seth.

"I'm surprised you haven't been tapped for diplomatic duty."

"I haven't time for diplomacy, young man. Here it is. I've persuaded
Con Space to treble their earlier indication. Elena, I can get you one
hundred and fifty thousand dollars! Today only, take it or leave
it."

Elena's eyes betrayed her amazed interest, even before her words did.

"Did you say one hundred and fifty thousand dollars?"

Seth silenced her with a motion of his hand and urged her in a forceful
tone not to take up poker as a profession.

Elena, looking pale, fell back into her chair, and Seth turned back to
the senator.

"Does that include clearing Captain Barton's name?"

asked Seth.

"Plus repair and lost rents to the Tucker estate?"

Traeger glanced at Farnsworth.

"I think we can take care of Tucker."

Farnsworth jumped in.

"But we can't alter the Air Force ruling, particularly now that the
fact of his intoxication is on the record."

"Let's slow down a minute, gentlemen," said Seth.

"You, too, Elena. This is only the first day of trial. We took a hit,
but we hurt Bostwick. As you know. Senator, anything can happen in a
courtroom with a jury around."

Traeger moved a step closer to Seth and glowered at him with cold,
bulging eyes.

"That's true, Cameron, and anything can happen outside a courtroom as
well."

Seth turned to Elena.

"Just when you think they've run out of new ways to threaten us ..."

"Don't be absurd," said Traeger.

"I was only referring to what you yourself told me at Dulles that
day."

Seth shrugged and turned to Elena.

"Let me translate for you," he told her.
"What it all means is that if they're this scared we must be on the
right track. I can't give you any objective grounds for optimism, but
unless they come around, I say we've started it, let's finish it."

Traeger turned to Elena.

"Take it, Elena. For God's sake, you're my daughter! I've done this
for you!"

The senator then shocked them all by grabbing the arms of Elena's chair
in both hands and lowering himself into a crouch in front of her.

"Take it, darling. It's your last chance! It's our last chance."

Elena appeared to be even more embarrassed than the others. She gently
moved his left hand from the chair, got up, and walked over" to the
witness box. Leaning against it, she stared into the grain of the wood
as if trying to read an answer from the mahogany swirls and shadings.

Slowly then, she turned, walked back, and faced her father.

"You hated Sam, Daddy. You've hated every boy I've ever dated. And
now you'll hate me, because I won't jump through your hoop like
everybody else does. I think you're afraid this trial will prove that
Sam was not only a better man than you think he was, but a better man
than you-the thing you feared most since the day I met him."

The sound of Traeger's hand across Elena's face snapped like a rifle
shot, but she hardly blinked. Seth moved forward, but Elena held him
off with a gesture, then addressed her father in a tone of icy
intensity.

"Thank you. Daddy dearest, for the first display of emotion since I
was expelled from high school in 1978."

She snatched up her purse, looked each of the three men in the eye,
then stormed out of the courtroom.

"I think that was a no, gentlemen," said Seth as he turned to follow
her. 49 lev WAS IN THE CORRIDOR WAITING FOR HIM. "saw YOUR cross of
Bostwick. Nice duet."

"Thanks," said Seth, "but you'd better have good news, podner, or it
was also my swan song. The wheels are coming off my ease."

"See that old couple on the bench down the hall?"

"Don't tell me. The Lockhoms?"

"Lukens, Seth--Thomas and Grace Lukens. The cop spelled it
L-u-c-k-e-n-s on the accident report, which cost me an extra two days
and you another two thousand dollars.

Finally tracked 'em down in a trailer camp outside Tucson after a few
wild-goose chases, including a hundred-mile drive north of Taos for a
visit with a juiced-up couple named Luckens--spelled with a c--who
offered to pierce my nose and trip me out on mushrooms."

"You always wanted to see Taos."

"Okay, make it fifteen hundred dollars. Anyway, I finally found the
real Lukenses--the Tucson Lukenses without the c--and they saw it,
Seth. A 'pillar of flame' that shot ten stories high."

"Sounds good, pard. They spell their name right; can they also tell
time?"

"Hold on, Cowboy, that's the best part. They were heading for a church
retreat campsite east of Phoenix, got lost, ended up on a back road.
Saw the explosion and Tom took it as a sign, a perfect end to a
disastrous day: late start, flat tire, wrong turn.

"Now they're bombing us. Grace," he told her.

"The good Lord must not want us at this retreat."

"Then old Grace--amazing Grace--pipes up and says something like, "You
might be right, Thomas, but it's not the end of a disastrous day, it's
the beginning of a new one."
She's looking at her watch and adds, "It's one twenty in the morning.
Maybe this day will be a better one-' " "Are you shitting me.
Mandrake?"

"I matched their location to the coordinates of the crash site," said
Lev, turning and flashing a reassuring smile at the Lukenses.

"They were only four miles from the point of impact, and the fire they
saw was exactly where the crash was relative to their location. Go
talk to them. See for yourself."

A quick visit confirmed Lev's assessment and revealed the Lukenses to
be completely credible.

"So is it safe to Say," said Lev as they walked back to the office,
"that you can now win this case in a hurry so I can get paid? Remember,
fast pay makes fast friends."

"Good work, pard. Take them to the motel on Market Street. Have 'em
here in the morning. Okay?" With a weary smile, Seth handed over his
credit card. He would wait until later to reveal to Lev that while the
investigator had been out winning a battle in the field, Seth may have
lost the war.

Later that evening, Seth sat with Elena and Lev, filling Allyn in on
the events of the day.

"Crispie was simply awful," said Elena.

"I can't believe he would say those things--even if they were true."

"He's scared, like everybody else in this case," said Seth.

"And based on what Simmons told me," said Leviticus, "he was telling
the truth. Your husband was seriously into the juice that night, Mrs.
Barton."

"Was anything bothering him that day, Elena?" asked Seth.

"What would be bothering him?" she snapped.

Seth and Allyn exchanged a look.

"I was just asking," he said.

"Well, he seemed perfectly fine to me on the telephone."

Lev mentioned that he recognized Crispie from somewhere, and Seth
reminded him that he had glimpsed the pilot in the maintenance hangar
at Symington the day they posed as magazine reporters. But Lev gave
his head a hard rub with the knuckles of his right hand, then stood and
slapped his thighs in frustration.
"No, it was somewhere else," he said, then headed down the stairs for
home and an attempted reconciliation with his wife.

Allyn was tired from her own long day, but tried to put a positive spin
on what they had told her about the day's events.

"You aren't dead, yet. The Lukenses will get you past the statute of
limitations. Should be some consolation in that fact alone. Cowboy."
She reached over and gave him a rough pat on the shoulder.

"Plus, it may be the ultimate irony, but now you know you didn't screw
up at M and M after all."

Seth stared out the open window, sniffed at the night air.

"The Lukenses are wrong," he said quietly.

"Wrong?" said Allyn and Elena in unison.

"Wrong. Incorrect. Lying. I don't know. I'll put 'em on the stand
anyway I'm the lawyer here not the jury but those folks didn't see the
crash. They saw something else."

Allyn frowned, then shrugged in apparent agreement.

"Simmons?" she said.

"Yep. I can't think of a reason why he'd lie about seeing Sam out the
door at exactly eleven-thirty that night, and he must have been telling
the truth or they wouldn't have had to kill him. So tell me, Elena,
how does Sam get all the way to the flight line, change into flight
gear, preflight an X-215A which the book says takes three hours fly the
42-W pattern over Washington, Oregon, and California, then crash in
Arizona by one-twenty?"

Allyn nodded.

"Any clue yet on the identity of the other officer who left the club
with him?"

"Probably Gerald Murphy, which is another reason they had to kill him.
But no matter who it was, the fact remains Sam had to crash much later
than the Lukenses have it happening."

"But that's not for you to say!" said Elena, suddenly aroused out of
her languor.

Allyn looked up, startled at the outburst, then squinted at Seth
through one eye.

"The girl has a point, Seth. Besides, he's dead on the sixteenth
either way and you've beat the statute. Why confuse things?"

"Thank you," said Elena, brushing her hair back as she blew air out of
pursed lips and sat down.
"At least there is one real advocate around here." Allyn rolled her
eyes to let Seth know she was still on his side. Seth lit a
cigarette.

"Okay," continued Allyn, "so he was drinking. That ain't good. But
Bostwick has paved a clear path for your expert testimony on the
protective harness chafing, and with the statute defense gone, it'll
eventually wind up in the hands of the jury, where we know that
anything can happen. Okay so far?"

Seth nodded.

"All right. Now what is it that could have such an emotional impact on
the jury that they'd find a way around the drinking problem?" Elena
raised her eyebrows.

Seth smiled.

"Are you by chance referring to the heartsick widow Barton?"

Allyn nodded.

"When you putting her on?"

Seth looked at Elena and said, "Tomorrow, right after the Lukenses."

Elena paled.

"You said it would be next week."

"Allyn's right. We've got to start swinging them back our way. If we
wait, it'll be too late. It's the way this business works. Don't
worry, you're ready."

Elena looked unconvinced.

"I'll do my best."

"Good," said Allyn.

"I'll bet one of my finest cigars that a few grief-stricken tears from
the bereaved widow will wash away what's left of the stain of
Christopher's testimony." "what IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" SAID
allyn THE NEXT morning as she glanced into Seth's office. He was
standing in front of his small window, alternately covering one eye,
then the other.

"Oh! Hi, Allyn," said Seth, putting his hands behind his back like a
kid caught stealing.

"Nothing, really."
Allyn shook her head.

"You're having that blurred vision again, aren't you." It wasn't a
question.

"Nothing serious."

"And you're back on speed?"

Seth reddened and shrugged.

"I found a few stragglers in my desk, and damn lucky I did. I had to
work with Elena until two-thirty, then finish my jury instructions and
responses to Con Space latest series of motions. Caught a one-hour
snooze on the cot."

Allyn shook her head and grunted.

"It's temporary."

"Sure, kid. I just fail to see what good it will do you to get back on
Montgomery Street if you're brain-dead when you get there."

"I just have to get through this."

"Jesus, Cowboy, you're in trial, not on trial!"

"Can't say I've ever seen much difference," said Seth, and gave his
lapels a shake.

"How do I look?"

"The women on the jury will know it's the same suit you wore yesterday,
but that might not hurt your David image.

But wasn't it Goliath who was supposed to get stoned?"

The Lukenses were perfect, and Treadwell was too smart to take them on.
He waived cross-examination, making only a casual reference for the
jury's benefit to the complete irrelevance of the testimony. Seth
decided to put his damage economist on ahead of Elena to allow them
time during the lunch hour for a final run-through.

As Seth turned to watch his witness enter the courtroom, he noticed Si
Stephens seated in back again. This was no coincidence. Was Stephens
monitoring the trial? What interest did Caldwell and Shaw have in his
case? One more thing to worry about.

The expert's testimony for loss of consortium and earnings was
predictable, if somewhat dull, and went in without complication or
damage on cross. After Christopher's damning evidence, Treadwell had
obviously elected a strategy of showing disdain for Seth's damage
testimony--"I'll not waste the time of these good ladies and gentlemen.
Your Honor"--implying that the jury would never have reason to
consider it. It was a boring, anticlimactic morning, for which Seth
was exceedingly grateful, given the intermittent buzzing and blurring
that had reentered his neurological system.

At the noon recess, Allyn--her own trial finished--approached Seth with
a hearty smile.

"Treadwell is screwing up," she announced.

"Oh?"

"He's not going to rebut your damage case. He obviously doesn't
remember what happened to the defendant who tried that tactic in the
Texaco-Pennzoil case."

"You don't either," said Seth, ushering Elena through the rail, "or
you'd know that Joe Jamail didn't have to fashion his victory around a
drunken test pilot."

Allyn backed off, knowing how the pressures of a trial can spread like
cancer cells, assailing the spirit and breeding irritability.

"And you have a nice day, too, Seth," she said under her breath as she
watched the jurors leave the courtroom.

"Are you all right?" asked Elena, when Seth had closed the door to the
small conference room adjacent to the courtroom.

"You were rather short with Allyn, don't you think?"

"She understands," said Seth, rubbing eyes that fatigue and uppers had
turned into muddy pools.

"Yeah, I'm okay," he added, but his words were belied by the ashen hue
of his skin, drawn taut across his prominent cheekbones.

"Let's get to work."

At twelve-thirty, Ramon brought in a carrot salad and yogurt for Elena,
double espresso and a carton of milk for Seth.

"That's it?" she said, looking at Seth's "lunch."

"Lean and mean," he said, but couldn't conceal the tremor in his hands
as he sipped his coffee.

Elena's testimony on direct examination exceeded Seth's wildest
expectations. Her manner and appearance were those of a woman whose
interest in life had died in the Arizona desert with her husband. She
wept at appropriate intervals and within minutes had engendered
sympathy in not only the jurors, but the judge as well. She credibly
denied that Sam would ever take a drink before a flight and testified
that Major Christopher must have his nights confused.

The jury might think otherwise, but Seth knew that the important thing
was that if jurors wanted something to be true, it would be true.

She reviewed Sam's awards and honors, his safety record, his publicly
expressed concerns about the X-215A, then established her damage case
by testifying to her loss of consortium, her undying love for her
husband, and the saving influence of her grief counseling.

"How did your grief counselor influence you?" asked Seth.

Elena paused, got herself under control, then spoke in a barely audible
voice.

"I ... wanted to die. I was considering .. . suicide."

Seth ended Elena's direct examination by asking her to describe the
nightmarish predawn visit by the unit commander and the chaplain on
December 16. She was unable to finish and accepted Judge Singer's
offer of a recess before cross-examination.

While Elena gathered herself, Seth walked out into the corridor, where
he spotted Si Stephens bending over a water fountain.

"Okay, Si," he said, "I've seen you in back since the start of this
thing. What's Caldwell and Shaw's interest in this case?"

Stephens looked embarrassed.

"It's an interesting case, Seth. National coverage and all. I'm just
another trial groupie when it comes to something as hot as this
thing."

"Bullshit, Si. You're monitoring the case for the firm."

Stephens spread his palms in an appeal for mercy.

"You're putting me on the spot, Seth."

"It's a problem I have." Seth offered him a cigarette.

"Let's have it."

Stephens hunched his shoulders and took a deep drag.

Then another.

"We're not monitoring the trial. We're monitoring you."

"Me?"

"I've been talking you up at the firm ever since you dumped me on the
U.S. Minerals motion the day Charlie Branch was too drunk to show up.
Then, after you fucked me over on the Pacific Sigma Insurance trial, I
told them they should grab you before somebody else did. We've had two
retirements on the trial side this year and a ton of new business. I've
been authorized to offer you a junior partnership at Caldwell and Shaw
if you can beat Treadwell in this case."

Seth tried to conceal his astonishment. Caldwell and Shaw!
Partnership?

"Do they know about--" "Sure they do. But I told them it was never
clear who was supposed to have calendared the statute in the first
place. More importantly, it now appears you didn't blow the date after
all."

"Thanks, Si. I owe you one."

Stephens gave his head a quick shake.

"Just keep it to yourself, okay? Hell, I wasn't even supposed to have
been noticed, much less have you engage me in conversation."

"What conversation?"

Seth floated back into the courtroom, barely able to contain his
elation.

"What are you smiling about?" asked Elena.

"Me? I guess at how well you did on direct."

Treadwell surprised Seth--and the rest of the court-room--by wading
into the witness with neither compassion nor civility, violating the
cardinal principle that even the harshest cross-examination of a widow
should be preceded by a show of solicitous gentility. Seth put a hand
to his stomach. The senior partner must have a smoking gun.

"So you even considered suicide? Would you tell what your counselor
said when you discussed suicide?"

Seth objected on the grounds of privilege, and Treadwell withdrew the
question, though his manner left little doubt that he knew she was
lying about the suicide, "Did you ever discuss your compulsion with
Major Christopher?"

Seth objected again to the word compulsion, and Treadwell again
withdrew and rephrased the question. Then, fearing that he was
appearing too overtly protective of his client, Seth decided he would
have to let her sink or swim.
"And was Major Christopher your husband's best friend?"

"Yes, I would say so."

"Was he also a good friend of yours?"

Elena had appeared pale and vulnerable on direct examination.

Now, she was flushed and betraying a growing anger.

Seth felt helpless to block Treadwell's momentum. Where's the son of a
bitch going with this?

"Yes, of course," she said.

"I considered all of Sam's friends to be mine as well."

The senior partner took but a single step toward his goddaughter, but
his presence now seemed to engulf her as if he had thrown a plastic bag
over her suddenly ashen face.

"That's quite commendable," said Treadwell, then turned to watch the
jury as he fired his next question.

"But Major Christopher was the only one of Sam's friends you were
having sexual intercourse with, wasn't he? Or was he?"

Seth shot to his feet and shouted--with inappropriate and uncontrolled
emotion--"/ OBJECT TO THIS!"

As if in some kind of communal shock, the courtroom froze into
still-frame. Went dreadfully silent as Seth's agonized protest hung in
the air like a wounded bird.

"Please state your grounds, Mr. Cameron," said Judge Singer at last.

"I assume Mr. Treadwell is exploring the credibility of the damage
issue here."

Seth searched Elena's face, now pale again, for some sign of denial,
but she could not meet his eyes.

"Mr. Cameron? Your grounds, please?"

Seth's brain felt as if it were exploding inside his head.

He placed his hands on the table for support, kept staring at Elena.
When she finally met his gaze, he saw the truth there. The naked,
oozing, filthy truth.

"It appears I have ... no grounds for objecting. Your Honor. None
whatsoever."

Seth collapsed in his chair in dazed and impotent silence and barely
followed the exchange after that: heard her stammering, unpersuasive
denials, offered in a thin, metallic voice; knew nobody believed her;
heard Treadwell savoring the titillating details--How often, Mrs.
Barton? How recently Mrs. Barton? How about last month in New
Mexico, Mrs. Barton? The Palomar Hotel?

Seth's bloodshot eyes flickered to the jurors, saw their voyeuristic
fascination with Treadwell's relentless attack. He listened as his
witness--his client, his lover, his future--denied the charges, time
after time, until finally the judge stepped in like a referee
protecting a helpless boxer and told Treadwell he had made his point.
At last, it was over.

"Any redirect, Mr. Cameron?" said Judge Singer.

Seth knew he should provide a more relaxed opportunity for Elena to
rebut the egregious charges made against her, but he could not bring
himself to enter into the collusion.

"No redirect. Your Honor," he said in the most casual voice he could
muster under the circumstances--the circumstances being the
spontaneous, open-court heart surgery he had just endured, coupled with
the shattering of his dreams of securing revenge by defeating the great
Treadwell and returning in triumph to Montgomery Street with Caldwell
and Shaw and trying the important cases he felt capable of trying,
thereby winning the respect of his peers and harvesting the fruits of
years of hard work and sacrifice, thus showing his father that he was
capable of playing in the majors after all, damn it, then marrying the
woman he had loved, getting out of debt and off the bennies, buying a
decent car and a new suit and being able to sleep at night and seth SAT
IN HIS OFFICE AN HOUR LATER, HALF-DRUNK AND entirely alone. Ramon had
finished for the day and AUyn had left early, saying something about
self-immolations giving her sinus problems. There was an I-told-you-so
in there somewhere, subtly disguised as sympathy, but who could deny
her that?
She had been right, of course, about almost everything: certainly
about both Elena and the case being certified losers. She had stopped
short of including him in that category, probably concluding he had
suffered enough abuse for one day.

Elena had come by, not to apologize, would you believe, but to berate
him for not protecting her better on cross-examination! Seth poured
himself another shot of Cuervo and mused at his infinite capacity to be
fooled by women he thought he loved. She had never given a rat's ass
about him or about clearing her husband's name; it was her debts she
had been trying to clear. In her self-righteous rage she had admitted
everything, her disinheritance, her pittance of a military insurance
policy, her debts, and her desire to cash in with a big verdict, and
her nonexclusive passion for Crispie. (A hygienic concern tried to
nudge its way into Seth's full dance-card of disasters--how many sexual
partners had he taken on every time he slept with Elena?--but disease
and eventual death ranked low on his list of calamities and were
summarily dismissed.) She had persisted in the virtuous heroine myth at
first.

"I

came to you to clear my husband's good name," she had insisted, "and
all you accomplished was the destruction of my own."

Bravo. That's when his record for never having hit a woman fell into
serious jeopardy. The record was still intact--if you don't count
grabbing Elena by the shoulders and slamming her up against the wall (a
few inches off the ground, in the interest of accuracy) and telling her
she had literally fucked herself out of a verdict and himself out of
partnership in the best firm on the West Coast. Which is when she spit
in his face, and he lowered her back to the floor (suddenly, in the
interest of accuracy), and the ugly truth had poured out of her like
green vomit in a horror movie. More truth than he had bargained for,
actually; wide-ranging, seemingly unrelated revelations screamed at
high volume about having been fucked (literally) by Papa Traeger
between the ages of ten and fourteen, then admitting that Sam had found
out about her recent promiscuity with an unnamed lover in a
midafternoon anonymous phone call the day of his last flight. Little
wonder Sam was into some serious drinking that night. She had last
spoken with him at eight forty-five from his on-base quarters, and he
had already been to the club.

Oh, sure, clearing her husband's name had been part of it, but out of
guilt, not love. Crispie had told her a week later about the boozing,
and naturally they both felt responsible after he crashed.

"Crispie cared about Sam and he loved me," she had told Seth, which
made Seth wonder just how much Crispie had loved Elena and how far he
might have been willing to go to have her for his own. Had the major
actually encouraged his friend's drinking, knowing he would soon be
behind the controls of a machine flying at a speed somewhere between
sound and light? Christopher probably envied Sam as much as he loved
Elena. Seth would be the last man in town to underestimate another
man's capacity for loving Elena Barton.

And the craziest part of all?

She still expected him to see the case through to a verdict!

The woman had balls, all right. After slashing up his heart with a
razor blade, she stood there with hands on perfect hips, demanding that
he continue to prosecute her guaranteed loser of a contingent-fee case,
representing the whore wife of a cuckolded drunk who had violated every
regulation in the book and smashed up a $300-million airplane in the
process!

And he had agreed to do it. just WHEN A TRIAL LAWYER ON A REVERSE ROLL
HEADING backward down a slippery slope to nowhere knows it can't get
worse ... it does. Treadwell started the day by getting permission to
call a witness out of order. Seth was sure it would be some paid whore
to say he saw twenty or thirty pillars of flame at exactly five minutes
before twelve midnight, but it--she--turned out to be an Arizona
pathologist who had examined Sam Barton's body at a clinic near the
site of the crash.

This was no paid whore. Katherine Margolin's credentials were so
solid, in fact, that Seth waived his right to voir dire her to avoid
giving her the chance to repeat them. Besides, how much could she
hurt? Dead is dead.

But Dr. Margolin had come not just to testify that Sam was dead, but
dead drunk. Legally drunk--an estimated .18 at the time of death, and
clearly "under the influence."

Bad enough, but it was Dr. Margolin's second revelation that nearly
jump-started Seth's heart through his rib cage.

"My opinion as a board-certified pathologist is that the victim had
been dead for a minimum of four hours at the time of my examination."

"And that was at what time, Doctor?" asked the smarmy Treadwell.

"My records show that I examined the corpse at three forty-five a.m. on
the morning of October sixteenth."

She gave Seth a little slack on cross--Yes, his body was burned beyond
recognition; Yes, that complicated my autopsy;

Yes, that increases the margin for error--but held firm to a four-hour
minimum and death "in all medical probability, well before midnight."
Thank God for the Lukenses, thought Seth, but Treadwell's statute
defense was breathing again.

Seth called Henry Daimler as his next witness. While the professor was
entering the courtroom and being sworn, Seth's mind wandered back in
time to the night of the fifteenth.

Trying to rationalize Simmons's statement and Dr.

Margolin's persuasive testimony, he pictured Sam stumbling from the
Officers' Club at eleven-thirty, bluffing his way into the
X-215A--everyone knew him--somehow skipping preflight, and then, in his
inebriated confusion, running Triangle 42-W in reverse and crashing
before midnight. A possible, but unhelpful, scenario. Someone had to
be lying.

Simmons? Crispie? Margolin? The Lukenses?

All of the above?

Professor Daimler performed masterfully. Relying in part on Alan
Millstein's partially successful experiment, he testified with
conviction and authority that the X-215A's problems were caused by
improper interfacing between the electrical system pathways and the
off-the-shelf TDA canopy system, resulting in friction fatigue to the
main electrical harness. Picking up on Seth's cross of Bostwick, he
agreed with the Con Space tech rep that the problem could have been
avoided, and many lives saved, with an investment by Con Space of an
additional $60 to thicken the harness.

Mary Nance and juror number four, Ronald Knowlton, usually inscrutable,
looked stunned as Daimler recited how the harness might easily and
inexpensively have been toughened "had they but thought about it and
cared enough to do it." * Edward Stanton remained unreadable, but Seth
saw juror number nine, Ruth Jackson, exchange indignant looks with
Barbara Bateman, sitting next to her. Number seven, the bleached-out
and amiable Sophie Byers, actually gave Seth a wink and smile. Seth
knew how unreliable these expressions could be, but the reactions in
this instance were too strong and widespread to be ignored. Maybe he
was still in the game after all.

Treadwell's cross-examination of the professor fell flat. I've seen a
lot of forensic experts get eaten alive on cross, Son. That's when you
separate the wheat from the chaff. The good ones are like politicians:
no matter what you ask them, they tell you what they want you to know.
Seth had never forgotten Pop's admonition and had grilled the
professor-a gentle soul with no instinct for the jugular--to use every
question on cross as an excuse to regurgitate something he had said on
direct. It worked to perfection.

"You've never even been inside an X-215A, have you, Mr. Daimler?"

"No."

"Or even close to one?"

"No, sir, your client refused to permit it."

"Because of security, correct?"

"I doubt it. The details of the X-215A are now an open secret. I
brought a copy of Jane's to court with me if you would like me to read
from it, sir."

"That's all right. Prof--" "The only reason Mr. Bostwick gave me for
refusing to discuss the X-215A was that it might prejudice your
defense."

"But wouldn't your testimony be more accurate if you, like Mr.
Bostwick, had seen and studied an actual X-215A?"

"No."

"No?"

"The latest version of the X-215A has been altered, according to Mr.
Bostwick, to correct the precise defects that killed Captain Barton.
Inspection of Captain Barton's aircraft was impossible, of course,
given the fact that both Sam Barton and his X-215A were severely marred
by flames."

And so on.

Treadwell realized he was beginning to track blood on the carpet and
quit before it got worse. Seth thanked Professor Daimler, then caught
a thumbs-up from Si Stephens as the C&S observer headed outside for a
cigarette. Seth was relieved.

He had not expected to see Si Stephens in court again after what had
happened the day before. He was also glad to see both Allyn and
Leviticus in the gallery, for he feared he was losing perspective and
would value their reactions.

Despite all the disasters that had befallen him, it seemed obvious that
the jury didn't like the defense side of the case either. Maybe this
thing could be salvaged. So far today, he had needed only a half
bottle of Maalox.

Flushed with his minor victory, Seth decided to try to normalize
relations with his client.

"Well, it's a new day a-dawning, Elena. One small step for the good
guys, huh?"

She said nothing; indeed, she had refused to say a word to him since
the night before.

"Look, Elena," he said, swiveling around to face her.

"We're finished, you and I. You don't like me, and I don't care a whole
lot for you either. But we're stuck with each other, chained together
like a couple cons trying to make a jailbreak. It'll go a lot smoother
if we work together."

Elena's response was to rise to her feet and leave the courtroom,
brushing off Lev's greeting as he advanced toward the rail.

"That girl ain't a happy camper, Seth," said Lev, watching her stride
through the door.

"It's going to be a long, hard trail."
"Who's the guy in back underneath all them medals? He looks real
familiar."

"That's the now-notorious Don Juan Christopher. I told you, you got a
glimpse of him the day we conned our way into Symington."

"That's not it. I told you before, I know him from somewhere else."
Lev stole another look at the major and gave his head an exasperated
shake.

"Screw it. Who's next?"

"There is no 'next." What they've seen is what they get."

"You're resting your case?"

"That's customary when you've got no more witnesses."

Lev shook his head again.

"You're fucked, man. It ain't gonna fly."

"I might get a break on one of Treadwell's witnesses.

It's happened before. He might over try his case, give me an
opening."

Lev exhaled and lifted himself off the rail.

"Look, man, I've got a little time on my hands. If you'll spot me
another ticket, I'll make a last sweep around Albuquerque."

"For what? Pottery? Turquoise? You've worn out your welcome at
Symington. That's for sure."

"I might join up. I'd look good back in uniform."

"I'm afraid it's a little late. Lev."

"For re-upping?"

"For everything."

"Okay, but what's to lose? I've got a hunch or two. Hang out in bars
around the base. Employ some shamus secrets I'm not at liberty to
share with rank outsiders."

"You're some piece of work, Mr. Heywood."

"You're going down if you got no rebuttal. That's for sure, too."

"I can't ask you to do that. Lev. I already owe you more than--"
"Hey, Cowboy, I still owe them federal motherfuckers something, too."

Seth scribbled out a note to Ramon.

"Okay, pard, and thanks. The ticket will be ready right after
lunch."

Lev headed out, but stopped midway to the exit and hurried back.
"Hold on to your Stetson, Cowboy. I just found the guy who closed the
bar at eleven-thirty with Sam Barton. Now I know why he looked so
familiar. He's the spittin' image of the description Simmons gave me
that day at Symington.

Check the guy under all them medals."

Five minutes later, Elena, Christopher, and Seth sat in a conference
room. Bluffing Crispie into the truth had been easy.

Deciding what to do with the new information was harder.

"Why didn't you tell us?" demanded Elena, her pale eyes verdigrised
with anger and glowering at Christopher.

"If it hadn't been for the Lukenses, we could have been thrown out of
court!"

"I'm trying to tell " "You bastard! You were just going to sit there
and watch it happen!"

"No way, Elena, just " "Weren't you?"

Crispie looked at Seth for help.

"Let's hear what he has to say, Elena. Okay?"

Christopher gathered his thoughts and addressed himself to Seth.

"I knew that if they found out I was the officer with Sam that night,
I'd have to tell the whole truth."

"Which is?"

"Which is that Sam had three more drinks after dinner at the bar
between ten-thirty and eleven. He was shit-faced, Seth. He had found
out about... Elena and me except he didn't know / was the other man and
he was shit-faced drunk. I couldn't stop him from drinking or flying,
though I slowed him down some."

"So he did leave around eleven-thirty?"

"That's affirmative. I figured going with the official takeoff time
was better for Elena; you know, getting him high in the air instead of
high at the club."

Christopher turned to Elena.

"I almost came forward when it looked like you would lose on the
statute, but when Seth came up with the Lukenses' story, I saw I could
keep quiet."

Elena appeared mollified, even spoke to Seth for the first time that
day.

"So what do we do?"

"Nothing," said Seth.
"If we put Crispie back on to help on the statute, it will hurt us a
hell of a lot more on the drinking. Sam's got too much booze in him as
it is. Plus we'd be giving Treadwell another bite at the cheating-wife
apple. It's a bad tradeoff."

Seth rubbed his face with both hands.

"Do you think Treadwell is going to put you back on the stand anyway?

To impeach Elena on the adultery issue?"

"I don't think so. I don't know how they found out about Elena and me.
But I've drawn the line at going back on the stand. It would ruin me.
I'm career."

"Then there's hope, Elena. It's your word against Treadwell's
unsupported allegations."

"Seth," said Crispie, "it's none of my business, but nobody on that
jury doubts that we were lovers."

"Thanks to the protection of my brilliant lawyer!" said Elena, her
lips drawn tightly over her teeth.

"You're right. Major," said Seth, seemingly ignoring the remark.

"They see her now as a tramp and a liar. Juries tend to be intuitive
that way."

"Now hold on, Cameron," said Christopher, starting to rise.

Seth came up faster, leaned across the small table, and pinned
Christopher back into his chair with just a look.

"No, you hold on, pard, 'cause by the end of this, the jury will see
you're two of a kind, neither one of you worth a minute of Sam Barton's
time, let alone his life."

Elena leapt to her feet, fists clenched at the end of arms stiff
against her sides.

"Listen, you smart-ass bastard. You're a loser just like Uncle Tony
said. But I'm stuck with you.

Now here's what you do. You get that one hundred and fifty thousand
dollars back on the table and then you grab it. I need that money."

But Seth was already leaving the room. He turned at the door and
flashed a mirthless smile.

"That offer's gone the way of your virtue, Elena, which is to say it's
irretrievable. Besides, this isn't your case anymore. This is Sam's
case--what's left of it anyway--and mine. And of course there's the
Tucker estate.
You're just extra baggage we're all stuck with." 53 on THE THIRD DAY
OF TRIAL, tread well MADE HIS ONLY error.

With victory within his grasp had he simply put on one solid expert
witness and rested, he committed the unpardonable crime of over trying
his case. Witness followed witness, all articulate forensic
technicians and scientists, but most of them parroting the same themes:
the X-215A was the closest thing to the perfect flying machine ever
developed; the electronics seemed to be operative on every crashed
aircraft studied; the TDA canopy system was up to specifications and
replaced solely because Con Space sought a more cost-effective unit;
and so on.

Seth, more pallid each day from lack of sleep and a new, persistent
cough, laboriously cross-examined each one, first to foster the boredom
he observed among the jurors, but most importantly, to stall for time;
time for what, he wasn't sure.

"Let it go. Cowboy," said Allyn, succumbing to pessimism at the end of
the sixth day.

"If you were a boxer, I'd throw in the towel. You should be in a
hospital, not a courtroom.

You're a burnout, kid. Look at yourself!"

"I'm okay," he said, coughing from deep in his chest, "and thanks for
the inspiring vote of confidence. I happen to think the jury is
beginning to suspect a cover-up here."

"You mean the two jurors who still bother to wake up at lunchtime?"

"You're exaggerating. Besides, they're getting mad at Treadwell for
dragging the thing out, not me."

"Why is Treadwell doing it?"

"It's his style. Take no chances. Wear a belt and suspenders.
Most important of all, keep the meter running at three thousand
dollars a day as long as possible. Lawyers like Treadwell will end no
case before its time."

Seth started coughing again, and Ramon held crossed index fingers up as
if warding off a vampire.

"Could you please spray your viruses another way?" he pleaded.

"Seth," said AUyn, "you're also wearing out the carpet.

Sit down."

Seth took a chair.

"You know I'm a fan. Cowboy. But I've seen some of your
cross-examinations the last few days."

"And?"

"They are thorough, journeyman stuff, but not the Seth Cameron jugular
thrusts we've come to know and fear. Give it a rest. Give yourself a
rest. And while you're at the hospital, check into the psychiatric
ward and have your head examined."

"Your instincts are off this time, Allyn," said Seth, up again and
pacing around Ramon's desk.

"The jury is getting suspicious. Why else would Con Space be trotting
out every fucking technician and corporate officer they've got? Not
one of them has said he actually inspected the harness at the point we
claim it ruptured."

"Someone will."

"Well, I'm ready. Besides, have you forgotten that people have been
murdered over this thing?"

"You don't know that. Birds do fly into air scoops."

"They ravage the turbine fans," offered Ramon without looking up from
his keyboard, "rip them like tissue. I read it in USA Today."

"And Simmons actually might have fallen," Allyn added.

"Or jumped."

"And the guys that chased me in North Beach were fraternity hazers,
right? Or bill collectors from hell? And Lev's beating was a case of
mistaken identity. They thought he was one of the Menendez
brothers."

"No," said Ramon, "Lev's taller than either one."

Seth entered the courtroom for the seventh day of trial and saw
Treadwell already at counsel table, reviewing notes for his next
witness, an outside avionics expert.
Elena drifted in, refusing as usual to acknowledge Seth.

The gallery, including some members of the press, had diminished in
number, turned off by the parade of technical experts and Seth's
protracted attention to each one. Traeger and Farnsworth remained
faithful spectators, as did Treadwell's shadow jury and the two Defense
Department lawyers, popping up from time to time "in the interests of
national security." Seth was depressed to note that Si Stephens had
stopped coming to court.

Another lonely morning passed as he stubbornly struggled against the
odds, fighting a losing cause with no rational possibility of a fee, in
behalf of a client who refused even to speak to him. During the
afternoon recess, he suffered another bout of dizziness and blurred
vision. He brushed it off as the normal consequences of averaging
three hours' sleep since a week before the trial had begun. He popped
a cough drop and two more caffeine pills--he had run out of heavier
stimulants--and strolled over to ask the bailiff if it didn't seem
unusually cold in the courtroom. The bailiff politely assured him it
was seventy degrees, knowing Seth would soon be complaining about its
being too hot.

"I think you got a fever, Seth," said the bailiff.

"You should see a doc."

"So I've been told."

"All rise! Department 16 is now in session. Judge Jerome Singer
presiding!"

True to Allyn's prediction, Treadwell's next expert--a forensic
aeronautical engineer--said that he had been permitted to examine two
of the four crashed X-215A's and had found "no clear evidence of
harness deterioration proximately resulting from friction imposed by
any component of the TDA canopy system." Seth had objected on the
grounds of surprise, but Dr. Harrison testified in chambers that he
had only been given access to the X-215A the day before trial, and
Treadwell persuaded the judge that Con Space should not be penalized
because of the military's vacillation and delay in granting their
request.

"That's bullshit. Judge," Seth said.
"Everybody knows that Con Space and the military's interests are
identical in this case!"

He then pointed a finger at the Defense Department lawyers, adding,
"What the fuck do you think these monkeys are doing here. Judge?
Aiding in the pursuit of truth, justice, and beauty?"

"Counsel?" said Judge Singer, an edge in his voice.

"It's not only obvious collusion. Your Honor," said Seth across the
judge's desk.

"It's trial by ambush!"

"Calm yourself. Counsel," said Judge Singer.

"You'll have free rein on cross "And just what the fuck am I to ask
him. Judge? They won't let my expert within a hundred miles of an

X-215A!"

"That's quite enough out of you, Mr. Cameron!"

As they left chambers, Treadwell put a consoling hand on Seth's
shoulder.

"Trial by ambush? Cute, Cameron. And quite correct, for once."

"Just another insignificant battle," said Seth through clenched teeth,
"and get your hand off me, or you won't be around to see me win the
war."

"Now there's where you are wrong, Cameron. This was the battle that
won the war. Waterloo, Gettysburg, Normandy, and Hiroshima, all in
one."

He turned out to be right. Harrison was soft-spoken, brilliant, and
persuasive. Seth tried to shake him--You only saw two of the four
X-215A's? In a storage area? Isn't it a fact that the harnesses were
fire-damaged beyond analysis one way or the other? You're really
saying you were unable to distinguish between pre crash and post crash
damage, aren't you?

You haven't run any independent tests to corroborate your claimed
observations, have you?--but got nowhere, and at the end of the day,
Seth's only consolation was that Judge Singer had arguably committed
error by allowing Treadwell to bushwhack him with the previously
undisclosed testimony, maybe even reversible error. Small consolation,
for not even Seth would be fool enough to appeal, then retry, a turkey
like this.

He put his notes away, hardly aware that Elena was still sitting behind
him.

"You look tired," she said.
Startled, Seth jumped.

"What?"

"You'd better get some sleep tonight. That's a bad cough, and your
skin is the same color as your shirt." Seth always wore a white shirt
when he was in trial.

"I'll try. Thanks for noticing."

"You mean, thanks for not being a bitch for five minutes?"

"Thanks for that, too."

"I'm sorry, Seth. About all of it. It's gotten pretty crazy, hasn't
it?"

"Pretty crazy says it."

"I can't sort it out."

"Join the club."

"It's getting to me, Seth. I need you to tell me the truth."

Seth just gave her a look that had her staring at her hands for the ten
count.

"Okay, I know I've lied to you, but even though we're no longer lovers,
you're still my lawyer, Seth. And I don't give a damn what you tell
the jury, but I've got to know how Sam died in Arizona at the same time
he must have been taking off in New Mexico."

"You want the truth, Elena? Okay, here's the truth. I haven't the
slightest fucking idea."

"Oh."

"So that's your lawyer's analysis. I tried to avoid getting too
technical so you could follow it. Anything else?"

Elena surprised him. No clever, biting retort. Not even a hard look.
She seemed beaten, like someone had let the air out of her.

"Yes, there is," she said, pushing her hair what was left of it over
the left side of her head with her right hand one of the moves that
used to kill him.

"If you want to dump this thing and walk away, it's all right with
me."

"Well, I've already told you " "I know. It's your case now. And
Sam's. But I just wanted to say it."

"Okay, Elena, you've said it. But the genie's out of the bottle and
there's no putting it back in."

"Are you talking about the case or us?"

"Yes," said Seth, and left the courtroom.
As bad as Seth looked as he dragged himself up the last few steps to
his office, Allyn looked even worse.

"What's the matter, boss lady? You look like you've just gone three
rounds with an oral surgeon."

She sat down behind her desk and beckoned Seth toward a client chair.

"Can't sit," he said, reaching for a cigarette, "gotta get on the
phone. What's up?"

"There's bad news," she said without a trace of humor, "and then
there's worse news."

Her bleak expression sent a flash of heat through his stomach.

"What's th bad news?"

"Elena Barton left a message with Ramon five minutes ago. She's
thought it over and decided that it would be best for all concerned if
you were replaced by new counsel for the plaintiff."

"Shit!"

She handed him the message. Seth stared at it, willing the words to
rearrange themselves into a joke.

"And she said not to bother calling, she's already making new
arrangements. Said to tell you 'the genie's out of the bottle.""
"That's great," said Seth, "and I'm left representing a two-bit case
for Ben Tucker's penniless estate. Guess I pissed her off pretty
bad."

Allyn nodded.

"You've got the knack for it. Cowboy."

Seth stood there for a minute, the unlit cigarette dangling from his
lips, then slowly turned and started back down the stairs.

"There's something else, kid. You really better sit down."

Seth took a seat and struck a match.

"No easy way to tell you this so I'll just tell you. Harry Cooper is
dead."

""What?"

"It's true. Harry's dead. Last night."

The match died against Seth's flesh.

"Thursday night?

How?" he asked, his voice thin and flat.

"It wasn't painful. He's over at Ferguson's Mortuary."

"How?"
Allyn looked away, paused, took a deep breath.

"He hung himself, Seth."

They sat in silence for a while. A car alarm went off in the alley. An
apartment dog answered.

"Leave a note?"

Allyn gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"What did it say?"

"I don't know. I honestly don't."

"You know something."

"I don't know what the note said."

"Well, what in the hell do you know?"

Allyn relit the stub of a cigar.

"The bastards threw him out."

"What bastards? Threw him out where?"

"Miller and McGrath. They voted him out of the partnership yesterday
afternoon."

"Oh, Jesus," said Seth, rising to his feet. He stared out onto the
bustling street for a few minutes, hands against the window casing,
seeing nothing.

"Oh, Jesus," he said again, then walked out of AUyn's office and down
the stairs. She stood watching through the window as he reached the
crowded, commute-hour sidewalk and stopped for a minute on the cold,
cola-and-blood-splattered pavement, hands gesturing as if he were
talking to himself. Looked like just another street crazy. Finally
disappeared into the sea of shoppers, dockers, boppers, and other
sad-eyed strangers.

Seth was surprised to find himself alone in the small, dimly lighted
room at Ferguson's Mortuary, a welcome relief from the mob of
self-conscious weirdos storming the bar at Aunt Pearl's Jam House where
he had consumed three quick shooters. Harry looked amazingly at peace
amidst the flickering candles and linen; better looking than when he
was alive.

You're saying some people are better off dead?

No, just that you're prettier now. Harry. Like when we were in law
school.

You mean before all the nose candy, then the pipe, then trying to fake
my way through M and M like I did law school.
Trying to keep smoke in a broken bottle. Hell, Seth, the messed-up
memo was just the last straw.

I didn't come here to feel more guilty, man.

Sure you did, asshole. That's your game. One of them.

Anyway, the vote was unanimous. They were just waiting.

Knew about the drugs, knew everything.

I didn't tell anybody.

Hey, Cowboy, relax. I'm dead, remember? Fucking Treadwell knows
everything and everybody, and the rest of them are wannabe clones. I'm
well out of the whole messy business.

You don't have to tell me anything about that particular support group.
* Seth could swear Harry smiled at that one.

Yeah, I'm well out of it. Trish is damn sure better off, too.

I'm insured like fucking King Farouk, but look in on her anyway. She'd
have been better off sticking with you. Cowboy.

Jesus! Nine years ago.

I guess I'll be heading back.

Thanks for stopping by. Better watch yourself; it's hot down here.

Seth laughed. Shit, Harry, I was sure you'd have the presence of mind
to renounce Satan before you kicked the stool.

Hell, no. Like Machiavelli, I figured it was a bad time to be making
enemies.

"Excuse me, young man," came a woman's frail voice from behind Seth.

"We're Harry's parents. You look very familiar."

Startled, Seth extended his hand, the one not clutching his stomach.

"Seth Cameron. I met you at Harry's wedding."

"Why, yes," she said.

"You were an usher."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You remember Seth, Harold. He was one of Harry's best friends in law
school, then at Miller and McGrath. He was an usher at Harry's
wedding."

Harold remembered.

"The one with the boots. You don't look so good yourself, son."

"Yeah, well, I'll be going, Mr. and Mrs. Cooper."

"Thank you for coming, Seth," said Mrs. Cooper, and then started to
cry.
"Did you spend much time with our son, Seth?" asked Mr. Cooper.

"Recently?"

"No, sir. I've been out of Miller and McGrath for quite a while."

Mrs. Cooper was sobbing, losing control, holding on to her husband's
arm for support.

"We ... we know about the note, Seth. We know ... what they did to
him. We just ... don't know why."

"They're a tough group, ma'am," said Seth, choosing not to get into his
own history.

"I don't mean why they did it," she said.

"I mean why Harry did it!"

Mrs. Cooper had momentarily mobilized her anger and was glaring at
Harry's corpse as if he were a child and she had caught him stealing
cookies.

"Harry was one of the brightest young men in his class, wasn't he?"

"Yes, ma'am, probably the brightest."

"And well-liked?" asked Mr. Cooper.

Seth suddenly felt a passionate need to get out of Ferguson's.

"Everybody liked Harry," he said with conviction.

"And envied his mind, his gifts. Everything seemed easy for him."

"Then why?" demanded Mrs. Cooper, grabbing Seth by the arm, her
reddened eyes boring into his.

"Why would our ... handsome, popular boy ... kill himself over
partnership in a ... law firm."

She spat out the last words as if she were referring to the KKK or the
Nazi party.

"That's a complicated question--" Sarah Cooper strengthened her hold on
Seth's arm. Sweat erupted on his forehead and his eyes cast about,
looking for a place to sit for a minute. Mrs. Cooper seemed close to
hysteria now, and Seth looked at Mr. Cooper for help, or at least some
guidance. But Mr. Cooper appeared to be a man whose patience had been
tempered by years of reflecting on answers to questions posed by Mrs.
Cooper.

The old lady suddenly gave Seth's arm a rude shake, then pulled him
closer to the casket with surprising strength, given the fact she
looked considerably worse off than Harryas she bent close to his face.
Without relinquishing her hold on Seth's arm, she repeated the question
in a tone that reached deep into his guts, then lay smoldering there.

"What could be so important to be killing yourself over it?" she
demanded.

"Give me one good reason!"

Seth followed her eyes into the casket, into the waxen flesh of the
Most Likely to Succeed. Seth smelled something like wet straw and
couldn't tell whether it was coming from Harry or Mrs. Cooper's coat.
Her words had taken root in his brain, and his brain was racing wildly
inside itself, like the search feature of a computer program on
auto-replay, looking for something that wasn't there. As her eyes
burned into him, the silence in the small room swelled like a tumescent
blister. A sudden breeze nearly blew out one of the candles at Harry's
feet. Someone must have come in the main door.

Seth slowly turned to face the small woman.

"I can't give you a reason, ma'am. Not one. I'm sorry."

He took a last look at Harry, extricated his arm from Mrs.

Cooper's grasp, then bolted outside, into the rain. although HE
EXPECTED HER, seth WAS STILL JOLTED BY her appearance when she walked
in the next day. Even more beautiful than he remembered her, Rosie
stood in the doorway to his office, stunning in a navy blazer and
pleated, bone-colored skirt.

"Is the lawyer in?" she said, her dark eyes shining. Rosie had lost
the few pounds she had put on while living in Mill Valley--too much
pot, too many Oreos, too much daytime TV--and her legs were well-toned
again, too. A thinner face made her penetrating eyes seem even larger
than before.

But Seth could see there was something else, even in the fading,
early-evening light: a new confidence her temporary shyness couldn't
conceal.
"The lawyer's always in for you, Rosie. What brings you to the big
city?"

"Bank's closed on Saturday. Thought I'd do some shopping."

"You're lookin' swell."

She entered the office and took him in for a minute, then gave him a
hug--a sympathy hug--whether for the way he looked or for Harry, Seth
couldn't say, but he was grateful either way.

She had called ahead, saying she was "in the area," and Seth had let
the pretext slide. He knew she'd be worrying about him once she had
heard about Harry and was just masking her need to "be there" whenever
and wherever disaster struck. Rosie, the one-woman Red Cross,
spreading random acts of generosity and senseless kindness.

"I'm terribly sorry about Harry," she said.

"I wanted to call you. How did you hear about it?"

"Well, they say bad news travels fast," she said, looking away.

"Rosie?"

"Yeah," she said with a shy smile, "I'm dreaming again.

Ever since my trip to Canada. Then I called M and M Friday morning to
be sure and the receptionist... well, you know.

Anyway, I'm sorry I couldn't make the funeral this morning.

Was it nice?"

"I missed it, too."

"You missed it?"

"I've been a little under the weather lately."

She'd been there less than a minute and already he was defending
himself and, by the looks of her, not very effectively.

"The good Lord said leave the dead to bury the dead," he added,
remembering the mileage he used to get out of his modest collection of
New Testament pearls. He winced from a sudden jabbing pain in his
stomach and shook a cigarette out of a bent package.

"Or something like that."

"He didn't necessarily rule out a little show of respect," she said,
eyeballing the cigarette.

"What's bothering you?

The stomach again?"
Seth put the smoke back in the package and buried the crumpled mess in
his pocket.

"Yeah. Same as before. It's controllable."

"I'm sorry," said Rosie, looking embarrassed.

"Shootin' my mouth off like always."

"No, you're right. I should have tried to make the funeral, but things
have been pretty crazy around here."

"I understand."

"It's okay.... How's Bakersfield?" he said, offering a chair.

"Same old Bakersfield."

They fell into small talk about Aunt Claire, some mutual friends,
Rosie's job, Seth's trial. Then Rosie said she should let Seth get
back to work, but Seth talked her into a cup of coffee.

"You're changing, Rosie. The banking world agrees with you."

Rosie laughed.

"The bank's just a living, Seth. It's the spirit world that agrees
with me."

"You winging out on me, Rosie? Goin' mystic?"

She looked at him for several seconds before answering.

Measuring him.

"I'm happy, Seth. Happier than I've ever been."

Seth massaged the back of his neck with both hands, then smiled at her,
told her he was glad.

"You seem different, too," she said, taking him in again with those
laser eyes.

"How so? You've seen me in my trial delirium before."

"Yeah, you've got that coiled-spring look, all right. But you're
different."

"I'm afraid I haven't changed all that much."

"Well, I guess you haven't, if you don't think you have."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Rosie just gave her head a little shake, as if it weren't that
important, then switched back to the subject of the trial.

Safe ground.

"How's your jury look?"

Seth had decided not to tell her he'd been fired. Besides, he still
had the Tucker estate case, so he was stuck till the end anyway.
"Couldn't have asked for a better shake. All but one or two are
affective personality types; you know, come at things emotionally."

"Like me."

"Yes."

"And the others?"

"Cognitive."

"Like you?"

"I get your point," he said with a little sideways smile.

"You think that was our main problem?"

"You're the brain here. You tell me."

Seth grunted, then lit up.

"It was M and M. You can say it. I put the firm first and everything
and everybody else fifth or ninth."

Rosie nodded her head.

"You felt you were failin' in your job. Well, I knew I was failin' in
mine, which was to care for you. You were my whole life, Seth. I
couldn't do enough for you--I felt I owed you so much. But there was
nothin' for me to do in your life, except the thing I knew deep down
you really wanted from me, which was just to leave you alone."

Rosie sighed, picked up the coffee mug, and leaned back in her seat.

"I'm a regular motor mouth this evenin'."

"No. I want to know."

"Well, I guess that's when I knew I had to leave if I was going to
survive. Get a life, as they say."

She gave a little self-deprecating shoulder shrug and smiled at him
with glistening eyes. Seth had almost forgotten how much he liked this
person.

"You've got it more or less right, Rosie. I guess I persuaded myself
that I'd have time to make it up to you after I made partnership at M
and M. I gambled one thing against the other and lost all the way
around."

They sat silently for a moment, listening to street sounds.

"I'm sorry I left so quick like said Rosie with a tone of genuine
contrition.

"It's the only way I could do it. But I've felt pretty guilty about
it. You know, just up and walkin' out of your life."

"I should be used to it by now," he said without rancor or self-pity,
and Rosie nodded.

"That's why I felt so guilty."
Seth laughed.

"I hadn't thought about my mother in years.

But lately, she's been on my mind. Anyway, you shouldn't have felt
guilty. Truth is, there was a certain relief, being alone. After I
stopped drinking three meals a day, I was able to focus on the work
without the pressure of daily failure."

"Failure?"

"Hell, Rosie, I knew I wasn't making you happy. Wasn't making anybody
happy, including myself."

Rosie held her coffee mug in both hands as she sipped from it, watching
him over the upper edge.

"You weren't exactly a barrel of chuckles."

"Still ain't, Rosie."* He rubbed his eyes, which felt like a pair of
festering blisters.

"But at least I don't have to worry about making somebody else
miserable."

Rosie put her cup down and slowly raised her eyes to his.

"Are you trying to make me feel better about leaving or worse about not
leaving sooner?"

Seth flushed. He knew she'd pick up on the implication as soon as the
words had escaped his mouth. Worse, her soft presence and sympathetic
effort at understanding him was greasing a slow slide into self-pity, a
trait he despised, particularly in himself. He put out his cigarette
and forced a smile.

"You did exactly the right thing, darling'. Now tell me about the
bank."

"Time out?"

Seth laughed and reached for another cigarette.

"Cop-out," he said, and Rosie laughed, too. The tension relieved, they
talked about her promotion to supervisor, about night courses at the
community college, about a study group she had joined at the Unitarian
Church. Seth half listened, mainly watched, stirred anew by her
strength and resourcefulness. His thoughts drifted to closed places,
doors he had barred because of the pain behind them, windows nailed
shut against the good times they had shared. How had she summoned the
courage to up and leave him? No job, no money. How bad must it have
been here, to make her overcome so much uncertainty and just drive
away?
Had it been that bad for his mother? No. Same result, but cases
clearly distinguishable, Your Honor. Besides, that door stays shut.

"I'm sorry, Rosie."

"You're sorry I got promoted?"

He laughed, got up, and poured her another cup of coffee. He would
have to work all night to catch up on his office backlog, but he didn't
want her to go quite yet. There was something else he had to know.

"No, I meant I'm sorry I made it so miserable for you here."

"Don't be. You took care of me. It's just that every time I took
something from you, I felt like I was giving away a part of myself. I
needed to learn I could survive on my own.

It was real hard at first, because I kept thinking I'd backslide and
show up on your doorstep like some lost orphan. That's why I've been
so cold to you, Seth."

"Is that the only reason?"

"The main reason," she said too quickly.

"Oh, sure, I knew something was going on with the Barton woman, if
that's what you mean."

The anger was still there. Change comes slowly, thought Seth. Even in
the spirit world.

"Not much was going on, Rosie."

"Not much was going on with you and me, either, Seth.

When I saw her, I almost didn't blame you. Almost."

"But you did."

"I don't know who I was blaming. I was going crazy, scared it was my
fault that you didn't want me anymore, yet something inside told me
that it had nothin' to do with me, that I was just the first stage of
some rocket you had to shed to go on higher."

Seth poured himself another unneeded cup of coffee.

"And Elena Barton was the second-stage booster rocket that could get me
into the next galaxy?"

"Somethin' like that. Oh, I felt real needed at first, but I guess I
wasn't enough to keep you going, once you commenced to set your sights
on bigger game."

"You think I needed more approval than I could get from you?"
"We all need approval, Seth. That's what was drivin' me buggy in
Marin. It was obvious you didn't want me."

"It wasn't--" "I know, it was the work, like you kept saying, but alls
I could remember then was how it had been down in Bakersfield where if
I so much as stopped to pick up a sock, you'd be all over me."

Seth looked into his coffee. Rosie stared at the top of his head as if
willing him to look up and meet her eyes.

"That's also why I got so upset when you got mad about me being' pawed
by that greaser at the restaurant."

"I don't get the connection," said Seth, feeling too tired now, yet
powerless to reverse the direction their conversation was taking.

"Because a part of me wanted him to!" she said, then quickly put her
hand to her mouth as she saw Seth's head snap up.

"I mean I was feelin' so unwanted and unattractive and undesirable--"
"So I guess your rolling over and fucking Tom Huckins was my fault,
too," said Seth through tight lips.

"I was wonderin' when we'd get around to that."

"Good, then you're not surprised."

"Only that it took you so long." Then, to Seth's amazement, she
started to cry. Softly, like the rain outside.

"I'm not cryin' over you or over my shame at one lousy fuck," she said,
opening her purse and removing a wad of Kleenex.

"I'm cryin' because with you it's always the tail waggin' the darned
dog."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" said Seth, grabbing another
cigarette.

"It means," she said, the tremulous words and tears coming fast now,
"that I'm sittin' here months later tellin' you that when I was here, I
was dyin' because I loved you so much and felt so useless, and how when
I left, my whole world was crashin' around me, and alls you can think
about is that I spent one stupid night... with Tom Huckins tryin' to
... feel better about myself--" Rosie tried to control her tears, and
Seth reached across and touched her cold hand.

"I'm sorry. I had no right--" "It's not a matter of right, Seth," she
said, sitting straighter

"I just wish you weren't so ... muddled in your head. You always used
to say you wanted men on your jury when you were on the defense side of
a case because women always deal from 'emotion'--like emotion was some
disease just this side of the black plague. I'd just sit there like I
didn't know you were puttin' women down--me down--for never knowin'
what we're doin'. And I guess I didn't know what I was doin', but at
least I knew I didn't know, and you didn't. Guys can't admit they
don't know what they're doin' about anything: love, sex, color of the
refrigerator, how a toaster works, inflation, menstruation--" "Whoa
there, Rosie. I get it."

"Sorry." She wiped her cheek and put her Kleenex away.

"I guess I got a little off the point somewhere."

"That's okay."

"My point was not that I stopped lovin' you, but that I had forgotten
what love was supposed to be. You didn't have time for a companion. I
couldn't give you sex 'cause you were always tired. I couldn't even
cook for you because you were never home. Alls I could do was clean
and wash and wait like some neglected pet for you to come home.

"I finally figured out you can't just put love on hold, waitin' for
something like partnership in M and M to turn it all back on like a
faucet. I realized by the time you made partnership, we might not be
able to find the handle anymore."

"Then I got fired."

"And I felt guilty for shoutin' hallelujah!--to myself, of course. I
thought maybe we'd get back to being' like normal people. Maybe you
wouldn't have to go on kinin' yourself.

Maybe you'd see that I loved you, not some big-time lawyer in some
big-time law firm."

"It didn't take you long to hit the lifeboats."

Rosie stood abruptly and closed her purse. Seth jumped up, too,
reached for her hand.

"I'm sorry, Rosie, that was below the belt."

"Yes," she said, suddenly angry again, "but it was also true. As soon
as you got on here with Allyn Friedlander, it was clear nothin' had
changed. Nothin' mattered to you but getting' back on Montgomery
Street, the only place where you could win so much respect and
approval that even you would have to believe you were worthy of being
loved and not just some little snot-nosed shit who not even his own
mother loved enough to stick around and--" Rosie again slapped her hand
over her mouth, but too late, and her words hung in the air like a
cloud of radioactive dust. A muffled, forlorn sound came from deep in
her throat as she watched Seth through wide-opened eyes. Seth was
holding his stomach as if he had been shot there, and his eyes nickered
around the room like birds looking for a place to light.

"Talk about below the belt," he said finally, managing an unconvincing
smile.

"Oh, Seth, I'm so sorry--" "It's okay."

"Just too much stuff comin' up all at once," she said.

"I

see I've got some heavy work to do on this."

"We've got to stop apologizing to each other, kid. Let's just say I
was in the slow reading group and leave it at that."

"Believe me, Seth, I didn't mean to come up here and say these things
when I called you today."

"Well, some things need sayin', I guess, and they say themselves when
they're ready. It's okay. Really."

Rosie headed for the door.

"I've talked way too much, Seth, but I stand by what I said when I
first came in here:

you're different. I can't put my finger on it, but I feel it.

Something's changed."

Seth smiled.

"Well, if half the things you said about the way I used to be are true,
I guess that's a compliment."

"Take it that way. Good-bye, Seth. Good luck with your trial, and I
hope you get what you want."

"Rosie, don't go like this. Have one more cup of coffee."

"I've got to go, Seth. I'm going to end up blaming myself for all
this, so the sooner I leave, the less I'll regret tomorrow."

Seth followed her downstairs and saw her into the El Camino, then
watched as the trail of exhaust from the retreating vehicle painted
white swirls in the cold night air. it TOOK THIRTY-SIX HOURS OVER THE
WEEKEND----FOURTEEN phone calls and seven meetings--for Elena Barton to
convince herself she would be unable to find a trial lawyer willing to
substitute into the case for Seth, even assuming she could get a
mistrial and a continuance, both unlikely possibilities.

She did, however, receive five invitations to dinner (two from women
lawyers), two flat-out propositions (one from a woman lawyer), and a
word of advice in the form of a parable from Terrence X. Kelly, a
blotchy-faced old warhorse who confessed he could use the work, but had
"read about some of the problems with the case." He was too tactful to
mention her publicized adultery, choosing instead, as had most of the
other lawyers, to rest his pessimistic appraisal on her husband's
drinking the night of the crash.

Here was Kelly's parable.

"When Yogi Berra was trying to break into the major leagues as a
catcher, he wasn't getting any playing time. One day he begged the
manager to let him substitute for the regular right fielder--who I'll
call Flannery--at the top of the eighth inning so he'd have a chance to
bat in the ninth.

The manager finally gave in, and Berra proceeded to either drop or
misjudge every ball hit to right field. The manager glared at him as
he trotted back to the dugout at the end of the long inning, but Yogi
looked him squarely in the eye and said, "That Flannery's got right
field so fucked up, nobody can play it."

" Elena got the point, and deep down she knew that Seth, like poor
Flannery, could hardly be blamed for what had happened to her
star-crossed case. She was beginning to regret her impetuous firing,
not that she didn't have sufficient grounds. The guy was obviously a
burn-out--holding his stomach a lot and peering out of one eye at a
time--not to mention turning down $150,000, a third of it in his own
pocket, when she knew he could barely afford bus fare. But all that
aside, and apart from who was to blame for the mess the trial had
become, one thing was clear: her case would not be touched by any
lawyer in his right mind.

Which left Seth Cameron.

She had paced the floor of her Pacific Heights condo for nearly an hour
late Sunday afternoon, trying to come up with a way to gracefully un
fire her lawyer, when, to her amazement, her lawyer obligingly called
and did it for her.

Seth told her he was calling to apologize for not paying more attention
to her desires in regard to her father's offer to broker a settlement.
Called it "unprofessional," which gave Elena a chuckle, considering the
rest of his conduct.

He also hadn't meant to hurt her feelings after court on Friday when
she had tried to be nice. Blamed it on end-of the-week fatigue.

Elena had counted off five full seconds of silence, then magnanimously
forgave him and rescinded her "precipitous action"--though not without
mentioning that nearly every lawyer she had spoken with had told her
she had a clear case of malpractice against him for not advising her to
accept the $150,000 offer, given all the circumstances.

"Haven't you heard of double jeopardy?" Seth had said, obviously
relieved and trying to lighten things up.

"You can only charge me with malpractice once per case."

She had laughed her throaty laugh and suggested a round of peace
talks.

"I'll meet you halfway," she said.

"Literally.

How about the Alta Mira in Sausalito? The sun's out this afternoon.
You can pick the drinks and the shape of the table."

An hour later, they sipped Irish coffees at a round table on the
restaurant deck overlooking San Francisco Bay, host to several
multicolored sailboats that had been coaxed out of their moorings by an
unseasonably warm January day.

San Francisco in the distance looked like a fairy-tale kingdom, with
its undulating hills topped by structures of every imaginable
configuration, including Coit Tower, claimed by locals to be one of the
world's largest phallic symbols.
"I've got to ask you something," she said, after silently watching the
sails dancing like water bugs on the relatively calm surface of the
bay.

"Why didn't you want to take the money? I assume you could have put
your firm's fifty thousand dollars to good use."

Seth lit a cigarette, then gazed at the tip for a few seconds before
answering.

"As I told you at the time, the offer didn't include clearing Sam's
name, and they damn sure weren't going to admit they had built a bad
bird. So Sam's death and the deaths of the other three pilots would be
swept under a red, white, and blue rug." He took another deep drag,
then made a face and snuffed the cigarette out.

"I've got personal reasons, too."

"I thought there might be more to it."

"Yep. There's always more to it. If I get a verdict, I'm a partner
back on Montgomery Street. I also have the satisfaction of whipping
your uncle Tony's ass and heroically handing the Chronicle the goods to
make an example of Con Space so maybe other contractors will think
twice before they lower safety standards to raise their bottom line.

You know, quit putting decent people in supersonic tinderboxes?"

"That's a heavy agenda."

"Yeah, and part of it puts me in a potential conflict of interest with
you. So if you still want to take the money and run, you'll have to
get one of the people you talked with this weekend to handle settlement
negotiations. I won't stand in the way."

"You're full of noble thoughts today."

"Don't use Kelly. He's not taken seriously. I'd use Deborah Shaffield
or Vie Anderson."

Elena blinked.

"How did you--?"

"I've had six calls so far. I'd guess you talked to a dozen lawyers
before you realized no one would come in."

Elena smiled in amused resignation.

"One other question.

What makes you think you've got a chance of winning, given Sam's
drinking and my own ... behavior?"

Seth returned her smile, then killed his Irish.

"There's something else you don't know, Elena. Lev found a girl at the
phone company in New Mexico who says someone placed a call to
Farnsworth from the Caicos Islands--""From where?"

"A small tax haven in the Caribbean. Anyway, Farnsworth got this call
around eleven, about a half hour before Simmons says the general placed
a call to the Officers' Club where Sam and Crispie were hanging out.
It's possible Sam was not scheduled to fly that night, which would
explain why he was drinking. It's also possible that Farnsworth might
have ordered him up, and no one bothered to tell him that Sam was drunk
as a billy goat."

"But Crispie would have known. He would have told the general!"

Seth grinned.

"Yeah, you'd think so, wouldn't you?"

They sat in silence for a minute, Seth watching her, allowing the
implication to sink in.

"Anyway," he said, "Lev's in the Caicos working the angle right now."

"That's wonderful news," said Elena, and Seth saw a light returning to
those pale green eyes, a radiance that had once caused a short-circuit
between his brain and his genitals.

"When will we know?"

Seth signaled the waitress for another round.

"Soon."

Elena extended her half-empty glass in a toast.

"Well, then, here's to going the distance. Rocky."

Seth looked at her and smiled.

"You're sure?"

"What the hell."

"Okay, then. To the distance."

They sat in silence for a few minutes more, watching the boats heading
back to their harbors as the first hint of fog began to blow in from
the west. Fresh drinks arrived.

"You must really hate him," she said.

"Who? Treadwell? I don't know what I feel anymore about anything.
I've got to do some thinking when this is over."

"Seems like you took the death of your friend pretty hard."

Seth nodded, lit a cigarette.

"Left me with some questions I couldn't answer."

"Such as?"

He gave his head a quick shake that told Elena he didn't know or wasn't
saying. Took a deep drink from his glass.
Looked out at the Bay. A speckled gull swept in and plucked a bread
crust from the table next to them.

Elena remembered something else.

"Speaking of Crispie, I've got some more good news."

"I'm sure."

"I've been working on him. He'll go back on the stand and say that Sam
left the club at eleven-ten p.m." not eleven-thirty."

Seth just stared at her.

"Working on him? Or under him?

Forget it. I want nothing more to do with the son of a bitch."

"Be nice, Seth. Don't you see? He's willing to make the Lukenses'
sighting at one-twenty more possible."

"I said forget it. First place, there's still not enough time.

Second place, it looks to me like your great and good friend
Christopher developed a case of lockjaw at a point when he could have
saved your husband's life with a word or two.

So I don't trust him and the jury won't either. Third place, the jury
would know what you bartered for the revised testimony, if you take my
meaning. Fourth place, Treadwell would hit him with the adultery
issues. Fifth place, but not in order of importance, it doesn't happen
to be true. Simmons had no motive to lie when he said both of them
left at eleven-thirty."

Elena looked to the sky and placed both palms on the table.

"Fine, Moses, stay up there on your ethical mountaintop, but write this
on your tablet: You're an advocate--or so you told me--not a judge and
certainly not a priest!"

Seth laughed sardonically.

"Ethics never entered my mind, Elena. It just won't sell. Hell,
there's not a shred of ethics or morality in this whole damn case on
either side.

Or maybe anywhere else in the world either. It's gone, vanished into
thick air, like clean water, mom-and-pop grocery stores, and the great
auk."

"So?"

"So I won't do it. I was always partial to clean water and mom-and-pop
stores."

"Okay, great auk, but I'll get Crispie to volunteer himself somehow.
You'll have nothing to do with it."

"You're right about that, Elena, I'll have nothing to do with it. Or
the case either, if it happens. You can't separate the dancer from
the dance, and I'm the dancer here. I won't be involved in perjury
suborned by a piece of ass, even a good one like you."

Elena's expression reflected the battle being waged within her. Seth
knew she was dying to fire him again, but knew he was her last and only
hope. It bothered him to think that she was his, too. It bothered him
even more to be sitting there hating her guts, yet suddenly wanting to
take her into one of the rooms behind the restaurant and fuck her
brains out.

Seth checked for messages when he arrived at the office early Monday
morning. He returned a call from Lev in the Caicos Islands.

"Dead end, Seth. Whoever called Farnsworth from the hotel used an
obviously fake name and address on the registration.

I'm staying here at the hotel. Nobody remembers him. Claimed to be a
Dr. John Phillips. Paid cash for the room."

"Shit."

"Yeah. Shit."

Seth marveled at the clear telephone connection, wondered how much the
silence was costing. Wondered what Allyn would say when she saw the
bill.

The bill!

"Here's what you do. Lev. Get back to Albuquerque. Talk to your
telephonic deep throat again. Have her trace any other outgoing calls
from the occupant's room to see if our mystery guest was billed for a
call to his home or office number while he was down there. It's a long
shot, but she could then use her reverse index, maybe find a number
that could be his residence or his real office."

"It's a long shot. Cowboy, but it's your money."

"Do it, okay?"

At ten on Tuesday, Seth made his pitch to Judge Singer for a
forty-eight-hour continuance within which to develop some new evidence
that could dramatically impact the case.

When Treadwell strenuously opposed the motion--characterizing it as
"yet another example of Mr. Cameron's passion for frolic and
detour"--the judge decided to hold a good-cause hearing in chambers.
Seth, the court attaches, the defense team, together with the
governmental entourage, crowded their way into chambers.

"All right, Mr. Cameron, we're waiting. What possible reason can you
give me for recessing this interminable trial, just as it finally seems
to be winding down to its less-than-gripping climax."

"It's clear to everyone in the courtroom. Your Honor, that Captain
Barton was drinking the night of the crash, probably drunk."

"If that is an offer for a stipulation," interrupted Treadwell, winking
at the Defense Department lawyers, "you've got a deal, Cameron."

Seth ignored the remark.

"With the court's indulgence, I believe I can prove that the reason Sam
Barton was drinking that night was because he wasn't scheduled to fly.
I believe he was ordered into the air by the base commander late the
night of the fifteenth."

"Your Honor," interrupted Treadwell, "this is absurd, and hardly a
showing of good cause. Even if it were true--and I can assure the
court from talking with General Farnsworth that it is not--it would be
irrelevant as to my client, who merely manufactured the plane."

Judge Singer flashed a rare bemused smile.

"Come now, Mr. Treadwell. You forget that I was once a trial lawyer
myself. This jury will make its determination based largely on whether
they believe that Captain Barton was an irresponsible lush--a currently
inescapable conclusion given the proof you introduced--or, on the other
hand, whether he possessed good-faith reasons for believing he had the
night off. From what I have learned in this case about the life of a
test pilot, I would not begrudge one of them a few drinks on a night
off."

But Treadwell was tenacious.

"Even so. Your Honor, Mr.

Cameron has provided no clue as to how he is going to pull this fantasy
rabbit out of a nonexistent hat."

"I was coming to that. Counsel. I'd like to hear an offer of proof
from you, Mr. Cameron."
This was what Seth had feared, but ultimately. Judge Singer settled
for Seth's summary of what he had learned so far and at least did not
require the identity of the Albuquerque telephone operator.

"All right. I'll grant the motion. We'll be in recess until Thursday,
but don't come back for more, Mr. Cameron.

Understood?"

Seth thanked the court, returned to the office, and began to catch up
on a backlog of correspondence and pleadings he had been ignoring for
two weeks. Allyn was in Santa Clara County on a breach of warranty
case, so he had complete access to Ramon and his magic fingers.

"Get ready for some heavy work, Ramon."

"I'm with you, Number Two."

"Good. I have reason to believe there's a desk beneath all this crap,
and we're not leaving until I can see it."

"May I suggest a good clean fire?"

Seth dictated for two hours, interrupted only by the occasional sound
of the telephone, which, though muted, rattled his heart every time it
went off. At twelve-fifteen, he sent a note into the alley, ordering a
sub sandwich for Ramon and a cup of soup for himself.

By the time Ramon left at five, Seth had made a satisfactory dent in
his paperwork and was dying for a drink.

Still, nothing from Lev. Seth eyed the drawer in Allyn's office, the
one containing the pint of Jack Daniel's. He picked up a writing pad
instead and tried another approach to his closing argument to the jury.
He began writing an outline, which, after a tortured hour, made as
little sense as the case itself. He ripped the sheets off his pad,
crumpled them into a ball, and hook-shot the wad into the corner basket
for two points.

He started over.

Ladies and gentlemen, you've all read about government contractors and
their $75 hammers and $400 toilet seats. But this is not just about
waste or fraud or taxpayers getting ripped off. This is a case about a
man killed in the prime of his life because one of the richest aircraft
manufacturers in the world wouldn't put sixty lousy dollars into a
harness to protect life-saving electronics in a $300-million
airplane.
He tore off the sheet, formed it into a glider, and sent it toward the
corner wastebasket. Another deuce.

The phone rang, triggering Seth's heartbeat, but it was only some guy
looking for Ramon. Seth took a message, grabbed his coat, and headed
home.

It was strange, he thought, commuting across the bridge in four lanes
of metal-to-metal traffic at a normal time with normal people on their
way home to children and three-bedroom homes with two-car garages and
six-figure mortgages.

What would it be like?

A barge lumbered its way eastward toward the channel that would take it
up the San Joaquin River to the port of Stockton. A half dozen
sailboats were still scattered around the bay, looking like toys as
they braved the January winds and raced the dying sun back to their
safe harbors. He glanced to the west, toward the Farallon Islands and
beyond, where a quilt of bruised cumulus clouds touched the horizon,
starting to show red as the sun settled beneath them.

Nothing on his answering machine at home. Fucking Lev.

He considered, then rejected, the idea of just one shot of tequila,
fearful of where it might lead. Instead, he took Fat Dog for a Frisbee
session in the park. They romped for an hour under the full moon, then
took a turn around the Mill Valley square. Stopping for a minute at
D'Angelino's Restaurant, Seth looked through the window like a kid at a
candy store. Well-dressed people laughing. Normal people.

Fat Dog made friends with a golden retriever curled by the door, and
Seth debated going in for a quick look around.

Everyone seemed paired up, no singles. No, wait! Down at the end of
the bar, a pair of eights. One maybe a nine. He caught his reflection
in the window, unconsciously brushed his hair back. One of the girls
glanced in his direction. He smiled, gave her a casual wave.
Miraculously, she waved, and Seth began to tie Fat Dog to a drainpipe,
until he saw a tall young hunk rise from his seat near the window, wave
back, and head toward her welcoming face.

"Come on. Fats, let's go home and eat."

At midnight, Seth fell asleep on his couch. At 1:30 a.m." Lev
called.
"Looks like the usual good-news-bad-news scenario back here in
Albuquerque, Cowboy."

"Yeah?"

"My angel at the phone company found another outgoing call from the
room in the Caicos, this one to a Washington, D.C." area code
residence. She wanted her five hundred dollars up front like before,
delivered personally."

"Personally?"

"She liked me."

"Liked?"

"Yeah, liked. My angel has done flown off to heaven. By the time I
got to her apartment the place was crawling with cops and emergency
wheels. She's dead, Seth. Multiple stab wounds. A crazed slasher
from what I could gather."

"Or made to look like one." Seth put a half-cup of coffee into the
microwave and hit the switch.

"Like a bird in an air scoop or a drunk kid falling off a hotel
balcony?"

"Yeah, like that."

"How about another operator?"

"They're not going to want to talk to me after this. Besides, only two
others have access to the international computer data codes."

"Did you get into her apartment? See any notes?"

"Are you kidding? I couldn't even get into her building.

Security like one of those Elizabeth Taylor weddings. But I'll try to
get next to the cops later this morning."

Seth stared at the receiver in his hand, tried to force his beleaguered
mind to process this new information, heard Lev's distant voice saying,
"Seth, you there? You there?

Operator?"

"Yeah, podner, I'm here and I want you to get out of there. If they
knew about her, they know about you."

"How'd they find out?"

"From me. In court. Fucking Farnsworth, or maybe Treadwell himself.
Look, I want you to go straight to the airport and get out of Dodge."

Lev said he'd consider it and hung up.

Seth drifted back to sleep around four, and Lev called again at six.

"I took your advice for once. Cowboy. I'm at the airport and just
picked up the morning edition. The press somehow either got hold of a
police photo or took one of their own. The photo shows angel-baby
spread out on what looks like a gray linoleum floor. Get this. She
tried to leave me a message after the killer left. In blood. Six
numbers.

It's messy, but I'll fax the front page to your office."

"What are the numbers?"

"Looks like 338310. She couldn't finish."

"I'm heading to the office. Oh, and Lev?"

"Yeah?"

"You're still not out of town. Don't step in nothin', okay?"

"I'll be careful."

Within five minutes, Seth had William Torville on the phone at his
office in New Orleans.

"Allyn Friedlander's associate? Remember me?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Cameron. I remember you quite vividly."

"Look, pard, I know we didn't hit it off all that well, and I have it
on good authority that I acted like a first-class asshole. Worst of it
is, I wasn't acting. Anyway, I need a hand here. It's for a good
cause that could come back around to you, maybe help you with your own
investigation into Aubrey Olmstead and TDA."

Torville eventually agreed to use his resources to trace all telephone
numbers in the Washington 202 area starting with 338-310 and ending
with the numbers one through nine.

Seth hung up.

"Hear that. Fats? We may salvage this thing yet." Seth fed Fat Dog,
showered, grabbed a piece of toast, and headed across the bridge to his
office.

He went straight to the fax machine, and there waiting for him was the
blaring headline:

Slasher's Victim Attempts Dying Clue in Own Blood!

To the right of the article lay a young woman named Rochelle Rodriguez,
facedown, fully clothed, surrounded by a halo of chalk, her right arm
extended toward the six blood-smeared numbers.
The caption read: "Police baffled--can you help?"

Seth fired up the coffee machine, walked into his office, and collapsed
into his chair, clutching the page in his hand.

The whole thing was crazy. People getting killed--how many now?--Lev
out there in jeopardy, himself maybe next, all over a case that
couldn't be won. What were these bastards afraid of? What could be so
damn important to them? And who the hell were they?

Now, more waiting. Settling back at his desk, his mind wandered back
to the $150,000 offer. A verdict of anything less than that--plus
Tucker's $25,000 and lost rents--would be a humiliating defeat, even
set him up for another malpractice charge. Had his pride run away with
him? He leafed through his checkbook and wondered how he would pay his
rent this month. He had already taken two advances on his salary. He
owed Lev another $1,000 for finding the Lukenses, and Allyn more than
that for financing Lev's Caicos trip.

A $50,000 fee out of the settlement would look damn good right now.

Suddenly he was dialing Rosie's number. He couldn't stop himself, or
maybe he just didn't try. He had to talk to her, hear her voice. For
some reason, the thought of her lately was like a paper cut--fleeting,
but painful whenever his memory rubbed against it. He knew it was a
mistake, so he just let his mind go blank--maybe like people do when
they step off a building or a bridge--and observed his shameless
fingers as they pushed buttons on the telephone.

No answer, and--no surprise--no answering machine. As he sat there,
eyes closed, listening to the tenth or eleventh ring, a call rang in on
another line. It was Torville.

"One of the numbers is listed to an eighty-five year-old pensioner who
lives in a retirement home? Two have been out of service for nearly
three years?" Seth had forgottenTorville's irritating habit of ending
each declarative phrase with a soaring intonation.

"All the rest are located at a large Catholic convent in Arlington?"

"That's it?"

"That's what we found."

"Any possibility of error?"

"None."

"Shit!"

"Well, you're welcome, Cameron!"

"Sorry, Torville, it's just that I was so sure. So damn sure.

And now I'm dead."

"Come now, Cameron. I know it's a big case, but there will always be
others?"

Seth grunted a sardonic chuckle.

"Not for me, Torville, not for me. Thanks anyway." He hung up, stared
at the telephone, then whispered into the emptiness that surrounded
him.

"Not for me."

Minutes, though it seemed like hours or even days, later, Seth was
stirred from his melancholy lethargy by the sound of footsteps on the
stairs. Heavy, familiar footsteps, then a voice.

"Yo, Cowboy. I'm home, dear."

"Come on up. Lev. Join the wake."

Lev was soaked, Seth's first realization that it was pouring rain
outside.

"The numbers didn't pan out?" said Lev, already standing in a pool of
water.

"Good try, no cigar."

"Now what?" Lev took off his coat, shook his head like a wet dog.

"I'm out of ideas, old son. No miracles this time, no potato bugs to
swallow, no more recesses, nothing. Guess I'll try to act like I came
up with something; maybe bluff my way into getting some of that
settlement money back on the table."

"Are you forgetting that the guys you're trying to bluff in this
particular game have already seen your hole card?"

"Good point."
"Which leaves us but one thing to do."

Seth grabbed his coat.

"I'm with you, podner."

The Brazen Head--the last bar on their tour--cut them both off at
twelve minutes before closing time. Lev started drinking straight
coffee, having lost the coin toss that had declared him the designated
driver thirty minutes earlier at Moose's. That was just before they
had been ejected for playing shuffleboard on the bar, using their empty
shot glasses.

"So it's back to divorce court for me. Lev. Maybe you'll see me on

TV."

"Oh, yeah. Slugging it out with Judge Wapner."

"That's a different venue. Anyway, don't sell uncontested divorces
short. They can be verrry tricky sometimes. Things can happen. The
judge might not show up, for example. The courtroom might burn down
the night before. Just as you think everything's in order, the bubonic
plague makes a comeback."

"Bullshit, Cowboy. You'll get another chance."

"No. Not in this league. After this debacle, I'll have clinched the
title of "Career Minor-Leaguer'; winner of the "Lifetime Valley
Journeyman-Lawyer' award. Pop was right."

"Could be worse things than goin' back to the Valley.

Rosie's there. You're known there."

Seth swallowed the last of his coffee.

"Too easy, pard," he said bitterly.

"Too hard."

Seth awoke the next morning to a tequila sunrise, a crashing headache,
but a full awareness of his situation. He had forgotten to set the
alarm, and it was eight. Usually Fat Dog would have awakened him by
now. He tried to think whether he had fed Fats when he got home, but
couldn't remember getting home. He looked outside. No car. Mouth
tasting like a toxic dump, a super fund site. Must have been poured
into a taxi by some well-meaning Good Samaritan who should have minded
his own business. No--Lev had driven him home.

He dressed in a hurry, trying to think of something to say to Judge
Singer, then to the jury.
No sign of Fat Dog. The doors were all closed, so he couldn have
wandered out. Seth gave his head a shake, forced down some buffered
aspirin and water, tried to clear his mind.

Fats must not have been in the house when he got home.

Seth found his friend a few minutes later, propped against the curb in
front, his neck twisted grotesquely and already rigid, his eyes
mercifully closed. Seth picked him up and took him inside, cleaned the
matted blood from the gray fur around his mouth, then wrapped him in a
clean white sheet and buried him in the backyard under a scraggly oak
tree with branches as bare as fingernails.

He did everything mechanically, without emotion. Fetch the shovel. Dig
into the dirt. Get through the day. Fetch the dog, sweet, loving dog.
My friend. Put the Frisbee in there with him; won't need that
anymore. Get through the day, then get even. Smooth the sheet, shovel
in the dirt. Dust to dust.

He tried to shut his mind off, to block thoughts of what it would be
like coming home without Fats there. He wondered what General
Farnsworth would say about this situation.

He'd say accidents like this happen all the time. Dogs get run over.

Don't think. Just do it. That's it, make a mound, so when Fats
decomposes the ground will be level. Plant something tomorrow.

Cover the little fella with spring flowers. Don't think; especially
don't think about the fact that you're alone again. seth WASHED HIS
HANDS AND SAT DOWN TO DRINK A CUP OF coffee. His bloodshot eyes fell
on the copy of the Albuquerque front page and the ghoulish picture of
the courageous victim. Her face was covered by her hair. All he could
see of the rest of her head was an ear, as small as a child's. Five
hundred dollars. A couple a dresses, a blouse or two. Jesus. He
shoved it aside, tired of thinking about death and tired of trying not
to think about death.
He raised the coffee to his lips, but then slammed the mug on the
table and grabbed the page.

He stared at the numbers he had stared at a hundred times, but this
time he saw something different.

"Oh, shit!" he shouted to the empty room and raced to the telephone.

"Torville? I think I have it!"

"That's very comforting," came Torville's typically bland reply, "but
who is this?"

"Cameron, Seth Cameron from San Francisco. One more favor, Torville,
and I'm your fucking slave forever, okay? I gave you area 202 and the
numbers 338-310, remember? I was wrong. Run the same check for me,
but on numbers 338-315/ The woman makes her eights with two circles.
She wasn't telling us it was a zero; she was trying to make another
eight! Will you do it?"

"Sure, why not?"

"I'm heading for the office. I'll check in the minute I get there."

Seth called a cab and arrived at the office at nine-thirty, only to
find that Torville's D.C. contact was at lunch, "due back in a half
hour."

Seth poured another cup of coffee, then absently stared at the
newspapers Ramon had collected for him months earlier.

News of the imminent presidential election dominated the first few
pages. Then, on the next-to-last page of the first section of the
Chronicle, he found a small article about Sam's crash. Ten lines,
parroting the Air Force's version, and making no mention of previous
crashes. Similar low-key articles appeared in the back sections of the
other papers, all attributing the cause to pilot error.

Seth called another cab--he had no idea where his car was--then
unaccountably dialed the number of the bank where Rosie worked. He was
relieved that she seemed happy to hear from him.

"I hoped you'd call," she said.

"You did?"

"I'm just glad to hear you're okay. I ... had a dream last night,
Seth. Something terrible, but, well, sometimes I'm grateful to be
wrong."
"They killed Fats."

"Oh, Seth."

Seth couldn't think of anything to say.

"You won't go and do something stupid, will you, Seth?

You know how you can get."

"You know what they say, Rosie. Don't get mad, get even."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"Listen, Rosie. I'm racing to court. The case is basically dead,
except for one last gasp. I'm arguing the case to the jury tomorrow
and ... I was wondering, well, if you had any vacation time coming or
anything. I could, uh ... use ... some ..."

Seth swallowed, then listened to the heavy silence, a quiet density
broken only by the sound of his own labored breathing.

He moved the mouthpiece away from his lips, but the totality of the
resulting silence made him feel queasy, and he had to shake his head to
stave off an attack of vertigo.

He thought he heard his name come through the receiver, but the sound
turned into a noxious, glowing mass that transformed the seconds into
hours into years, winding through time, back through thirty years of
time, slowly forming itself into a fist that ... Seth dropped the
receiver into the cradle, grabbed his briefcase, and raced down the
stairs to the waiting taxi.

He arrived at City Hall at 9:45 a.m. and hurried through the metal
detector to the nearest telephone. Torville still had not reached his
D.C. contact.

Seth entered the courtroom and took his seat. Treadwell and his
entourage were already in place. The bailiff brought the jury in,
causing Seth's heart to hammer in his rib cage as he wondered what he
would say when the judge told him to call his mystery witness. The
clerk entered the courtroom and announced that the judge was on a
conference call and would be a few minutes late. Seth considered
running for a telephone, but could not take the risk with the jury
already in place and the judge about to enter. He tried to relax, took
some deep breaths, and removed from his briefcase one of the
newspapers--The New York Times--the paralegal had produced from the
week of Sam's crash.

It was interesting--at least distracting--to read the retrospective
account of the political jousting at that time between doves in quest
of the so-called peace dividend versus advocates of the Stealth
Program, Star Wars, and the Houston super collider Senate Bill SB-1857
was up for a vote, a vote to end "continued waste and mismanagement,"
cried its eighteen sponsors. Also at the top of the news was a lagging
economy, unemployment, the death of a movie actress, and the
appointment of an independent counsel to investigate the B-2 bomber,
now acknowledged to be a multibillion-dollar dinosaur. A piece about
one more airplane crash didn't stand a chance against such weighty
matters.

Against charges and counter charges between the major parties of
incompetence, intemperance, inexperience, incontinence, intransigence,
and so on. American politics at its best.

So no surprise that there, buried on the back pages, was Sam Barton's
fiery death in the Arizona desert.

"All rise!" shouted the bailiff, and Judge Singer shot from his
chambers onto the bench.

"Well, Mr. Cameron," he said, "we await your next witness."

Crunch time. Seth had considered putting Elena on as a stall, but was
afraid to expose her to further damage. Crispie was willing to lie
about Sam's departure from the club--to tie in better with the
Lukenses' 1:20 a.m. "pillar of fire" sighting--but putting him on would
be not only risky, but illegal.

"Mr. Cameron?"

"Yes, Your Honor." But Seth continued to sit, staring down at his
hands, his brow furrowed in thought. A low murmur rose from the
spectators, and jurors began to exchange puzzled glances.

"Are you going to call a witness or not, Mr. Cameron?"

Seth glanced over at Treadwell, staring innocently at a jagged crack in
the ceiling, a relic of the '89 earthquake.
Seth thought he detected one of those infrequent smiles that
occasionally slid onto the senior partner's disciplined countenance.

Seth turned his head a little farther and saw Christopher, glowering,
challenging. He knew the jury was watching him, waiting.

What the hell.

"Call Major Jack Christopher as a rebuttal witness, Your Honor."

He heard Elena whisper a "Yes" behind him, apparently pleased that her
lawyer was following instructions for once, doing something right. The
pleasure quickly faded from her face, however, as Seth not only failed
to give Crispie the opportunity to perjure himself, but locked him
solidly into the eleven-thirty, logically impossible, departure time
from the club.

But that was just the beginning.

"Where did Captain Barton go after you left the club, Major?"

"I don't know. I assume to the flight line."

"Where did you go?"

"Objection! Irrelevant."

"Sustained."

"Your Honor, I need a little slack here."

"Mr. Cameron, you have had more than your share of 'slack' in this
trial. Objection sustained."

"Remember a phone call you received. Major, just before you left with
Captain Barton? To refresh your memory, it was at eleven twenty-five
p.m."

"No, I don't recall that."

"Then let me help you. It was from General Farnsworth, the man seated
right over there."

"Objection, Your Honor. We're far afield here."

"I'll tie it up. Your Honor."

Judge Singer looked skeptical, but finally said he would allow an aria
by Jose Can-eras if it would speed things up.

"Well, Major?"

"It's possible."

"And if he did, it would be quite unusual, wouldn't it? I mean, the
base commander doesn't call you at the club every night, does he?"
"No, but you must remember, I was officer of the day."

"Do you remember what he said to you?"

"Haven't a clue."

Out of the corner of his eye, Seth saw General Farnsworth rise as
unobtrusively as possible for a man his height and walk toward the
door.

"Thank you. Major, that's all for now. But don't you rush off.
General Farnsworth. Let's visit."

"What?" said Farnsworth, stopped in his tracks, pointing to his
chest.

"Me?"

"Your Honor, I call the general as my next witness."

While studying Farnsworth's uncharacteristic disarray, Seth spotted
Simon Stephens in the back of the courtroom and didn't know whether to
celebrate or lament his return.

Farnsworth scowled, then looked at the Defense Department lawyers, but
the senior counsel, the one named Harold Baldwin, simply shrugged.
Treadwell offered no consolation either, so the general gave Seth a
withering look and marched to the bench, ramrod erect, and addressed
the court.

"Your Honor, is this really necessary? I have absolutely nothing new
to say about this matter."

"That," replied the judge with a sigh of resignation, "does not seem to
disqualify anyone from being called as a witness by Mr. Cameron.
Please step over to the box and be sworn, sir."

With another hard look at the Defense Department lawyers, Gen. Clement
Farnsworth was sworn and took his seat.

"Well, sir, you did call then-captain Jack Christopher around
eleven-thirty p.m." did you not?"

"I might well have done so, sir. For precisely the reason he has
already explained. He was officer of the day." Farnsworth's eyes then
locked onto Seth's, and a faint smile appeared at the edges of his
mouth as he added, "Remember, Counselor, the crash had probably already
occurred by then."

Seth met Farnsworth's crooked smile with one of his own, then started
nodding his head and dropped a bombshell.

"You may be right about that. General."
This remark created a tumultuous reaction at the defense table, with
Treadwell the first to leap to his feet.

"Your Honor, the defense renews its motion for dismissal under the
one-year statute of limitations. Counsel has just admitted that the
crash occurred on the night of the fifteenth, one year and one day
preceding the filing of his complaint!"

Judge Singer looked as surprised as anyone.

"Counsel?"

Seth appeared unperturbed.

"I remind Mr. Treadwell that the remarks of counsel are not evidence,
and I have not stipulated to anything. Moreover, I merely said that
the general could be right, not that he is."

"Motion denied," said Judge Singer, spreading his palms toward
Treadwell, seemingly disappointed that Seth was technically correct.

"We'll take the morning recess now. The jury is excused with the usual
admonition not to discuss the case among yourselves or with anyone
else."

Seth raced for the door, then down the hall to the telephones, dogged
by his client.

"Hold on, you lunatic! Talk to me! What in the hell are you trying to
do in there?"

Seth ignored her until she cornered him in the phone booth as he was
dialing Torville's number.

"You're supposed to be my lawyer!" she shouted.

"Even the judge thinks you've flipped out. This isn't a game, Seth,
you're in trial, for God's sake!"

"Wrong, as usual, Elena. Haven't you heard? I'm not in trial. I'm on
trial."

Seth pulled the door shut as Torville reported, "I've eliminated all
but three names. Got a pencil?"

Seth began scribbling, at least until he got to the third resident, a
name that sent a thousand electric needles up his spine and into the
back of his head.

"Are you sure, Torville?"

"I'm sure. But I need to know what you intend to do with this
information."

"Trust me, Torville, I haven't a clue, but they can draw and quarter me
before I reveal my source. Not to worry."

Seth thanked him, hung up, and took the long way back to Department 16,
clockwise around the perimeter of the fourth floor, trying to think.
TDA, "Father," a major vote on the future of the stealth program with
the peace-dividend doves closing for what they thought would be an easy
kill, and a stealth crash less than three weeks before the vote. A
vote that could have killed the program and Sen. Stanford Traeger's
political career along with it.

It was time for these events to be connected, which meant that for Seth
Cameron, everything else could soon be coming apart. "general, LET'S
GET RIGHT TO IT. just BEFORE YOU CALLED Major Christopher at the
Officers' Club, you received a call from the Caicos Islands, isn't that
right?"

"Your Honor," said Treadwell, his voice oozing contempt.

"Mr. Cameron's ability to wander afield is bordered neither by the
rules of evidence nor geography, and exceeded only by his disdain for
reality."

"Just state your objection, Mr. Treadwell," said Judge Singer, his
patience obviously frayed, "so that I may sustain it!"

"Irrelevant, argumentative, and patently ludicrous!"

"Sustained on the first two grounds, although the court concurs with
the third as well."

"Your Honor," said Seth, "permit me to argue the matter at sidebar."

Judge Singer reluctantly allowed the lawyers to come forward and, after
hearing argument, even more reluctantly reversed himself on the basis
of Seth's representation that he was "now prepared to prove that Sam
Barton was not scheduled to fly on the night of the fifteenth."

"You may answer the question, sir."

The general didn't blink.

"I did not receive such a call."
Seth walked closer to the witness and held up a phone bill so that
Farnsworth could see him reading off it.

"Let me be more precise. Isn't it a fact that you received a call from
the Beach Cliff Hotel on Kew in the Caicos Islands at precisely 11:03
P.M." central time, on the evening of October fifteenth, 1992?"

The general blinked. His eyes flickered to Traeger, then to
Treadwell.

"It's possible," he said, his jaw and neck muscles jumping as if he had
swallowed a live fish, "but I don't recall."

Seth waved the bill in his direction.

"You may have, is that your testimony?"

Farnsworth glanced at Treadwell again. Seeing no relief forthcoming,
he looked Seth squarely in the eye.

"I may have."

"And if you did--which I assure you is the case--who would have been
calling from the other end?"

Treadwell started to object, but let it go.

"//1 received such a call, I don't remember who it might have come
from."

"Or why a person--who might have been calling you-might have called you
from an obscure island over three thousand miles away?"

"I don't remember."

The words were pouring from Seth's mouth like bullets from an Uzi.

"Or why a person--who might have called you and might have called from
an obscure island more than three thousand miles away--might have
called you just fifty-seven minutes before midnight?"

"Objection! Counsel is berating the witness with his sarcastic manner.
He's also assuming facts not in evidence."

"Without conceding either point. Your Honor, I'll withdraw the last
question." Seth stole a glance at the jury. They were alert, but
obviously couldn't tell where he was going with all this; not
surprising, since Seth wasn't sure either.

"Let's see. General, 23:03 hours--three minutes past eleven--would
make it predawn back there in the Caicos Islands, would it not?"

"I suppose so."

"Is this something that happens to you a lot. General?
Getting mysterious calls late at night from mysterious places?"

"Objection," said Treadwell, affecting a bored, condescending tone.

"Argumentative."

"Sustained," said the judge.

Seth walked back to counsel table and slipped the document, his current
Marin County Pacific Bell telephone bill, under a notepad.

"Isn't it a fact that you received a call from the Caicos Islands at
23:03 hours, night of the fifteenth, that resulted in Sam Barton, an
unscheduled pilot, being ordered into the air?" * Seth knew he was
pulling the pin from a hand grenade, but he had underestimated its
explosive force. Treadwell leapt to his feet screaming, the Defense
Department lawyers barged right through the rail and charged the bench,
demanding a conference in chambers. Senator Traeger made a move toward
the door, and General Farnsworth looked as if he were going to take a
swing at Seth. The front end of the courtroom looked like a prison
riot. Chinese New Year's. Marat/Sade.

Judge Singer hammered his gavel in an attempt to restore order while
the jury and the press shouted at each other, trying to figure out what
it all meant.

When things began to settle. Judge Singer sent the Defense Department
lawyers back to their seats under threat of a contempt citation and
ordered the bailiff to exclude anyone who failed to maintain complete
silence. But when Seth said he intended to call Senator Traeger as his
next witness, another melee ensued.

Judge Singer gave his gavel another workout and, when things had
quieted down again, ordered the witness to answer.

This brought the junior Defense Department lawyer to his feet,
strenuously objecting to this line of questioning from his seat in the
first row of the gallery. At a glance from the judge, the bailiff
escorted him out of the courtroom.

"Of course not," said Farnsworth, finally answering the question.
"Let me get this clear. General. You're not sure about taking the
call, but you're sure about what you didn't say?"

"Your Honor!" Treadwell was almost whining.

"I would have remembered that," said Farnsworth.

"Would you also remember threatening me at Nellis Air Force Base in Las
Vegas when I came to talk to Gerald Murphy?"

"I remember speaking to you. There were no threats."

"Didn't you tell me you'd shoot me as a spy if I returned to
Symington?"

"That's absurd."

"Didn't you tell me I was getting into something way over my head?"

"No, but you are. Counselor. Your case makes no sense whatsoever."

Seth exchanged a long look with the general, then scratched the back of
his head and broke into a broad smile.

The courtroom was as silent as a church.

"So that's what you think. General?"

"Yes, Mr. Cameron, that's what I think."

Seth broke into a smile and began to bob his head up and down, looking
slightly deranged as he stared into the general's fierce eyes. Abruptly
then, he slapped both hands against his chest, looked up at the
ceiling, and emitted a quiet chuckle.

"You know something. General?" he said at last.

"You are a lying son of a bitch, but on that point I have to agree with
you."

"Your Honor!" shouted Treadwell in a reflex action, but then refrained
from moving to strike the remark from the record.

"I withdraw the comment. Your Honor, with apologies to the court, and
call my next witness. Call Senator Stanford Traeger."

"Your Honor," repeated Treadwell, again taking on a petulant tone.

"Counsel approach the bench!"

Seth hated these sidebar conversations, jostling arm against arm with
Treadwell.

"Sorry, Judge, but the guy is a liar and--" "Listen to me, Mr.
Cameron! I've sat on this bench for more than twenty years, and I've
neither seen nor heard of anything like this. You seem determined to
turn my courtroom into a theater of the absurd, and I won't have it. In
a single morning you've admitted the statute of limitations has run
against your client and just now that your case makes no sense
whatsoever. You have conceded everything except that you are not
really even a lawyer, and if that's coming next, I want you to know
I'll not be in the least surprised.

Now step back, both of you!"

The gavel came down hard as the judge declared the court in recess
until two. Seth turned to see Allyn and Lev filing out with the crowd
just ahead of Si Stephens, who gave him a troubled look as he
disappeared out the door.

Back at the office, Elena, Allyn, Lev, and Seth ate sandwiches in
silence until Elena couldn't stand it anymore and demanded to know what
Seth was up to.

"Sometimes you got to shake the tree to get the fruit," he said.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, sometimes you got to shake the tree to--" Elena slammed her
clenched hands down on the desk so hard that some of Lev's Dr. Pepper
spilled into his lap.

"Stop it, you nut case! Save your backwoods homilies for your friends
in Modesto!"

"Bakersfield," whispered Allyn as she lit up a cigar.

"Bastards. All of you! Now I've not only got Uncle Tony's army
against me but my own lawyers as well!"

Seth and Allyn exchanged a look.

"Not necessarily," said Allyn.

"Seth, I must admit I'm a little curious myself, concerning your, uh
... strategy."

"I'm open to suggestions, Allyn," said Seth, lighting a cigarette and
dropping the match next to his unfinished sandwich.

"Quite frankly, I haven't figured one out yet." He took a deep drag,
then blew smoke out the open window.

"I'm working on it."

"Working on it?"

"Well, Elena, if you're sure you want to know, I don't think we've got
a case here."

"Isn't it a bit late for that?" said Elena.
Allyn nodded reluctant concurrence.

"Confidence like that might turn you into a prophet, but it won't win a
hell of a lot of cases."

"I'm rarely short on confidence, Allyn, but there's the little matter
of us all knowing deep in our hearts that there's no fucking way Sam
leaves the club at eleven-thirty and gets to Arizona by one-twenty."

Elena's face bloomed red as she railed against Seth, Treadwell, her
father, and "that wimpy jerk sitting on the bench!"

Seth took a sip of Maalox.

"What the hell happened," she demanded, "to the art of advocacy?"

Then he lit a new cigarette.

"It's alive and well," he said, "but not equipped to alter reality."
Lev reached for Seth's sandwich, and Allyn put her feet up on her
cluttered desk.

Elena paced around the small office, her arms clasped tightly
together.

"And just what is the 'reality' in this case, may I ask?"

"I'm not sure yet," said Seth, "but I aim to find out."

"And just how do you propose to do that?"

Seth flashed her a crooked smile.

"The art of advocacy."

"Oh, shit," she said.

"There must be a half million lawyers in the U.S." and I have to draw
a certifiable lunatic."

"Madonna here's got a point, Seth," said Allyn.

"Not about you being a lunatic, though the jury's still out on that
one. I was in the courtroom this morning, and I can tell you those
twelve folks smell a government rat big as of' Lev over there. They
don't like Farnsworth, and he's become identified with Con Space Plus
you got the good senator, who's unlikable on sight--it should be a
fucking misdemeanor just to walk around looking like he does. I mean,
Jesus! No offense, Mrs. Barton, but that ugly fucking insect couldn't
be your biological father."

"Don't look at me," said Lev, letting out a cackle.

"Anyway, Seth," continued Allyn, "if they believe Sam didn't expect to
fly the night he was sent up, I think they'll clobber Con
Space--despite your client's ... nocturnal intemperance."
Seth felt everyone watching him. Elena apparently knew better than to
wreck the moment by saying anything and settled for walking over and
resting her hand on his shoulder.

Seth was surprised to find her touch mildly offensive.

All feeling for her was gone at last, his once-consuming passion now
just a corpse stuffed into a trunk. He got up and walked over to
Allyn's window, stared across Market and up at the high-rise buildings
of the Montgomery Street financial district.

"You can still win, Seth," said Allyn, reaching for Elena's unfinished
tuna melt.

"Put Traeger on and nail the little bastard."

Everybody piled into Lev's car, but Seth asked to be dropped off a
block from City Hall. He needed time alone, time to think. It was one
of those miraculous San Francisco days, clear and low seventies, the
air coming in fresh and clean off the bay. People eating outside and
milling about in shirtsleeves and short skirts. People enjoying the
good life.

Ten minutes later, as the elevator doors opened to the darkened
fourth-floor lobby, he found himself looking at Stanford Traeger and
the senior Defense Department lawyer, Harold Baldwin.

"A word. Counselor?" said Baldwin, a lanky, completely bald lawyer in
his fifties.

"Can't hardly stop you," said Seth, walking toward Department 16,
pushing through the lunchtime crowd.

"I have reserved a small conference room right here in the law library.
I just need five minutes, and it might be the most important five
minutes in your life, certainly in your client's life."

Seth stopped for a wheelchair being pushed by a young woman whose face
was twisted with suffering. The man had no legs. A woman lawyer
walked beside them carrying a trial bag in one hand and blown-up
pictures of an intersection in the other.

"Five minutes," Seth said.

Inside the small room the lawyer was all business. His voice sounded
like a computer, no words wasted. Traeger looked out the window,
saying nothing. He tried to maintain his imperious presence, but could not conceal an anxiety that filled
the room like the smell of a dead animal.

"I'll come to the point, Counselor," said Baldwin.

"You've got us by the balls and you probably don't even know why.
Moreover, you don't need to. All you need to know is that you have
somehow obtained a piece of evidence that could trigger great damage to
our nation's defense effort and to the integrity of our government as
well."

"You mean the integrity of a pair of defense contractors, a certain
senator, and a certain air force, don't you?"

"Have it your way, sir, if you really believe any functioning
government can be separated from the essential agencies of which it is
necessarily comprised."

"Come again?" said Seth, raising his eyebrows.

"Look, Mr. Baldwin, I've never been one for splittin' hairs and fancy
semantic distinctions. We're both talking about the same thing:
something that would make Watergate look like a cotillion
intermission."

"Yes, well, let me get to the point. I obviously do not represent the
defendant here, and though the senator and I have tried to broker a
settlement of your case, I have been unable to do so. Con Space and
its counsel have every reason to believe that the judge will grant
their statute motion now or throw out any verdict you might get--in the
unlikely event you should get a verdict at all. Given the public
attention to this trial, Con Space now demands full, public
vindication."

Seth looked at his watch.

"You said something about getting to the point."

"We--the government--make the following offers, in return for your
agreement to revoke your decision to call Senator Traeger as a witness,
or to otherwise exhume various .. . delicate matters, wholly
unnecessary to your case." Baldwin handed Seth a notarized document.
Traeger stared at steepled fingers.

"First, this is a notarized statement by the senator here, detailing
his role in IDA, admitting his violations of state and federal
securities law as well as U.S. Senate ethics codes, etcetera, etcetera.
The statement--confession, if you will-fully implicates his
confederate Aubrey Olmstead, a resident *45 of Kew, corporate
headquarters of TDA, whom the Justice Department has unsuccessfully
pursued for years. This may be of more than passing interest to your
employer, whom we know has brought a stockholders' class action.

"I also hand you a copy of Senator Traeger's letter of resignation from
the Senate, effective immediately.

"Next, as informal amicus to the court, I will inform Judge Singer in
the strongest possible terms that the government sees no merit
whatsoever to the statute-of-limitations defense in light of the
persuasive testimony by Christopher and the Lukenses on the point. I
think I can say with reasonable assurance that he will rule
accordingly.

"Finally, in the event you agree to rest your case without calling
Senator Traeger to the stand, I am authorized to lodge with the court a
certified flight schedule showing that Captain Barton was not--I repeat
was not--scheduled to fly on the night of October fifteenth, 1992."

"Is that it?" said Seth, glancing at the red-faced, shrinking
senator.

"My God, man," said Baldwin, "what else could you want? Isn't it
obvious that with the statute defense dead and Captain Barton's
drinking excused, you can have your victory in this case and, at the
same time, minimize what could be irreparable damage to the nation's
security and the integrity of the--" "I think you've covered that. I
assume the 'damage' you're referring to is the fact that federal
officers with badges have been running around the country murdering
innocent citizens."

"That's an unwarranted assumption."

"Maybe, but it doesn't inspire much confidence in my own future
longevity."

"We've thought of that. You can make any provision for your future
safe conduct you deem appropriate. I believe a registered
if-something-should-happen-to-me package to The New York Times or
Washington Post is the most popular modus operandi. You will not be in
jeopardy, although once you accept our offer, there would obviously be
consequences should you later choose to reveal what you know."
"You mean you'd kill me." "Of course not. But you would be charged
with criminal conspiracy, accessory after the fact--" Seth stood up,
adding, "Et cetera, etcetera."

Small grunts of suppressed rage kept coming out of Traeger, who looked
as if he were going to explode.

"Won't Mr. Et Cetera here let you say anything, Stan?

Never known a politician to be so quiet."

Traeger bared his teeth and began to spit out words in a manner that
reminded Seth of a professional-wrestling commercial.

"I'll spend a good part of the rest of my life in a federal prison for
what I'm admitting in this document, Cameron. I hope you appreciate
what we're giving you."

"You'd be getting something back, Traeger, though nothing of value."

"Like what?"

"Your miserable fucking life. The penalty for conspiracy to commit
murder is death. Senator."

Traeger grunted disdainfully.

"Trying to prove homicide will accomplish nothing other than wrecking
your own chances for what could be a major verdict."

"Might get you fried," said Seth, giving the senator a wide grin.

"And speaking of dying, what about Farnsworth? A whole bunch of people
got killed over this thing."

"He will cop to complicity in the TDA fraud," said Baldwin, "though of
course he had nothing to do with it. He has agreed to accept postdated
stock in the company for his 'part' in it. And his invented
involvement in TDA is mentioned in the senator's confession."

"So he'll admit to what he didn't do and deny what he did."

"You could say that."

"I believe I just did," said Seth, then turned back to the senator.

"How did you get Farnsworth to kill those people."

"I didn't tell anyone to kill anyone' Christ, I just told that idiot
Farnsworth to control the situation, not to kill people."

"That's what's always amazed me about you guys," said Seth, grabbing
his briefcase and walking to the door.

"You recruit tough guy a, train them to kill people, then seem
surprised when they do."
* * Ten minutes before two and there she was, standing at the door to
Department 16, looking lost.

"Rosie. Thanks for coming."

She smiled, though she had to work at it.

"You okay?" he said.

"Just feeling a little guilty, I guess." Her voice was thin as
oxygen.

Seth put a hand on her arm.

"Forget it. I'm glad you got all that stuff off your chest. You did
the right thing."

"No, I mean about phoning in sick. I've never done that."

Seth smiled for the first time in weeks, touched as always by her
innocence and candor.

"So how's it going?" she asked.

"You look jumpy and awful tired."

"Last time you told me I looked different."

She smiled at that and Seth walked her down the hall, then a few steps
down the next corridor to avoid observation by jurors or other lawyers
returning from lunch. He told her everything in quick, jerky sentences
as he bounced from one foot to another, as jittery as a subway cop. His
neurons were firing in an electric frenzy, making it hard to
synchronize his mouth with his brain.

Rosie, her eyes wide with concern and wonder, threw in a question now
and then, but mainly just listened. When he was finished, they stared
at each other as if they were getting ready to jump into a volcano.

"I don't know what to say, Seth. I know how important this case could
be to you."

Seth said yeah, it sure could be, then turned and bent over an ashtray
mounted on the wall.

"Seth! That's not a water fountain!"

"Oh. Right. Thanks."

"How long since you had a decent night's rest?"

"Tomorrow I rest."

"So what are you going to do today? Now?"

Seth glanced down the hall.

"You're good with dreams, Rosie. I'm climbing the face of a cliff,
chasing this bird or something that stays just out of reach. I'm
scared, but I keep climbing until I reach the next plateau, where
there's always the dead body of someone who died on the way up.
Some448 times I go through three levels with a different body at each
one. Wake up sweating like a pig."

"I'm still a little weak at the interpretation end, Seth."

Seth saw Treadwell putting a cigarette out down at the end of the hall.
Rosie followed his gaze.

"How much does Treadwell know about all this?"

"I don't know," said Seth, rubbing the corners of his eyes with his
thumb and forefinger, then jiggling his head to ease the pain in his
neck.

"Maybe everything, maybe nothing.

Oh, oh."

"What?"

"This guy coming up the hall. Name's Si Stephens. He's been in and
out of the trial, checking me out."

"Checking you out?"

"Hi, there, Seth," said Stephens, extending his hand and giving Rosie
the once-over.

"All work and no play, right?"

Seth managed a sickly smile.

"Hello, Si. This is my friend from Bakersfield, Rosie Wheeler."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Stephens."

"My pleasure, Rosie. Our friend here has a tough one on his hands and
can use a little moral support. Right, Seth?"

Seth shrugged.

"It's a tough one."

"Never seen anything like this. Got everybody talking.

The word's out about the hundred-andfiftythousand-dollar offer! You
must be planning to ring the bell big time, Seth.

Good luck, buddy."

Seth nodded and forced another smile.

"Don't forget," added Stephens as he turned to leave, "you win, you're
in."

"In?" said Rosie.

"In what?"

"Caldwell and Shaw, as a partner. He's a partner there."

"Caldwell and Shaw? He looks too young and happy."

Seth shrugged.

Rosie searched Seth's eyes, ducking and darting around his face like an
ophthalmologist.

"So what are you going to do?"

Seth looked at his watch, picked up his briefcase, and gave her hand a
hard squeeze.

"Thanks for coming," he said, and followed the defense entourage back
into the jammed courtroom.
* * Call your next witness, Mr. Cameron, and I think I speak for this
exhausted jury when I express my fervent hope that it's your last
witness."

Several heads in the jury box nodded in agreement. Even the
inscrutable and taciturn Mr. Stanton smiled ruefully at the judge.

"Yes, Your Honor," said Seth without looking up. He was slouched down
in his seat, his legs crossed, doodling on a legal pad, his left arm
dangled carelessly over the back of his chair.

"Well?"

Seth slowly shook his head. All eyes were on him now, and he knew it.
His stomach burned as if a soldering iron had been jammed through his
navel.

"We're not going through this again, Mr. Cameron, are we?"

asked the judge in a Hint-edged voice.

"You have thirty seconds in which to call another witness or rest your
case."

Seth sucked in an audible deep breath and exhaled himself to his
feet.

"Your Honor has not ruled on the statute defense on the Barton case."

"I was going to give you my ruling after you finished presenting your
case. Counsel, but I will do so now, since you appear to have been
seized by another attack of Hamletian indecisiveness."

Suppressed laughter leaked from the defense side of counsel table.

"I conclude that the facts, interpreted in the light most favorably to
the plaintiff--as I must do--require that I deny the defendant's motion
for dismissal."

That killed the laughter. Seth shot a look at Treadwell, but could
read nothing into his expression. He felt Harold Baldwin's eyes on him
though, as palpable as a touch on the shoulder.

"Now, Mr. Cameron, might we move along?"

"Yes, Your Honor." Then, in a thin, barely audible voice, Seth added,
"The plaintiff rests."

The judge shot a withering glance in the direction of Baldwin and
Traeger, who had succumbed to a minor demonstration, whispering and
shaking hands. They stopped in mid smile however, and Judge Singer
quietly put his gavel down He then instructed Seth to commence his
argument to the jury, but Harold Baldwin leaned over the rail from his
front-row seat and whispered something into Treadwell's ear. The
senior partner's jaw twitched and his eyes narrowed, but he shrugged
and rose to his feet.

"May all counsel approach the bench. Your Honor?" he said. When they
arrived at sidebar, Harold Baldwin handed Judge Singer some documents,
then gave copies to Treadwell and Seth.

"The government, appearing as amicus curiae herein, first offers this
certified flight schedule, showing that Captain Barton had flown an
X-215A test mission on the night of October thirteenth and was not
scheduled to fly again for at least a week. It also shows that
Lieutenant David Ames was originally scheduled for the night of October
fifteenth.

We also offer Lieutenant Ames's personnel records showing him to have
been declared absent without leave as of twenty hundred hours--8:00
p.m.--that same night. Finally, with the permission and consent of
Senator Stanford Traeger, we offer his notarized statement containing
other significant information relevant to these proceedings."

"With all due respect to the government," said Treadwell, "I most
strenuously object--" But Judge Singer cut him off.

"The only lawyer with standing to complain about this offer is Mr.
Cameron. His earlier document request clearly embraced exactly this
kind of evidence, and it should have been produced at that time."

"I can explain that. Your Honor," said Baldwin.

"Note the security classification status. Not even Mr. Treadwell was
aware of this information. I have just now obtained clearance from the
Pentagon and am bringing the matter to the court's attention despite my
personal misgivings--in the interest of justice."

"So we were not stonewalling," urged Treadwell, raising his voice, his
eyebrows, and his shoulders all at once, "and damn it we object!"

Seth elbowed his way in front of Treadwell.

"I'd like to remind the court who it was that introduced this whole
issue of--" "Captain Barton's drinking," said Judge Singer.
"I need no reminding, Mr. Cameron. I've suffered through the
evidence like everybody else. I assume you have no objection?"

"Better late than never. Your Honor," said Seth.

"All right, the documents will be admitted into evidence.

To minimize their last-minute impact, Mr. Treadwell, I will simply
instruct the jury that they are to assume that Barton was not scheduled
to fly that night. You may frame your closing arguments
accordingly."

Treadwell gave Baldwin a withering glance, but the government lawyer
didn't notice. His eyes were fixed on Seth.

But Seth didn't notice, because his eyes were fixed on Treadwell, still
woadering where he fit into all this. If he was acting, thought Seth,
he was good at that, too.

"Step back. Counsel," said the judge.

"Let's wrap this damnable case."

Judge Singer apologized to the jury and instructed Seth to proceed with
his argument.

As Seth walked back toward counsel table, he glanced at the expectant
face of Si Stephens, sitting two rows in front of Rosie, who looked as
if she were about to take flight. He gave her a little smile, but
Stephens intercepted it and smiled back at him. He turned his gaze to
Elena and noticed for the first time that her hair was growing back
out--my God, how long have we been in this nightmare?--and that she had
resumed the use of full makeup. She had become the glamorous Elena
again without his noticing. Glamorous Elena now offered him a nod of
encouragement, her cool green eyes full of renewed promise as she
awaited the justice that was her due. What madness, he wondered, could
drive a man to risk everything for such a woman? To believe for a
minute that he knew a damn thing about her? Or about himself, for that
matter.

The judge cleared his throat.

Judge Singer. There's another piece of work. The system would always
survive as long as men like the judge could be induced to serve it.
Firm, but fair; earnest, but not lacking in humor; intelligent, but
humble and evenhanded.

He glanced back the other way. Three rows back on the right side sat
Allyn and Lev. What smart, brave souls they were! How could he ever
repay them? Allyn winked, andLev gave him a subtle thumbs-up in his
lap that unwittingly came off as an obscene gesture. Seth broke out
laughing.

"I'm sorry, folks. Your Honor. Sorry. But really ..."

He started laughing again. All he could think about was Lev's giant
thumb rising up out of his lap. His fatigue was giving way to
hysteria, and he started laughing again, so hard this time his body
convulsed, and he fell against counsel table--Treadwell's end--tears
streaming from lunatic eyes.

"Mr. Cameron!" said Judge Singer.

"I'm calling a recess of five minutes in which you will either gain
control of yourself or be deemed to have waived your right to
argument."

Seth reacted to the admonition by pulling himself into a reasonably
erect posture and forcing his face into an expression much like that of
a drunk driver confronting an arresting officer: eyebrows tilted
innocently, lips in a tight smile, radiating penitence.

"No, Your Honor, please. I'm ... all right. It's just that, well,
it's just that I'm tired and ... Oh, Jesus, am I tired."

He walked toward the jury box, trying to suppress small outbursts of
laughter that kept escaping in the form of something sounding like
hiccups. Sophie Byers wasn't fooled and started giggling, but some of
the jurors recoiled from him as if they were being accosted by a
panhandling crack head

Others leaned forward in amused curiosity, but all had their eyes
riveted on the clownish figure before them.

"I'm tired of all the confusion, just like you are, folks.

I'm tired of dealing with Mr. Treadwell over there and all his roadies
and groupies. Oh, hell, I'm sick and tired of this whole damn
lawsuit--if that's what it is."

Seth was vaguely aware of murmurings from the gallery, of Elena loudly
clearing her throat, of strange looks flying toward him out of the jury
box, but he couldn't stop the outpouring of words his brain was
involuntarily generating.

"Well, hold on, folks, I didn't mean that. This is a lawsuit, all
right." Seth spread his arms wide and swung them one hundred and
eighty degrees in both directions.

"We're in a courtroom, aren't we? There are pleadings on file,
right?

We've got a judge, and we've got a plaintiff sitting here glaring at
me. There's a defendant--Mr. Leffingwell--sitting right over
there."
Seth paused for a moment, then glanced to his right at Elena. He
shook his head and opened his palms toward her in apology.

"There's only one problem, folks. Mrs. Barton here isn't the right
plaintiff ... because it wasn't her husband in the X-215A the night it
crashed!"

The courtroom erupted, and Treadwell rose to object-until he realized
he had just won his case and dropped back into his seat. Elena gasped,
and a newspaper reporter raced out the door. The jurors looked at the
judge, who pounded his gavel and started to speak, but Seth had never
stopped and now raised his voice over the din.

"Which means the real plaintiff should have been the widow of poor old
David Ames, because he's the pilot this document shows was the
scheduled pilot that night, and he's the man who crashed in the desert
on the night of October fifteenth, 19921" Judge Singer again pounded
his gavel, but the courtroom was in chaos. Finally, the judge achieved
silence and Seth continued.

"You see, I now know when the flight of the X-215A began, and when it
ended. I know where it ended and I've known for a long time what
caused it to end. The only thing I hadn't figured out until a few
minutes ago was who was at the controls when it crashed."

Seth glanced at General Farnsworth, then back at the jury.

"It wasn't Sam Barton."

A single gasp went up from the gallery, and if Seth had looked to his
right, he would have seen Elena's wide-open eyes imploring Judge Singer
to do something. She was wasting her effort, for if Seth had looked to
his left, he would have seen that Judge Singer's own wide-open eyes
were viewing him with clinical fascination. And if Seth had turned
around at that same moment, he would have seen Treadwell and
Leffingwell in whispered consultation, and Traeger and Farnsworth
exchanging concerned looks. But Seth looked in none of these
directions. He was having a conversation with his jury.

"So, it's like this, folks. Sam wasn't in the X-215A that night, but
he's dead all the same. What this means to you is that in the case
against Con Space I've got the wrong plaintiff and in the case against
the people responsible for the death of Sam Barton, I've got the wrong
defendant--a sorry comment, you might say, on my pleading skills."

Seth started to laugh again at the irony, but there was something about
the twelve completely blank faces staring at him that was more sobering
than if he had bitten his tongue. Embarrassed, he took a sip of water,
then shrugged his shoulders and added, "Some days, folks, it just
doesn't pay to get out of bed."

Susan Wanger, number eleven, smiled at this and ruefully shook her head
in agreement. Sophie Byers giggled. Edward Stanton looked
astonished.

"You see, Sam Barton died that night, but it wasn't the X-215A that
killed him. Sam Barton was murdered in cold blood by his best
friend--" "Your Honor!"

"By his best friend. Major Jack Christopher, under orders of General
Clement Farnsworth--"

"YOUR HONOR!"

"--who had been instructed to 'keep things under control' by United
States Senator Stanford Traeger--" This time there was no controlling
the explosion in the courtroom. The gallery was on its feet, most
reporters racing for the door, some backtracking, fearful they might
miss something. The ever-present gavel was splattering molecules but
getting no respect. The spectators finally quieted themselves when
they realized Seth was still talking, reading from something that
seemed to be an admission of various crimes and misdemeanors by Senator
Traeger.

Treadwell, looking as surprised as anyone by the bizarre turn of
events, dutifully objected again, but his heart didn't seem to be in
it. In fact, if someone had looked closely at the senior partner
during Seth's recitation, they might have detected the shadow of a
smile on his worn face as he assessed the situation and, as was his
nature, already began to count his profit and loss. Later, he would
celebrate the preponderance of the former over the latter with his
wife, Charlotte, over a bottle of fine Bordeaux. With her, and with
her alone, he would share his secret pleasure as he realized that the
maverick kid had, in one reckless, ironic stroke not only exculpated
Con Space from any possible damages in the Barton case, but had
wculpated Stanford Traeger of numerous felonies--the man who had
unjustly delayed his ascension to the helm at M&M for those five bitter
and humiliating years.

Seth continued to chronicle the history of TDA, annotating Traeger's
confession with editorial comments--tracing the senator's alter ego as
Olmstead's "Father" figure, and the Faustian bargain struck between
Herbert Leffingwell and Traeger leading to the incorporation of the
flawed TDA canopy system.

Judge Singer was p un ding his gavel again.

"Your Honor," said Treadwell, "there is not a shred of evidence that--"
"Let him finish, Mr. Treadwell," said Judge Singer.

"You've won your case, and damn it, we're entitled to an explanation of
all this, even if it's his. You'll have your turn.

But let's do stay with this case, Mr. Cameron, not some future
criminal prosecution."

"Yes, Your Honor. Here's how I think it all happened, ladies and
gentlemen. You must have suspected that Sam Barton couldn't have left
the club at eleven-thirty, completed preflight, and crashed in Arizona
by one-twenty. They don't make 'em quite that fast yet. I believe it
to be a fair inference from the evidence," said Seth, glancing at
Treadwell, "that by eleven-thirty, the body of David Ames was already
stiffening in the cockpit of the crashed X-215A.

Yes, the statute had run, even if it had been Barton in the cockpit."

"Excuse me. Counselor," said Judge Singer, resting his forehead in the
palm of one hand.

"It may seem but a grain of sand on the beach of your theory, but
aren't you forgetting the testimony of the Lukenses, your key
witnesses, on whose sworn testimony I largely based my ruling on the
statute?"

"I believe what they saw was a secondary fire, Your Honor, probably set
by Farnsworth and Christopher to make the body switch belie v--" "The
what?" said Treadwell and Judge Singer in unison.
"Look, I'm guessing at some of this, but weird as it sounds it's the
only plausible explanation. A third X-215A crash meant big trouble for
some very big people. You all heard Elena Barton and Major Christopher
testify that Sam Barton had become a lightning rod at Symington and had
openly threatened to go public with his case that the X-215A was a
flying coffin, a disclosure that would probably have killed
Farnsworth's and Traeger's Stealth Program, and, more importantly,
their careers."

The gallery roared its excitement again, and the last of the newspaper
reporters with deadlines raced for telephones.

Judge Singer picked up his impotent gavel. But the crowd saw that Seth
was still speaking and turned silent again.

"Let's play homicide cop for a minute, ladies and gentlemen.

"Motive? Plenty. Senator Traeger was not only a major stockholder in
TDA, but chairman of the Armed Forces subcommittee responsible for the
success of the Stealth Program.

Farnsworth there, then a mere full colonel, ran the X-215A testing
program and managed to come out of it a general. After the third
crash, they both knew that Sam Barton had to be silenced in a way that
would not create suspicion. As for Christopher, ask yourselves who
stood between him and Elena Barton? Her husband, of course.

Christopher also mysteriously won his major's leaves ahead of everyone
else in his class. Was that because he was that good or because he was
that bad? Most officers would have refused Farnsworth's order to kill
Barton--have seen it as bizarre and outrageous; I believe Christopher
saw it as an opportunity.

"Means? Between Traeger and Farnsworth, they literally had an army of
trained killers at their disposal. And used them.

"Opportunity? We know that Christopher was the last person to see Sam
alive, so it's logical to assume he was also the first to see him dead.
Following orders, of course, like those guys claimed at Nuremberg."
Seth turned and fixed his eyes on Christopher.

"It took me too long to figure it out, Crispie, but I finally
remembered that only Elena and I knew that Gerald Murphy was ready to
blow the whistle on whatever he knew at my scheduled meeting with him
Laas Vegas. I didn't tell anybody and Murphy damn sure didn't. That
left Elena and pillow talk with you."

The jury looked puzzled, never having heard of Gerald Murphy, as Seth
now turned his gaze on his client.

"Remember, Elena? You told me that you had reported to Christopher
about Murphy's willingness to talk to me. You told me he seemed
'enthusiastic." You had no way of knowing, of course, but that slip
cost Murphy his life.

"So that's it, folks. I know this is no laughing matter, but the irony
got to me. Broke me down. Here I got a crooked senator, a murderous
general, a felonious canopy supplier, a negligent aircraft bflilder, a
roving pack of cold-blooded killers with federal-marshal badges, acting
under orders for Traeger and Farnsworth ... and none of it adds up to
any significant damages against the negligent defendant here because
poor old Sam Barton just wasn't in that airplane when it crashed on the
night of October fifteenth, 1992."

Elena gasped, causing Seth to turn in her direction. Her eyes had gone
dead, bleached out above sagging cheeks and lips thinned into a
straight line. Her fingers and knuckles were white from being squeezed
together, and still they shook as if connected to a jackhammer.
Abruptly, she rose to her feet and, without so much as a glance at
Seth, made for the exit, eyes down and streaming with tears, but chin
up and head erect, as if she were a model walking down a runway. Seth
knew she was learning all this for the first time and didn't blame her
for leaving. Even Elena had her limits.

Traeger got to his feet and started to follow his daughter out the
door, but Judge Singer ordered the bailiff to return him to his seat.
As a precaution, the judge instructed Farnsworth and Christopher to
remain seated as well.

Seth saw that Si Stephens had also risen and was standing with hands on
his hips, looking at him through incredulous eyes, his features twisted
into a pretzel of exasperation.

Rosie Wheeler followed Seth's gaze in time to see Stephens turn and
disdainfully push his way through the door.

Seth knew that Stephens would not be returning this time.

Anthony Treadwell took advantage of the lull to make a motion for
dismissal, but the judge silenced him, saying, "I've suffered through
this thing just like the rest of you, and I want to hear how this
travesty ends. Your motion will be taken up in due course, Mr.
Treadwell."

But Seth stood transfixed, staring at the courtroom door, still
swinging from Stephens's departure.

"Will there be anything else, Mr. Cameron?" said Judge Singer, his
voice now taking on the quietly respectful tone of a headwaiter at the
end of a meal. Seth's gaze shifted back toward Rosie, who looked so
pale Seth thought she might be ill. But when their eyes met, she
managed a proud smile. He nodded, acknowledging the feeling passing
between them, then turned back to address Judge Singer.

"That's about it. Your Honor, except for this. For me, ladies and
gentlemen, this case started out as a quest to clear a good "man's
name--at least that's what I told myself.

But what I really wanted was a chance to establish myself as a hotshot
trial lawyer. Someone who could take on that elegant three-piece mouth
sitting over there and beat the hell out of him."

Seth turned and glanced at Rosie again. She had raised a hand to her
mouth, and he could see diamond tears glistening on her cheeks in the
cold light of the courtroom.

"Okay, so I didn't pull it off, but that doesn't mean your work is
finished. Not yet. See, folks, we could sit around here and wring our
hands about having the wrong guy in the White House, a U.S. senator off
to the 'big house," and a three-hundred-million-dollar airplane that
flies like an out-house--but there's one thing that still works around
here, and believe it or not, it's the judicial system.

"Meaning you.

"Yes, you folks can still clear Sam Barton's name and the names of four
other fine pilots who did go down in the X-215A, including Lieutenant
Lee Andrews, the last pilot to die before they got rid of the TDA
system. These were brave, good men, who died in the service of their
country as honorably as wartime military heroes; top pilots who were at
war and didn't even know it--at war with greed and deceit.

When Con Space entered into an unholy alliance with TDA at the behest
of a United States senator, it bartered away the lives of four good
men.
"How can you restore honor to their names? Well, herecomes
another irony. You see, Elena Barton is alive, but her case is dead as
yesterday's beer. Ben Tucker, on the other hand, is dead, but his case
is very much alive. And his estate is entitled to your finding that
the reason Grant Wilburn crashed was the negligence of the defendant,
not pilot error.

"Your verdict--though for relatively small change--will send a loud and
clear message to our government, and to all its contractors, that the
brave people who serve this country are entitled to that extra sixty
bucks' worth of safety.

"Finally, you need not concern yourselves with Senator Traeger, General
Farnsworth, and Major Jack Christopher.

Rest assured, folks: other courts--criminal courts--will deal with
them.

"Thank you."

Seth abruptly took his seat. Nobody moved. Nobody.

Judge Singer and the jury kept watching him, as if wanting even more.
The courtroom had never known such silence.

"Mr. Treadwell," said the judge finally, "your summation?"

Treadwell rose to his feet, but stayed in place behind his table and
made a brief, perfunctory closing, "given the admission by counsel that
you can award no damages to Elena Barton in this case--not one dime."
He glanced at Seth, who nodded his agreement without looking up.
Treadwell closed with a denial of negligence and the assertion that the
plaintiffs proof on defective manufacture was based solely on
circumstantial evidence.

Seth's final argument was equally brief. He didn't even stand up.

"The amount of Tucker's damages--$25,000, plus $4,500 in lost
rents--has been stipulated, ladies and gentlemen. The cause--a crashed
X-215A--stipulated as well. As for our proof on defective manufacture,
of course it's largely circumstantial.

Did any of you expect that parade of trained seals from Con Space to
come in here and admit they screwed up?

"But there's this to be said for circumstantial evidence: it comes into
the courtroom without motive or bias. It doesn't have a reason to lie.
It doesn't pontificate. It just is. And what it told you is what you
already knew: apply enough friction to any material, it wears out.
Throw in Traeger's admissions, and that's Tucker's case."

When he had finished, Seth turned around and saw that four men in gray
suits, one wearing dark glasses, had entered the courtroom and taken up
positions on either side of the door. Treadwell resumed his seat at
counsel table and the court excused the jury for the afternoon recess,
but ordered counsel to remain to resolve any final motions and the jury
instructions Judge Singer would soon be giving. Everyone else was
ordered from the courtroom, and Traeger, Farnsworth, and Christopher
were taken into custody by the FBI agents summoned by Judge Singer.

Traeger gave way to his frustration, refusing to be handled by the
agent, and finally had to be forcibly cuffed.

"I'm a United States senator, you morons!" he shouted, then directed
his rage against Seth.

"Cameron!" he shouted as an agent guided him past Seth and up the
aisle.

"You double-dealing bastard! I'll deny everything! I'll beat this
thing and get you for this!"

Seth didn't look up as the senator was escorted past him.

Next came Pamsworth, more resigned, his discipline seemingly unimpaired
by things now clearly beyond his control.

But as he was led past counsel table, he, too, glared at Seth.

"Why?" he demanded, halting his forward progress for an instant. He
seemed genuinely offended.

"What happened?

Didn't we keep our end of it?"

"Cameron!" shouted Christopher from behind Farnsworth, his anger
unrestrained as he grappled with the steel cuffs behind his back.

"What the hell's the matter with you, you crazy bastard? You blew it
for everybody, even yourself.

Why?"

Seth seemed not to hear them at first. Then he stopped piling papers
into his briefcase and looked over his shoulder at his tormentors,
answering in a voice so low they had to strain to hear.
"For one thing, you shouldn't have killed my dog." 58 tread well
MOVED FOR A DISMISSAL OF THE barton CASE based on Seth's admissions and
the motion was granted. The jury then received its instructions from
the court on the Tucker estate's property-damage claim. As the jurors
filed out of the courtroom behind the bailiff to begin their
deliberations, Judge Singer asked to see lead counsel in chambers.

Rosie followed Allyn and Lev into the hallway.

Seth and Treadwell stood at their respective tables, packing their
trial bags. Another eerie silence descended on the courtroom, broken
finally by Treadwell's hushed baritone voice.

"Cameron?"

"Yes?"

"I knew nothing of this. Any of it."

"Okay."

"I hope that you can believe this. My advocacy blinded me to what was
going on."

Seth gave his head a little nod to acknowledge the closest thing to an
apology the senior partner would ever offer.

"Gentlemen," said the clerk, "the judge will see you now."

Judge Singer smiled broadly at both of them and beckoned them to a
chair.

"We don't see many of these," he said, "for which, at my age, I am most
grateful." The judge came around from behind his desk, gave Treadwell
a perfunctory handshake, saying, "Good job, Anthony, but aren't we both
getting a little old for this?"

He then took Seth's hand.

"You've been to hell and back, young man, and I fear you'll have
precious little to show for it. So let me give you this for what it's
worth: I have never seen a more creative demonstration of grit and
tenacity inuunrncTS of interest my thirty-eight years as a member of
the bar; old-time advocacy that never rested and would not be
constrained by the walls of this courtroom. You've been trained
well--I understand nearly a year of it under your current adversary."

Seth smiled.

"My father was a career court clerk. Judge.

He was my teacher. The only thing Joe Cameron and my 'current
adversary' have in common is that they both motivated me. Neither one
of them thought I had the right stuff."

"And they were both wrong, son," said the judge, unembarrassed tears in
his eyes.

"I'll be watching your career with great interest."

Seth felt his own eyes moistening, and his legs starting to buckle.
Fatigue was buffeting him like ten-foot waves.

A door opened and the bailiff leaned in.

"They have a verdict. Judge. They didn't even pick a foreperson."

"Well, then, bring 'em back," said Judge Singer, donning his robe.

"I've got my next case waiting for me down at Department One. I hope
it's a simple six-month, multiple-defendant antitrust or securities
case."

Even Treadwell laughed at the judge's attempt at humor, and as he and
Seth reached the door at the same time, the senior partner held it
open.

"After you, Mr. Cameron."

After a brief, tense wait, the jury returned and Edward Stanton handed
the clerk the verdict. It gave Elena nothing, of course, but declared
Intercontinental Aerospace guilty of negligent design and manufacture
and provided the estate of Mr. Tucker sufficient money to repair the
motel, together with modest lost rents. The verdict form was
supplemented to include a recommendation that, if possible, the court
order the U.S. Air Force to purge its files of "pilot error"
determinations on all four pilots who had died in X-215A's.

A cheer went up from the gallery.

Judge Singer thanked the jurors for their service and excused them. Mr.
Stanton paused at the rail, then turned back to Seth and shook his
hand. He told Seth of his regret that their hands had been tied on
damages.

"But I'll tell you this, son," he added, giving Seth's hand a final
squeeze, "if a verdict could be rendered for heart, you would be a
millionaire now." 59 as THE LAST OF THE JURORS FILED OUT, MOST OF
THEM SMILing at Judge Singer or Seth, Anthony Treadwell quickly packed
his trial bag, then offered his hand to his adversary.

"My client is content to have been spared significant damages, Cameron,
but you and I know who won this case."

Seth shook Treadwell's hand and gave him a tired smile.

"People who were no longer here to speak for themselves," Seth said.

"They were the winners here."

A strange look crossed the senior partner's face as he looked into
Seth's eyes, and he seemed about to say something, but Herbert
Leffingwell walked up and the moment passed.

"You're all over the lot, young man," said Leffingwell, "but you gain
high marks for persistence. Better luck next time."

"Next time will be sooner than you think, Mr. Leffingwell," said
Allyn, who had joined them unnoticed through the rail.

"And next time, better luck is guaranteed."

"Pardon me?" said the amused executive.

"Do I know you?"

"No, but you soon will. Name's Allyn Friedlander. Here's my card. I
represent Mrs. Lee Andrews, widow of the last pilot killed before you
replaced the TDA system."

"What?" said Leffingwell, no longer amused.

"What?" said Seth, equally surprised.

"I suggest, Mr. Leffingwell, that you put Mr. Treadwell here back on
the job," Allyn continued.

"He'll have some bad news for you. It's called collateral estoppel,
which means that this jury's verdict of negligence in the Tucker case
will be binding on Con Space in the Andrews trial. All the plaintiff
will have to do now is get out the calculator and tote up
damages--we're talking mid-seven-figures here, Mr. Leffingwell."
virtuallyEveryone stared at Allyn, including
Seth, an astonished smile on his face.

Treadwell shook his head.

"Cowboy, you bastard."

"Can't take credit for this one, Mr. Treadwell. I didn't even know
she had filed the damn thing. Why didn't you say something, Allyn?"

"Hell, I don't tell the hired help all my business."

Lev, standing several rows back from the rail, broke into laughter.

"She worked you, boy. The Dragon Lady worked you real good!"

Seth joined the laughter, then saw Rosie, shyly approaching behind Lev.
Their eyes connected across the rail, across the years, melting into
one another.

Allyn continued to spar with Treadwell and Leffingwell as Judge Singer
left the bench.

"Here, Allyn," said Seth, handing her his copy of Traeger's
confession.

"This is yours. These admissions will make your stockholders' suit
against Olmstead a slam dunk. In fact, now you've got two big-time
cases not even you could lose."

Allyn scanned the document, her eyes popping with each page.

"Holy shit, Seth! I feel like I'm holding a winning lottery ticket
worth millions. Just pass Go and collect the cash!"

"That's the way I see it," said Seth.

Allyn scanned the last page, then ran a hand through her mop of
curls.

"But it's your ticket," she said, handing the document back.

"So are the cases, Seth, both of them. I've just been holding them in
trust for you. Go get 'em."

Treadwell pushed through the rail toward the door, muttering, "God help
the poor bastards!"

"You earned it, kid," she added wistfully, "a first-class ticket to
ride back to Montgomery Street."

But Seth shook his head.

"Keep it, Allyn. What good is a ticket if you don't want to go where
it takes you. Besides, none of this would have happened without your
help. And Lev's. Call it a down payment."

Rosie looked stunned and exchanged a quick look with Seth, their eyes
speaking again without words.
Allyn grabbed Seth and gave him a quick hug, then shouted to the
senior partner as he reached the door.

"You'll be hearing from us, Mr. Treadwell--from my new partner at
Friedlander and Cameron."

Seth turned to look at Allyn, saw that she was serious.

"If that was an offer, Allyn, I accept."

"Good boy," said Allyn, heading for the door.

"Oh, by the way, there's a contested divorce starting in Marin
tomorrow.

Stop by later and pick up the file."

Then it was Lev's turn. He offered his hand to Seth, but Seth extended
his arms and they embraced warmly.

"What can I ever do to repay you. Lev?"

"For starters. Cowboy, you can pay my bill. Check's fine.

Money order. Any legal tender will do."

The four of them laughed together once more, then Allyn and Lev left,
and Rosie and Seth were alone, holding hands across the rail.
Late-afternoon shadows played around the silent room.

"Come back to me, Rosie."

Rosie looked into his eyes, fighting back tears.

"I don't think so, Seth."

He moved closer to her.

"After Harry died, you said you saw something different in me, Rosie.
Give me a chance to prove it."

"You just did, Seth, but I--" "I know I was stubborn and stupid about
your dreams, spending all that energy convincing myself you didn't have
some special ... ability."

"Everybody has it, Seth. I just inherited a little more than most
people."

"Whatever, I made you hide it. Maybe deep down I was afraid because
you had something to hang your hat on and I only had myself."

Rosie brushed away a tear, then touched his lips with a finger. Seth
took her hand, kissed the finger.

"Look, Rosie, I know I've got a ways to go, but even a blind hog comes
up with an acorn once in a while. I'm catching on."

"I can see that."

"Then come back to Mill Valley. I love you, Rosie. It's not too late
for us."
"Maybe not, Seth darling'," she said, managing a sad smile, "but I
think it may be too soon."

Seth swallowed, started to speak, but saw the truth there swimming in
Rosie's dark eyes and the truth was that she was heading back to
Bakersfield. He saw something else there, too, something hopeful, or
maybe it was a reflection from his own eyes.

Either way, he knew things would be different now.
JOHN MART EL is an ex-U.S. Air Force pilot, a veteran of more than one
hundred trials (with only four losses), and practices law in the San
Francisco firm of Farella Braun & Martel. He has served as consultant
to the Los Angeles District Attorney's Office in the prosecution of
the

O.J.

Simpson case and the retrial of Erik and Lewie Menendez.

His best selling debut novel, Partners, was praised as "a triumph ...
straight off today's front pages" (Frances A. Koestler, Philadelphia
Inquirer). A frequent lecturer and contributor to law reviews, he has
been elected to the American Board of Trial Advocates and is a Fellow
of the American College of Trial Lawyers. Mr. Martel has been
included in every edition of Best Lawyers in America since its
inception. He lives with his wife in Sausalito, Santa Cruz, and
Maui.