THE ALTERNATE
by
John S. Martel

THE ALTERNATE
A BUTTON BOOK

Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England

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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

First published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.

First Printing, May, 1999

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Copyright John Martel, 1999
All rights reserved

"If I Were a Carpenter," by Tim Hardin. Words and music by Tim Hardin.
Copyright 1966 (Renewed) Alien Stanton Productions. International
copyright secured. All rights reserved. Used by permission. "Star Dust,"
by Hoagy Carmichael and Mitchell Parrish .1929 (Renewed) EMI Mills
Music, Inc., and Hoagy Publishing Company in USA. All rights outside USA
controlled by EMI Mills Music, Inc. All rights reserved. Used by
permission. Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc., Miami, FL 33014 "Thin
Line Between Love and Hate," by Robert Poindexter, Richard Poindexcer,
Jackie Members .1971 (Renewed) Cotillion Music, Inc. & Win Or Lose
Music. All rights administered by Cotillion Music, Inc. All rights
reserved. Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc., Miami, FL 33014 yf

REGISTERED TRADEMARK--MARCA REGISTRATION

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS
CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA: Martel, John S. The alternate /John
Martel. p. cm.

ISBN 0-52 5944877

I. Title PS3563.A72315A78 1999
813'.54--dc21 98-52776 CIP

Printed in the United States of America

Set inJanson Text and Matrix Bold

PUBLISHER'S NOTE This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are
used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of
this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a
retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without
the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above
publisher of this book. This book is printed on acid-free paper.

I think that what makes life worth all the trouble are the people
around you; in the end, little else really matters. This book is for two
of those people, whose very existence has perhaps justified my own: My
son, Jay, a lovable soul whose brilliance and wit as a writer often move
me to boast that I'm a block off the young chip; My daughter, Melissa,
whose beauty, strength, and indomitable spirit have constantly nourished
my own.

Special thanks to my agent, Fred Hill, who refused to let me off easy,
and to my loving and indispensable wife, Bonnie, who refused to let me
drive her crazy. Thanks also to my editor, Brian Tart, and to Dutton
president Clare Ferraro, for their wisdom and unsparing support. I am
grateful for the help and encouragement of several good friends with
generous hearts and perceptive eyes, especially George Beckwith, Jon
Beckmann, Barbara McHugh, Bonnie Nadell, Irene Moore, Patsy Smith, Diane
McEwan, Mary Eggleston, and to Eileen Cruz, who never said no to frantic
late-night pleas for typing help. I am again indebted to the mysterious
and reclusive singer-songwriter, Joe Silverhound, for permitting me to
use words from his songs, this time a blues ballad called,
appropriately, "It Kills Me." Finally, thanks to all my buddies at
Farella Braun & Martel, especially Jim Haydel, Randy Wuiff, and Doug
Young, whose enthusiastic reaction to an early draft provided sustenance
for the long trip that lay ahead.

There is something every woman wears around her neck on a thin chain of
fear-an amulet of madness. For each of us, there exists somewhere a
moment of insult so intense that she will reach up and rip the amulet
off, even if the chain tears at the flesh of her neck. -R. Morgan
"Goodbye to All That," in Going Too Far, quoted by Dworkin 1981-1901)

prologue.

Lara Ashford, 1974 Miss. Nebraska, third runner-up Miss. America, and
now the occasionally faithful wife of ex-congressman Elliot Ashford,
steps out of the bath, wraps herself in a towel, and examines herself in
the large mirror over the counter. To "view the wreckage," she muses
with an ironic smile. She turns suddenly, startled by the sound of a
door closing downstairs. The maid? No, she left an hour ago for the
weekend, on the bus by now. A shudder passes through her, but then music
breaks out below and through the upstairs master bedroom speakers. It's
Annie Lennox singing

"Thin Line Between Love and Hate" good and loud, the way she likes it.
The way he knows she likes it. She relaxes, shouts down for him to make
himself a drink. But her visitor is already charging toward her through
the doorway of the bathroom, and Lara Ashford's incipient mock scolding
mutates into a scream of terror as her face is slammed hard into the
mirror in front of her. It's a thin line, the music blares, between love
and hate ...  As her fingernails tear at the hand that is yanking her
head back, the towel slips to the floor and her sudden nudity adds to a
sense of hopeless vulnerability.

Her face in the mirror is now as white as the Italian marble under her
feet but for the blood already spilling down her cheeks. Come on, baby
baby, the music persists, though she isn't hearing it now, you don give
a damn about me ...  For one horrible instant, Lara sees them posed side
by side in a blurred macabre portrait, but then the reflected images
come speeding toward her again and the mirror collides with her face
with shattering force. She tries to scream but gags on her own blood.

She tries to fight back, but it's the futile struggle of an insect on
the end of a pin. The room is growing dark now, her mind succumbing to
the merciful paralysis of shock. She is only vaguely aware that the hand
still locked onto her neck is again propelling her head toward the
splintered mirror, and she knows it now, oh God yes, she knows she's
going to die. Maybe she even deserves to die, she thinks, but Jesus, not
like this! It's a thin line, between love and hate ...  The hand jerks
her head back yet again, but it doesn't matter anymore. She looks at
herself for the last time, her image fragmented now in the shattered
glass as if viewed through a kaleidoscope. Wreckage. She hears a voice
shouting something, but she can't make out the words as her head is
shoved into a final collision with the mirror, fusing what is left of
her face with its ghastly reflected image. Spicules of glass merge with
splinters of bone, cartilage, and flesh, setting off a blast of
exploding light inside her head. Ribbons of blood course down her left
breast, spreading across a small black cross tattooed there. Finally,
she is allowed to collapse to her knees, but her head is jerked back
once more, exposing her white throat. A towel is wrapped around a
gleaming shard of glass and its stiletto tip is thrust into her throat.

As life drains out of Lara Ashford, she is finally blessed with
unconsciousness. Blessed because as the end approaches, the point of the
glass lance is only beginning its grisly work.

Part One.

Investigation.

Neither the sun nor death can be looked at steadily. --La Rochefoucauld
The various and arcane means by which one human being sometimes ended
the life of another had always fascinated Grace Harris, head of the
district attorney's homicide trials team, but this one, she thought,
took the cake. "A shard of glass?" she said, as Chief Investigator Sam
Quon fished the object from a canvas pouch. Quon, graying hair, medium
height, and an unlined, expressionless face that gave no hint of his
nearly sixty years, had moved from the police department to the D.A.'s
office nearly twenty-eight years earlier. "Yeah," he said, "this is it."
He then offered the eighteen-inch exhibit to Grace Harris with
outstretched arms, as an acolyte might hand his bishop a scepter. She
gingerly touched the point, then rocked the glass blade in both hands,
gauging the heft of it. "One would think," she said softly, "that a man
as wealthy as Elliot Ash- ford could have used something more elegant."
Quon nodded. They stood in the center of District Attorney Earl Fields
spacious office on the third floor of San Francisco's Hall of Justice,
waiting to brief him, knowing he would want to be involved in the press
conference soon to begin. They were flanked by luxurious--some said
garish--textured silk coverings on which were hung abstract paintings by
unknown African-American artists, a form of decor favored by Field over
the more traditional service plaques and professional certificates his
predecessor had displayed. The district attorney had made a good deal of
money in private practice before entering public service and didn't mind
showing it off--a practice that both antagonized his detractors and
delighted his supporters. "What broke the mirror?" Grace asked. "Her
face," said Quon. Grace shuddered as she handed the shard back to the
older man. She then picked up the coroner's report and began turning the
pages with fingers uncommonly long and graceful for a petite woman.

Grace had always been shorter than her friends when growing up and had
hated it. Now, at five feet three, though she still sometimes envied
those pencil-thin models that would have towered above her, she was
grateful at the age of forty-two to still be petite in the right places.

Her ankles were trim and shapely, and her flat, firm stomach betrayed no
evidence of a pregnancy now sixteen years in her past. Time, and a
rigorous regimen of work and exercise, had treated her body kindly, and
her facial features were similarly delicate but for eyes that were large
and warm and the color of chestnuts. "Ever meet her, Sam?"

"Once, back when her husband was on the Police Commission. Not too
bright, but a real beauty. Long black hair like yours. Same height as
you, too. In fact, she looked a lot like you."

"Why, Sam Quon, I think you just complimented me." "So sue me," said
Sam. "Anyway, she was a bit weird, but always smiling, looking much
younger than she was. Ashford made life easy for her."

"Not so her death," said Grace softly, still thumbing through the
coroner's report. She turned back to page one. Case number 97-5597, Lara
Ashford: The body is that of a forty-four year-old Caucasian female with
brown eyes and black hair, 64 inches in length and weighing 108 pounds.
Grace unconsciously pursed her lips as she skipped down to "time of
death," estimated at 8:00 p.m. based on "early nonfixed lividity" and
incipient signs of rigor mortis in her neck and jaw. The body was just
beginning to cool to the touch when they found her.

Without looking up, she said, "The maid heard Lara arguing with her
husband at around seven?" "Yeah," said Quon, "on the way out for her
weekend off. Heard quite a commotion. Five hours later, Ashford claims
he 'discovered' his wife's body when he got home. She'd been dead at
least three hours at that point according to forensics."

"Home from what?"

"A movie."

"Of course." Quon anticipated the assistant D.A.'s next question and
added, "Alone. The movie was a rerelease of A Man for All Seasons and in
its third week. Slow night, only three people on duty and nobody saw
him. Ashford couldn't even remember who played the part of Sir Thomas
More. Great movie. Bad choice." Grace arched an eyebrow.

"The old 'phantom alibi' routine?" Quon nodded. "It's strange, isn't it?

A rich, smart politician with Mafia connections does his wife, walks off
leaving his own blood on her fingertips, and can't come up with a decent
alibi in more than three hours?" Grace nodded. "What else do we have on
him?"

"More than you'll ever need," said the chief investigator. "She's
murdered not long after the maid hears Ashford screaming at her.

Ex-lover's name mentioned. No sign of a break-in. Outer doors locked.

Lights out. No rape. Nothing stolen. Crime lab also finds jealous
husband's blood type in the bathroom sink near her body and on a towel.

Throw in the fake alibi when apprehended and it's verdict for the
People." She nodded again, handed the file back to him. "High-profile,"
he continued, "has all the elements. Celebrity suspect. Beautiful
victim. Big bucks and Pacific Heights venue. Particularly heinous crime.

This is the one you've been waiting for, Grace."

"Amazing Grace" Harris had headed the homicide trials team for the past
four years, supervising a staff of six top assistant district attorneys
and personally trying two or tlyee first-degree murder cases a year. She
had earned the highest regard of her opponents at the criminal bar and
was current chair of the Bar Association's criminal law committee. She
had been honored for helping to organize the association's legal
services outreach to the poor and served at the clinic six nights a
month. But she knew Sam was right. This was the case that would provide
the public recognition that all her honors and years in the trenches had
failed to produce. She hardly dared imagine where it all might lead, but
it was no secret that Earl Field had his sights fixed on the governor's
mansion and that a determined group of professional women would support
her if she chose to run against Chief Assistant Jack Klegg, Field's heir
apparent. She pictured her father back in New York, astonished as he
read about her election as district attorney of San Francisco, and the
thought sent a pleasant shiver up her back. "Am I right?" said Sam.

"Slam dunk for the good guys? Hello? Earth to Grace. Come in, Grace."
Grace met Sam's intelligent, patient eyes. "Probably, but it just
doesn't figure Elliot Ashford would be this foolhardy."

"The hell it doesn't," boomed a voice from the doorway. Grace and Sam
turned to see Earl Field strolling toward them, flashing what he called
his "ten-dollar smile" and looking fit in one of his tailored $1,500
suits.

Grace mused that voters who had paid that kind of money for their
automobile or for their first and last month's rent--people to whom Earl
Field was justly a hero--seemed to revel in the D.A.'s excess as much as
in his attacks on the rich. When a reporter once suggested that his
flashy attire seemed out of step with his liberal social agenda, Field
had smiled and replied, "You can't bring a dying city to life dressed
like an undertaker." Field greeted each of them warmly, then circled his
desk and took a seat in his high-backed swivel chair. "Elliot Ashford is
foolhardy, Grace," he said, opening the file Sam had put on his desk.

"Almost as foolhardy as he is arrogant."

"Arrogant, yes," said Grace, taking a seat across from him, "but nobody
took Ashfbrd for a fool when he was the conservatives' fair-haired boy
in Congress."

"Oh, he was in Congress all right," said Field with a raucous laugh,
exposing teeth that would have looked unnaturally white even without the
contrast of his ebony skin. "Which explains why the deficit got so high.
Notice how things have improved since he left?" Grace smiled but
persisted. "If Elliot Ashford, with all his rumored mob connections,
brains, and money, killed his wife between seven and eight, he'd have
had at least three hours to concoct a better alibi than going to a movie
alone.The defense will argue that makes him either innocent or too
stupid to have even located the congressional men's room."

"Okay, Grace, you win. You've convinced me he's even more arrogant than
he is foolish. The man's problem is that he's been getting away with
murder in this town so long he thinks he's above the law." Grace saw the
warning spark in the D.A.'s eyes and decided to back off. For now, at
least. She was aware of Field s hatred for Ashford and saw no point in
deflecting any of it toward herself. The politically conservative
Ashford had been using his wealth and media contacts to harass Earl
Field since the day Field entered politics as the only black member of
the Board of Supervisors, then later as a crusading state assemblyman,
and now as the city's chief law enforcement officer. Some insiders
believed that Field was envious of Ashford's fame and immense wealth,
but others conjectured that their mutual animosity was grounded as much
in their similarities as in their differences. After all, both men were
smart, colorful, and dashing, drove fast cars, wore expensive clothes,
and had shamelessly frequented Las Vegas. Both loved power and had
gained it without yielding to the conventions normally associated with
elective office, and both were revered by their constituents in a city
known for its eclectic and tolerant nature. Finally, both had married
beautiful women, and as of yesterday, they shared the status of eligible
bachelors. But Grace knew their bitter enmity went deeper than politics
and was more primal than a matter of clashing political philosophies.
She knew that Earl Field had committed the unpardonable sin of dating
Lara Lake before she became Lara Ashford, and had then compounded his
initial offense years later by asking her to dance one night at an
inaugural ball in Sacramento. Lara had risen to his invitation a bit too
eagerly, onlookers recalled, then smiled as they slow-danced away from
the heat of Elliot Ashford's glare, her white-gloved arms twisting like
pipe stems around Field's tux-clad shoulders and licorice neck, drifting
across the floor as smoothly as a pair of ice-skaters toward a column
behind which a beat photographer for the Sacramento Bee was about to
have his prayers answered. Grace felt Field's eyes on her, reading her
thoughts. "He's been a crook, Grace, now he's a wife killer. Sure, he's
also been a burr under my saddle and people will talk. Let 'em talk.
I've got his ass planted on a steel bunk on the sixth floor, and it's
going to stay there until it's time for him to be strapped down and
dance the funky chicken flat on his back."

"You'll ask for the death penalty?" said Sam. "Hell yes, Sam. The guy
tortured her. "Special circumstances'!" Sam looked unconvinced.

"Sure, she was tortured, Chief, but going for the needle on Ashford on a
domestic-violence killing will make it tougher to get a murder one
conviction." Field looked up, his eyes smiling. "Nearly thirty years a
D.A. investigator and it just now comes out you're opposed to the death
penalty?"

"Earl's right," said Grace. "We can't make exceptions." Sam shrugged.
"I'm just saying the guy's got fans out there." He might have been
President, some San Franciscans said of Elliot Ash- ford. He had made
all the right moves since his election to Congress in 1978, had once
even given the keynote at the Republican national convention and, thanks
in part to his populous home state, had even been considered a
front-runner as a vice presidential candidate. But a tabloid piece
picked up by the Washington Post revealing lurid details of Lara's fling
with U.S. Senator Dwight Clifton--the name overheard by the maid during
the argument just before Lara's murder--combined with sudden cash-flow
problems, had forced the publicly cuckolded Ashford back to private life
in San Francisco. Despite his expulsion in shame from the nation's
capital, Elliot Ashford remained in the national limelight, for no city,
not even San Francisco with its colorful, chaotic history, could boast a
man with more notorious and contradictory credentials than Elliot
Ashford. Although the SFPD organized crime and drug units suspected that
his construction company now fronted a mob money-laundering operation,
he had once sat on the mayor's Police Commission. Known as a fiscal
conservative during his service in Washington, he had personally
provided seed financing for the city's second-largest homeless shelter.

And although friends said he had forgiven his gorgeous wife's
indiscretions, he now sat in the city jail charged with her murder. The
newspapers and tabloids were in ecstasy, for the celebrity couple had
been dogged for years by rumors of adultery and other consensual sins
unbefitting their high social station. Ashford's list included reckless
gambling and womanizing; even Lara's older sister Shannon was rumored to
have succumbed to his charm, causing a bitter rift between the sisters.

And Lara's association with cult figures in San Francisco, together with
the graphic expose of her affair with Senator Clifton in Washington, had
helped relegate her husband to a political boneyard from which not even
his ambition and wealth could deliver him. The jealous-spouse motive
made spicy tabloid reading, thought Grace, but the media's interest in
the Lara-Clifton affair had died out with the famous couple's return to
San Francisco, and they'd have to find a better motive. "How long will
it take to get a DNA blood match on Ashford?" '"They're working up a PCA
analysis as we speak," said Sam. "It'll confirm the type AB match we've
already got."

"Sounds like a slam dunk," Field murmured. Grace watched her steepled
fingers tapping against one another as they did sometimes when something
was troubling her.

"Something bothering you, Grace?" asked Field. "You're
uncharacteristically quiet today." "It seems almost too perfect," said
Grace. "I guess I'm looking for the grinch."

"Say again?"

"The grinch," said Grace. "For starters, it's August now. I suppose
they'll stall long enough to try for a Christmas mercy verdict." Field
stirred impatiently.

"No grinch. We won't let them stall. No mercy verdict. It's airtight,
Grace. Clear jealousy motive. Ashford's blood everywhere. Lied about
where he was."

"Then he'll try to plea-bargain."

"We won't let him."

"All the way?" "To the death," said Field, grinning. "Hell, Grace,
you're supposed to be the by-the-book hard-ass in this office. What the
hell more do you want?" "What do I want?" said Grace, trying to control
a growing impatience with Field's macho optimism. "I want an analysis of
the victim's fingernail scrapings for starters. Then I want PCA DNA
confirmation on the blood, a thorough investigation of all other
suspects--ex-lovers, rivals, cult associations, whatever. Then I want
statements from all the neighbors and relatives as well as confirmation
of Ashford's reputed mob connections. That's what I want. For starters."

"You heard the woman," said Field to Sam. "She wants the perfect case."
"The perfect case?" said Grace, shaking her head. "There's no such
thing."

"Well, this is as close to one as I've ever seen, and with your help,
Grace, I'm going to nail the bastard." Grace's head snapped around.
"With my help?"

"It wdll be terrific," said Field, his head buried in the police report.
"We've never tried a case together." U "Together," she murmured as the
realization sunk in. She glanced at Sam.

He looked away. Grace had found the grinch .2 The next day, Grace
Harris, Earl Field, and Sam Quon ducked under the yellow tape at the
doorway of Ashford's Pacific Heights mansion and walked into the entry
rotunda. Six flying buttresses arched thirty feet above them and met at
the top in a spectacular crown of gold-leaf detail. Between each
support, the late morning sun slanted through a web of leaded and
stained glass, tinting the walls and marble flooring with a rose hue
that seemed a harbinger of what lay ahead. "Impressive," said Grace. /
"If you like an architectural souffle of Frank Lloyd Wright and
nineteenth- century Gothic," sniffed Field. "I could adjust," she said.

"I hope you have a lot of friends," said Quon. "The place has sixteen
rooms." "With this house," she said, "I'd have friends." He then led
them into the living room, centered on a fireplace the size of a station
wagon. They glanced to the right at an indoor swimming pool covered with
a sliding roof. Fine art hung everywhere: a Sisley and a Caillebotte in
the living room, a pair ofcalders in the dining room, and a Poussin in
the upper hallway. The view of the Bay from the upstairs master bedroom
was interrupted only by a grand circular garden with a Henry Moore at
the nucleus. A golden sheen on the leaves of the surrounding trees
hinted of autumn, and the sky looked freshly washed, clear but for some
puffs of altocumulus clouds hanging like white cotton candy high and to
the northwest. In surreal contrast, the master bathroom looked like a
slaughterhouse. A crude figure-outline drawn in chalk on the dark marble
floor marked the spot. A rust brown residue of dried blood spread beyond
the chalk lines and covered nearly half the Italian granite countertop
as well. Grace swallowed hard as she imagined the violence of the act,
the remnants of its raw ferocity revealed in scarlet stains splattered
high across the adjacent south side of the room. Lara Ashford had
dressed here, thought Grace, made herself up here, bathed here, died
here. Grace methodically traced the final downward passage of one of the
victim's hands--the right one apparently--as it reached out before
sliding downward in bold finger-strokes toward a brass fixture that was
also caked solid rust-brown. There were five distinct crimson spoors
leading to the hand's final resting place on the floor. She glanced up
at Field and saw that he and Sam were studying the missing drainage trap
from the red-stained basin on the left. "It's marked and in the lab,
Chief," said Quon. "Ditto the towels." Glass from the shattered mirror
still covered the floor. "A violent struggle," said Grace, looking
around. "My guess is we'll find our verdict under her fingernails." Sam
nodded. "The DNA work on the scrapings will take a while, but that
should lock it up for us."

"Tell them to rush it, Sam," said Field gruffly. "I'm going to hang this
bastard." Grace noted his use of the first-person singular and started
to say something, then decided to wait until they were alone. "Are the
police looking at other possible suspects?" asked Grace. "What other
possible suspects?" said Field.

"We've got everything but a video of Ashford doing the deed!"

"True, but I always like to--"

"There are no other suspects, Grace. Not this time.

Look at this mess! It screams out domestic violence!" Sam jumped in. "I
think the cops pretty much agree, Grace."

"So when we're accused by the defense and maybe the press of'rushing to
judgment," " said Grace stiffly, bending down for a closer look at blood
traces on the tile floor, "we just say, "Hey, the cops agreed with us'?"

"Lighten up, Grace," said Field, "we've got our--"

"Wasn't Senator Clifton in town on a fund-raiser?" she said, now down on
one knee, staring at the floor.

"And aren't there rumors that the lady had a local boyfriend? I also
remember a bit in an old Herb Caen column years ago suggesting that
Lara's own sister--Shannon something--had a fling with Ashford,
resulting in a major falling-out between the two women. They hated each
other. Have the police talked to her? Have we? And wasn't Lara involved
in some weird touchy-feelv circles? Come on, Earl, Lara wasn't some
shrinking violet or a prim Junior League matron. She was out here."
Grace could feel Field staring down at her back, watching her as she
rubbed a finger over the stained tile. "Are you finished, Grace?" he
said. "Almost," she said, rising and studying one of the basins, also
blotched 13 with a rust-colored residue. "Until we get a clear DNA
match, we'd better show the good citizens that we still consider
people--even people you don't like, Earl--innocent until proven guilty.

It's in the Constitution. Check it out." Grace glanced up and saw that
Field was giving her a surprised look, a look that said she was being
excessively scrupulous and living up to her hard-ass reputation. She was
used to Earl always needing to be the smartest guy in the room, but he
had irritated her, talking about what he was going to do, treating her
like a reasonably able subordinate. And now she had irritated him. But
Field gave Sam Quon a wry smile. "Sam," he said, "is this the same
avenging crusader who in her early years prosecuted a pregnant woman for
a convenience-store milk heist, sent away a functionally blind man for
rape, busted a seventy-year-old street beggar on a battery charge over a
failed purse snatch, then, in later years, sent five men--all black--to
death row?" Grace's eyes narrowed. She had accepted the litany as the
usual teasing until the racial reference. The trouble with Earl, she
thought, was you never really knew for sure. He could be charming you
with his perfect smile at the same time his eyes were flashing danger.

"Those five men p-picked their victifns, Earl," she said, trying to
conceal her vexation, hating her slight slammer. "I didn't pick them as
defendants."

"Easy, Grace," said Sam. "The chief is just referring to that tattoo on
your forehead that says, "Do the Crime; Do the Time."

" Everyone laughed, Grace too, though it hurt that everyone thought of
her as hard-nosed and rigid, a zero-tolerance prosecutor who'd put you
away for just looking like you might tear the label off that mattress.
It was the way she had seen her father, an ultraorthodox Hasidic Jewish
rabbi who thought all that was necessary to achieve Utopia, Arcadia, and
the Elysian fields was rigid adherence to the Law. She'd always been
critical of her father's rigidity, his legalistic nature, but she had
come to see that the apple truly never falls far from the tree. Field
softened his eyes. "Hell, Grace, we've got more than enough evidence
right now. Let's take it to a preliminary hearing next week. He'll be
held to answer in two hours." Grace winced inwardly. "That would be
dangerous, Earl. We'd be opening up our entire case to the defense long
before we have to. Worse, our witnesses would be subjected to
cross-examination if we took it to a prelim."

"You'll make sure they're well prepared."

"That won't stop the press from coming out of the woodwork."

"You've got a problem with the First Amendment, Grace?"

"You mean the Fourth Estate?"

"I mean it'll be a walk in the park." And a very high-profile walk at
that, Grace thought. She knew that like many politicians, Earl Field was
often caught between ambition and duty.

Well, she mused, at least he had begun speaking in the first-person
plural. "Let's take it to the grand jury instead, Earl," she said. "No
reporters, but no defense lawyers or cross-examination either." Field
looked at Sam, who offered a barely perceptible nod. Grace could
practically hear Field's brain computing the possibilities. Was he so
eager for the publicity he would risk jeopardizing the case by giving
the defense an advance shot at their witnesses? "Oh, hell, all right,"
he said gruffly. "Go ahead and prepare a grand jury application."

"Soon as we get back," she said. "And work up a witness list too, Grace.
Bare minimum."

"Done. Want me to handle the tech people?" Field said nothing, just
stood there staring at the chalk outline. Grace began to think he hadn't
heard her. "That won't be necessary," he said at last. "Without any
defense lawyers present, I can handle it alone."

"Alone? But--"

"That way we can keep you in the wings for a while; you know, our secret
weapon." Grace and Sam exchanged a look. Sam's seemed to say, The grand
jury was your big idea, kid. Checkmate and game to the smartest guy in
the room. "Let's get the hell out of here," Field added, and walked
briskly past them. "Right," said Grace, no longer able to conceal the
frustration in her voice. A smile brightened Earl Field's face a week
later as he sat alone at the head of the conference table in the west
wing of his spacious office, studying the morning papers. His name was
mentioned eleven times on the front page of the Chronicle--a record
since his election three years before. He knew that this publicity would
confirm Grace's suspicion that he had insinuated himself into the case
purely for political reasons. Good, let her think it. Newspapers from
L.A., Chicago, and New York littered a flawless twelve- foot slab of
glass cantilevered off aluminum cylinders, all heralding the indictment
of the ex-congressman. Ashford's former political visibility had
combined with the heinous nature of the crime to generate nationwide
publicity, and Field had added fuel to the fire by leaking information
to a reporter at a local paper. He now had one of the highest profiles
of any Democrat in California, and the publicity surrounding this case
would keep it that way. Knowledgeable trial watchers would say the
district attorney was already trying his case. Good. He smiled, thinking
how right he had been in predicting a walk in the park.

Following a two-hour hearing--with brief appearances by the Ashfbrd
family's maid, the lead police homicide inspector, the county coroner,
and his chief forensic pathologist--Ashford had swiftly been indicted.

Delicately brandishing the murder weapon, Field had led the coroner
through his testimony, emphasizing the rarity ofashford's type AB blood
found on the fingertips of the victim and on a towel that had apparently
served as a makeshift handle for the shard of glass that had delivered
the coup de grace. The district attorney rose and refilled his cup with
a special Colombian blend from a beaker brewed hourly by his
confidential secretary. He paused at the sideboard and stared out over
the factories and warehouses toward the Bay. He had been lucky no one on
the grand jury had asked about the fingernail scrapings, last seen in a
sealed plastic bag between the two carved marble washbasins. Lucky,
because no one could account for the whereabouts of that crucial bit of
evidence. He returned to his chair and the comfort of the Chronicle
article. He turned to the part that described "exclusive new evidence,
revealed by a reliable source." He grinned at that--his mother used to
call him "reliable" too--then read that Coroner Thomas Yang, one of
California's leading authorities in criminal forensics, would testify
that the victim had been "tortured by puncture wounds to the breasts and
genitalia before a thrust of a glass shard into the throat mercifully
ended her pain." The Chronicle article didn't stop there, nor did the
chain of proof connecting Ashford to the vicious murder. Dr. Anthony
Ferrero would testify at trial that the killing typified the frenzied
rage found in cases of domestic violence, corroborated by a previous
wife-battering incident called in to Washington, D.C., police by a
neighbor. Throw in the maid's testimony, a solid blood-type match, a
fake and discredited alibi attempt, and the absence of forcible
entry--circumstantial, to be sure, but it all added up. Earl Field
smiled as he tilted back in his chair, but his satisfaction at the
agreeable publicity began to fade as he contemplated the challenge
before him. He knew that rusty as he was, he could easily have won this
case even without Grace Harris. Anyone could. The trick would be how to
lose it, and lose it in a way that didn't blow his chances of being
elected governor. The presiding judge's appointment of the Honorable
John G. Hernandez as trial judge had come as no surprise. Hernandez was
an impeccable choice, a man widely admired for his intelligence and his
firm, but evenhanded, judicial temperament. The P.J. wanted no repeat of
the Simp- son debacle. Judge Hernandez's first judicial act would be to
hear a defense motion to reconsider an earlier judge's denial of bail. A
copy of the motion was served on the D.A., and Grace Harris's secretary
cheerfully carried the documents into her boss's office. "Read all about
it," said the secretary. "Here's the summons for your debut." Grace
scanned the motion in twenty seconds and said, "Same thing they tried
before. John Hernandez will deny the motion from the bench without even
wanting to hear from me." She found Earl Field in his office, hunched
over the defendant's moving papers. "We lucked out," she said. "John
Hernandez? You bet. Liberal, but true-blue, law-and-order. Just like
you, Grace. I tried a case before him when I was in private practice.

Solid. Won't rattle. See Ashford's motion?" "It's a farce," said Grace,
holding up the three-page motion in her right hand. "Absolutely nothing
new. Want me to walk it through alone?" Field raised an eyebrow, then
leaned back, hands locked behind his head as he took in a deep breath
and let it out, staring at the ceiling. Then he pitched forward in his
chair again and studied the motion papers as if for the first time, his
palms planted on either side of the document. Grace stood watching the
performance with increasing curiosity, then moved closer to the desk
that separated them. "Alone," he repeated absently, as if to himself,
his eyes still staring blankly at the papers between his hands. "I just
meant we might look overly concerned showing up together."

"My thinking precisely, Grace," said Field, looking up at her across his
ebony barricade of a desk. "I'd better go a la carte. Save you for the
afterdinner surprise." Grace bit her lower lip. She should have seen it
right away, she told herself. Field wasn't going to share the limelight
this case would generate with her or anyone else. She would be the woman
behind the man. Papa would approve. "I'm not good at coming out of a
cake, Earl," she said, standing in front of his desk, arms folded.

"Maybe it's time to talk about whether I'm coming out at all." Field
flashed his perfect smile and slowly rotated his carefully groomed head.

"Grace, Grace, Grace," he said, his tone light and conciliatory, hands
still flat on the top of his desk. "I'm simply off on another fool's
errand unworthy of your consummate skill and competence: a 'farce," as
you so aptly put it, a bail request hearing even I can't lose." The
phone rang and he picked it up, then offered Grace an apologetic shrug.

"Sorry, Grace, I've got a problem in South City."

"You've got a problem right here on the third floor, Earl."

"What?"

"You're about to lose the head of your homicide trials team." Field rose
to his feet. "Grace, don't be--" "Realistic?" said Grace, taking the
phone that was still in his hand and replacing it in the cradle. "I'll
cochair this case with you, Earl, but I've paid my dues and I won't
second-chair with anyone, not even you." Field met her gaze, then looked
away. "I never intended for you to function as second chair." "Nor did
I," she said, and headed for the door. "Go ahead and handle this motion
alone if you want, but from tomorrow on, it's either a full partnership
or you can get Jack Klegg to schlepp your briefcase to court for you."
As Grace walked out the door, she glanced back and saw Earl Field
reaching for the phone, gloomily shaking his head. As Grace expected,
the judge made short work of the bail motion, despite the vigorous
advocacy of Ashford's lawyer, a stocky pit bull from Los Angeles named
Al Menghetti who was known for his string of acquittals in high-profile
cases. Grace mused from her seat in the back of the courtroom that
Menghetti's appearance, with his double-breasted herringbone suit,
massive girth, size eight, square-shaped head, and fleshy, pockmarked
face, presented a conspicuous contrast to the handsome, small-boned
district attorney. Once the arguments were under way, however, she had
to admit that Menghetti made his points efficiently and with just the
right touch of passion. Lie then swung into his conclusion with a review
of Good Citizen Ashford's sterling record in support of law-and-order
legislation while "serving this district in Congress." Earl Field yawned
for effect. "No one has done more for our criminal justice system,"
intoned Menghetti, moving behind his client and dramatically placing
both hands on his shoulders, "and no one has asked less of it." Grace
wondered if Earl would open by saying no one has done less and asked
more, but Menghetti wasn't finished. "All he asks now of the system is
that he be released on bail, so that he might rejoin his friends in
mourning the loss of his cherished wife." Field started to rise for his
reply, but Hernandez waved him back down without looking at him.
Hernandez, youthful-looking for his fifty-five years, without a trace of
gray in either his hair or mustache, was known for making decisive
rulings based on law and common sense, not glib rhetoric. "I agree with
Judge Lucy McCabe's earlier ruling, Mr. Menghetti," he said, glancing at
the reddening face of Elliot Ashford. "This is a capital murder case
alleging torture, on top of which your client is known to possess great
wealth and useful connections. I consider him a viable flight risk." A
low rumble went up from the gallery in Department 26: reporters, family
members, and the usual curious spectators who just wanted a peek at
Elliot Ashford. "One moment, Your Honor," persisted Al Menghetti,
planting his stocky frame against the oak lectern. "Mr. Ashford's
picture is on the front pages of newspapers all over the world! I ask
you: Where's he going to go?" John Hernandez looked down at Menghetti
with a smile that briefly softened his stern face. "Nowhere, Mr.
Menghetti," he said quietly. "Your client's going absolutely nowhere." 4
Elliot Ashford was led toward one of the small visitor rooms on the
sixth floor of the Thomas J. Cahill Hall of Justice, feeling like one of
his horses being guided to the paddock. He had been brought up from the
facility at San Bruno early that morning and placed in a small holding
cell .19 The clang of steel doors, the smell of his own jail sweat, and
the clinging chill of an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit would stick in his
memory forever, even if he did get out of this mess alive. What the hell
is happening to me? he thought. "You say somethin', Elliot?" grunted the
guard. "No," said Ashford sullenly, hating the man's easy familiarity,
"but I would like to know the identity of my visitor. Is it my lawyer,
Mr. Menghetti?"

"Dunno. Some guy from outta state." Tony! thought Ashford. Bless you, my
boy! My salvation, and not a moment too soon! While he waited in the
bleak room--four gray acoustic tile-paneled walls, a gray ceiling, a
small wooden table, and two chairs--Elliot Ashford pondered the fate
that had involved him with men like Carmine Rizzo and Tony, Carmine's
firstborn son; men who took enormous pride in their loyalty to one
another, but who until now had left him hanging by his thumbs. Just as
Meyer Lansky had once sent Bugsy Siegel to run the Flamingo, Don Carmine
Rizzo had assigned son Tony to manage the Acropolis. Tony and Elliot
Ashford soon became casual friends, and ironically, it was Tony's
generous extension of credit that proved to be Elliot's undoing.

Elliot's trouble had begun with the rocketing of interest rates to
nearly 20 percent during the recession of the early eighties. Resource
International, the engineering and construction company that dominated
the consolidated financial statement of the family holding company, was
already choking on debt when a massive housing and shopping center
project in L.A. went sour in 1984 and nearly took the company down. A
bad time for Elliot to be serving in the House of Representatives in
Washington, D.C. An even worse time for him to lose nearly four million
dollars in less than a year playing baccarat at the Acropolis.

"Something can always be worked out," Don Carmine had said to Elliot
after Tony had reported the situation, and a deal was struck that would
not only excuse Elliot's debt but save the company. And now, here he was
in a twelve-by-twelve-foot cell, waiting for the Rizzos to save him
again. The door opened. "Hello, Elliot," came a raspy voice. "Julian?

Julian Gold?" exclaimed Ashford in disgust. "Jesus!" "The former," said
Gold, offering a bony hand. "Sorry to disappoint you." Elliot turned
away to avoid taking the extended hand. "Where's Tony?" asked Elliot
coldly. "In Chicago, of course," said the Chicago Mafia's master
strategist and mnsigliere, the lawyer who had masterminded the deal in
which Ashford's debt to the Acropolis was forgiven. Don Rizzo had not
just wiped out the debt, but had plowed sixty million dollars into
Resource International in return for 34 percent of the Ashford family
holding company stock and Elliot Ashford's commitment to leave Congress
to resume active management of the company. The stock, though illiquid,
was worth much more than sixty million on paper, but Ashford knew enough
about the Rizzo family to realize he had no choice. As the family's
anointed Las Vegas bruglioni. Tony Rizzo was also charged with keeping
an eye on the Chicago family's new investment in Resource International.

Tony looked young for his forty-eight years. He was five years younger
than Elliot, a little taller than Elliot's six-foot height, and
possessed of a low hairline and even lower IQ. Tony was smart enough,
however, to see that one of Elliot's greatest gifts was in the
management of his burgeoning corporate empire--so long as he was not
distracted by politics, gambling, or a cheating wife. Tony's gift, it
turned out, was in making sure that Elliot was not distracted. For
Elliot's part, he regarded Tony Rizzo much the same as he viewed his
three pet rottweilers: obedient, protective, and undemanding. Though he
missed the gambling he had been forced to relinquish as part of the deal
with Carmine, he began to embrace and enjoy the notoriety of having
people think he was "connected." So what if people thought he was a key
figure in some dark empire? He loved it. "How are they treating you,
Elliot?" said Gold, pushing his half-moon glasses higher on his hawklike
nose. Elliot paced, feeling the consigliere's amused eyes on him.

"Something funny, Julian? You think this is funny?" "No," said Gold, his
eyes scanning Ashford's jail garb. "It's just that you look quite
scholarly with your wire-rimmed spectacles and that austere jumpsuit;
more like a celibate in a monk's cell than a prisoner."

"I'm every inch a prisoner, I assure you," said Elliot coldly, looking
closely for the first time at the older man. Gold, bent from childhood
polio and burdened with a corrective boot on one foot, gazed back at
him. A shiver passed through the younger man as he studied the
consigliere. Gold's pallid face was as expressive as stucco, except that
his down-turned mouth, soaring eyebrows, and nose gave him the look of a
crippled bird of prey. Elliot wanted to grab his bony shoulders and
shake him, but the visitor made no response, just shifted his impassive
gaze toward a fly perched above the door of the bleak conference cell.
Gold coughed into a handkerchief, which he carefully folded and restored
to his pocket. "Don Carmine is concerned about three things, Elliot.
First, this Op-Ed piece from yesterday's Chicago Tribune. Listen: The
murder trial of an ex-congressman from San Francisco is expected to
reveal the continuing reach of the Chicago crime syndicate. The Rizzo
family is known to be in partnership with defendant Elliot Ash ford,
conceivably a West Coast Mafia don himself. But the source of the
problem is right here in Chicago, and it's time for the FBI and our
local authorities to vigorously deal with it!" "My God," said Elliot,
"that's ridiculous!"

"Agreed," sniffed Gold. "I detest split infinitives. But the point is
that while Carmine knows you did not kill Lara, the notoriety
surrounding this unfortunate incident has already migrated to Chicago,
causing him considerable embarrassment." Ashford spun around and stared
at Gold, his eyes glazed with anger." Unfortunate incident?

Considerable embarrassment? I've lost a -wife I loved, for God's sake;
I'm facing the death penalty for something I couldn't possibly have
done; and you talk to me about Carmine's embarrassment." Ashford's
outburst seemed to go unnoticed by Gold as he folded the clipping and
put it away. "Second, there is the little matter of his sixty million
dollars."

"Christ, Julian, he should know he needn't be--"

"Please, Elliot," said the consigliere, "allow me to finish." Although
Gold's voice remained calm, Ashford noticed that a spark had flared
again in his normally stony eyes. "We simply need to know more about
your key personnel, the executives who will be protecting Carmine's
investment while you are detained." Ashford let out a short, sardonic
burst of laughter at Gold's euphemism and turned away from him. "Third,
and most'important," Gold continued, as casually as if reading from a
wine list, "you must understand that Tony cannot assist you in this
matter." Ashford's head snapped around. He took a quick breath and
fought to remain calm. "Tony cannot 'assist' me?" growled Ashford,
almost choking on the words. He ran long fingers through his straight
blond hair, then turned back toward the wall and slapped it so hard his
hands stung.

"Hell, Julian, haven't I 'assisted' him? Haven't I protected his
identity so far? But now he's got to come out here. He's my alibi, for
God's sake!"

"Carmine appreciates your silence," said Gold, but then his expression
hardened as he added, "and you'd do well to maintain it. Use your head,
El- hot. Carmine cannot allow Tony to admit he violated the terms of his
parole that night. He'd be looking at a minimum fifteen to thirty years
in a federal Penitentiary." Ashford's shoulders sagged as the cold
reality of his situation began to sink in. He lowered himself into a
chair, rubbed thumbs against his red- streaked eyes. "Okay, then," he
gasped at last, "you want to protect your precious investment?

Then get me the hell out of here! I was once on the Police Commission,
for God's sake, and some of the thugs in here can actually read
newspapers. They'll kill me before the state can get around to it!" Gold
again made no response to his outburst, and Ashford felt compelled by
the silence to turn around, to confront the older man's cold gaze.

"Tony's got to come out here and testify, Julian," he whispered, hating
the fear seeping into his voice. "He's got to tell the truth!" Gold
hunched his scoliotic shoulders into a shrug. "Come now, Elliot," he
began, "try to understand the situation. You're a lightning rod out
here. You've shot your mouth off against the D.A. for years and
presumably derived satisfaction from doing so. It's no secret you hate
his politics and the fact that he was once friends with Lara." Ashford
wanted to scream, to drive Gold's composed face, with its trace of a
condescending smile, into the wall. "Don't be absurd!" he said. "Lara
dated him once or twice, for God's sake! Before I even knew her."

"I'm just trying to tell you," said Gold, brushing away a fly perched on
his shoulder, "that I sympathize. But now Mr. Field has the upper hand
and there's too much heat surrounding you. Do you really expect Carmine
to put his only son on the sacrificial altar for you? To allow Tony to
repeat the mistake he made coming out here that night? Or even admit
that he was out here? That would be shameful."

"Shameful," murmured Ashford. He fell into a chair, planted both elbows
on the table, and let his face sink into his hands. His skin was cold.
He sat like that for a minute, feeling slightly faint, barely hearing
Gold's continuing monotone. "Tony himself now realizes he took a stupid
risk breaking the terms of his parole to come out here to work with you
that night." Ashford's head snapped up. "Work with me? Listen, Julian, I
didn't ask Tony to break his parole and fly into Napa that night.
Indeed, I told him I could answer all his questions about the year-end
figures by telephone! Sure, we worked together that night, but the real
reason he came out was to see his mistress of the moment--Ruth Sikes or
Sipes or something like that--a girl he's put up somewhere in Sonoma."

"Yet another lapse in Tony's judgment that Carmine would not like
hearing about. In any event, he won't allow any of it to come out now,
so put it out of your mind." Ashford leapt to his feet. "I'm damned if I
will," he said angrily, meeting Gold's eyes. "I'm damned if I'll let
Carmine throw me to the wolves!" Again, Gold's only response was a cold,
metallic glare, but Ashford held his gaze this time. He knew he was
irritating the powerful consigliere, but Gold was in his town now, and
he was not accustomed to bowing to others, let alone to this walking
cadaver.

"You're not hearing me, Elliot," Gold said. "A parole violation would
p-I've the feds the excuse they're looking for to nail Tony for good.

Carmine will never allow that to happen, even if Tony wanted to help."

"And you're not hearing me, Julian! Need I remind you that if I cease to
function as chairman of the board of the family holding company for a
period of one year, the terms of my father's trust require reversion of
all stock in Resource back to the Ashford Foundation, including
Carmine's?"

"I know that, Elliot, and Don Carmine understood that risk at the time
he made his deal with you."

"Well, that's ducky. And does he also understand that if I'm convicted,
I can't serve as chairman? And that the insurance policy he took out on
my life won't apply if I'm executed for a crime? That his sixty million
will die with me?" Gold nodded. "He understands." Elliot laughed
genuinely for the first time in days. "Then don't you see, old sport?
You and Carmine have no choice but to help me out of this mess!" Gold
said nothing for a moment, then swatted absently at the pesky fly, now
darting between them. "Another way of looking at it, Elliot, is that you
have no choice but to let us.

But forget about Tony; he won't be a part of it." Ashford leaned across
the table, succumbing to a growing despair, his contorted face within
inches of Gold's. "You're still not getting it, Julian," he growled.

"Field hates me, as you have brilliantly deduced. He's also got a
truckload of circumstantial evidence. If this case goes to trial, it
could get very messy. For all of us." Gold shrugged, his eyes cold and
unlit. If he had perceived any threat in his words, he gave little
indication of it, other than to briefly raise one eyebrow and issue a
bored sigh. "You are innocent, are you not, Elliot?" Gold said finally,
in the tone of a lawyer questioning a witness. "Still the benign
Brahmin, known for his kind deeds and great contributions to the
commonweal? One of nature's noblemen?" Ashford's features went blank. He
knew Gold rarely engaged in sarcasm, and certainly not humor. "Your
point?" he murmured. "Specifically," continued the consigliere, "you
told the police you cut yourself shaving that night, isn't that so? Some
residue in the basin combined with your wife's blood, did it not?"

"Of course that's what I told them," shouted Ashford, "because that's
precisely what happened! The basin I shave in is right under the mirror
the killer pushed her into."

"Excellent, and the towel--with both your blood and hers on it?" Ashford
shook his head impatiently. "I must have wiped blood onto the towel
after I shaved. This may not have occurred to you, Julian, but that's
precisely what towels are for." Gold's fierce gaze forced Ashford to
drop his eyes. He then sat back down across from the consigliere, rubbed
his temples with both hands, and tried to subdue his emotions. "Don't
you see, Julian? The killer must have had Lara's blood on his hands or
gloves, then wiped them on the towel after I'd used it. Or maybe he used
it as a handle for the weapon, which mixed her blood up with mine that
was already there!" Gold sucked in a deep breath, exhaled, and seemed to
will his reluctant features into something close to a smile, though only
his lips participated. Ashford hated that smile, hated the man behind
it, hated having to explain himself to him. "So, Elliot," Gold said,
"verdict for the defendant! You see? You have no need for Tony. You need
only to relax." Ashford looked away, feeling it all slipping away.
"You're a lawyer, Julian; you know it's never that easy. Without Tony,
Field will find a way to beat me." Gold shook his head as if impatient,
though Ashford knew the consigliere never yielded to such commonplace
emotions. After a minute of silence, Gold glanced over his shoulder,
then leaned in close and spoke so softly Ashford had to put his ear
against the consigliere's mouth to hear him.

"There are things you don't know, Elliot; things I cannot tell you. But
when I tell you to relax, you would be well advised to do so." Gold's
words were both threatening and comforting, and but for the tone of
finality with which they were uttered, Ashford would have sought
clarification. "Okay, Julian, I'll try," he said at last, hating the
sound of his own voice, the frail murmur of a supplicant, "but at least
get me out of here on bail. I can't bear another day here." Gold said
nothing, his attention again drawn to the solitary fly that had now
landed and was grooming itself on the table between them. Ashford
couldn't stand the silence and rose to his feet. "Damn it, you officious
bastard, say something!" Gold's hand slammed down on the table. Ashford
jumped. Gold turned his hand over, then flicked the dead fly from his
palm onto the floor with the side of his other hand. "Sit down, Elliot,
and pay attention. Now." Ashford looked at the tiny corpse with mingled
repugnance and empathy. Then he sat. "Understand that we want you out of
here as much as you do. To this end, I've instructed your lawyer to file
another bail motion now that Judge Hernandez has the case."

"If that's meant to reassure me," said Ashford, all hope now drained
from his face, "it's not working. The other judge practically laughed in
Menghetti's face."

"I realize that, but we think part of the problem is that Mr. Menghetti
is from Los Angeles and lacks political juice with the judges here.
Accordingly, we are negotiating with a top Montgomery Street firm to
make a special appearance on a bail hearing."

"Which firm?"

"The best in town. Caldwell & Shaw."

"C&S? They're corporate lawyers, Julian. What do they know about
criminal--"

"Al Menghetti would continue to do the heavy lifting after the bail
hearing. We could decide later if we want to keep C&S in the picture."

"Who from Caldwell & Shaw would make the pitch?"

"His name is Barrett Dickson."

"Dickson," murmured Ashford. The name was familiar. "So how many cases
has he won, say, in the last three years?"

"His recent record is not the issue here, Elliot. Please don't make me
repeat myself. Menghetti will continue on as lead counsel, and his
record is sixteen acquittals in murder cases in the past three years."
Gold paused, as if thinking about what he would say next. "As for
Dickson, if you must know, he's tried only one case in eight years and
that one didn't work out so well." Ashford choked out a laugh.
"Wonderful," he said. "You'd be handing me over to the one lawyer in
town who couldn't defend a parking ticket."

"It's simply not important, Elliot. We get his firm's name on our
pleadings."

"Juice."

"Precisely," said Gold. "More important, he was a law school classmate
and close friend of the trial judge."

"Was?"

"He's still highly regarded by Judge Hernandez as well as others who
knew him when he was at the very top of the trial bar."

"Then won't it be obvious to the judge that Dickson is trading on his
friendship?"

"He won't think that. Dickson's reputation for integrity is such that
the president of the American College of Trial Lawyers told me he would
shoot craps with him over the telephone." Ashford smiled at this, but
turned serious again. "Then why would Dick- son do it?" Gold shrugged.
"A senior partner of the firm is going to float it past Dickson today.
He seems to think he will." Ashford rubbed his temples, exhausted from
the confrontation with the wnsigliere and needing desperately to end it.
"He won't get in the way, Elliot. And he's reputed to be highly
intelligent."

"He sounds like the kind of 'highly intelligent' person who gets lost on
the way to his Mensa examination." Gold shook his head impatiently. "We
need this firm, and the C&S partner I'm dealing with expects that
Barrett Dickson will want to meet you before he commits to do anything.
So be nice, Elliot.

Lose the arrogance for once." Ashford slumped in his chair. Nobody had
talked this way to him since the day his asshole of a father died. God,
how he'd like to tell the slimy consigliere to just bugger off, to look
him straight in his ferret-like eyes and remind him that this was his
city; to remind him that he could put Tony Rizzo back in prison with a
single word. But Gold's icy expression silenced him, for despite his
fear and frustration, Elliot Ashford knew that getting crosswise with
Carmine Rizzo's right hand could get him into a different kind of
trouble, the kind you can't beat in court with a smart lawyer. There was
more than one way to die inside prison walls. S Legal observers opening
their papers over coffee the next day were stunned to read that Barrett
"Bear" Dickson had been invited to join the Ashford defense team as a
consultant for the "early phases of the case." Some readers were even
more surprised that Caldwell & Shaw, one of America's elite corporate
law firms, would involve itself in the defense of a suspect in a vicious
murder, especially a suspect with rumored ties to the Mafia. But a few
insiders knew that Caldwell & Shaw, like many large firms that had
expanded too quickly and were staggering under the burden of bloated
overheads, was in a financial slump, pursuing new clients with the
desperation of jackals in a lean winter. An amusing article in the metro
section described Dickson as a "hard- luck, hard-drinking man" who,
having lost a major securities fraud case in 1993--only his second loss
in over twenty years of trial practice--had been asked by the judge if
he wanted the jury polled. Dickson was quoted as have- ing said, "No,
Your Honor, I want them bound and whipped." He was arrested on a DWI
late that night and never tried another big case. Page 17 offered a 1965
picture of Dickson outside Saigon in army fatigues. The caption
proclaimed that he had been "born into one war-- 1941--and nearly killed
in another." The photo showed him to be a large man with a generous
nose, wide mouth, powerful jaw, and prominent cheekbones. Otherwise, it
was an ordinary face, under ordinary-looking, short-cropped hair that
lay forward and flat against his huge head. The ring finger of his left
hand was missing, shot off in a scrape near Pleiku, apparently
justifying the exaggerated "nearly killed" reference. The man's eyes
were not plainly visible in the photo, but appeared heavy-lidded and
distrustful. It was hard to tell from the picture whether he was smiling
at the photographer or squinting into the sun or just looking for
something off in the distance. Traffic Court at the San Francisco Hall
of Justice, known to regular practitioners there as "the Snakepit," was
the department where young lawyers cut their teeth on misdemeanors and
where unlucky old-timers finished out wasted careers. The gallery in
daily attendance in this courtroom often reflected its bleak and
frenetic mood: homeless people smelling of booze and unwashed clothes,
noisily relishing its warmth and modest entertainment value. "People
versus Vessey!" shouted the clerk, a formidable black woman, and the
raucous crowd went silent as a gorgeous young woman in a tailored beige
suit with white collar and cuffs approached the rail--she could not have
looked more out of place at a longshoreman's bar or in a boxing ring--
followed by a giant of a man in a rumpled suit carrying a battered
briefcase. The antique bag, yellowed and cracked, with a flap with a
catch on it that passed through the handle before it latched, was the
only clue that the man might be a lawyer. A young assistant D.A. was
already inside the rail, laying out his files and beaming toward the
defendant and her lawyer as they approached. The large man passed
through the rail, delayed momentarily when his briefcase was caught in
the swinging door. He wrestled it free, then reached down to shake hands
with the rosy-faced prosecutor who wore his reddish hair perfectly
parted on one side and a navy blue suit the color of his eyes. "Hello,
Mr. Dickson," said the prosecutor. "I'm Bill Hancock."

"I've no doubt of it," said Barrett Dickson, managing a tired smile
because he saw the kid was nervous. He's afraid of me, Barrett thought.
He doesn't know yet that it never gets easier and that I'm scared, too.
Damn sure knows nothing about being fifty and trying a case in traffic
court for the first time. Jesus, what a zoo. "Call case number 164227,"
shouted the clerk. "Ready for trial, Your Honor," shouted the prosecutor
with the nerve- jangling enthusiasm of a marine recruit. "William
Hancock for the People."

"Barrett Dickson from the firm of Caldwell & Shaw," said Barrett,
"representing defendant Monica Vessey." The judge acknowledged him with
a nod that seemed to Barrett both respectful and melancholy, and Barrett
sized him up as a kindred spirit--a man who might have a flask in the
fold of his robe to help cope with the combination of ennui and anxiety
that comes with the territory called the Municipal Court bench. At least
there was no jury, thought Barrett; he couldn't have done this in front
of a jury. The appearances were noted and the drunk-driving trial of
Monica Vessey, daughter of Sherman Vessey, chairman and CEO of MacRo
Dynamics, one ofc&S's most prized clients, was under way. Hancock rose
to give his opening statement, most notable, Barrett thought, for its
enthusiasm and brevity. "The people will prove that on the night of July
18, 1997, Ms. Monica Vessey was driving a motor vehicle in the vicinity
of Taylor and Bush with a blood-alcohol content of .08, and that she
drove said motor vehicle at said time and place through a red light,
entered the intersection illegally, then struck a steel pole to which
another red light was attached." The kid's calming down and gaining
momentum, thought Barrett. He's figured out the importance of home-field
advantage. "The traffic light violation and the collision serve as clear
corroborative proof of her intoxicated condition, Your Honor, and at the
close of the evidence, the People will ask that she be found guilty as
charged." The judge nodded sympathetically toward Barrett, who slowly
rose to his feet and, in a gravelly and slightly tremulous voice, began
to proclaim his client's innocence. "Her blood test was right on the
line, Your Honor: .079. She never would have been charged had she not
hit the pole. The prosecution, therefore, is forced into a syllogism:
Because she did B, she must have been guilty of A; because she ran a red
light and hit a pole, she must have been drunk. The problem for the
prosecution is that there is absolutely no evidence that she ran a red
light. If there were, I would concede that one might also surmise there
was intoxication. "But there will be no such evidence, Your Honor, and
we will ask for an acquittal on all three charges." Barrett knew his
concession involved risk, but his style when he had , been on top had
always been to concede realities, not struggle against them. He also had
been told that this judge valued candor above all else. Finally, ; he
knew from pretrial discovery that there were no witnesses to the crash j
other than Monica Vessey. The judge would have to accept her word that
she was legally entering the intersection and had been victimized by a
speeding scofflaw who had entered the intersection against the red light
from her left and forced her to veer into the light pole to avoid being
hit by him. In his closing, he would argue this was a simple case of a
reputable young woman, dining out, a glass of wine or two; nothing more.
A victim, not a criminal. But why was the goddamn kid smiling? "Call
your first witness, Mr. Hancock," growled the judge, whose manner toward
the younger man revealed his disdain for the cruel fate that had
consigned him to this Devil's Island of a courtroom. The boy has a
future, thought Barrett, at least a shot at one. Not so the judge, whose
despair was written in spidery veins that crisscrossed his scarlet face.
"Call Officer Jenkins, Your Honor," said young Hancock, oblivious and
smiling up at the bench, It was all over in five minutes, which is all
the time it took for Officer Jenkins to explain that he was liaison
officer with the Department of Public Works and that modern stoplights
in San Francisco contained a light filament that registered the color at
the time the light was disabled. "And what color was the light when the
defendant crashed into it, Officer?"

"It was red, Mr. Hancock." Barrett felt heat flooding his body, even
into his clammy hands. He felt his heart pounding up into a throat
suddenly dry as road dust; Vietnam all over again, his mind paralyzed
with fear and confusion. Why hadn't he learned that about traffic
lights? Why had he believed this girl? What the hell was he doing in a
courtroom, anyway? "Cross-examination, Mr. Dickson?" said the judge,
looking even sadder than before. "One moment, please, Your Honor."
Barrett leaned toward his client, his hand cupped around her ear to
shield her from the smell of his breath. "We've got a problem," he said.
"My 'problem," " snapped Monica Vessey, her eyes burning with anger,
"was in allowing Daddy's firm to handle this case.

Are you really a lawyer? What in the hell are you going to do now?"
Barrett pulled himself back from her rage, trying hard to conceal his
own anger, at least from the judge. He took in a deep breath and let it
out, then leaned toward her again. "I'm going to give you another chance
is what I'm going to do," he said. "You're a spoiled brat and a liar and
you might kill somebody next time, but even so, you deserve fair
representation under this fucked-up system of ours."

"You can't talk to me--"

"Shut up and listen. Do you know what a mistrial is?"

"Of course I do," snapped Monica Vessey. "Good. Get ready to ask for
one."

"What?" But Barrett had already risen unsteadily to his feet, had met
the judge's dead eyes, and had cleared his throat to speak. "Your Honor?
I'm going to lunch. Have a nice day." With that, he walked out the door,
hurried to his car, and drove straight to Moose's Bar and Grill in North
Beach. Two hours later, Barrett looked up from his vodka rocks,
pretzels, and newspaper to see longtime friend and C&S partner Mike
Reasoner taking a stool next to him. "Nice work, Bear. Your disappearing
act cost $3,000 for contempt of court and two calls to the Hall of
Justice to squash the warrant for your arrest." "Thanks," said Barrett,
looking straight ahead. "I'll pay the firm back, of course." Mike said
nothing. "Did she get her mistrial?"

"Of course she got it," Mike snapped impatiently. "What else could the
judge do when her lawyer vanished like Amelia Earhart fifteen minutes
into the trial." Silence.

"Did C&S lose papa's business?" asked Barrett. "Not yet, but Steve
Wilmer's knives are sharpened, Bear. You've put your head on the block
with this little caper." Wilmer was the recently elected head of the C&S
executive committee. He had run on a platform of cutting costs and
downsizing; clearing the firm of "dead wood."

"Who's going to represent the girl?" said Barrett. "Jesus, Bear," said
Mike, turning toward his friend, "are you listening to me? This is
strike three!"

"Who did you send her to?"

"Doug Young, over in the Mission District."

"Good. He's tops."

"That stuff will kill you someday, Bear," said Mike. "Okay, I'll stop,"
said Barrett, making a show of pushing the pretzels away. Mike rolled
his eyes. "Why not give up past regrets while you're at it?" Barrett
felt Mike's eyes on him as he polished off the vodka rocks. "I mean it,"
Mike said, "you never used to drink at lunch."

"Not to worry, Rabbi Reasoner. It's been a rough morning. Normally, 31
just a tiddly or two before dinner. I'm fit as a fiddle, and now I'm
square with the law as well, all thanks to you, noble friend." Mike's
drink arrived and he touched glasses with Barrett. "So where the hell
you keeping yourself lately?" asked Mike. "Your picture's on milk
cartons."

"Here and there, Michael. Billing a few hours at what's left of our
firm. Handling ragbag duties such as this morning's adventure. Doing
some reading. Taking piano lessons."

"Piano lessons?"

"Always wanted to do something in music. Don't sing so good, as you may
recall, so I rented an upright.

I'm learning, "Stardust." How did you find me?"

"You weren't at your apartment or on a barstool at Stars or the
Washington Square Bar and Grill. The manhunt led here. What's with the
white carton? Planning on eating your leftover Chinese from last night
here at the bar? Classy."

"That's Ginger II."

"As in Fred and Ginger?" referring to Barren's only housemates, a pair
of goldfish. "Ginger's gone. Fred's bereft, just stares at his food as
it sinks slowly past him. Less than a year old and a widower." Mike
nodded. "Give him my condolences."

"Just came from the pet shop. Got to mate him before he floats on his
side like Ginger."

"You might keep an eye out for yourself while you're at it," ventured
Mike. "You look tired, Bear." Barren gave a little grunt. "Yeah, I know.

Seems like one morning I looked in the mirror and found that an old man
had moved into my skin during the night." Mike touched Barrett on the
arm. "You're in your prime, Bear, but a man needs hard work and a good
woman. It's been years now since you've tried either one." Barrett felt
a muscle twitch in his jaw but didn't think Mike would notice. He
shrugged his massive shoulders, pulled the pretzels back, and noisily
crunched one between his teeth. A good woman. He thought he had found
one, until Ellen ran off to Provence with a bond salesmap in 1985,
taking everything of value but their nine-year-old son, Jared. Barren
could still smell the salesman's schlock cologne; picture him hanging
around the house, hawking his corporate high-yield bonds, bragging about
his world travels. "What really happened out there this morning, Bear?"
Barren shrugged. "How was I supposed to know they could tell the light
was on red at the time she disabled it. Damn thing was like a watch
stopping at time of impact. Like a voice shouting from the grave."

"So you made a mistake. Lawyers make mistakes."

"I made a mistake going back into a courtroom." ''Well, forgive me, old
buddy, but you damn sure didn't stay long."

"I did what I had to do. She's got Doug Young now and a fresh start.
How's Nancy?" Mike Reasoner winced and put his glass to his lips.
Barrett caught the bartender's eye and pointed an index finger at his
empty glass. Mike had married Nancy Livingston six months after the
marriage of Barrett and Ellen Farr had dashed Mike's secret hopes with
Ellen. Barrett knew his best friend had been infatuated with Ellen, but
Mike's love for Barrett soon swept away his envy, and his own marriage
to Nancy had turned out remarkably well. Indeed, the silver medal Nancy
had represented in Mike's race for conjugal bliss had turned, with time,
into gold, whereas the alchemy had worked in reverse for Barrett:
divorced in 1986, Ellen's suicide in 1993, andjared, their only child,
now grown and blaming his father for everything. "Nancy's holding her
own," said Mike. "Still doing the chemo."

"She's a brave girl, Michael, the best. Any change?"

"They're pulling out the stops at Stanford Medical. We're optimistic."
Barrett nodded, his mind wandering as he stared past the huge bronze
moose stationed near the sunlit entrance and through the door toward
Washington Square, with the steeples of Saints Peter and Paul Church
looming toward the heavens on the north side. The bartender arrived with
fresh drinks. They clinked glasses together. "So," said Barrett,
exhaling loudly and taking a sip from his drink, "what brings you here?"

"You know why I'm here, Bear," said Mike after an awkward silence. "The
firm wants you to represent Elliot Ashford." Dickson grinned devilishly
into his glass. "Correction, Mike. The firm wants me to carry Al
Menghetti's books and keep his pencils sharp. They want me to put my arm
around Ashford whenever John Hernandez is looking. Then they want me to
sit quietly and watch Menghetti represent Ashford."

"Slow down a minute, Bear. This could be a great opportunity for you;
for all of us." Neither man spoke. Neither drank. Bartender Bobby
McCambridge hummed Cole Porter. Someone yelled for a cab outside.
Barrett finally broke the silence: "Mike?"

"Yeah?"

"Butt out, okay? Go sue somebody. File a writ. Get laid. Just let me
be." Mike Reasoner turned and took in his friend's profile: the short
but disheveled graying hair, the rumpled suit, and the florid face.

Barrett had smiled when he spoke, but could not hide the cynicism that
engulfed his features. "Hear me out, Bear. Then I'll leave you and
Ginger II alone. C&S is in trouble. The partners just approved a severe
downsizing program that has everyone watching their asses. Nobody is
safe, certainly not Your Eminence after the debacle du your. Steve
Wilmer's plan is to--"

"Please don't talk to me about Steve Wilmer," grunted Dickson, rapidly
shaking his huge head. "I'll hear you out, Mike. I owe you that much for
your unsolicited efforts to salvage my unworthy ass. But don't mention
that human pencil to me again." Barrett and Mike had unsuccessfully
argued that electing the shrewd, forty-three-year-old, fiscally
conservative corporate partner would deal a fatal blow to the firm's
already fading tradition of collegiality and professionalism. Wilmer had
not forgotten. "All right," said Mike, "forget Wilmer. But taking on the
Ashford case is a winning strategy for everyone involved." Barrett
laughed again. "It sounds like a strategy that came to Wilmer on radio
waves through the fillings in his otherwise perfect teeth." Mike
shrugged, then said in a quiet voice, "Actually, it was my idea ..."

"row-idea?"

"The publicity you'd get could launch a profitable white-collar crime
group. C&S is the only major firm in town not getting fat representing
corporate executives charged with securities or tax violations."

"And I'm the only senior partner in the firm without anything important
to do." Mike shrugged. "You're also the only senior partner with
criminal defense experience. Have you forgotten the TDA case?"

"I'd like nothing better," said Barrett, crunching another pretzel
between his teeth. "My masterpiece." Barrett had defended the corrupt
head of a giant securities and tax scam in 1993, his last major court
appearance. The case was lucrative to Caldwell & Shaw, but the client,
if he lived, would spend another ten years in federal prison. "Come off
it, Bear. That case was a loser no matter who defended it. Besides, you
were pushed into it too soon after Ellen died."

"Ellen didn't just 'die,'Mike "

"Bear, for God's sake--" But Barrett silenced him with a look reflected
in the giant mirror behind the bar, a look that said we've been through
this too many times already: Mike insisting that Barrett was justified
in using his skill and influence to regain custody of his only sonjared
in 1993; that Ellen would have eventually killed herself anyway. Barrett
countering that she just happened to commit suicide the same night her
asshole of an ex-husband locked her out of his apartment during a
freezing storm, just hours after stripping her of the only thing left in
life that was arguably hers. "Okay, Bear, I'll shut up, but killing
herself that night proved she wasn't fit for custody." Barrett slowly
turned his head.

"You've still got it backwards, Mike," he said hoarsely. "My proving her
unfit for custody led her to kill herself. More accurately, I exploited
a vulnerable legal system and used the law to kill her myself. If you
don't believe me, ask Jared, who puts me right up there with Son of Sam
and Ted Bundy. If you could ever find him, that is."

"Still haven't heard from the kid?" Barrett shook his head. "Not since
Ellen's funeral in '93." He sipped his drink. Mike took in a deep breath
and let it out slowly. "Sorry I brought it up, but the fact remains--"

"The fact remains that even if I bought into your Great Idea, I'm not
fit to represent a defendant in a case of this magnitude. I offer this
morning as Exhibit A."

"You'd just be consulting, Bear. Lending your illustrious presence to a
motion to reconsider bail."

"A bail hearing?"

"Sure. Just a special appearance. Some preparation and a presentation to
Judge Hernandez. A few hours out of your busy schedule."

"John Hernandez. Were you the one who told Ashford's people we were
classmates in law school?" Mike Reasoner looked away. "Okay, Mike, let
me make sure I've got this right," continued Barrett, a thick index
finger jammed against his temple. "All you want me to do is exploit my
lifelong friendship with John Hernandez in order to free a closet Mafia
don who carved up his wife's privates. Am I close?" Mike exhaled and
gazed at the ceiling.

"And I'm to do this," continued Barrett, "so that C&S can leverage the
resulting publicity into attracting big fees from business executives
who cheat their stockholders and the U.S. government." Mike turned
toward him then and spoke so quietly Barrett had to turn his head.

"Among the myriad of things that have escaped your memory, Bear, is the
fact that the U.S. government presumes people innocent until they're
proven guilty. You've also apparently forgotten your sworn obligation as
a trial lawyer."

"A trial lawyer is also an officer of the court."

"I know. That's the hard part. You're sworn to be both." Barrett grunted
and signaled the waiter for another drink. "Preaching doesn't become
you, Mike." Barrett noticed that Mike started to rise, then sat back
down and took a sip of his scotch and squared his shoulders. "I can't
deal with your cynicism about the criminal justice system, but damn it,
I can and do remind you that our legal system extends equal justice to
rich and poor alike." Barrett roared with a laugh that attracted the
attention of people seated at the far north end of the dining area under
the mural of Emperor Norton. "What have you been smoking, Mike? Wrapping
the firm's exploitation of the greed of the nineties in an American flag
isn't your style."

"Your skepticism is noted for the record, Bear, but let me finish. My
proposal would put a third of our profits from your new group into a
fond to resume pro bono publico work at C&S. Or maybe you've also
forgotten how important you used to think that was." Dear, good-hearted
Mike, thought Barrett. Where does he get the stamina? The unflagging
optimism? Maybe if I'd been born Jewish. He watched Mike run a hand over
his balding head. "Look, Bear," he said at last. "We're not dealing with
a whole lot of choices here." "Ah, yes," said Barrett, pulling back the
pretzels and fishing one out. "If I reject this generous opportunity,
Wilmer will have the excuse he needs to finish me off."

"He controls the executive committee," Mike said, then leaned toward his
friend. "He's got everybody on quota. Lawyers are overworking cases to
bill more hours to the client. He's firing secretaries, Bear, seniority
be damned; laying off associates who have young kids and nowhere to go.
People are hurting, walking around on eggshells, hiding behind closed
doors. He's even after old Winston Cray."

"Winnie?"

"Winnie, Billy Chase, you, me. Everyone who came out against him last
year. Drop around sometime and take a look at the wreckage you seem so
eager to abandon."

"So it's my fault."

"I didn't say that. Exactly. What I mean is, you're the one who could
still change things if you wanted to." Barrett smiled wryly. "What's so
funny?" said Mike, plainly irritated. "I was just thinking about what
Cleopatra said to Anthony in Shaw's version. "The library in Alexandria
containing the entire history of the world is burning," she screams. He
tells her, "Let it burn; it's a shameful history."

"Well, the firm's is not and neither is yours," said Mike. "Until TDA,
you'd won more major cases than anyone in the city." Until TDA, thought
Barrett. Four years had passed and he still didn't know how it had
happened. Beaten by some young pup from Bakersfield, and not just beaten
either. Whipped. The case had squeezed the confidence out of him like a
boa constrictor; slowly, one day at a time, one breath at a time, until
finally, suffocating, he had willingly entered its gaping jaws. "No,"
said Dickson quietly. "Go back and tell Wilmer you were Lincoln to my
Douglas and Clarence Darrow to my William Jennings Bryan, but I somehow
withstood your dogged persistence."

"I haven't even begun to persist. That comes after the begging." Barrett
smiled and stirred his drink and said nothing. After a few minutes of
silence, Mike reached into his pocket for a twenty, rose, and turned to
face his friend. "Well, okay then, Bear. Have it your way. What do I
tell Wilmer?"

"Tell him you found me dying of malnutrition under a highway overpass.
Tell him I've succumbed to opium, visions of gypsy moths, and the wiles
of a gorgeous young albino woman from Sumatra." Barrett stuck Mike's
twenty in his friend's top jacket pocket, smiled, and added, "Relax, old
buddy. Steve Wilmer is going to find a way to get me sacked no matter
what I do. It's for the best."

"Not if you take this case. You've still got friends at the firm."

"Name one--besides yourself."

"I wouldn't want to implicate anyone else. Look, just make a try for
Ash- ford's bail. That'll get the dogs off your ass at the firm.

If you find it's working out, then take it another step. Your choice. Al
Menghetti would do the stand-up work at trial. You'd deadhead for a
month or two, but pick up a fee of three or four hundred thousand for
the firm and enough publicity to launch your white-collar crime group.

Maybe in the process, we could even turn the firm around. Meanwhile, I'd
be a hero for talking you into taking on the case. We'll both get our
gold watches at sixty-five and you wouldn't even have to do--"

"Anything important?"

"You've got to survive nearly nine years to retirement, Bear. I know
enough about your finances to think that's important."

"Important to you, too, Mike?" Mike glanced at Barren's enigmatic half
smile, then rubbed a hand across his own mouth, bobbed his head from
side to side, then sat back down and finished off his drink. The friends
lapsed into an embarrassed silence. Mike signaled for another drink.

"Isn't this really about your own finances, Mike?" said Barrett, giving
his friend the old Dickson laser-look, a searching glare that had broken
many a hostile witness during Barrett's fifteen-year reign as San
Francisco's top commercial trial lawyer. Mike looked away. "It's a
simple question. I know you lost a bundle on Greenlink." Greenlink,
Inc., had been a high-flying C&S client that seemed headed for the
scars--until Mike had gambled most of his savings on it and proved once
again that what goes up often comes down. Mike nodded gravely. "So,
Michael, how many years do you have to survive at good of' C&S before
you can claim your retirement?" Mike sipped his drink, then bobbed his
head from side to side like a prizefighter trying to evade punches. "I'd
also guess losing the firm's health plan right now would be a little
inconvenient for a guy with a sick wife and a badly cracked nest egg."
The color drained from Mike's face. A man next to Mike popped a match
into flames and the smell of sulfur clashed with the scent of baked
garlic from the kitchen. A busboy dropped a tray of glasses, followed by
sympathetic applause. Mike stared into his drink. "Why the hell didn't
you just say so?" said Barrett. "You've got enough problems without me
playing on your sympathies, Bear. Sure, I'm on Wilmer's hit list, too.

Fact is, this conversation--the way it's turning out--may be my last
assignment." The room suddenly went quiet, and Barrett fantasized that
everyone in the building had stopped talking just to hear what he would
say next. So he didn't say anything. Mike slid off his seat. "Shit,
Bear, forget it. I'm just--"

"Hold on, Mike," said Barrett abruptly.

"I'm afraid I might fuck it up, but I'll do what I can." Mike's head
snapped around. "But I want to meet Ashford first," Barrett added. "Get
the ground rules set. A special appearance for the bail hearing only.

Nothing more, okay?" He picked up his half-full glass, then put it back
down. "Get those dogs off your ass. Then I'm out of law and into real
estate."

"You're what?"

"You heard me, and don't be such a damned snob.

It's an honest living and I'm excited about it."

"I know you'll be honest, which is why you won't make a living."

"In that case I'll move in with you and Nancy."

"Commercial leasing?"

"Hell, no. I'm going to put nice people into nice houses." Mike let out
a sigh, but said nothing for a minute. "The firm was your life, Bear,"
he said at last. "Things change. Now I just want to be left the hell
alone. So this is it, okay?" "My word on it," said Mike, offering his
hand, "and I'll go a step further: if after talking to the guy you still
think he's a liar or Mafia, you've got my blessing to just walk away
from the whole thing." Barrett smiled. "But not if he's just a murderer,
right?" Mike flushed and spun off his seat, but Barrett couldn't tell if
he was angry now or just still embarrassed. Then he was walking toward
the door, but got as far as the bronze moose before he stopped, turned,
and walked back.

"Forget something, Mike?"

"No, but you have." Yeah, thought Barrett, he's angry. "Listen, Bear, I
can take your cynicism about the system and your distrust of your
talents, but that's not what's really eating you and it's time you faced
up to it." Barrett continued to stare up at the large TV screen at the
far left end of the bar--some kid on Sports Channel doing a three-sixty
on a snowboard-- but he felt Mike's eyes on him. "You've achieved the
ultimate conceit, Bear. You think you've become some kind of
jurisprudential Dr. Frankenstein with the law as your monster. Use a
courtroom, go to prison. Right?" Barrett turned and stared at Mike as if
at a stranger. "Bobby! I think Mr. Reasoner's gotten into the loco weed
again. Bring him another drink." But Mike's clear, challenging eyes
remained locked on him. "I'm saying it's not just losing you're afraid
of, Bear." Barrett looked away. Then he caught the bartender's attention
again and noisily shook the ice in his empty glass, "Bobby, I'll join
Mr. Reasoner." But Mike was out the door.

Like her fellow workers at Ward and Company, Amanda Keller devoured
every lurid piece of media coverage she could find on the Ashford murder
case. Every weekday, after watching the news over breakfast with her
invalid mother, she dressed, then bused to work, where she had installed
a small radio at her desk in the file room so she could check for any
developments. She had even begun a journal; a scrapbook actually, with
articles and clipped-out news photos of the principal characters in the
unfolding drama. Her record of the case began with Ashford's arrest on
August 9, two days after the murder, leading to his indictment on August
20. When the trial commenced, she planned to supplement newspaper
articles and photos with her own daily impressions. She had already
started thumbnail sketches of Earl Field, Elliot Ashford, Grace Harris,
and Al Menghetti. When the trial started, these summaries would be
expanded and taped under the subject's corresponding newspaper photo.

Field's pictures always excited her; so handsome, confident, powerful.

Ashford was good-looking too, but Amanda didn't go for bookish types. Or
murderers either. Anyway, with Rick Frame out of her life now--"Rick the
Prick," her mother called him--it was nice to have a project. Rick, the
latest in a string of disappointments, would have another think coming
if he thought he was going to get back in her good graces. Leaving the
elevator at five o'clock sharp, Amanda nodded to acknowledge the
afternoon security guard's lustful grin. She knew her long legs and
Monroe-like looks attracted the attention of both men and women, but had
always felt slightly uncomfortable under their gaze. Even the most
admiring glances reminded her of judges at those child beauty pageants
she had hated, even though she always won. Only during her brief halcyon
days in L.A. as a daytime TV star, when the cameras and klieg lights
swept away all her inhibitions, had she felt worthy of the adulation she
received. Only when she began playing the character of Sharon McPeak in
Hope's People did she feel like a real person. The more she played
Sharon, the more comfortable she had become as Amanda, a woman suddenly
in contact with the world outside herself. She smiled now as she
remembered how women of all ages would come up to her on the street,
telling her how much they liked her as Sharon McPeak, trying to pry
secrets from her. Would she marry Henley? Was Evan going to be captured?

Even an occasional male would shamelessly admit watching Hope's People
at 2:00 p.m. every weekday. But that was nearly a decade ago, before she
had ruined everything by ignoring her mother's advice and marrying her
agent, a controlling Hollywood veteran whose powerful presence had made
her forget she generally preferred tall, good-looking men. "Don't be a
damned fool," her mother had warned her. "Keep business out of your
bedroom, child!" But she had married him anyway, a decision that would
eventually end her career in the soaps, and a mistake her mother would
never let her forget. She had tried everything during the first eight
years following her exile from Los Angeles to make her way back into the
entertainment industry: auditions for the highly competitive TV
commercial spots arranged by her modeling agency; local theatre and
movie parts, for which she was usually dismissed as being either too
tall or too old for the part; even fashion- modeling interviews, where
she was told she was "too voluptuous." Nothing clicked. She was a
television actress living in a city without significant television work.

So she took casual jobs--a Safeway checkout clerk, a salesperson, a
cocktail waitress--anything to keep the unemployment checks coming
between jobs while she tried to resuscitate her career. Though Amanda's
mind was quick, the problem was her temper was even quicker. She seldom
held a job more than a few months before her growing impatience and
resentment would explode in the face of a supervisor or coworker. Good
riddance, she would say after quitting or being fired, then slink back
to the Office of State Unemployment. Most humiliating of all was her
current capitulation, which took the form of permanent employment in the
file room at Ward and Company, a large commercial real estate leasing
company. She had considered it just another temporary job after being
pushed into it by her mother ("No health plan comes with those
unemployment checks, child!"), but that was two years ago, and now,
because she was white and had somehow managed to remain the object of
the male office administrator's lustful ambitions without yielding to
them, she found herself chief clerk, supervising three green-card
Latinos who did all the work. Today, like every other day, Amanda walked
to the elevator at 5:00 p.m. sharp, and was soon on her way to Dave's
World Gym, her one extravagance. After a quick workout, Amanda caught
the bus to the Noe Valley flat she shared with her mother. Upon
entering, she could barely see Lucinda Keller's face in the dark,
airless room, nearly opaque with blue smoke. "You're late, honey," said
Lucinda Keller, without turning her head from the TV "Be a good girl and
get your mother a new pack of cigarettes out of the cupboard." Amanda's
vision adjusted to the point where she could make out the ruins of her
mother's once beautiful face, on which time and bitterness had now
plowed dry furrows. Skin hanging from under the older woman's chin
wobbled as she spoke, and her eyes never left the television screen, the
only source of light in the musty room. She was dressed in an
ankle-length satin housecoat, under which she wore a blouse closed high
on the neck, with long sleeves and lace cuffs. An ivory-edged amethyst
pendant hung from her neck on a thin gold chain. "Soon as you've done
that, can we eat, sweetheart?" Lucinda added, her Southern accent soft
as cotton. "Yes, Mother," Amanda said. "Just let me take off my coat."

"And don't forget my wine." "I won't," said Amanda, though it was
obvious her mother didn't really need another glass. "How was your day?"
Amanda shook the August rain out of her coat and hung it on a hook by
the door, not expecting an answer. She sniffed at the musty odor and
opened a window, quietly so Lucinda wouldn't hear. The sight of a young
couple outside walking hand in hand along the sidewalk caught her eye
and caused her throat to tighten. She turned away, reached for her
inhaler, then took in the cluttered living room as if for the first
time: the cracked walnut wainscoting and the threadbare, plaid-covered
couch that Lucinda Keller seemed to grow out of like a plant, floating
in a bog of embroidered pillows of all shapes and sizes. Amanda's
spirits had been buoyed somewhat by her workout, but now sagged as she
stared at the framed dime-store art, the fake fireplace no bigger than a
shoe box, ceramic figurines everywhere, and a huge oval rug she
suspected to be the source of the room's moldy smell. "You got some mail
from the county," said Lucinda in a playful, singsong tone. "Have you
been naughty, young lady? Gettin' speedin' tickets?"

"Not likely without a car, Mother," said Amanda, handing her mother a
fresh pack of Pall Malls. "Looks to be from the jury commissioner." For
the first time, Lucinda turned her head. "What do they want?" she said,
removing a cigarette and lighting it with a Zippo lighter. Her smoking
was so automatic, the cigarettes seemed to light themselves. Amanda had
always marveled at how Lucinda could inhale and speak at the same time.
It was like watching a Scottish bagpipe player. Amanda stared at the
envelope, transfixed, remembering her horoscope this morning. Be
prepared for something unexpected and life-altering today, it had said.
"Well, go ahead and open it, dear." Amanda obeyed, and her heart
quickened as she scanned the contents. "It's a summons to jury duty,
Mama!"

"Well hoopty-doo," said Lucinda, smoke bursting in puffs from her nose
as she spoke. "Call 'em in the morning, child. Make some excuse." But
Sharon McPeak had been a juror in a three-week criminal trial on Hope's
People and Amanda had become fascinated with the process. What would it
be like to be a real juror, instead of just playing one? To be able to
judge someone else the way everyone had always judged her? And, best of
all, to be able to escape from Ward and Company, even for a few days?
Maybe it was a sign Unexpected and life-altering. "I'd like to do it,
Mother.

It could be exciting; maybe I'd even do something worthwhile for a
change."

"Worthwhile? Is that why they pay the poor fools five bucks a day? Make
more than that pickin' artie-chokes down in Salinas." She blew smoke
into the greenish glow from the television. "You heard me, child, make
up some- thin'. Tell 'em you do something important. Now can we eat,
honey?" The smoke hung there, and so did the words. Amanda looked at the
lines running from the corners of her mother's eyes and the deeper
grooves that spread from either side of her nose, encircling her pinched
mouth like open pliers. Amanda hoped the tightening in her throat would
not loosen itself into words she'd later regret. She shut her eyes and
held it in like she always did. "Yes, Mother," she said quietly. "I'll
lie. I'll tell them I'm important."

"That's my good girl." Amanda retreated to the kitchen, then prepared
and served Lucinda her dinner. She finished hers quickly, then returned
to the kitchen with her wine and read the latest on the Elliot Ashford
case. She scissored out the lead article for her journal, then glanced
at the entertainment section and began working on the Jumble puzzle. The
puzzle helped fend off thoughts of what Rick had told her three nights
before. Not that she was surprised. He was beautiful, but too young to
handle a real woman.

Amanda knew he loved her, would always love her, but like all the others
who had run away, Rick simply wasn't secure enough for her. Still, his
withdrawal had been painful, coming as it did without warning: a
telephone call at the office to break their movie date. She said no
problem, but her suggestion of dinner the following night at Rose
Pistola in North Beach was greeted by a telling silence. That was it.

Amanda could read silences better than a priest in a confessional.

Better than anyone alive. Now, alone in the kitchen with her puzzle, she
tried to think of a seven- letter word illustrated by a cartoon of a
smiling rodent-like creature. The word was "hamster." Of course. Amanda
wondered why it had taken her so long to get it. Didn't she run in
circles all day, going absolutely nowhere? Then spend another forty
minutes on a treadmill at Dave's World Gym? Then race back home on the
bus and start the whole damn thing all over again? "What are you doin'
out there, dear?" said Lucinda. "Come out here and watch television with
me."

"I'm busy right now, Mother." Amanda couldn't get the jury summons out
of her head. What if it was the Ashford trial? "Oh, come sit a spell,
darling'. It's Charlton Heston." Amanda took in a deep breath, then let
it out noisily and joined her mother on the couch. "By the way, Amanda,
this wine tastes like coal oil."

"It's a different kind, Mama," said Amanda. "We've got to economize
somewhere. I can't keep showing up at work looking like a bag lady on
Market Street."

"Well, don't buy it again, hear?" 0/7, shut up! Amanda wanted to scream.
As her mother reached for another cigarette, Amanda noticed that though
the cuffs on Lucinda's blouse were beginning to fray, the nails
extending from her nicotine-stained fingers were perfectly manicured.
"Hard day, sweetheart?" said Lucinda, then turned the volume up and
locked her eyes on the credits of the movie just starting. "Awful. Is it
all right if I go to my room?" Lucinda gave her a hard look, grunted
good riddance, and grabbed her wineglass with a liver-spotted hand. The
glass clattered against her teeth as she put it to her lips and drained
it. Amanda sat back down. "I'll stay awhile, Mother," Amanda said,
touching her mother on the arm as gently as if defusing a bomb. "Oh, go
right ahead," said Lucinda. "Leave your mother here alone all day long,
then deny her a few minutes of your precious time in the evenin'!"

"It's not my fault you sit here all day," said Amanda quietly,
withdrawing her hand as she stared blankly into the credits scrolling
across the screen. "You could go out if you wanted." Lucinda's head
snapped around and she fixed Amanda with a hard gaze, her lips tightened
into a white line. "Go out?" said Lucinda as she slowly snuffed out the
barely smoked cigarette, then calmly picked up a clean glass ashtray and
whacked it twice against her right leg, producing two dull thuds. Amanda
looked away. "Go outv She hit the leg again, harder this time, her face
now red with anger and self-loathing. Feeling anger rising within
herself too, Amanda rose and moved a step away. "I didn't ask you to
come home that night, damn it!" said Amanda, words suddenly flying out
other mouth in a staccato rush.

"And I didn't get Daddy drunk at that party and I wasn't the one who let
him get behind the wheel."

"Well, maybe not," said Lucinda, her eyes alert and penetrating now",
"but how about that tantrum you threw when we was headin' out the door.
Bad enough you knew I was already worried sick about your fever."
"Particularly," said Amanda, trying to hold her ground, "with the
Southeastern Pageant finals coming up?"

"You wanted that as much as I did!" Lucinda snapped. "I didn't know what
I wanted! I was only six years old, for God's sake!"

"And do you know how old I was when I lost this leg, Amanda? Younger
than you are now! No wonder Paul killed himself! I was thirty years old
and my life was over!"

"You were still beautiful; you could have--"

"Could have -whati You tell me, Amanda, how many women--women, I'm
saying!--have you known with only one leg at the age of thirty? Then
widowed at thirty-four?"

"I suppose that was my fault, too," said Amanda without conviction, for
when she was a child, she had indeed blamed herself for the car accident
that had crippled her mother. Maybe she still did. She vaguely
remembered her petulance and exaggerated whimpering late that afternoon
when they were getting ready to leave her for an overnight with a sitter
she hated. She also remembered her ill-concealed hatred of her father,
particularly after the accident. Four years later, she would see his
blood-soaked hair and skull fragments splattered above the headboard of
his twin bed, the shotgun sticking out from between his legs, much like
the other thing she had seen there so many times. All of it her fault.
Amanda didn't wait for Lucinda's response. She walked out of the room,
knowing she had to get away before one of them did something that
couldn't be repaired with a prosthesis. Amanda Keller was ready for
something life-altering .1 We'd better get cracking, Chief," said Sam
Quon, entering Earl Field's office. "I just heard the news. Hi, Grace."
Two weeks had passed, and the news was that Al Menghetti had exercised
his client's right to a speedy trial guaranteed by the Constitution and
the California penal code. In California, this meant only sixty days
from arraignment. "I suppose he thinks he's being clever," said Field in
a bored tone. "It worked for Simpson in L.A., but it won't work here
because we'll be ready for him. Right, Grace?"

"I hope so," she said absently. Field raised his eyebrows. "Are we
boring you, Grace?" he said. Grace forced a smile. "I'm here," she said,
though her head was still reeling from a telephone call ten minutes
earlier from an L.A. Eye reporter j asking what she knew about certain
alleged illegal campaign contributions to District Attorney Earl Field.
Grace would have to confront him as soon Sam left. "You say you 'hope'
we'll be ready," said Field. "Translation please?"

"I just mean I'm not sure. There are too many things in this case you
still haven't had the time or inclination to tell me. Maybe you know
what Ash- ford's defense is going to be, for example, but I don't. I
don't even know what happened to the victim's fingernail scrapings. I
also don't--"

"The clumsy bastards," Field muttered, and slammed a book down on his
desk. Grace knew Earl Field had been at war with the SFPD for three
years. The most publicized part of his swearing-in speech had been a
challenge to the Irish-American police chief to start appointing
African-Americans to top spots on the force.

"Bigoted sonofabitch," he added. "Main qualification for promotion at
SFPD is to get yourself born a white man." He looked at Grace and added,
"And I mean white man." Grace nodded. "So I take it the victim's
fingernail scrapings have not turned up?" she asked, directing her
question to both men. Quon looked at Field, whose face tightened in a
show of concern. "Still missing," said Field, rising to gaze out the
window at the mass of fog slowly yielding to the morning sun. "Dumb mick
bastard. Dumb fucking bastard!" Grace and Sam Quon exchanged a glance.

Sam must be seeing it too, she thought. Though hardly a saint, Earl
Field never displayed a temper, rarely indulged himself in gratuitous
profanity, and could be cool in front of a firing squad. This was not
Earl Field. "I've prepared a tentative witness list," Grace said to
break the tension in the room. "It's based on spotty knowledge to be
sure, but we've got to start somewhere." Field rose from his chair,
started to pace, then took his seat again. "Okay. Good. Let's talk
witnesses."

"I assume you want Sam to do the usual," said Grace. "Follow up the
police statements of friends, neighbors, financial people, possible
enemies, separating the wheat from the crap."

"Right," said Field. "I want witnesses to the Ashfords' well-publicized
fights, Sam.

If the maid heard them arguing, others did, too. Then get into the phone
records the police have. Find a call from the Ashford residence that
Lara might have made to Senator Clifton. Something Ashford might have
overheard."

"The police already checked that out," said Sam. "Nothing."

"I'll bet dinner," said Grace, "they only checked Senator Clifton's D.C.
snd Oklahoma City home and office telephones. Get the senator's travel
schedule and lodgings, Sam, then see if you can match up incoming or
outgoing calls to the Ashford residence from wherever he was out on the
road."

"Well, yes, of course," agreed Field quickly, but Grace sensed his
annoyance. "And check Ashford's club and business contacts; anyone who
might have observed that our man has a short fuse."

"You've seen the police reports on that, Chief, and--"

"Of course I've seen it, Sam, but I want you to take everything Whitey
did a step further!"

"Got it," said Sam, but Grace saw a puzzled look on the chief
investigator's face.

"Then go and get it," said Field. "And while you're at it, check out our
forensic-expert stable and begin nailing them down for testimony during
the week of October 13." "I'll give you a hand there, Sam," said Grace.

Field nodded and said, "At trial, Grace, I'd like you to handle all the
DNA and other technical witnesses, both the direct examination of our
experts and the cross-exam of theirs. I'll make the opening statement."
Grace was not surprised about the experts--Earl had little patience for
technical evidence--but she had expected they would at least discuss
splitting the opening statement. "So after you inflame the jurors'
passions with rhetoric," she said, forcing a half smile despite her
frustration, "I get to put them to sleep with experts. How about
Ashford's cross?"

"Just put together a cursory workup for me on the off chance I need it.
Ashford won't take the stand." "Probably not," said Grace, determined to
control her growing irritation until they were alone, "but how can you
be sure?" Sam Quon said, "The computer produced a felony on him."

"Tell me it was something nasty," said Grace.

"Couldn't be better," said Field. "Penal code section 245(a)(l)."

"Assault with force likely to produce great bodily injury," Grace
murmured. "He was young," continued Sam, "but it was messy, and if he
hadn't been the son ofharlan Ashford, he'd have done hard time. Put some
punk in the hospital for looking sideways at his girlfriend."
"Excellent," said Grace. "He didn't happen to use a martini stem did
he?"

"Sorry," said Quon, "this was his early, pre-glass period. The chief is
right, though: we won't see him on the stand." Field stroked his
mustache. "Tell me about this Al Menghetti, Grace. You've tried a murder
case against him. I understand he's both competent and confident,
someone we shouldn't underestimate."

"Confident?" said Grace. "My God, Earl, the man doesn't think the laws
of physics apply to him."

"Ego problem?"

"He struts while seated," she added. "He also skates close to the
ethical line without quite tripping over it and hasn't lost a case in
three years." Field said, "This time he loses." Grace nodded and said,
"Have you decided how we should handle final arguments?"

"Glad you reminded me," said Field, picking up the police report. "Will
you draft some rough opening and closing arguments for me by, say, a
week from next Wednesday." Grace made no reply at first, just stared at
him through narrowed eyes, noisily tapping a pencil on the armrest of
her chair. Field was perusing the police report and didn't seem to
notice her. "No," she said finally

"I won't." Field noticed her. "Sam," he said, "give us a few minutes,
okay?" Sam Quon quickly headed for the door. Grace took a deep breath.
"Now, what were you saying, Grace?"

"I said I won't prepare a draft argument for you."

"Would you care to say why?"

"Several reasons come to mind," Grace said, meeting his gaze head-on.
"First, if this is your idea of full partnership on a case, I'm glad I'm
not just your second chair. Which leads me to a second reason: I don't
know enough about this case to draft a letter to my mother.

"Third, we all have our own style of presentation and I'm sure you would
not be comfortable with mine." Field slowly nodded his head. "I see," he
said, and a half smile put his handsome features into harmony, a
response she knew was intended to make her feel she had been unduly
petulant. "And would there be a fourth reason?" he said. Grace smiled
back. "Yes. It will be hard to find time to prepare your half of the
argument when I'll be working on my own part." Field issued a tired bark
of laughter and held up his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. We'll
split final arguments. You start, I'll finish. But at least give me an
outline of my part."

"Fair enough. Just one more thing. I'm not sure how to put it, Earl, but
at times you seem almost more eager to smear the police than you are to
nail Ashford. I think Sam is noticing it, too." "That's crazy, Grace,"
he said, bristling. "Okay, Earl," she said, holding in her frustration
when she saw the look of weariness on the D.A.'s face, a face suddenly
much older than his fifty-one years. "If you say so." Field massaged his
temples. "Look, Grace, I want to do both, okay? It's just that I've got
a lot on my plate right now.

Important as it is, this case is just one of my problems." Unbidden,
Grace sat down across from him and leaned against his desk. "Look, Earl,
I don't want to be one of them; I'd like to think I could help with
solutions. But you've got to let me in. I'm not out to steal your
thunder in this trial or your job either." Field said nothing for a
minute, but Grace thought she saw the trace of a smile and a slight
relaxation in his posture. She crossed her legs and gazed down at her
foot, then added, "At least until you move on to the State House."
"Hell, Grace," he said, his smile broadening, "I know you want to be the
first female D.A. as much as I want to be the first black governor. But
first things first, all right?" "Of course," she said, steeling herself.

"But speaking of politics, I owe a callback to a reporter from L.A.,
something about campaign contributions from out-of-state?" Field stared
at her as if he hadn't heard her, but she saw his shoulders hunch. Then
he rose slowly, like a man with a bad back, and walked back over to his
window. "What did you tell her?" He knows it's a woman, she thought. So
she's called him, too. "Nothing, of course," said Grace. "I told her I
was in a meeting and would get back to her. Obviously, I had to talk
v/ith you first."

"Good. Just forget it, Grace. I'll handle it."

"Handle it?" Grace said. "What's to handle?" Field turned around and
Grace was shocked by the change in his expression. He seemed to have
aged years in a moment. "Jesus, Grace," he said, falling into his chair
and rubbing his eyes. "Just give it a rest, okay?" Grace felt a pang of
compassion, but couldn't let it go just yet. "Not if it's affecting a
case I'm involved with," she said softly. "A case that you, or someone
looking a lot like you, just assured me I was now totally into. Talk to
me, Earl, or I'll have to get it from her." Grace watched Field studying
his hands, obviously grappling with a difficult decision. Then he looked
up and spoke in a hoarse whisper. "Okay," he said, then let out a deep
sigh, almost a groan. "The tabloid thinks I took some tainted money."

"Do they think they have anything?" she asked, her tone neutral. "Since
when do they really need anything?" Then, with a croak of sardonic
laughter, he added, "What / don't need right now is a pack of yellow
journalists raggin' my black ass." Grace hesitated, cleared her throat.

So it might be true, she thought. A shiver passed through her as she
wondered for a second or two if she really wanted to know more. "Tell
me, Earl," she said at last. "Do they have anything?"

"Do they have anything?" he echoed. "Shit, Grace, there's not a
politician--from the dogcatcher of Delano to President of the United
States--who hasn't taken a buck he regretted."

"Including you?"

"Hell, Grace, for God's sake, haven't you read the allegations about our
President turning the White House into a bed-and-breakfast for
Democratic high rollers and a few alien undesirables?"

"The White House isn't my problem. The courthouse is." Field turned
toward her, fiddled with the knot on his tie, then spoke in a hushed
tone. "I tell you this in confidence, Grace, okay?

Consider yourself my lawyer for purposes of this discussion." Grace
started to shake her head, but he held up his hand. "Hear me out.

Several months ago, long before this case came up. some guys from
Chicago had some wild-ass scheme to turn Alcatraz into a West Coast
Atlantic City. They called it their 'bingo project' and engaged
me--through Jack Klegg-- to give them a legal opinion on whether it was
a violation of the equal protection clause of the Constitution to
discriminate in favor of Native Americans and against Italianamericans."
Jack Klegg had been Field's campaign manager and confidant then. As
chief assistant now, most observers considered him to be the prime
candidate to succeed Field as district attorney when he stepped down.

Other observers, including Grace and Sam Quon, considered Klegg to be a
prime asshole. Grace's mouth fell open. "An opinion about gambling? In
w-writing'?" He shook his head impatiently and said, "The guys told
Klegg an oral opinion would suffice, and in answer to your next
question: Yes, the 'fee' was in the high five figures."

"And these 'guys' turned out to be 'aweguys'?" Field turned around, arms
extended in a supplicatory gesture she had never seen him make except
during speeches. "We're talking gambling here, Grace, not some wildlife
preserve for sea otters."

"Tell me it wasn't the Rizzo family."

"I wish I could."

"Oh my God," Grace murmured. "Relax, Grace, nothing ever came of it."
Grace felt her stomach tighten. "Until now," she said. "Did the Eye
reporter mention the Elliot Ashford connection?"

"She didn't have to." Grace made no reply, other than to fold her arms
and stare down at her feet. She saw the case in ruins, torpedoed by
scandal. She'd be dragged down with it. An image of her father crowded
into her overheated thoughts: an image of him reading the Neis York
Times--not a story about his daughter winning a major victory and
ascending into high public office, but about an attorney general's
investigation into the conduct of the West Coast prosecution team.
"Isn't it obvious what you have to do, Earl?"

"No, Ms. Manners," he said, "it's not at all obvious."

"Then I'll tell you."

"Don't bother. I already know what the infallibly scrupulous Grace
Harris would do and what she would say. But what I need from you now is
to keep doing what you've been doing here since the day I took office."
"Making you look good," she said, her face reddening. "Exactly," he
said, smiling, as if she had made a joke.

"Unless, of course, you want out--after hearing all this." She stared at
him, trying to get beneath the smile, the apparent candor in his eyes.

He met her gaze without wavering. He's serious, she thought, suddenly
uncertain what to say next. She wanted this case. Did she want it too
much? How far would she go to stay in the game? Grace rose to her feet,
planted her hands on his desk, and leaned in so close to the district
attorney she could smell his expensive cologne. "I'll think about that,"
she said, "but first, you've got to send back every dollar to those
bozos."

"I did that as soon as the conflict arose, before we even went to the
grand jury on Ashford. I'm the city's chief law enforcement officer for
God's sake!"

"Good," she said, wondering how far she could push. "Second, you've got
to make a preemptive strike with the local press:"I took the fee in good
faith--blah, blah, blah--then returned it when I learned the ex-client
was said to be a stockholder in the company of a man I was about to
prosecute."

"I did take the money in good faith, Grace. It was Ashford killing his
wife that's made it inconvenient. But going public now7 would be way too
risky." Grace shook her head hard. "Too risky not to. Experience tells
us that most diseases disappear more quickly in sunlight than when
covered up. Need I cite examples?"

"In this case," countered Field, rising and walking back to the window,
"a disease that remains covered is as good as healed."

"I'm sure that's exactly what Nixon told John Dean." The D.A.'s head
shot up and his eyes were suddenly alert, as if he had just swallowed a
double espresso. "What I mean, Grace, is that I did nothing wrong in
taking the money! It wasn't my fault the sonofabitch murdered his wife,
and I resent the comparison with Nixon!"

"Resent it all you want, Earl. It's the one the press will make if you
don't move first. I'm not saying you did anything wrong, but that's all
the more reason to be the first to come forward."

"Don't make a federal case out of this, Grace."

"That would be up to the U.S. Attorney," said Grace. "I'm just a lowly
local assistant D.A." Field got to his feet, walked around, and sat
sideways on his desk, close to Grace. Eye level. Intimate. "Not for
long," he said, the infectious smile back in place. "You'll soon be
sitting in this office--right there in that chair--but you've got to
understand that the straight arrow doesn't always hit the target."

"Is that another way of saying the ends justify the means?"

"Damn it, Grace, they sometimes do in politics! You've got to loosen up
a little. Hell, if I hadn't done a dozen things you'd characterize as
sins against the Torah, I wouldn't be in this office and you wouldn't be
head of homicide trials no matter how damn good you were! This place
would still be a honky old boys' country club." He paused, leaned in
close to her. "You don't think the people out there know I've cut a few
corners now and again? You think they give a damn? Hell no, because they
believe this office is just the start of what I can make happen for the
people out there! They believe in me!" "I'm one of those people, Earl,"
Grace said after a moment of silence. "But if one of those dozen sins
includes concealing money you took from a Mafia family that's directly
connected to a man we're prosecuting--"

"Okay, hold it right there, Grace! Do you think he's guilty?"

"Of course he's g-guilty, but--"

"Okay. Next question. Do you think we stand a chance of convicting him
if I go public right now?

The answer is no, so the first thing we've got to do is remember that we
represent the people of this state, then go out and convict the
sonofabitch!" "No, Earl," said Grace, meeting his powerful gaze without
blinking, "the first thing we--you--have got to do is get this albatross
off your neck!" Field exhaled, then slid sideways off his desk and into
his chair. "Okay, okay," he said, his voice resigned again. "I'll tell
her the truth--if she calls back. Hell, maybe she was just on a fishing
expedition based completely on rumors and won't even follow up."

"But if she does," said Grace, "full disclosure?" Field thought for a
minute, then rose again and put out his hand. "Okay. Full disclosure. My
word on it." Grace left, knowing this crazy case would he a tightrope
walk for both of them. This damn Eye thing, the missing evidence, having
to baby-sit Earl during the trial. Well, she would make the best of it,
and thank God, at least ne thing was clear in this sea of intrigue and
confusion: Elliot Ashford was dead-bang guilty. Earl Field dialed Jack
Klegg's number. "Speak," came the voice of the chief assistant district
attorney. "It's Field. The problem is spreading, Jack. You've got to get
that Eye bitch off my back. She's called Grace Harris."

"Harris knows?"

"She'll be cool. She calmed down when I told her the money had been
returned." Silence. Field's manicured nails drummed his desktop. "I'll
take care of it," said Klegg. "I'll call Chicago pronto and see if
they're aware this Eye reporter could be trouble."

"Do you think I should give the money back?" "Don't be ridiculous," said
Klegg, and hung up .8 Barrett Dickson had never been on the sixth floor
of the city jail. It seemed unreal to him, like being on a movie set.
Bright fluorescent tubes lined the ceiling in the windowless visitation
area, yet the room seemed dark and desolate, redolent of fear, anger,
and resignation. He flashed his state bar card and driver's license to
the sheriff's deputy, then waited for the clang of admittance. He stared
through steel bars at a row of cheerless people talking into telephones
to loved ones on the other side of bulletproof glass. He entered the
waiting area and overheard to his right a pregnant, plain-faced girl in
her early teens, perched uncomfortably on a hard metal chair, telling
another woman how their wedding reception at a Mission Street bar had
gotten out of hand. Barrett picked up fragments of her story, how her
young husband had "seen some kid makin' a pass at her and ended up
hurtin' him worse'n he meant to," then took off in a stolen car. "The
kid's still in the hospital," he heard her add. Barrett shivered despite
the suffocating heat, but could not detach himself from the girl's
misery. A blanket of makeup failed to warm her washed- out features, and
her bright, floral-patterned dress served to dull by contrast I any
light left in her eyes. Her hands were folded together tightly on her
lap. The girl looked toward him, catching his eye before he could turn
away. He wanted to tell her that stealing a car was just the beginning;
her young man would eventually steal her dreams. But he sat there mute
as she turned back to the other woman. A guard appeared and led Barrett
into a private interview room to which Ashford was quickly delivered,
clothed in orange pants, socks, and T-shirt, his exquisitely cobbled
English shoes replaced by prison thongs. They took seats on either side
of a small wood table. Barrett produced a business card, then looked
back through the door's chicken-wired Plexiglas window as a pockmarked
trustee passed by, operating a noisy floor buffer. Barrett's eyes
drifted back to the prisoner. The overhead fluorescent lighting had
turned Ashford's still-tanned face into a verdigris mask. His eyes,
black specks rimmed in scarlet, glowed with the fury of a coyote Barrett
had once seen caught in a spring trap. The sweep of Ashford's wrath
seemed to include his prospective lawyer, and Barrett felt a dampness
spread across his back, along with a sudden rush of anger at Mike
Reasoner. Neither man offered his hand. "Can you or can you not get me
out of here?" were the prisoner's first words. Barrett shrugged and
offered a half smile. He had seen men look like this in Vietnam, had
probably looked like this himself, and wondered if just below Ashford's
veneer of resentful arrogance lay a child's fear of the unknown. Barrett
had represented many silver-spoon executives in his day, but never one
suddenly uprooted from a sixteen-room mansion, manacled, and thrown into
a six-by-eight holding cell. "And hello to you, Mr. Ashford," said
Barrett. "The answer to your question is that even if I sign on, I can't
guarantee getting bail set, and even if I get it set, it will be very
high." Light glinted off Ashford's rimless glasses as he briefly
considered the disclaimer. "And so will your fee, I suppose. Well, don't
confuse me with someone who concerns himself with such matters. Just get
it set, and send me a bill for the bail and $50,000 for your half hour
in court, plus expenses. Fair enough?"

"The firm wants $75,000, in advance." "Highway robbery," said Ashford.
"Not that I'm in a position to complain."

"Right on both counts."

"And what if you fail to get bail set?"

"Firm takes the money anyway." Ashford looked like he was going to break
out laughing. "Jesus," he said, managing only a half smile. "Your firm
gives greed a bad name."

"You're telling Noah about the flood," said Barrett. Elliot Ashfbrd's
eyes betrayed surprise. "When do you start?"

"I haven't decided to do it yet. I haven't completed my investigation."
Ashfbrd's eyes flickered again behind the glasses, but otherwise
concealed the irritation Dickson knew his remark had provoked.

"No commitment either way," snapped Ashford. "I haven't completed mine
either. Any other conditions?"

"Only that this would be what's known as a special appearance. In other
words, if we proceed in your behalf on the bail hearing, our firm does
so without commitments as to future involvement." Christ, Barrett
thought, Pm sounding just like one of them. "Considering your firm's
outlandish rates, I couldn't be happier," said Ashford, though the skin
drawn suddenly tight across his jaw and a twitching at his temples told
Barrett that Elliot Ashford had rarely been so unhappy. "I'm not quite a
billionaire yet, after all." Barrett smiled as he watched the
patrician's left hand reach toward a nonexistent suit-coat breast pocket
for an absent silk kerchief with which to clean the small-lens
spectacles he had removed from the bridge of his aristocratic nose with
his right hand. Frustrated and muttering to himself, Ashford then pulled
a corner of his T-shirt through a zipper in his jumpsuit and began
cleaning the glasses. Barrett was surprised at his own rush of sympathy
for the handsome, arrogant mandarin, looking so pitiably absurd now, so
utterly wretched. Barrett was reminded of how the boys at Saint
Anthony's, where he had lived from the age of four to fifteen, would
capture moths in a mason jar and watch them beat the protective dust off
their own wings against the glass. "So," said Ashford, making an obvious
effort to calm himself, "let's start by you telling me about your
criminal defense experience." Barrett shrugged.

"Won't take long. One case. I defended an executive in a securities and
tax scam out of the Caicos Islands. He was convicted."

"That's it?

That's supposed to reassure me?"

"I'm not here to reassure you, Mr. Ashford, though your case should be
considerably easier than his."

"How so?"

"He was guilty." Ashford rolled his head and eyes impatiently. "Is this
the place where I fall on my knees, weep genuine tears, and tell you how
right you are? That I'm 'absolutely one hundred percent innocent'?"
Barrett smiled. "You could skip the knees part, given the physical
circumstances."

"I'll skip the whole thing, thank you. Besides, you're the one who said
it would he easy. What makes you think I'm innocent?"

"Simple. From all I hear, you're too smart to do something this stupid.
You wouldn't have left tracks, and you would have had a real alibi."

"You're right. So what would you plead as my defense?"

"That you're too smart to do something this stupid. You wouldn't have
left tracks, and you would have had an alibi." Ashford raised an
imperious but approving eyebrow. Barrett looked around him, then leaned
toward him. "Now let me ask you some questions, Mr. Ashford. Two
actually."

"Be my guest."

"Are you able to explain where you were the night of the murder?"

"Why is that germane, if you're just in for a bail hearing?"

"If I were to succeed, you would be free." Ashford gave him a quizzical
look, then said, "All right, the answer--at the risk of sounding like
one of you barristers--is, "Yes and no." You don't want to know the
details, but Al Menghetti knows that I was with an important man at the
time my wife was killed. A man who happens also to be a convicted felon,
currently under indictment. He won't testify or even admit to being in
California that night."

"Why not?"

"Leaving the state would be a fatal parole violation if it became known.
What's your second question?"

"I'm still on my first," said Barrett. "What's his name?"

"Are you my lawyer?"

"No. Not yet, anyway."

"Then let's hear your second question." Barrett moved even closer. "Fair
enough. Did you, or did anyone at your behest, murder your wife?" "No,"
said Ashford dismissively

"What else?" Barrett studied the prisoner, disappointed by the lack of
righteous indignation in Ashford's denial. Menghetti will have to
reinvent this cold piece of work if he puts him on the stand, thought
Barrett. He knew that most lawyers instruct their clients to just be
themselves on the stand, but Barrett knew that with hard work and a
video camera, a top trial lawyer could turn Hyde intojekyll.

"Nothing, for now," he said abruptly, remembering that none of this
would be his responsibility. "So when can you start?"

"I'll give you an answer to that question within forty-eight hours,"
said Barrett, giving the door a hard double-rap that hurt his knuckles.
"When you complete," Ashford said, his voice soft as cashmere, "your
investigation." Ib Barrett's relief, the guard opened the door. "That's
right," he said, and hurried out. As he reentered the main visitors'
room, Barrett noticed the pale-faced girl in the floral dress, still
waiting.

Prisoners on both sides of the walls, he thought. That could be my
daughter, if I had one. Or Jared's wife, if he's married now. Keep
walking, Dickson. But he stopped, gave his head a despairing shake, then
turned back and handed her his card. "If I can help you," he said,
looking into her frightened eyes, "I will." He watched her study the
card, then put it into her purse, taking care not to bend it. She
managed a smile and he nodded, then passed through the steel-barred door
and into the elevator. Soon he would reach the splendor of the free
outdoors and fresh air. That was smart, he thought. I'm supposed to be
selling real estate next year. He headed for Moose's. a Leviticus
Heywood looked around in wonder as he got off the elevator at the
penthouse suite on the fiftieth floor of the Imperial Building, the
offices of Caldwell & Shaw. The opulence! The exquisite waste of it all!

Diverse elements of matter ; had surely never been bound together with
such restrained elegance. Soft lighting from sunken canisters spread
downward across flawless koa wood paneling. At his feet in the reception
lobby, a border of dark Italian marble circumscribed the perimeter of a
carpet he guessed cost more than he made in a year. His inspection was
interrupted by the modulated tone of an elegantly attired receptionist
in her mid-fifties, perched like an owl on a chrome and leather chair,
elbows resting on a slab of marble that matched the ebony i richness of
the floor. "May I help you, sir?" she asked. "Mr. Heywood to see Mr.
Dickson," he said, handing her his card, but instead of looking at it,
she merely nodded toward one of the brocade- covered client chairs lined
on either side of her. Lev remained standing, taking in the view of Coit
Tower and beyond to the Bay, Alcatraz, Angel Island, and Belvedere.

Sailboats bounced on the water like windblown toys playing beneath
stratus clouds drifting no more than fifty feet above where he now
stood. He wondered how long this ostentatious display of wealth and
achievement could be maintained. He had read that C&S was hurting. This
was his first investigation assignment for the

"Montgomery Mayflowers," and he was curious as to why they were breaking
the color line on this one. He suspected it was his work in the TDA
trial in 1993, work that had helped a young lawyer out of Bakersfield
whip Barrett Dickson's butt. Or maybe the white-shoe snobs were just
looking to take on a house nigger. It wouldn't take long for him to find
out. Either way, he had decided that he'd deliver his report to Dickson
and bail out. He didn't feel right lining up with an outfit like this
and representing a right-wing defendant with big bucks against one of
the top Africanamericans in West Coast politics. And Leviticus Heywood
always went with his feel. Lev was also curious as to why Dickson was
being considered for the Ashford case. Dickson had seemed distracted
during the TDA case and had ill concealed his dislike for his obviously
guilty and morally corrupt client. He had seen Dickson in court only on
dog-shit pro bono publico cases after that, representing tenants and
small-time victims of the system. It made no sense, him popping up again
in the highest-profile case in San Francisco's history. His thoughts
were again interrupted by the voice of the receptionist, announcing his
arrival to someone at the other end. Her words were civil in substance,
but were spoken in a tone that said, There goes the neighborhood.

"Hello, Mr. Heywood," said Barrett, entering the reception area a minute
later. "Long time." "Has been that," said Lev, returning Barren's uneasy
smile. Heywood was almost as tall as Barrett, and though both had played
football--Dickson with the Stanford varsity, Heywood with the 49ers--one
would never guess it now. "You've grown a beard since the TDA case,"
said Dickson as he led Lev down the hall and into a surprisingly small
office. "I've grown older, too," said Lev, fingering the gray flecks
covering his chin, "but mainly I've grown around the waist." As they
exchanged pleasantries, Lev's investigator's eye took note of the sparse
furniture and decorations. Nothing but a few flamed certificates: U.S.
Supreme Court, Order of the Coif, American College of Trial Lawyers,
American Board of Trial Advocates. A framed picture of a boy rested on a
credenza behind Dickson's chair, next to a smaller one of a much younger
Dickson with a much older man. That was it. No files, no litter, just a
smattering of correspondence. A shelf held copies of books ranging from
Plato's Republic to three different biographies of Thomas Jefferson and
novels by Mishima, John Banville, Alien Wheelis, and Paul Bowles.

Hanging over the credenza were quotes from Sunzi's Art of War. The wise
man delights in establishing his merit, the brave man likes to show his
courage in action, the covetous man is quick at seizing advantages, and
the stupid man has no fear of death. He will win who knows when to fight
and when not to fight. "Have a seat, Mr. Heywood. Take a load off that
anterior cruciate ligament." Lev smiled. "Medial cardial ligament," said
Lev. "1979, my second season. Same result. Got scissored between a
cornerback and a middle linebacker."

"That makes it '78 then when you were Rookie of the Year."

"Runner-up. Earl Campbell got it that year."

"Heisman Trophy in 77?"

"That's true. You know your football, Mr. Dickson. You play?"

"Not the way you did, Mr. Heywood, but it got me out of Kansas and into
a university in California. For that I'm grateful." Leviticus nodded. "I
got no complaints, either." "Well, then," said Barrett, "tell me what
other poor miscreants you've bedeviled since the TDA case." Lev snorted
disdainfully. "If your client in TDA was just a 'poor miscreant," I'd
hate to see one of your real bad apples."

"Well, sir, you won't have long to wait if I take on a limited
engagement with Elliot Ashford, and your report will have a lot to do
with whether I do." Heywood said nothing. Dickson seemed pleasant
enough, but Elliot Ashford was bad news. The whole thing added up to a
bad fit. Let some other P.I. go down with this ship. He corrugated his
forehead into an expression of skepticism as he glanced around again,
taking in the bare walls, the single window, the decanter on a side
cabinet, then back to Dickson. This was a man traveling light. "Your
kid?" said Leviticus, indicating the picture on the oak credenza. "Yeah.
He's mine."

"That you and your dad?"

"Sort of. That's Sam Caldwell, a great lawyer and gentleman who co-
founded this firm. Can I get you something, Mr. Heywood? Coffee?"

"Naw. One more preliminary question, Mr. Dickson, if you don't mind. I
was just wondering, why me?" Barrett poured himself a cup of coffee and
spiked it with something out of an etched-glass decanter. "Why not you?"
he said. "You and that crazy cowboy kicked my ass in that TDA case. I
figured I'd rather have you on my side this time. If I take it on, that
is."

"If? Any lawyer in town would cut off one of his fingers to get a piece
of this case."

"I'm not any lawyer, Mr. Heywood; fact is I'm not much of a lawyer at
all right now. I'm still picky, however, about what kind of accused
murderer I try to put back on the street. Besides," he added, holding up
his left hand, revealing the stump of a missing ring finger, "I'm
running too low on fingers to give up another one." Heywood said

"Uh-oh," and clenched his teeth in an embarrassed smile. "Hell, I love
that missing finger," said Barrett, laughing. "It got me out ofnam."

"You seem to be a man blessed at gettin' out of places," said Lev.
Barrett paused, took a sip of coffee, and made a face. Then he broke
into a smile as if Lev had said something funny and glanced wistfully at
the picture of himself with Samuel Caldwell. "It's a gift," he said
softly Lev said nothing, mentally rolling up his sleeves, and Barrett
seemed to read his mind.

"Okay, let's get to work. I've got problems with this case unrelated to
the merits. I'm a friend of the judge, which is why they want me. If I
can get past that, I'll come on board and try to get bail
granted--unless he's one of the bad guys."

"Excuse me, counselor, the man's charged with murder. I assume you knew
that when you considered gettin' mixed up in this case."

"Sure," said Barrett, seemingly undisturbed. "But I'd represent a guy
charged with murder if I thought he was basically a decent guy."

"So you want to know if the Mafia rumors are true." Barrett shook his
head. "That's not it, either. Hell, I wouldn't know a wise guy if he was
breaking my own kneecaps. The bad guys I'm fed up with are the
three-piece economic animals who run America these days; guys at the top
taking eighty, ninety million a year in salary and options while their
employees go eight to five plus overtime for thirty K. Those guys hurt
the country more than the wiseguys because they operate just inside the
law and take more money out of the system than they can possibly spend."

"Ain't Ashford one of'those guys'?"

"That's what I want to know," said Barrett. "He's loaded all right, but
from what I've heard, he spreads his money around like Robin Hood."

"Like a sailor on shore leave," said Lev, scanning his notes. "Spends it
like there's no tomorrow."

"With Earl Field on his case," said Barrett, "there may not be." Lev
shrugged. "Don't write Ashford off. He's got good PR."

"PR?"

"Spends all that money out loud, if you know what I mean. The usual
white-shoe causes: new city library, modern art museum, big bucks to the
ballet and symphony. Makes page two or three every time. But his biggest
press since he left Washington comes from sponsoring a homeless shelter
on Eighth, plus which he just seeded a project for on-the-job training
for street people. He's got a bunch of them working at Resource already,
so it can't be said he don't put big money where his big mouth is."

"So he might be one of the good guys, after all," said Barrett,
"assuming I can get past his politics." Lev raised gray-streaked
eyebrows. "Never heard a defense lawyer apply a 'good guy/bad guy' test.
Dickson shrugged. "Interesting," said Heywood.

"Maybe I'll take a cup of that coffee."

"Plain?" "Yeah, plain," said Lev with a wry smile, finding himself drawn
to this strange bird. "Black." Barrett smiled back at him. "So, what
else have you found out about our boy Elliot?" Leviticus summarized his
written report and the state's case against Ash- ford. Other than rumors
of some missing evidence, the police had done a thorough job, but he had
decided to double-check Ashford's alibi and confirmed that no one
working the theatre the night of the murder remembered seeing him. On
the plus side, Heywood hadn't found any 911 domestic-violence calls
preceding the murder--other than one from a neighbor back in D.C. that
had moss on it. In fact, the people he had interviewed so far expressed
the belief that Elliot and Lara coexisted quite peacefully, despite
Elliot's apparent view of their relationship as a one-way open marriage.
He seemed to have forgiven and forgotten Lara's colorful lifestyle and
rumored affair with Senator Dwight Clifton. He even welcomed her
occasional appearances at the opera and symphony on the arm of his close
friend and business associate, Anthony Rizzo, when he, Elliot, was out
of town--before Rizzo got convicted of racketeering and entered a plea
bargain that made him a virtual prisoner within Cook County, Illinois.
"So the D.A. can show means and opportunity," Leviticus concluded, "but
the routine domestic-rage-killing motive is lame." "Maybe routine," said
Barrett, "but messy."

"I'd say the murderer was considerably beyond cranky."

"What about Ashford's rumored Mafia connection?"

"Another one of the roles he likes to play," said Lev, reaching for his
coffee. "I figure the man for a mob groupie, a high-class Jack Ruby,
nuzzlin' up to criminals as well as cops, and all the while tryin' to
sell himself in Pacific Heights as San Francisco old money."

"San Francisco doesn't have 'old money."

" Lev shrugged. "Anything stays in my wallet twenty-four hours
qualifies." Barrett nodded. "Anyway, he failed to convince his
neighbors. Overdoes everything. Cars a touch too slick, parties a bit
too flashy, sixteen-room house done up a little on the garish side.

Bought himself a string of purebred Arabians tryin' to impress the
Woodside horsey set, though I gather he'd bet against his own horses if
his bookie told him to. Even tried to play polo one season but fell off
his horse and now pays someone else to ride the pony. They laugh at him
behind his back down there, but nobody turns down an invitation to his
house." Barrett nodded again, an image of the man forming in his mind:
the kind of man desperately trying to buy respectability and acceptance,
yet pulled irresistibly toward notoriety, and now maybe toward a death
sentence. Barrett felt another stirring of sympathy for Elliot Ashford
breaking through his repugnance. "Any other suspects?"

"She had some strange cult-type friends and a sister--Shannon Lake-- who
is said to be in love with Ashford and is rumored to have hated Lara.
Then there's the whole Las Vegas and Chicago crowd and, of course,
Senator Clifton, who just happened to be in town that night for a
fundraiser." Barrett made some notes on a pad. "If Ashford's not Mafia,"
he asked Heywood, "what's the Rizzo connection?" Leviticus explained
Rizzo's 34 percent stake in Ashford's heavy construction company and its
subsidiaries. Barrett said, "That's it?" Leviticus said, "That's it."
Dickson hummed a tune Lev thought sounded like a butchered version
of'stardust," then snatched a dusty corporations code from a shelf and
took a quick look. "Somebody in Chicago must have researched California
law before they made the investment. Says here a minority stockholder is
captive to the majority in this state for all practical purposes unless
he owns at least thirty-three and one-third percent of the common stock.
Then he's got clout.

That's why Rizzo wanted thirty-four percent." Lev nodded and looked at
his notes. "Carmine Rizzo's brains are carried around in the head of a
lawyer named Julian Gold. Poor health, worse disposition, but once a
smart and reputable corporate lawyer at a firm called Katz, Cowan & Van
Winkle. Chicago's finest. Gold bolted the partnership twelve years ago
and joined Rizzo as his consigliere. Ex-partner at the Katz firm told me
they mourned his departure with a three-day party."

"Yeah," said Barrett. "I've heard about him. What about Field's feud
with Ashford?

Could this be a grudge match, with Field using his office to even a
score?" Heywood shrugged uncomfortably. "You may be asking the wrong guy
on that one, counselor. I voted for Earl Field. He's my man."

"I see. So I guess I'd also be asking the wrong guy whether there's any
fire in that office under all the smoke people are smelling?"

"Sorry to disappoint you, counselor, but the SFDA's office is riddled
with honesty."

"Okay. How about the woman who's preparing the case for Field, and why
do they call her Amazing Grace?"

"She don't lose, for one thing," said Lev, relieved to be moving away
from Earl Field. "Tougher than Vince Lombard! for another. A
ball-bustin' law-and-order type who doesn't cut deals. She's fair, but
don't ever expect her to cut you any slack."

"How come Field's got her warming the bench?" Lev shrugged. "My guess is
she'll be in uniform when the game starts." Barrett nodded again, then
shifted gears. "Did Ashford's lawyer okay a call to Tony Rizzo in
Chicago?"

"Yep, and I called him. He was a little coy with me, but my take is that
Rizzo was with him the night of the murder."

"So you think the alibi is for real?"

"Sure. But no way is Big Daddy gonna let his kid admit he was out here
hangin' with your boy the night of the murder." Barrett sweetened his
coffee from the decanter, then said, "So on balance, you don't think
Ashford did his wife?" Leviticus Heywood scrunched his face and rubbed
his nose with the palm of his huge hand.

"If I was you, counselor, I'd quit worryin' about who did it. First
place, like you said, you're a short-timer. You're gonna cut and run,
right? No offense intended."

"None taken. Cutting and running is my specialty."

"Second place, Earl Field don't give a rat's ass either way.

Everyone knows the D.A. hates Ashford and just been waitin' to catch him
spittin' on the sidewalk. They'll pull out all the stops."

"Full-court press." Lev nodded. "Full-on two-minute drill. He'll be
convicted."

"So you do think Ashford did it?" Lev gave Barrett an amused look and
said, "I didn't say that. He might be clean."

"Then why a conviction? What happened to reasonable doubt?" Leviticus
Heywood smiled and said, "My wife would say my doubts regarding the law
can't be reasonable because they're so numerous." Barrett smiled, then
looked straight into the investigator's dark eyes. "Are you not telling
me something, Mr. Heywood?"

"I'm not tellin' you a lot of things."

"You know what I mean.

About Ashford. About Field." Lev slowly rose to his feet. "My bill's in
back of my written report. Good luck, counselor."

"I'll see you out."

"I can find my way."

"Hold on a minute. I'm hearing you say that a guy on defense may have
got himself caught in a power play around end; in this case, left end."

"Like I said, you know your football pretty good, counselor, for an ex-
Stanford player. And your local politics, too." Barrett got out of his
chair and walked close enough that Lev could smell the pungency of
brandy beneath the acid aroma of coffee. "What if I decided not to 'cut
and run' after the bail hearing?" he said. "Would the investigative
services of Leviticus Heywood be available to me?" Lev met Barrett's
direct gaze, then for reasons he couldn't rationalize-- other than going
with his "feel"--he held out his hand and said, "Call me, counselor." 10
Grace Harris hurried up the rain-swept steps to the Thomas J. Cahill
Hall of Justice with Sam Quon at her side. Flash cameras began
flickering in the gloom from the top of the stairs as photographers
snapped her picture. "Uh-oh," said Sam. "Hope the boss doesn't find out
someone has leaked your highly classified involvement in the Ashford
case." Grace tried to smile at Sam's rare jab at the district attorney.
His loyalty to Earl Field was as steadfast as her own had been. "It
won't be a secret after today, Sam," she said without smiling, and
ignoring shouted questions from reporters thrusting microphones in her
direction. "I'm coming out." Although the photographers were behind them
now, a larger burst of candescence lit up her face, followed seconds
later by the sound of thunder crashing in the distance like cannon.
"This weather," she shouted over her shoulder.

Sam nodded and moved up beside her as they hit the top step. "This early
in the season, for God's sake!" he shouted back. "El Nino should be
booked and charged with assault." As they gained the safety of the
foyer, another blast of light drew their attention back outside to a
gaggle of human forms tilted against the wind, some carrying imploded
umbrellas, others tugging at hats or chasing them. Vehicles crawled
behind headlights still glowing at 8:00 a.m. as they poured off 101 and
280 onto flooded city streets. Water raced down Bryant Street like an
ocean surf, and branches of wind-battered sycamores lashed at the sky.

Gaining the quiet confusion of her cluttered office, Grace reopened her
umbrella and tossed it upside down in a corner, then hung her coat on a
rack and shook water from her hands. Sam appeared with steaming cups
from the employees' coffeepot, and Grace used hers to warm her fingers.

"Now, what's this about you 'coming out'?" said Sam. "Take a look at
these," she said, and handed him two new Ashford case filings, one
entitled Association of Counsel, the other a renewed motion to set bail.

"Again?" he said. "I'm opposing the motion in twenty minutes," she said,
her tone edged with anger. "Really. How come the chief is passing this
one up? The press will be all over the courthouse."

"Earl is testifying in Sacramento on some new proposed drug
legislation."

"Why the long face? Isn't this what you've been waiting for?"

"Jack Klegg notified me at home," Grace said, trying to lighten her
tone. "An hour ago. The papers were delivered a half hour later."

"Oops."

"Didn't give me time to get my hair done." "Or prepare for the hearing,"
he said. "Is this Klegg's revenge for Earl assigning you to the case
instead of him?" Grace shook her head. "He knew Earl had to have a woman
on the case, plus he's as rusty as Earl." Sam shook his head. "Earl's
rusty," he said. "Klegg's corroded." "Anyway, Klegg said it would be
routine and it should be." Sam looked at the moving papers. Below Al
Menghetti's typed name, the motion was signed

"Caldwell & Shaw, by Barrett Dickson."

"Barrett Dickson? Caldwell & Shaw?" said Sam. "So it's true."

"Yeah.

He's a buddy of the judge, plus he's got some new doctor to testify."

"The usual song and dance?" said Sam. "The poor little defendant is too
sick for confinement to a cell." Grace shrugged. "I suppose."

"As if that ever works," said Quon. Grace was surprised to feel her
heart beating hard against her rib cage as she and Sam entered
Department 26.

Sam took a seat in back. Grace saw that Al Menghetti and Barrett Dickson
were already there, lounging casually in the jury box. Seated, Menghetti
appeared to be as tall as Dickson, but she knew the Los Angeles lawyer
was long-wasted and, when standing, little more than average height. He
seemed to be made of squares and rectangles, an unfinished sculpture
piece. His breadth, combined with an eighteen-inch neck, square jaw, and
thin, unsmiling lips, communicated power and confidence. Grace mused
that she and Field should be grateful the matter was not going to be
decided in a tag-team wrestling match. She went through the rail and
shook hands with Menghetti. He grudgingly introduced her to Barrett
Dickson, whose damp palm revealed that he would probably be arguing the
bail motion himself. Menghetti then walked away, obviously unhappy to be
saddled with co-counsel. Maybe she could exploit this apparent tension
as the trial progressed. She took in the rumpled state of the once great
lawyer who had so inspired her when she was just starting out. More than
ten years ago now, she had heard he was in the courthouse and had
slipped into the back of the courtroom just as he was dissecting a
hapless CPA on cross-examination. She had been both exhilarated and
depressed by what she had seen, wondering if she could ever do what he
seemed to be doing with such ease. But now Barrett Dickson had the look
of someone recently awakened from a near-death experience. He smiled
awkwardly as he stood up in a clean but wrinkled suit, wearing shoes as
dull as his expression. His face was florid and puffy, with tiny veins
that spread from his nose to merge into prominent cheekbones, betraying
his rumored affection for the grape. Though he looked damaged, there was
an appealing gentleness in his face that took her by surprise. His
expression was devoid of self-pity, but he had the manner of a man
embarrassed by his six-foot-five-inch height, as if he owed smaller
people an apology for looking down at them. Only the gritty baritone
voice seemed to accord with the brilliance she had seen in that
courtroom more than a decade earlier. Still, he's friends with the
judge, she reminded herself, suddenly annoyed, and that might make him
the most effective lawyer in the courtroom today. She decided to meet
the defense's obvious exploitation head-on. "Aren't you a bit wide of
your specialty today, Mr. Dickson?" she said. "I thought you were a
civil practitioner." Barrett shrugged. "Perhaps I am a bit in foreign
waters, Miss. Harris, though George Bernard Shaw once claimed the right
to speak on medical matters because his uncle was a doctor."

"Speaking is one thing; you've just walked into the operating room,
Doctor."

"Well, as Woody Alien says, ninety percent of living--"

"--is just showing up," said Grace. "I know. But I can't think you
really wanted to show up in this case, Mr. Dickson." He said nothing to
this. Just looked at her in his inscrutable, gentle way. Grace concluded
that Dickson's eyes, though red-rimmed and swollen, were his best
feature: large and dark green, but curtained-off somehow. He was, she
decided, interesting-looking, though not classically handsome. What he
had was an inestimable presence, derived mainly, of course, from his
size, but also from a dangerous intensity behind those melancholy eyes
that Grace knew had broken many a witness. She would have to be careful
with this man.

"Call me Barrett, okay?" he said, more alert now, as if awakening from a
nap. "Look, I'll give you another parable, this one from the sage lips
of Yogi Berra:"If people don't want to go to the ballpark, nobody's
going to keep 'em from going there."

"

"Translation please?" Dickson glanced over her head as two bailiffs
escorted Ashford out of an adjacent holding cell and into the room,
dressed in a gray pin-striped suit, white shirt, and conservative tie.
"Watch this," he said simply, then excused himself and walked away.
Barrett Dickson's enigmatic remark sent a chill of uneasiness into her
stomach. It came across as a challenge or at least a forewarning. Watch
this? She turned and saw that Ashford did not appear ill at all; indeed,
he looked to be in decent health under the circumstances. His eyes were
clear without hint of illness, and his features and grooming were as
precise as Dickson's were haphazard. He even smiled at her. A louder
warning signal went off on the instinctive right side of her brain.
Something's not right here. She wondered if Earl Field had intuited the
same thing and decided that testifying before a hostile senate committee
in Sacramento might be safer than attending this "routine" hearing. She
prayed she would not slammer in front of Dickson. All rose as the
Honorable John Hernandez took the bench. "So, Mr. Dickson," he said,
"you'll be joining us in this matter?" Dickson rose unsteadily and spoke
in a deep but slightly tremulous voice. "For purposes of this motion, at
least, Your Honor. I have little to offer a man of Mr. Menghetti's
experience, other than perhaps a view of the forest--a product of my
distance from the trees--a dubious contribution at best." "The court
values perspective," said the judge, half smiling, "but in view of the
clear allegations of murder with special circumstances, a little law
would be prized even more."

"Ah, there's the rub, Your Honor, for I must also confess to a general
ignorance of criminal law. I hope, however, to persuade the court that
the facts underlying this motion might render my ignorance moot."

"The court notes, Mr. Dickson, that in the past whenever you asserted
'ignorance," opposing counsel reached to protect their wallets."
Laughter erupted among the reporters in attendance, quickly silenced by
the bailiff's glare. Grace glared, too, wondering how she might
interrupt this love-test. "You flatter me, Your Honor, but from the
perspective of my admitted ignorance, I recently asked Mr. Menghetti
whether he had reminded the court when this motion was argued before--"
"Twice before," said John Hernandez. "Twice before, Your Honor--that the
case should not be presumed to be one of 'special circumstances' until a
probability of such circumstances was shown to exist." Grace decided she
had to break this up somehow. She stood and said: "I would not be so
impertinent as to suggest that Mr. Dickson was correct in his
self-assessment of abysmal ignorance, Your Honor, but--"

"I don't think I used the word 'abysmal," Ms. Harris," said Barrett,
grinning broadly at her. "You didn't need to, counselor," said Grace,
grinning back and noticing, despite her tension, that the man had a
marvelous smile. "Your Honor, Mr. Dickson is apparently unaware of the
testimony of Dr. Yang concerning torture." Barrett Dickson turned toward
her, but stared off somewhere in the middle distance between them as if
he were trying to recall her name. He rubbed his eyes wearily, then
shrugged and said, "I thank counsel for lending support to my assertion
of ignorance, but feel that in this one regard at least, Your Honor,
hers might well humble my own. If it please the court, I would like to
call Dr. Stuart Margolin, who is present here in court." Grace asked
herself why she was feeling so uneasy about this ostensibly routine
hearing and why she was being so acrimonious. He had probably set her
off with that

"Watch this" remark.

She turned and watched the doctor-- a thin man with a shoe clerk's thin
mustache. Everything about the man was thin--his hair, his wrist in the
air as he took the oath--everything except his voice, which boomed out
of his thin lips with an operatic timber and a Cronkite-like authority.

"So, Doctor," said Dickson after qualifying him as an expert, "have you
an opinion on whether there was torture in this case?" My God, thought
Grace, realizing she had been set up. She felt she should object, but
had no grounds. Her objection was to Jack Klegg's treachery, and that
couldn't be dealt with here. Was Earl aware of this? "I have," said the
witness. Grace forced herself to calm down and make the best of it. "And
what is that opinion?"

"In my opinion, there was no torture." Grace felt the blood rising in
her face. It'll just be routine, Grace. Not to worry. "Why do you say
that?" continued Barrett. "In my opinion, the killer inflicted the
puncture wounds after he had severed the victim's carotid artery."

"Meaning?"

"She was already dead."

"And how do you know that?"

"It's evident from the photographs; primarily, the relatively minor
amount of blood loss from the wounds to the breasts and labia." Grace
noticed that Judge Hernandez was scribbling like a secretary taking
dictation. She was feeling hot all over now. This invitation from
Sacramento came to Earl just last night, KIEGG had said. The motion
can't amount to anything, but at least you'll get your name in the
papers. Jack Klegg would be proven right about that, at least. There
were no less than a dozen reporters on hand to cover this hearing.

Dickson said, "To oversimplify, Doctor, are you saying the heart had
already stopped pumping at the time the assailant applied the puncture
wounds to the genitalia?"

"Exactly." Dickson turned to the judge and extended his hands, palms up,
and said, "Ergo, if it please the court, no torture." "Cross-examine,
Ms. Harris?" said Judge Hernandez. Grace's heart sank. She could see
that the judge was going for it and that they were--she was--about to
lose Elliot Ashford. She knew she'd get nowhere with the obviously
well-prepared doctor. He would be testifying at trial, however, and she
needed to learn as much as she could to prepare for their next
confrontation, when the playing field would be more level. She started
by asking him if he had read the opinion of Dr. Yang that there had been
torture. "Yes. Reasonable medical minds often differ on these matters,"
he admitted, "particularly on the speed and dissipation of blood flow."

"So you concede that Dr. Yang is a 'reasonable medical mind'?"

"I don't know Dr. Yang, but I'm sure he's a fine practitioner. He's just
out of his element on this particular matter."

"Are you aware that Dr. Yang had the opportunity to study the body of
the victim during the autopsy?"

"Yes, that's what I was told."

"You have never seen the body, have you?"

"No."

"You merely looked at pictures of the body?"

"Pretty much, though I studied the complete reports of the criminalists
and medical people as well as the autopsy photographs."

"When did you see this material for the first time?"

"Mr. Dickson provided them to me just last week."

"Just last week," she repeated, shooting a glance at the judge. "Would
you agree that participating in the autopsy afforded Dr. Yang a more
effective basis for an opinion on this issue than the cold data you were
provided and that he m-might, therefore, be more in his 'element' than
you are in yours?"

"Your point is well taken, Ms. Harris, but remember that Dr. Yang was
merely looking at a cold body on a slab, long after all bleeding had
ceased." She could feel it slipping away. This guy is good, she thought.
But I'll be ready for him next time. "Moreover," Dr. Margolin continued,
"Dr. Yang has not had the advantage of spending most of his professional
life teaching and testifying on morbidity and blood-loss patterns as I
have. I assure you, Ms. Harris, the woman was quite dead at the time the
puncture wounds were inflicted." After another ten minutes of
questioning, Grace had learned all she could and the doctor was excused.
Dickson rose to address the court, listing Ashford's many ties to the
community and the various reasons he could not possibly leave the area.
He reminded the judge that as a former member of the city's Police
Commission and a militant law-and-order advocate in Congress, Ashford
was in imminent danger of physical assault by other inmates. Dickson
closed by urging that the court exercise its discretion and, in the
interest of fundamental fairness, set bail at 250,000. When her turn
came, Grace pointed out that Ashford was being protected in a separate
cell, but Judge Hernandez had indeed been impressed by the doctor's
testimony. Bail was set at $750,000, which Grace argued was chump change
to Ashford, but again to no avail. She glared at Dickson and slammed her
briefcase shut even as the judge was leaving the bench. "Ms. Harris,"
said Dickson, more relaxed now, daring to flash that damn smile again,
"it's not the end of the world. Mr. Ashford is not a flight risk, nor is
he a serial killer stalking his next victim. You'll have your day in
court with twelve jurors."

"That's right, Mr. Dickson, and unless you went to school with all of
them, too, your client will have his day on death row." Barrett's smile
disappeared. "Would you like to put that implication on the record,
counsel? I'm sure the judge would accommodate you." Grace's eyes
narrowed defiantly. "The judge has done quite enough accommodating for
one day," she said, and strode through the rail, her thin waist, trim
ankles, and train of dark hair closely trailed by Dickson's admiring
eyes. She motioned Sam Quon to her side with a wave of her hand and
strode from the courtroom. Grace tried to compose herself. She realized
that her desire to impress Dickson was compounding her distress now in
losing to him. "Tough break," said Sam. "You got blindsided."

"And not by Dickson," she said, striding faster with each step, trying
to control her anger. "You were pretty rough in there, Grace," said Sam
cautiously.

"I shouldn't have said that to him about the judge."

"It won't get back to him. Dickson's not that kind of guy from what I
hear. Let me buy you a cup of coffee. It's only round one, Grace."

"We took some heavy punishment, Sam," she said, keeping up her rapid
pace. "A wife killer, back on the streets."

"At least he's fresh out of wives." Grace didn't smile. "What I don't
understand, Sam, is why Klegg didn't tell me Dickson was going to make
his pitch on the absence of torture."

"If he knew, it means he either wanted Ashford out on bail or just
wanted to see you lose."

"Or both." She felt Sam's questioning eyes on her. "Do you think Klegg
knew what approach Dickson was going to take?" Sam asked. "I don't know.
The papers were cleverly ambiguous. But I intend to find out. Back in
the half-empty courtroom, Elliot Ashford clutched Barrett by the arm.
"That was magic, counselor," he said. "I'm in your debt."

"$75,000 will fully satisfy that debt, Mr. Ashford."

"Of course," said Ashford, tightening his grip on Barrett's arm, "that
was our arrangement. But now we've got to persuade you to stay on with
us, don't we, Al? I'm serious, Barrett, anything you want. Hourly rates
plus a major bonus when we win. Sound fair? That was marvelous, wasn't
it, Al?

Just from looking at the photos?"

"Well done, Dickson," said Menghetti, extending his hand magnanimously,
if not enthusiastically. "I should have caught the blood-flow patterns
myself."

"You've had your hands full, Al," said Barrett. "Anyway, it was the doc
who persuaded the judge."

"Humble, too," said Ashfbrd, beaming at Barrett. "A regular Abe Lincoln.
We insist you stay with the ship, Dickson." Barrett gave Ashfbrd an
amused look. People hate lawyers, he thought, until the minute they need
one themselves. Still, for a second, the invitation produced a seductive
twinge in his gut, the kind he used to get when he had done well and
someone wanted him. It had been a long time since someone had wanted
him. "Well, Barrett?" said the beaming defendant.

"Join the crew? "I only signed on for the short cruise, Mr. Ashfbrd,"
said Barrett, making his way through the rail and toward the door. "I'll
consider it, of course, but I'm inclined to disembark here."

"It will be the trip of a lifetime," said Ashford. "I've no doubt of
it," said Barrett, not looking back. "Bon voyage, gentlemen." II The
telephone awakened Barrett the next morning in his small apartment on
Telegraph Hill near Coit Tower. He rumbled for the phone and squinted at
his clock as a woman's voice he couldn't identify came through the
receiver. It was almost noon, but he didn't feel like talking to a
stranger with his throbbing head propped on one elbow and a mouth that
tasted like the inside of a motorman's glove. He had not just
disembarked last night, he had walked the gangplank. What he felt like
doing was going down the hill to one of his favorite bars, the Washbag
or Moose's, and not talking to any strangers there either, particularly
strangers like this one who insisted on scheduling a meeting tomorrow
with Messrs. Ashford and Gold to discuss the "scope of your
participation in the trial." Now he remembered. Despite his parting

"Bon voyage," two cashier's checks had been delivered to his office
within two hours of the judge's ruling: one to the order of Caldwell &
Shaw for $75,000 and another for 350,000, marked "advance for trial
services." There had been no note.

Now, too hungover to protest or explain, he grunted, "Tell Mr. Ashford
I'll call back." Dickson put his feet on the floor, one at a time. He
sat there for a while, then lumbered into the kitchen, where he fished a
relatively clean glass out of the crammed sink and swallowed four
aspirin. He turned on the gas to heat some coffee, but then couldn't
find a match. The smell of the gas sent a wave of nausea through his
stomach and awakened memories of a white Mercedes in a dark garage still
reeking of an equally noxious odor and the dead weight of Ellen's body
in his arms. Barrett had met Ellen Farr in 1971 at Esalen, near Big Sur,
California, home of the human potential movement. He was thirty, single,
and working at C&S as an associate attorney. He had come to Esalen to
attend a weekend seminar on nonviolent confrontation led by a Buddhist
monk and a gritty female veteran of civil rights demonstrations in
Selma, Alabama. Barrett, bruised by his own violent youth, then Vietnam,
had hoped that the courtroom might prove the ultimate catharsis for
anger; a place where people with a grudge might allow their legal
champions to spit verbal bullets and refrain from shooting at each other
with real ones. Barrett smiled sadly now at the notion, wondering what
had become of that idealistic youth, the kid with the optimistic--if
somewhat wary--view of his future. The lecturers at Esalen were both
brilliant and obscure, but the thing he would remember most was Ellen
Farr, surely sent by Saint Emilian, patron saint of orphans, to pick his
unworthy ass out of the crowd and give his life new meaning. Ellen had a
Phi Beta Kappa key, an advanced degree in differential psychology, and a
great pair of legs. She had led Barrett's "trust group" experience on
Saturday morning, demonstrating poise, intelligence, and just the right
touch of Esalen quirkiness. Barrett had failed the exercise--he kept
lifting his blindfold, certain he was being led by his "trust partner"
over the edge of some precipice--but had enjoyed watching her later as
they stood on a cliff overlooking the Pacific; watching as her
carelessly worn blond hair was tossed from her face by an offshore
breeze, revealing large, pale blue eyes and a full smile that made
everyone feel good just being in the same space with her. Whenever she
called him by name or threw him the most trifling compliment, his heart
ached with pleasure, and when she treated others with equal warmth, he
felt an unreasoning envy. She had told him he would be happier if he
could trust people more. "Take more risks," she said, making him feel
ashamed. He had thought of responding with

"Really? How's this for taking a risk? Marry me tomorrow." He said no
such thing, of course, but returned to his room late that afternoon
aware that he had fallen hopelessly, tragically in love with this
fascinating woman. Later that night after dinner, he scrambled to grab a
seat next to her-- not easy at 2 3 8 pounds even in those days--in the
rear of a dimly lit room for a presentation of Gestalt dream analysis.
She asked him if he had come to have Fritz Peris raise his level of
trust, flashing him a bemused smile that made him feel like a freshman
transfer student. "I've decided to trust my luck," he had managed to
say, "by asking you out next weekend." She smiled, but wordlessly
settled in to hear the presentation. Barrett fidgeted nervously until
Peris was nearly finished, then asked her to go outside, along the
cliffs that overlooked the ocean. She surprised him by agreeing, and a
minute later was standing close to him, her hair the color of barley in
the pale light of the half-moon rising over the trees, her delicate
features exquisite in silhouette as she stared across the pool toward
the rippling neon sea far below them. He asked her questions about her
past, touched her arm, felt the softness that seemed to melt into his
own skin, sending an electric current down his spine. Again, she didn't
move away from him or remove his hand, and he became less aware of the
voices from within the building, the smell of smoke from the chimney,
the even rhythm of breakers exploding against the rocks below. He barely
even heard her words, so enthralled was he by the warmth of her skin
under his touch, the sight other breasts rising and falling with each
breath. She told him about growing up in Bend, Oregon, on the Deschutes
River; about going to college in Eugene, then moving to Piedmont,
California, when her father was tapped to head a bank in San Francisco.
She spoke other rebellion from her parents, running away to L.A. with a
man she had planned to marry but didn't; about a modeling stint that
paid well but didn't lead anywhere; about attending night school to
finish her psych degree; and--a jarring note here--about falling in love
at first sight from a distance of a hundred feet or more with a man in a
black T-shirt signing for a deaf group at a rock concert at Fillmore
West in San Francisco. She dreamily described the easy grace of the
man's movements in the dull glow of a single spotlight as his hips swung
in time to the music and his flowing arms and hands conjured words out
of sound like a sorcerer. Barrett wondered for a moment if she had
forgotten he was there, and found himself suddenly and painfiilly
jealous of a man long lost in the past of a woman whose last name he
didn't even yet know. The charismatic man had turned out to be a

"Roller," a deep-tissue massage therapist of the Ida Rolf school, living
in Big Sur. He introduced her to Esalen, then disappeared, rumored to be
headed for the East Coast.

She told her story without rancor or sadness and then asked him quesons,
too, which he answered as honestly as he could. He told her about having
been abandoned as an infant, then later being sent to a Catholic school
for boys in Topeka from which he had been delivered after high school
thanks to his size and ability to catch a football. He confessed he
hadn't known Stanford from Purdue, but knew which to choose when he was
told Stanford was near the Pacific Ocean. When they had run out of
questions and found they both liked red wine, good books, and big-band
music, they stood together in silence under the moon, gazing at the sea.

"Have you been out there?" she asked dreamily, looking westward across
the ocean. He wasn't sure if she meant deep-sea fishing or travel to the
Orient. She had meant had he been across the Pacific--to Asia, Bali,
places like that. He had said, sort of, but it wasn't exactly a pleasure
trip. A strange look passed over her face then, and she said she hadn't
been anywhere, speaking in a tone suddenly edged with resentment. Had
Barrett not been in an erotic trance at the moment, he might have
detected that the object of his desire was revealing a dark side.

Instead he put a protective hand around her waist and told her he'd be
happy to spend his life right where he was at that minute. Her smile
returned and she put the palm of her hand to his cheek and kissed him
full on the mouth. He put his other hand around her thin waist and urged
her hips into his hardness and felt the hot tip of her tongue exploring
his lips, his teeth, his own tongue. A sudden burst of laughter from
inside caused her to pull back and give him a look that said she was a
little surprised by what was happening. "I never got your last name," he
said, to ease the tension. But she just smiled again, clasped her hands
behind his neck, then pulled herself up onto her toes and kissed him
again. "It's Farr," she whispered in his ear. "To where?" he asked,
trying to catch his breath. "My last name. Ellen Farr." He laughed at
himself and giddily breathed in the clean smell other hair, luminescent
in the moon glow. His body pulsed with new energy and the conviction
that whatever he had accomplished in his life and whatever he had become
had been to prepare himself for this woman. Ellen Farr. He mouthed the
words to himself as if in prayer and pulled her closer. He dreaded
having to leave in the morning, but pictured them driving up to Carmel
or nearby Nepenthe next weekend for dinner. But next weekend suddenly
seemed light-years in the future. He considered asking her to join him
at the baths right now, but feared she would say no and dash his joyful
delirium, or say yes and mar his image other essential virtue. So he
said nothing, a silent sentinel, hardly breathing for fear she might
move. Barrett heard a catch in her breath--an endearing sound Barrett
had heard babies make--and eased his hold on her. She looked up at him
and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek that pleased him in its casual
hint of domestic intimacy, but then she turned and started back toward
the conference room. She was going back inside! "You haven't answered my
question," he said quickly, hating the strained sound of his voice.

"About seeing me next weekend." She looked back over her shoulder and
extended her hand toward him. "Of course I have," she said, giving him a
playful smile that said she was now, and would forever be, a step ahead
of him. And Barrett smiled with relief as he reached for her hand, like
a man seizing a life jacket. It had taken two years of living with
Ellen, then another two years of marriage, before Barrett began to trust
her fully. He had never trusted anyone or anything in his life. He
guessed that trust was something kids learned from their parents. Then,
after twelve more years together, it had taken Ellen only one day to
betray and forever destroy that trust. Without warning, she ran off,
leaving a note that read: Forgive me, darling Bear, but Fm suffocating.

I beg you not to destroy Jared's view of me when you try to explain the
unexplainable to him. I love you. Try to believe this really has nothing
to do with you. Ellen It was 1985. Jared was nine and Barrett was indeed
as fair to Ellen as he could be as he tried to explain and rationalize
her sudden departure. He particularly resented her for sneaking off
without talking to Jared. How could she leave me? he would think; but
even more bitterly, he would ask, How could she abandon Jared without so
much as a word? It was six months before he learned that her leaving
truly had indeed not so much to do with him as with the handsome young
bond salesman who had stunk up their house with his cologne and who
apparently shared Ellen's yen for travel. At last, Ellen would see the
world. A year later, Barrett dissolved the marriage, maintaining full
custody of Jared, but in 1987 Ellen returned to San Francisco, now
married to multimillionaire Barry Van den Berg, and won the boy back.

Then came 1993 and Barrett's courtroom custody victory over his divorced
and now disgraced ex-wife. Barrett had managed to survive for a few
months after Ellen's suicide that same night andjared's disappearance
the following day, persevering like the good soldier he had tried to be,
endeavoring to remain the skilled professional he had become; trying to
forget how he had pushed Ellen over the edge of despair by using his
legal skills to wrest Jared from her arms. john martel But then he awoke
one morning and realized that whatever he had become had come apart. He
began to envy Ellen's desperate courage and the peace she had purchased
with it. Her death had shoved his face, as Lara Ash- ford's had been
years later, into a harsh and unforgiving mirror. And what he had seen
reflected there had killed his enthusiasm for life as surely as if it
had been pierced by a shard of glass. Barrett found himself standing in
front of his stove, staring at a burning match he had somehow located
and struck. He managed to light the burner just as the match burned out
in his fingers. He shook the pain out of his hand, then opened a can of
beer and the blinds of his living room window. He had moved to the
Telegraph Hill apartment in 1988, a year after he lost custody ofjared.
It wasn't much of a place, for he had also lost a bundle on the
Greenlink investment. It had a small kitchen with flowered paper and the
permanent smell of burnt toast, an eight-by-ten living room with a
fireplace the size of a microwave oven but with a decent view of the
Bay, and two bedrooms, each with a king-size bed. He had still hoped to
win Jared back at the time. His own bed had only twice received an
overnight female guest, and only one of those experiences had turned out
halfway decently. The other bed had never been used at all. He preferred
being alone. He sat for a minute on the worn couch in front of the
fireplace, then strolled back to the counter that separated the kitchen
from the living room, and flipped through yesterday's mail--bills, ads,
a book of discount coupons, and a note from building security reporting
that he had gone off again without fully closing his front door. He
fingered the checks Ashford had sent. $425,000 was a lot of money, and
he knew that there would be a sizable bonus in the event of an
acquittal. He smiled as he studied the checks, concluded he must have
done pretty damn well in court yesterday. The realization set off
another twinge in his empty stomach: not quite that old
peak-experience-electric-surge up his spine, but a pleasant feeling he
had almost forgotten. Was it the rush of knowing he could still do it?
he wondered. He had never stopped to analyze the sensation when it was
as commonplace as the jolt now delivered by the first drink of the day.

Or was it simply the guilty pleasure of savoring something all the more
because he had stolen it. Grace Harris simply hadn't prepared for his
no- torture scenario, even though he had called Field two days before to
disclose it to him. Too bad in a way, for he liked the woman and didn't
like seeing her uncomfortable. He liked her a lot, He sat down at his
upright piano and opened the sheet music for

"Stardust." He began practicing, leadenly striking the keys with two
thumbs and seven thick fingers that often caught a black key along with
the intended white one, creating a dissonance of the sort that would not
have provoked enw in Bartok or Hindemith. He had mastered the treble
staff--at least intellectually--but was still having trouble with the
bass notes, scattered as they were all over the damn page, many of them
well outside the five lines that constituted his security zone. He began
to sing along in a voice that expressed enthusiasm but had absolutely
nothing else going for it. "Sometimes I wonder why I spend the lonely
nights dreaming of a song" The phone rang. He let it ring. "The melody,
haunts my reverie" He had made it all the way to

"When our love was new" when the phone rang again, and this time he
snatched it up. "And each kiss an inspiration," he crooned into the
receiver. "Are you drunk?" Mike Reasoner bellowed from the other end.
"Now there's an idea."

"You're entitled, hero. Again, my congratulations."

"For what? That modest victory barely rose to the level of a parlor
trick. Your granddaughter could have won that motion yesterday, Mike.
Maybe even you could have." Mike chuckled. "How's Mr. Ashford taking to
his regained freedom?"

"Swimmingly. His secretary called me this morning from his suite at the
Ritz. Guess he doesn't want to face his house yet. Wants me to stay on
the case, by the way."

"Bravo! This trial could put you back on top, Bear!" Dickson gave his
head an exasperated shake. "I think that's what they told Faye Dunaway
when she was offered the role of Joan Crawford."

"Seriously, Bear, this case will--"

"I'm going to say no, Mike."

"Oh."

"You haven't forgotten our deal?"

"No, of course not," Mike said.

"You've done all I asked. Thanks to you, I'm safe, for the rest of this
year anyway."

"Good," Barrett said, and botched an IF major chord. "But, Bear," Mike
added, shouting over the cacophony, "you're not, and "Wilmer finds out
Ashford wants you to continue and that you're going to refuse "

"He'll have the final piece in place, like he always intended."
"Exactly," Mike said. "Now admit it felt good to be back in the saddle
again."

"Not as good as it feels to be out of it and headed for real estate."
Mike said nothing. "Unless, of course, you persuade me I should become a
professional musician instead." Mike grunted something, then said,
"Okay, Bear, I have to respect your decision. But at least pretend for a
minute that you still work at C&S. You and I are on the agenda at
today's executive committee meeting regarding the status of the firm's
involvement in the case." Barrett considered. If this was it, at least
he'd go out like a man. "All right. Let's get it behind us. What time?"

"Four o'clock."

"I'll be there."

"Good, but if Wilmer doesn't find out Ashford wants to keep you on,
don't tell him, okay? Then I can say you've done all Ashford asked of
you. Nancy and I will be home-free and you'll remain a hero, something
we could use around C&S right now."

"Unhappy the land that needs heroes," " said Barrett. "Brecht." Mike was
silent. "But that -was long ago," continued Barrett, singing again and
wildly striking the keys of the shuddering upright, "and now my
consolation--"

"--is a vodka martini," interrupted Mike. "I'm hanging up now, but for
God's sake, Bear, be nice today. Okay?"

"I'll be sweet as honey, Mike. Mr. Congeniality. Considering the things
Steve Wilmer's tried to do to me for the past two years, I think I have
been amazingly nice to the sonofabitch." "Nice?" said Mike. "I think
you're in denial, Bear." Dickson said, "The hell I am." Mike said, "See
what I mean?" Grace Harris pulled several strands of gray away from her
head with a thumb and forefinger. She wondered if she should start
dyeing her hair.

T She was looking tired lately. Worn. The mirror below her kitchen clock
could be cruelly candid in such matters, particularly in the
fog-filtered lighting of a typical San Francisco late summer dawn.

Forty-two years, a troubled, troublesome sixteen-year-old son, and more
than three hundred felony convictions had begun to record themselves on
her pale, drawn face. And now she faced the Ashford case, her biggest
challenge of all, and the logical next step in an unblemished career
that lacked only public recognition for her accomplishments. There would
be more silver in her hair by the time the verdict was rendered in this
case, she thought, but perhaps there would be a pot of gold as well.

District Attorney Grace Harris. That would show those white-shoe lawyers
on Wall Street who had rejected her as a trial candidate because she
suffered an occasional slammer under stress--as in during job
interviews. Show her father, too. But it would have to be seen as her
victory as well as Earl's, and she'd be competing for a share of the
credit with a man who was the city's media darling and could play the
press as well as he played politics. She'd have to grab her own slice of
glory, not expect him to give it to her. She would feel no shame in
this, for as much as she needed the case, Earl Field needed her on the
case even more. Fact: The majority of the jurors in long trials like
this one would be women. Fact: Her involvement would dilute criticism
that Ashford's indictment was politically motivated or the product of a
personal vendetta. Fact: If TV were allowed in the courtroom, she--at
five feet four in medium heels--would make Field look taller than his
five feet seven. Fact: If something went wrong, she'd be there to take
the fall. She dropped a bagel in the toaster. "Morning, Mom," said
Aaron, shuffling into the kitchen in his knee- length extrabaggy shorts,
his head shaved but for a circle at the top. America's future, thought
Grace, taking a closer look at his black Converse high-tops, a T-shirt
that proclaimed

"Rasta Power!" and faded purple socks that sagged from his ankles. "Good
morning, Pumpkin," said Grace. "Are you planning to go to work looking
like that? I don't think so." Aaron ignored her. She was his mother.
"Aaron?"

"Geez, Mom, excuse me for living. You sure are bitchy on Thursday
mornings." Grace let the remark pass. She -was feeling cranky and didn't
want to get into a discussion of her late Wednesday nights out: secret,
anonymous sessions at an Emeryville piano bar where, for as long as
they'd let her, she gave voice to her soul in waves of lighthearted,
unstammering song followed sometimes by an hour of lighthearted,
uncomplicated sex with a lawyer friend from the East Bay with whom she
had broken up four years earlier when he had decided Aaron was more
baggage than he wanted to pack. It had been hurtful, but not bitter, and
he was a considerate lover. It wasn't much, but it kept her from
withering into a dry stalk. Like the way she was feeling today.

"Okay," she said, "so I'm bitchy, but that haircut makes you look like
you've had a lobotomy." Aaron snorted the way he'd been doing lately, a
guttural sound from halfway down his throat. She remembered how he had
spent the entire year of his sixth grade speaking to her only in a
Donald Duck voice, and the grunt, though irritating, was eminently
preferable. "As for your clothes," she continued, "I was under the
impression you were still in high school, not the NBA."

"Get used to it, Mom. Everybody's stylin' this way. Everybody's got this
cut, too."

"Everybody' to your mind, Aaron, includes Skip Hodges and perhaps one
other human being in the entire free world. So I won't 'get used to it,"
wdyozi will be more respectful." Aaron shrugged. "Anyways, Skip said his
dad don't mind." Skip's dad was Aaron's summer employer. "Doesn't mind."
The smell of burnt bagel crinkled Grace's nose. "Doesn't mind," mocked
Aaron, affecting an exaggerated British accent. "Anyway, it's what's
cool, Mom." The bagel finally surrendered itself. Grace shoved in a
fresh one and glanced at her son, already engrossed in the auto section
of the morning paper. It jarred her again how much he looked like his
father, and she flashed on the day in 1979 when she first introduced Abe
Harris to her family. With the marriage less than two weeks away, it was
time to face the Havan Nagila. "The man's not Jewish!" the Rabbi
Piakowski shouted as soon as Grace was alone with him in the living room
of the small Brooklyn flat. Her father paced, hands locked together
behind his back. "The man is named Abraham Harris and he's not Jewish!"

"Quiet, Papa, he'll hear you."

"So what does it matter he hears me? I assume he is already aware he is
not Jewish."

"He was named after Abraham Lincoln, Papa," said Grace, unable to
suppress a smile. Grace's mother, who had sung at Grossinger's in her
twenties during the heyday of the borscht belt of the Catskills, was in
the kitchen with Abe, trying to get him to eat something. Her father
shook his head. "If you insist on having children with this goy, I hope
you will at least choose to be a devoted mother." She frowned, knowing
what he meant. The Hasidics--described as "urban Puritans" by her Jewish
professor at NYU--were an ingrown, isolated, and deeply spiritual
community in which women were expected to be mothers and nothing more.
It had been bad enough when she had gone to college, even worse when she
insisted on going to law school. Not even a male Hasidic Jew should be
exposed to such decadent influences. But a woman? Impossible. "Papa,
things are different now," she said, unable to let it go, "and we're in
America, not Poland." She was hurt, but not surprised, when her father
refused to attend the wedding. He had lost his daughter to the forces of
secularism. Later, after the vows, as she and Abe stood under the
huppah, it took Abe three attempts to smash the ceremonial glass with
his foot. Sympathetic laughter released the tension, but the more
Orthodox observers on the bride's side of the aisle took it as an omen.

They were right, for seven months to the day after Aaron was. born, Abe,
no longer employed and increasingly prone to violent mood swings, packed
his things and headed back to New York. He wrote three months later to
say he had caught on with an international trading company and would be
sending money soon from Asia. He never wrote again. In her dreams, she
saw him dead, buried deep in foreign clay. The doorbell rang, not once
but at least a dozen times in succession. "Enter fart-face!" shouted
Aaron, and Skip Hodges, indeed looking just like "everybody" too,
skipped into the room. "Hi, Mrs. Harris."

"Good morning, Skip." She was gratified to see that Skip had deigned to
doff his baseball cap upon entering the kitchen. "Skip's folks are
throwing a little birthday bash for me tomorrow night, Mom." "You're
invited, Mrs. Harris," said Skip, eyeing the burnt bagel. Grace frowned.
"Aaron? I thought you and I were going to the Hard Rock Cafe for your
birthday tomorrow night." Aaron looked puzzled for a minute, then said,
"Oh." Grace said, "Yeah, oh."

"I guess I forgot. Can we do it some other time? We've already invited a
bunch of friends over to the Hodges' place." Some other time. The words
had a familiar ring. How many times had she said them to Aaron during
her climb to the head of the homicide trials team after leaving the
downtown firm? "Sure, honey," she said, kissing the top of his head,
eliciting another snort. "Some other time. Now finish your breakfast
while I get ready for work." After Aaron and Skip had skate-boarded off
to Hodges' Hardware Store on Van Ness and Grace had cleared the wreckage
left in their wake, she took a last look at herself in the full-length
mirror, then grabbed her purse and bounded down the stairs. If she
hurried and the traffic cooperated, she could still sneak into the
weekly staff meeting, late but unnoticed. The cold morning breeze off
the Bay stung her eyes as she stepped outside the apartment building.

After Abe left, she had been lucky to find an affordable apartment in
San Francisco's tranquil Russian Hill District, nestled like a
demilitarized zone in the center of a triangle formed by prosperous Nob
Hill, sleepless North Beach, and the heartless Financial District. On
her way to the office, her thoughts turned to how she would confront
Jack Klegg for having set her up the day before. How much had Earl known
about Dickson's planned strategy? How much had he told Klegg? Would Earl
back her on this? If he didn't, it would mean Earl had ceded even more
authority to his chief assistant. Klegg would be as happy as a dog with
a bone, and she would be the bone. Worse, with Klegg assuming more
control, the case against Ashford would inevitably suffer. To Earl and
Jack Klegg, this case had become more about politics than justice. An
hour later, Grace saw Jack Klegg through her open door heading
purposefully down the hallway. He was obviously surprised to see her,
and quickened his pace, acting as if he hadn't seen her. She followed
him down the hall and into his office, then loudly shut the door behind
her. "Grace!" said Klegg, turning with one arm still in his coat. "What
can I do for you?" Chief Assistant Jack Klegg was lean and wiry, medium
height, and ramrod straight. His perpetually tanned skin lay tight
across prominent cheekbones. A wine-colored birthmark spilled up one
side of his neck over the extra-high starched collars he always wore.

His eyes were blue, but small and close-set. He had shed his U.S. Marine
uniform two decades before, but still looked every bit the part. "I'll
tell you what you can do, Jack," said Grace. "You can quit jerking me
around, especially when it puts a murderer back on the street." Klegg
didn't flinch, though he moved casually behind the security of his oak
desk. He tilted back in his swivel chair and spoke as if he hadn't heard
the accusation. "I heard about the bail hearing going south yesterday.

What happened?"

"I thought you might tell we," said Grace, glaring at him through nar-
rowed eyes. "Were you aware that Dickson's doctor was going to talk
about blood-flow patterns and the absence of torture?" Klegg shrugged.
"Well, something like that, sure. At least I think that Al Menghetti or
Dickson told Earl something to that effect."

"Is that when you persuaded Earl to go 'testify' in Sacramento?" Klegg
looked surprised. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Why didn't you tell me what the pitch was going to be, Jack? I might
have been able to engage in some last-minute damage control."

"I did tell you, didn't I?" said Klegg, rubbing one hand across his burr
cut. "At least I'm sure Dickson's papers mentioned a doctor, didn't
they?" Grace planted her hands on Klegg's desk and leaned close to him.
"Jack, don't play games with me.

You knew I would assume Dickson's doctor was going to do the usual song
and dance about the prisoner being too ill to remain confined."

"That may have been what you assumed, Grace," Klegg said, offering her a
grim smile that revealed a lower row of exceptionally small teeth.
"Maybe in this instance you assumed too much. Dangerous to do that in
our business." Grace gave him a hard look but wouldn't be sidetracked.
"When did Ear! get back from his testimony in Sacramento?"

"It was postponed," said Klegg, swiveling sideways and crossing his
legs. "He attended another meeting here instead."

"Postponed," repeated Grace. "So there n-never was a Sacramento trip;
the whole thing was bullshit." Klegg clicked his tongue and said,
"Bullshit, Grace? Naughty."

"Yes, Jack, bullshit. Earl's the bull and you're the shit who's trying
to turn him into a steer." Another smile slowly spread across Klegg's
clean-shaven face. "That's good, Grace. Earl will love that when I tell
him, though he may be shocked at your dock worker's lexicon." She wished
she could smile back, just for one moment be as coolly malicious as the
man favored to succeed Earl Field as D.A. But the best response she
could manage was to meet his mocking gaze. "You sandbagged me, Jack,
which may work for you politically, but not for the people out there
we're supposed to be representing--"

"Oh, spare me the sanctimonious crapola, Grace," he interrupted. "Even
Earl laughs at your version of Judge Roy Bean in a Peter Pan collar. He
laughs at you! Calls you a Vince Lombard! with tits! Did you know that?"
Grace flinched from the cruelty of Klegg's barb, relieved that he had
swung further around and could not see her. He put his feet up on the
sill of the window to his left, and looked out at the sunlight breaking
through the fog as if Grace were no longer there. But Grace was there,
composed again, head thrust slightly forward over folded arms, now
staring at Klegg's back, at the perfectly pressed white shirt stretched
across his shoulders, at the blotched but neatly trimmed neck rising out
of the rigid, starched collar. "Here's what I do know, Jack," she said
with quiet intensity. "I know your ambition helped Dickson put a
murderer back out on the street. If Ashford kills another woman, it's
your fingerprints next to his on the glass." Jack Klegg spun back around
to face her, but then rested his clasped hands on the desk and stared at
them for several seconds before speaking. He was no longer smiling.
"I'll let that go, Grace, for now anyway. But if you aren't willing to
pay the price of being a team player--even when it means getting roughed
up a bit--you're going to be out on the street with Ashford."

"You're going to fire me, Jack?" she said, feeling her heartbeat racing
again. "I don't think so. You may n-not have heard, but I'm trying a
high- profile murder case right now.

You know--the one you expected Earl to put you on instead of me?"

"I had no interest--"

"And you know the real irony, Klegg? I was being kept on the sidelines
in this case, but now, thanks to you, I'm finally out of the closet."

"Are we finished here, Grace?" "Almost," said Grace, leaning in again.
"Stay out of my way, Jack. Now that I'm into this case, I'm going to
make sure we win it. Then, when Earl moves on to Sacramento, I'm going
to run against you and show the city what a manipulative Nazi shit-heel
you really are." Grace realized that Klegg was not looking at her, but
over her shoulder at a door that had opened but was already closing. She
turned and spotted Earl Field backing quietly into the hallway. "Earl!"
said Grace. "Come in. We were just talking about you."

"Oh, hello, Grace, uh,Jack. Sorry. Heard the bad news, Grace." "Here's
some more, Earl," she said, walking straight up to the district
attorney. "Your chief assistant is a dissembling sonofabitch. If he had
told me what I hope to God you expected him to tell me, I could have had
Dr. Yang in court and maybe even kept Ashford locked up."

"I'm not sure what you're saying, Grace," Field said, already
straightening his shoulders and regaining his poise. "But I'll damn sure
find--"

"As for you, Earl," she interrupted, "the next time you want me to take
a bullet for you, ask me yourself." II Another freak storm hit that
afternoon, leaving Barrett Dickson and other unprepared San Franciscans
soaked through and cursing the local weather forecasters who had
predicted "a high-pressure area building off the coast" and a return to
the usual "late summer morning fog, clearing by midday." California had
become a state that suffered either too much or too little rain, caught
in a cycle between drought and flood tide as it waited for the next
earthquake. And now, El Nino. Still, as Barrett slouched toward his
confrontation with Steve Wilmer, his drenched worsted wool suit jacket
pulled up over his head like a monk's hood, he mused on how his fellow
citizens of the Golden State would remain undeterred in their use of
fluorocarbon products, from air conditioners to aerosol whipped cream,
all as vital to their lifestyle as melatonin, DHEA, and the other
essential California food groups. He grimaced as he remembered his last
argument with Steve Wilmer a year earlier, when Wilmer asked him to
represent the firm at a benefit for World Environmental Consciousness to
do some client networking. Barrett had refused. He had attended too many
of those feel-good save-theenvironment galas, been served too much beef
grown on what was once South American rain forests, had seen too many
aerosol-sprayed heads arriving in eight- and twelve-cylinder gas
burners. His refusal to go had initiated Wilmer's campaign to oust him
from the partnership, a crusade now broadened to include Mike Reasoner.
Mike watched as Barrett entered the conference room, soaked through and
looking like a beached walrus. Mike tried to read his friend's
expression, but the veteran trial lawyer was wearing his poker face.
Winston Cray, a sepuagenarian who had succeeded Sam Caldwell as head of
the firm when the founder retired in 1970, rose to offer congratulations
on Barrett's bail hearing victory. Cray, a top trial lawyer in his day,
had "somewhat democratized" C&S--his term for it--hiring the first
Jewish lawyer and pushing the silk stocking firm into a pro bono publico
outreach program for the poor. Now he sat on the executive committee at
Steve Wilmer's sufferance, a sop thrown by Wilmer to the older C&S
partners. Steve Wilmer, now in his mid-forties, had already graced the
covers of the National Law Journal and the American Lawyer. He was
brilliant and manipulative, yet capable of charming those who might
advance his personal agenda of power and wealth. Although his hair was
thinning on top, he looked ten years younger than his forty-four years,
which meant he could get away with wearing a goatee, the style
courant. "My God!" said Wilmer, slowly extending his hand to the
newcomer. "If Dickson gets the shakes today, we'll all drown." Barrett
rejected the proffered hand in favor of wringing out his tie as he said,
"Not to worry, Wilmer. I read somewhere that sharks never drown." Bad
start. Mike felt heat spreading through his body, but Wilmer seemed
unruffled, indicating to Mike that he might have heard ofashford's offer
and knew that Barrett would refuse to accept it. Then, true to Barren's
prediction, Wilmer would have him for lunch. "I'll gladly suffer that
poorly crafted riposte from you today, Barrett," Wilmer said, winking at
Todd Jamison, the third and youngest member of the executive committee,
"assuming a check for $75,000 comes with it." Barrett gave Wilmer an
ambiguous smile, tugged his wet sport coat into something close to its
original configuration, then took a seat at the large conference table
next to Mike Reasoner and across from Todd Jamison and old Winston Cray.
Jamison was a business lawyer who shared Wilmer's commitment to
minimizing firm expenses--frivolities such as charitable contributions,
pro bono publico work, and raises for paralegals and secretaries--thus
improving the "bottom line." The most noteworthy thing about Todd
Jamison--other than his recognized genius in the field of mergers and
acquisitions--was that he smiled constantly, a trait Mike decided was a
device intended to mask his lack of a sense of humor. He seemed to have
decided that if he appeared amused by everything, no one would detect
his inability to catch the subtle nuances of a joke. Glancing at him
now, Mike suddenly realized that it was the firm's lateral hiring of
Jamison and Steve Wilmer into the C&S partnership that had sounded the
death knell of the firm's already flagging esprit and professionalism.
"Well, Barrett," continued Wilmer, seating himself, hands folded in
front of him on the table, "are we to see the fruits of your good
fortune?" Barrett reached into his inside jacket pocket, removed an
envelope, and, with a flourish Mike considered excessive, handed it not
to Wilmer but to Winston Cray across from him. Wilmer stared at the
envelope as it made its journey across the table. "Is that the $75,000
check?" said Wilmer. Barrett nodded once, as Cray, with an obvious
tremor, opened the envelope and extracted the check. He then began
fumbling for his glasses. "Pass the goddamn thing down, Winnie," said
Wilmer. "We haven't got all day!" Mike saw Barrett's eyebrows jump, but
was relieved to see his lips remain in repose, his great jaw motionless,
his expression relatively serene. Cray reddened and complied, delivering
the check with liver-spotted hands to Todd Jamison, who passed it on to
Wilmer as if it were electrically charged. Mike glanced at Cray, who
stared down at the table, looking like a man who had lost everything but
the capacity to be humiliated.

"Are we finished with item two?" said Wilmer. "If not, we'll skip to
item eight, the famous Ashford project." Winston Cray raised his hand.

Wilmer ignored him. "I think Mr. Cray has something to say, Steve," said
Barrett. "Yes, Winnie," said Wilmer impatiently. "What is it?"

"Regarding item two on the agenda. Can we not find some other use in our
firm for the secretaries you are laying off, at least the ones who have
been with us ten years or more?" Wilmer didn't even look up. "It's not
our job to find work within the firm for people we don't need. That's
the whole point of getting rid of them. Let's move along now." Mike saw
Barrett bite his lip and stare at the ceiling. "Couldn't they become
pool secretaries?" persisted Cray. "Christ, Winston," said Wilmer, "come
to the party! The whole point is to cut our costs, not just move people
around!"

"But, Steve," urged Cray, "we know there is bound to be overflow work
now with more lawyers assigned to each secretary." Mike knew the old man
was expressing his convictions only because he knew he had the presence
of temporary moral support from Barrett and himself.

"Not so," said Wilmer. "That's what computers are for: to take up the
slack." "Left by people," said Mike suddenly, unable to contain himself.

Wilmer's head snapped up, his eyes narrowed and sparking. "That coment
is out of order, Mike. You're here as a guest to aid in our discussion
of item eight. We are, I regret to say, still addressing item two."

"I'm also here," snapped Mike, "as a senior partner in this law firm,
interested in the welfare of its people."

"For this year, anyway," said Wilmer in a menacing tone that vanished as
quickly as it had come.

"We'll now move on to item eight and the Ashford case." Mike sat fuming,
wondering where Barrett's new restraint had come from and wishing he had
exercised some himself. He was putting himself back on thin ice with
Wilmer. "All right then," said Wilmer, taking up a fountain pen, "the
record  ...  will show"--he spoke slowly as he scribbled, taking
dictation from himself-- "that all members  ...  of the Excomm are
present. In addition  ...  partners Michael Reasoner and Barrett Dickson
by invitation of the committee  ...  stand in attendance." Barrett
smiled blissfully, gazed at the ceiling again, and addressed Wilmer in a
tone of mock respect. "That's wonderful," he said. "I've always wanted
to  ...  'stand in attendance.'"

"Physically, anyway," said Wilmer, not missing Barren's sarcasm. "At
least until cessation of your few remaining vital signs and the coroner
signs off, which, incidentally, is why I'm trying to hurry this meeting
along." Steve Wilmer, unflappable as always. Nearly as tall as Dickson,
with chiseled features and barren of excess body fat, he had lettered in
crew and starred as captain of the Dartmouth football team before moving
on to Yale Law. He neither drank nor smoked until the day he graduated
from Yale, a commitment he had made to his father, Justice Harrison
Wilmer of the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals. This alone, worn like a
badge of discipline by Wilmer, sufficed in and of itself to ensure
Dickson's enmity from the day they met. Winston Cray cleared his throat.
"Can't we have a little civility here, Steve? Barrett achieved something
yesterday the top criminal defense lawyer on the West Coast had twice
failed to do." Wilmer glared at Cray. "Would you like to run the
meeting, Winnie?" Cray looked down at his hands. "The reality," sneered
Wilmer, "is that Barrett managed for the second or third time in nearly
four years to go into court for a paying client, introduce an articulate
blood expert to a judge who happens to be one of Barren's best friends,
then somehow stayed awake for thirty minutes. Christ, Winnie, even you
could have pulled that off." Barrett gave Wilmer a glowering look and
Mike realized he'd better cool things down before an eruption. "Steve,"
he said, "what Bear did in there had nothing to do with his past
friendship with John Hernandez.

The client was amazed, as was Al Menghetti."

"Amazed, was he?" said Wilmer, a crafty smile widening his bird's nest
of a goatee. "May I assume, therefore, that Mr. Ashford wants you to
continue > on as a regular team member, Dickson? And at a pretty penny?"
Mike groaned inwardly at his own stupidity. He had done everything but
tell the sonofabitch about Ashford's offer. "That's true," said Barrett.
"And, with the best interests of the firm at heart, I'm sure you agreed
and have received an advance of, say, another $75,000?"

"That's not true."

"Steve," said Mike, surprised by Barrett's answer. "I don't think you
appreciate the difficulty of what Barrett was being asked to--"

"Mike," said Wilmer coldly, "I repeat, you are here as a guest. As such,
please address your remarks to the committee only when time is yielded
to you." "I agree, Mike," said Barrett. "Don't try to explain our art
form to this bean counter. He's far too taxed from 'trimming fat' from
this carnivore we used to consider a professional law firm." Wilmer
smiled amiably. "We lost half our fat the day you quit showing up for
work, Dickson." Barrett shrugged. "Point taken, Stevie, but I saw
profit-per-partner figures in the American Lawyer last month that would
bring Chapter 11 to mind if we were a corporation."

"Turnarounds take time, Dickson," said Wilmer, betraying a rare
defensiveness. "We've had a temporary slowdown." Dickson issued a wry
smile and said, "Wilmer, that understatement rivals Emperor Hirohito's
message to the troops on the eve of his surrender to the Allies when he
said, "The war is proceeding in a less than favorable manner."

" Wilmer glared at Dickson as he said, "All the more marvelous, Barrett,
that the very man whose antics contributed the most to this condition
has reappeared atop a gleaming white horse to rescue us. Are you or are
you not going to take on the trial?" Mike watched Barrett take in a deep
breath, then noisily let it out again through full cheeks, like a tire
springing a leak. Mike was feeling dizzy, convinced now that it was over
for both of them and there was nothing he could do about it. Wilmer
waited in the silence, savoring the moment. For once, the King of the
Bottom Line would be happy to forgo a significant fee in return for
something even more important to him: Dickson's scalp. "But you've
already answered that, haven't you, Barrett?" Wilmer said at last.
"Well, then, I think I speak for the executive committee--the majority
of the executive committee--when I say that you will be remembered here
at Caldwell & Shaw as having once been a significant contributor. Your
retirement will be--" "Delayed," Barrett said. "Hell, Stevie-boy, I
wouldn't give up this opportunity for the world." Mike's head popped up
and he saw Wilmer--the Unflappable One-- give himself away then, though
only in his eyes and only for a split second. Mike doubted that anyone
else caught it, other than Barrett of course. "That's wonderful,
Dickson," said Wilmer, smiling again as if he had found something
momentarily misplaced. "You do want to do it. In that case, may I ask if
the client is aware of your  ...  problem?"

"My only problem right now is you, Stevie-boy, which could quickly
become yoar problem if you pursue that theme." "You hear that, Todd?,"
said Wilmer in mock fear. "Winnie? You heard him. The man is threatening
me!"

"I heard it," said Jamison, "and I suggest this meeting be adjourned.
This is getting--"

"Real?" ventured Barrett. "What is 'real' here, Dickson," said Wilmer,
"is that the notion-- authored by your cohort Reasoner--of involving you
in anything even potentially productive was insane from the outset."
Clever, thought Mike, dropping his head back in his hands. Wilmer was
ready with a backup plan just in case Barrett agreed to represent
Ashford. "I admit," continued Wilmer, "that when the concept was first
advanced I thought it might be professionally feasible--" "By which you
mean," said Dickson, "financially remunerative. M-O-THEY. You and your
cold-nosed toadies have ripped the heart out of this firm in deference
to the bottom line, then you've voted yourselves the bottom line.
don't talk to me about what's professionally feasible."

" Wilmer blinked, then turned to Jamison and said, "Did you want to say
something else, Todd?"

"Uh, well yes. Yes I do. Want to say something."

"About the quality of the client we're dealing with here?"

"Yes, precisely," said Jamison quickly, as Wilmer resumed scribbling in
his minute book. "In my view--a view I know to be shared by a vast
majority of the partners--C&S should not get into bed with a rumored
Mafia don, guilty or innocent. I herewith change my vote concerning this
project." The bastards were ready all right, thought Mike. Wilmer nodded
and said, "I concur with brother Jamison, but on two additional grounds.
First, the past twenty minutes with you, Dickson, has been the longest
week I've spent in years. You are belligerent, contentious, and a
defective loose cannon. Second, a difficult case like this without a
twelve-point recovery program to support you would inevitably embarrass
both you and the firm." Mike saw muscles working in Barrett's jaw as his
friend began speaking in a quietly menacing tone of voice. "I suggest,"
said Barrett, "that you leave issues concerning my health to me." "Wrong
again, sir," said Wilmer through pursed lips. "Your health and
reputation may be your business, but the health and reputation of the
firm are mine." Wilmer paused, picked up his pen again, and began
writing as he spoke. "For the reasons noted, the Excomm unanimously
agrees  ...  to recommend to the partnership that C&S withdraw from the
case  ...  of People versus Elliot Ashford." "Funny," said Mike, trying
to snap out of his despairing funk, "my health as well as my hearing is
just fine, but I'll be damned if I heard any motion or observed any
unanimous vote." Wilmer glared at Mike but made a motion, quickly
seconded by Jami- son. "All in favor, signify by saying 'aye." Speak up,
Winnie!"

"I  ...  abstain," Winston Cray said in a barely audible voice. Mike saw
everyone in the room turn toward the withered little man, but Wilmer
continued to write in his minute book: "Passed by a majority vote," he
said, shooting a final hard look at Cray, whose eyes remained fixed on
the grain of the conference table in front of him. "I'm confident,
Dickson, that when the full partnership hears my report on your abusive
attitude today, they will want nothing further to do with you either.
Your presence is no longer in the best interests of the firm." Barrett
rested his elbows on the table, his hands together, fingertips touching
his chin, eyes half closed. Mike saw it all slipping away, yet Barrett
seemed completely at peace as he began to speak. "Yes, Stevie-boy, make
your report. Just be sure you also tell the full partnership that the
real abuse today was dealt by you. You've insulted Mike and me, of
course, but hell, we're used to it, so no big deal. But you've also been
rude and insulting to one of C&S's most respected leaders. And that's
unforgivable. Wilmer, you're unworthy to sit at the same table with
Winston Cray, let alone be his partner." Mike saw Cray's thin shoulders
straighten and his thin lips hint at a smile as he gave Barrett a small,
dignified bow of his head. "Second, based on what you have said, be
advised that I will voluntarily withdraw from the firm, effective
immediately. Now it was Wilmer who allowed himself a smile. "Third, I
will be personally and individually associating with Al Menghetti on the
case of People versus Elliot Ashford." Mike watched Wilmer's eyebrows
involuntarily angle themselves under his suddenly furrowed forehead.
"Fourth, I wish the record to reflect that I'm handing another check to
Mr. Wilmer, made out to the firm in the sum of 350,000 as a retainer.
I'll phone your regrets to Mr. Ashford and tell him you'll be returning
the check." Wilmer pounded a fist onto the table. "You said you hadn't
received an advance--""For $75,000. That's what you asked me, Wilmer.
Did I fail to mention "ley sent me four times that amount?"

"That's four point six times," murmured Jamison out of habit. Wilmer's
eyes widened in a moment of rare confusion as he stared at the check.
Barren noisily rose from his chair, gave his wet and rumpled clothing
another tug, then bid Mike and Winston Cray good-bye and headed toward
the door. As he reached it, he added, "I'll make my own financial
arrangements with Mr. Ashford." Mike turned to look at the suddenly pale
presiding partner as he stared slack-jawed at the certified check, at
which Jamison was also now staring over Wilmer's right shoulder, his
perpetual smile nowhere in evidence. But Mike smiled, and doubted if
he'd ever stop. "Fourth," said Barrett, "I'm sure your partners will
want to know how much it cost them to allow you the pleasure of getting
me off your paranoid and tightly wound ass, and I hope someone will tell
them."

"Don't worry, Barrett," said Winston Cray, rising to his feet, his voice
suddenly stronger and recovering some of its former timbre. "I'm still
one of those partners and I'll tell them, by God." Wilmer blanched ivory,
his eyes darting now between Cray and Dickson as he too quickly rose to
his feet. "Perhaps we've all been .. too emotional about this issue," he
said. Jamison leapt to his feet as well. Barrett said, "'We'? Do you
have a mouse in your pocket, Wilmer?" Then, with a glance at Jamison,
Barrett added, "And is somebody playing "The Star-Spangled Banner,"
Todd?" But Wilmer was already bent at the waist, huddled between Cray
and Jamison, his arms draped around each, the Ivy League football
captain calling his next play. By the time his head popped up, Barrett
had opened the door and was halfway through it.

"Hold on, Barrett," Wilmer blurted, "please! We've reconsidered. It's a
go, after all, okay?" "Really?" said Barrett with a sardonic eagerness
only Mike caught. "Absolutely. Green light all the way. Just try to keep
a low profile in the courtroom, will you? That's really all Ashford and
Menghetti have asked you to do." Barrett shrugged and said, "Isn't that
all I'm capable of, Stevie?" He then turned and faced them, filling the
doorway, and added, "I appreciate your reconsideration, gentlemen,
really I do." Wilmer smiled his perfect smile. "But now," said Barrett
quietly, "7 have a problem." "Yes?" said Wilmer, his smile fading, his
guard raised again. "Yep, now I've got a real problem. You see, first,
we've got young Jami- son's distress about those ugly Mafia rumors; then
there's your own concern, Wilmer, about the state of my health and
well-being. You've both got me thinking now about the--how did you put
it, Stevie?--'best interests of the firm."

"Okay, Barrett," Wilmer said in the tone of a bank clerk looking into
the barrel of a pistol, "what the hell do you want?" Barrett took a step
back into the room; just one. "Well, let's see. Two things come to mind.
Given our mutual concerns, Wilmer, you know, about the 'best interests
of the firm," let's start by cutting those layoffs in half. I like
Winnie's idea of finding other places for our good people." Wilmer
stiffened, but nodded.

"Good," continued Barrett. "As for my second modest suggestion--what
with Mr. Cray here about to retire--isn't it obvious who should take his
place on the executive committee?" Mike finally saw what the Bear was up
to, had probably been up to all along. He held his breath and stole a
glance at Wilmer, who now saw the denouement too. "You want ..." said
Wilmer slowly in a voice as flat as tinfoil, "you want Mike Reasoner ...
to take Winnie's place." It wasn't a question. "The term's still five
years?" said Barrett. "Yes," snapped Wilmer. "Still take ninety percent
of the partnership vote to unseat an Excomm member?"

"Yes." "Good," said Barrett. "I formally nominate Michael A. Reasoner to
succeed Winston R. Cray." Mike felt everyone in the room looking at him.
"Bear," he said, "this is too--" "Hush, nominee Reasoner," said Barrett.
"No speeches allowed near the polling place. I must tell you, gentlemen,
this is not a negotiable issue." Winston Cray broke the silence that
followed by walking straight up to the presiding partner, placing his
hands on the table, and leaning forward to within inches ofwilmer's
face. "I second that nomination!" he bellowed in a voice that forced
Wilmer's head to recoil. He then walked over to shake hands with Barrett
and seated himself on Barrett and Mike's side of the table, beaming with
a vitality none of them had seen in years. Wilmer andjamison exchanged a
look.

"Well, gentlemen?" Barrett said. "A simple show of hands will do. All in
favor?" Cray's hand shot up. Jamison kept an eye on Wilmer, hands still
at his sides, balled into fists. Mike watched him too, wondering if
Wilmer had one m ore card to play. "Have you told us everything about
the fee arrangement, Barrett?" asked Wilmer, his voice suddenly
congenial. Mike didn't like the look on Barrett's face. It was a fair
question and he knew Barrett would have to answer. He also knew that
Barrett wouldn't lie. Even to Wilmer. "Full hourly rates  ...  plus a
250,000 bonus if the jury acquits or the case is resolved before verdict
in a manner satisfactory to the client." Wilmer smiled. "A bonus.
Excellent. Okay, Todd and I will go along. For now, Winnie Cray stays on
the executive committee and you and Mike stay on as full partners. You
win the case and bring home the bonus, then Mike rotates on Excomm in
place of Cray and serves till mandatory retirement at sixty-five." "And
if we lose the case?" said Barrett. "All bets are off.

Fair enough?"

"Except for the layoffs of our people?"

"Okay, except for the layoffs."

"Deal," said Barrett. "Put it in the minutes. Now let's see those hands
in the air." Wilmer scribbled in the minute book, then raised his hand,
followed quickly byjamison's. Cray raised his again.

"Good," said Dickson, cheerfully counting--"One, two, and  ...  three"--
with his index finger. "With that out of the way," he added, "I go to
join the enemy in battle. Have a nice day, gentlemen." Mike stared at
the thoroughly disheveled back of his friend as he strode out the door,
knowing where he was really going. What the hell have we done? Mike
asked himself. U Grace and Sam Quon entered Field's office for their
weekly Monday afternoon status and assignment meeting on the Ashford
case. The trial was set to start in exactly two weeks. Field was on the
phone but waved them in. He motioned them to sit, then pointed into the
receiver and mouthed the word

"Money." They nodded, then engaged in the charade of pretending not to
listen as the D.A. charmed a major campaign contributor. Grace mused
that Earl Field always kept his priorities straight, and as the minutes
passed, she wondered how he would react to her after her blowup in
Klegg's office the day before. When he hung up, he met her eyes directly
and said, "Again, Grace, I'm sorry about what happened. Typical defense
stunt, that no-torture theory." So that's it, thought Grace. It was all
Dickson's fault. "It was not pleasant," she said, deciding to let it
drop. "Is Dickson into the booze?" Field asked.

"I don't know," said Grace. "If so, it has neither affected his ability
nor curtailed his impertinence." Sam chuckled. "He was the best there
was," said Field. "What the hell happened to him? Trouble at the firm?

Mid life crisis? A woman?" "Probably all three," said Sam Quon, looking
at his notes. "He started downhill when his wife took off with some guy
in 1985, leaving their kid behind. She returned two years later married
to money and won the boy back, now eleven. That's when Dickson started
drinking, ducking cases at the firm, and generally pissing off his
partners, who managed to force him into the defense of a white-collar
con artist in '93, only weeks after his wife killed herself." Field
stared pensively out a window. "The private wound is deepest," he
murmured, then added with a wink at Grace, "Shakespeare."

"And steals all desire," responded Grace, "but for revenge."

"Shakespeare?" said Field. "No," she said, "Grace Harris. I've already
read Sam's report.

Ellen's new husband had caught her sleeping with one of his pilots and
dumped her in '89. Dickson later found out she'd been dragging the kid
all over Europe since then, shacking up with every Tom, Dick, and
Pierre. He took Ellen back into court in 1993, and this time he won
custody." Field rubbed his temples. "So did he quit trying cases to
baby-sit, or was it because he lost the big fraud case the same year?"

"Probably neither, Chief," said Sam. "His wife killed herself right
after Dickson won the custody hearing." "But now he's back," said Field,
rubbing his eyes, "peddling his friendship with John Hernandez. Okay,
let's move on. I've got a meeting with the mayor in ten minutes. What do
I tell him?"

"Tell him we'll be ready," Grace said. "Great," Field said.

"Is our DNA case solid?"

"Solid, but sleep-inducing."

"What are Dr.Janes's odds up to now?"

"It's one chance in four billion that the blood in the sink, on the
towel, 3nd on her fingertips could belong to anyone other than Elliot
Ashford." Field sighed loudly. "Then Menghetti will have to attack the
cops at the scene and our crime lab. The old
conspiracy-and-contamination crap. How does the lab look?"

"A little like my son's room on a good day," said Grace, "but the
procedures seem sound enough." Field rose and started to leave. "Earl,"
said Grace, steeling herself, "one more thing, okay?"

"Shoot."

"Even though we're sure Ashford won't take the stand, I think I should
take him on if he does." Field froze. "What's your thinking, Grace?" he
said, turning only his head. "Just that everybody knows the hard
feelings between you and Ashford. The press is already painting this as
a grudge fight, which plays into their conspiracy theory. Why make it
worse?"

"I'll think about it," he said unpersuasively, and started out the door.
"There are other reasons I should take him on, Earl." Field exhaled
loudly and turned around, but kept an impatient hand on the door. "Yes?"

"Any minority--Asian, black, women--will see through a token
representative twiddling her thumbs at counsel table until final
arguments. They'll feel manipulated."

"But you'll be handling all the scientific--"

"I'll be reading technical questions to trained seals wearing glasses
thick as Coke bottles. When I'm not doing that, I'll be handing you
papers and blowing your nose. They'll smell it a m-mile away, Earl. Let
me take Ashford." Grace met Earl Field's stern gaze with unblinking
eyes, saw the skin drawn tight across his cheekbones. Sam disappeared
into a wall somewhere, but the room had gone so quiet she could hear him
breathing.

"You want to talk about tokenism, Grace? Well, I know a little bit about
the subject. I've been the token black on everything from high school
golf teams to corporate boards. I'm now a token black in San Francisco
government and a damn good one, but I know the way folks out there talk
about me in the privacy of their clubs and bedrooms. They don't say I
made it in spite of being black, but because I'm black! Not that I give
a shit what some of them think as long as 50.1 percent of them vote the
right away." Grace felt the color rising in her face, but Field's hard
expression suddenly gave way to a half smile. "You guys come down to my
office around six and we'll finish up then."

"Whoa," said Sam, gently closing the door behind the D.A. "You touched a
nerve." Grace nodded.

Sam rubbed his eyes, then his neck. "It's not just you, Grace. Earl's
brain is writing checks his body can't cash. He's worn out and  ...
well, I have to saw he's acting a little strange lately." Grace nodded
again. She had never heard Sam utter anything even close to criticism of
Earl Field. "He's never even asked me to trace the chain of possession
on the missing evidence," said Sam, frowning and speaking as if to
himself. "Probably assumes you've already done it."

"Of course I have."

"Good. Who was the last person to see the evidence?"

"Her nails were scraped by one ofyang's best men. He marked the plastic
bag and set it on the bathroom counter between the two marble basins. He
later stored all the physical evidence on the gurney--or at least
thought he did--and assumed the scrapings went out with the body like
everything else did."

"But it didn't show up with the other stuff at the coroner's office,
where the autopsy was performed?"

"Right. It wasn't even missed until it was too late."

"Stay on it, Sam. Why don't you check the crime-scene photos. See if the
bag shows up anywhere on them."

"Good idea. They're down in Earl's office. We can check them at our six
o'clock meeting."

"Okay. Meanwhile, I want to know everybody who was involved in the
transportation of the body, and I want them in here tomorrow."

"Check.

One more thing. You didn't give Earl the last and most important reason
you should be doing the heavy lifting at trial."

"Which is?" Sam looked guiltily around the room, then spoke in a
self-conscious whisper, as if Earl Field might be lurking under the
desk. "That we don't want to lose the case! The chief is rusty, Grace.
Heck, who wouldn't get rusty trying to administer this three-ring
circus." He paused then, glanced at the door, and added, "But a
clear-thinking quarterback knows when it's time to hand off the ball."
Unless, thought Grace, he doesn't really want to win the game. She then
set the disquieting thought aside, for it made no sense. Losing would
kill him in the gubernatorial election. She walked over to her single
window and gazed out across Bryant Street at two defense lawyers she
knew, popping into the Side Bar for an eye- opener.

Beyond them to the west, she saw yet another storm heading in from the
Pacific. Without turning, she asked Sam a question so casually she
""ight have been talking to herself. "How could Earl lose the Ashford
case and still end up in the governor's mansion?" Sam gave her a puzzled
look. "Is this some Zen parable? You know I don't even like Asian food.
Okay, the answer is 'with great difficulty," unless  ..."

"Unless?"

"Unless he had a damn good spin doctor on his team to make sure the
press saw the loss was somebody else's fault." Grace said nothing. If
Ashford did walk, she thought, there was no spin doctor in town more
capable than Jack Klegg of laying the blame squarely on the police. And,
if necessary, on Earl Field's co-counsel. But why? Grace and Sam met
again at Earl Field's office at 6:00 p.m. to resume their planning
conference. He was not there. She looked at the district attorney's
empty chair, resisted a famous notion to sit in it. Behind the chair,
resting in solitary splendor atop an ebony credenza, a handsomely framed
eight-by-ten photograph demonstrated Field's commitment to charitable
events and his fine golf swing. In the background of the photo, former
majority leader Tip O'Neill and celebrity radio host Frank Dill looked
on admiringly. "You're getting that raccoon look, Grace," said Sam,
drawing her attention back to the center of the large southern wing of
Field's office. "It got a little late out last night," she said. "I'll
be okay." Sam gave her a questioning look. "I was here. Didn't see you."

"It's Aaron. One of our little talks that go past midnight and resolve
nothing."

"What's the kid up to now?"

"He wants to go to Mexico with one of his friends and enter a motocross
race."

"What did you say?"

"I told him no, of course. I said I'd consider going with him next
summer if he still wanted to do it."

"You've got to give the boy some freedom, Grace. He's growing up."

"Thanks a lot, Sam, but I want him to keep growing up instead of
facedown in a ditch somewhere outside of Cuernavaca. Besides, if anyone
gets to go to Mexico, it's me." Sam shrugged. "Now that I approve of.
You've got to ease up on yourself, too. This trial is going to be a
marathon, not a sprint." Grace knew she had been looking tired lately.
Tired and burdened with a feeling that despite her long hours she was
not pleasing anybody lately, certainly not herself. At the office, she
was becoming convinced that Earl Field was caught in a game far more
risky than politics and that she was getting drawn into it with him
without knowing the rules. It had to be something to do with that damn
campaign contribution. Her morose mood was mercifully interrupted by Sam
tossing the crime scene photos into her lap. "Dry hole," he said. "Not a
sign of our missing plastic bag anywhere. That's Yang's skinny ass there
in that shot of the bathroom counter where his assistant says he last
saw the scrapings."

"Why is the coroner's office taking scrapings at the scene instead of at
the morgue?"

"Yang's hot idea. Minimize claims of contamination while body's in
transit. A onetime experiment. Anyway, that's the assistant coroner's
chest there facing Yang, and some other cop's hands and upper legs, but
this shot gives you a clear view of the entire counter. Nothing, though
the gurney's still there."

"You checked with the assistant coroner who did the autopsy to be sure
he didn't take a second set of scrapings at the morgue?"

"Yang told him they had already taken them, then the body was cremated
after the autopsy and before the bag showed up missing." Grace shook her
head in dismay.

Prosecutors looked for smoking guns to ensure victory; defense lawyers
looked for missing evidence, and they wouldn't be disappointed this
time. She leafed through the photographs: no plastic bag anywhere, but
something did seem out of place. Earl Field briskly entered his office,
seemingly infused with new energy. "Okay, team, where were we?" he said.

"How about the defense mock trials, Sam? Tell me they're losing every
time." Sam opened his notebook. "I've interviewed mock jurors from one
focus group and two mock trials," he said. "Their expert has an
unlimited budget, of course, so he's been recruiting local surrogates
who match the predicted demographics of the actual jury that will sit on
the case."

"And?"

"The bad guys lost the first two. But on the last one, the actor playing
the role of the defense pathologist testified that the abrasions on
Ashford's face were consistent with shaving cuts--too regular in
configuration to have been caused by a fingernail. They hung six to
six." Field's smile disappeared. "That's ridiculous." Sam shrugged and
extended his hands in a placating gesture to remind the D.A. he was just
the messenger. "They seem willing to accept the shaving story to explain
Ashford's blood at the scene. At least it raised a reasonable doubt."
Field turned toward Grace. "What will our expert say?" Grace was
studying the photographs. "Grace," said Field, "would you care to join
the party? "Sorry."

"What does our expert say about Ashford's blood?"

"The scrape on his throat could have been caused by either a razor or a
fingernail," said Grace. "The one on his cheek looked too jagged to be
done by a blade, but neither cut was fresh enough for a definitive look
by the time Ashford was taken into custody." Field grunted. "Cops."
Grace said, "That means Ashford won't have to take the stand."

"Exactamundo," said Sam. "His expert will say they were clearly razor
cuts and that Ashford's blood must have gotten on her fingers from
cleaning out the basin--after he left and before she got herself killed
by someone else."

"So we won't get a shot at him on cross," Grace said. Field slammed the
flat of a hand on his desk in an uncharacteristic display of anger. "And
our splendid police department still hasn't found her fingernail
scrapings." Grace shrugged. Something was still bothering her. Something
in the photographs. Sam held up a hand. "It gets worse. When they build
a reasonable-doubt argument around the 'conveniently lost' fingernail
scrapings, the voting moved to eight to four, defense." Field fell into
his chair and said, "What kind of mock jurors are they using?" "The
typical San Francisco stew," said Grace. "The defense seems to prefer
emotional people who will jump to conclusions--deductive types who will
buy the defense picture in opening statement, then selectively filter
out evidence that doesn't fit their concept of how the picture is
supposed to look. This means we need rational people who will listen to
all the evidence--the maid's testimony, the blood evidence, the phony
alibi--and allow the full picture to develop."

"The defense has an unlimited war chest," said Field. "Will they use a
shadow jury?" A shadow jury was a group of paid non-lawyers with
demographics roughly similar to the actual jury, sitting inconspicuously
in the back of the courtroom, listening to the same evidence the true
jury hears. Their job was to meet at the end of each day with counsel
and offer their impressions: what was clear, what wasn't; how a given
witness was perceived; what they would like to hear about the next day;
then, at the end of the case, to vote as if they were real jurors. This
gave the lawyers a vicarious and often quite accurate peek into the
actual jury room, a peek that might motivate them to alter their
strategy or even attempt a settlement or plea bargain while the actual
jury was still deliberating. It was all legal and often disquietingly
effective. Sam shook his head. "I've checked that with the clerk. They
won't be able to use a shadow jury because there won't be spare seats in
the back of the courtroom. All but a handful are spoken for. The press
lottery gets a dozen, the prosecution and defense get another nine seats
each. Then you've got family members, general VIPS, two book writers,
and a handful for the general public." Grace stared at the enhanced
crime scene photographs again. What was bothering her? Then it hit her:
the shot of the dual basins and the Italian marble counterrop; Yang's
butt, his assistant's chest, a hand resting on the counter, the half
inch of shirt exposed below the cuff of the coat. And a gold cufflink
she had seen before. "What's the matter, Grace?" said Earl Field.
"You've been preoccupied since we started. Are we boring you?"

"I'm far from bored, Earl," she said. In over ten years of homicide
work, Grace had never seen a cop or coroner's office personnel at a
crime scene wearing cufflinks. "Earl," she said quietly, "were you there
that night?"

"Where?" The crime scene." "Why, yes," Field said, his features
unchanged. "Didn't I mention that?" Grace glanced at Sam, whose
expression revealed more surprise than he intended. "No," Grace said.
"You didn't." "Well, hell, Grace," he said tossing his head to one side,
"it was no secret. Every cop there saw me. I picked up the call on my
scanner on the way home from the symphony with Terry. She sat in the car
while I ran in just to be sure all the bases were covered, then I got
out of their way." Grace studied Field's face. Still calm, smiling.

"Was the body gone when you arrived?" They were interrupted by the
phone, which Field grabbed. Grace turned to say something to Sam, but
glanced up and saw a troubled look on Field's face. He was staring
straight at her. "It's Aaron," he said. "He's in trouble. Down at the
Youth Guidance Center." Sam drove Grace to the dilapidated center and
eased her through the paperwork. Aaron was brought in at 7:40 p.m., head
down, holding a battered baseball cap she hadn't seen in a year.

Probably worn backward during the big heist. Skip and another friend
were still in a holding cell waiting for their parents. I don't need
this right now, Grace thought. Aaron's pitiful appearance threatened
Grace's resolve to be firm, and she subdued an impulse to put her arms
around him. "Tell me what happened, Aaron," she said, her voice as
steady as she could make it. He refused to meet her eyes. She bit her
lip and added

"Aaron?" in a softer tone, realizing that if her son ever needed
support, it was now. Punishment would be meted out later, when she was
as calm as she was trying to act now. "Answer me, please." He glanced up
and Grace saw an annoying defiance in his eyes. "Me and Skip we got
caught with a bottle of beer in our jackets." Grace already knew this,
but had to start somewhere. "Where did it happen?" She knew this, too.
"We were leaving this store in the Haight. The clerk sees us and he's
all, "What do you kids have in your pockets?" and we go, "Nothin', man."
Then we get spooked, I guess, and start runnin', but a couple of
plainclothes are parked in front." He glanced at her again, then added a
shrug that seemed to suggest she was overreacting to what was obviously
a bit of bad luck. "But why, Aaron?" Grace said, the question sounding
naive even to her ears, but she asked it again anyway.

"Why did you do it?" Aaron gave his head a little jerk to one side that
somehow struck Grace as maddeningly arrogant. "I don't know," he said at
last, and made that grunting sound in his throat. "Damn it, Aaron," she
said, any impulse to hug the miscreant now thoroughly gone. "Answer me!"

"I guess 'cause they wouldn't sell it to us." Grace blew air through her
lower lip up toward the yellowing fluorescent- lighted ceiling.

"Your reason for breaking the law is that they wouldn't break the law?

Is this what you're telling me?" Sam Quon quietly cleared his throat.

Aaron shrugged. "Jeez, Mom, we had the money. I left two bucks in the
cooler for mine. So it wasn't exactly stealing." Grace shook her head in
exasperation, as Aaron studied the fake tattoo on the inside of his
wrist. "Hey, I'm sorry, Mom, okay? Jeez, such a big fucking deal." Grace
closed her eyes. "Let's get out of here." Sam said he would go make some
"arrangements" and quietly stepped out of the room. Aaron made the
guttural sound again, then, in that sarcastic tone that never failed to
drive her crazy, said, "So will you be the assigned prosecutor in my
case?"

"I'd be your worst nightmare," she snapped. "Would you like that?" Aaron
glared at his mother with a red-eyed intransigence. Grace knew there was
both hurt and fear beneath his arrogance, but she couldn't muster the
resolve to deal with such subtleties. She felt dead inside. "At least,"
he said, "we'd get to spend some time together if you were." She stared
at him, suddenly unable to speak. Please, God, she thought, it's bad
enough he looks like his father; don't let him turn out to be as
manipulative, too. "Don't go there, Aaron," she said finally. "Not a
good time."

"When is it ever?" he said, but his voice had lost some of its
harshness. Within an hour they were on their way home in silence, Aaron
in the backseat alone. Sam dropped them off in front of their
condominium. "Thanks, Sam," Grace said. "We owe you one." "I'm sorry,
Inspector Quon," said Aaron. "I mean for screwin' up your evening and
stuff. But thanks for helpin' out."

"It's all right, son," said Sam. "We all slip and fall once in a while."
Grace gave Sam a hard look. So much for surrogate-male "tough love."
Aaron stepped out of the car, shuffled up to the front stairs, and
waited. Sam Quon leaned closer to Grace. "You're at home now, Grace," he
said softly, "not in a courtroom. And he's not the Zodiac Killer, just a
good kid going through a bad time."

"I suppose you're right, Sam, but sometimes I feel like I'm drowning and
my own kid is handing me an anvil." "I know," said Sam, smiling. "Just
try not to make a federal case out of it, okay? This thing could have
been a hell of a lot worse. We all committed some kind of petty theft
when we were kids. Most of us didn't get caught. At least he's here
instead of in that ditch down in Mexico." Grace rested her head against
the car window. She sighed and stared forlornly toward her son. "I hate
it when I become like my father. I tried to be semi-cool back there;
even tried to give him a hug when we were leaving. The little twit
didn't even respond." Sam said, "Give him time. He's feeling stupid,
scared, and angry."

"Who isn't?" she asked, then added, "Thanks again, Sam." She glanced at
Aaron, now seated on the steps leading to the apartment, arms around his
knees, head resting on his arms. There he is, she thought, my son the
outlaw, awaiting his fate. Sam's expression turned serious. "I may be
out of line here, but is Grace Harris having any fun at all these days?"
Grace managed a wry smile as she gave her head a quick shake. "I'm
enduring," she said. "Just enduring. I spend my time prosecuting
criminals, raising Aaron, and watching my bonds lose value."

"No men in your life at all, Grace?" She shook her head. The silent lie
came easily, and for the last two weeks at least, it was technically
true. "I'm better off with bonds, Sam. They eventually mature." Sam
laughed. "Okay," he said, "but what's so good about being a successful
professional in the most romantic city in the world if you come home
every night to nothing but a fat-free frozen dinner, a wayward
sixteen-year- old, a dying ficus bush, and a television set. Think about
it." "I do, Sam," she said, her eyes misting again. "I think about it
every night. Good night, friend." She watched as Sam drove away, then
walked up and unlocked the front door. Without a word, Aaron strode
inside and straight up the stairs toward his room .16 nd," Field told
Jack Klegg, "I haven't heard anything more from LA. Eye or, thank God,
anyone else." "Good," said Klegg, his voice deep and imperious. "Has
Grace heard anything more from the reporter?"

"No. She would have been all over me if she had."

"Good," repeated Klegg. "It's handled then.

With the trial starting soon, that's the end of it." "Is it?" said
Field, knowing Klegg would take the question as rhetorical and would
never tell him anything he shouldn't know. Too much knowledge could
prove "inconvenient," one ofklegg's favorite words. "Absolutely," said
Klegg. "Next stop, governor's mansion." The two men were in Klegg's
office. The door was closed. Klegg was tilted far back in his chair,
staring at the ceiling with his hands clasped behind his head, a
portrait of smug arrogance. Field's eyes scanned the chief assistant's
desk, pens and pencils aligned in front of him in perfect order; a clean
legal pad set at an impeccable ninety-degree angle to a fine leather
bound desk blotter precisely centered on his otherwise bare desk. There
was not a file in sight, not even a scrap of paper in his wastebasket.

"But keep an eye on Grace, Earl. She'll do whatever she has to do to
become D.A."

"Have you looked in the mirror lately, Jack?" Klegg sniffed. "I'm just
saying our girl scout is ambitious." "No, Jack," said Field with a croak
of laughter, "you and I are ambitious. Grace Harris is a zealot, a true
believer. But she'll be your problem come election time, not mine."
Klegg nodded. Field gazed at him, wondering if the chief assistant knew
how much he hated him, hated this whole nasty business with Chicago.
Klegg was a devious bastard, but he did keep the trains running on time,
and had provided a vital advantage to an ambitious black man born in
poverty in Hunters Point. Klegg was his leg up, the edge he was damn
well entitled to and unfortunately would require if he was going to get
where the people of the state of California needed him. It killed Field,
of course, to see Elliot Ashford slipping off the hook, but the greater
good would have to be served.

That was the true test of a man, wasn't it? The willingness to sacrifice
personal triumph for the greater good? To forgo short-term gratification
in favor of long-term satisfaction? Besides, Governor Earl Field would
no doubt find plenty of ways to make life miserable for someone as
deserving as Ashford: a little street justice perhaps to compensate for
the failure of the judicial system. Plenty of ways. Klegg tilted
forward, removed something from his top drawer, then began filing his
nails. Earl Field found himself examining his own fingernails and was
glad Klegg was too preoccupied to notice. Maybe Grace had been right.

Maybe he should have come out with it at the beginning. It would have
been dicey, perhaps disastrous, but whatever he had left would have been
his, free and clear. But Grace's advice was the kind that was better
never than late, for once he had taken that call from Chicago on his car
phone on the way home that night, there had been no time for thinking
things through. And once he had stopped at the crime scene and pocketed
that little plastic bag, he had mortgaged his own future. And Jack Klegg
was now one of the lien holders. "Isn't it beautiful," said Klegg,
tilting back again and showing his perfect teeth, "the way the press is
killing the cops?" "Yes," said Field, distracted from his anguish by the
guilty pleasure he took in the police chief's current discomfiture.

"They're killing the Mick."

"This is just the beginning, Chief. There'll be the devil to pay when
Ashford walks," said Klegg. The district attorney slowly nodded his head
and returned the chief assistant's smile, though his mind and body ached
from the weight of a growing despair. It occurred to him that Klegg
probably viewed him as just another passenger on the train he kept
running on time. "The devil to pay," Field murmured, repeating Klegg's
words as if to himself. "Yes, Jack, that puts it just about right."
Meanwhile, in Beverly Hills, the Ashford defense team--Menghetti,
Dickson, Leviticus Heywood, jury consultant Dr. Eric Tremaine, and two
paralegals--sat around an eighteen-foot table in Al Menghetti's spacious
offices. Elliot Ashford was listening in on the speakerphone, as the
terms of his newly won bail restricted his travel to the county of San
Francisco. "You still pissed off, Elliot?" said Al Menghetti, winking at
the others. Although Menghetti had swiftly come up with the bond after
the judge ordered Ashford released on bail, the neighboring Alameda
County D.A. had put a hold on him for outstanding traffic warrants
arising from two unanswered speeding citations and thirty-eight parking
tickets. Ashford had to spend another night in jail before Menghetti
could straighten things out the next day. "I'm not happy about it," came
the voice. As Dickson listened, he took in the large room through his
red-rimmed eyes and observed that like the rest of Menghetti's penthouse
suite, the conference area was decorated in a stark clinical motif, a
style seemingly designed to aggravate his nausea. Original Dali sketches
did little to liven the pearl gray walls; even the window mullions and
doorjambs were trimmed out in gray, though a high-gloss, slightly paler
shade. There was not a law book in sight. As far as C&S has fallen,
Barrett thought, it still has farther to fall. The morning sun rose in
the room by inches, slicing through slatted shades covering a wall of
windows each the size of an upright Cadillac, glowing with the candle
power of a Hollywood movie premiere. Barrett longed for his dark
glasses, which he must have left at Spago the night before--another
drawback to entering a bar during harsh daylight and leaving at closing
time. Had he met someone? Not likely. Maybe, he decided, he'd cut back
on his drinking. He had planned on it when he signed on for the trial,
but the reality of his subservient position had laid waste to his
motivation. What was the use? Menghetti had subtly conveyed the message
that he--the top criminal trial lawyer on the West Coast--needed no help
from an erstwhile civil litigator on how to win a murder trial.

Menghetti introduced Ashford to Dr. Tremaine over the phone, and
explained to Ashford that Tremaine had been in San Francisco running
focus groups and mock trials. He would also assist in framing the
arguments and in jury selection at trial. Tremaine, in his late forties
with gray-streaked reddish hair and the fading remnants of a British
accent, was widely acknowledged to be the best in the business.

Introductions completed, Menghetti began to pace, hands clasped behind
his back, laying out the facts to Dr. Tremaine as if he were giving an
opening statement to a jury. Ashford was uncharacteristically silent at
the other end. Barrett glanced at Tremaine, who seemed to be enjoying
himself, taking notes, nodding understanding. Leviticus was taking
notes, too, although Barrett suspected his days on the case were
numbered. Lev would now be taking his marching orders from Menghetti and
wouldn't like it. Barrett felt woozy and slipped out of the room in
search of some cold mineral water and the men's room. Returning to the
outer door of the conference room fifteen minutes later, he steadied
himself against the partially opened door and listened as Menghetti
appeared to be summing up. "I put it to you, gentlemen," he intoned,
"that Earl Field will be able to provide only two explanations for the
disappearance of those fingernail scrapings. Either it was the innocent
but recklessly culpable negligence of the San Francisco Police
Department, or a conspiracy between them and the district attorney's
office to convict an innocent man who has been a political thorn in the
paw of this lion who would be king of California." Barrett winced at
Menghetti's overblown rhetoric, but he could see that the others were
receiving the message he was taking pains to send: that he was a skilled
advocate in complete possession of the facts of his case and damn good
at laying them out. The problem, thought Barrett, was that Menghetti had
completely missed the point. "Either way," concluded Menghetti, "the
doctrine of reasonable doubt demands an acquittal. That, my friends, is
our reality here." Sound of applause and metallic shouts of

"Hear, hear!" came through Ae speakerphone. "Impressive," said Tremaine,
nodding his head slowly, "quite so." But Barrett, rubbing his eyes, was
nodding his head too, but in the other direction without even knowing
it. "Something on your mind, Dickson?" said Menghetti. Caught, Barren
offered a pained expression, feeling like a schoolboy reluctant to
recite. He jammed his fists into his jacket pocket, shuffled into the
room, and quietly slid back into his chair. "Yes, Barrett," shouted
Ashford, his tone echoing Menghetti's condescension, "might as well have
your reaction."

"My reaction  ..." Barrett echoed, massaging his temples and noticing
through the plastic slab that one of his shoes was untied.

"All right," he said, his voice slightly tremulous. "In my opinion, that
police-conspiracy approach played well in Simpson only because just
about every person important to the case other than Marcia dark and the
judge were African-Americans, including the jury--most of whom harbored
understandably negative notions about the police and law enforcement."
Tremaine nodded tentative agreement. "Our client is not
African-American," Dickson added. "I think," said Menghetti, offering an
unreliable smile, "that we all agree our client is white, Dickson."

"I can't jump a foot in the air without a horse under me," said Ashford
witlessly. Nobody laughed. Barrett looked pained. Leviticus rose and
poured a cup of coffee. "The majority of your jurors in San Francisco
won't be Africanamerican either," said Dickson when no one else spoke.

"That's true," said Tremaine. "So," said Barrett, shrugging, "there you
have it." "There we have what?" said Menghetti. Barrett cleared his
throat. "The police are not viewed the same way by white people in the
Bay Area as they are by African-Americans here in L.A. One of the
lessons from Simpson is that there are more bad cops than white people
think, and fewer bad cops than black people think."

"So?" repeated Menghetti, an edge in his voice. Leviticus nodded
encouragement to Barrett, who shrugged again and said, "So, we should
take that fact into account when you talk about a conspiracy theory as a
major line of defense." Menghetti glared at Tremaine as the consultant
again nodded agreement. "I'm not being critical, here, Al," said
Dickson, catching the exchange. "I'm just saying most of your jurors in
San Francisco will not have had first- or even secondhand experience at
having been rousted by bigoted cops and therefore won't be spring-loaded
to either believe the worst about them or be motivated by a desire to
get even for past abuses. No offense, Al, it's just different up north."

"None taken, Barrett," said Menghetti, though his mouth had dropped at
the corners.

"But if you're saying I just ignore the missing fingernail evidence,
you're dead wrong." "To the contrary," said Barrett, his voice stronger
now, "we make the missing evidence the very core of our defense. But we
don't need a complex conspiracy theory; we just say straight out that
somewhere in a small plastic bag lies the identity of the real killer,
and when the people with the burden of proof provide you with this
identity, you will be in a position under our Constitution to provide
them with a conviction. But not one minute before."

"Yes!" came the voice through the speaker. "Damned clever, Dickson."

"I thought that's pretty much what I was saying," said Menghetti,
obviously irritated.

"This isn't the actual trial, for Christ's sake."

"I'm sure that's what you were meaning to say," said Barrett agreeably.
"My elaboration was unnecessary." Lev smiled and toasted Barrett with
his coffee cup. "All right," growled Menghetti. "Then let's not get
bogged down in detail at this point. Eric? What the hell kind of jury do
we want up there?" Eric Tremaine, part sociologist, part psychologist,
seemed relieved to be able to lower the level of tension that had been
building in the room.

He began by tentatively denning the emotional features of a perfect
defense juror, based on his work to date. "Ideally," he began, "you'd
like to find an unevolved rednecked male, preferably divorced, not smart
enough to understand or believe in DNA, and harboring an inherent
distrust of government and its institutions." "Sorry," said Barrett,
"I'm disqualified from serving on this jury." Everyone in the room
laughed except Menghetti. Barrett noticed Dr. Tremaine glancing
thoughtfully at his host, as if wondering how long the ace criminal
defense attorney would put up with this iconoclast from San Francisco.

He's figured out Menghetti and I have nothing in common, thought
Barrett, other than a shared regret that I'm in the case. "Go back to
sleep, Dickson," said Menghetti. "We'll wake you at cocktail hour."
Dickson narrowed his eyes, but let it go. He had caused enough trouble
for one morning. The odd thing was that he was actually getting
interested in the case. If he were not riding second chair to an
egotistical prick wearing a silk suit that cost enough to feed a family
in the Congo for a year or two, this might not be such a bad gig after
all. "Hey, hey, Al," came Ashford's cheerful voice. "You be nice to Mr.
Dick- son. He's known to be one of the truly brilliant West Coast
lawyers and we need him." "Truly brilliant West Coast lawyers?" said
Menghetti derisively. Then, glancing at himself in a large mirror near
the bentwood coat rack, he added, "That would be a very small group,
Elliot."

"I know exactly how many are in the group," said Dickson, unable to
resist. "Yeah?" said Menghetti. "How many?"

"One less than you think there are." Ashfbrd and Leviticus howled. One
of Menghetti's paralegals started to laugh, too, but was silenced by a
glance from the defense attorney, who sullenly urged everyone's
attention back to the agenda. "Al," said Ashford, "I'd like to hear more
from our expert about what kind of jury we're looking for."

"Anything else on that, Eric?" said Menghetti, the trial lawyer already
composed and back in charge.

Tremaine nodded. "The juror you want will depend in part on how strong
your witnesses are and the kind of story you intend to tell. We'll use a
jury questionnaire to help determine whether the juror is a
cognitive-type personality or an affective thinker. I think the D.A.
will go for the cognitive type--the business exec or engineer who will
piece together all the circumstantial evidence--and conclude that two
plus two equals four. "The affective type we will want is an inductive
thinker who decides it's four from the get-go, then starts looking for
support to make it all add up. These people tend to have 'selective
perception," that is, they pay most attention to what makes them feel
good about the decision they've already made." Ashford said, "I like it,
Al. Has the ring of sound science." Dickson said, "Some people say that
about astrology." "Ah," said Dr. Tremaine good-naturedly, "a skeptic in
our midst?"

"Ignore me," said Dickson. "I didn't think the gas-powered engine had a
chance either."

"Have you used a jury consultant, Mr. Dickson?" "Truth is, Dr.
Tremaine," said Barrett, "I haven't even used a jury lately. My concern
is not with you but with lawyers who yield control of their case to
you."

"No good jury consultant wants control," said Tremaine, "and with
lawyers like you and Al Menghetti on the case, I'll be lucky to be able
to control my own bladder." Everyone laughed and Barrett and Tremaine
exchanged a look of mutual respect. "What's next, Al?" said Ashford.
"I'm due at the Olympic Club at three o'clock."

"Jesus," said Barrett out loud. Menghetti shot Barrett a hard look, then
said, "Our forensic pathologist is due momentarily."

"What about DNA?" asked Ashford. "Will we be able to find an expert to
combat what their DNA chap will say?" Laughter greeted his question.
"Did I say something funny?" Menghetti rose and began pacing, tapping
his lips with an index finger. "It's a rule of nature, Elliot, that for
every man there's a woman. It's a rule or trial forensics that for every
expert there's an equal and opposite expert. Show me a guy with a
degree, two kids in college, and a mortgage, and I'll show you an expert
witness that will say whatever we want to hear." Ashford's laughter
rattled through the conference speaker. "No problem then. You agree,
Barrett?" Barrett sniffed, folded his hands in his lap, and said,
"Partly. The trick is finding a qualified, likable, and articulate
authority who doesn't have his head up his ass. Al just defined an
expert witness as anyone out of town with a briefcase who needs money.
But my experience is if you sleep with a whore like that, you wake up
with things crawling on you. Nobody can snatch defeat from the jaws of
victory faster than a bad expert." Menghetti gave Barrett another look,
but the discussion was interrupted by the arrival of Menghetti's
forensic pathologist, Dr. Seybring Lassiter, currently on sabbatical
from Stanford Medical, where he headed the department. Barrett exhaled
loudly from time to time as the small-boned professor lectured for
thirty minutes in a monotone, occasionally smoothing an ill-fitting
hairpiece with his right hand, fiddling with his half-glasses, or
stroking his pointed chin whiskers.

His impressive professional achievements were interspersed with
incomprehensible medical jargon. There were no cuts, there were "evasive
lacerations"; there was no sudden drop in blood pressure, there was
"vasovagal reaction"; no tiny pinpoint blood spots around the victim's
face, rather "petechiae." "In summary," Dr. Lassiter said, his brow
knitted in concentration, "the victim expired as a function of
neurogenic cessation resulting from the multiple and invasive
infarctions of the carotid artery I have heretofore discussed. Of
course, by the time the autopsy transpired, fixed lividity was
encroaching--cyanosis having occurred long before, of course--despite
which occurrences I am reasonably confident in the validity of my
findings." Menghetti asked several more questions, then smiled and said,
"I think that does it for now, Doctor, unless Dr. Tremaine has a
question."

"I have one, Al," said Barrett. "Yes, Dickson," said Menghetti, his tone
as flat and colorless as the walls surrounding them.

"Two actually. First, what the hell's this guy been talking about for
the past twenty minutes? And second, why would you want to put him in
front of a jury of normal, decent human beings?" The professor's head
jerked around so hard his glasses almost fell off. Recovering his poise,
he stood and shoved his notes into a thin leather valise. "I'm sorry,
Mr. Menghetti, but I don't think I'll be able to help you on this case."

"Seybring, please," pleaded Menghetti, "Mr. Dickson was just--"

"Mr. Dickson's reputation precedes him," said the professor, still
without looking at Barrett, "and I wouldn't care to inadvertently step
into a pile of it." Dickson let out an approving roar. "That's good,
Doc. Maybe I misjudged you."

"You aren't in condition to judge a frog-jump contest, Dickson," said
Menghetti, but the expert had already strode through the door. A black
silence draped the room. In an ominous tone, Menghetti excused his two
paralegals from the room. More silence. "Maybe you misjudged him,
Dickson," said Menghetti at last, "but he damn sure has you pegged."
Nobody spoke as Menghetti, the skin drawn tight around his tense jaw,
continued to glare at Dickson. "Sorry, Al, but the more people like him
I meet, the more I prefer the company of my goldfish."

"Sorry' doesn't cut it, Dickson. With less than two weeks before the
biggest trial in San Francisco's history, you just blew off our expert
pathologist. Are you out of your fucking mind?" "Usually," said Barrett.

"But sane enough to know you don't want an academic egghead like that
talking down to your jury. They'll dislike him and distrust you for
vouching for him." The conference box rattled. "Excuse me, sports, but
I'd be damned grateful if you'd both remember it's my life at stake
here. Now, I'm not taking sides, Al, but I must say I couldn't
understand him either." Menghetti rubbed his eyes with both hands, then
rose to his feet and began to pace. "Okay, Dickson. So much for our
strategy of pushing this thing to a quick trial. Now we'll need time to
find someone to take Professor Lassiter's place. You'll have to make a
social call on your pal the judge-- cocktails, golf, or whatever it is
the old boys do while the rest of us are working--and get him to delay
the trial date." Feeling Menghetti coming closer, Barrett gazed down at
his own hands. "I wouldn't feel comfortable doing that, Al."

"Are you in this case to feel comfortable, Dickson, or to do your
goddamn job?" Barrett looked up and met his cocounsel's fierce gaze. "I
don't see overtly subverting the independence of the court anywhere in
my job description."

"Then why the hell do you think you were hired?" Barrett reddened,
suppressed a desire to smash that oversize chin, that proud Florentine
nose. Menghetti was so close his cologne was reawakening Barrett's
nausea. ".Maybe," continued Menghetti, "you should have thought about
your precious 'job description' before you sent our key expert packing."
Barrett turned away to hide the anger beginning to blaze in his aching
eyes. Deep down, he knew Menghetti was right. So was A. P. Giannini when
he said there was no such thing as a free lunch.

"All right," Barrett said bitterly, "I'll talk to him." Ten minutes
later, he was outside, his shirt soaked with perspiration, raging not so
much at Menghetti as at Mike Reasoner for asking more of him than
loyalty could answer, and at himself for his arrogance in thinking it
could. If Mike had been standing there on the sidewalk at that moment,
God help the sonofabitch. Barrett's fists clenched at the thought. Calm
down, bozo, he admonished himself, but his swirling thoughts flashed
back to a day in 1952, when the country was busy liking Ike and hating
North Koreans, and ex-congressman (now murder suspect) Elliot Ash- ford
was probably commencing his second year of primary education at some
place like the Menio School for Boys and young Barrett Dickson was
learning his first lesson in the folly of violence. Barrett was eleven,
and growing up under less refined circumstances than Elliot at Saint
Anthony's Home for Boys in Topeka, Kansas. His name had been scribbled
on a note attached to the box in which he had been delivered to the
local fire station shortly after his birth. Then, after two hitches in
foster homes, he was sent to Saint Anthony's. He would never know his
parents, but most kids there were in the same fix, so it hadn't seemed
so bad at the time--until the night he and his best friend, Harlow
Flagg, decided to sneak out of Saint Anthony's. They had heard about
cockfights that took place Wednesday nights in a barn on the outskirts
of town. "You chicken?" Harlow had challenged. "Hell no," young Barrett
had lied. "I ain't chicken!" The problem started soon after they had
climbed a ladder through the hay-bale opening in the back of the barn, a
spot from which they could see the birds already tearing at each other
below in an explosion of dust, feathers, and sound. One of the guards
spotted the trespassers and signaled them down, setting Barrett's heart
racing even faster than the cocks had. "You two lads come to see blood,
did ya?" said a wiry, red-faced little cock-master as he snatched up the
winning bird from the previous fight by its blood-and-dirt-caked wings
and thrust the bleeding bird close to the boys' faces. Barrett winced
from the hot, pungent smell coming off the flapping wings, but even
worse from the sight of the bird's white-curtained but unblinking round
eye, dull with suffering. Blood splattered across Barrett's face and
eyes as onlookers roared with laughter. He fought back tears of fear and
rage, then nearly fainted from the putrid stench of blood and grimestuck
feathers mingled with the stale odor of the man who held him from
behind. "How's that for blood, me lads?" shouted the Limey cock-master.

"Or is it human blood you've come to see?" With that, the toughs threw
the filthy, blood-smeared boys headlong into the circular dirt pit and
ordered them to fight one another. Barrett stared up at the yelling
crowd, then at Harlow's pallid face, his features rigid with fear and
confusion, his fists extended. Barrett rose, noticed that the right knee
of his pants was torn and bloody, and absurdly wondered how he would
explain this to Father Dolan. Shouts from the men surrounding the pit
reminded him he had a more serious problem. Both boys tried to fake it
at first, but Barrett felt a sharp pain as he was jabbed in the kidneys
by something sharp from behind. "Come on, ye little bastards! Fight!"
Any sign of holding back was quickly punished by more sharp jabs to the
back from behind, and soon they were at each other. He managed a solid
punch to Harlow's nose, but the bigger boy's fists came back at him like
raining baseballs, forcing him to the ground. He looked up and the
craziness he saw in Harlow's eyes set his heart pounding in his throat
so hard he couldn't breathe. He tasted blood. Harlow's? The rooster's?

His own? Then he heard laughter. The men were laughing at him, calling
him a sissy and a chicken, goading him. He fought back tears. "Get up
and fight, you little chicken-shit," ordered the cock-master. Barrett
scurried to his feet and began throwing punches at his friend, swinging
blindly, frantically, haymakers going nowhere. Then he landed one, then
another, and suddenly he was a punishing windmill of nailing fists. The
circle of men roared, urging him on. No faking now, both boys lashing
out with fists and knees, their fingers gouging and choking. Blood
poured from Harlow's nose and his own cut lips. J am Y chicken, he heard
himself shouting, then ran straight into a right cross from Harlow that
flattened him again, this time for good. Harlow was declared the winner
and the youths were dumped into the back of a pickup, then delivered to
the back door of Saint Anthony's. A week later, their wounds almost
healed, they shook hands and forgave each other, but they were never
friends again. Worse, a seed of insecurity planted in a loveless birth
had now taken root and would later flourish in the heat of a hopeless
war into a thoroughly distrustful nature. He had not wanted to go to
Vietnam, but once drafted, he tried to be the good soldier. After his
discharge, he was determined to find a nonviolent method of resolving
disputes, and three years of law school had nurtured a fragile splinter
of idealism that had somehow survived the moral chaos of Vietnam. He
graduated with honors, then took a job with Caldwell & Shaw in San
Francisco, still wary, but optimistic. He tried cases for over twenty
years, achieving an unparalleled success that had masked a growing
disillusionment. But now, the memory of his coerced fight with Harlow
Flagg seemed an apt metaphor for what had become of his profession. To
Barrett, trial work was nothing now but a buttoned-down, three-piece
cockfight and he'd be well out of it. He took several deep breaths, then
walked to the nearest bar and cooled the fire raging in his chest with a
double vodka martini. By three o'clock, he was calm enough to dial the
judge's chambers. IZ Twenty-four years before Lara Ashford was murdered,
a ten-year-old girl lay on a hard, leather-covered table, knowing that
something terrible was about to happen to her. She had been taken at
dawn from her bed in the room she shared with nine other females, all
much older than she, down to the underground level of the state
institution that was now her home. It was cold down here, even in the
middle of a steamy Georgia summer. There were no pictures to look at on
the gray-painted cement walls. No windows to break the monotony. They
had wheeled her into the room where she had heard they toasted your
brain with electricity. It was no secret what went on down here; in
fact, they sometimes made inmates watch it done to others, whether as
punishment or as a deterrent they didn't know, but it served both ends.

The two trustees had lifted her off the gurney and onto a leather table
with straps along the side. Two other people were already in the room:
another trustee she had seen around--a tall, horse-faced man--and a fat
nurse with a big nose and red lipstick who always seemed angry at her.

The girl lay waiting for what would happen next, her heart pounding
against her rib cage so hard she could feel it in her throat. "These
restraints are for your own good, honey," the nurse told her as she
roughly buckled the leather straps around the child's chest, arms,
wrists, and ankles. "You don't have these, you might be breakin' your
own legs or arms while you're unconscious."

"I done it once myself," said the tall trustee with the long face. "Come
to and they done forgot to tie down one my legs. Done broke it in two
places cause of all the jumpin' and shakin' it did while I was
somewheres else." He came close, smelling of mingled sweat and
disinfectant. Then, without warning, he splashed warm water over her
head and sprayed on the foamy stuff her father used to shave with before
he died a few months earlier. Then he picked up a shiny straight razor
in one hand and twisted her head to one side with the other. She started
to protest as the razor did its work, but nothing came out of her mouth.
Then she saw curls of blond hair floating across her wide-open eye, down
past the edge of the leather pallet and onto the floor. Then the other
side. The horse-faced man then attached metal plates to the newly
exposed areas on both sides of her head, just above the temples. The
tape that held them in place pulled at her skin and hair if she moved
her head. He seemed to be trying not to hurt her, but the plates were
cold and she knew they would soon turn hot. She struggled, trying to
free one other tiny wrists. "Where's the doc at?" she heard the man ask
the nurse as she inspected his work with the plates. "Out watering his
damn petunias," grunted the nurse irritably. "How the hell am I supposed
to know where the doc is? I'm your keeper, not his."

"They'll dock me sure ifn we get behind," he said. "Got eight more
comin' in presently."

"Hell, let's just do it then," said the nurse, who then snatched up a
thing that looked like an ice pick and came toward the girl. The girl
closed her eyes in panic.

This was not the electrical-shock thing she had heard about, she
thought. This was even worse. The nurse now stood so close the girl
caught her acidy smell now too, almost as revolting as the man's. She
dared to open her eyes and saw the nurse was holding the shiny thing
that looked just like an ice pick inches above her white chest. Despite
her fear, she was transfixed by the tip of steel poised no more than two
or three inches above her skin. Then she realized it was an ice pick! A
thin, gleaming piece of pointed steel with a wooden handle just like the
one they had at home, only this one had some rust deposits on a chrome
band where the pick came out of the wooden handle, its surface now lost
in the pudgy pink fist that clutched it. Despite her terror, she was
aware of a warm liquid spreading under her legs. She hoped the nurse
wouldn't torture her for soiling the sheet that covered the pallet.

Before she killed her. "We don't need Doctor Do-little to handle this
little package," the nurse said, and the girl's lids clamped shut in
terror. But she felt the nurse unbuckling the chest strap, then opened
her eyes again and saw her use the ice pick to jab a new hole in the
leather. The girl felt a rush of comprehension, then momentary relief,
even though it hurt when the nurse roughly tightened the belt down into
the new notch, crushing the child's incipient breasts and yanking her
gown aside. She felt the eyes of the man staring at her from behind the
nurse, and when the nurse turned away, he came in so close she could
smell him again. His eyes were wet and bulging and he wiped a hand
across his mouth and started to reach out toward her, but the nurse
shouted at him, then came over and roughly jerked the smock back over
the girl's partially exposed chest. Other straps were similarly modified
by the nurse and secured more tightly around the tiny white wrists and
ankles by the man. Then the man just stood and stared at her some more.

"Don't you have somethin' to do, George?" said the nurse. They both
walked away then and the girl struggled against the straps, but it did
no good. She thought they might even be gone, but then she heard a chair
scrape across the wood floor, causing her to stiffen painfully against
her bonds. It hurt to move her head, but she turned enough to see that
the woman was writing things down in a book and the man was moving
around, clicking things on, noisily shoving equipment all over the place
as if she weren't even there, as if this had nothing to do with her.

Maybe it didn't. Maybe they had forgotten she was there. She tried again
to slip a wrist through the leather loop. If she could just free one
hand, then she could unbuckle the other straps and run for it. She saw
that no one was looking. She remembered a time when everybody looked at
her, couldn't seem to keep their eyes off her; applauding her, judging
her favorably. Her mother was always telling her how lucky she was, but
she hadn't believed it. She believed it now. Suddenly both of them were
standing over her again. She clamped her eyelids tight against the
bright overhead lights because she knew it was about to start. She felt
sick to her stomach, but knew complaining would be useless. "No shot?"
said the sad-faced trustee. "Cain't do it with no shot."

"We can't wait any longer," the nurse said resentfully, glancing at a
large clock on the wall behind the girl. "Next one's due here ten
minutes from now.

I'll give it to her myself."

"I thought only Doc does the antiseptic."

"Anesthesia, you idiot. Barbiturates and muscle relaxants."

"Just that he's the one supposed to--"

"Shut up, George," she said, glancing at the equipment he had wheeled up
beside the girl, "unless you want some of this yourself." As the nurse
came toward her with the hypodermic needle, the girl's heart began to
thrash even harder against her ribs. She struggled against the straps,
but knew that nothing could save her now.

"Calm yourself, pageant princess," came the coarse voice of the nurse as
the straps dug into the girl's wrist. "After this you won't feel hardly
nothin'."

"Please," the girl heard herself whisper. "A drink of water?" But the
nurse jammed a rubber object into the child's mouth instead, then picked
up a hypodermic needle and stuck it roughly into her arm.

The pain brought fresh tears to her eyes. "This is a civilized
institution, honey," she said, and within seconds the two voices became
blurred. They were still arguing about something, using words she could
no longer make out. She knew she would get no water. Her body began to
relax despite her fear. She felt as if she were floating out of the
room. She let her eyes close, thinking they might go away if she played
possum. It had worked at home sometimes. "Count to ten for me," ordered
the nurse, but the girl didn't answer. "She's out, George, go ahead."
The little girl wanted to smile because she had tricked them; she wasn't
unconscious at all. Then the man said okay, all right then, followed by
a strange sound she had never heard. She opened her eyes wide and tried
to tell them, stop, she was still awake, but somebody behind her thrust
a burning knife blade deep into the crown of her head, splitting it open
like a melon, shooting an electric storm through her neck and down into
her stomach. The smiling doctor was watching her when she awoke upstairs
in the infirmary. He sat there like he had been watching her for a long
time. "Hello, Amanda," came the incongruously deep voice from the small,
balding man who stood between her and a dirty white screen with a
scuffed print of green trees and brown animals. He had a perfectly round
face with a small, smiling mouth carved into it like a jack-o'-lantern.

Amanda had come to distrust this smile; it meant nothing. Just something
he wore, like the plaid suspenders with those shiny silver adjustment
clips she could see through his parted white smock. Today he wore a
ridiculous bow tie that matched the suspenders. Only the stethoscope
around his neck, a pair of intelligent brown eyes, and a deep,
comforting voice were evocative of a real doctor. He examined the
bruised flesh around her wrists and made a rueful clicking sound with
his tongue. "How are we this morning, Amanda?" he said. Without
thinking, she told him she felt fine. She would tell everybody this,
hoping they wouldn't burn her brain again. She would tell everybody this
even though it was the truth; even though she really did feel the best
she had felt since her father's death. But mainly she would tell
everybody she was fine because that's the only way you got out of a
place like this. "Will you do the bad thing again?" she asked. "We'll
see, Amanda," he said, then made a note on a clipboard. "If we do, I'll
be there next time and you won't feel a thing. I promise." She tried to
remember what she had done to deserve what was happening to her and
figured it must have something to do with her mother losing her leg or
her father dying; that she must be to blame. Her mother had told her
that coming here to live was for her own good. She bit her lower lip,
wondering how many more bad things would happen to her for her own good.

Then she decided that if this was for her own good, she would rather be
bad .18 Amanda Keller was awakened by noises from the living room TV. It
sounded like the local early morning news feed from CNN. She pulled a
pillow over her head, though she realized the alarm was about to go off
anyway. She reflected that her disabled mother--with whom she shared the
small Noe Valley flat--watched that damned TV all day and most of the
night, then had the gall to complain that Amanda's morning San Francisco
Chronicle was an "unnecessary extravagance." Amanda Keller put on a robe
and tiptoed unnoticed behind Lucinda and into the outer hallway to pick
up today's unnecessary extravagance. She liked seeing the newspaper
there every morning, always in exactly the same place, folded neatly in
quarters with her name on it. She glanced at the headline: ASHFORD TRIAL
STARTS TOMORROW She trembled with excitement at seeing written
confirmation of what she had seen last night on the Ten 0"Clock News.

Her mother had seen it too, but what Lucinda didn't know was that Amanda
had ignored her instructions to "get out of it," and would appear at the
Hall of Justice tomorrow morning, probably as a member of the jury pool
for the Ashford trial. Amanda made coffee and carried a cup out to her
mother, placing it on top of the front page of the Chronicle so her
mother couldn't miss it. "Here's your coffee, Mother," she said,
containing her exuberance. "See Ae headline?"

"I'm crippled, child, but I'm not blind. So it's finally starting, is
it?"

"Yes, Mama," said Amanda, planting herself between Lucinda and the TV
screen. "The biggest case ever, and guess where your daughter's going
tomorrow."

"To work, if she knows what's good for her," said Lucinda, craning her
neck forward to get a close look at a plump British teenager accused of
murdering a baby. "And while you're there, darling', find out about why
your medical plan hasn't been coverin' my prescriptions this year."
Undaunted, Amanda bent down close to her mother's face, her skin glowing
with anticipation. "I've been called for the Ashford trial, Mother! I
might even get to sit as a juror! I've checked the astrological signs
and the moon is in  ...  Mother? Do you want to see the chart?" Lucinda
didn't blink, just stared vacantly at the television screen for several
seconds. When she spoke, her voice was oddly devoid of feeling. "Of all
the stupid things you've done, Amanda Keller, this takes the prize."

"What?"

"Didn't you hear me tell you to get out of it? Don't you listen when I'm
talkin' to you? Now you're going to sit out there and lose a week's work
for nothing. Probably won't even get called into the jury box, and even
if you do, they'll throw you off for one reason or another."

"But--"

"Congratulations, Amanda. In less than ten years, you've gone from being
' a TV star making $13,000 a week to auditioning for a role as an extra
for five bucks a day." Amanda's shoulders sagged.

"I thought you had forgiven me for--"

"Throwin' our dreams away? "Course I have, child. I'm talkin' about the
here and now, meanin' that here in this house we can't survive on five
bucks a day, so now you'd better figure a way to get out of that jury
duty."

"But it's a chance to--"

"Join the ranks of the unemployed is what it is," said Lucinda,
indicating the subject was closed by raising the volume on the TV.

Amanda straightened slowly, unable to speak and thoroughly confused. Why
couldn't her mother see the possibilities? Why had she given up on their
hopes for a second chance in Hollywood? It was as if her mother didn't
want to see the possibilities. Lucinda had really given up, she realized
with a pang of loss. Maybe, thought Amanda, her optimism in retreat,
it's time I give up, too. Amanda reported for work at Ward and Company
promptly at 8:30 a.m. and went to her desk in the corner of a
fluorescent-illuminated room surrounded by floor-to-ceiling file
cabinets housing hundreds of thousands of' commercial-leasing documents.

She was shocked to see a heavyset Latino woman in her late twenties,
hair bristling like the bride of Frankenstein's sittingin her chair, her
breakfast spread across Amanda's desk. She was reading a tabloid.

"What can I do for you?" said the woman, looking up through heavylidded
eyes, as if resenting Amanda's intrusion. "My name is Amanda Keller. I'm
the chief clerk here. That's my desk."

"You're damn lucky to have one," the woman said in a surly tone,
continuing to eat fruit and cottage cheese out of a plastic container.
"I'll be done with it in just a few." Amanda felt awkward standing there
in front of her own desk, but chose not to make an issue of it, despite
the curds of cottage cheese she saw scattered across her desktop. "Who
are you?" Amanda ventured, feeling the first signs of an asthma attack.
"I'm the new file clerk.

Didn't nobody tell you? I'm replacing Nick." Nick was Amanda's right
hand in the file department. "Of course they told me," said Amanda,
feeling heat rising in her body. She turned and walked quickly to the
women's room. She splashed water on her face, then looked at herself in
the mirror. Why hadn't they told her? she asked herself. She felt faint
and needed to sit down, so she entered a stall, turned the plastic cover
down, and sat, head in her hands, realizing she had left her inhaler in
the closet of the file room. Nick had been her savior; she'd be lost
without him. A minute later, the stall door was suddenly thrown open.

Amanda gasped as she looked up. My God, there she was again, the new
woman, staring at her in amazement. Amanda's face reddened in
embarrassment. "Christ Almighty!" shouted the intruder, quickly slamming
the door shut. "Didn't nobody teach you how to lock a door?" Amanda
quickly latched the door, feeling both stupid and angry as she heard the
woman noisily enter the stall next to her. Then she heard giggling. The
woman was laughing at her! "It's also a hell of a lot neater," came a
voice from under the partition, "if you drop your pants first. Didn't
they teach you that neither?" Amanda said nothing, hardly able to
breathe. She quickly left the stall and washed her hands, moving her
fingers over the scar on her left wrist. Why am I washing my hands? she
asked her reflection in the mirror. It was only 9:00 a.m. and Amanda
felt exhausted, slipping toward depression. She fumed for two hours
before summoning the courage to confront office administrator Harold
Pierce, a bald, burly man with a shrill voice. He wore. floral-design
bow ties over striped shirts and always kept a pencil be- h'nd his ear.

For all of this, he considered himself a ladies' man and resented
Amanda's indifference to him. "Why wasn't I at least  ...  consulted?"
she managed after brief perfunctory amenities. "Nick has been with
me--us--for four years, longer even than George or Amy or me!" Pierce
didn't invite her to sit, and she seemed doomed to spend her day
standing helplessly in front of people sitting behind desks. Pierce's
small mouth produced a conciliatory smile. "I had my reasons," he said,
"and I knew you wouldn't want to do the deed. You should thank me."

"I just don't understand--"

"Maria will be excellent. We're paying her less than Nick, she won't
smoke pot in the stairwell like he did--don't act like you didn't know,
Amanda--and she happens to be a  ...  friend." friend. So that was it.
Amanda took a deep breath, then cautiously reported

"Maria's" appropriation of her desk, but Pierce just told her to "deal
with it," treating her as if she had been the one with the attitude! She
decided she'd better let it drop. He had jumped at her when she'd shown
him the jury summons for the following day, acting as if she had asked
for time off to get her hair done. "Well, just get out of it as soon as
you can," he snapped, not even looking up at her. "Tell them you're
opposed to the death penalty or something. If you're not here, who's
going to train Maria?" As if you haven't already done that, you bastard,
she thought, but what she said was, "I'll work with her today and stay
in touch by telephone at breaks." She hurried back to her file room and
grabbed the inhaler from her purse in the closet, trying to blot out the
image of Pierce and the new woman lying naked in some motel room
laughing about the file manager sitting fully clothed on a toilet seat.
She pumped her inhaler twice, three times into her mouth.

When her breathing finally returned to normal, she realized she had to
try to find another job. But moving to a new company would mean a pay
cut, which would further delay her planned escape from Lucinda to her
own apartment. She felt like a rabbit caught in a snare, and began
counting the minutes until five o'clock. At least she wouldn't have to
come in tomorrow. When tomorrow finally came, Amanda stared in wonder at
the spectacle awaiting her at the Hall of Justice. Police, several on
horseback, struggled to clear the nine steps leading up to the entrance.

Sidewalks below and across the street were jammed with curiosity
seekers, demonstrators, and peddlers selling

"The Ashford Trial--I Was There" buttons; small plaques with tiny pieces
of broken glass mounted on black velvet, "guaranteed" to have come from
the crime scene; and T-shirts reading "The Real Deal," which is what the
San Francisco papers were calling the Ashford case to convey the message
that "the City"--as distinguished from its arrogant sister to the
south--would show the world how to dispense justice efficiently,
competently, and without circus fanfare. Goggle-eyed citizens who had
entered the lottery for the few seats available to the public pushed and
shoved to maintain their positions on the steps as they waited to see if
their number would be drawn. Other onlookers gazed at the scene from
across the street, some clutching the morning Chronicle with a headline
that blared

"The Real Trial of the Century!" At the foot of the main steps and
spilling into two traffic lanes, protective police barricades surrounded
NOW demonstrators, who carried placards that read "Women for Justice
NOW!" and chanted: "When will the battering stop? Now, right now Where
will the battering stop? Here, right here Amanda shoved through the
confusion along with other jury panelists and presented her summons to
the deputy at the metal detector. She was sent to the Jury Assembly Room
on the third floor, then to Department 26--a courtroom directly across
from the Jury Assembly Room--where she was surprised to see a different
kind of bedlam, though more controlled. More than eighty prospective
jurors who would normally never have glanced at one another were
chattering like old friends, instantly bonded by fate and the hope of
achieving their fifteen minutes of fame as a high- profile-case juror.
Amanda, who had never formed a common bond with anyone, fastened her
attention not on the audience but on the actors onstage. From her seat
in the second row, she had a clear view of the four lawyers inside the
rail, chatting together and strolling about like actors before curtain
call, occasionally casting an eye across the growing mass of prospective
jurors. Amanda knew about acting from her role as Sharon McPeak and
suspected they weren't as calm as they appeared to be. Her lips
tightened as she thought about the years of acting lessons she had taken
before her exile from Hollywood; before her husband--a powerful agent
turned TV producer--- started hitting on a sixteen-year-old Hope} People
cast member who'd supposedly done Mickjagger one night on somebody's
yacht. Amanda had tried to ignore what was going on until the little
bitch began rubbing her nose in it in front of the other cast members.

She knew then that either she or the Lolita would have to leave the
show, but was shattered--along with thousands of fans--when Sharon
McPeak suddenly suffered a fatal ski accident at Squaw Valley. The pain
that contorted Sharon's face in her final big scene required no acting.

Amanda knew Mark had dumped her from the show as a prelude to dumping
her from his life, and within a month he had moved his sixteen- year-old
inamorata into his seventeen-room Bel Air mansion. He had moved Amanda
into the Beverly Hills Hotel a week before but wouldn't take her calls;
nor would any other agents or producers in Hollywood. Such was his
power. Only his lawyer called her--the one who had drafted the
bulletproof prenuptial agreement. Out of work and hope, she decided it
was time for life to imitate art and she slashed her wrists. She had
botched that, too, and after her eventual release from the hospital, she
returned to San Francisco and her mother. Although she had no practical
experience or education, a woman who recognized her from Hope's People
offered her a job at Ward and Company. Sharon McPeak, file girl. Amanda
turned her eyes to the female prosecutor she had seen interviewed once
on television, Grace Harris. Nice trim figure, though too modestly
concealed by a light gray suit. Probably pretty if she'd take off those
large-rimmed glasses orbiting her dark-circled eyes that gave her a
slightly owlish look. This woman needed a fashion consultant, thought
Amanda, but found herself envying the smaller woman's wide mouth, though
it too could have been improved with a darker shade of lipstick. Despite
these shortcomings, Amanda observed, the woman's mouth, delicate
features, erect carriage, and lush mane of shiny black hair sliced with
silver combined to attract the obvious attention of the huge defense
lawyer in the rumpled suit with a face to match. That must be Barrett
Dick- son, she thought, the washed-up civil trial lawyer she had read
about, standing there near the defense table, puffy eyes fixed
shamelessly on the back of Grace Harris's head as if expecting a bird to
fly out of her hair. When not busy checking out the Harris woman,
Dickson walked in small circles without apparent destination, like a
person trying on a new pair of shoes. Then there was the bulldog
standing near the big fellow. That would have to be Al Menghetti, she
thought, staring straight out at us as if he were on the block at a
bachelorette auction. A truly unattractive man with his leering,
wide-set dark eyes, loud tie, oversize lapels, and, obviously, an ego to
match. Amanda observed that most of the prospective jurors were stealing
looks at defendant Elliot Ashford, cool and dashingly handsome in his
dark double- breasted suit. He sat with his back to the gallery, calmly
studying his fingernails, looking more like one of the lawyers than a
criminal defendant. Though obviously lean and well muscled, he looked
harmless enough, even scholarly in appearance with his neatly trimmed,
slicked-back blond hair and pale blue eyes behind rimless, half-moon
glasses. But when he turned around once to glance at the noisy assembly,
something about his expression sent a spasm of apprehension down her
spine. Was it the violent act for which he stood accused, or was it his
vaguely troubling resemblance to the image of a man her memory wouldn't
quite release. Her own father, perhaps? But of all the actors in the
drama about to unfold, Earl Field captured Amanda's real attention. More
than that: he commanded it. To Amanda, the others were minor planets
orbiting the handsome district attorney. Although not as tall as the
other men, he upstaged them with a presence that bespoke confidence
without cockiness. Just watching him filled her with a strange
excitement as he flashed a perfect smile at Grace Harris standing beside
him. Amanda found herself envying the other woman. Amanda's thoughts
were interrupted by doors popping open on both sides of the bench,
discharging the court attaches: the court reporter from one side, the
clerk from the other. The courtroom clamor dissolved into silence as if
prompted by a sign held up in a television studio. The bailiff moved to
his chair and table near the holding-cell door, the clerk took her seat
behind a cluttered table, and the court reporter straddled her machine.

Then, at 10:15 a.m. on October 9, right on schedule, the door leading to
chambers was thrown open and Judge John Hernandez powered through it
like a halfback. The bailiff cried, "All rise! The Superior Court in and
for the city and county of San Francisco is now in session, the
Honorable John Hernandez presiding!" Already the judge had taken the
bench in eight swift and powerful strides. His message was clear, not
just to the gallery and counsel but to the national press as well: This
high-profile trial will move efficiently, and this )judge will maintain
control of his courtroom. He raced through the usual greetings and
housekeeping matters, occasionally peering down at the prospective
jurors over his spectacles. Then he described the nature of the charges
against Ashford and instructed them on some of the legal principles
involved. Amanda had read that Judge Hernandez was a judicial anomaly--
soft-spoken, yet possessed of a manner that commanded respect whether he
was in or out of a black robe. Though he was known to run a tight ship,
his harshest sanction never lacked courtesy, and he held no lawyer to a
higher standard than he imposed on himself. A chill of excitement seized
her as she realized the importance of what was happening. If only
Lucinda could have been here, she thought, she would quickly understand
and forgive a daughter's defiance. Amanda prayed she would be chosen.

Next, in a firm voice with just a hint of a Latino accent, John
Hernandez ordered the clerk to spin the metal drum holding the names of
the summoned panel members and to seat the first prospective jurors in
the jury box. The drum contained slips of paper like those found in
Chinese fortune cookies. Amanda knew that one of those slips was
inscribed with her name, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will
the clerk's hand to close on it. A mild touch of asthma and the sound of
the wheel combined to make her feel dizzy. She reached inside her purse
and touched her inhaler for reassurance. She opened her eyes as the drum
stopped spinning. The clerk reached inside and lifted a slip of paper in
her fingers. Let it be me, Amanda prayed. Her heart pounded against her
ribs as she pictured herself in a posttrial interview providing an
eyewitness account of the trial and the underworld secrets revealed
during its suspenseful unfolding. Then--who knows?--perhaps there would
even be a movie based on a ghostwritten story, with her playing herself
in the starring role. Why not? An event like this could at least provide
a stepping-stone back into the world of daytime television. She could
picture the look on her mother's face, hear the respectful apology: You
were right all along, Amanda. "Juror number thirty-four, Andrea Jackson,
J-a-c-k-s-o-n," shouted the clerk, and a large, black woman half ran
down the aisle toward the box, her elation unconcealed. Some people
behind Amanda tittered, and one of them commented that the woman was
behaving as if this were The Price Is Right. The bailiff directed the
woman into seat number one, and the clerk, who seemed offensively blase
under the circumstances, set the wheel in motion again. Amanda put her
fingers to her throat and furtively glanced at her watch, monitoring her
heartbeat, now racing at more than 120 beats per minute, seemingly
driven by the tic-a-tic-a-tic-a sound of the spinning barrel. She
wondered if she could make it to her feet and into the box if her name
were called. She again closed her eyes against the dizzying rotation of
the cylinder. They were playing bingo with her life, and by late morning
it was clear she was not winning. The jury box was filled, the so-called
six-pack of alternate jurors was seated, and the lawyers had commenced
their voir dire questioning. At noon, Judge Hernandez recessed the
courtroom for lunch. She had been so sure; why had her name not been
called? After the noon recess, Amanda chose a seat in the rear of the
courtroom and watched as the lawyers methodically questioned each
prospective juror in the box. "Ah, Ms. Axelrod is it?" said Al Menghetti
in an oily voice. "Would you be able to put your political differences
aside and be fair to Mr. Ashford?"

"Oh, yes, absolutely," responded the woman--a bit too quickly, thought
Amanda. It was evident to her that many panelists were lying to get on,
while an equal number were lying to get off. One juror readily admitted
he was put off by what had happened to the jurors in the Simpson case in
Los Angeles years before, and the judge interrupted the questioning.
"Please do not worry about being sequestered, ladies and gentlemen," he
said. "I don't believe in it. I know what you're thinking: that the only
people who did time in that case were the jurors themselves." The
prospective jurors responded with nervous laughter. "I will only
insist," he continued, "that you avoid all forms of media and not
discuss the case with anyone. There will be no TV cameras here, and the
lawyers will be constrained by what we call a gag order. Only matters
that take place in this courtroom--admissible evidence--can be discussed
by any of them. In other words, I'm going to sequester the public, not
the jury. I won't have you walking out of here after your verdict with
the public knowing, or even thinking they know, more about the case than
you do." Then it was Earl Field's turn to voir dire the jury and
exercise his challenges on those who didn't satisfy him. After that, the
clerk spun the wheel again and Amanda's heart raced with excitement. Oh
God, let me be chosen, she thought. The charismatic district attorney
next turned his attention to the juror in seat number six and learned
that he had served years before as a member of Elliot Ashford's
full-time staff at his Atherton country mansion, with duties that
included tending to the motor vehicles, including twin 1936 Bentleys--
one black and one white--and "seeing to the ponies," by which he meant
the purebred Arabians used in polo matches and an occasional fox hunt.
Amanda saw that several of the jurors in the box glared at the
defendant, and that Al Menghetti's normal poker face yielded to a pained
expression. Amanda judged that not more than one of the sixty-plus
remaining panelists had so much as ridden in a Bentley, let alone
attended a polo match or abused a hapless fox. Another juror, a
thin-faced little man with an incongruous handlebar mustache that
dwarfed his other features, admitted outright concern over rumors that
the defendant was somehow connected to the Mafia and that there could be
the possibility of intimidation. This remark caused Earl Field and Grace
Harris to exchange an amused glance and brought Al Menghetti to his
feet, asking the court to instruct the panel to disregard the comment.

"The Mafia is in no way involved in this case," said the judge.

"Intimidation of jurors is formula movie fare--not reality. I instruct
you all to disregard the juror's comment." Sure, Judge, thought Amanda,
smiling secretly, knowing that not even John Hernandez could un-ring
that bell. Back at the Noe Valley flat that evening after an abbreviated
visit to her fitness center, Amanda entered excitedly and saw Lucinda in
her usual place on the couch in front of the TV set. "Mother," she said,
"guess what?"

"Shush," said Lucinda, and Amanda realized her mother was watching one
of her favorite programs. Amanda restrained herself and prepared dinner,
a frozen chicken parmigiana that was Lucinda's favorite. She would share
her news over their evening meal together. "It is the Ashford case,
Mother!" she said later, eagerly sitting down next to her mother in
front of a TV table. "I was there all day!" But Lucinda had begun
eating, forking hunks of the spicy chicken breast into her mouth while
continuing to stare at the television set, which showed a blond woman,
long legs crossed at thigh level, reporting to her handsome male
co-anchor that a prominent actor Amanda recognized as one other
ex-husband's great "discoveries," who had offered her coke and tried to
bed her twice, had checked himself into the Betty Ford Clinic. Amanda
watched with disgust as a film clip from the actor's current box-office
hit movie played in the background, demonstrating his ability to insert
his middle and index fingers deep into an evil assailant's throat,
despite the fact that in real life she knew he was probably packing a
blood-alcohol level at that very minute a shade under denatured shaving
lotion. "It's inspiring," replied the co-anchor, revealing a flawless
smile, "to see that an actor's real-life courage matches what we've seen
on the screen." Amanda clicked it off, then remembered it was the only
light in the room. "What the--" said Lucinda, grumbling and reaching for
the remote control. By the time Amanda had turned on a lamp, Lucinda had
turned the TV back on. "Mother!" Amanda shouted. "Would you listen to
me? I've still got a shot at sitting on the Ashford jury!" Lucinda
turned downed the volume, said, "Oh, pish, child," then, turning the
volume back up, she added, "it's not even goin' to be televised."

"That doesn't mean it doesn't exist," yelled Amanda over the din of the
. TV.

"The whole world will be following this case. Do you see what that could
mean for me? For us?"

"I've already told you exactly what it could mean.

Loss of your job and niv health plan for one thing. Starvation for
another."

"And rocketing box-office sales!" said the blond co-anchor, beaming with
enthusiasm. "True," responded the perfect smile. "It's just so dam great
when a role model sets an example for the average troubled Joe out
there--"

"You're wrong, Mother! I might have a chance to do something
important--and maybe open a door back into television!" Lucinda grunted
disdainfully. "You're a day late and a dollar short for reviving a TV
career, kiddo. You're thirty-four years old now, case you've lost count.
Besides, haven't you had enough nervous breakdowns for one person? I
swear I don't know who'll do your thinkin' when I'm gone." Amanda paled
and looked at her mother in astonishment. "But Hollywood was your dream
all along for me. For us "Of course it was my dream, ten, fifteen years
ago But your mother's practical, thank the good Lord, and time has up
and passed us by. Your job may not be much, Amanda, but it does provide
the minimum necessaries." Amanda's knife and fork clattered noisily onto
her plate and she sat dumbstruck, staring at her mother, wishing she
were able to cry. "But our dreani

"Wake up and smell some reality, child," continued Lucinda, her eyes
still fixed on the screen. "And as for this trial, you go off on some
fool's errand for two, three months, you've got no job by the time you
get back. Face it, Amanda, you're not fit for much and darned lucky Ward
wants you." Amanda looked down at her own clasped hands and rubbed the
scar on her left wrist. She felt an asthma attack coming on, but
couldn't remember where she had laid her purse. "Any more of that
chicken out there, darling'?" said Lucinda, but Amanda didn't hear her.
She felt her excitement slipping away. Maybe Lucinda was right. With
companies downsizing these days, no one was safe. ".Amanda?"

"I'm not even in the jury box, Mama.

Don't worry."

"Well, just see you don't get stuck there if they do call you up. Tell
'em you've already made up your mind. I read where that always works.
Now how about that chicken?"

"The worse news for the ladies," continued the smile, now the only sound
in the room, "is that the Betty Ford people have told him he's not to
date for FOUR MONTHS after his discharge!"

"Oh my Lord!" the woman with endless legs lamented. "What a waste!"
Lucinda lowered the volume on the remote.

"While you're out there, let's have some of that strawberry frozen
yogurt you bought yesterday." Amanda's incipient asthma choked her voice
into silence as she scooped up her mother's empty dishes and escaped
into the kitchen. Her head had become a clenched fist of pain and her
lungs were starving for air. She grabbed her purse, rushed straight to
her bedroom, and closed the door. She heard a mumbled protest from the
living room, but the TV sound rose again and she heard the squeal of her
mother's wheelchair heading for the kitchen. Amanda pumped the inhaler
twice, three times into her mouth, trying to breathe the precious vapor
into her lungs slowly, steadily. She then took a pain pill and three
sleeping capsules. She picked up the paper, but couldn't solve the
Jumble and eventually found herself drawn back to the articles on the
Ashford case. Soon she was devouring every word. She ran her fingers
over the photo of Earl Field. An hour later, she dropped into a restless
sleep full of dreams, including her recurring nightmare in which she is
standing at a grave site. Someone close to her, yet unrecognized, is
being lowered slowly into the dark earth. She hears a thumping sound
inside the casket, but doesn't dare say anything for fear she will be
ridiculed .20 By mid-morning of the second day, it appeared to Amanda
that the lawyers had nearly exhausted their challenges. Both Al
Menghetti and Earl Field were taking much more time before exercising
them. Jurors were being literally cross-examined by both lawyers, each
of whom carried thick black binders that supposedly contained vital
personal information about the jury pool. Although Amanda worried they
might have found out about her medical background, the idea that someone
might have gone to the trouble to compile detailed information on her
life thrilled her. To hell with Lucinda and Ward, too, thought Amanda. /
want this. But as the morning wore on, Amanda's hope faded as the last
of the twelve regular jurors was accepted by both sides. Nearly two
hours later, her chances as an alternate had dwindled as well, with
three already seated. Still, she continued to rehearse her answers to the
lawyers' recurring questions, determined to be ready if she got her
chance. Despite all her preparation, when the clerk called out "Amanda
Keller!" just before noon, she couldn't respond. What if she had
imagined it? What if she stood up and everyone laughed at her? She
glanced around her. No one else was getting up. "Amanda Keller! Step
forward please!" She willed herself to rise on unsteady legs and made
her way to the front. There, she was directed to alternate seat number
four and, in a tremulous voice, began answering questions, first from
Judge Hernandez, then from Earl Field. Everything was a blur at first,
but after a minute or two, she found her poise and began responding with
the unerring skill of an actress reading her lines. She had figured out
by now which answers had placed the other prospective jurors in
jeopardy. "Have you read about the case, Ms. Kellah?" said the district
attorney. "Once or twice," she replied. "I'm afraid I'm not much of a
reader."

"Seen it on TV?"

"I rarely watch TV news. Sorry."

"Have you formed any opinion as to the guilt or innocence of the
defendant?"

"Oh my, no," she said, sounding a little like her mother. "I wouldn't
know how to begin." And so on. By four o'clock, all six alternates had
been seated and one of the alternates had been challenged. She was still
seated. She heard the judge remind each side that they had but two
challenges remaining. Menghetti had been easy, she thought, his
appreciation other beauty obvious, his ego easily stroked. Field had
liked her, too. Black men had always liked her. They sensed her
goodwill, she thought, remembering how she'd hated her father's attitude
toward them when they lived in Moultrie, Georgia. She loved the regal
yet melodious way he had pronounced her name: Ms. Kell-ah. He had made
her feel important. She worried most about Grace Harris. Amanda had
never been drawn to women, particularly attractive women like the deputy
prosecutor, and she feared that Harris might have intuited this. She had
questioned some of the jurors and had stammered badly when dealing with
one of them. Instead of getting embarrassed, she had just asked all of
the jurors if her disability would present problems for them, and of
course they had all said no. Amanda knew some were lying, wondering why
in the world this woman had set out to be a trial lawyer of all things.

Some people's children, she could hear her mother say. At 4:30 p.m., the
judge recessed court after giving the seated jurors and Ae rest of the
pool the laundry list of admonitions that had already become so familiar
that nobody paid the slightest attention to them. She was still in the
box. Amanda walked--floated, actually--into the fading sunlight and was
stunned to find herself blinded by flash cameras and assailed by a
barrage of questions from reporters. "Ever sat before, Ms. Keller? Have
you followed the investigation so far? Will it affect your judgment if
you're selected?" As if in a trance, Amanda moved wordlessly through the
phalanx of reporters and TV cameras, but her heart was pounding with
wild exhilaration. "Over here, Amanda!" she heard as cameras buzzed,
flashed, and clicked. "Ms. Keller? Over here!" She was going to be on
the TV news! Now Lucinda Keller would sing a different tune. Amanda
bypassed her precious hour at her health club. She couldn't wait.

"Mother!" she shouted, racing into the apartment. "Did you see me on
TV?" Lucinda was at her usual post in front of the television. "I saw
you," she said without enthusiasm, "and your hair looked like your cats
had been suckin' on it."

"Then you know My chances are good now!"

"At what? Even if you were selected, you'd just be an alternate," "I
know, but it's something" said Amanda, biting her lower lip. "A waste of
time is what it is; and a fourth alternate at that! TV man was just on,
explainin' the whole thing. Alternate jurors can't even join in the
jury's deliberations at the end of the trial! Can't even go into the
room with the real jurors. So get out of it, child, before you end up
losing three months' pay for nothin'. Just tell 'em about your asthma."
Amanda stared at her mother. "The judge said it will be a long trial,
Mother," she said, her voice quaking. "Anything could happen. That's why
they select alternates. You admit you saw me on television. Why did they
go to all that trouble if they didn't think it was important?"

"You know the answer to that, child, well as I do. Despite the fact
you're no longer the pageant princess or the teen queen, you've still
got your looks, which is all the TV men are interested in. Now forget
all this foolishness and fetch your mother some dinner. I don't want to
talk about it anymore." They ate dinner in silence, after which Amanda
sat for a while with her mother watching Cybill on TV. Then she took her
sleeping pills, prayed she wouldn't dream, and fell into a deep slumber.

She awoke early the next morning after ten hours of sleep. Her mother
was still in bed. She went to the kitchen and held ice to her puffy
eyes--five minutes for each eye--while she made coffee and toast. She
then showered and went to work on her hair. After another hour, she was
satisfied with what she saw reflected in her mirror: a tall, large-boned
but thin woman with good muscle tone; a woman who Day TV magazine had
once described as "projecting an enigmatic beauty: a mil-lipped mouth,
crowning a firm chin framed by prominent cheekbones and deep-set
midnight blue eyes that can turn into coals against the contrast other
pale face when a scene calls for anger." The mirror told her she was
still that woman. She dressed in a glamorous but tasteful kick-pleat
skirt that covered the knee and nicely concealed the damage wrought to
her thighs by a blundering Hollywood liposuctionist when the first signs
of cellulite had appeared. Another one of Lucinda's great ideas. She
touched up her light makeup and concluded she was ready to make the best
of things despite Lucinda's depressing dismissal of their Hollywood
hopes and dreams. She doesn't want me to leave, thought Amanda as she
began brushing her hair again. It's not that Fm too old; she's too old
to let me go now. She's imprisoned in this dump and wants me to die here
as her cell mate. That's what she's up to. That's why she's always
putting me down, trying to control me. The force and tempo of the brush
strokes accelerated. Telling me I'm lucky to be a chief file clerk.

Telling me my emotions couldn't take the stress of Hollywood. Amanda
stopped brushing, applied hair spray, and took a final approving look at
herself in the mirror. Telling me I'm just an alternate. She arrived at
the courthouse and was recognized by reporters, one of whom asked her if
she had been on Hope's People years before. "Sharon McPeak," she said,
smiling radiantly. "That's it!" shouted the reporter, looking around at
the others. "Sharon McPeak! I'll be god damned!" Cameras blinked all
around her until sheriff's deputies arrived and escorted her along with
two other seated jurors to the elevator. Though only an alternate, she
was being noticed. Her enthusiasm continued to rebound when, by 10:00
a.m., each side had just one remaining challenge to the six-pack of
alternates. She tried to appear reasonably bright but thoroughly
uncommitted, totally objective. A sheep, not a leader; a consensus
builder, not a maverick. They wouldn't want a strong, overly intelligent
woman, she thought. Nobody did. Amanda watched Earl Field and Grace
Harris as they studied the binder between them, but suddenly realized
she was being watched by another set of eyes. Irresistibly, she found
herself drawn into the gaze of Elliot Ashford. Embarrassed, she dropped
her eyes, but felt compelled to raise them 3gain. The man was not just
watching her; he seemed to be reading her mind. Something about his
expression made her feel like a child again: a reeling of utter
helplessness. She started to hyperventilate but gave him the hint of a
smile to mask her feelings, then looked away again. That's exactly what
Sharon McPeak would have done, she thought, and she began to feel
better. Judge Hernandez's voice interrupted her thoughts. "The People's
last challenge, Mr. Field," he said. She experienced a rush of anxiety.

Had the judge been looking at her, too? Reading her apprehension? Amanda
watched as Grace Harris leaned close to Earl Field and whispered
something to him. She doesn't like me, thought Amanda. But Field nodded,
then rose and announced that the People were "quite satisfied with the
jury as it is presently constituted." Amanda felt her breath leaving
her, but didn't dare reach for her inhaler. "Thank you, Mr. Field," said
Judge Hernandez. "The defendant's last challenge, Mr. Menghetti."

"One moment, please, Your Honor," said Menghetti, then leaned close to
his client. Amanda noticed that neither one of them paid any attention
to Barrett Dickson, who had shifted his gaze toward her and the other
alternates, apparently making his own assessment. After another endless
minute, Menghetti looked up and boldly surveyed the six of them, one by
one. Amanda felt like she was back at a cattle call during her modeling
days, where the admen and sponsors did everything but force her jaw open
and inspect her teeth. Now Menghetti's eyes were on her. Ashford's, too.

She looked straight ahead, as casually as possible. She wondered if
Menghetti saw her as too old for him. He had been hard to read. A tricky
one for sure. Give him just a glance. Don't smile, too obvious. Just a
hint, that's it! Peffect. He rose to speak and her heart stopped. There
was a pain in her stomach and her breath was coming hard now. Her
fingers clutched her purse, felt the inhaler there. Menghetti checked
his notes once more, then finally said, "The defense will excuse  ...
alternate number six. Thank you, Mr. Sanders." My God, I'm on! she
thought, but a formality remained. Mr. Sanders was replaced, which would
give the prosecution another opportunity to challenge not only the
replacement but anyone else in the "six-pack" of alternates. Amanda's
heart raced as Field and Grace Harris conferred again. "The People
remain satisfied," said Field at last, and it was finished, though she
feared she might faint when the clerk instructed them to rise and take
the juror's oath. The judge then explained that he had an 8:30 a.m.
calendar to attend to and instructed them to return at 10:00 a.m. the
following morning. Walking toward the elevator, she stole two quick
pumps from her inhaler, and by the time she was outside, she was ready
to smile for the cameras. Not all the reporters who shouted questions at
the jurors knew of Amanda's television past, but they knew a
good-looking, photogenic woman when they saw one, even if she was only
an alternate. "Give us a smile, Ms. Keller! Over here, Amanda!" She
willingly obliged, just as she had at the premiere of Hope's People over
a decade--a lifetime--before. Amanda experienced an unbearable joy as
she headed straight for her health club. Now, more than ever, she would
need to stay fit. She was bursting with energy, and chills shot up and
down her spine as she skipped down the sidewalk like a child on summer
vacation. She was alive again.

Part Two.

THE TRIAL jury is twelve people who decide who has the best lawyer.
-Robert Frost Judge John Hernandez was an unassuming man, but he took
justifiable pride in his chambers library. In a high-tech world where
law treatises had given way to digitalized versions on computer, Judge
Hernandez preferred the feel of a hardbound book. Every available wall
space was covered in gleaming oak bookshelves, which he'd paid for
himself to avoid even the color of impropriety, and every shelf was
crammed with West's Digest, Ban croft and Whitney, and the complete
California Reporter, together with dozens of obscure legal treatises
from his days as a practicing lawyer. Two additional freestanding
bookcases were devoted to volumes on subjects as varied as world
affairs, race relations, sports, and national politics.

The only important books missing from the shelves were the U.S.
Constitution and the California evidence and criminal codes, which
always sat within immediate reach on the bench. There was little room
left for visitors in his cramped chambers, but John Hernandez's calendar
left little time for visiting anyway. Behind his desk hung a plaque from
the ACLU and a photograph of himself shaking hands with Governor Jerry
Brown on the day of the judge's appointment to the Superior Court bench.

Between the plaque and the photo was a corlorful drawing by his
seven-year-old daughter depicting her smiling father dispensing justice
to a pair of thugs with balls and chains around their ankles. Another
creation contained the "Hernandez Ediks," but he kept these in his desk:
"Edik" Number One read: The sum total of human intelligence among trial
lawyers is constant, whereas the number of trial lawyers is steadily
increasing. "Edik" Number Two read: If anything can go wrong, it will
happen at the worst possible time and in Daddy's courtroom. John
Hernandez was born in 1942, a year to the day after Pearl Harbor, in
Watsonville, California. The son of itinerant farm laborers, he grew up
at play in fields of the lords of the Central Coast farming aristocracy,
watching while his parents and older sister shuffled down endless rows
of artichoke fields, bent close to the ground like foraging animals.

They earned three dollars a day each. At the age of eight, he began
picking alongside his sister during their summer vacations. In his
freshman year at Watsonville High School, he joined a gang and was in
and out of both trouble and the public school system until a
multilingual counselor named Donald Eggleston took an interest in his
case. Eggleston helped the young Latino channel his frustration into
constructive change, then later used his connections to get Hernandez
academic scholarships to Stanford undergraduate and law schools. In law
school, John met a young ex-football player--also on an academic
scholarship--whose poverty, ambition, and troubled past seemed to
parallel his own. He and Bear Dickson soon became friends. Now, after
twelve years on the bench, he was about to try San Francisco's

"Trial of the Century," and it wasn't long before trouble arose,
establishing the truth of

"Edik" Number Two. A bailiff sent by another judge to help out on the
first day had miscounted the number of available courtroom seats, and a
second lottery had to be held for those who thought they had secured a
treasured seat but hadn't. The five disgruntled losers of the second
round of musical chairs then sent a representative to Maggie, Department
26's venerable clerk, demanding they be allowed at least standing room
in the rear. Judge Hernandez sat fuming in his chambers after
reluctantly sending a message to the jury requesting their patience
while he "sorted through a problem." "Suggestions?" he said, looking at
Maggie and Fred, Department 26's young, dark-skinned bailiff.

"They want to see you, Judge," said Fred. "The five citizens."

"The Gang of Five," said Maggie dryly. "That's what the press will call
them."

"The press," murmured John Hernandez, pacing, hands on hips. Although
most observers regarded the case as a splendid opportunity for the
reserved and publicity-shy judge, John Hernandez viewed himself as a man
in a cage with a hungry lion, holding nothing but a chair against the
flashing incisors of the gathering reporters. And what will they call
we? he wondered. "Who ran this damn lottery?" Maggie said. "I wasn't
consulted."

"The PJ.'s clerk handled it," he said. ; "That explains everything,"
said Maggie, looking disgusted. John Hernandez smiled, though he knew
there were archconservatives ;j and even certain senior Democrats among
his black-robed brethren who envied his growing popularity and would
like to see him fall on his face. Mishandling a high-profile case would
derail his ascension to the District Court of Appeal and, perhaps, from
there to the Supreme Court. Hernandez had been galled by the exchange of
amused glances between the two Los Angeles newspaper pool reporters when
the seating problem first became apparent.

The reporters were tired of hearing how much more efficient the San
Francisco courts were compared with archrival L.A.'s. Now, before it had
even started, the trial had suffered its first delay, and five folding
chairs were being arranged along the one side of the center aisle. A
reporter from the L.A. Times gleefully scribbled a note that would
appear in the next morning's edition: Perhaps John Hernandez's tacit
contempt for "celluloid justice" will now be tempered by his own
awakening to the unique exigencies of a high- profile case. The
courtroom was silent as the judge finally instructed Fred to bring in
the jury, unable to conceal the frustration in his voice. Before a
single word of the testimony had been uttered, he had already lost
precious time haggling with the Gang of Five and had violated his
commitment to the jury-- not to mention the San Francisco fire code. He
watched as the jurors solemnly entered the courtroom. None of them
glanced up until each had reached the security of his or her assigned
seat. They were the typical San Francisco mix, thought Hernandez, as
ethnic and varied as the city's restaurants; a jurisprudential
bouillabaisse. Three African-Americans, two Latinos, four whites, and
three Asians ranging in age from twenty-three to sixty-seven. Seven
women, five men: three housewives, a structural engineer, two
secretaries, a retired teacher, a CPA, two unemployeds, and the
inevitable retired postal employee. The six alternates were female but
for number two, a dark-skinned municipal bus driver of indeterminate
ancestry. They were jammed together at the end of the jury box, near the
water cooler. The prosecutors, first Earl Field, then Grace, had taken
their seats closest to the jury box, as decreed by custom. The judge had
granted Al Menghetti's request to move the defense table at an angle so
that he would face the jury, and Barrett Dickson sat farthest from the
jury, as decreed by eomrnon sense, given his continued expression of
constipated misery. The bailiff had heard Al Menghetti urging his
cocounsel to "stop looking so damned pissed off at everybody." Barrett
had replied in a sardonic tone that he was merely "consumed by solemnity
as he reflected on the majesty of the law and his own high calling to
its service." John Hernandez had chuckled when Fred reported the
exchange. At least, he thought, the Bear had not lost his sense of
irony. Menghetti now leaned against that table, his legs bent at the
knees as if awaiting the start of a hundred-meter sprint. Between
Menghetti and Dick- son sat Elliot Ashford, calmly scrutinizing the
jurors, making notes, occasionally whispering to Menghetti. Judge
Hernandez thanked the jurors for their patience and explained the delay,
then turned back to the lawyers. "Will counsel state their appearances
for the record?" he said. A competent bunch, he thought. Thank God for
that, at least. Hernandez knew that competent trial lawyers on both
sides of the case always made a judge's job easier. This would be
particularly important in a case to be tried in the fishbowl of public
scrutiny. Still, both Earl Field and Menghetti would have to be watched.

Field's reputation was impeccable, but his political future was riding
on the outcome of the case, and the judge knew that rational thinking
and civil behavior were often in short supply when law and politics
became intertwined. John Hernandez also knew that he himself would be
tested when the going got tough, particularly with a bulldog like Al
Menghetti applying constant pressure. His salvation would rest on five
simple words with the proven power to discourage Rambo behavior in his
or any other courtroom: Not in my courtroom, counsel! The clerk read the
indictment and it was time. "Mr. Field," he said "your opening statement
please?" "Thank you, Your Honor," said the district attorney, and the
"real deal" was under way at last. "Good morning, members of the jury,"
he began, so softly several jurors in the back row had to lean toward
him. "I shall be brief, for when you strip away all the hyperbole and
publicity, this is really just another case of domestic homicide. More
brutal to be sure, but still, another all-too-frequent, tragic instance
where a warm and supportive wife has become the helpless victim of a
husband's cruel and misplaced wrath." Field's opening statement was
indeed brief. No overblown flood of confusing details such as
lawyers in high-profile cases so often find irresistible. The district
attorney was a politician, but he had once been an effective trial
lawyer, and had read research papers showing that the attention of even
the most conscientious juror began to wander after twenty minutes,
thirty tops. A bored juror would quit listening and become a confused
juror; a confused juror would then turn resentful; and a resentful juror
would soon become angry, eager to hear from the other side. Field also
knew that many prosecutors witlessly wooed the minds of the iurors hv
oaoerine the walls of the courtroom with mountains of incompre- ;
hensible exhibits, while the defense was winning their hearts with
eloquent pleas for mercy and common sense. "Another reason I shall be
brief," he continued, his eyes moving from one juror to another, "is
because the facts before us are so eminently clear. "Ladies and
gentlemen, I have neither the inclination nor the ability to sway you
with eloquence, nor to cloud the issues in this case with days and weeks
of incomprehensible and cumulative testimony. Instead, the People will
place their confidence in clear and irrefutable evidence; not wit, guile
or bluster." He paused, and John Hernandez noticed that three regular
jurors had shifted their gaze to Al Menghetti, glaring at him as if they
had already found him guilty of wit, guile, and bluster. Then, without a
wasted word, Earl Field led the jury up to the night of August 7 and
into Lara Ashford's bathroom, quietly building tension that spared no
one in the room. The unblinking jurors stared at him as one, transfixed
as the district attorney's voice imperceptibly gained in volume and
intensity. Then, as he shifted into a no- holds-barred reenactment of
the killing itself, his voice began to quake with emotion. His arm
slashed the air, demonstrating the assailant's thrusts as he mortally
wounded, then tortured his victim before rendering the final and lethal
blow. Two jurors in the front row recoiled in their seats. "What were
Lara Ashford's last thoughts?" asked the district attorney, his voice
softer now, but no less intense. "What did she think as she watched the
man who had promised to love and cherish her extend his hand not in love
but in rage; not to caress but to kill? A hand that held not a gift of
gratitude but an instrument of horrifying pain and death." From her seat
near the jurors, Grace glanced furtively at some of them, then behind
her at Sam Quon, who looked similarly absorbed. When Sam noticed her
eyes on him, he blushed at having been caught by Grace so thoroughly
enmeshed in the web of Field's melodramatic oratory. Grace had outlined
the opening for the D.A., but did not expect him to deliver it with such
emotion, forgetting that he would not just be practicing law during this
trial; he would be committing politics. Nonetheless, his zealous
performance was reassuring. In her alternate seat off to the side of the
regular jury, Amanda was not merely impressed. She was spellbound, her
lips moist and parted as she stared at the district attorney. The tone
and authority in his voice nearly overwhelmed her, as did the grace of
his movement, the power celebrated in his every gesture. The effect on
her was almost unbearable, sexually charged and intoxicating. She could
barely watch him and assimilate his words at the same time. She began to
succumb to vertigo, and finally had to break his grip on her by looking
away. At this point in her life, finally committed to gaining
independence from her dominating mother, she could not allow herself to
become infatuated with a dominating man. She forced herself to look over
at Al Menghetti, saw that he remained poised like a Brahma bull in a
rodeo smarting under the weight of its rider just before the stall door
is thrown open. But like the bull, Menghetti could do nothing but wait,
for Field, having seized the jury's morbid attention, had begun to tie
Ashford to the crime with a litany of facts in support of means, motive,
and opportunity: the defendant's expressed jealousy of Senator Dwight
Clifton and his frustration at his wife's publicized behavior while they
lived in Washington, D.C.; a heated argument overheard by the
housekeeper just before the murder, including mention of Clifton's name;
the blood in the sink--Lara's blood mixed with an essentially perfect
PCA DNA match of the defendant's blood--and more of his blood on a towel
used as the weapon's handle; a recently healed cut on Ashford's face
which a forensic physician would opine as being "too irregular to have
been caused by a razor." Then Dr. Yang's torture testimony and finally,
with an understated shrug, the fake movie alibi. Amanda looked back at
Field, still enraptured but more in control of herself. Then she stole a
glance at Ashford, not looking so casual now, scribbling notes and
shoving them in front of Menghetti. She almost smiled at his sudden
agitation but caught herself. Field next cleverly skirted the edge of
prejudice by referring to the Ashford family holding company as
Ashford's "Organization." Field would know, thought Amanda, that some of
the jurors would have read about Ashford's rumored connection with
leading Organization figures. She tried to think of the name of the
Mafia don in Chicago rumored to be the defendant's partner in the
Ashford family holding company. She glanced again at Ashford, now
whispering in Al Menghetti's ear, hands moving as fast as his lips.

Still, Menghetti made few objections and seemed in complete control of
himself and his client. Amanda was pleased he did not try more often to
interrupt the district attorney. She did not know that objections to an
opponent's opening statement are nearly always overruled, serving only
to irritate the judge and create the impression ofdefensiveness in the
minds of the jury. After only forty-three minutes, Field closed,
expressing his confidence that the jurors would act on the evidence,
obey their oaths, and find the defendant guilty. The judge declared a
ten-minute recess and sent the jurors to the jury room, where they would
be protected from the press during breaks in the trial. Twelve minutes
later, they were back in the courtroom. "Mr. Menghetti?" said Judge
Hernandez. "Do you wish to make an opening statement at this time?"

"I do indeed, Your Honor." Strident, cocky, and bellicose from the
outset, Menghetti leaned his stocky frame against the barricade of
evidence confronting his client. Amanda disliked the way he strutted and
railed, devoid of any humility or attempt to inratiate himself with the
jurors.

Field's voice had caressed; Menghetti's came at the jury like a series
of left-jab, right-cross combinations. Who, after all, Menghetti snarled
rhetorically, had the district attorney been talking about here? Ted
Bundy? Richard Alien Davis? Some cruel and depraved lunatic? "No!" he
intoned. "Without a single eyewitness, and on purely circumstantial
evidence"--this delivered in the scornful tone of a shock-radio host--
"this ambitious self-declared gubernatorial candidate"--an objection
sustained here--"this  ...  gov-e-mment official"--more scorn--"this
known opponent of the defendant, a respected philanthropist and former
congressman"--another objection, this one overruled--"has recklessly
impugned the integrity of one of the city's most honored and generous
citizens"--now a shift in voice tone--"a past member of the city's
Police Commission  ...  and most important of all"-- downcast eyes--"a
devoted husband." Amanda almost laughed out loud, but a glance to her
right yielded nothing but a host of raptly attentive regular jurors,
seemingly captive to Menghetti's aggressive rhetoric. What was with
these people? It became clear to Amanda that if she wasn't going to have
a vote at the end of the journey, she had better exert some influence
over these naive people along the way. Although Menghetti's style was
mildly repugnant to Grace Harris, she too could not help admiring his
skill as he articulated the typical defense themes. The police and the
D.A. had rushed to judgment, he said, then tried to make it hang
together with the aid of junk science and, worse, the concealment of
crucial exculpatory evidence. A glance at the jury told Grace that they
were solemnly caught up in the barrage of words that rushed from the
defense lawyer's indignant lips. She saw that Menghetti, like all top
defense lawyers, knew that in order to create a reasonable doubt in the
jurors' minds, he must provide them with a reason to want to find one.

In both word and manner, he promised he would supply them that reason,
maybe even two or three of them. This guy was crude, Grace worried, but
he didn't look like a bluffer. Did he have an ace up his sleeve? She
didn't have to wait long for her answer. After Menghetti had surgically
dissected the state's circumstantial case, striking particularly hard at
the police department crime laboratory and the toxicology lab of the San
Fran, "sco medical examiner's office, he moved a step closer to the jury
and lowred his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Finally, ladies and
gentlemen, there is another reason why you must find Mr. Ashford not
guilty: Very simply, he could not have committed this murder. It had to
have been somebody else." Menghetti took another step toward the
wide-eyed jurors. "Why? I'll tell you why. Because a ivoman named Renee
Babcock will testify that the defendant was with her at the time of the
murder!" The courtroom exploded in sound as Grace shot to her feet to
object, nearly struck breathless by Menghetti's outrageous declaration.

Then Field was on his feet and both of them were protesting that they
had never heard of Renee Babcock or of any alibi witness. While the
judge pounded his gavel, Grace glared at Menghetti, then at Dickson,
from whom she had expected more. She had seen Dickson's head snap up,
his eyes suddenly alert as the gallery gasped in surprise. Renee
Babcock? John Hernandez kept hammering his gavel, but neither he nor the
bailiff could silence the pandemonium as reporters raced from the
courtroom. When order was finally restored, the judge's voice was
resonant with obvious anger as he ordered counsel to side-bar along with
the court reporter. "Who," asked the judge, his voice and facial
features again under control, "is Renee Babcock?"

"She's on the list, Your Honor," said Menghetti. "What list?" demanded
Grace, looking not at Menghetti but at the judge. "I gave it to you this
morning before court."

"This?" said Grace, snatching a list of sixteen witnesses from
Menghetti's hand and placing it in front of Judge Hernandez. "Your
Honor," she said, "we were handed this less than an hour ago!"

"Explain yourself, Mr. Menghetti," said Judge Hernandez calmly. "Yes,
Your Honor," said the defense lawyer, glancing over his shoulder at his
client. "Mr. Ashford told me about her for the first time late last
night. He had hoped to protect her identity." "How gallant," said Grace,
noticing that Barrett seemed as angry as she was, and when their eyes
met, he gave her a look that said he was also surprised. Judge Hernandez
struggled to contain his frustration as he watched the last of the
reporters heading for the hallway. This beast of a case that Hernandez
had hoped to keep caged had broken loose. He slammed his gavel down once
more, declared a recess, and ordered all counsel to return to their
seats. With the jury gone, the judge turned his blazing eyes on the
flushed face of Barrett Dickson. "Mr. Dickson?" Barrett rose to his feet
and uttered his first words in the trial of People versus Elliot
Ashford. "Your Honor, you and I learned of this witness at precisely the
same moment. You have my word on it."

"I accept your word, Mr. Dickson," said Judge Hernandez coldly, "but you
should have learned of her before I did." "Yes, Your Honor," said
Barrett, casting a hard glance at Menghetti, "I damn well should have."

"Move to p-preclude her testimony," added Grace Harris. "I'll reserve
 "but meanwhile I order the defense to
present Ms. Babcock for examination by the prosecution within the next
forty-eight hours, and hereby fine Mr. Menghetti and Mr. Dickson $3,000
each for Mr. Menghetti's allusion to Renee Babcock in opening statement
without adequate notice to either the court or to the prosecution."

"Your Honor--" began Menghetti, but the judge silenced him with a raised
hand.

"Burying Ms. Babcock's name in a list of sixteen others and turned over
to the district attorney only minutes before opening statements is trial
by ambush," said the judge, "and telling the jury about her violates our
discovery rules, the canons of ethics, and the code of trial conduct of
the American College of Trial Lawyers." Dickson considered saying
something more in his own defense, but saw that John Hernandez was not
finished. "You are in a zero-tolerance courtroom," the judge continued.

"Understand further that I am not here to referee a mud-wrestling
contest. I expect and admire strong advocacy, but I demand clean
advocacy. Pull another stunt like that, Mr. Menghetti, and you'd better
have your toothbrush handy, because you won't be going back to your
hotel for thirty days." "I understand, Your Honor," said Menghetti, "and
I apologize. I certainly didn't intend all this confusion." John
Hernandez rose from his chair, towering above them now, biblical in his
wrath. "There is no 'confusion' about what you intended by this tactic,
sir," he said through clenched teeth," but to be sure there exists no
possible 'confusion' on your part concerning my resolve, the fine in
your case is hereby increased to $5,000." Grace cleared her throat as
the judge got up to leave the bench. "Your Honor? Might we have the jury
instructed?" Hernandez paused, modulated his tone. "Yes, of course, Ms.

Harris. When the jury returns, I intend to instruct them to disregard
any mention of Renee Babcock until such time as she actually testifies,
7/she testifies at all. I will also tell them that Mr. Menghetti has
violated the law and the rules that govern this trial." Menghetti wisely
said nothing more, and Judge Hernandez left the bench. Barrett fell back
into his chair and almost failed to notice that John Hernandez had
paused at the door to his chambers and was staring at him with a look of
mingled vexation and disappointment. Meanwhile, in the jury room--a
bleak, windowless, yellow-walled place with the cold aura of an army
barracks and a long, battered oak table that took up most of the limited
space--Amanda turned to the older woman standing next to her, a regular
juror named Ruth Salverson. "Did you see how angry Judge Hernandez was?"
she whispered. "I bet Mr. Menghetti is paying right now for that cheap
little trick!" "Well, I don't rightly know," said the tired-looking
woman, breaking into an uneasy smile and putting a hand to her
blue-tinted white hair. "And I don't think we are supposed to talk about
the case."

"We're not to discuss the evidence" corrected Amanda. "The judge
specifically said the opening statements of counsel are not evidence."
"I suppose you're right," said Ruth Salverson, looking sightly confused.
Amanda engaged her in small talk for a minute: Goodness, you have three
grandchildren? You must be proud, and, oh my, another on the way? Do you
have any pictures? She then casually shifted gears again. "I guess it's
pretty obvious why Menghetti has to take chances like that, Ruth, don't
you think?" Amanda's advocacy had begun.

A few minutes later, the defense team huddled in an L-shaped holding
cell adjacent to the courtroom, designated by the court for their use
during court recesses. The windowless room was normally used for
prisoners as they awaited their summons to the adjacent courtroom for
pleas, sentencing, or other hearings. The room had two doors: one
leading to the courtroom, the other into a hall that led to an elevator
to cells on the sixth and seventh floors. A stained and battered
combination WE and washbasin stood in a; corner, over which someone had
Scotch-taped a yellowed calendar--tacks and strings were considered
"weapons"--depicting two nineteenth-century Queen's counsel in white
wigs, wearing lace shirts bunched at the neck under brocade jackets,
both glaring at a hapless-looking witness in the docks. The room smelled
of disinfectant. Barrett sat in an armless oak chair staring at his
client across a battered wood table stained with overlapping brown
rings. The walls that surrounded them were as barren of decoration as
those in the jury room, except for the calendar and graffiti carvings
that no one would confuse with the caves of Lascaux. Al Menghetti stood
nearest the door, arms folded, just behind his client. Elliot Ashford
sat impassively in his chair, legs crossed, meeting Barrett's accusing
glare with unswerving eyes that were not only devoid of guilt but also
maddeningly affable. No one spoke. Barrett listened to the dull hum of
the fluorescent lights as he tried to collect his thoughts. He became
conscious of an uncomfortable dampness across his back. The roof of his
mouth felt cauterized and his throat was a dry shaft. He wished he could
have remained standing like Menghetti, but his legs had become
unreliable. He felt he had to get away from these men and this case too,
consequences be damned. "First you tell the cops you were at a movie,"
Barrett said at last, in a voice quavering with anger. "Then you tell me
you were with some guy whose identity you couldn't reveal! Now it's a
woman, who you were just 'trying to protect."

" Ashford smiled without parting his lips, shrugged, then said, "I am a
gentleman, Barrett, like yourself."

"Bullshit!"

"Hear me out, Dickson." Ashford removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
"Renee has a fiance; a brute who would not hesitate to beat her, perhaps
worse. Thus the false movie alibi. I had hoped not to have to reveal my
...  indiscretion, but Al prevailed on me last night." Barrett's eyes
darted up to where Menghetti stood studying the wall calendar. "Last
night? Why didn't you--"

"Because, Barrett," said Menghetti, palms extended and turned upward,
eyebrows angled submissively, "we simply wanted to protect you, and your
relationship with John Hernandez. Besides, you would have insisted we
inform the prosecution before Field blew his credibility with the jury
by telling them Elliot had no alibi." Barrett said, "And now you've
blown our credibility with the judge."

"You've got to make choices in our business, Dickson. The legal system
is like eating sausage. You don't ask how it got made."

"There's nothing wrong with the way the system was constructed,
Menghetti. It's the way people exploit it. Even I can see that. But
thanks for reminding me why I'm well out of it." "You're welcome,
Dickson," said Menghetti, missing or ignoring the irony in Barrett's
remark. "And don't worry about your buddy Hernandez.

He'll calm down. Besides, it's the jury who frees our client or kills
him, not the judge. Your problem is you don't have a clue how the
criminal defense game is played. When you do, I'll feel free to be more
open with you." Barrett's chair screeched as he rose to his feet. "How's
this for being open?" he said, glaring at the stocky defense lawyer. "Go
fuck yourself, Menghetti. You too, Ashford." Menghetti retreated from
the doorway as Barrett stormed toward it, but Ashford jumped to his feet
and blocked his way. "Hold on a minute, old boy. Al is leveling with you
now, isn't he? Besides, this is all my fault. I implored Al that if
there were any technically legitimate way we could let Field get himself
out on a limb, then saw it off--" "I know why you did it," said Barrett,
including Menghetti in his withering gaze, "butjohnnie Cochran didn't
get away with it in his opening statement in the Simpson case. What made
you think you could here?" A deep staccato laugh issued from Menghetti,
now perched on the edge of the table. "You're saying Cochran didn't get
away with it? Tell that to 0. J. Simpson, if you can find which golf
course he's playing these days. As for Johnnie, the judge may have
censured him, but our toothless state bar didn't punch his ticket and
never will. Get real, Barrett. What's a judge's wrath and a couple
thousand bucks' fine compared to what we achieved this morning? Hell,
the prosecution can't file an appeal anyway. So what's your problem?"
Barrett knew he was wasting his time talking to these two about legal
ethics; debating vultures on the hazards of a meat diet. Ashford was
fighting for his life, and Menghetti was the old-style combatant: win at
any cost. Dickson reflected that maybe he himself had tilted that way
once or twice, before he lost his passion for the game, his instinct for
the jugular. "My 'problem," " he said, trying to ward off a painful
realization that was burrowing toward the surface of his muddled
consciousness, "is that you haven't seen the beginnning of this judge's
wrath." He knew he should simply push Ashford aside and walk out the
door. But where would that leave Mike and the others at C&S? Then there
was the damn realization, burrowing on, closer now. "Al knew the risks,"
said Ashford, whose casually arrogant tone interrupted Barrett's
thought, "and remember what Dr. Tremaine's statistics showed us? Seventy
to eighty percent of jurors make up their minds during the opening
statements and never change them. So we had to hit 'em with everything
we had."

"And maybe with something you didn't have, Elliot?" said Barrett, his
tone laden with disdain. "What are you getting at, Barrett?" asked
Ashford with the innocence of a child. "Isn't it a tight squeeze getting
a cloven foot into those Ferragamos, Elliot? Just how much did you pay
this Renee Babcock?"

"Stop breathing your own exhaust, Dickson," said Menghetti. "I talked to
her last night, and she's legit. No genius, maybe, but credible."

"Don't try that on me, Menghetti. Even if she's 'legit," which I doubt,
it's trial by ambush like the judge said."

"No, Dickson, it's being responsible for the life of our client in a
capital murder case," said Menghetti, his lips curled in derision.
"We're fighting lethal injection here, Dickson, an execution, while you
stand there pontificating on the Marquess of Queensberry rules!" Barrett
felt Menghetti's disdainful gaze. The defense lawyer was folly on the
offensive now, the words flying out of him. "Maybe your pal Hernandez is
sore at us right now, Dickson, but he at least understands the
responsibility a defense lawyer takes on in a death case, which is a
hell of a lot more than you do. He knows why I don't sleep at night and
knows why I can't tolerate some deadheading Montgomery Street fat cat
lecturing me on manners in the middle of an alley fight." Barrett
continued to stare at the wall, though it was starting to make him
woozy. He wanted to sit down, but Menghetti's relentless tirade
continued, his voice ringing even louder now, his words a chain
reaction, as if trying to bring Barrett's lifeless eyes back into
contact with his own. "Everybody keeps telling me how brilliant Barrett
Dickson was. Well, that's past tense, my friend.

You're like the guy who discovered the meaning of life and forgot to
write it down. Or wrote it down and forgot where he put it. What I'm
trying to do here isn't rocket science, asshole; it's harder! So just
stay the flick out of my face!" Barrett considered shoving the cocky
bastard's head through the wall and telling Ashford to find himself
another boy, but the same thing stopped him now that had kept him from
walking out ten minutes earlier. The painful realization had finally
burrowed through. God help me, he thought, I -want this case! He had
wanted all along to be argued out of his righteous indignation; was sick
and tired of being thought of as a relic and wanted to be at least part
of something significant again. Was it to erase the stigma of 1993 and
the tda case? Was it because even though he had grown to hate the
courtom, it was all he could do? God help me, he repeated to himself as
the truth sank in. He lowered himself into the nearest chair, shut his
eyes tight, then reopened them. Wanting no more of Menghetti's lecture
or Ashford's twisted scowl, he focused on his wn clenched fingers. He
then felt someone else's hand squeezing his right shoulder. Menghetti
had walked around behind him. "Enough with the infighting, Barrett,"
said the defense lawyer, his tone softening. He then dropped his other
hand on Barren's left shoulder and added, "Elliot just wanted to protect
Babcock as long as possible and I wanted to protect you. So stop being
an asshole, okay? And don't worry about the three large either; I'll pay
both fines. Deal?"

"You'll do more than that, Menghetti," said Barrett, looking straight
ahead. "For starters, you'll take your hands off me." Barrett saw
Ashford give Menghetti a nod and the defense lawyer removed his hands,
then clasped them behind his head, mugging like a captured burglar as he
walked around in front of Barrett. "Okay, Barrett," Menghetti said
dryly. "Excuse the hell out of me."

"Maybe. First, tell me if you have any more of these little stunts in
mind." Menghetti smiled. "That's all there is, Barrett, I swear. Look,
I'm sorry, okay? I was wrong, but I trust your friend the judge will
forgive you. Us." Forgive us, thought Barrett. It's "us" now, pirates
shackled together in need. He knew then that if he was going to gain any
power or influence in this godforsaken case, he'd better seize it now,
so he straightened in his chair and gave Menghetti a hard look. "That
brings me to the next thing, which is the three of us are going to walk
back into court now--you'll be on your knees, Rambo; you too, Elliot--
and I'll listen while you wrap those fines in an apology that fully
exonerates me.

Deal?" Manghetti stopped smiling, but nodded. Ashford grinned, then gave
each of the lawyers a playful slap on the arm. "Agreed then, my intrepid
champions?" he said. "Is it back to the old struggle for justice?"

"Not yet," said Barrett. "There's one more thing." "Okay," said
Menghetti impatiently, "let's hear it."

"I don't take to being called an asshole, Al, particularly by you. Don't
do it again. If you do, I'll hurt you."

"Now wait one rucking minute--"

"I won't tell you again," said Barrett, rising, his huge hands clenched
into fists. Ashford jumped in between them and put a restraining hand on
Menghetti's chest. "Come now, gentlemen, you're supposed to be
representing me," he pleaded "This is my life'." The room went silent
for several seconds but for the sound of forced; breathing. "Okay,
Dickson," said Menghetti at last, jerking his head toward Ashford. "He's
right, you know. We've got a case to try." Barrett felt his strength
returning and continued to fix Menghetti with a scalding gaze. Menghetti
looked away. Barrett waited, saying nothing.

"And okay, I apologize," Menghetti added, finally averting his eyes,
"for the things I said to you a while ago. Everything square? Shake?"
Barrett tried to settle his racing mind. He would talk to John Hernandez
after things calmed down, would tell him the truth, and John would
believe him. In addition, the testimony of Renee Babcock, assuming she
held up, meant they could establish reasonable doubt and undoubtedly win
their case. Mike would go on to the executive committee and save himself
and maybe even the firm. He, Barrett, would go out a winner, the TDA
disaster forgotten by everyone but himself, plus he'd survive the rest
of the year at C&S while he prepared for his real estate exams. And,
after all, his client was innocent. "Come on, Barrett," urged Ashford.

"Shake hands." You could rationalize the rape of Poland, Barrett, Ellen
had told him after he had won a major jury verdict for a large
corporation accused of monopolization and predatory pricing. Throw in
Czechoslovakia and Hungary. The rape of the entire world is not beyond
your consummate gift for rationalization. Barrett looked at Ashford,
then back at Menghetti, feeling the anger leaking out of him. He looked
at the clock. Nearly cocktail hour. Then he watched his arm rise and his
hand accept Menghettfs. Grace Harris fumed as Earl Field called
Arnold Sun as the prosecution's first witness. The expert he had
expected to lead off with had called from Denver the day before, stuck
in another trial. This moved a nervous young criminalist with SFPD into
the leadoff spot. Grace had prepared Arnold Sun and expected to conduct
his direct examination, but Field decided at the last minute to put Sun
on himself, telling Grace he had to proclaim his personal commitment to
the case from the outset. The jurors sat quietly with rigid backs and
expectant eyes, unaware of any tension between the prosecutors, too
focused on meeting the challenge "ley had embraced. The spectators were
also alert now in anticipation of the first testimony, though Grace knew
this nervous energy would soon dissipate in the growing heat of the
courtroom. Outside, the capricious El Nino hsd dealt a sudden burst of
record-setting high temperatures that blasted the hall's roof, further
confounding meteorologists and the city's citizens, who didn't know
whether to wear galoshes or sunscreen to work. "Call your first
witness," said John Hernandez, and Earl Field rose to summon Arnold Sun
to the stand. The young criminalist licked his lips and approached the
witness chair warily, as if it might be booby-trapped. His sallow face
was round and unlined, his straight hair coal black and undisciplined.

Grace had the uneasy thought that he didn't look much older than Aaron.

The direct examination went well enough as Field led Arnold Sun through
Grace's outline, at least until he reached the point in the list of
questions where she had written: Bring out lost fingernail scrapings.

Every experienced trial lawyer knew that any major weakness in a
witness's testimony had to be faced head-on and brought out on direct
examination before handing the witness over to the opposition. But to
Grace's amazement, Field never mentioned the lost evidence; he merely
thanked the witness at the end and took his seat. Grace glanced at Al
Menghetti, who looked surprised too, then handed Field a note that read:
"Why didn't you remove the stinger?" Field leaned toward her, plainly
irritated. "Never start your case with an apology, Grace," he whispered.

"Makes you look weak." Grace groaned inwardly, fearing that Arnold Sun
would soon look not merely weak but deceitful as well. Menghetti charged
through the opening like a fullback. "Were samples taken from under the
victim's fingernails, Mr. Sun?"

"Yes."

"That's important in a homicide case, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Why do you normally take these samples?" Sun knew what was coming and
stared helplessly toward the prosecution table.

Grace looked away. Menghetti quickly took advantage of Sun's mistake.

"Those lawyers over there can't help you, Mr. Sun. It's your testimony I
want." The witness glanced nervously at Menghetti, then down at his
entwined fingers. "When there has been a struggle," he began, speaking
now in a muted voice, "we can sometimes identify an assailant through
DNA testing."

"And there was evidence of a violent struggle in this case, was there
not?"

"Yes."

"I'm having trouble hearing you, sir."

"Yes, there was a struggle."

"Thank you. And these scrapings can be useful in eliminating a suspect
as well as incriminating an assailant, isn't that correct?"

"Yes," murmured the witness. "I'm afraid you'll have to speak up, Mr.
Sun. We want these good people to hear every single word."

"Yes," said Sun, "the evidence can be used to eliminate a suspect."

"For example, where the DNA from fingernail scrapings doesn't match the
suspect's DNA?"

"Yes."

"And you have done that in the past?

Actually eliminated a wrongly accused suspect?" Sun hesitated, then
said, "Yes, once or twice."

"But you didn't try to do that in Mr. Ashford's case, did you?"

"Well--"

"Just answer the question, sir."

"No, we couldn't."

"Well, Mr. Sun, the defendant didn't deny you a blood sample, did he?"

"Well  ...  no, but--"

"Thank you very much, Mr. Sun," said Menghetti, and sat down. The
annihilation of Arnold Sun had taken less than two minutes. Grace
glanced at Field, saw the veins in his neck pulsing against his collar,
but there was no time for conferring. "Mr. Sun," he said, his tone less
composed than before, "-why didn't you try to eliminate the defendant as
a suspect using DNA material from under the victim's fingernails?" Sun
sat up straighter now, raised his head, brushed a lock of hair from his
eyes. "The scrapings have been  ... misplaced, Mr. Field." A stirring
rose up from the gallery, drowning out the end of Sun's admission. The
gavel came down once. Grace saw a smile replace Menghetti's normally
stern expression. The crime lab's dereliction had come out in the worst
possible way. Field said, "Continue, Mr. Sun."

"Somewhere between the crime scene and either our crime lab or the
toxicology lab at the medical examiner's office, the scrapings simply
disappeared. We searched everywhere."

"So when Mr. Menghetti cut you off a minute ago, what were you trying to
tell him?" Sun looked relieved to finally be fed the straight line he
had expected during his direct exam. "Well, in our opinion, we didn't
find the defendant's DNA under the victim's fingernails because we lost
the scrapings, not because he didn't commit the murder. In fact, the
wounds on Mr. Ashford's face appeared consistent with defensive
fingernail scratches." Grace saw Menghetti start to object during Sun's
peroration, then decide against it. She watched Field glance at the
jury, then smile at the witness. "Thank you for your testimony, Mr. Sun.
That's all I have." Arnold Sun betrayed his amateur status by starting
to leave the witness box. "Please don't rush off, Mr. Sun," Menghetti
said in a caustic tone. "We're just getting to know one another." Some
members of the jury tittered at this, and Grace thought she saw Lani
Jefferson, their pick for foreperson, and alternate number four, the
Keller woman, glare at those who had. Menghetti continued. "Your office
was criticized in a report by the civil grand jury released on June 6,
1996, isn't that true?"

"I wasn't there then, sir."

"But you know it to be true, don't you." It wasn't a question. Field
rose with a technically correct but ill-conceived objection that caused
Grace to cringe inside. "Exceeds the scope of the redirect examination,
Your Honor."

"Not so," countered Menghetti in a righteously indignant tone. "Mr.
Field elicited from this witness on redirect that they have lost
important evidence; conclusive evidence that we claim would have cleared
our client. I am now merely showing that this should not surprise
anyone, given the crime lab's unenviable record of flagrant
incompetence." Field was still on his feet. "I object also to Mr.
Menghetti's gratuitous reference to 'flagrant incompetence' and move to
strike it." "I apologize," said Menghetti with an amused smile, "and
withdraw the words 'flagrant incompetence." Perhaps Mr. Field would
prefer I use the only viable alternative to incompetence: intentional
destruction." Field's protest was quick, but the judge was even quicker.
"That's enough, Mr. Menghetti," he snapped, then instructed the jury to
disregard the argumentative remark by counsel. "Restrain yourself, sir,"
he added, glaring at Menghetti, "or I will." Grace stole a glance at the
jurors.

All were wide-eyed at the exchange, and Lani Jefferson, Martin Chin, and
the fourth alternate were all nodding with approval at the judge's stern
reprimand. "Thank you, Your Honor," said Menghetti perfunctorily. "Do
you remember the question, Mr. Sun?"

"Yes sir. I agree our equipment was old, but the investigation came
about mainly because of the Simpson problem in L.A."

"And the investigation concluded that both San Jose and Oakland had
superior equipment to yours in San Francisco?"

"Yes."

"Bigger budgets?"

"Yes."

"Bigger staffs?"

"Yes, but we're in a new facility now."

"That's reassuring. Catching up with the rest of the world, are we, Mr.
Sun? Getting the kinks out of a new system?" Field rose. "Objection:
argumentative, compound."

"Sustained."

"Okay, Mr. Sun, let me be clear on this, sir. Are you telling this jury
that you have, in fact, lost the most crucial evidence in this case?"

"Objection, Your Honor," said Field, and Grace wondered if the jury
could hear the anxiety in his voice, the stretched-thin tone.
"Sustained," said John Hernandez, his expression hardening, "and the
jury is again instructed to disregard the argument of counsel."

"In fact," continued Menghetti without hesitation, "you conveniently
lost the evidence somewhere between the crime scene and one of the two
laboratories, am I right?" "Objection!" said Field. "Argumentative."

"Sustained," said Judge Hernandez. "Will counsel please approach?" The
four lawyers quickly convened at side-bar. "Mr. Menghetti," said the
judge, "the technique of asking improper questions that make your
opponent appear fearful of the answer when he or she objects are not
permitted in my courtroom. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Your Honor. I apologize for the 'conveniently' part of the
question." John Hernandez's eyes narrowed. "We are only in the first
inning of the game, sir, and Babcockwas strike one. Be careful."

"Thank you, Your Honor." The lawyers returned to their places, all
looking as if they had achieved a victory except for Dickson, who looked
as angry as John Hernandez. "Mr. Sun," said Menghetti, his voice oozing
sincerity, "the evidence is gone, isn't it!" Sun shifted in his seat.

Grace knew he must be feeling the jurors' harsh gaze now. Grace felt her
own hands growing cold. This was coming out all wrong. It couldn't be
worse if Earl had intended it, she thought, then experienced a deeper
chill as she wondered if perhaps he had. "Yes, well  ..." continued Sun
haltingly, "after the coroner's assistant took the scrapings, I assisted
in marking the plastic bag. After that, I assumed he had taken it and I
guess he assumed that I--"

"Let's just stick with your own erroneous assumptions, Mr. Sun. We'll
let the other state's witnesses deal with theirs in turn." Field started
to rise, but Grace put a hand on his arm and he remained seated. "As I
said," continued the witness, "we could not locate--"

"You could not locate evidence that could have eliminated Elliot Ashford
as a suspect, is that not con'ectv

"Well, we  ...  could not locate the evidence."

"And that's why you could not eliminate Mr. Ashford as a suspect,
right?"

"Well ..."

"Objection!" shouted Field.

"He can answer," said Judge Hernandez. "Well, if the scrapings contained
the DNA of someone else  ..." said Sun, looking confused again as his
voice trailed off. "You would have eliminated Mr. Ashford," said
Menghetti, his barrel chest inflated with righteous indignation, a hand
to his head as if he were learning all this for the first time along
with the jury, "and then gone in search of that 'someone else,"
correct?"

"I suppose so."

"But because the scrapings have vanished, you cannot now say if they
contained the DNA of'someone else," or Mr. Ashford, isn't that a fact?"

"Yes," whispered Sun, whose composure had also vanished. "At least, we
can't find the scrapings."

"Which means you can't find the real murderer either, right?"

"OBJECTION!" screamed Field. "Argumentative, assumes facts not in
evidence--"

"Sustained," said Judge Hernandez, who turned to the jury and said,
"Members of the jury, I once again instruct you to disregard that
comment and its implication. I'm sure I speak for Mr. Menghetti when I
say this is the last time I will have to give you this instruction." He
then turned hard eyes on Menghetti. "Strike two, sir." "Thank you, Your
Honor," said Menghetti in a cloying voice. "Now, Mr. Ijl Sun, would you
agree that if the scrapings had revealed DNA other than that of the
defendant, you would have eliminated Mr. Ashford as a suspect?"

"Perhaps."

"What do you mean perhaps!" snapped Menghetti in a sudden, hard- edged
tone that caused the witness to jump in his seat. "Okay, I suppose you
could look at it that way." Menghetti's eyes narrowed with aversion as
he said, "That's exactly the way I look at it, Mr. Sun." Grace had never
felt so frustrated, for Menghetti had now achieved the goal of every
expert trial lawyer on cross: total control of the witness. Only John
Hernandez's fortitude was keeping Menghetti from controlling the entire
courtroom. Now, without taking his accusing eyes off the hapless
criminalist, Menghetti walked toward the jurors, then turned to scan
their faces as he added: "And this jury could look at it that way, too,
could they not?"

"OBJECT--"

"Withdraw that, Your Honor. Thank you, Mr. Sun," added Menghetti with an
acid smile, "you've been most helpful." Sun, missing the tone of
ridicule, dutifully replied, "You're welcome," and stepped down. Grace
gave Sun a quick sympathetic look as he left the witness stand, then
glanced down at her notepad and began to scribble purposefully, as if
engaged in productive activity. She was still afraid to glance at the
jurors, and she didn't want to look at Earl Field. Nor did she want to
betray her exasperation. So, as she often did in moments of overwhelming
frustration that she had to conceal from the jury, she scribbled: lost
evidence = hidden evidence = acquittal = cops to blame = political
survival? Her heart was heavy, not only because of what had just
happened to their case but because of the realization that her
suspicions about Earl Field now seemed more justified. She scribbled
again: L.A. Eye reporter + E.F. at scene + missing evidence = proof of
...  nothing! She decided that her only recourse at this point was to
wait, then make use of whatever opportunities she could seize, despite
her limited role, to try to convict Elliot Ashford. Not an easy task,
she concluded, now that the armies usually arrayed on opposing sides of
the battle line both seemed to be arrayed against her. She shuddered,
and under the second entry added: Confront E.E? But she knew that Earl
would hold to his story that he simply did not want to "begin the
People's case with an apology." He would say that if he admitted the
lost fingernail scrapings, the jury would assume there was much more he
wasn Y admitting. He would also say that he insisted on taking over the
examination of the first witness because the public expected it of him.

If she pushed him, he would grow defensive. "It's all the damn cops'
fault," he would say. "They lose the evidence, then send us a dope like
Arnold Sun who couldn't talk his way out of a fortune cookie." If she
pushed him, he would remind her who had prepared Arnold Sun an d maybe
even invite her to leave the trial team. If she pushed him, he would
fall back on the trial lawyer's ultimate rationalization: We have to
play the hand we've dealt, he would say. I'm a lawyer, not God. I just
present the facts; I can't alter the facts of a case. No, she would
think, just the outcome. From her seat in the jury box, Amanda Keller
grimaced as Menghetti swaggered to his seat. Rude bastard, she thought,
berating the poor little man that -way. She had known snake-oil salesmen
such as Al Menghetti and deceitful charmers like Ashford, too, sitting
there looking as virtuous as a priest. Thinks he'll get away with it,
she thought, reflecting on the cruel hand she had been delivered by fate
compared with this silver-spoon pretty boy. Life was unfair, but maybe
things were about to change--for both of them. Amanda knew she was
supposed to keep an open mind, but she felt more certain than ever that
she saw evil behind Ashford's casual and benign facade; his blond hair
swept back tight against his aristocratic head, his scholarly spectacles
hanging on the bridge of his delicate nose. But did the others see it?

As the trial progressed over the next few days, her frequent sideways
glances at the two rows of jurors convinced her that only Martin Chin
and Lani Jefferson seemed firmly in the prosecution camp. The blacks
other than Lani Jefferson, though not as demonstrative as Jefferson,
obviously liked Earl Field and knew a white racist when they saw one.

Ditto the two Latinos, which made eight probables, but it would take all
twelve to convict and things were not starting well for the prosecution.

Amanda's sympathy for Earl Field grew as he absorbed blow after blow,
day after day. Her admiration grew also, which she was now sure was
mutual. She hoped the other lawyers wouldn't see the looks they
sometimes exchanged. It was more than flirtation, it was foreplay
without touching or words. Once when their eyes met, she was shocked to
find that she was physically aroused. She squirmed in her seat,
embarrassed and mildly uncomfortable, yet wishing she could do something
about it, right there as she watched him. She listened without hearing a
word he said, for words didn't matter to her anymore. Relying on
insights gained in her role as a juror on Hope's People, where a guilty
man had gone free because the jury was not allowed to hear his earlier
confession, and her actress training in body language and tonal
inflections, Amanda had concluded that Ashford was guilty. The issue was
how to help the district attorney, given her limited position as an
alternate. She decided to take inventory, then find a way to become more
proactive. The regulars had already fallen into predictable cliques,
governed mainly by race and gender. The three Caucasian jurors
constituted a closed society, except for Martin Chin, an Asian who was
occasionally welcomed into their midst. The oldest white juror was Ruth
Salverson, the drab, pleasant woman whom Amanda had earlier attempted to
proselytize. Then there was a bright, thin-faced young structural
engineer named Kevin Alston, a bit of a loner who often took a solitary
lunch in the basement cafeteria, affectionately dubbed "the House of
Toast" by the D.A. staff. He usually sat with his nose in a book, over
which he stole an occasional lustful glance at either Amanda or Manon
Barnes. Manon, the third white juror, was a pert, attractive young
flight attendant with American Airlines whose sheer energy had
established her as a leader of the white trio. That should have been me,
thought Amanda. The two older African-American jurors, a retired postal
clerk and a housewife, usually ate lunch alone or together, but they,
along with the two younger black jurors, were clearly attentive to
anything said by Lani Jefferson, a short, powerfully built
schoolteacher. Amanda was pleased that an obvious leader like Jefferson
appeared to be solidly aligned with the prosecution, yet resented the
way Earl Field occasionally played to her. She also hated the woman's
arrogant manner and the perfume she wore--Sanskrit, a scent worn by
Lucinda. According to the newspapers, which Amanda diligently read to
keep her scrapbook/journal current despite the court's admonition,
veteran courtroom observers had expected to see Jefferson peremptorily
challenged by one of the lawyers because she had worked as a paralegal
in a San Francisco law firm before earning her teaching credential. But
Field had presumably left Jefferson on because of his confidence in
bonding with other African-Americans, as well as Grace Harris's ability
to bond with other women. The article then speculated that Menghetti has
left her on because he was running out of challenges and she fit the
profile of a skeptical and ultraliberal juror who would require strong
evidence before voting to convict anybody of anything. That left two
Latinos and a long-haired teamster of indeterminate racial background,
possibly Native American, who looked to be in his mid-fifties. The
teamster, Barney Seagrave, wasn't accepted into the "white regulars" and
occasionally associated with the alternates. But it was Kevin Alston,
the lanky, bespectacled engineer, who Amanda signaled out as her next
target. She joined him at the coffee table midway through the
fifteen-minute morning recess as he was making a cup of instant decaf.

Amanda reached for an envelope of regular. "Cream?" he offered shyly,
then added, "Don't tell me you need caffeine on top of all this
excitement." -Although indirect, this was the first mention of the case
in her presence. Amanda knew he was just making small talk, but it was
all the encourageent she needed. She accepted the cream with a "Thank
you, kind sir" that had a familiar, manipulative Southern ring to it.

Alston bowed his head awkwardly, and Amanda added, "But if you are
referring to the way Mr. Menghetti tries to twist everything anybody
says, I think it's more misleading than exciting." "Oh," he said,
startled by her directness. "Well, Mr. Menghetti certainly is a
character. Anyways, the name's Kevin Alston. I've  ...  seen you around.

Well, of course I have. Seen you around, I mean. We can hardly miss
seeing each other in such a small ..." His voice drifted off in a cloud
of confusion and an awkward wave of his hand around the room. Amanda
thought he might faint from the exertion of being close to an attractive
woman. He pushed his glasses higher on his button nose with a trembling
finger. She wanted to laugh at his clumsiness, but she just smiled as
she studied him. About her age, nondescript in appearance behind thick
glasses, probably married to a college sweetheart, with 2.3 children and
a two-car garage for his Volvo and her Ford station wagon. "It ;j- a
small place," she agreed, trying to rescue the brittle juror from his
evident awkwardness. "You're an engineer, can't you redesign it?" He
managed a shy smile. "I don't think they'd appreciate it," he said, his
eyes like sharp blue particles of light darting nervously behind the
bulky glasses, obviously impressed that she must have been listening to
his voir dire responses. "How about yourself? What do you do?"

"I'm in charge of a file department for a commercial real estate leasing
company," she said, then added offhandedly, "and I work for a boss who's
almost as devious as that defense lawyer." Alston's Adam's apple bobbed,
and he seemed to blush slightly. Amanda knew he wanted to retreat from
his growing attraction to her, so she reached up and picked a loose
thread from his lapel. "Sorry," she added, without clarifying what she
was sorry for, then scanned his face with supplicant eyes, waiting for a
response. "Well," he stammered, confused and trying to come up with
something neutral, "all the lawyers seem quite aggressive."

"Oh, I agree," she said, her full lips curling into a beguiling smile.
"Don't get me wrong. I think Mr. Menghetti's a genius'. I want him in my
corner if I'm ever a Mafia person charged with murder." Alston now
openly recoiled and coughed up a nervous laugh. "I haven't heard any
evidence--"

"Oh, my," she interrupted, covering her lips in mock contrition, "I have
been bad! I forgot we're not supposed to bring outside facts into our
deliberations. I guess I did need this coffee." Alston smiled uneasily
but stopped retreating. "So let's talk about you," she continued, trying
to ease the tension. "What kind of engineer are you? A good one I bet."
Alston blushed and looked at his shoes.

"Well, thank you. A structural engineer, actually."

"How fascinating," she said, thinking, Two down, ten to go. "Bridges and
things?" 2A At the end of the third lackluster day for the prosecution,
Grace called Sam Quon in to her office. "What have you dug up on Renee
Babcock? Earl is going to let me take her on cross."

"Nothing surprising," he said.

"Divorced, two kids. Clean neighborhood, nothing fancy. Neighbors regard
her as a character, bit of a lush. Ash- ford has been seen coming and
going, but so have plenty of other men. Woman next door says Babcock
claims to be engaged to one of them. Nobody remembers seeing anyone
around the night of the murder."

"What does she do?"

"Self-described fashion model, but no earned income reported. Lives on
money from her 'fiance," some child support from her ex, and whatever."

"The 'whatever' being Ashford and others?"

"That's my guess, but neighbors seem to like her despite 'whatever." She
helps out around the neighborhood. A basically decent person and keeps
her kids spick-and-span."

"That's it?" Sam shrugged. "Terrific, Sam. I'll bring her to her knees
by showing she has a cocktail or two between helping out her neighbors
and being a model single parent." "Lighten up, Grace," said Sam, "I'm
only the messenger here. It's not easy to prove X wasn't with Y when
both X and Y say he was." "I know," said Grace, drumming a pencil
against the palm other hand as she stared out the window. "I'm sorry,
Sam." Then she turned abruptly and added, "Give me her address." "Come
sit," said Renee Babcock, surprisingly pleasant and hospitable in the
living room of her Cow Hollow apartment. Grace was also impressed with
her poise, given the nature of the visit and the fact that she was under
siege by a cute little guy who looked to be five or six and his younger
sister. A dog cavorted wildly among them, contributing to the benign
confusion. Sam's report, indicating Renee Babcock to be thirty-two,
short auburn hair, and "attractive," failed to do justice to her looks
and glowing personality. Grace could not help liking her instantly, but
after small talk and swapping stories about their kids, Grace eased into
her strategy. "Would you tell me a little about Elliot?" she said. "What
he's like?" "Tell me more about your son," she said, kissing her little
girl on the cheek. This is a cool one, thought Grace. "Look, Renee, I'm
just trying to learn--"

"You're trying to trip me up, right?" Renee said, her face still glowing
with goodwill. Grace smiled, surprised by the woman's directness.
"That's about it," she said. "How are my chances?"

"How are my chances?" repeated the little girl, and both Renee and Grace
laughed. "Sorry, Gracie," said Renee, putting her arms around both
children. "You're outnumbered." Grace picked up her bag. "Well, then,
maybe I'd better let you get on with your evening." Renee Babcock turned
serious. "I'm sorry," she said, and Grace made a mental note that Renee
was a person who didn't like to disappoint people. "Look," she
continued, "Elliot is no saint, okay? But he didn't kill anybody, no
way. And I'm not embarrassed about his being', you know, an occasional
friend." She added the last with a cautionary glance at her son, then
kissed him on the forehead and said, "He sent the three of us to Disney
World, didn't he, little guys." "Elliot's a nice man," said the boy. His
sister nodded in eager agreement. "Do you mean, Disneyland?" said Grace.

"Uh-uh. He thought Billy here should see Florida. Weird, huh? Then up to
Virginia; place called Williamsburg. "Billy's got to get some history
about this great country," he tells me. He was too busy to go, of
course, but he had drivers and everythin' wherever me and Billy and
little Irene showed up. Hell, Gracie, I'd sleep with Adolf Hitler if he
treated my kids the way Elliot does." Grace smiled. "Are you in love
with him, Renee?" Billy turned and regarded Grace for the first time,
making her feel uneasy. But Babcock laughed and shook her head, shaking
out her auburn hair. "All's I'm in love with is these guys," she said,
then hugged them so exuberantly she nearly hit their heads together.

"Just tell me this, Renee," said Grace. "How are you sure it was the
night of August 7 that he was here?"

"You don't forget a night like that."

"Don't you mean morning? Or did he call you later that night after he
found his wife's body?" Babcock clamped her eyes shut for just a second
or two and the trial lawyer made another mental note of the guileless
mannerism. "Mornin', sure. Must have been mornin' when I first heard
about it. On the news  ..." Her voice trailed off. Grace said, "I see."
"I'll do better when I testify," she said apologetically. Grace was
touched by Renee Babcock's na'ivete. "You realize," she said, "that I'll
be cross-examining you?"

"Sure. Of course."

"And that you'll be under oath early tomorrow morning when I take your
statement."

"Yes."

"Okay," said Grace. "One last question then: Whose idea was it to go see
the movie?" Renee's face reflected momentary confusion, then clouded for
the first time. Grace's eyes were fused to Renee's, hard and
unrelenting. Renee looked away. "I think," she said, the warmth gone
from her voice now, "I'd best be gettin' some food into my little
animals." Grace rose quickly. "Of course," she said. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Renee said. "It's your job and you're good at it. Tough too,
I bet.

Oh well."

"I've overstayed my welcome," said Grace. "Really, I am sorry." Babcock
shrugged, and Grace could read her thoughts. / know what you're really
sorry about, Grade. But it's okay. You're just doin' your job--just like
Pm goin' to do mine. Grace found herself liking Renee Babcock more than
she wanted to, despite her growing suspicion that the woman was about to
commit perjury for a man who didn't deserve her kindness. As the day for
presentation of the defense case approached, Barrett and Al Menghetti
met with Ashford in Menghetti's suite at the Ritzcarlton. The principal
item on their agenda was whether to lead off with their expert DNA
testimony or to hit them straightaway with Renee Babcock. Menghetti sat
behind the desk he had rented--almost as garish as the one in his L.A.
office--while Barrett slumped in a stuffed chair and the client roamed
about the large living room with the sour restraint of a tiger behind
invisible bars. Barrett watched his client with growing distaste, then
looked away, remembering that for himself, it was just a case, but for
Ash- ford, it was, literally, his life. "We got a break getting rid of
Martin Chin," said Ashford. "The damn Chinaman would have killed me!"
Chin, juror number five, a forty-year-old CPA, had revealed himself
during the first week of the trial to be biased toward the prosecution.
The judge had dismissed him without explanation after private
conferences with two other jurors.

"Thank God he wasn't inscrutable," said Menghetti, winking at Ashford,
"but we have the cops to thank for our biggest break."

"The cops?" said Ashford. "Yeah. Losing the fingernail scrapings. A
godsend!"

" A godsend? Christ, you idiots keep forgetting I am innocent! The
scrapings might have shown the presence of a third party--the real
murderer, for instance!"

"Point taken, Elliot," said Menghetti, "which might explain why they
decided to lose them." Ashford grunted moodily and continued to pace
before large windows overlooking the courtyard below. "Okay," said
Menghetti, "let's talk witnesses. I think we should lead off with Renee
Babcock. Any objections?"

"I'll take the stand first," said Ashford.

"Those jurors want to hear it from me right up front." Menghetti and
Dickson exchanged a surprised look. "And don't hand me that 'presumption
of innocence' tripe," he added. "Going with the presumption is the best
gamble," said Menghetti. "Gambling, old chum, is what got me into this
mess," said Ashford, "and don't forget: those focus-group people you
hired thought I was a superb witness."

"That's true, Elliot, but remember Simpson?" said Menghetti. "He was a
professional actor who everyone knew would be a superb witness, but he
went with the odds and he's a free man today." Ashford snorted. "You
call that free? Free to do what? Play golf with strangers in Panama
City? Hang out with the coloreds he had spent his life escaping?" Barren
winced but said nothing. Menghetti said, "The fact remains, Elliot,
Simpson listened to his lawyers in the criminal case and didn't take the
stand and he got away with it." Ashford suddenly advanced on Menghetti's
desk so quickly Barrett could not move his feet out of the way fast
enough. "Damn you, Al," Ashford shouted, "stop comparing me with
Simpson! I did not kill Lara!" As Barrett rubbed his bruised ankle, he
observed that Menghetti did not so much as blink. The man is cool,
thought Barrett, a guy truly made for the courtroom, a natural trial
lawyer--one of those mistakes nature sometimes makes on the way to
creating a real person.

Unfortunately, Barrett concluded, Menghetti was a man made only for the
courtroom. When he was not in the presence of a jury, light seemed to
leave his eyes and his features turned inward, like a man who had
swallowed himself. Was I that way? Barrett wondered. Menghetti extended
placating palms toward Ashford but said nothing more. Ashford's gaze
turned toward Barrett. "Well, how about you, Dickson? Speak up and
justify your existence, for God's sake! You saw those focus-group
results. You must have some opinion for all the money I'm paying you."
"Sure I have an opinion," said Barrett, "but I don't think you'd like
it." Reading the disdain in Barrett's eyes, Ashford turned back to
Menghetti. "Look, Al, you admit I tested well with the mock jurors, and
I wasn't even trying. The real jurors will love me!"

"A trial is not a personality contest, Elliot, okay?" said Menghetti.
"For which you should be grateful, Elliot," volunteered Barrett.
Ashford's head snapped around toward Barrett and a vein in the
defendant's temple began to dance. "If that's your opinion, deadhead,"
he said, "I'm definitely paying you too much!" Barrett's eyes narrowed,
but he realized he had been stupid to open his mouth and said nothing
more. "So it's settled," Ashford said, turning back to Menghetti. "I
lead off. Then what?" Barrett credited Menghetti with restraint and
realized he was starting to admire the defense lawyer's cool competence.
Ashford was becoming impossible to control, yet Menghetti continued to
look as relaxed as a turtle sunning himself on a rock. "I understand
where you're coming from, Elliot," said Menghetti, "but you're
forgetting that we've almost won this case without having to put on a
single witness. All we really need is Renee and a few well-chosen words
in argument about the missing evidence and it's over. Verdict for the
defense; the courtroom awash in reasonable doubt. The only way we lose,
Elliot, is if the jury learns things--past brushes with the law,
unseemly connections, minor indiscretions--things that can come out only
if you take the stand, okay?" "Maybe so," said Ashford, "but those
twelve simpletons are waiting to hear me tell them I'm innocent, and
whether you pettifogging barristers believe it or not, I am innocent!"

"Its not a question of what I believe, Elliot," said Menghetti, finally
stir- ting from his languor. "You're not paying me to believe one way or
the other. My job is to tell thejitry what to believe, okay? I don't
give a shit one way or the other if you're innocent. You're buying my
judgment and my experience, not my nose up your ass."

"That's fine with me, Al, because a nose the size of yours wouldn't fit
up an elephant's ass, let alone mine." This exchange set Ashford to
pacing away from the window and behind Barrett, who continued to sit in
silence, size twelves now tucked safely under his chair. Ashford
suddenly stopped and Barrett could feel his eyes on him from behind.
"Come on, Barrett," he said, "tell our paisano here that an innocent man
should be granted the right to declare it publicly." Barrett unfolded
himself into a standing position and winced as he arched his back into a
stretch. "I believe Al is right when he says that a man should never
take risks when he is winning. I must disagree with Al, however, when he
says a trial is not a personality contest. A trial is always a
personality contest." With leaden feet and two sets of resentful eyes
following his slow progress, he shuffled toward a French provincial
cabinet behind Menghetd's desk and eyed the collection of bottles lined
up there. "That's reason number one why you shouldn't take the stand,"
he said, "despite the focus groups." Ashford reddened. "Do you want to
explain that remark, Dickson?" "Sure," said Barrett, turning and seeing
that he had managed to irritate both men.

"You are not a man tortured by self-doubt, Elliot, and you do not
conceal it very well. People don't like that in an alleged murderer."
Barrett paused, noticing that Al Menghetti's scowl had turned into a
smile. "Oh, I don't deny that you've got a certain charm, Elliot, but it
has a short shelf life." Ashford struggled to maintain his temper. "You
apparently didn't comprehend Eric Tremaine's report, where he says that
I--"

"Whatjom don't comprehend, Elliot--indeed what very few trial lawyers
even understand--is that all we're doing from now to the end of the
trial is trying to provide ammunition to the jurors who are already
committed to you; evidence they can use to win the hearts of the
uncommitted or prosecution voters." "Well, thank you very much," said
Ashford, momentarily forgetting his anger, "because that's precisely why
I want to take the stand!"

"And that's precisely," countered Barrett, "why you shouldn't. You'd be
giving your advocates on the jury nothing by denying you killed her,
because every juror in that box would lie to save his or her own ass and
knows you'd do the same thing. So what have you accomplished, other than
having your assault felony revealed?" Barrett felt the resentment in the
room slowly disappearing in the wake; of his words. He was speaking the
truth, or at least dealing logic, a more desirable commodity than truth
at a time like this. "So here's what we should do," he continued,
pleased to see that he was commanding the full attention of the room
even without the amber inspiration of the fifteen-year-old cognac he had
spotted on top of the cabinet. "If Babcock holds up, the case is won and
even you will agree you shouldn't testify. So we put her on first, see
how she does." Menghetti was no longer smiling and Barrett could tell he
didn't like the way Ashford was hanging on his words. "In other words,"
he concluded, "it's not a decision that should keep either one of you
from getting your rest tonight." Barrett reached for his coat and added,
"My bedtime, too. I bid you both a good evening." "Hold on, Dickson,"
said Ashford. "I'm not wild about the way you said it, but I agree with
what you say. I'll go with you on this. We'll lead with Re- nee, Al."

"I think," said Menghetti, scowling, "that's what I said ten minutes
ago."

"I was just agreeing with you, Al," said Barrett in a mollifying tone,
but Menghetti was clearly upset, reminding Barrett why he had always
tried cases alone. Menghetti rose from behind the desk and addressed his
co-counsel through tightly compressed lips. "Since our client seems more
inclined to listen to you than to me, Dick- son, why don't you just go
ahead and put Renee on yourself? You be the stand-up guy for a change,
and I'll be the second-guesser. What the hell, go ahead and take all
three of our witnesses!" Barrett felt color rising in his face; he knew
it was a challenge, not an offer. He saw that Ashford was grinning,
amused at Menghetti's discomfiture but enjoying his gamesmanship. He put
on a serious face and joined in, saying, "It's quite all right with me,
Dickson." Barrett felt like a character in Sartre's No Exit, and
reflected on how swiftly any two members of this unholy triumvirate
could gang up on the third. Menghetti's expression brightened. "See? The
client agrees. They're all yours." Then he winked at Ashford. Barrett
saw the wink--was meant to see it--and struggled to control his temper.

"I want nothing to do with Babcock, Al," he said, "She's your 'strike
one' with the judge, not mine, plus you've already prepped her." Ashford
and Menghetti exchanged a knowing look, but Barrett quickly added, "But
sure, I'll put on the others. Have your notes typed up, Al, so I can
read them. As tor closing argument, I'm sure you'll want to split that
with me, too. We can work out the details on that later. Sleep well,
gentlemen." He then winked at the two blank-faced men and walked into
the night. What have I done? he asked himself as he waited for his car
in front of the hotel. But he couldn't stop smiling. He overtipped the
valet, then spotted two twenties in his wallet. He turned his Ford
Mustang toward Stars, humming something that sounded vaguely like
"Stardust." 2S Frequent clashes between the lawyers during the next few
days tested the mettle of Judge John Hernandez. Amanda liked him. He at
least didn't seem deceived by Menghetti's tactics. What worried her was
not the judge but the other jurors--mainly the "white regulars"--many of
whom seemed unable or unwilling to see through the defense's deceitful
tactics. She would enter the jury room seething with frustration after
some outrageous defense gambit and they'd be standing around smiling at
each other like Stepford wives at a coffee klatch, jabbering, giggling,
and rendering such insightful appraisals as "Interesting, isn't it?"
Manon Barnes), "My, they do get upset, don't they?" (Ruth Salver- son),
and "Wish to hell I wuz fishin' " (Barney Seagrave). Were they all
blind? Could they be part of a conspiracy against Earl Field? Had some
or all the regular jurors been threatened or bought off by Ashford's
Mafia associates? The mob wouldn't have approached her, of course,
because she was only an alternate. And now time was running out on her.

The judge had announced that the two final DNA experts would mark the
end of the People's case and that the defense case would take no more
than two or three days. Moreover, the alternates would be relegated to
"on call" status at the end, to serve only if a regular juror became ill
during deliberations. In that unlikely event, the first' alternate in
line would be called in and the reconstituted panel would begin its
deliberations anew. But only one of the original twelve had been
replaced--poor Martio Chin--and there were still two alternates ahead of
her with the trial winding down. How could she help Earl Field if she
were shut out of deliberations? How would she gain the publicity needed
to return her to Hollywood? Had her call to the Ashford jury panel been
a sign? The promise of a life-altering experience? Or had Lucinda been
right, as usual? An outburst of laughter from around the coffee table
interrupted her thoughts. Manon Barnes had said something funny to Kevin
Alston and Barney Seagrave. Amanda watched as Manon walked away from
them, her hips swinging. Alston's and Seagrave's eyes followed her like
matched pairs of panting dogs. God, how she hated all of them! Suddenly
the pungent smell of what the jurors called "jailhouse coffee" sent a
wave of nausea through her and she wondered if she was coming down with
something. Her ears had begun to buzz the day before and today her
headache was worse. She blew her nose, tried to clear her thoughts, to
hat Renee Babcock would soon cement the final
bricks of reasonable doubt into place. She had to help Earl. But how? If
she were a regular juror, she could simply hold out and force a
mistrial, giving Earl a second chance. This would have been perfect for
her, too, for the media always focused on a hold-out juror and she would
get plenty of attention. But with the trial ending, she would have to
resort to a different strategy. She gazed around the room. She turned
her eyes on Barney Seagrave, the rough-cut, horny-looking teamster with
a ponytail and an earring who had seemed less impressed by Menghetti
than the rest and had been eyeing her since the first day. Standing next
to him was Kevin Alston, more risky, but still obviously attracted to
her. She forced herself to her feet and walked toward them. Her
heartbeat increased, but she took a deep breath and threw back her
shoulders. "Well, guys," she said, "looks like we're almost there."

"It's about time," grumbled Seagrave, blatantly staring at her breasts.

"I've got a job waiting for me if I can get the hell out of here by
week's end." "Well," said Amanda, "I'll be thinking of you folks sitting
here, washing down day-old crullers with this oven cleaner they call
coffee."

"Lucky you," said Alston with an appreciative chuckle. He seemed to have
grown more self-confident with the passage of time.

"Looks like we're in it for the long haul."

"Oh, I don't think it will take you long," said Amanda, willing her hand
to be steady as she poured herself a cup of coffee. She glanced up at
Sea- grave, dutifully holding out cream and sugar. "Other than the
Babcock woman--Ashford's most recent version of an alibi--I doubt the
defense will have anything and Ashford won't dare take the stand."
Seagrave's eyebrows rose. Alston swallowed and cleared his throat, but
Arnanda forged ahead. "First the guy goes out to a movie he's already
seen, right? That alibi doesn't fly, so now he claims to be with some
woman? Give me a break." Alston turned as gray as his shirt as he looked
over Amanda's shoulder.

Seagrave's Adam's apple bobbed twice. Amanda knew why without turning,
for only one person other than Lucinda wore that god-awful Sanskrit
perfume. "Did I hear you correctly, Ms. Keller?" said Lani Jefferson, in
the voice of a schoolteacher dealing with an unruly adolescent. No more
than five feet four inches in her schoolmarm medium heels, yet the woman
was both intimidating and controlling. Amanda hated her dangling
earrings and hair cut short in a Grace Jones look that seemed totally at
odds with her somber-colored suits and dresses meant to conceal an ass
the size of Alcatraz. Jefferson's cold eyes now traveled to Seagrave and
Alston. Seagrave's reaction was to consider another cup of coffee.

Alston nearly dropped his. "She's done it before," said Alston
nervously, unable to meet Amanda's eyes. "You can't turn her off," said
some other juror drawn to the confrontation. "Oh, but I can," said
Jefferson, facing Amanda. "I turned off Martin Chin, didn't I?" Amanda
paled. So that's what had happened to Martin. Her heart raced as she saw
the resentment burning in the smaller woman's dark brown eyes. Jefferson
was so much smaller, yet she made Amanda feel childlike, eager to
please. "I  ...  was just trying to reassure them that--" Jefferson,
hands on hips, cut her off by simply extending the palm other hand.
"Listen, Keller, I get shuckin' and jivin' from my seventh graders every
day. I damn sure don't need it from you." Seagrave started to speak, but
apparently thought better of it. Everyone knew the teamster had a family
to support and that he'd already turned down two thousand from American
Secret magazine for just a telephone interview. Amanda sputtered
something about having forgotten the judge's admonition, but Jefferson's
accusing eyes prevented her from thinking straight. And under the
juror's stern gaze she could hear her mother's voice: Can't you do
anything right? < "Look, Ms. Keller," Jefferson continued in her
exaggerated teacher's die- ; tion, drawing out each vowel, "we're trying
to be fair jurors here. Do our job, understand? Then along come people
like you and Chin who simply, won't behave." Amanda hated this woman;
hated the way she was lecturing her as if she were a child, humiliating
her in front of the others. Acting and smelling just' like. i-io,-
Slip fonp-ht off the urge to slap her hard across her ugly'
face. She tried to think of something conciliatory to say, but her mind
was too confused. Then she became vaguely aware of the ghostly form of a
woman now standing behind Lani Jefferson, another juror drawn to the
encounter. Juror number two, the widow Ruth Salverson. Amanda looked
toward Seagrave in desperation. Why didn't he say something? He liked
her, she knew that. He had probably never had an attractive woman show
such interest in him. Wasn't that worth something? Anxiety had turned
Amanda's mind into an empty room and she knew that only Seagrave could
rescue her now. She let her arm brush against his. "Was I out of line,
Mr. Seagrave?" she asked. "If so, I apologize." Seagrave considered,
then said, "Lani, I think she was trying to make me feel good about
gettin' back to work soon and maybe she crossed the line a little. Hell,
we all have our notions about what went on that night--not that we
should express them or anything--but ...  hell, let's cut her a little
slack." Encouraged, Amanda found words. "Please  ...  Lani, he's right.

I just slipped. I don't know what I was thinkin'." Her voice had become
as soft and gentle as a cultured Southern lady's. "Please don't report
this. I won't be here long anyway." "What did she do?" asked Ruth
Salverson. "She commented on the defense's evidence in violation of the
judge's admonition," Jefferson said, her eyes still locked on Amanda,
"just like Martin Chin did. She should be treated no differently."
Seagrave shifted his feet and extended a knurled hand, palm up. "Chin
was a regular juror," he said. "Amanda here is just an alternate. She's
just about outta here anyway like she said. Where's the harm? Give her a
break."

"She hears the same admonition we all hear, Mr. Seagrave, but your
opinion is noted." Your opinion is noted! Who did this woman think she
was! thought Amanda. Then, as if he had read Amanda's thoughts, Barney
Seagrave rocked back on his heels and said, "Well, it looks like we
already got ourselves a foreman, and self-appointed at that. Or did I
just miss the election, Lani?" Amanda could have kissed him. "Not at
all," demurred Jefferson, "but since you mention it, why not use this as
an experiment in group decision-making. We know where you stand, Barney.

What's your vote, Kevin?" Kevin Alston looked uncomfortable, perhaps
because of the teamster's suddenly narrowed eyes aimed straight at him.

Alston earnestly began to clean his thoroughly clean glasses. "Well,
Lani, I suppose that it could be argued, well, you know, technically at
least, that  ...  well, she didn't exactly comment on the defense
evidence." Jefferson's arms folded themselves into a wi\. "How," she
asked, "do you figure that>" Alston paled and grinned sheepishly, his
eyes clamped shut as he replaced his spectacles. Caught between
Jefferson and Seagrave, he suddenly looked more like a defendant than
Ashford did. "Well, I don't exactly know, Lani," he mumbled, "but, well,
we haven't heard any evidence yet from the defense, so how could she
have commented on it?" Lani Jefferson gave her head an impatient shake
of astonishment at the absurdity of his logic, sighed, and turned to the
ghostly Ruth Salverson. "Ruth?" Ruth Salverson, a woman whose opinion
had not been solicited in thirty years, let out a self-conscious cackle
as her mind grappled with the issue. "I wasn't there, I mean here," she
said, stumbling over her words. "But it seems like, well, one of those
accidents that just happens sometimes." Then her face brightened and she
smiled with a wry self-awareness and added, "You know, like overcooking
a pot roast?" Jefferson rolled her eyes, then gave Amanda a last hard
look and said, "Okay, Keller, the compassionate majority has spoken. But
watch it, because I'll be watching you." A loud rap on the door signaled
the end of the recess and the jurors headed for the courtroom. But
Jefferson wasn't finished. She grasped Amanda firmly by the arm, pulled
her aside, and spoke in a quiet but intense voice: "You skated this
time, Keller, but it won't work again. I know plenty of women just like
you, countin' on tits and ass to get your way."

"I don't understand you, Lani," whispered Amanda, more confident now.
"It's obvious we're on the same side. You know Ashford's a racist and
guilty as sin! I've seen the hatred in your eyes when you look at him."

"That's not the point. You don't hear me talkin' about the case and I
better not hear you doin' it again either." Bitch, thought Amanda,
smiling agreement. That night, after she had cleaned up the remains of
Lucinda's microwave dinner, she retreated to her room, stroked her cats,
and thought about what might have been. She thumbed through her Ashford
trial scrapbook but was without the energy to update it. Maybe she would
at least get to know Earl Field after the trial; that would be
something. He was engaged but not married yet, and her efforts to
salvage his case would give them a common bond. He had been looking
tired lately, she thought, worried too.

Little wonder, for losing a case against; an obviously guilty murderer
would surly hurt his career. Maybe that's what; this was all about. A
white conspiracy to destroy Earl Field. She felt terribly alone and
inadequate, but she couldn't let it happen. She could not back down now,
even if her job, her reputation, her very life were put at risk.

The Brazen Head, a little-known but greatly admired neighborhood
restaurant in the Marina District, clung to its anonymity by staying out
of tourist guidebooks and stubbornly refusing to identify itself with a
sign. There were a dozen small tables and an equal number of stools
crammed around the shoe-box bar, one of which was regularly occupied
between six and seven every evening by Renee Babcock. This pattern had
been reported to Grace after Sam Quon had commenced a surveillance the
day following Grace's first visit to Renee's apartment. "Excuse me,"
said Grace, seated near the door as the witness entered the darkened
bar, blinking her eyes. "Renee? Renee Babcock?"

"My God," said the witness in mock horror, "there's just no escapin' the
Long Arm." Grace laughed. "I'm off duty. Just in to see if the pepper
steak is as good as it used to be."

"I wouldn't know," said Renee. "I live around the corner on Greenwich
and just pop in for a drink or three after I feed the animals. Then I go
home and pry their little heads out of the TV set and lock them in their
beds."

"So this is the zookeeper's break time?" Renee flashed her perfect
smile. "Well, sometimes I have company after they're asleep," she said
guilelessly, "but then you probably know all about that. Elliot told me
once I couldn't handle a monogamous relationship. I told him, hell, I
can handle several of them at once!" Grace laughed.

Following her first visit with Babcock, Grace had waived her right to a
deposition, banking on somehow changing the witness's mind instead of
setting her false testimony in stone. "Have a seat," said Grace. "I'm
not allowed to buy you a drink, but company would be nice." Renee looked
longingly at her regular stool at the other end, but then gave a quick
shrug and sat. "Okay, Dutch it is," said Renee as the bartender greeted
her by name and slid her usual in front of her. A martini with three
olives. During the ensuing forty-five minutes, Renee put down three
martinis and nine olives while Grace managed two glasses of Chardonnay.

They kept the conversation neutral: kids, fashion, and the high cost of
living in San Francisco. Then Renee checked her watch, picked up her
purse, and slid off the stool. "It's been real, Grace. Really. I wish
things were  ...  more relaxed. You know, different?"

"If I get much more relaxed than I am now, I'll be looking up from the
floor," said Grace. "But I know what you mean." Renee nodded. Grace
touched her lightly on the arm. "I do need to tell you something." Renee
frowned but hesitated. "I planned this, Renee."

"That's straight; guess I kind of figured. What do you want to tell me?"

"Just that I'm good at what I do."

"I've figured that, too."

"I mean real good. So if you're lying about that night, I'll get you.
That could mean getting hit with perjury. You could go to jail." "I
think," said Renee, her tone cold now, "we covered that the last time
you invaded my privacy."

"I'm sorry, but hear me out. Please? Sit for another minute." Renee
slanted her thin body against the bar but remained standing. "Look,
Renee. I don't know what you think you owe this guy, but he's asking way
too much of you." Renee pulled away, put her purse under her arm, and
said, "So are you, Grace, and I don't owe you nothin'." Grace rose and
blocked her way. "I know that, but damn it, I know how much those little
animals of yours mean to you."

"Leave my kids out of this, Ms. District Attorney. I'm going home now."

"That's my point, Renee!" said Grace, taking her by the arm. "Home is
where your kids need you." Renee Babcock gave Grace a hurt but angry
look through moistening eyes. "I'm sorry I called you tough, Grace," she
said. "You're goddamn fnthless "Okay," said Grace, "but I'm also
concerned about the way Elliot Ash- ford is using you." Renee looked
away and Grace held on to her arm, more firmly now. "Damn it, Renee, I
like you! I'm trying to say you don't know what you're getting into!"
Grace felt a shudder pass through Renee. She wanted to put her arms
around her. Instead she released her arm and watched her lurch
unsteadily out of the Brazen Head. Barren listened with unaccustomed
attentiveness as Judge Hernandez gaveled the courtroom to order the next
day and invited Al Alenghetti to call his first witness. An alien
feeling had invaded his consciousness. Optimism? Hope? He had briefly
interviewed the witnesses he would put on when Menghetti was finished
with Babcock and knew they would do well. There was some anxiety, too,
of course, but it was manageable; more an adrenaline rush of excitement
than the disabling disillusionment that had crippled him during the 1993
TDA case. Yes, he thought, things were looking up. Babcock, then his own
two experts, followed by arguments, a swift defense verdict, and who
knows? Maybe whatever had been dogging him had gone off and begun
dogging someone else. He glanced at Al Menghetti. Menghetti hadn't
wanted to share the spotlight, particularly with victory so obviously
imminent, but it had been his idea--actually, a joke that had
backfired--and Ashford had decided he liked the idea of having a San
Francisco lawyer getting on his feet and showing he wasn't just there
for local color. Barrett jumped a little when Menghetti called out Renee
Babcock's name and saw every head in the courtroom turn to stare at the
woman entering through the large double doors at the rear of the
courtroom. The first thing he noticed was that Ms. Babcock possessed an
exquisite pair of legs. As she came closer, he saw that she was a
full-blown beauty head to toe by any standard. Barrett saw that she also
communicated an aura of naive innocence, regrettably too obscured by
makeup to be detected by most jurors, but all in all, she seemed pretty
together. Until she took the oath, when darting eyes and a faltering,
high-pitched voice produced a tightening in Barren's gut--historically
an instinctual red light as dependable as a battery-powered bunny
beating a drum. He noticed the way she nervously glanced at Ashford,
then told the clerk her name in a voice that sounded like she wasn't
quite sure. This was not typical witness jitters. Barrett leaned across
Ashford and whispered to Menghetti. "Something's wrong."

"Bullshit," he heard Ashford say to Menghetti, "she's just scared.
She'll be fine when she shakes the nerves. The girl loves me."

"She's a character, Dickson," Menghetti whispered to Barrett, "but
seemed completely reliable when I prepped her. She'll be okay." But
Barrett's heart was dancing in his chest and a thin line of perspiration
had broken across his lip.

Sofnething's wrong, he repeated in an anguished whisper, but no one paid
attention. Menghetti rose to commence his direct examination. "Have you
lived in San Francisco all your life, Ms. Babcock?" "Not yet," said
Renee, and the gallery tittered. Menghetti smiled. "How long have you
known Mr. Ashford, Ms. Babcock."

"We've been friends for four or five years," she said. "Have you been
intimate with him over that period of time?"

"Well, sure, sometimes I tell him stuff," she said. Oh, shit, Barrett
muttered. "I mean, you've slept together, have you not?"

"No," she said, crossing her long legs, "just sex. I never let him
sleep." A rising tide of laughter from the gallery was quelled by a hard
look from the judge, but Barrett wasn't smiling. Something was wrong.
There was no real playfulness in her manner, no teasing glances at
Ashford, and her witty ripostes issued from trembling lips. Renee's
slapstick made no sense, unless she was using humor to telegraph a
warning. But Menghetti forged onward like a musk ox in an arctic
snowstorm, apparently seeing only the path immediately ahead. "Elliot
told me once I suffered from nymphomania," continued Bab- cock,
encouraged by the laughter. "I told him he was wrong, that I enjoyed
every single minute of it." The gavel came down hard on the block but
was hardly heard amid the roar from the gallery. "This is not a comedy
club, Ms. Babcock," said Judge Hernandez when order had been restored.
"Please restrain yourself."

"Why, of course, Your Honor," said the witness, giving the judge a
seductive, closed-mouth smile. Even some of the jurors were smiling now,
but it was clear to Barrett they would give little credence to her
testimony.

Hadn't Menghetti told her to be serious? Menghetti gave the witness a
condescending nod, then turned toward the jury, smiling with them,
sharing a joke with them at this ribald woman's expense. Bonding with
them. But Barrett could see that Menghetti had recognized a possible
problem and was trying to think his way around it. Barrett then glanced
at Grace Harris, whose eyes were locked on Bab- cock's and whose lips
betrayed the trace of a knowing smile. Have you turned her, Grace? he
thought, unsuccessfully trying to get the prosecutor to meet his eyes.

He looked back at the witness and wondered ifrenee Babcock was
intentionally playing the fool so the jury wouldn't take her seriously.

Maybe she thinks that will soften the impact of the blow she's about to
deliver to Ashford. "Now, calling your attention to the evening of
August 7, 1997, were you with Mr. Ashford that night?" "No," she said.

All traces of humor suddenly vanished from her expression, and her voice
was uncertain and cracking again. She recrossed her legs, then fixed her
eyes on the tip of one other shoes. Finally, she spoke. "I don't think I
was with Elliot that night." A different kind of reaction went up from
the gallery now: a communal gasp of astonishment. Renee Babcock had
indeed turned. "I haven't ...  been with him for two or three months."
Menghetti merely raised an eyebrow and took a step closer to the
witness. "Well, it's now October 30, Ms. Babcock," he said nonchalantly,
almost indifferently. "August 7 is well within 'two or three months."

" Jesus, thought Barrett admiringly, was I ever that composed in the
face of disaster when I was the one riding the tiger? The witness
shrugged, as if to say so what? "And you concede you have had many
sexual liaisons with Mr. Ashford?" he continued. "As many as he could
handle," she said, winking at Menghetti, renewing her effort to
neutralize her testimony even as she gave it. But nobody was laughing
now and several of the jurors' foreheads were creased with perplexed
disapproval. Barrett glanced at Ashford, saw veins standing out in his
neck, his face crimson with rage, trying to get Babcock to look at him.
Menghetti continued to affect calm in the face of the storm and
addressed the court as casually as if asking for an exhibit. "Request
permission to treat the witness as hostile, Your Honor." Field started
to rise, but the judge motioned him back down. "Granted," he said in a
firm voice. Menghetti walked over to counsel table, snatched up a
document, and charged to within three feet of the witness. Not just his
expression but his very features seemed to have changed. It was as if
that one word from the judge had opened the door to some inner cage,
freeing the beast within. His eyes burned into hers until she had to
look away. Then his upper lip curled into a menacing snarl as he
confronted her with the sworn statement Leviticus Heywood had taken from
her. "Is that or is that not your signature, Ms.

Babcock?" he growled. "Yes, that's my signature," said the witness, more
nervous now and running a hand over her hair as if afraid it would take
flight. "And I was well paid to give it, as you know, sir, but it wasn't
under oath. Now I'm under oath."

"Move to strike everything after the word 'signature," Your Honor."

"Granted," said Judge Hernandez, maintaining his judicial calm, but with
obvious effort. "You are indeed under oath, Ms. Babcock, and perjury is
punishable by--"

"Argumentative, Your Honor," said Grace. "Sustained," said the judge,
eyes fixed on the witness. "Let's get to it, counsel." Menghetti took
three steps toward Renee Babcock. "Did you lie when you gave this
statement to Mr. Heywood?"

"Of course I did, and Elliot told me you knew all about the
arrangement--" "Objection," said Menghetti, "and again, I move to strike
everything after her admission of deceit." At the end of counsel table,
Dickson fidgeted in his chair, suddenly realizing his hands were
clenched into fists. "Granted," snapped Hernandez, obviously frustrated
by what was unfolding in his courtroom--the ship hitting an iceberg on
his watch. He knew the press fed on disasters like this. "Just answer
the questions, Ms. Babcock."

"What were you promised by Mr. Field to change your story, Ms. Babcock?"

"Nothin'."

"Did the district attorney's office threaten you in any way?"

"Well, yes, in a way." Menghetti smiled. "Tell the jury what they
threatened you with." The smile was short-lived. "Ms. Harris told me the
same as what you just did: that lyin' in court is a crime. Look, mister,
I don't think Elliot did it, if that helps you any. Hell, I wouldn't
have done what you wanted me to do if I'd thought he was guilty. And God
knows I could use the money." In the ensuing silence, Barrett resisted
the urge to glance at the jury. He didn't have to. The woman was the
perfect destroyer: ostensibly open, unpretentious, and eminently
plausible. "I see," said Menghetti, affecting an amused curiosity, as if
he were assessing the credibility of a talking-dog act. But Barrett knew
this dog had Menghetti by the throat. Trial lawyers have to play the
hand they are dealt, but if Menghetti had inspected this deck more
carefully, he would have seen that the seal was broken. : And now the
game was over, just when victory seemed certain. He glanced over at the
prosecution table and saw Grace Harris staring at Renee through moist
eyes, an incipient smile softening her face. Field was looking at the
witness too, but he appeared anything but pleased,; which confused
Barrett even more. He was beginning to feel like Alice in! Wonderland.
Then he glanced back at Menghetti, and for the first time felt sympathy,
as well as respect, for his embattled cocounsel. Babcock was that one-j
witness-too-many who could cause a lawyer to snatch defeat from the jaws
? of victory. Menghetti's only hope now was to discredit Babcock before
turning her over to Field for a "cross-examination" that would be little
more than a perfectly rendered duet. But Menghetti had an even more
serious and highly personal problem, for Babcock's implication had been
too clear to ignore. "Are you suggesting that I offered you money to
lie, Ms. Babcock?"

"No sir.

All's I know is that Elliot said that as far as you were concerned,
nobody offered anything to anybody, and there was no way you wanted to
be involved in it." Menghetti looked pointedly at the clock, and though
it was ten minutes before time for the afternoon recess, Judge Hernandez
took the hint and granted that which the defense lawyer knew would be
the last compassionate gesture he could expect. "We'll stand in recess
until tomorrow morning, ladies and gentlemen," he said, and by the time
he had given the jury the usual admonitions, the reporters had hit the
hallway, cell phones clicking. Barrett could see the headlines in the
morning papers: Mystery Witness Accuses Defense Counsel in Bizarre
Bribery Attempt Although Barrett would escape direct complicity in the
claimed subornation of perjury--thanks, ironically, to his known role as
a useless supernumerary in the case--the publicity would kill him at
Caldwell & Shaw. Worse, some good people would go down with him: not
just Mike Reasoner and old Winston Cray, but many loyal secretaries and
associates, possibly even the firm itself without Mike in a governing
role. No telling how far this forest would burn now that a match had
been set to it. "I'll see counsel in chambers in fifteen minutes," said
John Hernandez, and, with a withering look at Barrett, angrily strode
from the bench. Barrett glanced at Al Menghetti, who sat, head down,
eyes closed, arms folded around himself. Gone was the cocky arrogance
now, his imperious mien. Barrett tentatively raised a hand, then let it
come to rest gently on Menghetti's shoulder. Barrett thought he saw a
nutter of the eyelids, but that was all. Elliot Ashford was irritatingly
calm just minutes later as he followed Menghetti and Dickson into the
holding cell. Barrett stopped just inside the door and rinsed his face
with cold water from the small basin. This was between the two of them,
he thought. He had been wounded, but Menghetti had been ruined, and it
was fitting that he be allowed the first blow. But Ashford leapt to the
offensive. "Okay," he said, "so it backfired. It was stupid of me to
trust her." The muscle working in Menghetti's jaw as Ashford spoke
looked like it was about to break through his skin. "But what I did was
perfectly legitimate," continued the defendant. "I simply substituted a
false-alibi witness for the real one, who wasn't available. I certainly
intended no--"

"Shut up, you fucking imbecile!" Menghetti shouted, his voice seared
with mingled anger and despair. "You think this is some goddamn
theatrical performance? "The role of Tony Rizzo will be performed
tonight by Renee Babcock'? I almost wish I could be here to see your
face when the jury comes in. You'll get the needle for this, you
supercilious prick." Ashford's dark eyes reflected a hint of fear
Barrett had not seen before. "Come now, old man," Ashford said, managing
a tone both conciliatory and resolute. "Slow down a minute.

Perhaps it was an asinine--"

"Asinine?"

"All right. It was stupid of me to--" Veins popped from Menghetti's
neck, and Ashford backed a step away. Barrett moved closer to them, for
Menghetti looked like he was ready to ram his clenched fist into
Ashford's face. "You don't need to admit you're stupid, Ashford,"
Menghetti hissed. "That's now a matter of record. What I want to know is
why you set me up? Why you told her to say I knew what was going on?"
Menghetti's face had become incandescent, and Ashford's own expression
darkened with anger. If it came to blows, Barrett decided, he would just
let it happen. "Watch yourself, sport," said Ashford. "You're getting
out of line now. Renee did that on her own. You pushed her into that
remark. She was probably trying to say you weren't involved and just
became confused. She was just a frightened airhead who obviously needs a
lesson in loyalty." Menghetti spun on one heel as if he had been struck,
then sat down on one of the built-in prisoner benches, his face buried
in his hands. "Oh dear God," he whispered. "I'll be watching for that
lesson," interceded Barren, his voice steel- edged, "and I won't forget
what you just said."

"Your lips are sealed, Dickson. You're a lawyer, remember?"

"I won't be when I blow the whistle on you," said Barrett, advancing on
his client but keeping both hands in his pockets. "I'll make it simple
for you, Ashford. If anything ever happens to Renee Babcock, I'll
personally do the same thing to you, only I'll do it slower." Ashford
met Barren's gaze, eyes darting, working on what to say next. Then
Menghetti raised his head and looked at both of them as if he had
forgotten they were there.

"Dickson," he said, slowly rising to his feet, "I want you to witness
what I'm about to say." Barrett nodded, but before Menghetti could
speak, Ashford took a step toward him, then reached up and flicked some
lint off the stocky lawyer's lapel and whispered, "Come now, old boy.

You're supposed to be my lawyer here." The discipline that had allowed
Menghetti to contain his frustration for weeks had all but collapsed. He
stepped back, took a deep breath of air, and let it out into his clasped
hands as if trying to warm them. "Try to understand this, Ashford," he
said at last. "I will soon no longer be your lawyer. When the state bar
finishes with me, I may not even be a lawyer at all. The judge will
grant a delay so you can seek out your next victim."

"Now wait just a minute--"

"Shut up and listen!" said Menghetti through clenched teeth.

"We're going into chambers soon with the court reporter. I'm going to
withdraw as counsel of record and you're going to let me." Ashford
laughed derisively. "Why would I cut my own throat like that?" Menghetti
glanced over his shoulder at a sheriff's deputy, then put his mouth
close to Ashford's ear. "Because, old chum" he whispered, his lips drawn
tight, his face an ashen mask, "if you leave me in control of your case,
I guarantee complete and total failure." Ashford started to interrupt
again, but Menghetti raised a beefy hand snd continued: "Then, in the
fullness of time, following numerous appellate Allures, I will
personally walk you to the death chamber. Once there, I will strap you
down onto the table. Then I, and I alone, will push the fucking needle
straight into your blue fucking bloodstream!" Menghetti then turned and
glanced at Barrett. "Lots of luck, Dickson," he said, then straightened
his shoulders and strode from the room. "I'll be waiting outside."
Ashford turned to Barrett and raised his hands, palms up in
supplication. He smiled thinly and said, "Jesus, what's with Al?"
Barrett stared at the defendant in amazement. "What's with Al?"

"You heard me, you stupid ass. Go get him and bring him back in--"
That's as far as he got before Barrett's left hand lashed out and nailed
the client squarely on his chin. His right hand was poised for a
knockout when the bailiff interceded. Struggling for self-control,
Barrett said, "Al Menghetti just lost a career that took twenty years to
build because of you! He's also just fired what might be the last client
he'll ever have! And you have the fucking nerve to--"

"Menghetti can't do this to me," said Ashford, slumping on the bench and
holding his jaw. "Oh yes he can, Ashford," said Barrett, shaking out of
the bailiff's grasp and heading for the door, "and so can I!" Barrett
grabbed a phone in the hallway and dialed Mike Reasoner. Though his hand
was bruised, it was his heart that throbbed with the pain of crushed
expectations. Mike silently digested the news about Renee Babcock's
defection and Al Menghetti's exit. "I'm sorry, Mike," said Barrett, "but
I'm out of it too. Ashford may or may not let Menghetti out, but I know
he'll fire me."

"Why?"

"His jaw just ran into my fist. Thought you should know." A long silence
followed. Barrett arched his back to ease the pain at his fifth lumbar.
He could hear Mike unwrapping a stick of gum. "Barrett Dickson," Mike
said at length, "commission real estate salesman."

"I'll get by. It's you and the firm I'm sorry about, Mike."

"You did your best, partner. I appreciate it." Barrett hung up and
returned to the door leading out of the holding cell from which his
client would soon emerge. You did your best. Mike's words echoed in his
head, mocking him.

That was my best? John Hernandez issued an uncharacteristic growl as he
slammed his evi- dence code on the desk in front of him. "Okay, the
record will show all counsel and the defendant are present. Now what the
hell is going on here?" "A search for truth," said Earl Field with a
hard look at Al Menghetti, "at least from our side. It seems clear, Your
Honor, that Ms. Babcock was offered $50,000 to perjure herself and that
Mr. Menghetti knew enough about the arrangement not to want to know
more." "Mr. Menghetti?" said Judge Hernandez. Menghetti glared at Field
and, through clenched teeth, asked that the court reporter be called in.

The judge nodded to the bailiff. "May I ask what you have in mind,
counsel?"

"I intend to move my withdrawal as counsel for Mr. Ashford. My client
will put his consent on the record, and we will promptly file the
appropriate docu--" "Hold on, Mr. Menghetti," said John Hernandez. "This
isn't Red China. You're presumed innocent of any wrongdoing in this
matter until proven otherwise."

"Your confidence is appreciated, Your Honor, but my request stands." The
judge turned to the defendant. "Mr. Ashford? I take it you will oppose
Mr. Menghetti's withdrawal?" Elliot Ashford rose to his feet and, to the
judge's and the prosecutors' astonishment, calmly consented to the
withdrawal. Barrett could see that John Hernandez was not only surprised
but angered. The best and brightest judge on the San Francisco Superior
Court was losing control of his case. "I urge you to reconsider your
decision, Mr. Ashford," he said. "I will not reconsider," said Ashford.
"With all due respect, Your Honor, my decision is irrevocable, and I
request a two-month continuance for the purpose of obtaining new
counsel." Barrett had never seen the judge so coldly irate. "With equal
respect, Mr. Ashford, I deny your request. You still have adequate
counsel, sir." He turned to Barrett and added, "Trial will resume
tomorrow. I understand you have but two more witnesses--" "Your Honor,"
said Ashford, "Mr. Dickson is in the case strictly as  ...  a backup."

"Whatever your initial motivation for bringing in Mr. Dickson," said
John Hernandez with a knowing glare, "he is an experienced senior trial
lawyer thoroughly conversant with the record in this case. You are in
capable hands."

"I know just how capable his hands can be, Judge," sneered Ashford,
holding his jaw. "He just used them to physically assault me. That's why
I've "red him and intend to sue him as well as soon as I can find a real
lawyer to represent me." "Do what you will, Mr. Ashford," said John
Hernandez, rising to signal Aat the conference had ended, "but this
trial will resume tomorrow morning." 28 Later that night, Barrett sat
silently with Leviticus Heywood in the investigator's office, reflecting
on how Julian Gold of all people had convinced Ashford that his
long-term interests would be best served by un-firing his only remaining
lawyer. Lev gave him a sideways, quizzical look. "I've been wonderin',
Bear. How'd he talk Ashford into keepin' you on?"

"I don't want to know."

"Move to the point, how did he talk you into keepin' on?"

"You don't want to know."

"I guess it was this sort of openness and communication," said Lev,
glowering at his obdurate coffeemaker and giving it a loud whack on one
side, "that built Western civilization into what it is today."
"Probably," said Barrett as he bent over and plugged in the coffeemaker.
"If you want to know, it was a combination of Golds inspired art of
persuasion and John's threat of thirty days in the pokey for contempt if
I didn't say yes." Lev grunted with satisfaction as the coffeemaker
began gasping. "It wasn't either of those things." Barrett looked out
the window. "A sage in our midst." Lev nodded his head.

"Believe it. So how do you feel being' back on the high wire all by your
lonesome?"

"I'm okay. My last two witnesses are wind-up: Shannon Lake, Lara's
sister, and Menghetti's DNA guy. I just stay out of their way, hold up
cue cards, and keep them talking long enough to dull the edge of
Babcock's little bombshell."

"You mean like until hell freezes over?"

"Yeah, about that long. On the other hand, besides watching us shoot
ourselves in the foot, the prosecution hasn't done a hell of a lot and
Shannon is going to be great for us."

"What about having Ashford get up and rebut Babcock's testimony?"

"He wants to, but Gold won't let him take the stand. Gold figures if the
jury doesn't hear about his prior assault felony and shady contacts,
we've sou got a hung jury even with Babcock. They'll settle for that.
I'm just praying the prosecution doesn't put on any rebuttal."

"Because then you'd have to cross-examine somebody?" Barrett nodded,
feeling his pulse quicken at the thought of it. Lev laughed. "Look, mom,
no net," he said. "Relax, Bear, how they gonna find another witness this
late date?" Arm and "the Weasel" Ligretti was called the Weasel long
before he became a turncoat ex-Mafia soldier, ratting on his friends. He
was called the Weasel quite simply because he looked and fought like
one. Short, thin- shouldered, and quick, he had once chewed through a
rival mobster's jugular after taking two bullets in the chest. Ligretti
was a survivor, a convicted hit man who had been granted immunity from
prosecution for that murder and three others on the East Coast. He had
also been given a new identity in the federal government's witness
protection program. Instead of the gas chamber, the Weasel had elected
to live like an exiled king in federally protected seclusion not even
the Organization could penetrate, occasionally popping out of his
disguise just long enough to pay for his keep by testifying when needed.
Arm and Ligretti had been a professional murderer. Now he was a
professional rat. He was also Grace Harris's last hope to turn the jury
around. Renee Bab- cock had been a godsend to the prosecution to be
sure, Grace thought, an unexpected windfall. But a defense witness that
backfires rarely satisfies the state's affirmative burden of proof, and
Grace knew they would have to do more if they were to win all twelve
jurors needed for a conviction. Her interest in the Weasel began when
Sam picked up a street rumor that Ligretti had attended one or more
meetings at which Carmine Rizzo and Elliot Ashford had been present. The
information had raised interesting questions. Was this just a routine
business meeting? Not likely, if a thug like Arm and Ligretti was there.
And hadn't he already testified against the Mafia in a Florida federal
court a year or so before? So why would Carmine Rizzo be meeting with
him? Was Ligretti involved in some undercover scheme?

And if Elliot Ashford wasn't Mafia, what was he doing there in the
company of a former hit man and the godfather of the Chicago mob? That
interested her the most. On a hunch, Grace called a classmate in the
justice department who agreed to forward Grace's work and home telephone
numbers to Ligretti's secret location through the Marshal's Service. It
was a long shot, but she had other questions that only he could answer.

First, of course, whether the rumor was even true. If it was, might
Ashford have mentioned something at one of the meetings that would allow
her to establish Ashford's involvement with the Mafia? Grace knew that
if she could taint Ashford's reputation as a beneficent ex-public
servant by putting him in the company of sinister men like Ligretti and
the Rizzos, the jury would begin to see all the evidence in a different
light. She knew that jurors see cases as stories, not as disjointed
pieces of fact and evidence the way lawyers do. Show them a hero on one
side and a villain on the other, and jurors will not only connect the
dots in a way that justifies their view of the story, they'll flatly
ignore evidence inconsistent with that view. The classmate said he'd
look into it, but Grace frowned as she hung up the phone. Even if
Ligretti did have something relevant to say, would the jury believe an
acknowledged assassin who had sold his friends down the river to avoid
going there himself? And how would she be viewed by the jury, vouching
for a Mafia rat, a man living off his treachery? As an experienced trial
lawyer, Grace also knew that the advocate's most valuable asset was the
jury's trust, an asset easily tarnished under their rigid scrutiny. And
even if she could surmount these hurdles, would Ligretti be willing to
come out of hiding and testify? Would he even call her back? All
questions, no answers. Meanwhile, in Lev's tiny office on Market Street,
Barrett sat across from Shannon Lake, Lara Ashford's unmarried sister,
and took in her handsome features and well-toned body. Her hair was
black, cut short with bangs; a twenties look. Her eyes were green and
catlike, the kind Barrett imagined one could see in the dark. She was
larger than her sister, nearly as tall as Levin high heels, but well
proportioned and possessed of her own unique attractiveness. "Tell me a
little bit about Elliot Ashford," he began as Lev handed her a cup of
coffee. "What can I tell you that you don't already know?" she said.

"He's highly intelligent, of course, and quite wealthy. He has been
exceedingly thoughtful to Lara and me, particularly since our parents
died. He is a good and decent man." Barrett restrained a smile and
nodded encouragement. She sipped her coffee, then put it down in a way
that suggested she would not be picking it up again. "He has enemies, as
you also know, I'm sure," she continued. "One of them is prosecuting him
at the moment."

"Political enemies."

"Mr. Field is more than just a political enemy, Mr. Dickson. He's a
filthy little bastard who made a pass at Lara not long before she died."
She paused, then in a throaty whisper added, "It turned into more than a
pass."

"How much more?" said Barrett. "Did it go anywhere?"

"I don't know."

"And you think Ashford found out about whatever it was that might have
happened between them?"

"Of course he knew."

"So you do know that something happened between them?" Shannon shot him
a warning look of barely restrained acrimony.

This, thought Barrett, is a formidable woman. "Grace Harris is a good
lawyer," he said. "I'm just giving you a taste of what to expect."

"Okay, I think she slept with him. Everybody thinks so."

"Lara was not a discreet person?" Shannon laughed--a surprising
outburst, more like a man's laugh--then removed a cigarette from a gold
monogrammed case and slipped it between her lips. Barrett and Lev,
momentarily mesmerized by Shannon's hard beauty, suddenly reacted and
began patting their pockets as if putting out a fire instead of trying
to light one. "My sister's indiscretion," she said, accepting a light
from Barrett, "was one of the better parts of Elliot's valor. Don't you
gentlemen read the papers?" Shannon Lake radiated a quality of latent
power, thought Barrett, as he observed her eyes glowing behind a spiral
of smoke. Physical power. She and her sister might not even have been
taken as sisters when standing together, for Shannon's was not a fragile
beauty like Lara's, nor had she the freedom of spirit that was said to
have been reflected in Lara's eyes. There was even something vaguely
menacing about her, thought Barrett, as he continued to silently regard
her. Still, her face would present sufficient similarities to Lara's
morgue shots to evoke the victim's presence in the minds of the jury.
The victim. Barrett closed his eyes tight for a moment, trying to escape
the cold description hot-wired into his brain. Case number 97-5597  ...
a forty-four-year-old Caucasian female with brown eyes and black hair,
64 inches in length and weighing 108 pounds ...  Yes, he thought, though
a larger woman, Shannon would be seen by the jury as Lara, risen from
the dead to declare that the petty quarrels she and Elliot had were
nothing weighed against their love for one another. Having the victim's
own sister take the stand in Ashford's behalf would be dynamite. Barrett
walked over to the window to close out the distracting night sounds of
Market Street's beggars, healers, boozers, and dealers: a cacophony of
car horns, jackhammers, guitars, a solo saxophone playing a nearly
unrecognizable version of "Eleanor Rigby," and a never-ending chorus of
dissonant street voices.

Lev now sat quietly in a chair next to Shannon, and Barrett realized
that both were looking expectantly at him. "You seem to have a great
deal of ...  admiration for Mr. Ashford," said Barrett. "People
misunderstand Elliot," she replied in her clipped, pedantic tone. "They
focus on his negative aspects, dismissing his many fine qualities."

"And I take it," said Barrett, "that loving his wife was one of those
qualities?" Shannon paused, crossed her long legs, crinkled her high
forehead, and put a finger to her lips. "He was incredibly patient," she
said at last, "an indispensable quality in anyone involved with my
sister." Barrett glanced at Lev. "Do you think he loved Lara?"

"Love?" she said, offering them a wry smile. "Elliot is a born
politician.

Politicians love everybody and nobody." "Okay," said Barren, "how about
'like'? Did they get along?" Shannon turned serious. "I will say they
did."

"Did they?"

"Their relationship was symbiotic, quite unique. I am quite prepared to
declare that it was  ...  thoroughly amicable." "Amicable," said
Barrett. "You won't be disappointed, Mr. Dickson. I'll do what is
necessary." Barrett stared at her for a moment, then closed his notepad.
"We'll keep it brief on direct, Ms. Lake," he said, "but on cross,
you'll be asked about the rumors that--"

"And I'll categorically deny them," she said stiffly. "Elliot and I are
just friends. I should have sued those gossip-mongering magazines."

"Have you seen Mr. Ashford socially since your sister's death?" Shannon
Lake hesitated a beat, then said, "We've dined together a few times."

"Where?" Another beat. "At his house."

"Anybody else around on these occasions?"

"Do you mean are there any witnesses to our virtuous comportment?"

"Yes, or the lack of it." t "No," said Shannon, her cat's-eyes
narrowing. "No witnesses."

"Did the two of you take any trips together while your sister was still
living?" Shannon paused. "You have nothing to worry about, Mr. Dickson."
So it's true, thought Barrett. Shannon Lake was scorching Ashford's
sheets before her sister's body was cold. "Any gifts? Jewelry?
Clothing?"

"He is a generous man, but for our purposes, the answer is no." Barrett
nodded. "I'd better let you get some sleep," he said. "I'll put you on
first thing at eight-thirty. Okay?" Shannon nodded and rose to leave. He
watched her pick up her purse, then hesitate as if she needed something
more from him. He had often seen this in witnesses who were looking for
a level of reassurance neither he nor anyone else could supply them.

Especially those who would be skirting the edge of truth. "I'll pick you
up at seven-thirty, Ms. Lake," said Lev, and Barrett walked her
downstairs, where a car was waiting for her. "We'll visit again around
eight o'clock," said Barrett. "Thanks for coming in."

"I am glad to be of use," she said, then raised the window as the car
sped off down Market. You're willing to be used is what you mean,
thought Barrett, then stood there for a while, listening to the sax man
near the door of Lev's building. "Can you play, "Stardust'?" he said. The
big, bearded guy nodded, then flashed a harmonica smile as Barrett
peeled off a couple of dollars and walked back upstairs. "She'll be
okay," said Lev when Barrett hit the top of the stairs. "Sure she will,"
said Barrett, "as long as it doesn't come out that she hated her sister
as much as she loved her brother-in-law."

"You're not thinkm'--" Barrett shook his head. "I'm a lawyer, not a cop.
My job is to get our client off, Lev, not solve his wife's murder. Let's
get back to work." Grace watched helplessly the next morning as the
jurors seemed mesmerized by the halting testimony of the tall, dark-clad
sister of the victim. Some were moved to tears by her portrayal of the
loving marriage, Elliot's devotion to his beloved Lara, and his
despondency over her death. Earl had decided to cross-examine her, and
got nowhere. Later that night, as Grace prepared to cross-examine
Barrett's DNA expert, she prayed that she would hear from Arm and
Ligretti. It had been over twenty-four hours now, and Barrett had
indicated he would be finished with his case in a day or two. As it now
stood, the People would have no rebuttal case but for another
sleep-inducing DNA expert. Her hops of hearing from Ligretti fading,
Grace was falling into a fitful sleep when the phone rang a few minutes
after midnight. A voice like sandpaper came through the receiver. "You
wanted to talk to me, lady?" He didn't offer his name and she didn't
have to ask. She sprung into a seated position on the edge of her bed
and kept Ligretti talking while she cleared her head. He seemed at ease
on the phone and readily answered all her questions. Sure, he had
attended a meeting at which both Carmine Rizzo and Elliot Ashford had
been present. "Was the meeting before or after his wife's death?" she
asked, fumbling for a ballpoint pen on her beside table. Her elbow hit a
lampshade. She found a notepad. "Both. Two meetings."

"What was the purpose of the meetings?"

"I've been told that wasn't stuff you needed to know about, okay? The
U.S. Attorney's got the clamps on."

"Okay. Did Ashford m-mention his wife at either meeting?"

"Nope."

"Say he was unhappy? Mention getting divorced?"

"Nope." Her head fell back on a pillow. "Did Senator Dwight Clifton's
name come up?"

"Nope."

"Was Carmine Rizzo at both meetings?"

"Sure." Grace stood up, put a hand to her head, tried to collect
herself. "Are you sure Ashford never mentioned his wife?" Grace knew the
judge would not allow evidence of Ashford's association with Mafia
figures unless she could tie it into evidence relevant to the murder
charge. "Even after her murder?"

"No.

Just indirectly, in the second meeting."

"What do you mean 'indirectly'?" Ligretti's answer to the question sent
an icy vibration up her spine. "Ashford had this girl with him; a
regular knockout, you know, a super- fox? Carmine had a little party
after the meeting in his suite and she's there with Ashford. After a
coupla drinks, I hear him introduce the fox to Tony Rizzo as 'the next
Mrs. Ashford."

" Grace asked, "When you say 'him," who are you r-referring to?" She
held her breath. "I'm talkin' about Elliot Ashford."

"So this would be soon after his w-wife was--"

"Are you the prosecutor on this case, miss? Have I got the right person
here?" Grace realized she was stammering badly. She took in a breath of
air and slowly let it out. "Yes, I'm one of the prosecutors." Ligretti
paused and she was afraid he was going to change his mind. Then she
heard a match strike and knew he was just lighting up. "Okay. Sure, it's
right after she's been killed. Even I thought it was uncool."

"What was Mr. Ashford's general demeanor? What was his mood?"

"Happy as a pig in shit. Some white-shoe had just got him sprung on
bail, so he was on cloud nine. Who could blame him; you shoulda seen the
babe!" My God, she thought. The missing motive! "Did he mention the
woman's name?"

"Yeah, two or three times."

"Do you remember it?"

"Not really. That's not the kind of thing I was told to listen for. I
think it was Sophia? Sophie, maybe? Something like that." Her mind was
spinning with new hope. If Ligretti would testify, and if he held up ...
Grace was waiting in Earl Field's office the next morning when he
arrived at seven-thirty. He looked surprised to see her. "Ah," he said,
a raised brow over a pair of wary eyes, "Grace, the proverbial early
bird." "You too," she said. "Judy said I could wait for you in here." He
nibbed his hands together, asked Judy for some coffee, then sat down
behind his desk and said, "What can I do for you?" She recognized Earl's
cold way of saying

"Make it quick," but she wouldn't allow herself to be hurried. It was,
after all, the first time they had been alone together for several days.
Whenever she showed up for a meeting lately, there was always someone in
the room with them, usually Jack Klegg with his close-set, steely little
eyes, sitting there silently stroking his burr cut. "I think we've got
something, Earl," Grace said at last, then told him what she had
learned. She watched his swollen eyes alternately widen with surprise,
narrow with suspicion, then finally harden with barely suppressed
irritation by the time she was finished. She also noticed he looked
uncharacteristically disheveled. His tie was askew and he needed a
haircut. "Using a rat at the last minute?" he said, shaking his head.

"Uh-uh. No way. You should have told me you were considering this,
Grace."

"I didn't think there was much hope it would work out. Now it has.
Besides, you've been pretty inaccessible since our  ..."

"Recent unpleasantness?" he said, relaxing his face into a sardonic
smile. Grace smiled back, playing the game, then playing her hand.
"Earl, look, I don't know what to think. That bail hearing setup by
Klegg, the LA. Eye reporter, the missing fingernail evidence--I guess
it's all making me a little crazy. But maybe we can still win this
thing. Let's give Ligretti a try."

"Forget about it, Grace. I've heard of him. It's too risky. He's got a
rap sheet as big as your ambition."

"That was below the belt, Earl."

"Sorry, I meant it as a compliment."

"I'm not here for compliments, or veiled insults either."

"Why are you here, Grace?"

"To try to convince you that we have no choice now but to take risks!
Ligretti can link Ashford to the mob and provide the missing motive.
It's the bottom of the ninth, Earl, and this may be the home run that
could still give us the game." Field shook his head again, more rapidly
this time. "It could be Casey at the bat, too. It's way too dangerous."

"Compared with what?" she replied. "Have you watched those jurors? They
ate up Shannon Lake and they've tuned us out again. Babcock started the
pendulum swinging our way, but now the jury looks like Stonehenge."

"Come off it, Grace. Babcock killed them." Grace told herself to be
patient. "She was terrific, Earl, and bought us insurance against
losing. But if we're going to lock up all twelve of them and win, we've
got to give them a stronger motive. Ligretti can give it to them."

"The feds would never let him testify."

"I spoke with the Marshal's Service in D.C. this morning," said Grace,
her voice quiet now. "They're bringing him in." Field's head snapped up.
"Next time you get one of these bright ideas, Grace, please talk to me
first before calling the goddamn nation's capital." Grace started to say
something, but he wasn't finished. "Call 'em off, damn it! We'll go with
the odds. You made some good points with their DNA guy, and with
Menghetti out of the picture, we'll kill them in final argument." Grace
stood up. She stared down at the D.A.'s luminous black skin, shining in
the eerie glow of the single desk lamp, and noticed an uncharacteristic
stubble of a beard on his face. Who are you, she wanted to say, and what
have you done with my boss? When she did speak, her voice was trembling,
but her words were carefully measured. "They won't 1-let us win, will
they, Earl." It was not a question. Field didn't flinch; not a muscle
moved in his drawn face. "Don't be ridiculous," he said. Grace held his
eyes. "I'm putting Ligretti on the stand tomorrow mom- ing, Earl," she
said. "Don't try to stop me." Then she walked out. A minute later, a
telephone broke the silence in the bedroom of a Nob Hill condominium. A
woman snorted and rolled over. Her husband reached for the phone, then
spoke in a voice as crisp as someone who had been awake for hours.
"Speak." The man then propped himself on one elbow as he listened for
two minutes without interrupting. Then he swung his legs onto the floor
and grabbed a pen and paper. He scribbled a name. Then he said, "Calm
down, Earl, I'll fix it," and hung up. "Who was that, Jack?"

"Go back to sleep." Barrett's heart soared an hour later when he heard
Grace's voice on the telephone.

"How are you, Barrett?" she asked, giving his stomach a double clutch as
his hopes shifted into high gear. Could she possibly be calling to  ...
No. Not a chance. Grace Harris was all business and he was the enemy.

So she was calling to plea-bargain; to spare him the bitter cup of
another day with Elliot Ashford. Either way, her voice came at his arid
brain like cool water. "I couldn't be better," he said. "And you?"

"I could always be better," she said. "I doubt it," he said, trying to
strike an ambiguous tone somewhere between cordiality and bald
flirtation. Then she popped the balloon. It was neither of those
things;' it was the worst possible thing. They had come up with a
rebuttal witness and she was putting Barrett on notice as required. He
told her thanks and she was gone. He quickly dialed Lev's office.

"Arm and Ligretti?" said Lev, his voice sounding incredulous through the
phone. "The rat who testified in Florida?" "Yeah, that rat," said
Barrett. "I need something to work with."

"When's he going on?"

"Tomorrow."

""Fraid I can't help you, Bear."

"What?"

"This dude is deep in the witness protection program, which means nobody
knows where he is now, and nobody can find him, not even the mob."
'"You're kidding."

"Not. If the mob knew who he was or what he looks like now and where to
find him--we wouldn't be needin' this conversation." 28 Damn it, Jack,"
said Earl Field the next morning as he closed the door to his office.

"You told me you could fix this!" Jack Klegg sat in front of Field's
desk. He gazed up at the ceiling of Field's office and sighed deeply.

Jack Klegg was equally unhappy. The only thing he hated worse than
failing was to be reminded of it. "I did all I could," he said through
tightened lips. "The nicking Justice Department wants Ligretti to
testify. They think it's a -wonderful idea."

"Now that John Gotti's down," said Field, his fists clenched on the desk
in front of him, "they've probably targeted Chicago, which means Carmine
Rizzo. Nailing Ashford will be the first shot across Rizzo's bow."

"Bingo."

"Bingo?

That's not funny, Jack. If Ligretti nails Ashford, the mob nails me."
Klegg managed to look contrite. "I said I tried, Earl, but it's not the
end of the world. Just put Ligretti on the stand yourself."

"Me?"

"Damage control. Minimize his impact."

"Damage control is your specialty, Jack, and you're not doing a very
good job of it."

"The guy's a slug," said Klegg, ignoring the gibe. "Just make sure it
shows." Field disliked Klegg's imperious tone even more than his idea.
He also didn't like the way the chief assistant kept looking at him. "Is
there something else on your mind, Jack?" "Earl," said Klegg at last,
"pardon me for saying so, but you're looking a bit ...  careless
lately."

"Careless? What the hell are you talking about?"

"For one thing, you're not a drinking man and you're starting to drink."

"An occasional glass of wine. For God's sake, Jack--"

"I can smell vodka on a man's breath from three feet, so don't think
others can't. In addition, your famed haute couture has become casual to
the point of shabbiness."

"Christ, Jack, are you a prosecutor or a rucking style consultant?"

"I'm the best friend you have trying to save your political black ass.
Have you forgotten that you're being watched every waking minute by the
national press?" Field started to say something, but gave a short nod of
his head. "I know what's eating you, Earl. Just don't let it show. And
button down your button-down collar for Christ's sake!" Grace Harris was
pleasantly surprised when Earl Field entered her office ten minutes
later to reverse himself regarding Ligretti, but her smile faded when he
added, "I'll put him on myself, Grace."

"But--"

"The guy's dangerous, and if he blows up in our face, I've got to absorb
the blast." Grace stiffened. "I thought blast absorption was my role on
this team."

"You've done your share, plus you're still cross-examining the defense
DNA expert. Dickson's resting his case as soon as you finish and we've
got to be ready. I'll meet with Ligretti and the U.S. marshal tonight
and put him on myself soon as you're finished." Grace's thoughts swirled
with confused frustration. "It's your call, of course," she said,
reluctantly pulling a thin file out of a pyramid of paper on her desk.

"Yes," he said, holding out his hand. "It's my call."

"Well, his rap sheet is in here--which is probably all Dickson will
have--and my outline of questions. I was about to have Sam check out the
details of his story, but frankly, there's not a whole lot of time."

"Nobody is more aware of that than I," he said, shooting her a hard look
as he snatched the file out other hand. When court resumed at
nine-thirty, juror number ten, a young Africanamerican male, was
reported hospitalized with pneumonia. Amanda Keller saw looks of
distrust and apprehension among the regular jurors, already concerned
about the mysterious and still unexplained disappearance three days
earlier of juror number four, the Latino cabdriver. Both the Latino and
number ten had become nearly as outspoken as Martin Chin had been weeks
earlier regarding the guilt of the defendant, particularly after the
Bab- cock debacle. These forthright comments had temporarily allayed
Amanda's fears of a conspiracy against Earl Field, but the sudden
departure of two pro-prosecution jurors now reawakened them. "Barney
Seagrave said maybe Ashford's 'friends' are sending us a message," Ruth
had whispered to Amanda on the way to the courtroom that morning, then
had blushed with embarrassment. Amanda tried to look at the positive
side of the equation. First, there was ''till Jefferson, the jury's
obvious leader, who seemed too hardheaded to be bought or coerced.
Second, with these rumors swirling, perhaps the other regulars who had
not already joined the conspiracy would finally see what kind of man
Ashfbrd really was.

Last, but far from least: Amanda was now in the number one alternate
seat. Perhaps there was hope after all, both for Earl and for herself.

"Does the defense rest, Mr. Dickson?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"You may call your first rebuttal witness, Mr. Field," said John
Hernandez. "Yes, Your Honor," said Field. "Call Arm and Ligretti." A
gasp went up from the press section, now swelled by knowledgeable
reporters from the New York Times, the Washington Post, and the Atlanta
Constitution. A minute later, all eyes were upon the little Mafia
soldier as he walked up the aisle, glancing from side to side through
small, darting eyes, set deep above pitted cheeks and a rodent nose. Few
people noticed the two plain-clothed marshals, one entering casually in
front of the Weasel, the other trailing behind. Amanda noticed, and
wondered what was going on. As usual, she was also studying Earl Field,
who appeared worried.

Although he looked more heroic than ever in his fatigue, Earl had lost
the cool, dapper look he was so famous for. His mustache was untrimmed
and ragged-looking, his suit appeared slept-in, and the confident
swagger had been reduced to a shuffle. They were breaking him down, the
bastards. Still, she was relieved to see that he was going to handle the
state's last rebuttal witness and prayed he would do something dramatic;
something that would shame the uncommitted regular jurors into doing the
right thing. Field went straight to Ligretti's negatives, exposing the
Weasel's sordid background in such detail and with such fervor as to
make Ligretti redden with anger within minutes. "You cut a deal with the
Justice Department two years ago, is that correct, Mr. Ligretti?"
Ligretti nodded. "You'll have to speak up, Mr. Ligretti," said Field in
a harsh tone that seemed to distance him from the witness. Amanda
noticed that Grace Harris's head snapped up at the district attorney's
uncharacteristic grufmess. "Yeah."

"You were accused of killing people for money? An assassin capable of
cold-blooded murder?"

"That's right."

"You were known as the Weasel because of your violent nature?"
Ligretti's features involuntarily transformed themselves into an
expression that more than answered Field's question. "Friends sometimes
called me that," he hissed through clenched teeth. From her seat in the
jury box, Amanda began to wonder whether Earl Field had called a hostile
witness by mistake. She saw Ligretti glance at Grace Harris from time to
time, but the assistant D.A. just glared down at her yellow pad and
scribbled. Amanda was relieved when Field moved into the substance of
Ligretti's testimony: tying Elliot Ashford to Tony Rizzo, then into two
meetings with mob leaders--including Carmine Rizzo and one of his top
Mafia chieftains-- held in Las Vegas and San Francisco. "Were you in the
witness protection program at this time?"

"Yeah, been in for five years now."

"So how did you come to be at these meetings?"

"I was there as part of a sting project for the feds--my latest one--
nothin' to do with Ashford."

"Why weren't you recognized?"

"Not a problem. None of the Chicago boys know me, plus which after I
left the Florida Organization and entered the program, the government
gives me facial surgery. I put on thirty-five pounds. I grow a beard. My
own mother wouldn't know me.

Also, see, I was a qualified man with the Florida Mafia, so I know how
to go about gettin' involved with the mob out here. "Course I had to
watch my p's and q's. Took me a year, hangin' around the Acropolis in
Vegas, meetin' people in L.A." "All right," said Field, glancing at an
outline in his hand. "Who is Carmine Rizzo?"

"Don Carmine is head of the Chicago family. Owns the Acropolis and some
legit enterprises, like a big piece of the Ashford family holding
company."

"Objection and move to strike the reference to Mr. Ashford," said
Barren. "Sustained and it may go out." Barrett remained standing. "While
I'm up, Your Honor, allow me to point out that when last I checked, we
were supposed to be trying a San Francisco murder case, not the Chicago
Rizzo family."

"Do you have an objection, counsel?" asked the judge. "Irrelevant and
prejudicial, Your Honor."

"Sustained. Please get to the limited purpose we discussed in chambers,
Mr. Field." Ligretti told of the meeting early in the year when he had
first seen Ashford at a meeting with several members of the Rizzo
family. "Did you attend a second meeting with members of the Rizzo
family with Mr. Ashford also in attendance?"

"Yeah, in San Francisco."

"Was this after the murder oflara Ashford?"

"Yeah, on September 1. He'd just got out on bail."

"Was Mr. Ashford alone this time?"

"No, he's got a woman with him."

"Can you describe her?"

"A fox. Good-lookin' blond babe and all over him like a wet rag." Field
pursed his lips and nodded.

"Did you hear how Mr. Ashford referred to her?"

"Sure. He introduced her to Carmine as 'the next Mrs. Ashford."

" Amanda heard a roar go up off to her side. "Had Lara Ashford recently
been found murdered?"

"Yeah, but I never seen a guy so fulla piss and vinegar. Cloud nine."

"Your Honor--"

"Don't bother to get up, Mr. Dickson," said John Hernandez, turning
toward the witness. "Limit your answers to what you are asked, sir."

"That's all I have, Your Honor," said Field, and sat down. Amanda
glanced from the witness to Ashford, who sat staring gloomily at his
fingernails. She shifted her gaze to Field, then to Grace Harris. For a
second, she saw the woman's expression relax into a smile. Amanda fought
off one of her own. There it was, she thought, as several reporters
headed for the hallway. The motive. But a few minutes later, Amanda's
optimism wavered as she saw Dick- son's black investigator advance to
the rail and hand the defense lawyer a document that caused Dickson's
normally stoic expression to unfold into something close to a smile. He
slipped the document under his notepad. The judge looked at Barrett
Dickson. "Cross, Mr. Dickson?" But Barrett was already on his feet.

"I'll not belabor your history as a government stool pigeon, Mr.
Ligretti," said Barrett, "except to ask you if you do anything other
than testify in behalf of government agencies."

"That's about it, counselor."

"So basically, this is what you do for a living, am I right?"

"You could say that."

"A comfortable living, at taxpayers' expense?" Amanda wondered why Earl
didn't object. She saw Grace glancing at Field, but he stared straight
ahead, inert as a statue. "You could say that, too, I guess."

"Could I also say that you would lie if you had to? In order to maintain
this lifestyle at taxpayers' expense?" Field shifted, but said nothing
for a minute. "No way would I lie," said the witness at last. "Then,"
said Barrett, "tell the jury how you can be so sure the second meeting
you claim to have taken place at the Chinatown Holiday Inn in San
Francisco was actually on September 1, 1997?" Ligretti flashed an
arrogant smile. "Because it was the first day of the month and a
weekday. That's the day I always get my monthly living allowance from
the federal Marshal's Service. I also remember getting written
instructions for my role in the sting that day along with the check; you
know, telling me where to go and what to listen for. I drove up that
same night. September 1, a Monday." Amanda stole a peek at the regular
jurors. The witness was the personification of evil, but he was holding
up and holding their attention. "You're positive about the date then?"

"I'd bet my life on it."

"And the credibility of your testimony here today?"

"Damn right."

"Did you wear a wire at either meeting?"

"Me?

Hell no. Too risky."

"So we just have your word that these meetings took place?"

"Why would I lie?"

"Didn't we just cover that?" said Barrett.

"Objection," said Grace, drawing a surprised look from Field.

"Argumentative." "Sustained," said John Hernandez.

Barrett was unruffled. "Here's my problem, Mr. Ligretti. You see, you've
told us exactly when the meeting occurred and how you got to the
meeting.

What's puzzling me is how Mr. Ashford got to the meeting, given the fact
that he ivasn't bailed out of his jail cell until Tuesday the second}"

"OBJECTION, Your Honor," said Field, suddenly alert. "Mr. Dickson
misstates the record. Mr. Ashford was freed on bail on the first; it's
right in the record."

"You did free Mr. Ashford on Monday the first, Judge," said Barrett,
addressing himself now only to John Hernandez, "but Alameda County
picked up some traffic warrants on their computer and faxed in a hold on
him, which I offer as defendant's next exhibit in order. He spent an
extra night in jail. We were unable to get Mr. Ashford out until the
second, the day after this meeting Mr. Ligretti just made up." Amanda
felt a sharp pain in her head, just over her eyes, as Barrett Dickson
turned and smiled at the black investigator. Then came that damn
clicking in her ears she had been experiencing lately as she saw Earl
Field lower his head, unable to face them.

"I have," said Barrett Dickson, his eyes scanning the jury as he started
toward his seat, "no further questions."

"No questions, Your Honor," said Field, and Amanda nearly gasped out
loud. Why didn't Earl do something? she wondered. It's only one day! But
as she turned and looked at the other jurors, she could see they needed
no further proof that the Weasel was a liar as well as a stool pigeon
and a killer.

The judge told them they would be instructed the next morning, then
excused them for the day- There was nothing she could do to save Earl
now.

It was over.

Grace felt both anger and sadness as she followed the district attorney
out of the courtroom at the noon recess. Anger at Ligretti, at Earl
Field, and at herself.

The People versus Elliot Ashford was all but lost now, and so was Earl
Field, the ambitious district attorney who had just driven the last nail
into a political coffin that would be buried along with the star-crossed
case.

And she had helped him do it. She remained convinced that Ligretti was
generally telling the truth, but knew how easily an arrogant,
unattractive witness such as the Weasel could be thoroughly discredited
in the eyes of the jury if caught in the simplest mistake.

Without a recess, it would have been risky--but not impossible--for Earl
to have tried to rehabilitate Ligretti. But this was probably what he
wanted, though not the way he had intended it to happen. Despite her
disappointment with the district attorney, she also felt strangely
saddened by her role in the destruction of a man who might well have
made a difference in the world. They might have lost the case anyway, of
course, but before Ligretti, the police would have been blamed. Her
intercession had changed all that. He had nowhere to hide now. She
pictured the headlines: D.A. Busted in Phony Witness Expose!

Goodbye to State House Dreams of Field!

That night, Amanda tried to escape the pain of depression and her
mother's probing questions by retreating to her room and her trial
scrapbook.

No point in talking to Lucinda, who would just remind her that she had
only herself to blame for wasting so much time. She would be right.

Amanda had neither resuscitated her TV career nor been able to help Earl
Field.

She clipped and pasted with effort, nicked a finger with her scissors.

"Shit," she shouted" and threw the book across the room. Then threw the
paste jar at the wall next to her bed. Then went into the bathroom and
threw up what little food she had eaten for dinner.

She crept back to her bed. She couldn't read, so got up and turned on
her thirteen-inch black-and-white television set. She couldn't stay
focused on any one program and her set was too old to have a remote
unit, so she wearied of jumping up and down to change the channel and
snapped it off.

The sound of television persisted, though muted, from the living room.
She could tell time by the theme songs of Luanda's favorites: Hard Copy
at 7:00 p.m., Entertainment Tonight, 7:30 p.m., then always Murder, She
Wrote reruns at 8:00. Amanda took a heavy dose of barbiturates, hoping
not to be conscious by the time the themes of I Love Lucy and Bewitched
on cable seeped through the walls at 9:00 p.m. and 9:30 p.m. She turned
the lights off and prayed for a respite from depression that only sleep
could provide.

But the dubious solace of drug-induced slumber provided no escape
tonight, for waiting for her there was her recurring dream, in which
some unrecognized person close to her has died and is being buried. Her
father?

Her mother? Seems more like a man than a woman, and always the same doll
half hanging out of the casket.

Awake again, she knew the loathsome particulars would remain elusive and
terrifying, much like her day-to-day existence.

Across town, Mike Reasoner and Barrett touched glasses at Postrio near
Union Square.

"Well done, Bear, damned well done!" shouted Mike over the din,
obviously feeling his drinks. "How the hell did you do it?" "Lev did
it," said Barrett. "The Weasel helped by not knowing that Monday,
September 1, was a holiday: Labor Day. His check and instructions
probably arrived on Tuesday, the day Ashford was actually released."

"The blindfolded lady works in strange and wonderful ways," said Mike.

Dickson nodded and tried to get the bartender's attention. Not easy in
Postrio, still a hot ticket despite Wolfgang Puck's return to L.A. The
beautiully appointed bar was jammed at noon with lawyers, stockbrokers,
and oilrich Middle East types talking deals, reeking of cologne and
wealth. Barrett noted that the handful of women in the lounge area were
not bad for bar fare, particularly those who had come mainly to eat, not
to meet a lawyer, stockbroker, or an oil-rich Middle East type. Not bad,
but not in a class with Grace Harris.

"Wilmer is going absolutely bat-shit," continued Mike. "He's trying to
figure out how to handle your sudden fame. Doesn't know whether to
downplay it or try to take credit for it. He's called a partners'
meeting for tomorrow."

"A partners' meeting," murmured Barrett with an amused grin. "Does Mr.
Excitement still thrill with announcements of new cost-cutting measures?

Have we changed from Ticonderoga number three medium-lead pencils to
Tinsel-Tint number two? Negotiated a contract with a new copy service
perhaps? Discontinued the use ofwite-Out?"

"The man does keep his charisma in check," said Mike.

"Under tight rein."

"Well, here's to you, Bear." "It was a good day," Barrett said. "Lev
came up with Ashford's jail discharge records and the rest was
plumbing."

"Bullshit plumbing!" said Mike. "It was surgery. Anyway, Wilmer wants to
see you."

"No thanks."

"Why not? Chance to watch him grovel."

"Assure him I don't want our relationship to wither from neglect. Tell
him I'll be by soon to bring him a new plastic pocket protector and
maybe an AK-47 to aid in his human resources effort."

"Seriously, Bear, you should come by. People there are excited about
what you're doing. The place shows signs of new life." Barrett caught
the bartender's eye and signaled him, then turned back to Mike. "Mice,"
he said. "Mice and elephants."

"Mice and elephants?"

"Focus. Like dealing with witnesses in a trial; assigning priorities. I
can't get distracted chasing mice right now. Wilmer's a mouse--rat,
actually--in my hierarchy of tasks. Got to deal with the elephants."

"As in?"

"For one thing, I've got to start thinking about my argument. Plus, Ash-
ford still wants to go on the stand and tell his life history." Mike
said, "So what do I tell Wilmer?"

"Tell him I've joined a Hopi tribe and gone to live on mushrooms in the
Tree of Immortal Knowledge."

"Reliving your Esalen period?" The bartender arrived at last with
Barren's Ketel rocks and Mike's single malt. Mike paid, then groaned as
Barrett lit a cigarette.

"Jesus, Bear. When did you start that again?" Barrett took a deep drag.
"You're missing a great habit, Mike."

"Seriously, Bear, what do I tell Wilmer?"

"You're a lawyer, Mike. Cite Justice Louis Brandeis on privacy: Thi
right to be left alone is the right most valued by civilized man." Mike
grunted. "The 'civilized' part lets you out."

"Okay, I'll go join the witness protection program," said Barrett, in
thi absence of an ashtray jabbing the cigarette butt into his empty
glass. "Hang out with the Weasel, where even Wilmer can't find me." Ten
blocks away, at the Hall of Justice, the mood was different. Sam trudged
into Grace's office at the hall looking thoroughly dispirited.

"Hi, Sam. What's up?"

"My job for one thing; up for grabs, that is. I told the chief he could
lay the Ligretti thing on me if he wanted--you know, 'investigator
error'--and he took me up on it. Then he said he might have to put me on
suspension to make it look good." Grace looked at her old friend and
realized that no one would escape the wrath of this fiasco. They sat
together for a moment of forlorn silence.

"Figured it out yet, Sam?" Grace said at last.

"What's to 'figure out'?"

"You're a detective, for God's sake. I know you've suspected something
must be going on."

"I'm listening."

"For starters, Earl's going in the tank on Ashford." Sam's eyes flashed
for a second, but then he fell into a chair in front of her desk and
stared at her. "Never took you for a conspiracy nut, Grace."

"He accepted a six-figure favor from the mob, Sam. And now they've
called in the debt." Sam gave her an amused grin. "Do yourself a favor,
Grace. Get some sleep. Get off whatever you're taking. Downgrade to
Valium." Grace saw irritation beneath the smile, heard suspicion behind
his words. But she couldn't stop now.

"I took a call from a tabloid reporter. That's where it started. Then--"

"What are you trying to do, Grace? Take down the best man to ever run
this office and free a wife killer in the process?"

"Just listen--"

"No, damn it, I won't listen! I'm going to work." Grace was struck by
the absurd notion that Sam was somehow a part of it. No, not Sam.

"Okay, Sam. But at least let me answer your question. I'm not going to
do anything. Not for the present at least. If I blew the whistle now,
Ashford could fall through the gaping crack in Earl's morality. Thanks
to Babcock, we've still got a shot at a hung jury. But after that, I'll
have to take it to the state attorney general and I'll need your help."

"You'll need help all right, Grace," said Sam coldly, "but you won't get
it from me."

"Sam, wait!" But he was out the door.

And Grace was alone.

Barrett left Mike at Postrio and hiked up the hill to the Ritz-Carlton
for a meeting with Ashford and Julian Gold, who had flown in from
Chicago.

Barrett accepted a congratulatory handshake from the consigliere, whose
bony imprint would haunt him hours later, like the phantom pain he
sometimes felt in the tip of his lost finger.

"Well done, Mr. Dickson," said Gold, affecting a reasonably genuine
smile, "but we've got a problem. Our Mr. Ashford still wishes to expiate
his guilt over the Babcock matter by taking the stand and 'telling the
truth." I've summoned you here to tell him how utterly stupid that would
be." The peach-colored suite was bathed in a dull afternoon glow.
Ashford was sprawled across a couch the size of Barren's '87 Ford
Mustang with a wet rag on his forehead, a state of repose much envied by
Barrett after a climb up Taylor from which he was still sweating. He
fell into a seat near the couch and looked Gold straight in the eye.

"The truth usually works for me, Mr. Gold, and it's his ass on the line,
not yours." Gold stiffened. "I have never liked your attitude, Dickson."
He bent so close Barrett could smell his breath freshener and added,
"Not at all."

"And I've never liked being 'summoned," " said Barrett, meeting his
gaze. "In fact, if I had known I had been 'summoned," I wouldn't have
come at all." Gold turned away, skeletal hands clasped together behind
him, ignoring his remark. He strolled over to one of the large windows
overlooking the courtyard below. A wedding was in progress, and strains
of Mozart wafted up from a string quartet. Barrett squinted at the
profile of the diaphanous figure framed in the glowing window. In the
glare of the sun, Gold's mouth looked like an exit wound.

The wound began to ooze words.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Dickson. After what you did yesterday, I
had begun to think there might be something in you worth salvaging."
"But now," said Barrett dryly, "I'll never work in this town again,
right?"

"Wonderful, Mr. Dickson," said Gold, turning away from the window.

"You see, Elliot? Humor in the face of danger. Oh yes, Dickson, there
was much I had begun to admire in you, and I've done my homework:
orphaned at birth, deprived childhood, football star, top student,
wounded war hero, former top trial lawyer in the top firm on the West
Coast, now poised to regain his crown. The intrepid trial warrior who
never walks away from a fight."

"That's right. Lately I've run. Particularly when I'm asked to represent
a creative psychopath who, among his more innocuous pastimes, buys ;
witnesses." A limp hand moved off the couch, but only adjusted the
washrag, then fell back.

"You've no need to run this rime," said Gold. "The worse-case scenario
now is a hung jury, after which I can assure you that Earl Field will
simply walk away from the case, making the usual excuses: budgetary
problems, police ineptitude, case load, etcetera, etcetera. There will
be no second trial."

"You can't be sure of that, Gold. Nobody can." Barrett noticed that Gold
started to say something, then covered his pause with a malevolent
smile. "If I'm somehow wrong about that, Mr. Ashford and I will regroup
with new counsel for the retrial, and you can go your own way with an
extra $500,000 fee--for you personally, of course--and no hard feelings.
But Elliot must not take the stand." The quartet burst into a Bach fugue
that merged with Barrett's spinning thoughts to weave a contrapuntal web
of confusion in his throbbing head.

He eyed the etched-glass decanter across the room, then looked away.

"After the Babcock fiasco," said Barrett, meeting Gold's dark, sunken
eyes, "you may not get your hung jury. Elliot got himself into trouble
with the jury because of Babcock, and he's the only one who can get
himself out of it. If he wants to get up there and put his word against
hers, what are you going to do? Break his kneecaps?"

"Double-dealing little bitch," murmured Ashford through the damp cloth.

Gold glared at both of them.

"We'll also have the element of surprise," continued Barrett. "They'll
never expect him to take the stand."

"They wouldn't dream we'd be so stupid," said Gold in a tone of quiet
contempt.

"That's why I'm going to put him on first thing tomorrow morning," said
Barrett, warming to the idea. "He's going to take those ten steps to the
witness stand like he's been wanting to do, put his hand in the air, and
tell the jury--and me--that he did not murder Lara Ashford." "Tell you?"
said Gold. "Who the hell are you? Elliot's guilt or innocence is for the
jury to decide, not you or anyone else. Indeed, it's the last thing that
should concern a defense lawyer!"

"But I'm not a defense lawyer. I'm not much of any kind of a lawyer
anymore.

You knew that when you retained me." "Retained you?" Gold said, smiling
scornfully, "We didn't retain you, Mr. Dickson, we merely rented you.
The lease is up in three days, but until then, you'll do as I say."
Barrett turned to his recumbent client. "You want a hung jury, Elliot?"
Ashford lifted himself up onto his elbows. The cloth fell onto his
chest.

"Hell, no!" he shouted. "I want my freedom'. I want to testify and get
the whole bloody thing done with." Barrett turned toward Gold and
shrugged. "There you have it straight from the horse's ass, Gold. The
man wants to testify and his lawyer agrees he should." Gold took
Barren's measure, then looked away and demonstrated his resignation by
leaving the room. Elliot Ashford reached over and gave Barrett's hand a
hearty yank. The string quartet struck up Wagner's wedding processional.

Amanda sat alone in the jury room at 9:30 the next morning, studying
minute cracks in the plaster that webbed out from the corners above the
doorjamb, wondering what Earl Field would want her to do now. He had
been trying to signal her, she was sure of that.

She also knew he had to be careful; no telling how wide the
conspiratorial net had spread. He wouldn't want to expose her to danger.
Not even the judge was above Amanda's suspicion now. Hadn't he kicked
Martin Chin off the jury? And the Latino, number four, also an outspoken
prosecution juror?

And was number ten really in a hospital somewhere? Then there was Grace
Harris, now barely concealing her enmity for the embattled district
attorney. Had they gotten to her too?

Soon the judge would summon them back into court for closing arguments
and instructions on the law. After that, it would be time for the
regular jury to begin deliberations and for her and the other alternate
to be segregated from the others.

She grimly surveyed the room that had been her home for nearly three
weeks. She forced herself to focus, trying to get on a constructive
keel.

What could she say that would shock these jurors into overcoming their
fear or greed or whatever was controlling them?

The answer came to her as if delivered from heaven. It would be a lie,
of course, but how else could a conspiracy of lies be exposed except by
counterlies? Fire with fire. A lie to reveal a greater truth.

Perhaps this is why her presence on the panel had been foreordained.

It would be difficult and even dangerous. But the idea was a revelation
she could not disregard. She had no choice now but to act and fulfill
her purpose here.

She took a deep breath and started walking toward the group of "white
regulars" clustered around Manon Barnes: Ruth Salverson, Barney
Seagrave, and Clement Bell, the sixty-two-year-old retired postal worker
who had replaced Martin Chin. Amanda picked up a dry cruller she didn't
want and smiled at Ruth, who greeted her warmly as always. Barney gave
her his usual lusty grin. The others paid her no attention.

"Well, I guess this is about it for me," Amanda said during a lull in
the conversation. "I certainly don't envy you guys." Ruth smiled her
motherly smile and said, "It's a frightening responsibility, Amanda."

"And a time-consuming one," said Barney Seagrave. "I for one am goin' to
be damn glad to get the hell out of here."

"Not me," said Clem Bell to no one in particular. "This beats TV every
which way." "How about you, Manon?" said Amanda. "Glad it's about over?"

"No way. I've learned loads. I nearly flunked civics, but I think this
is the way to really learn stuff about the system." "But the system
doesn't always work," said Amanda, trying to control the tremor in her
voice. "That's what bothers me. Look at all the things the jury didn't
hear about in the Simpson case. Or like in our own case, Ashford's
earlier threat to kill his wife." "What?" said Manon Barnes and Barney
Seagrave in unison. Ruth's creased lips fell open.

"He did that?" said Clem Bell.

"It was on TV this morning," said Amanda. "I saw it by mistake when I
was helping my mother find a movie channel. I'm sorry, I probably
shouldn't have said anything."

"You're sorry?" said Manon Barnes, her eyes narrowed and blazing. "It's
a little late for 'sorry," Amanda."

"My stars," mumbled Clem Bell, still looking stunned as he shuffled
away, working an unlighted cigar in his sagging lips.

Manon looked furious. "Lani Jefferson was right about you!" Amanda
looked hurt. "Manon, I apologize. Just forget what I said, okay?"

"Not this time. I'm going to the judge and I'm going right now, before
you can do any more damage!"

"Manon, please!" pleaded Amanda. "I could get in real trouble over
having done something this stupid. Please!" But Manon was unmoved, and
this time, not even Barney Seagrave would meet Amanda's eye.

"Excuse me, Manon," said Ruth Salverson, "but if I heard the judge
correctly, Amanda and the other alternate will be separated from us
after the jury instructions later today. Isn't that so?"

"Thank God for small favors," said Manon derisively. "So what?"

"Well, goodness me," said Ruth, "she can't cause any more harm then, can
she?" By the end of the recess, Manon had relented, but only after
securing Amanda's agreement to isolate herself from all other jurors
until the regulars began deliberating. "Not one more word to any of us!"
she demanded.

"I won't say another word, Manon. I swear." God, how she hated the
frizzy-haired bitch; how she would have loved to put her powerful
fingers around that pretty neck. But as she made her exit, acting shaken
and contrite, she could barely resist smiling. She saw the troubled
looks on each one of their faces.

She would respect her vow of silence, because no more words would be
necessary. Her lie was a worm nesting in their brains, restless and
immutable.

When the jurors were reseated in the courtroom, the judge informed them
that a conflict had arisen on his calendar which he would try to sort
out during a brief recess. As they filed back out, Amanda tried to catch
Earl Field's eye, to offer him a look of reassurance, but he just sat
staring grimly at his hands. He must have known they would be watching
the two of them closely now, she thought.

Back in the jury room, Amanda was uneasy. She hadn't figured on this
sudden recess; having to sit alone so soon while the others whispered
about her. She hid behind a year-old copy of Better Homes and Gardens,
the momentary elation over her heroic effort fading as she pictured the
airhead Manon Barnes, perhaps even Kevin Alston or Barney Seagrave,
getting the magazine interviews, the notoriety, the TV exposure, the
book deals.

A peal of laughter went up from the far end of the table where several
regulars were huddled, and she caught Manon Barnes looking at her
through narrowed, smiling eyes. What had she ever done to her? To any of
them? She welcomed her mounting anger as a counterbalance to her
depression, but the % buzzing had started again and her skin was hot and
itching. Fucking Barnes. j Fucking Ward and Company. Fucking Lucinda.
The world was like a relay,! team and she was its baton; handled, then
passed on to the next tormentor in line. } The bailiff rapped on the
door, summoning them back into the courtroom, where the judge apologized
and explained that his calendar conflict could not be resolved. ',
"We'll make up for lost time by resuming at eight-thirty tomorrowj
morning with the defense's last witness," he said. "I will then instruct
you o: the law. It is quite possible your deliberations will commence by
late afternoon.

You are excused." Amanda felt Manon's eyes on her but didn't care
anymore. She had done the right thing, and hadn't she always been taught
that you have to break eggs to make an omelette? Well, she thought, even
if her sacrifice never came to light, justice at least would be served
by her heroism in breaking through the conspiracy and Earl Field would
have his career.

Earl, she thought, and a consoling smile crossed her lips despite the
pain spreading through her head. Earl would know what she had done
because she would tell him.

By the time Amanda reached the flat, she was feeling better, and
resolved to share her bold deed with Lucinda, who, friendless and
shut-in by choice, was more secure than a lifer in solitary.

"Just look at this place," Lucinda whined as soon as Amanda entered.

"It's a mess. Smells like your damn cats!"

"If you'd just let me open some windows--"

"So it's all my fault you're sayin'."

"Nobody's blaming you, Mother," said Amanda. "I'll tidy up in the
morning." Lucinda was watching Inside Hollywood, and barely diverted her
eyes from the TV screen as she continued to rave. "You know I can't keep
up with things with you gone all the time." Amanda looked at her mother
staring at the TV, the pinched face, the down-turned mouth. Only
Lucinda's pale green eyes, as clear and penetrating as ever, evoked
memories of her past beauty. But now even the eyes seemed smaller,
slowly disappearing deeper into her head as extraneous flesh closed in
around them, like quicksand swallowing emeralds.

Amanda tried to remember when her mother had become so overweight,
throwing her once perfectly proportioned body out of whack, shrinking
her head so that she looked like a Henry Moore sculpture. It began when
she, Amanda, had moved in and Lucinda had rented, then purchased, the
wheelchair. That was it, thought Amanda. Any semblance of independence
had ended once Lucinda plopped her ass into that damned prison on
wheels. My prison, too.

"Let's have some dinner," demanded Lucinda. "I'm starved." Amanda
decided she would save the news of her triumph for later, when she had
her mother's full attention. She went into the kitchen, methodically
unwrapped two packages of diet chicken lasagna from the freezer, poked
holes in the plastic tops, and set the microwave for ten minutes. She
heard buzzing and thought at first it was the microwave, but realized it
was in her cars again. She would have to see a doctor as soon as she got
back to work.

She felt dizzy and leaned against the counter, then splashed water on
her face and rested. When the food was ready, she reentered the living
room, placed the dinners on the coffee table next to her mother's
wineglass, then sat down.

"Get me some more wine while you're up, child." Amanda stared at the
empty glass thrust under her nose, then at her mother's profile. She got
up, returned to the kitchen, and refilled Lucinda's glass. She handed
Lucinda her wine and sat down again. Her mother attacked the lasagna,
eyes still glued to the TV.

"I've got some really exciting news, Mother."

"Oh really? So do I."

"Okay. You go first, Mother."

"They fired two of your file-room people today," said Lucinda, calmly
dabbing her lips with a paper napkin.

"They what?"

"Amy and George. Mr. Pierce called, wonderin' when you're comin' back.
He says he's appointed some woman named Maria to take charge of your
department until you get back. He said somebody had to clean up the mess
that's built up while you've been absent."

"Mess? What mess?"

"When the cat's away  ..."

"He can't do that! First Nick, now Amy and George? I can't run the place
without them. And Marla} She's the bitch I told you about!" Lucinda
smiled. "They can do it and they did it. Didn't your mother tell you
what would happen if you went gallivantin' off to that trial? Just let
that be a lesson to you, young lady!" Amanda sunk back into the couch,
stunned and confused. The buzzing in her ears intensified, also the
clicking now.

Lucinda eyed Amanda's plastic carton of barely touched lasagna.

"You not goin' to eat that?" Amanda handed the carton to her mother.

"Now," said Lucinda, diving in, "what's your news?" Amanda rose to her
feet. "Never mind, Mother. I'm going to bed. I'm not feeling well."

"Hold on a minute. Take these empty cartons with you." Amanda felt the
blood rush out of her face. She sat back down, put her head on her
knees, sure she was going to faint.

"Why didn't you tell me when I first came--"

"Shush, child. Entertainment Tonight is startin'." Amanda staggered to
her feet and delivered the empty containers to the kitchen, then
retreated to her bedroom with her cats. She closed the door behind her,
feeling as if she were about to explode, every nerve ending ott fire.
She grabbed a handful ofphenobarb, washed them down with tap watef from
her sink, and lay down on her bed. i She picked up a book, but the words
were confused, jumping around the page with every heartbeat. She would
be working for Maria when she got back to Ward. That had been Pierce's
plan from the beginning. The bastard.

The bitch.

Maybe a hot bath would help, she thought, but that would mean
encountering her mother again on the way to the other bathroom.

She listened to the garbled electronic voices blaring from the living
room, picturing her mother staring bleakly at some stupid sitcom. She
remembered a movie or television scene from years ago where a TV set
sucked the viewer inside to a horrible fate. She envisioned the heel and
sole of a single shoe as the last thing seen as the body disappeared
into the vortex behind the screen.

Her skin was burning up, so she stripped off her clothes. She appraised
herself in the mirror over her dresser. Nearly a week without a workout
at her club. Her breasts seemed to sag. She ran her right hand down her
waist, picturing a headline in the National Enquirer: "Woman Trapped
injury Trial Gains Twenty Pounds on Thighs and Ass!" She pulled her
shoulders back, the breasts rose. She stood erect to narrow her waist.

A man enters her room. He sees she is naked and apologizes. His
admiration of her perfect body is clear, but clinical. He is a gentleman
and averts his eyes as she slips on a robe. "My name is Steven
Spielberg. I've come here to offer you the lead in a major motion
picture opposite Tom Cruise. I know this is short notice, but we start
shooting next week ... Fantasy had sustained Amanda all her life, but
now even that eluded her.

Why was Pierce doing this to her? Had someone informed on her for
telling a story to the jurors? Had the conspiracy against Field spread
to her own workplace?

She picked up the book again and struggled through three pages, but her
eyes stung with fatigue and she set it aside. Sleep eluded her too,
partly because of the ubiquitous TV gurglings and the electric hum
inside her head, like high-tension lines coiled around her brain. Even
the pills failed her. Her mind was in turmoil, a maelstrom of fear and
frustration.

Grace Harris was not surprised when Field told her she would
crossexamine Elliot Ashford. With all hope of a conviction gone, Earl
would try to distance himself from the case. Klegg would call it a
matter of "political expediency." She understood. It had always been his
case to win; her case to lose.

Now, sitting at the kitchen table late at night, she stared glumly at
her notes on Ashford and the most recent argument outline she had
drafted.

Nothing was working.

Focus.

It had all seemed clear at the beginning. Elliot Ashford had obviously
killed his wife in a jealous rage. But now, Ashford was but part of a
far larger problem. When the verdict was in, her trial would just be
beginning. She could not walk away from it, and Earl, supported by
Klegg, would fight back. All three of them would be finished in public
life by the time the smoke of scandal cleared. She would be seen as
complicitous by some, disloyal by others.

She leapt up and slammed the window down as if the unwelcome thoughts
had blown in through it.

Focus.

She poured a cup of coffee from the carafe on the kitchen counter.

It would be up to her to strike the right emotional note with the jury
at the start, to swing the pendulum of their collective opinion as far
as possible to the People's side of the case before Barrett Dickson had
his chance to stand and deliver, assuming Barrett Dickson was able to
stand when it was time for him to deliver. Despite everything, she
caught herself smiling at the thought of him. She could tell he liked
her. She wondered what he was like outside the courtroom ... Focus.

Amanda and Manon Barnes passed through the hall's outer courthouse door
at the same time the next morning. Manon smiled and fielded quesrions
from the press. No questions were asked of Amanda. No pictures taken.

A strange silence had gripped the jury room, and Amanda sensed a
palpable apprehension in the regular jurors as they contemplated the
solemn responsibility that would soon be theirs, the power of life and
death over another human being.

Members of a firing squad have the consolation of knowing that not all
their guns were loaded, but that solace is not available to a jury. At
the end, they would be "polled," and if their unanimous decision was
death, then each in his or her turn would have to stand and acknowledge
that his or her H-un was loaded and that they had chosen to pull the
trigger.

The bailiff did not appear at eight-thirty sharp, as promised by the
judge. Then nine o'clock came and passed with no message. The tension
turned into impatience, then irritation.

"This is the shits," said Barney Seagrave, glaring at his watch and
irritably flipping his ponytail. His expletive drew a rare critical look
from Ruth Salverson, but nods from the others.

"Cheer up, Barney," said Kevin Alston. "At least we haven't been
sequestered, or left in here days at a time not knowing what's going
on."

"Well," said Manon Barnes, "we don't have to guess what's going on.

Lani's late, and you can bet she'll hear about it." Two loud knocks
preceded the bailiff, who extended the court's apology for the delay and
beckoned them into the courtroom.

"I regret this delay, ladies and gentlemen," said Judge Hernandez once
they were seated. "You have noticed, I'm sure, that one of your number
is missing. It is my unhappy duty to inform you that Ms. Lani Jefferson
died last night." The jurors exchanged stunned looks. Even counsel
seemed shaken.

"I have been conferring with counsel," continued the judge, "and,
following a moment of silence in honor of her life and service here, we
shall proceed without farther delay." Reporters would write in the
following morning's Chronicle that the first alternate in line nearly
fainted when she was instructed to take seat number three. The judge had
to repeat her name, twice in fact, before she responded.

By the time Amanda had taken seat number three and had regained the
powers of observation requisite to the task ahead, she noticed that the
lawyers were discussing something with the judge at side-bar. When they
began to drift back to their places, Earl Field not only looked straight
into her eyes, he smiled-a moment she would cherish. The sensitivity and
restrained elation in his face wordlessly expressed his feelings: Yes,
Amanda, you are at last where I need you to be.

Amanda wanted to smile back, but was fearful that Dickson, Ashford, or
even another juror might see the feelings passing between them. The real
curse of a conspiracy, she realized, was in not knowing how far it
extended, who she could trust. So she shifted her gaze to the defense
table and saw that Ashford was also smiling at her, but not with his
eyes.

The bastard, she thought. Thinks I'm afraid of him. She would have her
work cut out for her, but knew she would hold out for conviction no
matter what they did to her.

The judge excused them for the morning recess, and Amanda turned to
survey the gallery as she stood up. Many eyes were on her now,
especially those of the press corps. An electric charge of excitement
raced up her spine.

As she turned to leave the courtroom, she stole another glance at Earl
Field, but he was talking to Grace Harris. Again, she found herself
locked in the gaze of Elliot Ashford. Before she could look away, she
was sure she saw a warning look in his cold eyes. Then, just as quickly,
he flashed the same malevolent smile she had seen before.

She looked to her left and to her right; surely somebody else must have
seen this! The audacity! And this time, damn it, it wasn't her
imagination! A shudder passed through her tense body, and she hurried
into the security of the jury room.

As the jurors filed out, Barrett slumped in his chair, assailed by mixed
feelings: sadness at the passing of Lani Jefferson, relief that she was
no longer on the jury, and a sharp pain at L-5. He made two notes on his
yellow pad: Get Lev to look into new juror A. Keller.

Call chiropractor A. Cheng're possible lunchtime appointment.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Lev, looking unhappy
and thrusting the early edition of the afternoon Examiner over the rail
in front ofbarrett's face. The headline read: ASHFORD JUROR MURDERED
Jesus, Barrett murmured to himself as he read that Jefferson had been
killed in the same manner as Lara Ashford, her carotid artery severed by
a thin, stiletto-like object. Someone had entered her apartment and
attacked her from behind while she was riding her exercise bicycle.

Barrett shuddered and fought off a familiar sense of dread as he read
on.

An "informed source" stated that the victim had also sustained multiple
puncture wounds to her breasts and genitalia nearly identical to those
suffered by Lara Ashford. The county coroner publicly speculated that
the murder weapon might have been a shard of glass. The medical examiner
said that the wounds would have to be carefully examined for the
presence of minute glass particles.

Heat engulfed Barren's body. He looked up at Lev. "You think it's a mob
hit? Maybe just some nut copycat?" "Neither one, Bear," said Lev,
shaking his head. "I think we got ourselves an equal-opportunity killer
for a client. Everyone could see Jefferson was pro prosecution, and
probably the forelady, too." "He can't be that stupid," said Barrett,
handing the newspaper back to Leviticus. He felt a pain stabbing his
stomach.

"You keep sayin' that, and maybe you're right," said Lev, his
intelligent brown eyes unrelenting, "though his character could use some
work." Barrett considered Lev's remark. "You really think he did it?"

"I suppose it's possible his Mafia connection didn't figure things were
going too well and they were the ones who stepped in."

"Ashford does business with the Mafia," said Barrett, suddenly feeling
uncomfortable. "You don't know he's 'connected."

"You do business with the Mafia, Bear," said Leviticus with an indulgent
smile that made Barrett feel naive, "you're connected. Joe Kennedy was
connected. People you wouldn't believe are connected. Means you give and
receive favors. I'm sayin' maybe Carmine felt guilty about benching Tony
and decided to send a message to the other jurors that they'd be wise to
see things your way." "My way," said Barrett, putting the paper down and
rubbing his temples.

"Even if that's true, it doesn't mean Ashford knew what was going down.
If Rizzo had Jefferson killed, it was done in his own financial
self-interest." Lev said nothing. Barrett started pacing. He realized
that he was being the advocate; that he was unwilling to accept the
possibility that his client, growing desperate in the wake of the Renee
Babcock disaster, had killed one juror to send a message to the rest.
His head throbbed in sympathy with his stomach.

Leviticus Heywood came through the gate and stood beside him near
counsel table. "It's called 'insurance," Bear," he said.

The bailiff reentered the courtroom. "Sorry, gents; got to lockup. Judge
just told me to let the jury go for an early lunch." Barrett managed a
nod. "Is the corridor clear yet, Lev?"

"You kiddin'? The vultures are circlin'."

"Fred," said Barrett. "Let us out the back way?" "Sure," said Fred.
"Take a coupla more minutes if you want."

"I disagree, Lev," said Barrett as Fred disappeared into the judge's
chambers.

"I think it was a copycat. It had to be a copycat. Nothing else makes
sense." Lev leaned closer. "Haven't you been watchin' your own client,
Bear?

Sure, he's tryin' to charm most of the jurors, but I've seen him givin'
some seriously hostile looks to a couple of the others. To most of them,
he's sayin', "I'm too sweet a guy to do such a nasty thing," but to one
or two others, he's sayin',"Better vote not guilty or you too could wake
up with glass up your ass." Different strokes for different folks."
"That's the basis of your insurance theory?" said Barrett, trying to
look bemused.

"Exactly. The man's wearin' a belt and suspenders. Makin' sure of at
least a hung jury just in case his charm fails him. But you go ahead and
think Mafia if it makes you feel better; just forget about all this
'copycat' business." Barrett got up and leaned against the rail.
"Rizzo's not that stupid either," he said. "Not with Gold telling him
how well it's going."

"Then we're right back to our boy doin' Jefferson his own self. Maybe
Arm and Ligretti doesn't follow national holidays, but I do believe his
story about Ashford showin' off to the boys in the outfit that first day
he got out.

Means, opportunity, and now, motive." Barrett gave Lev a hard look.
"Whose side are you on, Lev?" Lev grinned. "I'm on the side of truth,
justice, and beauty, as always." Barrett didn't smile.

"Open your eyes, Bear. Ashford, or someone actin' on his behalf, has
guaranteed you a jittery jury that will either walk him out the door or
hang up; if they hang up, he gets a retrial and a fresh start without
Renee Babcock."

"And time to find a real lawyer," said Barrett bitterly.

Lev laughed and said, "Sure! Try somethin' different." Barrett still
wasn't smiling. He was asking himself if Lani Jefferson would still be
alive if some asshole hadn't come into the case and freed Ashford on
bail.

After lunch, with rumors raging throughout the courthouse, Judge
Hernandez declared a recess for the balance of the afternoon, "in
deference to our deceased juror and the understandable distress we all
share." He then cleared his throat and added: "It has come to my
attention that some of you wish to have a full explanation of the
stories circulating around the building concerning the circumstances of
Ms. Jefferson's demise. I assume you have done your best to follow my
instructions to avoid such information, but I know that our cafeteria
line serves both fact and rumor. You are again instructed to avoid all
forms of news media, and in return I promise you that when these stories
have been either confirmed or repudiated by the police, I will provide
you with complete information concerning the exact circumstances other
death." "We gonna be sequestered?" said Barney Seagrave, surprising the
judge and the other wide-eyed jurors. They had been clearly instructed
to communicate with the judge only in writing.

John Hernandez smiled patiently. "I have carefully considered the matter
of sequestration  ...  Mr. Seagrave, is it? And I have decided against
it, at least for now." The jurors exhaled as one in relief.

"Meanwhile," continued the judge, "I must emphasize the importance of
avoiding media reports in any and all forms, particularly now.

"As well as the importance," he added with a wink at Seagrave, "of
communicating with me through the bailiff, in writing." Patches of
nervous laughter from the jurors relieved some of the tension in the
courtroom. But they looked uneasy as they filed out, except for a
grim-faced Clem Bell--bent from too many years toting a mailbag before
he was brought inside--who glanced toward Elliot Ashford and mumbled
something under his breath that sounded like "murdering bastard." Amanda
smiled at this and made a mental note as the jurors gathered their
belongings and headed for the elevators.

Amanda timed her exit from the building so that no other juror would be
too close to her, giving the photographers a clear shot.

Give us a smile, Amanda'. Her shoulder-length blond hair flew toward the
camera and came to rest over one shoulder. Hold it right there, Ms.
Keller, okay?

Her dark blue eyes glistened with an exhilaration not seen since just
before Sharon McPeak's fatal ski accident at Squaw Valley.

Later that afternoon, Barrett sat in Lev's cluttered office drinking
day-old coffee and looking sour. They were waiting for their client and
a final prep session before his testimony the next day. Lev got up and
flipped on the overhead fluorescents, then fell back in his chair.

He gave Barrett a worried look.

"City's gettin' too damn noisy," he said, getting up again and closing a
window.

Barrett nodded agreement, shifted his gaze to the north window, toward
Montgomery Street. A fierce wind off the Pacific had drawn a curtain of
fog against the dwindling daylight and cooled the Financial District
fifteen degrees in as many minutes. Commuters raced for cars, buses, and
BART rail, collars and lapels held tight against their necks. An
occasional break in the white mist allowed the setting sun to ricochet
high off the slanted windows of the Bank of America monolith, creating a
strobe effect against the backdrop of gray fog.

A chill hit Barren, too. Hit him square in the heart. He knew where Lev
kept his stash of Jack Daniel's and didn't ask permission.

"Sure you want to go there, pard?" said Lev.

"Just trying to improve the taste of this battery acid you call coffee."

"What's eatin' you, Bear?" Barrett gave him a wry smile. "My client," he
said, "and the remote possibility you might be right about him." The
door flew open and Elliot Ashford strode into the room.

"I'm late, gentlemen, so let's get on with it, shall we?" No one spoke.

"Well?" said Ashford.

"Why don't we start," said Barrett, a sour expression rearranging his
features, "with whether you know who killed Lani Jefferson?" Elliot
Ashford gave Barrett a wry smile, then turned his attention to lighting
a cigarette. "Don't insult me, old chum. Now, what can I do for you?"
Barrett drained his cup and stared into it for a few seconds.

"It's a simple question, Elliot," Barrett said. "Do you know who killed
her? Didyoa have her killed?" Ashford let out a burst of derisive
laughter, then glowered at Barrett.

"Listen, you horse's ass," he said, his eyes sparking with anger, "I
didn't come here to be asked absurd questions and be accused of murder
by my own idiot lawyer. Let's get this over with. I have to get down to
Atherton." Barrett put down his cup and rose to his feet, glaring at
Ashford.

"You intending to hit me again, old friend?"

"Maybe. Answer my question. A simple yes or no will do." Ashford took a
deep drag on his cigarette, flicked his ashes on the floor, snatched up
his cashmere topcoat, and moved toward the door as he spoke.

"No, damn it, I will not dignify that question with an answer. You and
your lawn jockey here can go to the devil. As for me--" ; Ashfbrd seemed
unprepared for the speed at which a man Dickson's size could move, and
before he could bolt through the door or Lev could come between them,
Barrett had crossed the distance between them, lifted the defendant by
the lapels, and pinned him up against the wall. He held him there with
one hand and snatched the cigarette that was still dangling from his
lips with the other, then held the glowing tip ofashford's cigarette an
inch away from his cheek.

"Smoking can be harmful to your health, Elliot," said Barrett through
clenched teeth, "as can smart-assing your lawyer. Do you know who killed
that juror?"

"No!" shouted Ashford. "Of course I don't. Now let me go!" "Put your
client down, Bear," said Lev, "like a good lawyer." Barrett grunted and
gave Ashford a shove into Lev's chair.

Ashford quickly collected himself and seemed surprisingly unruffled by
the experience.

"No doubt about it," he said to Leviticus as he straightened his lapels.

"The man is insane."

"I don't think he likes people smoking in front of him," said-Lev,
handing Ashford his glasses. "He's tryin' to quit." Ashford continued to
glower at Barrett. "Well, tell him to also quit being so damn crude and
physical." Barrett poured another JD and coffee, then took a seat across
the desk from Ashford and continued to stare at his client without
speaking.

Ashford looked pleadingly from Barrett to Lev, then back to Barrett and
said, "Really, now, Dickson, do you think I'm that stupid? Can't you see
somebody out there is trying to set me up?" Barrett sat sipping his
coffee, still silent, wondering what to do next.

Had he really expected anything other than a denial? And had he expected
that a denial from a liar like Ashford would reassure him? How many
alibi witnesses would he have this time? Why even ask? He rose to his
feet and reached across the desk toward Ashford, who quickly ducked his
head back out of range.

"Steady, 'old chum," " said Barrett with the hint of a smile. "I just
want one of your cigarettes." Ashford threw the pack on the table.
Barrett lit one, inhaled deeply, and said, "All right, let's get to
work." They were finished in two hours and Ashford eagerly rose to
leave.

"Don't worry about me, Dickson. I'll do my job tomorrow, you just be
damn sure to do yours." Barrett took a sip of his coffee, now cold and
bitter. "I'll do the best I ''an," he said, his tone gritty, "but from
this minute forward, I want you to lose all this lord-of-the-manor, 'old
chum," 'old man' crap and do exactly as I say. If I say 'hop," you're
the Easter Bunny, okay? If I say 'fly," you forget the countdown and go
airborne. If I say 'scat," you're out of here!" Ashford glanced at Lev
as if appealing for intervention, then met Barrett's iron gaze and said,
"I'm not paying you to--" "There's not enough money in Fort Knox,"
Barrett said, his eyes now burning into Ashford's, "so forget the
master-servant bullshit while you're at it. Are we in agreement?"
Ashford broke eye contact, then nodded.

"Say it!"

"All right, I agree, for God's sake!" "Good," said Barrett. "Now scat."

Amanda headed home from her fitness center in high spirits, still giddy
from the renewed attention of photographers, reporters, and courtroom
observers. A woman on the bus seemed to recognize her and this added to
her excitement. Still, she wouldn't miss the damn Muni bus system one
bit. In L.A., everybody had a car.

She got off the bus two blocks early and picked up some Chinese takeout.

As she walked the last block from the bus stop, the smell of the kung
pao and the warmth of the little cartons against her side added to her
resolve to make this a pleasant night. The Chinese food was for
Lucinda--her favorite--a celebration of sorts. Amanda could afford to be
decent now, with her departure just a matter of a few weeks at most. Her
future was now clearly laid out before her. There would be no defense
verdict now. They could berate, threaten, and torture; she would hold
out. No amount of money could buy her; nothing could coerce her. She
would stand firm.

Her heroism in breaking through the conspiracy would return her to
Hollywood, unless Earl somehow prevailed upon her to stay. She frowned.

There would be difficult choices ahead, but at least she had options
now, and maybe she could have both Earl and a career. Weren't there
several flights between San Francisco and Burbank every day?

She realized she was out of breath and slowed her pace. Had she put on
another pound? She had shopped tonight with that possibility in mind and
could almost taste the coriander in the small chicken salad she had
bought for herself. There would be time for an early morning workout at
Dave's Gym.

She twirled in a slightly self-conscious dance step as she entered the
flat.

Life was good.

"You know I shouldn't be eatin' Chinese," Lucinda said, scowling as she
greedily studied each carton, her lips drawn tight.

Amanda said nothing.

"It's way too fattenin', and you think I'm overweight already, I knoiv
you do. So what do you do? Bring me Chinese." Amanda carried two plates
into the living room, then watched as her mother began to shove pot
stickers into a mouth that somehow managed to continue dispensing
criticism as it gobbled up the little delicacies.

"Why not just feed me steroids like they use to fatten up cattle and
chickens?"

"I wasn't sure how you felt about having hair on your chest, Mother."
Lucinda growled, "Oh, she's a comedian now. Don't get too big for your
britches, young lady, just because you think you're goin' to be a star
again." Amanda stared at her mother in disgust. She should be out
celebrating, she thought, drinking champagne at Stars or Rose Pistola,
planning her public relations strategy. But who would she call? No
matter. Soon she would have plenty of friends.

She looked around at the cheap wallpaper, peeling at the bottom near the
chipped baseboard too warped to keep the cockroaches out. She took in
the fake art on the walls as if for the first time, the ceramic trolls
and nymphs, the worn plaid nylon upholstery on the time-ravaged chairs
and sofa, the East Indian rug that had been her grandmother's, its
garish colors unmuted by generations of abuse.

"I've got good news and bad news, Mother," she said, not really
expecting her mother to listen to her. "The good news is that we're
going to have money again." Her mother nodded.

"The bad news is I'll be moving back to L.A." "A star is born," said
Lucinda dryly.

Amanda didn't respond, just picked up her plate, dumped everything into
the sink, and hurried into the privacy of her room. She picked up her
trial journal and began leafing through the pages. Soon her good mood
was restored. By tomorrow, there would be a picture of her in the
newspaper, inaybe a profile. She touched an empty page in her journal
where the story 3nd picture would go. She smoothed the page with her
hand, picturing her photo, anticipating the story. She loved the grainy
feel of the heavy paper.

She found a picture of Earl and touched it too, her long fingers
caressing his face, his broad shoulders. The thought of masturbation
came and went; she was too tired.

It was only nine-thirty. Her skin still felt cool, her well-toned
muscles relaxed, the sounds in her head under control. She knew she
would sleep tonight, and without pills.

She felt more alive than she could remember.

Barrett Dickson had also reclaimed a semblance of optimism as he sat in
his apartment working on his closing argument. The reluctant advocate
would do the best he could for his contemptible client, despite Lev's
suspicions and the fear that bubbled under the thin skin of his new
resolve. Ashford's contrived sincerity would largely neutralize
Babcock's buffoonery, and leave the jury with nothing to go on but a
failed prosecution case, the Ligretti debacle, and the fact that the
most crucial evidence in the case had been either lost or destroyed. It
added up to a clear case of reasonable doubt, no matter what the jurors
really thought.

Jesus, he thought, I could -win this case!

Then, as he found himself doing a lot lately, he thought about Grace
Harris. So smart, so attractive. A decent person, who would have to bear
the burden of the prosecution's defeat. Field would see to that.

He would try make it up to her someday if she would let him.

Across town, in the Hall of Justice, Earl Field and Grace Harris met to
coordinate their closing arguments.

"We can't touch the Jefferson thing in argument," said Grace. "Clear
grounds for appeal." Field sat behind his desk, staring at his knuckles.
"Yes," he said quietly.

"Clear grounds."

"Are you all right, Earl?" Field managed a halfhearted smile. "Sure.
Just a little tired."

"We're not going to win, Earl," she said bitterly. "That's the good news
for your friends in Chicago, though it's bad news for the rest of
society, particularly the people of the state of California we
represent." Earl Field didn't react.

"On the other hand," she continued, "I don't think we're going to lose,
either. The worse-case scenario after I finish with Ashford is a hung
jury."

"You're that certain of a hung jury?" Grace said, "I am now."

"You're referring," said Field, his face still expressionless, "to the
solid holdout vote we've just picked up."

"As if you haven't noticed the way the alternate has been staring at
you?

"I've noticed," he said, forcing a tired smile, then stunned her by
adding, "but I don't want a hung jury, Grace. I want him found guilty."
Grace wasn't sure she had heard him right. She tilted her head but said
nothing.

"He--they--killed Lani Jefferson," he continued, angry now. "I'm sure of
it."

"A warning to the others?" Field considered the question for so long,
Grace wasn't sure he had heard it. "Jefferson was probably killed," he
said at last, "to warn me as much as the other jurors." Grace felt a
chill. "The 'bingo' crowd?" Field slowly rose to his feet and stared out
at Bryant Street, now bathed in darkness but for a row of streetlights
wrapped in fog and glowing like melting popsicles. A car horn sounded in
the distance.

"They deny it, of course, but natually they would." He laughed
ironically, pitifully, and added, "After all, I am still the district
attorney of San Francisco." Grace nodded. She didn't know what to say.

"I've got to get him, Grace. I've got to stand up: not only for Lani
Jefferson but for the man I was--or thought I was." Grace felt an
electric chill racing up her spine as Field turned toward her with
burning eyes. "I can't let that juror's death go for nothing. We've got
to bring it home to the jury that they've got to stand up now, too."
Grace nodded, but saw that he wasn't finished.

"You were right, Grace. About all of it. And I know you knew about the
missing evidence, the mob, the works. Thanks for hangin' in." Grace
shrugged to conceal the emotion she was feeling. "I wasn't really sure
at first," she said. "Then, when I was, I decided the important thing
was to try and salvage the case. After that, Earl, I was going to--"

"I know," he said. "I'd expect nothin' less of you." Then he cleared his
throat, squared his shoulders, and said, "But now I expect more of you
than ever before. First, there's got to be a way we can take advantage
of what those jurors must be thinking at this point." Grace tried to
clear her head. She wanted to know more but knew she would be better off
not knowing the details until later.

"Suppose we move to sequester first thing tomorrow morning," she said.

"The word will get back to the jury and confirm that someone is trying
to scare them and that we're the good guys trying to protect them."
Field nodded, "I like it," he said, "but we'd also be playing into
Ashford's plan by confirming they're at risk."

"But trumping his ace by sequestering." Field nodded, then smiled
broadly and said, "Okay, good. Let's find a way to stop this train
wreck, Grace, despite the fact I've pulled up half the i tracks." ;'

Amanda awoke early the next morning and began counting the minutes until
the trial would resume. Her brain reeled with anticipation as she
pictured the photographers who would be waiting for her, begging her to
look their way as she entered the courtroom today and every day until
the verdict of guilty was announced, a verdict she would have achieved
despite the forces against her. Amanda was vaguely aware of her penchant
for fantasy, but this time her dreams seemed to rest on the bedrock of
reality.

At seven, she heard Lucinda in the kitchen, making coffee, taking care
of herself again. She smiled, for this was the first indication that her
mother believed she was serious about leaving.

Amanda began her preparation. The hair would have to be perfect today.

And what to wear? She reached for her best Donna Karan knockoff. It was
low-cut but not shocking, and the dress nicely concealed her thighs
while revealing her fine knees and calves.

Two hours later, as Amanda entered the Hall of Justice, everything was
exactly as she had dreamed it would be: the cameras flashing and
whirring, the news reporters pleading for her attention, her name on all
their lips.

But again the jurors were delayed in the jury room, and when they were
at last called out, a silent alarm went off in Amanda's head. As she and
the other jurors filed into the courtroom, the air felt heavy with
tension. The judge was already on the bench, which was unusual. Dickson,
the big fellow, looked angry, and so did Ashford. That was good, but
what was going on?

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," Judge Hernandez began, "since
excusing you yesterday late morning, I have been in consultation with
the police and the county coroner almost continuously, for reasons you
can probably deduce. In addition, I have read notes sent by some of you
in confidence, and I assure you that in confidence they shall remain.

"That said, it is with great personal regret that for a variety of good
and sufficient reasons, I now find the necessity for, and do now
therefore declare, a mistrial in the case of People versus Elliot
Ashford." The gallery exploded as one in a mass declaration of shocked
denial. The gavel pounded impotently and Ashford slammed fists on the
table, drawing anxious looks from Fred and the additional bailiff the
judge had ordered in.

Most of the onlookers continued to shake their heads in disbelief.
Reporters rushed toward the corridor as if storming an enemy beachhead,
cell phones drawn. The expressions on the faces of Grace Harris and Earl
Field revealed nothing. The jurors looked at one another like shipwreck
survivors.

Except for Amanda Keller, who looked straight ahead, her eyes glazed
with shock, refusing to believe what she had just heard. Even as Judge
Hernandez summoned counsel to chambers--after he had thanked and excused
the jurors--she sat frozen in her cherished seat, staring straight
ahead.

There had to be some mistake.

In chambers, Ashford continued to rage until the judge finally lost
patience and threatened to have him removed. Dickson sat pale and
expressionless, the scaffolding of his newly constructed hopes
collapsing around him. He managed to renew his motions for the record,
urging the judge to recall and sequester the jury rather than dismiss
them. He then made a feeble double-jeopardy motion to protect the record
for appeal.

"Thank you, Barrett," said Judge Hernandez. "That motion is also denied.

I now mark and attach as exhibits for the record notes from five jurors
indicating their unwillingness to continue on the jury. Some had become
good friends with the deceased and simply cannot continue. The record
will also show we have only two alternates remaining, not counting Ms.
Keller, who became a regular juror yesterday. I must also say, Barrett,
that even if there were sufficient willing and able alternates, the
tenor of these notes is such that I would be doing your client a serious
disservice if I granted your motion and allowed the case to proceed to a
verdict."

"They think," said Ashford, roused as if from a trance, "they believe
that ..."

"I'm sorry to say it, and I apologize to you, Mr. Ashford, but this
jury, by virtue of their feelings for Ms. Jefferson, is seriously
tainted."

"Oh, Jesus, Jesus," murmured Ashford, his anger melting into despair.

"All right, counsel," said the judge, "barring any unforeseen motions,
retrial of the case will commerce in two weeks." Two weeks! thought
Barrett. No time to get new counsel and no grounds for extricating
himself. The sudden and cold grip of dread in his gnt made him forget
his sore back; made him forget everything, in fact, except that he was
now trapped in the complete retrial of a complicated case that would
demand something of him he no longer had to offer.

He glanced over at Grace Harris. She seemed to be reading his melancholy
state. He thought he saw her lips part as if to speak to him. She said
nothing, of course, yet something was conveyed in the look she gave him
in the silence. Something important.

His heart quickened despite his despair.

Thirty minutes later, the skinny bailiff came out to lock up the
courtroom and saw a woman still sitting in the jury box, back rigid,
hands on knees, eyes fixed in front of her. Juror number three.

"Sorry, ma'am," he said, "but you'll have to leave the courtroom now."
Amanda didn't seem to hear him. All she could hear was the buzzing in
her head, the sound of the electric coil as it tightened around her
brain. The bailiff repeated himself, then gently put his hand on her
arm. Her body jerked as if she had been hit with a cattle prod, and she
snarled at him to leave her alone, then pumped an inhaler into her
mouth, shook it twice, and dropped the empty container on the floor.

"I have to lock up now, ma'am. Everyone's gone." "They'll be back," she
said, then coughed twice.

"No ma'am, the judge has declared--"

"The judge will change his mind. He has to change his mind!"

"He won't be changin' his mind, Ms. Keller. The trial's over." But
Amanda no longer heard him. "I must be ready," she said, her eyes fixed
on the door leading to the judge's chambers.

The bailiff went to his phone at a table just inside the rail and dialed
chambers.

"I think we've got a problem out here, Your Honor," he whispered. "Juror
number three; you know, the alternate? She won't leave her seat. I think
she's a nutcase."

"Nutcases are your department, Ben. Handle it." Ben handled it by
calling for backup, and after token resistance, Amanda finally yielded
to the persuasive demand of a sheriff's matron, who escorted the dazed
woman from the courtroom.

"Are we in recess?" Amanda said.

"That's right, lady Recess." Alone in the corridor, Amanda looked both
ways but saw no one. No reporters, no crowds. Everyone was gone. She
turned around and tried to reenter the courtroom.

Locked.

She pounded on the door for five minutes, louder and louder, but there
was no answer.

In a daze, she finally left the courthouse. She managed to find her bus,
though she passed her transfer stop and rode to the end of the line and
back.

The driver eyed her but said nothing.

Amanda struggled for understanding but couldn't think straight. She
tried to remember what she should be doing. Someone had to clear up the
confusion at the courthouse and in her head, which sounded like it had
been invaded by a swarm of bees. She could feel the buzzing down into
her neck now, and rubbed it hard with both hands without result. Stop
it! she said, and several people turned in their seats to look at her,
then quickly looked away.

That night, Barrett sat alone in his apartment, phone off the hook, a
bottle of vodka his only companion. He had almost pulled it off, but the
death of Lani Jefferson would have consequences reaching far beyond her
immediate family: gone now was Mike Reasoner's ascendency to the firm's
executive committee, and with it, any hope of saving the firm itself.
Gone too was the hope of resuscitating his tattered professional
reputation, which somewhere along the way had assumed renewed importance
to him. Gone too was Ashford's clear shot at a defense verdict, which
Barrett, despite his suspicions, still believed he was entitled to.
Leviticus was wrong for once. Ashford neither did it nor had it done. He
and his associates would not have risked a possible mistrial on the
verge of victory; they would have made it look like an interrupted
burglary. Broken a window. Raped her. Something.

Yes, Lev had been wrong for once. The real murderer or murderers wanted
Ashford to be blamed for both Lara and Jefferson. That's why they picked
a juror obviously leaning toward the prosecution.

But who had killed Lara? One of her romantic dalliances? Senator Dwight
Clifton? A street lunatic? Someone jealous of her, a sister maybe?

The police hadn't tried very hard, but they hadn't turned up any obvious
enemies. Ditto Jefferson, who may have simply succumbed to the bent will
of a copycat killer.

He decided to change the water in Fred's and Ginger II's bowl. Fred
wasn't looking so good.

He poured more vodka into his glass, not noticing or not caring that the
last of the ice had melted. He just wanted this night to end, to escape
the pain of it.

But sleep would not come, no matter how much he drank. Someone knocked
on his door around midnight. Mike's voice. Television was off.

Lucky. Stay quiet. Mike's fist against the door, shouting "7 know you're
in there!" That's real original, Mike. Finally, footsteps retreating.
Have another drink.

At two-thirty, the misery had blurred into confusion and he staggered
into bed. But no comfort awaited him there, and after an indeterminate
period of time he gave up, got up, and realized he was still fully
clothed. Even his tie was on. Sort of.

He entered the kitchen and found two inches ofketel left. He'd have to
switch to tequila soon if sleep could not be found at the bottom of the
vodka bottle.

He found no sleep there, only nausea, then vomiting, on his knees
praying to the ceramic goddess, his hands splayed against the cold floor
tile. He stumbled out of the bathroom, slipping on the floor as he
ripped off his tie, soaking wet--how the hell did that happen--then
ducked his head into the kitchen sink and drank from the tap.

"I had it won!" he heard himself say out loud, then to himself: Sweet
Jesus, I had it won.

For some reason, the notion of DNA popped into his head and the thought
of it stabbed at his heart. What did he know about DNA? Absolutely
nothing. How could he do this without Menghetti?

How could he do this?

How could he?

How?

Finally, at 4:00 a.m., still slumped in his one comfortable chair, a
half-full glass of Patron tequila fell from his hand. Barrett had
finally pulled the shade on the second-worst night of his life.

Part Three.

THE WITNESS.

We are all prisoners of our childhood ...  -Alice Miller Anybody can
kill anybody. -Lynette

"Squeaky" Fromme The participants in the abortive trial had little in
common, but the question asked by each of them in the wake of Lani
Jefferson's murder was identical.

"Damn it, Julian," demanded Elliot Ashford, irritably pushing his plate
aside, "what the hell do we do now?" Although the meal at San
Francisco's famed President's Club was winding down, Julian Gold, who
never discussed business while eating, refused to be hurried.

"I'd suggest a 1967 Darroze Armagnac, Elliot," he said, dabbing his lips
with a napkin, "unless you want dessert first." Ashford scowled. He was
angry at himself for bringing the ugly, unsympathetic consigliere to the
club for lunch. Elliot Ashford loved his "downtown club," its
high-vaulted interiors, the sweeping view of the city, a chef who had
trained with Jacques Pepin in Paris, its male waiters, and even the
supercilious maitre d'. Ashford had promised himself that he would try
to put the case aside for an hour or two and let nothing detract from
the pleasure of his return to the club, but his patience was exhausted.

"Your humor is inappropriate, o'iend" said Ashford in his most sardonic
tone, "given the fact that I go back on trial for my life in a matter of
days, that I am without competent counsel, and that probably half the
country now thinks I'm a double murderer." Julian Gold sipped from a
glass of fine Petite Sirah, then managed a look of mock sympathy as he
said, "Come now, poor Elliot, you'll need a sense of humor before this
is over." Ashford angrily snatched up his wineglass, drained it, and
slammed it down on the table, drawing surprised looks from nearby
members. "I'm fed up with all of it, Julian: the thought of facing
another trial, the way people look at me  ..." Gold glanced up from his
veal chop and gave Ashford a look so unread3ble it might have passed for
either sympathy or disgust. He then pushed his plate away and accepted
coffee from the waiter.

"What about trying for a change of venue?" said Ashfbrd. "One of the
commentators on CNN mentioned that last night."

"Please pass the cream," said Gold.

It occurred to Ashford that the consigliere was intentionally testing
his patience, but at last he spoke. "To the extent you've still got a
power base, Elliot, it's right here in San Francisco. This story is
international now and you won't escape the reach of the press by moving
the trial to some cow county in California. And don't forget that Mr.
Field is getting his share of bad publicity from his bungling of the
first trial."

"All right. But I repeat: What do we do now? What do we do for a
lawyer?"

"You have a lawyer."

"I have a walking disaster."

"You also have no choice." Ashford started to protest, but Gold raised a
hand that commanded silence.

"The good ones are all too busy or don't want to step in with so little
time to prepare. The bad ones you wouldn't want, believe me."

"Christ, Julian, the sonofabitch nearly killed me two nights ago.
Practically accused me of murdering that juror. I may be naive, but
isn't a defense lawyer supposed to defend his client, not try to beat
him into a confession?"

"Listen, Elliot, for all his faults, Dickson's still smarter than any
criminal defense lawyer in town, and he knows the case, plus he remains
a friend of the judge, despite the problems with Mr. Menghetti. Even
more important, I watched the jury and they liked him. They saw he was
nervous, and they liked that, too. Most important of all, the man exudes
a certain fundamental ethical quality that trumps his other
shortcomings," Unable to summon up a rejoinder to Gold's litany, Ashford
signaled the waiter for another liqueur he didn't want.

Gold hunched forward and spoke in a quiet but intense voice. "Finally,
Elliot, you have no viable option. Simply put, you're stuck with the
bastard." Ashford twisted the empty glass in his hand, succumbing to a
deepening despair. He felt Gold's eyes on him, assessing him, as always.
Then he let out a sigh of resignation and said, "Will he do it? Will he
stay on?" Gold grunted and made a face. "When I asked him, he just
stared at me at first and said nothing. So I offered him a personal
million-dollar bonus it he won and a quarter million just for trying,
over and above what we pay his firm." Ashford shook his head. "I don't
think money's an issue with Barrett Dickson."

"Very insightful, Elliot. I'm impressed. So I also reminded him of how
Tony Rizzo had abandoned you, then I insisted you were innocent and told
him you merely wanted justice, nothing more, nothing less."

"Good. What did he say?" "He said:"Mr. Ashford is to justice as a dog is
to a hydrant."

"He didn't--" "He did," said Gold.

"Well, did he agree to do it or not?" "I suppose he did," said Gold,
gazing up Pacific Avenue at some street people at the Columbus
intersection, drinking out of paper sacks and arguing.

"How do you know?" Gold turned back to Ashford. "I believe his exact
words were:"It looks like I'm stuck with the bastard."

"What the hell do we do now?" shouted Lucinda, but Amanda said nothing.

She had spent the entire weekend sprawled with her cats across the couch
in their Noe Valley flat, watching television, struggling to hold
together the frayed ribbons of her sanity, and wondering why they had
done this to her.

Sometimes the electric current that surged through her body would stop
and she would sleep. Often, even her momentary slumber would be tortured
by her recurring dream of the man and the doll in the coffin. When she
awoke from her naps, she felt as if she had touched a third rail. At
times it seemed her heart was a generator, shooting charged blood
through her veins.

She wondered how it had all gone wrong. She had been so sure her jury
summons was a sign. She rechecked her astrological charts and everything
was in order. Who was to blame for this? The Mafia? Ashford? What had
she ever done to them?

On the third morning--Monday--she dressed herself, but she was too shaky
to leave the apartment. Lucinda called Harold Pierce to report that her
daughter was sick again and seeing a doctor.

"He didn't sound happy, Amanda. And I'm not happy either havin' to spin
tales for you."

"Screw him. And screw you too, Mother." Lucinda put a hand to her chest,
too shocked to say anything.

Back in her room, Amanda briefly considered actually seeing a doctor for
her pain, maybe going to the emergency room. But what if they kept her?

Like before.

She tried to reassure herself that she would be all right if she could
just get some rest. She knew she shouldn't be drinking, but the bourbon
seemed to muffle the humming of her veins. If only she could do
something to relieve the tight coil of wire in her skull that seemed
bent on electrocuting her brain.

She got into Lucinda's stash of cigarettes and started smoking again for
Ae first time in four years, worsening her asthma attacks.

At noon on Monday, Harold Pierce called and she made the mistake of
answering the phone. She told him she was on medication but expected to
be back to work soon. She couldn't get rid of him. He seemed to be
trying to draw her out, and the last thing Amanda wanted right now was
to be drawn out.

The phone rang again an hour later. It was the district attorney's
office calling to schedule a posttrial juror debriefing and interview,
so she took the call. For a moment, the request broke through the walls
rising steadily around her, but then she hesitated, realizing she
couldn't allow Earl Field to see her looking so unattractive.

"Leave me alone!" she shouted, then slammed the phone down and threw it
across the room.

"My Lord!" shouted Lucinda. "Have you gone crazy?" There was no answer,
and during the next few days, Lucinda gave her daughter wide berth. She
even began to prepare her own meals. Amanda ate little, caring only for
her cats.

Late Monday afternoon, Lucinda cautiously approached Amanda when she was
standing at the kitchen sink, wearing nothing but panties. Lucinda was
visibly appalled to observe her daughter drinking water direct from the
spigot and splashing it on her face, neck, and breasts.

"You've got to get back to work, Amanda," she said. "They called again
while you were asleep." Amanda considered that for a moment. People
calling when she was asleep. Talking to her mother.

"You never wanted me on that jury, Lucinda," she said, pointing an
accusing finger at her.

"Lucinda?" said her surprised mother. "You've never called me that,
child."

"It's your name, isn't it?" said Amanda.

"Why, yes, but--"

"So answer me, Lucinda," said Amanda, eyeing her suspiciously.

"Weren't you afraid the jury publicity would lead me back to Hollywood?

Away from you and this stinking rat hole of an apartment?" Lucinda's
face went totally blank with confusion. Amanda ordered her not to answer
the telephone again and returned to her room, now convinced her mother
was part of it.

On Tuesday morning, four days after the mistrial, Amanda awoke at 6:00
a.m., her head throbbing. She had finished her mother's bottle of Early
Times the night before, and her face was red and swollen. She heard the
Chronicle thump against the door, allowed time for the delivery boy to
clear the hall, then warily opened the door and picked it up.

The dizziness hit her the minute she tried to straighten up, sending her
staggering back inside and into the nearest chair. She looked down, not
at the paper but at the hands that held it. They didn't seem connected
to her. Is that a liver spot? She was too young for liver spots, but it
was her hand, it had to be. She clenched her fingers to be sure, then
violently shook them.

The liver spot was gone.

Reassured, she scanned the paper for news of the case. On page 3, she
read that Ashford's retrial had been scheduled to start the day after
Thanksgiving.

The last paragraph of the article noted that Earl Field would be
attending a Democratic fund-raiser at 5:00 that very afternoon at the
Hyatt Hotel.

Amanda let the paper slip to the floor.

Earl Field. Why hadn't he called her himself? Was he avoiding her? Was
he trying to protect her? She remembered the way he had looked at her
during the trial, the wholeness she had felt in his presence. Perhaps he
could lead her out of this mess, this state of confusion and pain. Help
her fight them.

She decided to attend her first fundraiser.

"So -what the hell do ive do now?" asked Earl Field the minute Grace
entered his office.

"We try him again, of course," Grace said, noticing that the D.A. looked
uncharacteristically haggard. What had happened, she wondered, to his
new fierce resolve?

Field didn't respond right away, just stood there in front other,
kneading the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other.

"Of course," he said at last. "But can we win?"

"You'd have trouble finding anyone in town taking bets against us, Earl.

The Examiner poll shows that most people think the man has now killed
two people."

"Do you believe that, Grace?"

"I don't know, but it certainly looks like someone was sending a message
to the other jurors."

"Or to us," he said.

"Well," said Grace, "what do you think we should do?" "I don't know what
to think anymore," said Field in a fatigued voice. He started to say
something else, then caught Grace looking at his fidgeting hands and
shoved them in his pockets.

"Maybe we should consider a deal," he said finally, forcing his eyes to
meet hers.

Grace felt her face reddening. "We owe the people of this city more than
that, Earl." Earl Field turned and walked behind his desk, where he fell
into his chair, swiveled toward his Bryant Street window, and stared out
at the darkening sky.

Grace shook her head and walked out.

As Barrett Dickson drove along Doyle Drive toward the entrance to the
Golden Gate Bridge, he said aloud to no one: "What the hell do I now?"
He had begun to hope--with no great assurance--that the Dickson Curse
was dead or that it had just been imagined or that it had simply passed
on to somebody else, like the strain of flu currently going around. But
a woman was dead, and if Ashford did do it, the demon curse was very
much alive.

He flipped the radio on, then remembered the aerial was broken. He
turned his thoughts to a trip he would take to New Zealand after the
retrial, when he had finished his real estate exams. He pictured himself
taking Grace Harris to a movie after he returned, getting to know her.
He made a note to call his piano teacher. He tried to take in the beauty
of the Bay to his right, the vast ocean to his left.

But a woman was dead.

He tried again to convince himself that nobody had more to lose from a
disruption in the first trial than his client. It was true, damn it!
Then he thought about seeing Lev and Mike in an hour or so for some
laughs and dinner in Mill Valley. Getting away from the city for a few
hours. Getting away from it all, if only for a while.

It was only four-thirty, but he had decided to drive on over to Marin
County and have a quiet drink or two at the restaurant before his
friends arrived. He glanced ahead at the storm clouds now crowning the
Marin Headlands, driven in by a hard wind from the direction of the
Farallones, slowing traffic to a crawl northward over the Golden Gate.
The weather suited his mood.

Entering Marin County, he gazed to the west, where acres of untamed oak
still ruled the ridges of the headlands. A few miles north of the
tunnel, however, the hillside had been domesticated into rows of condos
that erupted like sores on the face of the saddleback, condos he would
soon be selling to people with two cars, two kids, and nervous, hopeful
smiles.

Freshly paved asphalt roads and rogue patches of surviving forest edged
with buckwheat and Scotch broom separated one architectural travesty
from another. Adjacent virgin lands awaited approaching developers with
rape on their minds, while farther north, Mount Tamalpais--fog spilling
down through its ridges like waterfalls--towered regally beyond their
reach.

After their marriage, Barrett and Ellen had hiked up Mount Tarn one
spring day and made love near the top, sprawled and thrashing like
animals on dry golden grass without so much as a blanket. He recalled
the raw perfection of her body and a teasing sensuality that had ruined
him for anyone else. He could still see her tanned face, the sheen other
long blond hair as it fell toward her small breasts, brushing the tops
of his hands.

Then another face, a woman's face, crowded back into his mind; the face
that had dominated his thoughts for the past seventy-two hours. Juror
number three, Lani Jefferson.

Two dead women with nothing in common but himself.

His heart began to thump against the walls of his chest as he edged his
aging Mustang into the restaurant parking lot. He turned off the engine
and looked in the rearview mirror. His forehead was beaded with sweat.
He was out of the city now, but the demon cast a long shadow.

He entered Piatti at four in the afternoon and sat alone under an
umbrella on the patio in the rear of the restaurant, watching rain fall
on Richardson Bay. A dreary darkness already ruled the day, and by the
time Mike arrived at five-thirty, a state of melancholy ruled Barrett.

"You don't look so good, Bear," said Mike as they moved inside to the
bar.

"I'm fine," said Barrett. "Just a bit ravaged by reality perhaps." Mike
Reasoner took a quick look into his friend's unfocused eyes. "By vodka
is more likely."

"That, too. Allowing myself a drink or two before I resume training for
the Big Game. So buy me a drink, old baldy." Mike smiled and swung a leg
up onto a stool. "Being ravaged by reality hasn't improved your
manners." Barrett lit a cigarette.

"Or your already impaired discipline," added Mike, moving the ashtray as
far away as his arm could reach. "When did you start that again?"
"You're missing a great habit," said Barrett, smiling, but he could tell
that Mike was studying him, observing the misery in his eyes.

"Good to see you, Bear," said Mike at length. "Sorry about the mistrial.

You had it made."

"Good to see you, too, Mike," said Barrett, trying to shake off his
depression, "though you're as big as Goat Island. Fall off your diet
again?"

"This from a man to whom a six-pack and beef jerky is health food?"

"The temple of my soul is quite fit, thank you." The bartender served
drinks, and the friends sipped in silence for a moment.

"How about the soul itself?" said Mike. "What can I do to cheer you up?"
Barrett forced a smile and changed the subject. "How's Nancy?" Mike
shrugged and looked out a window. "No change, Bear. Not so good."
"Sorry," said Barrett, feeling a funereal silence drifting down on them.

He in the jaws of the demon, and Mike dragged down by thoughts of Nancy.
He could have kissed Lev's smiling face as he came charging through the
outer door into the bar area. They greeted each other warmly and Barrett
ordered up a bottle of Lev's favorite beer.

They talked 49er football and laughed about Lev's current problems with
his sister-in-law. Barrett asked Lev if he had heard about the cannibal
who said to his friend, "I really hate my sister-in-law." "No," said
Lev, "but I'll bite."

"One joke at a time, Lev. Anyway, the other cannibal says, "Hate your
sister-in-law? Try the potatoes."

" Lev howled and Barrett felt his mood begin to lighten.

"Let's talk about the trial, Bear," said Mike when they had been seated
at their table. "What do you see as the main problems and how can I help
you?" Barrett said, "The main problem is Ashford's lawyer, but some
things can't be helped. Next, there's the challenge of finding a jury in
a city where everyone suspects my client is mob-connected and may have
just nailed another victim."

"Let me amend that a bit, Bear," said Leviticus. "They don't suspect;
they know. And so would you if you opened your eyes." Barrett saw Mike's
eyebrows shoot up and said, "Mr. Positive Thinker here is convinced,
Michael, that our friend Ashford--or someone acting in his
behalf--killed one of my jurors in order to send a message to the rest."
Mike shook his head impatiently. "You don't know that, Lev," he said,
"and damn it, neither one of you should even be speculating about it.
That's not your job!"

"It's not speculation, Mike," said Lev. "The guy's a killer. Every time
I think I've found something in his favor, it turns out to be a lie.
I've seen the police files. I've watched him in court. The man's
guilty." Mike's impatience turned to irritation. "Barrett's an advocate,
Lev, committed to a client in an adversary system!"

"Well, I'm not," said Lev, his expression also beginning to betray
annoyance.

"I'm just an investigator, paid to deal in reality." "That's bullshit,
Lev," said Barrett, finally feeling his drinks. "You never wanted to go
up against Earl Field in the first place and you're feeling guilty now
that he's looking bad." Lev gave Barrett a hard look, then spoke so
quietly Mike had to lean forward to hear him. "Let's not be gettin' into
each other's unconscious motivations, Bear. You got your own special
reasons for needin' your client to be innocent of this one. Am I right?"
The truth of Lev's observation irritated Barrett. Lamely, he retorted:
"Now he's a shrink, paid to deal in bullshit."

"Jesus, you two," said Mike. "Will you listen to yourselves? A goddanui
jury of two, and a hung jury at that." Barrett let out a sigh and turned
toward Lev. "Listen, Lev, you might be right about me, but you're wrong
about Ashford. Sure, he's an asshole, but you believed Tony Rizzo when
he told you he was with him when Lara was killed, am I right? As for
killing Jefferson, trust me on this: Ashford knew he was going to win
with this jury. Whoever killed Jefferson also killed his chances for a
sure defense verdict." "For the moment anyway," said Mike before Lev
could respond. "His chances aren't killed, Bear, just delayed. You can
win this case, Bear." Barrett shook his head. "I was coasting on Al
Menghetti's handiwork, Mike, reading carefully prepared questions to
carefully prepared witnesses.

Edgar Bergen." Another silence.

"What about his blood, Bear?" said Lev, unwilling to let it go. "And
don't tell me you really buy Menghetti's shaving theory."

"Jesus!" shouted Mike. "Don't you guys ever quit? Let's eat something."

"Okay, I'll shut up," said Lev. "For now." "Good," said Barrett, and the
table went silent again.

"Listen, Lev," said Barrett in a tone of resignation. "Let's get the
blood issue resolved and see if you and I can get back on the same page.
I can't take on both of you and Grace Harris." "Fine with me," said Lev.
"How do we do that?"

"Let's try to retain that Nobel laureate Menghetti couldn't get the
first time." "Sandra Weiss?" said Lev.

Barrett nodded. "She's the top molecular geneticist in the field, right?

We'll get her to do a DNA analysis, both qualitative and quantitative,
okay?

Put the damn thing to rest once and for all."

"Sounds good," said Lev.

"Make sense, Mike?" said Barrett.

"Sure," he said, "as long as you're doing it to help your case; not just
to settle an argument that would be irrelevant if you were real
professionals."

"The professor never quits," said Barrett to Lev, and Lev rewarded him
with a smile that said they were still a team.

"Okay, I'll give up for now, Bear," said Mike, beckoning for the waiter,
"if we can feed that temple you were talking about." The mirror had been
unkind to Amanda's dissipated features, but she did the best she could
with extra makeup, then hid in the rear of the ballroom of the Hyatt
where Earl couldn't possibly see her.

The trip to the hotel had exhausted her, and despite her excitement and
the heat under her skin, she almost fell asleep during the brief opening
speeches. When Field was finally introduced, Amanda was saddened to hear
but a smattering of polite applause. Clearly, the trial had damaged his
popularity.

But not his good looks and dynamism. Depleted as she was, Amanda felt
the old stirrings, and waited to the end to steal a closer look as he
left the ballroom. But now he was coming directly toward her, looking in
her direction!

She feigned a coughing attack and buried her face in a handkerchief.

Then she heard his voice--that deep, sonorous voice reminiscent of a
time of hope and excitement--and realized he was talking to someone in
the row in front of her. She didn't dare steal a look at him, but just
hearing his voice was enough to momentarily still the buzzing in her
head and fill her with a budding optimism, the possibility of a new
purpose.

Perhaps the jury summons was not a false sign after all; perhaps she had
simply misread it. The astrological charts had confirmed that her life
was about to be dramatically altered, and she had jumped to the
conclusion that a return to Hollywood was being foretold. Could it be
that the reason she had been summoned to the trial was not to step
backward into daytime television, but forward into the arms of this
great man. Perhaps the simple act of accepting his love would allow her
to fulfill her true destiny.

The voice retreated, and she looked over her shoulder to see a
lightskinned African-American woman take Field's arm at the door. Amanda
recognized the woman from television as Terry Morgan, his fiancee. She's
attractive, Amanda thought, but far from beautiful.

Amanda's expression hardened as she watched Terry Morgan reach up and
straighten his tie, then touch his lips with a finger. Amanda's eyes
followed them as they walked off together toward a waiting limousine.
She studied the woman's thin legs as she strode beside Field, her skirt
provocatively tight.

Who do you think you are? came the voice inside her head.

She left the hotel and took a long walk. It was time to pull herself
together, to regain her looks.

The next day, Amanda attacked the machines and weights at her fitness
center with a masochistic vengeance. Within days, still claiming sick
leave from Ward and Company, she began to feel strong again and could
see the puffiness around her face disappearing. She still didn't look
good enough to permit Earl Field a close look, but she began to take
pleasure in viewing him from a distance; easy to do, for his schedule
was a matter of public knowledge.

She soon became familiar with his daily routine, close friends, and
favorite eating places. After less than a week of this surveillance, she
could practically predict which shoes he would wear on a given day.

During the hours when Field was out of her sight, she continued her
rigid regimen, and when the full-length mirror told her it was time for
the next step, she made an appointment to meet Field in his office. This
was also easy, for she had been a juror on the first trial and had
"information that might be helpful in the retrial." She chose her words
carefully. She could trust no one but Earl now.

Nothing was left to chance in her preparation. She recklessly spent a
large part other dwindling savings on a new dress, a facial, and a
massage to compliment her restored figure. Then she had her teeth
bleached, her nails manicured, her legs waxed, and her hair coiffed.

She was ready, and none too soon, for it was her last day of sick leave
and tomorrow she would have to return to work.

Amanda entered the reception area of the San Francisco district
attorney's office on the third floor of the Thomas J. Cahill Hall of
Justice building.

Receptionists peered out at her from behind two protective windows,
speaking through metal-louvered holes in the plate glass. They reminded
Amanda of cashiers in a movie theatre.

Amanda took a seat, and within minutes a secretary beckoned her through
a door and down another hallway, then past a rabbit warren of cramped
offices. She noted the name "Grace Harris" on one of the few such rooms
containing only one desk. At the end of the hall was the D.A.'s large
office. The opulence of Field's office by contrast with the sparseness
of those she had passed was impressive.

"Hello, Ms. Keller," said Earl Field, smiling warmly the way he had
dur'ng the trial. He extended his hand and added, "I appreciate you
coming." Amanda caught her breath as he took her hand in his. He was
even more handsome than she remembered. She said thank you--which
sounded stupid as soon as she had said it--then smiled back. Her heart
was pounding.

She noticed that his hand was warm and felt large for a man his size. He
seemed reluctant to release hers. There could be no doubt that he still
felt the same attraction she did.

Amanda's script called for her to begin by conceding that his case was
in trouble and that the mistrial was a blessing. Field nodded in
apparent agreement with this observation, but said nothing. She kept
talking, but he seemed to be waiting for something more, more than she
was offering him.

She volunteered her impressions of the other lawyers. She discussed the
personalities of some of the other jurors: what worked with them and
what didn't. She reiterated that most of them seemed to be leaning
toward reasonable doubt.

"Yes," said Field when she had run out of points to make, "Investigator
Quon's interviews with the others generally confirms what you are
saying, Ms. Keller. We were definitely in trouble. I'm afraid that Ms.
Jefferson's death, though regrettable, was not entirely without
purpose."

"But you've had so much experience," Amanda cooed, turning to a positive
mode. "Even if there had been no mistrial, I'm sure you would have
turned things around somehow." "Perhaps," he said, then with a
dismissive shrug added, "perhaps not." This wasn't working. Script
change.

"I saw you at the fund-raiser last month," she said. "Your speech was
wonderful." Amanda going personal.

"Thank you, Ms. Keller," he said, sounding so businesslike! That was
all, just thank you. Then he added, "My secretary thought you might have
some unique suggestions for the second trial." Amanda flushed. He was
supposed to have forgotten about the trial by this point in the scene.
Why was he acting so distant? Were they being watched? Her thoughts
raced.

"Well," she said haltingly, "I think you should personally handle all
the cross-examinations next time. Ms. Harris is a fine lawyer, but,
well, she's not you." He nodded, but somewhat ambiguously. Waiting.

"And  ...  let's see. I think you should shorten the confusing DNA
testimony." He nodded perfunctorily.

"Well," she said, feeling perspiration forming at her hairline. "I could
tell you where each of the other jurors stood in the first trial."

"We already have their detailed interviews, Ms. Keller." Nothing she
said seemed to interest him. She heard herself talking faster. Her
throaty tone had crept up a half octave. He glanced at his watch.

She began making things up; things that the other jurors would never
have told an interviewer because they weren't true.

"Most of the jurors would never admit it," she said, "but we believed
Arm and Ligretti." He nodded.

"We all hated Mr. Menghetti. Most of us didn't trust him." He nodded
again.

"Dickson seemed to be angry at everyone. If he's still on the case next
time, you'll have no trouble." Field continued nodding politely as she
babbled and on, attributing her own personal reactions to a majority of
the others, but not once did he so much as pick up a pencil. She told
him it seemed a bit warm in the office, and he politely reached behind
him and flipped a switch. She kept talking.

He swiveled back and forth in his chair. She couldn't seem to connect
with him, no matter how many times she flashed her best smile, moistened
her lips, or allowed her skirt to hike up well over her knees as she
recrossed her fine legs.

Finally, he glanced at his watch again.

"Ms. Keller," he said, "I very much appreciate your effort in coming in
to see us. Rest assured that I will consider your remarks quite
carefully." Was he concluding the interview? She felt herself losing
focus, just when she needed it the most.

"When," she asked, as if she hadn't just read the answer in the
afternoon Examiner, "will the retrial begin?"

"Just after Thanksgiving," he said, "and next time, because of good
citizens like yourself, I think we'll have something to be thankful
for." Citizens like yourself? He sounded as if he were making a
political speech. Her annoyance grew. Didn't he realize the risks she
had taken for him? She felt a drop of perspiration skidding down between
her breasts. Her face was hot and she wondered if her forehead was
shiny. Perhaps she should excuse herself, powder her nose, regroup.

"Ms. Keller," he said, filling the brief silence, "I do thank you for
coming in." My God, he was standing up! She felt her nervousness giving
way to anger, but knew she must try to conceal it. There must be a
reason he was concealing his feelings for her. She must be patient.

"Please," she said, subduing her frustration, "I wish you'd call me
Amanda."

"Amanda," he said simply, and extended his hand.

It was over. He was kicking her out of his office.

Who do you think yon are?

As she stormed through the door, Grace Harris was in the hallway,
wait'ng to come in.

"What was that all about?" she asked.

Field shrugged. "That was the alternate," he said, shaking his head.

"Keller, I think her name was."

Never one to suffer rejection lightly, Amanda surprised herself this
time.

Instead of resorting to the aid and comfort of pharmacological
pacifiers, booze, recreational drugs, or attempted suicide, she returned
to her job instead. Between her attendance at trial and a week of sick
leave, Amanda had been absent from Ward for more than a month.

Morale at Ward was at an all-time low, and Maria, the new girl, was more
impossible than ever. The only thing that kept Amanda going was her new
strategy. Having convinced herself that the abortive meeting with Earl
had been little more than a "tiff" of her own making, she resolved to be
more direct with him. Next time, she wouldn't just sit there like a
stone, telling him things he already knew. She would reveal what she had
tried to do for him with the regular jurors, the incredible risks she
had taken.

She would also be sensitive to his insecurity, remembering something she
had read about black men with beautiful white women in Cosmo or
somewhere. She would tell him he need not be either afraid or resentful,
that she understood and accepted his feelings completely.

The minutes dragged on like hours until five o'clock delivered her out
of the hated office and into Dave's World Gym. Members at Dave's had
always regarded her wdth admiration, but now her displays of physical
strength elicited wonder. The once shy Amanda no longer needed to ask
whether she could work in with someone on an exercise machine; it was
hers for the glancing. No-necks and pencil-necks alike watched in awe as
she directed her frustration with home and office into violent assaults
on the welded steel, momentarily pulling and pushing herself out of
reach of the languor of depression.

She would look much better for her next meeting with Earl, she thought,
curling a fifteen-pound dumbbell at the end of each arm. She wouldn't
rush it this time, she promised herself as she completed three sets of a
bench press--twelve reps--at 120 pounds.

The morning paper reported that Judge Hernandez had relented and allowed
the defense an additional three weeks' delay for the start of the
retrial.

This would mean that Field would not be locked up in court again until
mid-December. She would be ready next time, and on Christmas Day, she,
not Terry Morgan, would be showing off his ring on her finger.

On Tuesday, November 18, with less than three weeks before the newly
scheduled retrial start date, Grace Harris drove home in high spirits
for the first time in weeks. She had just hammered out an arrangement
with Earl guaranteeing her an equal role this time.

Trying cases was like other contact sports. Getting into the flow of the
game off the bench was difficult, and like other top trial lawyers,
Grace liked to establish a rhythm in the courtroom from the moment the
panel of prospective jurors filed into the rear of the courtroom. So
this time, she and Earl Field would share jury selection, split the
opening statement, then alternate witnesses between them during the
prosecution's case-in-chief. She would be stuck with the boring blood
work again, of course, but would streamline it even more for the
retrial. If Ashford were foolish enough to take the stand, she would
cross-examine him.

Earl seemed himself again, so they would present a formidable team
against a man who had never won a criminal case, representing a man the
world believed to be guilty. There was but one problem.

"Jefferson was killed to warn me," Earl had told her, "not the other
jurors." The one problem was that either or both of them might be
killed.

Grace was surprised that Aaron was not at the apartment. It was Monday
night, their special time together, when, trial or no trial, exams or no
exams, they dined at Sponger's across the Bay. He'd drink beer out of
her bottle when the waitress wasn't looking, and they would laugh
together, sharing more than just bottles of beer.

No note, no message on the machine. She felt panic rising in her.
Jefferson was killed to warn me. Earl had said.

At eight-twenty the phone rang. It was Otis Gordon, a narcotics
inspector who had testified in several of her early cases. All he had to
do was identify himself and she knew what was coming.

"Your son has been arrested, Ms. Harris. Want to talk to him?"

"How much?" she asked in a weak voice, half relieved, half angry.

"A quarter of a gram. About four major toots."

"Cocaine?"

"Yeah. Cut with baby powder and juiced with speed." She felt the air
desert her lungs, saw her fingers go white on the phone.

"W-was my son holding?"

"No. Well, not exactly. Patrol found it in the glove compartment of a
car driven by a kid named Benson, registered in his father's name."

"Ryan Benson? Shit, Otis, his father's Lowell Benson, the judge in
Juvenile."

"Tell me about it. You want Aaron?" Grace felt dizzy. "I'll b-be right
down. What does he say?"

"He admits he chopped down the cherry tree. Knew the stuff was there,
but hadn't used it. Told us to check his blood if we didn't believe him.
Points for being a stand-up on knowledge. Ryan lied at first, claimed
the Phantom must have put it there." Grace felt her way into a chair as
if blind. "Will my son be charged?"

"We're awkward here, Ms. Harris. If both had disclaimed any knowledge,
we'd have had to haul in the registered owner of the car. Guess who?

The press would have loved that one, so needless to say, the judge is
seriously grateful to Aaron for his candor that eventually led to young
Ryan comin' across too. Judge came down here, talked to both kids,
concluded that Aaron hadn't used, and told me to get him the hell out of
here."

"And his son?"

"Judge told me to throw the book at him. So I threw."

"I'll be right down." Later, Grace and Aaron rode in tense silence over
the Bay Bridge toward Sponger's, already adorned in Christmas lights.
All six lanes were clogged with late commuters and early shoppers, which
made the trip seem endless for both of them. It was probably stupid to
have gone ahead with the plan, thought Grace, but she was determined not
to allow this or anything else to break their routine. At a time like
this, routine seemed important.

Grace had asked him the mandatory questions, throwing in one or two she
thought a father might have asked. Aaron's answers were flatly delivered
and typically honest: Yes, he knew the cocaine was in the glove
compartment.

No, he hadn't bought it. Yes, he had tried a little of it the week
before to see what it was like, and no, he hadn't volunteered that
information to Inspector Gordon.

By the time they hit Yerba Buena Island, Grace was fighting tears of
anger, trying to think how best to deal with all this. She could see
Aaron's occasional glances her way in the sliced fluorescent lighting of
the Bay Bridge's lower deck, but neither said a word, even when they
were in the restaurant's waiting area, where the decibel count rendered
normal conversation impossible anyway.

Once they were seated at a table and Grace was sipping an
uncharacteristic martini, Aaron finally spoke.

"You didn't have to bring me here tonight," he said, making that
maddening sound in his throat. , "Force of habit." The accidental phrase
lingered between them.

"I'm not a junkie," he said, "if that's what you're thinking."

"That's good."

"And I'm not goin' out of my way to screw you up. Shit just happens
sometimes." Grace brushed hair back out of her face. "No, Aaron, shit
doesn't 'just happen." People mindlessly make it happen, then find some
excuse for why it happened to them." Aaron looked off to the side,
though there was nothing there but a wall.

"My skill and training is putting people away for committing crimes. I
don't have a clue how to prevent kids like you from committing them in
the first place, but I'll be damned if I'll sit here and listen to you
try to explain it away by mouthing something you saw on a bumper
sticker."

"Geez, you talk like I'm some fucking serial killer. I'm just a kid in
the wrong place at the wrong time."

"And I'm just a mom trying to be an adequate set of parents. You don't
make it easier by experimenting with illegal substances and then blaming
fate!" Aaron offered his deep-throated grunt. "I was just curious. I'm
not doin' crack or smack; just a joint now and then and some beers."

"That you steal if you have to," she said, giving him a hard look. "That
was last time. This time it's drugs. Next time, Aaron, you are on your
oisnv Aaron returned her look with his father's hard eyes. "I'm that way
most of the time right now," he said.

Grace stared at her son. A shudder passed through her. She took a deep
breath and pushed away her half-full martini.

"I won't leave you on your own, Aaron," she said after a full minute of
silence.

"And when this trial is over, we'll start over, too."

"That's what you always say, Mom. Sorry, but I don't believe you
anymore." Amanda finished applying her makeup, then gave herself a
critical evaluation from various angles, her cobalt blue eyes searching
the mirror for the slightest imperfection. She raised one eyebrow. Good.
Give him that one. She also liked the half-smile look, with her chin
tilted slightly up and to the right. Perfect.

Well, almost. What would she wear? She was nearly broke and would have
to make do with what was in her closet. Her spending spree before the
first meeting had wiped out all but $1,100 other savings--barely enough
to cover next month's rent. Her Visa card limit would yield another
thousand to handle her food, fitness center, and incidentals. She would
worry about that tomorrow, after her meeting with Earl. Who knows? A lot
could happen in a month. If things went well, she might never have to
work again.

Slipping on a bathrobe, Amanda placed a call to the district attorney's
office. She took a deep breath and tried to steady herself. He was "in
conference," but the secretary dutifully recorded her name and number
and assured her he would return the call. Amanda thought she detected a
slight hesitation in the secretary's voice on hearing her name, and
tried to remember if she had been rude to anyone on her way out last
time.

The hours dragged by without a callback. When she could wait no longer,
she tried again.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Keller, Mr. Field is still in conference." With great
effort, Amanda assumed her sweetest telephone manner.

"Perhaps you can help me then. I was a juror in the--"

"Yes, Ms. Keller, I know who you are." Bad sign, but Amanda plunged
ahead. "I've learned something of great importance to the retrial. Can
you schedule an appointment? Perhaps later today?" There was an instant
of silence, then, "I'm sorry, Ms. Keller, Mr. Field is blocked solid
with the Ashford retrial starting soon. But I'll certainly tell him you
called," said the secretary, then added, "again." "Thank you," said
Amanda, "you do that." Amanda stroked her temples, tried to relax. Who
does she think she is? A clicking had started in her ears. Stop it! She
decided to take a Valium before it turned into that damn electric
buzzing sound again. An hour passed, then another, as she paced around
the house, drawing irritated glances and occasional remarks from her
mother.

"You're determined to wear out the carpet today, Amanda."

"I'm thinking, Mama."

"Thinkin's got you into one mess after another. Why don't you just go
make us a nice cup of tea."

"Do it yourself," Amanda said. "I've got to meet Earl Field."

"Earl Field? What does he want with you?" Amanda turned at her bedroom
door, met her mother's challenging gaze, and the words just came out:
"It happens, Mother, that I'm seeing Earl."

"You're what?

But Amanda was off to her bedroom. She quickly dressed in the skirt and
jacket she had laid out--one she had never worn to court--took a final
look in the mirror, and caught a cab to the Hall of Justice.

Twenty-five minutes later, Grace, Sam Quon, and Earl Field were inter- ,
rupted in the middle of a planning session by Field's secretary. % j
"Sorry, Chief," came his secretary's voice over the intercom. "It's the
Keller woman again, sir. Reception and I are running out of excuses."
Grace gave Field a you-sly-devil look.

Field rolled his eyes and waved her away. "Start over with the old ones.

And tell her not to call back."

"But she's here, Mr. Field. In the lobby."

"Have someone else take a statement from her." Grace covered a smile
with her hand. Field turned his back on her.

"She refused." "Then let her sit," he said coldly, and switched off.

Grace said, "Well, Don Juan, you might have at least offered her a cold
shower."

"I think she needs a straitjacket."

"Order one for me. My son was busted last night." Grace shared her
nightmare with Earl and Sam, then told them she had called her parents
and they had agreed to take him for a few weeks.

"To Florida?" asked Sam. "What about school?"

"I've made arrangements for home study there," she said. "We need a
break from one another." "It's a wise decision," said Field, giving her
a knowing look.

"He's still in conference, Ms. Keller," said the receptionist. "I'm
sorry, but are you sure one of the investigators couldn't help you?"
"Thank you, no," said Amanda, wondering if the woman could see the
throbbing in her temples and throat. "I'll just wait. Please tell his
secretary that it's really quite urgent." The receptionist shrugged.
Amanda sat down again and tried to look relaxed.

The receptionist wore tinted lenses and Amanda couldn't see her eyes,
but she suspected they were studying her now. Maybe others were
watching, too. She scanned the area for a hidden camera lens. The veins
under her skin had begun to buzz again. She was reminded of the sound of
the high-tension power lines that used to run over her school yard.

At 3:30 p.m., the receptionist made a final attempt to discourage
Amanda's vigil, but Amanda remained resolute. Finally, a
matronly-looking secretary emerged from a large inner office space.

"I'm afraid Mr. Field had to leave the office, Ms. Keller. There was an
emergency in the Family Support Bureau, and he had to run out with his
security team. He told me to apologize, and asked me to take down your
information."

"He's gone? How can that be? I've been waiting right here! Didn't he
know I was here?"

"I'm sorry, but ..." The woman kept talking, but her words floated
toward Amanda like snowflakes and vanished on contact. Amanda tried to
rise, but felt cold and dizzy and was aware that her upper body had
pitched forward in the chair, her head between her legs. She could also
see that the woman looked concerned and was probably saying something to
calm her down, but her words didn't register. Amanda felt nauseous and a
searing pain shot into her head.

She had to get up. The receptionist was saying something, too. Amanda
got to her feet but swayed, besieged by vertigo. Suddenly the floor
rushed up toward her, then a blast of light. Then darkness.

She heard voices. Was she on the floor? She watched her own hands doing
something in front other, reaching for something. Ah, the umbrella.

I'm going to die right here in his office, she thought, and yet I won't
forget my fucking umbrella. Mama will be proud. Your daughter passed
away today, Ms. Keller. She's in the city morgue. Really? Did she
remember her umbrella? That girl would forget her head if it-- Now
someone was holding the umbrella over a casket. Amanda looked inside and
it was her father and herself as a child. Whoever held the umbrella kept
repeating her name, over and over. She opened her eyes and saw several
tense faces looking down at her, then realized she had fainted and was
lying on the floor. Someone had put a coat under her head.

"How long  ...  what happened?"

"Can you tell us whom to call, Ms. Keller?"

"Do you have a regular physician, ma'am? A family member?"

"Stand back," a man's voice shouted. "Give her some air." She rose to
her elbows, feeling thoroughly humiliated, certain that her skirt was
above her thighs, revealing her absolutely worst feature. She gave her
head a shake and said, "No, thank you  ...  a taxi, please." As she was
helped to the elevator, Earl Field observed the scene from his vantage
point in the outer hallway.

Amanda dragged herself to work the next day, but despite the persistent
buzzing in her head, she could hardly stay awake. She drank cup after
cup of coffee and tried to maintain focus, but a single question now
dominated her thoughts: Why were they keeping her from Earl? Were they
afraid his love for her would somehow hurt him politically?

At lunchtime, Amanda returned to the Hall of Justice and stationed
herself at the main entrance in hopes of catching him as he left for
lunch. It was no use, and after more than an hour of watching, she was
sure someone was watching her. She would have to be more resourceful.

She called in sick again, knowing her pay would be docked this time. No
matter. She rented a car, and for the next few days began watching the
district attorney again without his knowledge. It was easier this time;
she knew his routine. She would follow him from his home in Pacific
Heights to his office at 7:00 a.m., then again as he made the rounds of
the outlying offices.

There would be trips to grocery stores, to clothing stores, to the
library-- where he once spent thirty minutes without anyone seeming to
recognize him--to a golf driving range, to the British Motors service
department on Van Ness for servicing of his 1997 Jaguar V8 convertible,
to lunches with friends, to a dental appointment.

She longed to feel his arms around her. She sometimes acted as if she
could talk to him from a distance, about her feelings for him, her plans
for them. She tried to plant things in his head telepathically, and
once, during a speech, she willed him to look in her direction and he
had.

Her power was growing, but so was the clicking and buzzing in her head.

At night, she would watch real-life dramas on TV with Lucinda. She
sometimes felt like a character in the story, and when the drone of the
electrical current occasionally thrummed all the way into her brain, she
wondered if she was real or merely a figment of someone's imagination.

One night, she came home late from following Earl to a fundraiser where
she had fallen off the wagon and was exhausted. She decided to go
straight to her room. Lucinda, absorbed in a rerun of The Equalizer,
hardly acknowledged her presence. That was good.

Amanda headed straight for the medicine cabinet. She knew that the
combination of phenobarbs with alcohol was potentially damaging, but so
was her pain. The veins in her throat pulsated as if crawling with
vermin.

Lucinda seemed to sense her weakness and grew bolder. Amanda could hear
the wheelchair squeaking toward her door. "Amann-dahh," she sang.

"You don't have Earl Field in there with you, do you?"

"Shut up, you withered old bitch!"

"Oh, my, please excuse my daughter's language, Mr. Field. Hah!" Amanda
felt the chords in her neck aching from anger and restraint.

How she hated that woman.

"And please be gentle, Mr. Field," Lucinda shouted as she wheeled away,
issuing a mirthless cackle.

Amanda rose from her bed and took a Demerol. She picked up her trial
scrapbook, looked at her own picture taken the day she became a juror,
then cursed and threw the book across the room, sending her cats
scurrying into hiding and eliciting another sarcastic outburst from the
living room that she couldn't hear over the din of the TV.

Sleep did not come, but by eleven-thirty the pain had slackened a bit.

She retrieved her scrapbook and looked longingly at the photos of Earl
Field. She touched his face, still sure of his love for her. There must
be a good reason he was concealing his feelings for her right now, but
why hadn't he at least called her? She was being tested, she realized,
and would just have to be understanding until it was time for the
ultimate truth--her life-altering destiny--to be revealed to her.

The pain was definitely easing now and she was thirsty. She crept out of
her room and stealthily entered the kitchen, keeping an eye on the back
of her mother's head. She hadn't made a sound, but Lucinda spoke out
loudly without even turning her head from the image of Jay Leno in front
of her, her voice oozing sarcasm.

"Amanda, why not bring Earl out to sit a spell?" Amanda said nothing at
first, determined not to allow her mother to vex her now that she was
finally feeling drowsy. But then she turned and saw the back of
Lucinda's small head, the thinning, dyed hair, jiggling from laughter,
not at Jay Leno, Amanda knew, but at her.

"It so happens, Mother," she said, stepping out of the kitchen into the
living room, "that Earl is very much in love with me. There are reasons
we're not together yet, but when we are, don't expect to be invited to
live with us." Lucinda let out a loud, caustic cackle. "Wouldn't want
to. Be too crowded with you and his new wife Terry Morgan there with her
three kids." Another peal of laughter. "Watch the ten o'clock news once
in a while, Amanda. Earl Field's going to be married soon and it ain't
goin' to be to the likes of you." Amanda felt her throat closing up and
she knew she would soon be starved for air. "You  ...  you'll see  ..."
was all she could manage as she raced for her inhaler.

Back in her room, she cursed herself for having thrown away all of
Lucinda's cigarettes. She considered walking the three blocks to the
corner store, but the thought frightened her. Too dangerous.

An alien feeling was coming over her, as if she were someone else. She
caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the back of her door and
was shocked by what she saw: two burning coals set deep in dark canyons
surrounded by ashen skin drawn tight around her skull. Who in the hell
is that?

She stood frozen in place, horrified. The eyes that stared back at her
were not her own. My God, she thought, someone else is inside me! But
when she lifted an arm, it moved in the mirror. Good. When she nodded
her head, she was relieved to see it move in the mirror too. Unless, of
course, someone else had willed her arm to lift. She found a small knife
and, after twenty minutes, managed to unscrew the full-length mirror
from her door. Nothing behind it.

Get a grip, Amanda, she told herself. You're not crazy. You're not.

She picked up a book but she was too distraught to focus. Goddamn bitch,
she thought. She would show Lucinda. She would show them all. She was
thirsty again and her skin was burning worse than ever.

She thought she heard a sound at the front door. Had she locked the dead
bolt? Her thirst and fear drove her from her room. She peered around the
corner, down the short hallway toward the front door, then pulled
together the shredded fabric other courage and made for it. It was still
locked, the dead bolt and chain in place! Nothing had changed.
Everything where it should be. She walked quickly to the fridge and
drank straight from the plastic container. Lucinda was asleep in her
room at last, so she tore the kitchen apart looking for any cigarettes
she might have missed during the health purge. She grabbed the water and
hurried back to her room.

She felt more secure there, but the water did little to cool the blood
smoldering just beneath the surface of her skin. She took a cold shower,
then another Demerol with two more phenobarbitols. She glanced at her
lethargic clock, saw that it had finally moved to nearly four o'clock.
In three hours the sun would break through. That always helped. She lay
down and pictured herself walking into Stars on the arm of Earl Field.

Screw you, mother!

No, don't even think about her. Don't think about anything!

The next thing she knew, it was one-thirty in the afternoon and Lucinda
was calling her name and knocking on the door.

"Amanda? It's Mr. Pierce. He'd like to speak to you."

"Tell him I'm too sick to get up," she groaned. "Tell him I'll be in
tomorrow." Amanda lay on top of her bed in her bathrobe. Her head felt
strangely clear, and her body was quiescent but for the mild hum in her
veins she now took for granted. She turned her thoughts to her new plan
of attack. It was Friday, the day Earl always had dinner with friends at
Dino's.

First, an ice pack to reduce the swelling in her eyes. Then some juice
and a bagel.

"Mr. Pierce sounded upset, Amanda. You'd better get right down there."
Amanda ignored her. Heard the wheelchair bumping its way toward the
kitchen.

"Did you hear me, Amanda? You'd better not get on his wrong side. We
have to live, you know."

"Shut up, Mother."

"Don't you do anything to upset him, hear? I'd be dead without that Ward
health plan!" Amanda resisted the opening and returned to her room. Did
she still have that rental car? Yes, there are the keys on the beside
table. She quickly dressed and drove to her fitness center for a quick
workout, just enough to get some blood circulating in her face. This
time she would not fail.

By five o'clock, she was dressed and parked in a metered place just
forty feet from where Earl Field's car sat in his reserved spot. At
five-twenty, Field climbed into his car and drove to Dino's at the south
end of the Embarcadero.

Amanda parked, counted to one hundred, then entered the restaurant and
took up a position from which she could watch him without being seen.

She allowed herself a second martini for courage, but no more.

She walked to a bank of telephones near the front door, called the
restaurant, and asked to be transferred to the bar.

"Sir," said the bartender to Earl Field, "you have a call in the lobby.
First booth." Field groaned. "Must be my secretary," he told the mayor.
"No peace with the Ashford retrial starting on Monday." As Amanda
watched Field talking to the bartender, she stared at her reflection in
the glass of the phone booth. A moment of doubt assailed her.

Maybe she should have waited a day or two. She felt dizzy but shook it
off.

Not now, Amanda. Be strong. She tilted her head from side to side,
raised one arm, then the other. The reflection responded perfectly. She
was there all right, though her skin was burning worse than ever. The
heat came at her in waves, as if she were being grilled on a rotisserie.
She took a precautionary hit from her inhaler and a final look at
herself.

Earl Field entered the first phone booth, and when he emerged a minute
later, a puzzled look on his face, Amanda was walking past the booth,
looking just as puzzled.

"Earl Field!" she said. "My goodness, what a coincidence!" Field's
expression changed from confusion to surprise to suspicion in a matter
of seconds.

"Hello, Ms. Keller," he said gruffly. "Goodbye, Ms. Keller."

"Wait, Earl, just a minute. I need to talk to you." Field took a small
step back. "I'm sorry, Ms. Keller, but I'm with people--" Amanda gave
him her most beguiling smile, the one where she tipped her chin slightly
up and to the right. "But I'll just be a min--" "Good-bye, Ms. Keller!"
said Field, who had already resumed his swift retreat toward the bar.
Not swift enough, however, to shake Amanda, who, i-akino- two steos to
his one, had attached herself to him like a barnacle.

Seeing her beside him, Field stopped at the entrance to the bar area and
added, "It's a business meeting, Ms. Keller. I can't ask you to join
us." As he turned and again started to walk away, Amanda took him by the
arm. Field looked wistfully toward the bar at the backs of his friends.
"Earl, stop worrying; no one is watching us. Just tell me why you're
ignoring me."

"What?"

"I want to know why you haven't called."

"Ms. Keller, I--"

"You don't have to pretend, Earl. And please call me Amanda when we're
alone."

"Ms. Keller, Amanda, I really don't know what to say to you. I'm in the
middle of an important--"

"All right," she said, taking him gently by the arm. "Follow me around
the corner and give me just two little minutes, or I'll just have to
come join you and your stuffy-looking friends." Field sighed, then
hesitantly followed her back out through the lobby area. Amanda walked
her model's walk ahead of him, letting him have a good look. She paused
on the steps just outside the side entrance to make sure he was
following her, then slipped around the corner of the building where they
would have relative privacy.

"All right, Amanda," he said gruffly, "let's hear it." She hadn't
counted on his coldness now that they were alone, but managed to stay
composed. "It's just that I want you to know I did my best. They turned
against us, Earl. I took  ...  well, incredible risks to try to turn
them around, to guarantee you at least a hung jury." Field shook his
head in exasperation. "I appreciate your past efforts, Ms.

Keller, I really do. But ..." Field's voice drifted off. He became
flushed and, through clenched teeth, said, "Is this why you've been
hounding me? To tell me you did your best as a juror?" Amanda moved
closer, her lips now only inches from his, her breasts pressed against
him. "Doesn't what I've done mean anything to you? Don't I mean anything
to you, Earl?" Field's eyes registered anger. He scanned the parking lot
and the side door behind him for any potential observers, or worse,
people with cameras.

"So that's it!" he said through clenched teeth, taking her by the
shoulders and shaking her. "Just how dumb do your people think I am?
Okay, Ms.

Keller, which hotel room are you supposed to get me into?" Now it was
Amanda's turn to look confused. "It's not that at all, Earl. I'm on your
side! They're against both of us. That's why have to work togeth--"
"Listen up, Ms. Keller," he said, shoving her back against the wall.
"You just tell whoever is payin' you that this uppity nigger from
Hunters Point is smarter than all of you put together and that nothin's
gonna keep him out of Sacramento!" Amanda clamped her eyes shut and
twisted her head from side to side in denial. "It's not like that, Ear!.
I  ...  I love you and I know you feel the same!" At last she understood
the reason for his cold rebuffs; for his strange behavior and suspicion
despite his obvious love for her. "How could I be part of a conspiracy?
I was a juror. Earl!"

"Things can be arranged," he said coldly as he hurried off. "I know,
I've arranged them." Amanda fought to regain her focus, despite the pain
shooting through her body and the loud hum just behind her eyes. She
knew she could convince him if she could just calm him down. She caught
up with him and grabbed his shoulder.

"I'm going back into the bar now," he said, shaking her off, "and if you
follow me, I swear I'll call the police."

"The policed' she gasped. "My God, Earl, everything I've done was for
you Her skin was burning up and her head felt as if it would pop. She
glanced at her hand to see if it was on fire, then grabbed his arm
again.

"Don't you understand what I did, Earl? What more could you have asked
of me?" Field gave a final look around, then said, "All I ask of you,
Ms. Keller, is that you leave me the hell alone!" He shook out of her
grasp again and headed back up the concrete stairs toward the side
entrance.

Amanda rubbed the stabbing pain at her temples, then swayed crazily
after him, her arms extended, shouting at him.

"Who do you think you are? You stop when I'm speaking to you!" He didn't
look back.

"You bastard} You can't just lead me on all those weeks, then humiliate
me like this!" Field glanced back into the eyes of a hysterical and
dangerous person and his expression suddenly registered fear. Something
like this could escalate, make the papers, kill him at the polls. He
looked through the outer window.

He was close to the front entry now. A valet was heading toward them,
fifty yards away in the parking area, and another thirty yards or so
beyond him, a couple who had parked their own car. He had to end this
somehow.

Amanda caught up with him, hysterical now, matching him stride for
stride.

"I didn't 'lead you on," Ms. Keller," he said, turning back to her,
forcing himself to remain calm. "I don't even know you!"

"Do you deny the way  ...  you kept looking at me, smiling at me?" She
was gasping now from the exertion of keeping up with him.

"I always smile at jurors, for God's sake. All of them."

"You looked at me in a certain way. I saw it!"

"I looked at every juror in a 'certain way," Ms. Keller! So did
Menghetti.

We're trial lawyers. That's what we do! Do you think verdicts are won
based solely on the evidence? Have you been on some other planet?"
Amanda grabbed him hard this time, pulling him off balance. "Are you
saying you were just using me?" she snapped. "Is that it?"

"Look, lady. I don't know what to make of you at this point, but you
stay away from me or I swear it's 911!"

"You bastard'." she shouted again, and lashed out at him with five
perfectly manicured nails. He ducked just in time, then backpedaled and
turned back toward the lobby. Amanda lunged after him. A shoe came off,
but she didn't notice.

"Just who do you think you are, Earl Field? You look at me when I speak
to you, hear! You stop it!" But Field had hurried from the entryway,
past the bank of telephones, and was nearing the lobby when he saw the
valet closing in from the opposite direction. He had no choice now but
to turn back in a final effort to silence his tormentor, clumping along
behind him on one medium-heeled shoe. What he saw there was a complete
stranger, staring at him through eyes even darker than his own, her
irises and pupils undifferentiated in color; a disheveled crazy lady
with sprayed hair sticking up like spikes, and the one shoe.

"I've tried everything else, Amanda, so one more word out of you and, so
help me, I'll--" Amanda grasped his coat again with fingers like steel
claws. Her eyes fixed on his. "I saved your career, you ungrateful black
bastard! And you're going to call the police on me?" Field raised his
hand and slapped her, slapped her hard, snapping her neck ninety degrees
to the right. The violence of the act stunned them both, and they stood
facing each other in sudden silence. A red welt began to spread across
Amanda's left cheek.

"I'm  ...  I didn't mean," Field stammered. "Oh, Christ!" Amanda started
to speak, but her breath failed her. Field, horrified, watched as her
face drained of color and her eyes rolled up into her skull.

The restaurant's maitre d' came around the corner just as she began to
fall and rushed to help catch her as she collapsed at Field's feet,
first to her knees, then onto her side. The two men faced each other,
and Field could see the questioning expression on the other's face.

"This woman is intoxicated," he said, his trial persona taking control,
"perhaps drugs. She seems to be hallucinating."

"Let me take care of this, Mr. Field. The mayor sent me to see what was
keeping you." The valet came up the front steps through the entry door,
nearly tripping over Amanda's purse, whose contents had been scattered
around the lobby during the melee. The maitre d' spotted her inhaler.

"My wife has one of these," he told Field. "Woman's probably had an
asthma attack along with too much booze. I'll take care other."
Recognizing the district attorney, the valet chimed in, "I'll get her
car, sir. We'll take care of it. Don't worry yourself."

"I'm terribly sorry about this," added the maitre d'.

Field reached into his pocket, handed each of them a C note, along with
instructions to expect possible fabrications from "the poor soul." He
reentered the bar just as the couple was coming up the steps from the
parking lot.

"Hey, Earl," said the mayor, "we're starving here. Must have been
important."

"Sorry, Henry. No, it was nothing important," said Field, downing his
room-temperature Manhattan. "Nothing at all." That night Amanda lay
rigidly on her bed, still fully dressed. "The bastard," she said to
herself over and over, "the paranoid bastard." She was as convinced as
ever that he loved her, but his crazy suspicions had doomed them now.
The police! So they were in on it, too. Who else?

There was no hope for her now. He should be protecting her; didn't he
know they'd get him too?

Lucinda's efforts to learn what had happened went unacknowledged.

Still, the old lady sat in Amanda's bedroom doorway in her wheelchair,
berating her relentlessly.

"Go ahead, then," shouted her mother, "lay there like some sick cat
mumbling to yourself while your mother starves to death." Nothing.

"Did Mr. Pierce say anything about my health plan? You did go back to
work today, didn't you?" Amanda's only answer was to get up, slam the
bedroom door, and prop a chair against the doorknob. Not even Lucinda
could be trusted now. Then she closed both windows in her room so she
couldn't be seen and so the filthy curtains wouldn't be dancing across
her grave when they finished with her. That's what her bed was--or soon
would be--a grave, and her blankets were the shrouds she'd be wrapped in
after they electrocuted her, then pumped her dry of all fluids.

After an hour of cowering on her bed with her cats, she heard them
talkin? outside, in the living room. Talking about her. Trying to sound
like TV voices, they even had music in the background and canned
laughter like a regular program.

The cats would be embalmed with her. They would want that. Like in
Egypt.

She killed one of them quickly, painlessly, and thanks to the element of
complete surprise, almost silently. Just the start of a screech, then
the popping sound of his spine, which made no more noise than cracking
open a king-crab leg at the Chanticleer. Just grab him by his thin
little neck, spin him in a short arc, and no more cat. Got me on the
arm, that's not so bad.

Amanda hoped that when they came for her, they would kill her just as
quickly and mercifully.

She gave up trying to catch the other one. Siamese were smart. You
didn't have to draw them a picture.

The woman outside her door shouted, "What's that noise?" but then went
back to conspiring with the others.

Amanda finally fell asleep, but was soon drawn into a variation on her
recurring nightmare. The coffin, now containing only her father and the
doll, was leaking blood from all four corners. As the box was being
lowered, Lucinda reached over and cut the leg off the doll so no one
could see her. Amanda tried to scream as the coffin sank into the earth,
but nothing came out.

She was just a doll.

Amanda awoke at five-thirty Friday morning after ten hours of troubled
sleep and came across the stiffened body of her dead cat near her
bathroom door. When she remembered what she had done, she quickly
wrapped the dead animal in one of her pillowcases and slipped out of the
apartment toward the back stairs. The cat felt like a baby in her arms.
She wondered what color her baby with Earl would have been and pictured
a perfect golden child.

Amanda feared that the super might hear her walking down the creaky
stairs past his room, so she took off her shoes and laid them neatly
side by side on the top stair before tiptoeing down into the dark
basement. The concrete floor was cold on her feet and she wrinkled her
nose against the dank and moldy smell of the place. She shivered as the
fingers of her free hand groped for the light switch. There, on the
other side of the storage lockers and cleaning equipment, blazed the
incinerator. She ducked under a hanging lightbulb and managed to turn
the stubborn handle, then pulled hard on the heavy door until it flew
open. She recoiled from the blast of the giant oven, said a prayer to
the Universal Power, then moved in close again and lovingly cremated her
cat.

She returned to her room, quickly dressed, and tiptoed out onto the
street. She caught her usual bus into town, but hopped off at Market and
Stockton on an impulse and kept walking. She strolled east when she hit
Bush Street, toward the Financial District, past once grand Victorians
now converted to multiple dwellings for the young-butupwardly-mobile
Montgomery Street hustlers; past a gay theater with ads promising a
double bill and "penetrating live action" onstage; then past the
two-tiered, greentiled, schlock-surrounded Grant Avenue entrance to San
Francisco's Chinatown, now also surrounded by tourists, frantically
posing and snapping each other's pictures.

They didn't even look at her. She was invisible.

The air was leaden in the Financial District and she stopped for a hit
off her inhaler. The breeze off the Bay was barely sufficient to rustle
her hair.

She crossed Sansome, then headed east up Market and saw white light
rising north of the Ferry Building behind a copper horizon. By the time
she reached the Stuyvesant Building, home of Ward and Company, the sun
had risen with the fury of a match dropped in a tray of gasoline. She
looked up at the floors occupied by Ward and Company. Lights were coming
on already, the early birds pecking for listings in the Financial
District's concrete garden, and Muzak would soon start oozing from the
ceiling, accompanying the hum of commerce.

She would survive, damn them all! She would endure.

Harold Pierce was up there somewhere, or soon would be.

She looked at her watch. She'd better get up there; she needed this
hateful job more than ever now, but she also needed something to clear
her head. She stopped at a coffeehouse for a double espresso, then had
several.

At 8:45 a.m., Amanda entered the office and hurried to her desk. There
was a note from Harold Pierce.

I regret to inform you that your services are terminated effective
immediately.

You will be paid two weeks'1 severance, but you are instructed to clear
your desk and depart immediately.

It had been written on Wednesday, two days before.

Amanda's gaze began darting crazily around the room and the buzzing in
her head became deafening. Something felt loose inside her head. She
rummaged frantically in-her purse, but her inhaler must have fallen out
of it. She read the note again.

"No!" she shouted, rising to her feet and storming into the main
secretarial area. Everyone turned around to look at her but she didn't
notice. She stormed toward Pierce's office and caught the luckless
administrator, finishing a bagel at his desk.

"Are you serious?" she demanded, waving the note in his face.

Pierce froze in mid-bite and stared at the formidable figure looming
over him. Without a word, he picked up the phone, dialed building
security, and said, "Pierce, second floor. We may have a problem here."

"You bastard! I need this job. I've killed myself here without a word of
thanks and damn little pay! Just who the hell--" Pierce looked genuinely
frightened as he jumped to his feet and held both hands up toward the
approaching woman.

"Amanda, calm yourself. It's not me, it's the partners. They don't think
you're fit to manage a file department right now. Being gone for a month
in that trial seemed to change you. Then your absenteeism. A department
manager has to set an example."

"So you're going to make me an example."

"They took it out of my hands, Amanda. I tried to protect you--" Pierce
never finished his sentence. Amanda was at his face, clawing and
slapping at him, overpowering him. The security guard entered the fray
and fared little better, sustaining several minor lacerations before the
struggling woman was finally subdued by their joint effort.

As she was being driven home in an unmarked gray security vehicle, she
experienced an unwelcome return to reality and began piecing together
the past twenty-four hours. Earl, the police, her cat, Pierce. She
considered her situation. She was nearly broke, she was out of work, and
Pierce would make sure she stayed that way. His last words rang in her
ears: "Don't come back. Next time it will be 911." When she finally
arrived home, her nylons streaked, her sleeve torn from her struggle
with the security ape, her hair an electric tangle, she realized that
she had left her purse in his car.

Lucinda's head snapped around. "What on earth have you been doing,
child? Your hair looks like it's been caught in a ceiling fan and your
blouse is in shreds." Amanda didn't seem to hear her.

"Why aren't you at work?"

"I've been fired." Lucinda stared blankly at her daughter. "You've been
'what'?" Amanda glanced at herself in a mirror over the TV set, pulled
some renegade blond locks of hair into place, and managed to regain her
composure.

"You heard me, Mother." Lucinda slapped her hands against the arms of
her wheelchair. "Didn't I tell you what would happen if you took off
from work to sit on that thankless jury?" Amanda said nothing.

"So what are we going to do?" shouted Lucinda over the din of a team of
TV surgeons also shouting at one another during a heart operation
apparently gone awry.

Dirty dishes were everywhere. Amanda dumped them into the sink. One of
the plates broke. She reached down and seized the one that hadn't broken
and smashed it, too. Then she swooped an arm across the counter and
cleared whatever was left, sending cups, saucers, and glasses shattering
into the sink.

Exhausted from resentment and oxygen deprivation, she fell forward
against the counter, gasping for air, frantically scanning the area for
her purse. The pressure inside her head was building, and she held her
head with both hands as if to keep it from exploding. "Get away from
here," she gasped. "I've got to  ..." She looked for her purse, then
remembered a spare inhaler in the cabinet where she kept her vitamins.
She staggered toward it like an epileptic. Air! Need air! Grabbing the
inhaler, she tried to relax as she pumped it into her mouth. Once,
twice, three times. Men, she thought. All assholes. She collapsed onto a
kitchen stool, inhaling deeply, and didn't move a muscle for five
minutes. She pumped again, then headed toward her bedroom. She wondered
if Field had called the police yet.

The next night, Earl Field drove Terry Morgan to the San Francisco
International Airport following a triumphant speech to the Association
of Business Trial Lawyers at the Sheraton Palace. During the
question-andanswer period, he predicted certain victory in the trial
about to begin.

Terry had sat by his side at the head table, then he had taken her to
KPIX for her 10:00 news show. She was catching a red-eye to the East
Coast.

It was a fabulous night outside, an unseasonably high sixties, and in a
show of recaptured youthful exuberance, they drove to the airport with
the top down and a daring, open bottle of Schramsberg champagne. The
occasion was their formal engagement. They had decided to marry on the
first Saturday in February.

"We can't count on weather like this," she said. "It will have to be
inside.

They agreed on the chapel across from the Alta Mira Hotel in Sausalito.

The plane was late taking off, but after they kissed at the gate, Earl
practically skipped back to his car on the deserted fifth floor of the
parking garage. God, what a woman! For a while, at least, she had made
him forget the frightening days that lay just ahead of him. Tomorrow, he
would send the goddamn money back to the Rizzos no matter what Klegg
said. Then he would talk to Julian Gold. They would reason together,
maybe work things out somehow. Either way, he'd get Elliot Ashford in
the retrial, and with Terry Morgan at his side, nothing would keep him
out of the governor's mansion.

He saw his car where he had parked on the fifth floor. As he walked
toward it, he felt a sudden uneasiness. It was the silence. No planes
taking off. No car engines. Nothing.

He laughed at himself as he reached his Jag and hopped in. He closed the
car door and inserted the key in the ignition. The car radio came on;
Terry's favorite blues song.

It really kills me, the way your smile lights up a room when you say
hello, It's heart breakin', the way you whisper in the night so sweet
and low But now I know  ... He smiled, hit the button to raise the
convertible top, and was still smiling when the razor-edged piece of
glass sliced his carotid artery with the clean precision of a surgeon's
scalpel. The only pain he felt was from the hand pulling his hair,
yanking his head back over the seat to expose his throat for the fatal
thrust. Blood sprayed across the dash and up onto the windshield. Blood
everywhere.

You're leavin' me, baby, you turn away from my touch And it's grievin'
me, baby, did I love you too m,uch?

His dying body was roughly pushed across the front seat even as a final
protest gurgled from his red-foaming lips. Then his shirt was ripped up
and his pants pulled down far enough to allow for punctures into his
chest and genitals. A small amount of blood oozed from the wounds, the
heart still weakly pumping.

You don't love me anymore, You say my love has smothered the flame, I've
only myself to blame.

And you don't want me anymore, f".

I'd love you less if I could, if only you would love me more.

Amanda flipped off the radio with her gloved ringers. She had been
taught how a radio could run down a car battery. Then she opened a large
black bag and carefully replaced the glass stiletto, the same shard of
glass with which she had killed Lani Jefferson.

Earl Field was given a hero's farewell by a bereaved city as both
political foes and critics of his erratic performance at the Ashford
trial granted him in death a restrained respect he had rarely enjoyed in
life. Grace Harris joined the chorus of silence, for though it would
have been to her political advantage to expose Jack Klegg for brokering
the "bingo" deal with the Mafia, she resolved, for now at least, to let
Earl's involvement with Chicago be buried with him.

At a last-minute meeting, the mayor and the Board of Supervisors had
reluctantly acknowledged that Glide Memorial Church, everybody's first
choice for the memorial service, was simply not large enough to
accommodate the expected crowd. Someone volunteered that Earl Field had
been an Episcopalian, and following hurried consultations, the service
was rescheduled.

Grace Cathedral, the jewel of Nob Hill, was fitting for the occasion. In
medieval times, various factions within a community would unite to build
a throne worthy of its bishop, a monument that would bring respect and
renown to the city. Grace Cathedral, with its 170-foot soaring towers,
housing six-ton bells seven feet in diameter and flanked by stained
glass worthy of Rome, had surely achieved this purpose.

The seemingly endless serpentine of people entering the church was as
colorful and varied as Joseph's coat of many colors. The more
conservative parishioners in attendance glumly watched the stream of
multiracial mourners pouring through every door in a bizarre cacophony
as they alternately sang, moaned, rejoiced, and clutched each other. The
clamor was accompanied by the sound of congos, bongos, harmonicas,
trumpets, clarinets, and clapping hands. A North Beach contingent
earnestly squeezed their concertinas as if to quell any notion that the
murder had been Mafiainspired, and a smaller group of women arrived from
the Haightashbury wearing Birkenstocks and sad faces, playing haunting
melodies on flutes and recorders.

Terry Morgan sat on one side of the aisle in the second row, her
anchorwoman's poise now thoroughly unraveled by uncontrollable sobbing.
On the other side, seated just behind the decedent's survivors--two sons
and a daughter by the first Mrs. Field--sat a tall woman, dressed
entirely in black, her face veiled. Amanda wore the veil not out of fear
of detection but as an imagined entitlement. Grandiosity, not
trepidation, now inspired her, for had he not loved her despite his
foolish suspicions and transparent efforts to conceal it? Had she not
held him against her breast at the end, comforting him in her arms? Was
she not the last to look into his perplexed eyes as the light slowly
drained from them? And had she not kissed those full lips, tasted the
still-warm blood there? Could she not taste it even now?

Who, then, could lay superior claim to the black veil of mourning in
honoring this man's life than she, who, in ending it, had killed a part
of herself as well. She wished she could weep tears of closure the way
others did, and cursed the stupidity that had necessitated his death. If
she could but somehow take back her foolish admissions that last day,
uttered in a daze of fear and anger; crazed, rambling boasts concerning
the lengths to which she had gone to save the case and his career. Had
she mentioned Jefferson by name? She couldn't even remember, but Earl
Field was far too brilliant not to have deduced that it was she, not
Ashford, who had murdered Lani Jefferson.

And though she had saved his case and his career, he would then have had
no choice but to tell the police. Earl Field was a man who placed duty
over love, even over his own happiness.

But she had forgiven him, and surprisingly had found happiness, too.

Killing Jefferson and Field had brought about an epiphany in which she
now recognized no law higher than her own need, and no need greater than
her own. She was a whole person at last.

On the other side of the church, two rows behind Terry Morgan, Grace
Harris sat with Aaron, whom she had flown back for the occasion. From
her position, she could see Jack Klegg, seated with the honored few who
would soon deliver eulogies, a group that included the mayor and the
lieutenant governor. Klegg's burr-cut head was on a swivel, nodding at
acquaintances from his place of honor, then tilting toward the mayor's
ear and whispering with the subdued animation of someone watching a
tennis match.

Unnoticed in the rear of the great cathedral, two burly men shifted un-
eomfortably, coping with the confined leg space afforded by the narrow
pews. Barrett Dickson had been reluctant to come, but Lev had insisted.
He could feel Lev's worried eyes upon him now as he fought the urge to
run outside.

And to keep on running.

Beyond the hallowed windows and festooned walls of the cathedral, and
continuing for the next several days, speculation raged concerning the
identity of Field's murderer, and the news media's finger of guilt again
pointed directly at Elliot Ashford.

Dr. Thomas Yang, whose reputation for accuracy was exceeded only by his
need for the world to be aware of it, fueled the fires of suspicion by
opining that the jagged entry wounds in Field's throat were identical to
those found on the throat of Lani Jefferson and consistent with wounds
inflicted by a weapon similar to that which had killed Lara Ashford.
When he also disclosed that the most recent victim, like the previous
two, had been tattooed with the same ritual-sexual markings, newspaper
and talk show polls ran four to one that it was Elliot Ashford who had
killed the antagonist who had humiliated him at the inaugural ball that
night, had repeatedly called him a white supremacist, and had dared to
summon him to the bar of justice.

San Francisco papers screamed for an arrest, and the surrounding county
periodicals--the Marin Independent, the San Jose Mercury News, the
Oakland Tribune--decried the ineptitude of a police department that
could not even protect its top law enforcer. Racial issues lurked at the
fringes of the growing unrest, for, after all, this was America.

Barrett slept poorly that night as usual, and as usual, he rose at 1:00
a.m. and stumbled bleary-eyed into the bathroom, milked his stubborn
bladder, cursed his swollen prostate, then fell back into his loveless
bed with the grace of a coal barge charging through canal locks.

After that, he knew it would be anybody's guess whether he'd sleep
again, but if he could carve out another two or three hours before the
first light signaled amnesty from his nocturnal prison, he would be
grateful. He tried to turn his mind to something soothing, but images of
Ellen appeared as they always did about now: she young and gorgeous; he
once again that crazed, reasonably handsome young idealist with the
steady stream, the priapic penis, and, as sports commentators insisted
on saying, "his future all ahead of him." But in his half sleep, her
image would fade and he would be alone again with the beast--the demon
curse--and would toss back his blanket, hot with despair and
frustration.

Was Elliot innocent? Could he, Barrett, be right, and the rest of the
country, including Leviticus Heywood, be wrong? Nothing in law school or
his years of practice had prepared him to deal with people like Ashford
and Julian Gold.

He groaned as he remembered his scheduled meeting with the consigners
and the defendant later in the day. His skin was suddenly ice-cold and
clammy, and he tried to pull a blanket back over his massive shoulders.

He visualized himself studying texts on DNA, only slightly less baffling
to him than Joyce's Finnegans Wake or particle physics; reading thick
files of documents, having to memorize many of them; long days and
endless nights of desolate privation. When he imagined himself
approaching the first prosecution witness, a pang of fear stabbed at his
gut.

He dozed from time to time, but at 7:00 a.m., tired of wrestling with
his squandered past and dubious future, he gave up trying for another
hour's respite and got up and dressed himself. His stomach was raging
against the coming of the light, so he skipped his usual breakfast of
toast and coffee in favor of a morning walk.

He headed down Green Street from his Telegraph Hill apartment into the
heart of North Beach, then took a left on Grant Avenue and headed for
the Caffe Trieste, where three smiling generations of Gianni women
greeted him and served him espresso.

Papa Gianni had come from Trieste, Italy, to San Francisco in 1957 and
opened the city's first European coffeehouse just in time to supply
high-octane caffeine to regulars like Michael McClure, Alien Ginsberg,
Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and lesser Beat poets of the era. Papa Gianni
must have had doubts too, thought Barrett, crossing the endless sea to a
foreign land where he barely spoke the language. What had given him the
confidence to carry on despite the fear and uncertainties that must have
assailed him?

He paid his check, then, outside again, moodily retraced the steps of
Jack Kerouac past the original site of the City Lights Bookstore and the
also departed Mooney's Irish Pub; past the Savoy Tivoli, past other
restaurants and coffeehouses now crowded with men and women in gray
suits reading the Wall Street Journal. Where have you gone, Joe
Dimaggio? Kenneth Rexroth? William Burroughs?

Barrett wandered down Filbert to Washington Square and found an empty
bench. He considered a bloody Mary, wondered what time Moose's opened,
but then rose and cut over to Mama's instead and ordered an omelette.

He saw a father watching his seven-year-old son attack a strawberry
waffle, and a stab of poignancy overcame him. Daddy's day with the kid.
He wished he knew where Jared was now.

He wandered what kind of kid Grace had raised. How old he was.

Probably about ten years younger than Jared. He caught himself wondering
how he might get along with Grace's boy. Despite his current confusion,
he realized he had been thinking a lot about Grace Harris lately. Her
image niornentarily cooled his fevered mind, before his thoughts turned
back to his imminent chat with Julian Gold and Elliot Ashford, then
beyond that to the retrial.

He tried to picture himself cross-examining Arnold Sun, who would be
well prepared this time. In fact, they'd probably dump him and bring in
a grown-up for the retrial. He pictured Thomas Yang and at least a half
dozen other forensic scientists, Chief Investigator Sam Quon and the
SFPD officers. Every one of them would be tougher this time as a result
of the working-over Menghetti had given them before, ready for him.
Retrials were the hardest thing for trial lawyers. Too much of the
battle plan had been revealed to the enemy.

To pull it off, he'd have to be fully committed, and to Barrett, this
meant a total belief in his client's innocence. He knew this wasn't the
way criminal defense lawyers were supposed to think in an adversary
system, but he wasn't a criminal defense lawyer and he no longer valued
the adversary system.

The kid finished his waffle, caught Barrett looking at him, and smiled.

Barrett smiled back and looked away.

It would be painful to try a case again. But wasn't pain a reminder that
the body was still alive?

The waitress placed the omelette in front of him. He stared at it, then
picked up a knife, buttered a piece of toast, and wondered if fate might
be throwing him a second chance: one last shot at digging out of
whatever it was he had fallen into. Might he somehow find a way to will
his bearlike carcass up that rickety ladder, one flimsy rung at a time,
toward something a little better than what he had become?

Maybe, he concluded, we were more like sharks than we realized. We keep
moving forward or we die. Perhaps that was the truth he would have to
find a way to live with.

He stopped eating. The fork dangled from his fingers.

Truth! Of course!

He broke into a smile, pushed his cup away, left money for the check,
and headed back to his apartment. He knew exactly what he had to do now.

If he was going to give Ashford his best in this case, Ashford would
have to give him something first.

Something more important than money.

After comfortably settling himself in Earl Field's office, Acting
District Attorney Jack Klegg's first order of business was to call a
press confer ence in which he spent the first five minutes laying out
his strategy for "car rying out the vision of my predecessor," then the
next twenty talking about his plans for straightening out the mess he
had found. His euphoria lasted only until the Q-and-A period, during
which the gathered press displayed tar more interest in what Grace
Harris was planning to do on the Ashford case than in what he was going
to do about rehiring the competent career prosecutors Earl Field had
fired, and cutting furniture costs.

Deflated, he returned to his corner office on the third floor of the
Hall of Justice to consider the possibilities. He had to be careful;
this was his career now, not Earl's. He couldn't afford mistakes.

Ten minutes later, the possibilities were sharply narrowed by the call
he had been dreading.

"Yes  ...  yes, of course, no problem," he said into the phone. "I'll do
it right away, Julian." He rubbed his eyes and summoned Grace Harris for
a meeting to "discuss handling of the Ashford matter." As she walked
down the hallway toward her confrontation with Klegg, Grace was also
considering the possibilities. She expected that Klegg in tended to
either take Earl's place on the trial team or, worse, take over the
prosecution by himself. She knew that either option would be seen by
insiders as grandstanding, but by the general public as an heroic
gesture. "I owe it to Earl," he would say, than tacitly blame the first
trial team for the ad verse verdict he would inevitably suffer.

As she entered, she noticed the daily trial transcripts meticulously
stacked on his desk and a copy of the bound volume containing the
posttrial ury interviews.

"I've completed a review of the first trial and the jury postmortems,"
he said. "Although some of them thought Ashford might be guilty, they
were going to walk him out on reasonable doubt--even before Jefferson
was killed." Uninvited, Grace took a seat, wondering how much
second-guessing and mindless critiquing she would have to endure before
he dropped whatever bomb his devious mind had formulated.

"I know all this, Jack. What do you want? I'm very busy right now
preparing for the retrial." Klegg raised an eyebrow, but then tilted
back in his chair and turned his gaze to the south window as they had
both so often seen Earl do. "The pure and simple fact, Grace, is that
the case is unwinnable. We cannot justify putting the city and county to
the expense of another fool's errand."

"You're going to dismiss the case?" she said.

"No, Grace. You're going to dismiss the case." Grace shook her head in
both amazement and dismay. "I don't think so, Jack, and I think you're
smart enough to know that the buck for that decision wouldn't stop with
me. There would be nothing left but bones by the time the press finished
with you. You wouldn't be recognizable, let alone electable." Klegg
snorted with derision. "I'll simply take responsibility for mistakes
that have been made by others in the past, Grace. I think the press will
come to understand that Earl was using the power of his office to wage a
personal vendetta against a hated personal and political enemy."

"You'd destroy Earl's reputation to advance your own petty ambitions?

That's hard to believe, Jack, even coming from you."

"Come now, Ms. Righteous," Klegg said, unruffled. "Your protector is
dust in the wind and I'm in charge now, for which you should be
grateful.

I'm trying to save your job and your life."

"I'm touched, Jack, but--"

"Damn it, Grace, just play along with me." "Play with yourself, Jack,"
said Grace, rising. "I'll close the door so no one will see you."

"Hold it, Grace!" Klegg bellowed. "Doesn't Earl's murder tell you
anything?

You or I could be next on their list for God's sake!"

"This isn't about us n-now, Jack; this is about who's running the
criminal justice system in this country."

"Oh, spare me that sanctimonious bullshit," Klegg bellowed, throwing
both arms in the air. "What about your son? Are you willing to put him
at risk?" Grace barely raised her voice. "I'm banking on your friends
selecting you next, Jack. After all, you made the deal with them and
you're next in line under Earl. Besides, I've sent Aaron away. He's
safe." Klegg stared at her, momentarily silenced by his frustration.
"Damn it, Grace," he spit out at last, "I'm running this place now and
I'm ordering you to dismiss the damn charges."

"Forget it, Jack. I won't do it, and you won't either."

"The hell I won't," Klegg shouted, coming out of his chair. "And then
I'll dismiss you. Consider that a done deal, pure and simple. Now get
the hell out of my office." Grace didn't move. Then she spoke. "It won't
be your office for long if the press learns about your dealings with the
Mafia." Klegg met her gaze, then gave his head a quick shake. "But they
won't," he said. "You wouldn't do that to Earl, Grace. I know you too
well."

"I do a lot of things I don't like. Standing here talking with you for
one." Grace paused just long enough to catch the look of comprehension
on Klegg's face. She had hit a nerve.

"I'm going to retry this case, Jack, and I'm going to win. Consider that
a 'done deal."

" She turned and walked out, leaving his door open.

The next day, Julian Gold and Elliot Ashford waited for Barrett to
arrive at Gold's room at the Ritz-Carlton. The room was charged with
tension, for Gold had broken to Elliot the bad news about Grace Harris's
refusal to dismiss.

"Calm yourself, Elliott," he said. "Maybe Klegg will be able to dismiss
it later. In any event, I have a backup strategy."

"I can hardly wait." "I'm going to see that you're indicted," he said
with a hint of a rare smile, "for the additional murders of both
Jefferson and Field." Ashford glowered at him. "I'm not in the mood,
Julian. And as for those murders, you can tell your friends in Chicago
they've caused me nothing but trouble. Tell them that as much as I hated
the black bastard, they were insane to kill him."

"Don't be absurd, Elliot. I've had to convince Carmine that you didn't
kill those people. Why would he have ordered something like that when
victory was within your grasp?"

"I don't know, but somebody did." Gold shook his head impatiently.
"Whoever it was, we'll find him and deal with him. Meanwhile, we've
still got to deal with Grace Harris and your retrial." Ashford walked to
the bar and mixed himself a weak scotch and soda.

"All right, tell me your strategy."

"I just told you. You're going to be indicted for the new murders."

"Oh, Christ."

"Hear me out, Elliot. Klegg is going to get Grace Harris to indict you
on the new killings, even though there's not a shred of evidence
connecting you to them other than the similarities with the first one--"

"Which I also didn't do, may I remind you."

"Of course you didn't, Elliot, but do you want to hear the payoff or
not?" "I'm listening," said Ashford, folding his arms and pushing his
glasses up on his nose, "though your logic so far might make more sense
if I stood on my head." Gold ignored him. "Soon after the retrial
commences, Klegg will 'realize' that Harris has overindicted, publicly
accuse her of an irrational attempt to carry out Earl Field's vendetta,
and order her to dismiss the new indictments.

She will look ridiculous and the jury will see that the overzealous
prosecution has sailed completely out of control."

"If Klegg couldn't get her to dismiss the present charge, how do we know
he'll be able to dismiss the new ones?"

"Fair question. He has good reasons for not dismissing you now, but when
the press figures out she has no evidence, she'll be pressured to do it
herself. Besides, even if she doesn't, the new unsupported indictments
would drag down her case on Lara. You win either way, once she indicts
you on the new murders."

"It sounds too good to be true."

"It's perfect, though I must confess that there will be certain  ...
inconveniences for a while."

"Inconveniences?" A knock on the door announced that Barrett Dickson had
arrived at the top floor. "Nothing about this to Dickson," said Gold,
raising a warning finger as he advanced toward the door.

"Hello, Mr. Gold," said Barrett, glancing inside the huge suite.

"Come in, Mr. Dickson," said Gold, attempting a smile.

Up close and in the morning light, Julian Gold looked even more ghostly
than usual to Barrett. With the exception of his lips, his face was
entirely colorless, even his eyes. The skin on his face was
withered--not from the sun, Barrett knew, because he shunned it like a
vampire, but by a lifetime of guile and resentment that had given him
exactly the face he deserved.

"Come have a seat," Gold said. "Take off your coat."

"To what do we owe the honor, Barrett?" said Ashford. "No more
accusations, I trust." Barrett shook his head. "I can't blame you for
being upset, Elliot. I've not been involved in many criminal cases, as
you know."

"We don't want you merely 'involved' in this one, Dickson," said Gold.
"We want you 'committed."

"I don't blame you for that, either," said Barrett, "and to me they're
one and the same."

"No, sir," said Gold. "In a bacon and egg breakfast, the chicken is
involved; the pig is committed." "Fair enough," said Barrett, "and I
think I've come up with a way I can be."

"Excellent," said Gold, rubbing his hands together. Ashford reached for
his glass. "What do you have in mind?"

"I want Elliot to take a polygraph." "You whatf" said Ashford, his
cocktail glass suspended just short of his lips. "Who the hell  ... what
kind of idiot are you?"

"The kind you've retained and the kind who wants you to take a
polygraph.

Pass it and you'll have the very best I can do." Ashford spun around,
ran a hand through his blond hair, then spun around again. "Jesus,
Julian. Talk some sense into this man." But Gold looked mildly amused by
the confrontation and just shrugged.

"It wouldn't be admissible even if you failed it, Elliot," he said, "so
where's the harm?" Ashford sputtered, but before he could speak, Gold
added, "And you are innocent, Elliot." He fixed his cold eyes on Ashford
in a way that surprised Barrett. "Are you not?" Ashford slowly walked
over to a window overlooking the courtyard, one hand holding his drink,
the other thrust into the pocket of his blue blazer.

Barrett waited, aware that his hands were perspiring. A breeze drifted
in from an open window and settled uncomfortably across his damp back.

"All right, you bastard," said Ashford to Barrett, "I'll take the damn
thing." "Good," said Barrett. "I've made arrangements with Astin Testing
in Marin. Clay Astin's an independent guy. Retired FBI. Respected by
every agency in the state. Here's his card .10:30 a.m. tomorrow. Be on
time." As Barrett walked out, he glanced back at Ashford, staring at the
card in his hand as if it were in a foreign language.

At 11:20 a.m. the next day, Clayton Astin called Barrett.

"Your Mr. Ashford just left, Bear."

"Was he alone?"

"No. He was with some cast member from The Night of the Living Dead."

"I know the gentleman."

"Anyway, I ran Ashford through the whole process, Barrett. Twice in
fact."

"And?"

"He's clean."

"You're sure?"

"Hell, Barrett, we get fooled once in a while, but I think this guy's
telling the truth."

"All three victims?"

"A little shaky on the wife, but that's typical given the emotional
component: you know, guilt from years of previous misdeeds of one sort
or another--"

"How about whether he enlisted someone else to do Jefferson and Field
for him?"

"Exactly the same readings with the same minor reservation. In answer to
your next question, I'll bet you dinner at Wendy's he not only didn't
have those people killed but doesn't have a clue who did. I hope this
makes your client feel better."

"I don't know about him," said Barrett, a smile breaking across his
face, "but you've damn sure made my day." Barrett hung up the phone,
swept up in a torrent of well-being, a feeling he had almost forgotten.

"He's innocent!" he said aloud to Fred and Ginger II. "The sonofabitch
is innocent'." So," said Mike Reasoner, entering Lev's office on Market
Street, "your boy passed with flying colors?" Barrett turned away from
the window, smiled broadly, and gave Mike a thumbs-up. Lev sat behind
his desk, his brow still furrowed with skepticism.

"Lev?" said Mike. "What's the problem?" Barrett touched a finger to his
lips. "Good news can ruin Lev's day, Mike," he said in a stage whisper.
"Particularly when it reveals him to be a stubborn-ass cynic." Lev
looked at Mike and tilted his head in Barrett's direction. "Should we
break the news to Pollyanna that the reason lie detectors ain't
admissible in court is because they fail the test of scientific
reliability? Because they sometimes lie?"

"Come on, Lev," said Barrett, planting an affectionate hand on his
friend's shoulder, "we're not talking about palmistry or studying the
entrails of a hawk here. You know that Clay's the best in the business."
Mike smiled and said, "I agree, Lev. Don't wreck the moment. Let him go
win his case now without fear of setting off a plague of locusts or an
8.5 earthquake. Maybe even do a little justice in the process."

""Maybe," " said Lev, "is definitely the operative word here." Mike
shook his head. "I'm with Pollyanna on this one, Lev. You don't fool
Clay Astin very often. What's it going to take to convince you that
you're on the side of the angels?" Lev slid a ten-page bio across his
desk. "This little lady right here."

"Yougotsandraweiss?"

"She's on board, and she does deal in scientific reliability."

"Let's hope we like her answers." Barrett said, "Speaking of answers,
Mike, have you come up with any?" "A few," said Mike, opening his
briefcase and handing a research memo to Barrett. "You look good on
everything but the state's DNA evidence. We can't hope to exclude it."
Barrett scanned the memos. "This is good work, Mike. I'd prefer you not
tell Wilmer you're helping with this."

"Don't you tell him either. I'm strictly moonlighting in this dog and
pony show and I'll need deniability with Wilmer if you lose the case."
"Leviticus," said Barrett, "do you hear a cock crowing?" Mike smiled and
closed his briefcase.

"Okay," said Barrett. "If we can't keep their DNA evidence out, we've
got to deal with it better this time."

"Which is where Sandra Weiss comes in," said Mike.

Barrett glanced at his watch. "Lev and I are meeting with her in an
hour." "Terrific," said Mike. "Let's hope she says that the small
quantity of Ashford's blood supports your shaving theory; better yet,
that it might not be his blood anyway." Lev made a face. "How can Bear
claim Ashford cut himself shaving to explain his blood, then turn around
and argue it wasn't his blood in the first place? That's completely
inconsistent." "Simple," said Barrett, winking at Mike. "I'm a lawyer."
Mike gave Barrett a disgusted look, then said, "We're allowed to argue
in the alternative, Lev. We've got to have a backup if the jury decides
there's a bit too much of that type AB blood to have come from shaving."

"A bit too much?" said Lev. "Place looked like Sweeney Todd with a chain
saw." Mike wasn't amused. "Could you guys pretend to be half serious
about diis capital murder case you're about to try?" Barrett nodded his
head gravely to show how serious he could pretend to be.

Dr. Sandra Weiss, head of the National Genetics Institute located in
Palm Desert, California, and one of the leading molecular geneticists in
the world, entered Lev's office fifty-five minutes later. Barrett liked
what he saw.

Her resonant voice and firm handshake instantly proclaimed her
confidence, and a helmet of salt-and-pepper hair worn short gave her an
aura of authority beyond her forty-eight years. Her tall, wiry body
radiated a marathoner's energy, and an undeniable intelligence lay
behind clear, penetrating blue eyes. Although she was otherwise
plain-featured--arguably homely--Sandra Weiss's smile briefly
illuminated Lev's bleak office as she greeted Barrett. He made a mental
note to be sure to draw that smile out when she was on the stand. The
successful forensic witnesses were not just smart with an impressive
pedigree; they were likable as well.

After only an hour of talking with the doctor, Barrett was convinced she
would be invincible in her account of the shortcomings of the San
Francisco Police Department's handling of the evidence, the police and
coroner's office's questionable record in matching DNA probes, and the
problems inherent in any DNA-matching situation. In the next two hours,
Dr. Weiss provided Barrett with the basic tools to understand DNA and an
outline for cross-examining the prosecution's lead DNA expert. They
scheduled another meeting the following evening to discuss her
preliminary findings on the DNA samples they had provided her.

"She'll be dynamite," said Lev when she had left.

"Nitro," said Barrett.

"Then why the look?" Barrett was tired, but his instincts were flashing
caution. There was an occasional reticence in the woman, he explained to
Lev, as if she were holding something back. Lev said maybe she'd just
been locked up in an ivory tower too long for normal socializing, and
Barrett was ready to write it off to general pre-trial paranoia--until
she called him at his apartment two hours later.

"I hope I haven't awakened you, Mr. Dickson."

"Trial lawyers don't sleep much this close to trial, Doctor. What's on
your mind."

"Well, an ethical problem actually. It's been bothering me terribly. I
didn't want to bring it up earlier in the presence of Mr. Heywood, but
there is something I feel you must know." Barrett found Sandra Weiss
waiting for him at a table in the lobby bar of the Stanford Court hotel,
sipping a port.

"Thanks for coming," she said. "I know you don't need another problem
right now, but I had no choice." Barrett ordered a Calistoga water with
lemon and invited her to begin.

Not one to mince words, Sandra Weiss came to the point. "I've found
something else in Ashford's blood samples I didn't pick up at first, an
alteration in his gene pattern. He has incipient Huntington's chorea, a
disorder of the basal ganglia."

"English, please, Doctor?" said Barrett. "I'm a bit tired.

"Sorry. The brain shrinks. The cerebral cortex, to be more precise."
"Doc," said Barrett wearily, "I don't mean to appear ungrateful, but my
own cerebral cortex is on overload right now. What's this got to do with
anything?" The geneticist explained that although the presence of the
defective genes leading to Huntington's disease can be diagnosed even at
birth from a single cell sample, the onset of symptoms is usually
delayed until the early fifties.

"How old," she asked, "is your client?"

"Fifty-two," Barrett said. "So what are the symptoms?"

"Swift and complete mental deterioration," she said, "then, mercifully--
unlike Alzheimer's--death follows quickly. If he's fifty-two now, I
wouldn't give him many more years." Barrett lit a cigarette and glanced
around him.

"I'll give you an overview of the medical aspects of the problem," she
continued, "then I'll stop for any questions you might have."

"I already have one," said Barrett. "Why the hell are you telling me all
this?" Dr. Weiss said, "I'll get to that in a moment. First, you need to
know that medicine and ethics have become inextricably bound,
particularly now that we're on the verge of mapping every gene in the
human body.

"A single microscopic cell can tell us things about a patient's future
he or she might never want to know. Did you know, for example, that at
least ten percent of male parents are not the true fathers of their
children and don't even know it?" Barrett thought of Jared, whose
uncanny resemblance to himself had provided him a measure of confidence
after he had learned of Ellen's betrayals.

"How do you usually deal with that kind of information?" he asked.

"A medical geneticist who stumbles onto this kind of finding will rarely
disclose it. But Huntington's presents a more difficult issue. A person
who knows he has a limited, indeed targeted, life span may be shattered
by the knowledge, but at least he will have the chance to make the most
of the years--or months--he has left. Would you want to know?"

"So the ethical issue is whether you tell him." There was a moment of
silence. He watched Dr. Weiss's furrowed brow and pursed lips, her
slightly hunched posture.

"More precisely," she said, "the issue is whether you tell him, Mr.
Dickson." Barrett rubbed his eyes as his fatigued mind raced in circles.

"I've struggled with this for several days now," she continued. "I am a
total stranger to the man, and given the fact that his wife is dead,
well  ...  I decided, after meeting you this evening, that you, as Mr.
Ashford's legal representative--"

"Would be the most logical person to tell him he's been given a death
warrant with no possibility of appeal," said Barrett, an edge creeping
into his voice.

"Yes," she said.

Barrett's frustration yielded to his trial lawyer's perspicacity.

"Doctor, I'm a bit weary, and I know you must be too. But I must ask you
a related question with serious legal ramifications. Would a person with
Huntington's disease be competent to know the nature and quality of his
acts; to distinguish right from wrong?" A barely audible chuckle issued
from Dr. Weiss's small mouth. "I know what you're getting at, Mr.
Dickson," she said, "but that's a game for you lawyers and psychiatrists
to play. But if I had to guess--assuming he's a typical case--I'd say
he's had numerous blackouts by now and is mentally unreliable." Barrett
was sitting up straight for the first time in hours. "I take it you'd be
willing to testify to that much at least?"

"Yes, I could testify to that, although I would want to examine him
first and take a history." Barrett put his glass down and eyed the table
next to him on which rested what appeared to be a double vodka or gin on
the rocks. His tongue swept across dry lips.

She said, "You're considering it?"

"A drink?"

"An insanity defense." "I don't know," said Barrett, grinning
sheepishly. "My client's innocent, but if he wants to pick up an
additional margin of safety with the jury, I" arrange an examination."
He saw that Dr. Weiss was studying him, whether with sympathy or medical
concern he wasn't sure.

"Science can be a curse or a blessing," she said, Barrett looked at his
watch. "Well, thank you, Doctor. I think. We'll talk tomorrow then about
your findings on the blood at the scene?" The sympathetic look again.
"Yes, and I am sorry about burdening your ... They shook hands awkwardly
and bid each other good night.

As Barrett drove back to his apartment, his earlier good mood having
evaporated into the humid air, he considered his situation. Might
Ashford have killed Lara and not remember? The others, too? Did Ashfbrd
know he had Huntington's? Did Carmine Rizzo know? Might Rizzo consider
it unsafe to have a mentally unreliable head-case roaming loose with
insider knowledge in his head? And wouldn't Ashford know this and
consider it unsafe to have a mentally unreliable lawyer roaming loose
with knowledge of his condition?

Ashford may or may not be a murderer, thought Barrett, but he would damn
sure know where to find one and wouldn't hesitate to drop the dime to
save his own scalp. Barrett's hands tightened on the steering wheel as
he realized that Sandra Weiss had not only signed Ashford's death
warrant with her discovery but, if Barrett wasn't careful, perhaps his
own as well.

A traffic light turned yellow, then red, but he kept on going, and as he
glanced in the rearview mirror, his anger at Dr. Weiss grew. If a doctor
didn't know how to deal with something like this, how the hell was he
supposed to know? Playing God was a doctor's game, he thought, or maybe
a judge's. Trial lawyers are often seen as the devil, but never God.
What the hell am I supposed to do? Walk up and say, "Excuse me, Elliot,
good news!

Losing doesn't matter anymore; you'll be dead in a year or so either
way." Would Ashford even believe him? If he did believe him or if he
already knew about it, what then? A call to some scumbag with a silencer
who knew how to silence people? He slammed the steering wheel with both
palms.

Maybe it was time to float a plea bargain. He knew there was no reason
to hope Grace would take a deal or that Ashford would go for it even if
she did. But at least he might learn something. If Grace was open to a
deal, he'd learn she wasn't as confident as he had assumed. And if
Ashford was open to it, he'd learn his client wasn't as innocent as he
had hoped.

Anyway, the game had changed now and he needed a way out of it.

The next day, Grace Harris and Barrett appeared in John Hernandez's
courtroom to argue two defense motions in limine designed to keep the
prosecution from mentioning either the Mafia or Renee Babcock in the
presence of the jury. Predictably, Grace lost the first and won the
second and would be allowed to read parts of Babcock's testimony to the
jury. Afterward, she was pleasantly surprised when Barrett came over and
sat on the edge of her counsel table. She was even more surprised when
he floated the possibility of a plea bargain.

She managed an inscrutable expression. "What do you have in mind,
Barrett?"

"I haven't discussed this with my client yet," he said, "but I'm
thinking voluntary manslaughter, you strike the prior base term of three
years." She gave him a quizzical look and said, "Heat of passion?"
"Whatever," he said. "Maybe imperfect self-defense." She raised an
eyebrow at that. "What did she threaten him with? Her exposed throat?"
Barrett winced. "You don't have to pull that crap with me, Grace. You
know I don't think my client killed anybody."

"That's what you're paid the big bucks to believe, counselor, even if
you're wrong. Look, I know you were ahead of the game when the courtroom
went dark before, but things are going to be different this time."

"You mean because the quality of your opposition has plummeted?" Grace
felt herself reddening. "Not at all. In truth, I'd rather face Menghetti
if you must know. But you won't put on Renee Babcock this time around
and I won't put on Arm and Ligretti. You'll lose, Barrett."

"Look, Grace. I had doubts about Ashford, too. So I sent him to Astin
Testing and Clay Astin himself gave him a clean bill, not only as to
Lara but the other two as well. Here's his report." Grace perused it
quickly, feeling Barrett's tired eyes on her, wishing she looked a
little less tired herself.

"Let's get rid of this thing, Grace," she heard him say.

Grace met his unwavering eyes, then said, "I'll take it up with Klegg.

You must know I can't recommend it."

"Fair enough. You alone in this now, Grace?"

"Looks that way. You?"

"Looks that way," said Barrett with a smile. "May the best man win."
Grace gave him a bemused grin. "You don't have to pull that crap with
me, you know." Later that same afternoon, Grace met with Jack Klegg and
Sam Quon, who, like Grace, looked like he had aged five years since the
death of Earl Field. Grace, sitting next to Sam and facing Klegg behind
his desk, proposed they counter Dickson's laughable voluntary
manslaughter suggestion with murder two and fifteen to life.

"What happened to Judge Dredd?" said Klegg, obviously savoring this new
development. "The ironhearted Amazon? I thought it was always a battle
to the death for you, Grace, no quarter asked or given." It galled Grace
to subject herself to Klegg's predictable ridicule, particularly knowing
how much he wanted to be rid of the case. But she forced herself to stay
calm, letting him have his fun.

"May I ask," he continued, "who or what has caused you to finally
recognize the folly of putting the public to the expense of another
trial?"

"Clay Astin. He gave Ashford a clean bill." Klegg's eyes widened. Grace
knew he had relied on Astin many times himself. "I've seen his report,"
she added.

Klegg said nothing.

"You made the point yourself, Jack," she said. "We would have lost the
first one. It's even remotely conceivable the guy's innocent. Astin is
as good as they come." Sam made a face and looked out the window.

Klegg said, "What's your take, Sam?"

"Astin's wrong this time," said Sam.

Grace was surprised and showed it. Sam looked at her and shrugged.

"I agree," said Klegg. "It's not a perfect science, and even Clay makes
a mistake occasionally." "I think we should go back to Barrett with
something," said Grace, "given all the factors."

"It's, "Barrett' now, is it?" said Klegg with a wry grin that Grace
ignored with great effort.

"I would agree," Klegg continued, "ifmenghetti were still on the other
side." "But he's not," said Sam. "And you'll run all over that burnout,
Grace." Grace said, "That 'burnout' has won nearly every pretrial motion
he's filed so far, Sam. He even looks different, and he's got Mike
Reasoner helping him on the briefs."

"But he'll be all alone when there's a jury sitting there," said Klegg,
"and he'll fold under pressure. He's afraid to try this case and will
take any deal he can sell to his client. We just need to soften him up a
little more. The pure and simple fact is he'll eventually wimp out and
take murder one and life.

Maybe I'll take it, too. Stonewall him, Grace." Although Klegg was
disagreeing with her, Grace was pleasantly surprised to see him taking a
hard line. Was he ready to defy the mob as Earl had finally done? Not
likely. Had he worked something out with Rizzo?

More likely.

"All right, Jack," she said. "I'll tell Dickson."

"We're playing hardball here, Grace. Tell him also you're going to
convene the grand jury and charge his client with the additional murders
of Earl Field and Lani Jefferson." Grace felt her stomach double-clutch.
She looked from Klegg to Sam, then back to Klegg. "Are you serious,
Jack?"

"Damn straight I'm serious. If we indict him on the others, his bail
will be revoked. Special circumstances, pure and simple. The press will
see we're keeping him from doing it to somebody else, maybe save a
life."

"I'm all for saving lives, but what do we do for proof?"

"That's up to Sam and the police. My job is to give the public what it
wants, and the public wants us to be tough with this guy. Every poll in
the country says that Ashford killed all three of them, and some of them
are saying we're dragging our feet."

"So our charging policy is now being dictated by popular polls?" Klegg
interrupted her. "It happens, Grace, that polls reflect attitudes of
people. It also happens that we represent the people." She felt it
slipping away and looked to Sam for support. But he gave a little shrug
that seemed to say he thought Klegg was right for once.

She persisted. "Indicting Ashford with the additional murders based only
on their modus operand! will taint Lara's case on which we at least have
credible evidence! The jury will conclude we're overreaching on all
three murders." Klegg rose from behind his desk, then said, "Are you
saying you don't think Ashford's guilty?"

"Which murder are we talking about now, Jack? Lara Ashford? Lani
Jefferson?

JFK? The Grand Archduke Ferdinand?" Klegg's face reddened; he started to
speak but restrained himself. Grace glanced at Sam, but disregarded the
warning in his eyes.

"Look, Jack," she said. "He probably did murder Lara, despite Clay
Astin, but he's simply too damn smart to have done the others exactly
the same way. As for Lara, I'm just saying we've got to face realities
here. I'm not sure I can even get a conviction on that one based on what
we saw in the first trial."

"Let me get this straight," Klegg replied coldly. "You think he did it,
but you need an insurance policy guaranteeing you'll win your case.
Listen to yourself, Grace." Grace was too angry now to speak. Sam didn't
move. Why didn't he see through Klegg's idiocy?

"Look, Grace," said Klegg in a more conciliatory tone, "I admit we are
weak on Lara--all the more reason to bring in the other two murders to
strengthen our hand with the jury." That did it for Grace. "Brilliant,
Jack. We strengthen a weak case by taking on the additional burden of
proving two cases that are even weaker." She now saw why Klegg wouldn't
plea-bargain. He had found a way to both deal with the Chicago problem
and enhance his political prospects.

The prosecution case would eventually unravel now, giving Ashford his
freedom and making a fool out of one of his potential opponents in the
June election.

"You're a bastard, Jack," she added. "This city deserves better."
Klegg's head snapped around and the skin on his elongated face was
suddenly drawn taut across his checks. "Your fellow deputies are lined
up outside my office," he said quietly, "all wanting a shot at this
retrial. Just say the word and you're off the case." Grace met his
glowering eyes. He'd like me to quit, she thought. Then all his problems
go away.

"I'm going back to work," she said, and walked toward the door. ,i
"Grace?" said Klegg as she reached the doorway. "Please have those
proposed grand jury indictments on my desk by day's end." Grace walked
out. This time she slammed the door.

Three days later, Barrett heard a noise from far off, a stubborn ringing
that sounded like an unanswered telephone. He opened an eye, then
rotated his head in the direction of the sound. It was coming from an
unanswered telephone. Next to the telephone was a clock that read 6:26
a.m.

"Dickson," he grunted.

"Barrett, for God's sake, they've arrested me."

"Elliot? What do you mean they've arrested you?"

"I mean they've arrested me! Get down here." As Barrett drove to the
hall, he considered Grace's betrayal and his own na'ivete in trusting
her. Judge Lucy Kelly McCabe, one of the brightest stars on the Superior
Court bench, had once told him that she preferred the criminal
department over civil because the criminal lawyers didn't play games
like Barrett was used to in commercial practice. Grace apparently hadn't
heard the news.

Barrett arrived at the seventh floor of the Hall of Justice where
no-bail detainees are held and found his client nearly hysterical.
Barrett explained that there was no way to get bail set now because he
was charged with multiple murders, then began to count the minutes until
he could gracefully signal the guard that he was finished. He returned
to his apartment and caught Grace Harris by phone just as she was
leaving for the office.

"Hello?"

"Is this the Amazing Grace Harris?"

"Who's this?"

"Dickson. I want to commend you on your amazing guile. Within
forty-eight hours of asking you for a deal on manslaughter, you've
charged my client with two additional first-degree murders. Do you
vacation at the gardens of Gethsemane by any chance?"

"I don't b-blame you for being--"

"Remind me not to ask for another deal. Next time, you might respond by
indicting Ashford for the slaughter of six million Jews."

"Listen to me, Barrett--"

"Never again," he said. "I'd heard that you were tough, Grace, but
trustworthy.

I know better now."

"If you're implying I've done something unethical, Barrett--"

"I'd heard that criminal lawyers were more civil than civil lawyers," he
said, "but I guess it was just another lawyer joke, and a bad one at
that." Barrett stood for a moment staring at the dead telephone, then
poured himself an unwanted cup of coffee. It was clear to him that what
little he thought he had understood about women had been wrong. He had
just been wrong about Grace Harris. Why had he begun to trust her?

He fed Fred and Ginger II, then struggled through a five-finger exercise
on the piano. He got up and poured his coffee into the sink.

What the hell was going on with her? he wondered. It bothered him that
it was bothering him so much. The hell with her. She had probably been
playing with his head; throwing him off-balance like trial lawyers
always try to do to one another. But she wasn't just another trial
lawyer. She had become important to him.

But to hell with her.

As he stared into a sink full of dishes, another reality intruded. There
would be no plea bargain, and he would have to tell Ashford what he
knew.

He decided to allow himself one glass of wine. It would be another long
night.

The next morning, Barrett forced himself awake at seven o'clock. His
head was fuzzy from the bottle of wine--the first glass hadn't done the
trick--and from tossing and turning while he tried to think of a nice
way to tell someone he was about to die.

"What the hell are you saying?" screamed Ashford an hour later as he
slammed his hand down on the scarred wooden table. "There's nothing
wrong with my head!" Barrett patiently explained what Dr. Weiss had told
him about Huntington's disease, carefully watching his client's face for
any hint that he already knew about it. But Ashford just kept fuming and
shaking his head. When Barrett shrugged to indicate he was finished,
Ashford leaned across the table and grabbed his arm.

"Listen, Dickson. Lara was pregnant eight years ago, but my son died in
childbirth. Now she's dead and I have no heir." Barrett waited. Ashford
leaned back and rubbed his face with both hands, then stared at the
ceiling as if he were trying to make up his mind about something.

"I'm sorry," said Barrett, feeling he should say something.

"I've met someone," he said softly, but Barrett noticed that his
client's fingers were trembling against his lips as he dragged on his
cigarette. "I'm going to marry her as soon as I get out of here."
Barrett felt a stab of pain in his stomach that shot through to his
lower back. Then he felt Ashford's eyes appraising him, awaiting his
response. His response was to stare over Ashford's head at the door with
the chicken-wired window, wanting nothing so much as to walk through it
and never look back.

"She will give me my heir, Barrett," said Ashford, gripping Barren's arm
tighter.

Barrett met his client's eyes for a second or two, then looked away to
conceal the anger that was driving out the feelings of compassion he had
borne into the room just minutes before.

"But not if I'm some kind of mutant monster, damn it! I can't plead
insanity!" Barrett said nothing, but pulled his arm away.

"Attorney-client communication," Ashford added.

Barrett stood, then leaned against his chair. "Now listen to me, Elliot.

I've believed in your innocence. I don't know what to think now, but
what I do know is that you're out of choices. You've painted yourself
into a corner with those phony alibis."

"I can explain all that--"

"The hell you can. The minute you take the stand they've got you. You'll
be clobbered with your prior violent assault felony, your hatred of Earl
Field, and God knows what else. You'll lose more than you'll gain."

"What about my polygraph?"

"It's inadmissible. Look, Elliot, you never know what's going to happen
in a jury trial, and as a gambler, you must know there's a time to walk
away from the table. Whether you believe Dr. Weiss or not, her testimony
along with a forensic shrink could not only keep you off death row but
maybe allow you to duck prison altogether."

"How?"

"Even if the jury finds you did it, you'd go off to a cushy sanatorium
for a few months--maybe a year--establish that you've 'regained your
sanity," and walk out the--" But Ashford cut him off. "No sanatorium, no
temporary insanity," he said, the pitch of his voice rising. "I could
lose everything."

"Elliot, you could lose your life} Have you heard a word I've said?"

"I heard you," he said at last. "I heard every word. I have my reasons.
I want to be alone now."

"Elliot, please  ..." Barrett realized that tears were streaming down
his client's cheeks. He w'atched in silence as the prisoner slowly rose
to his feet and pressed his cheek against the chicken-wired glass
window, his fingers splayed flat against the cold walls surrounding the
door into the rear corridor.

"Okay," said Barrett softly. "I'll be back in a day or two. Take some
time to think it over. We'll decide then, okay?" Ashford didn't answer.

"You look tired, Grace," said Sam, entering her office a week after
their meeting with Klegg.

"My turn at the clinic last night."

"You'd better let that go for a while," said Sam, looking like he wanted
to talk. "Let some other do-gooders out there have a shot at saving the
world."

"Most of us there settle for just making a difference," said Grace.

"Well, it's good the new indictments kicked the trial over into January.

Ashford won't get his Christmas verdict, and you'll be able to get some
rest."

"And you'll have more time not to find any evidence connecting Ashford
to Jefferson and Field." "I guess I deserve that," said Sam, smiling.
"Look, Grace, I know you feel Jack and I ganged up on you. I want you to
know that despite Clay Astm's reputation, I'm still sure Ashford did all
three of them."

"I'm sure you're sure, Sam."

"I'm trying to apologize, Grace. I guess you haven't seen today's
Chronicle!" Grace took the proffered paper and felt her heart quicken.
After ten days of screaming for Ashford's arrest, the Chronicle now
speculated that

"Grace's Amazing Ambition" had overcome her good judgment in seeking the
new indictments. The reporter had interviewed three top criminal defense
lawyers and an assistant D.A. from Los Angeles, all of whom agreed that
she had jeopardized the original case by bringing in the two additional
murders.

The article also lamented "Ms. Harris's refusal to justify the decision
by revealing even a hint of the evidence she had presented to the grand
jury and would soon present at trial."

"I won't say what I'm thinking," she said.

"That you told us so?" said Sam. "That you're the one now taking the
heat? That it was a bad idea?"

"Keep going," Grace said absently as she scanned the article. "They've
definitely portrayed me as the architect of the strategy. There's only
one thing to do now." Sam looked alarmed. "You're not going to do
anything extreme, are you?"

"I'm afraid so, Sam, given the state of my bank account," said Grace,
grabbing her coat. "I'm going Christmas shopping. After that, I'm going
to lunch." At 1:00 p.m., Barrett and Mike took seats at the bar at
Stars.

"Your usual, counselor?" said the bartender to Barrett, after taking
Mike's order of a McCallum's single malt.

"No, Ken," said Barrett, and ordered a bottle ofperrier.

"I'm impressed," said Mike.

"I'm modestly curious about what it might be like to try a case with a
functioning brain."

"I'll drink to that. That is, if it won't bother you."

"No more than everything else you do." When they were seated in the club
area for lunch, Mike spotted Grace Harris seated across the room with a
woman friend.

"Yeah, she looks good in civies," said Barrett, squinting to view her
profile and the sheen other black hair as it curved around her pale
throat. "Too bad her heart's gone colder than a well-digger's ass."

"I thought you'd gone sweet on her, Bear. But you're right about the
Iron Maiden. You don't win thirty first-degree murder cases without the
milk of human kindness going sour."

"Not to mention the cream of her integrity," said Barrett. "Still, I
sure like the way she looks, and she's smart. Witty, too." Mike grunted.
"I'll bet she's as witty as a Mylar blanket--with considerably less
warmth." He sipped his single malt, then added, "You like her, that's
the problem. Just because she's smart and pretty, you think she could
save you from drowning."

"Save me from drowning? Hell, she's the one with her foot on my head."
As Grace suddenly turned toward him in recognition, her expression
friendly, Barrett felt an almost forgotten stirring. He self-consciously
held up a hand--the one with a complete set of fingers--like someone
taking an oath.

She responded to Barrett's ambiguous greeting with a friendly wave and
he found himself impulsively moving toward her on unreliable legs,
walking stiff-legged from the ass, not the ankles, like a kid on stilts
or Karloff doing his monster. Yet he couldn't stop his legs from moving
him closer to her, or an uncertain smile from breaking out, causing
crow's-feet to fan out across his ruddy cheekbones.

"Hello, Barrett," she said, putting her glass down and offering her
hand.

"Nice to see you. This is my friend, Jillian Jacobs." "Pleased, ma'am,"
Barrett said, awkwardly extending his hand and already regretting his
impetuous invasion.

"Sit with us?" Grace said.

Barrett composed himself, gave her the most casual smile he could
muster. "I'd like to," he said, "but I just remembered we're not on
speaking terms." "Oh, my," said Grace. "Jillian, please tell Mr. Dickson
I said, "Oh, my."

" "Oh, my," said Jillian, looking with mock sadness at Barrett.

"Jillian," said Barrett, "would you tell Ms. Harris that jailing my
client in response to my good-faith-settlement overture was an
interesting approach to building a foundation of trust." Grace's lips
parted in a beguiling smile. "Jillian, would you explain to Mr. Dickson
that although I'm the one looking really stupid over the recent
indictments, I don't really run the district attorney's office?" Barrett
smiled and concluded that it would be less awkward for him to sit down
for a moment than to continue looming over the two women, feeling like a
poorly designed building.

A waiter placed his half-filled glass on the table to his right. "Your
Perrier, sir." "Jillian," he said, feeling playfully exuberant in the
glow of Grace's presence, "tell your friend I'm not one to hold grudges,
and that if that was an apology, I accept." Jillian Jacobs, sitting
between the lawyers, said, "Who communicates between you two in court,
the judge?" "In court," said Grace, "lawyers speak either to the judge
or to the witnesses, rarely to each other, except to disrupt. As we're
not in court at the moment, Jillian, would you suggest to Mr. Dickson
that we break precedent?" Dickson reached for his glass to propose a
witty riposte, but knocked it over instead, spilling some of the
contents on the sleeve of his coat, and the rest on the table. He then
turned the color of his crimson tie as he reached for a napkin.

"That will come out with a little Perrier water," ventured Grace
sympathetically.

Jillian laughed. Barrett managed a smile.

"They make these tables too small," he said, trying to rise to his feet
without inflicting further damage. "Nice meeting you, Jillian, and my
apologies to you both. I just came over to practice my disruption
skills." "Actually," said Jillian, obviously enjoying the spectacle, "we
were quite bored until your disruption. Stay a while, please."

"That's gracious, Jillian," Barrett said, too embarrassed now to look at
Grace, "but having destroyed your table, I'll now return to my stool and
set the bar on fire." Barrett rejoined Mike and asked Ken to send them
drinks and a towel.

"What a klutz," Barrett mumbled.

"It could have been worse," said Mike unconvincingly.

"Not without the aid of explosives," said Barrett.

Back at Grace's table, Jillian Jacobs leaned conspiratorially toward her
friend. "He likes you, Grace," she said. "And he's very handsome in a
roughput sort ofwav."

"If you like that sort of way."

"I wonder," said Jillian, raising a suggestive eyebrow, "what he's like
beneath those Perrier-drenched clothes. I'm referring to his mind, of
course." "Of course," said Grace, swirling the red wine in her glass.
"He was once the best there was. He's currently staging a comeback of
sorts."

"What else? Is he married?" Grace gave her friend a sideways look.
"Widowed. Don't tell me you're interested? You are married, remember?"

"How could I forget," said Jillian, frowning. "But you're not." Grace
rolled her eyes and let out a laugh. "Don't be s-silly." But Jillian
Jacobs just stared at her with a knowing smile.

Earl Field's death had dramatically altered many lives, but none more
than Amanda Keller's. The buzzing and clicking in her ears were gone.

Over two weeks of blessed peace since Earl Field's death. It was like an
exorcism.

Every day was pretty much the same now. She would awake feeling
strangely detached from all that had happened. All sense of time and
space seemed to abandon her in these first moments of wakemlness. Then
it would not be a question of remembering what she had done so much as
endowing the recollection of it with the substance of reality. My God,
she would think with both pride and regret, I did that!

She would read and reread every account of the murders she could find,
interrupted only by Lucinda's complaining, the only lingering irritant
in Amanda's new life.

"Quiet!" Amanda would say in a new, authoritative voice, and Lucinda
would be quiet, a least for a few hours. Lucinda obviously had no idea
how to deal with this calm yet aggressive behavior other than to stay
out of Amanda's way. The new Amanda came and went at her whim and simply
ignored most of Lucinda's questions. When asked how they were to
survive, however, Amanda had said she was back on unemployment. She was
civil, even pleasant at times, but always distant. She paid the rent,
provided adequate food, and even granted a modest allowance for
Lucinda's wine and cigarettes.

Amanda liked seeing the confusion in Luanda's eyes as her mother watched
and waited for things to get back to what had passed for normal in their
relationship.

But Amanda knew she would never again occupy the skin of that other
lifeless, frightened person, that slavish piece of crap she had been.
Though she still yearned for Earl Field, she felt grounded for the first
time, finding joy in the experience of things that had previously gone
unnoticed: her surviving cat's beauty when sleeping, a cappuccino on
Union Street, a flower defying the December winds, a breeze as it lifted
off the Bay and set palm fronds on the Embarcadero rattling like a giant
mobile.

She kept her scrapbooks up-to-date and sometimes clipped out pictures of
the late district attorney and juxtaposed them with snapshots of
herself.

Her favorite was a photo of all twelve jurors coming down the courthouse
steps the day she became a regular juror. Earl Field stood in the
background giving an impromptu news conference and she was looking over
her shoulder at him. Little did anyone suspect that he was already in
love with her even then, and sadly, no one ever would.

She resumed her workouts, but with less weight now and more reps. It was
a regimen designed to achieve tone rather than bulk, an apt metaphor for
Amanda's new life. Although she was content in her new persona, it
became clear to her that she still longed to return to Hollywood. She
sdll wanted stardom and the perquisites of fame and wealth that
accompanied it.

She daydreamed of spotlights and limos, martinis and furs.

But there was an important difference now. For the first time in her
life, she wasn't responding to the needs and desires of her mother, her
employer, her producer, her ex-husband, or anyone else. She wanted it
for herself.

And one clear, brisk morning, while sipping a cappuccino at Starbucks on
Union Street, it came to her how she would get it.

Barrett arrived on the seventh floor and found an entirely different
Elliot Ashford waiting for him than the one he had left in tears of
confusion two days earlier. Cool and arrogant again, Elliot knew exactly
what he wanted.

"There'll be no temporary insanity defense, Dickson. In the first place,
I didn't kill her."

"I'm not saying you killed her; it's a plea in the alternative."

"Legal gibberish! You're asking me to admit to a crime I didn't commit,
then makes excuses for it."

"That's not the--"

"And Julian must not be told any of this, Barrett! Understand?" Barrett
nodded.

"I know things, okay?"

"And you're afraid they might--"

"You never know with these bloody fools, but I'll not take the risk. And
I must tell you, Dickson, that if this absurd story about me being crazy
does get out, I'll know where it came from and I guarantee I'll get you
before they get me."

"You don't have to threaten me, Ashford. I couldn't tell anyone if I
wanted to. It's privileged information."

"Good. Then maybe we'll both be privileged to live long lives-- assuming
your doctor friend is wrong and you're as good in court as they say you
used to be." The telephone was on its fifth ring by the time Grace came
through the door and snatched it off the hook. It was Aaron calling from
Florida.

"How are you, pumpkin?" To her surprise, Aaron was having a terrific
time. He was enjoying himself so much, in fact, that Grace began to feel
an unreasoning pang of jealousy.

He missed her, of course, and his friends, too, but not school; he was
too busy enjoying trips to historical sites with his grandfather.

"Are you keeping up with your other studies?"

"Sure, Grandpapa helps me. He's taught me all kinds of stuff about the
Old Country and things about our roots I never heard about. How come you
never told me anything?" Another black mark for mom, Grace thought. "I
didn't know you were interested."

"I'm going to be a better kid when I get back, Mom. I'm studying to be
bar mitzvahed. I'm even learning some Hebrew!" Grace was beginning to
fear that her son was coming too much under her father's influence, but
then tossed it off as motherly possessiveness. Besides, she had survived
it, hadn't she?

They talked about the case, then Aaron asked if she was still going to
Emeryville on Wednesday nights.

"I've been too busy lately," she said uneasily. Had her trial lawyer's
instincts picked up a judgmental tone in the question?

"Maybe it's for the best," he said. Then it all came out. Aaron had
wanted to see her perform, but she only sang on Wednesdays, a school
night, and she wouldn't allow it. So he got Skip Hodges to borrow his
brother's car one night and they had trailed her to Emeryville.

"It was just something to do, Mom. We were sort of playing detective and
Skip had never even heard you sing. I didn't plan on telling you about
it ever, but Grandpapa has taught me that concealment is the same as a
direct lie." "My God," said Grace, her hand tightening on the receiver.
"Did they 1-let you into the bar?"

"We acted like we were there for dinner, then walked right into the
cocktail lounge and just stood there. Everyone was watching you, so they
didn't pay any attention to us for a long time. You were great, Mom. Not
a single--"

"Slammer," she finished for him, trying to regain her composure. Relax,
she told herself, just two kids having an adventure. "It's common, Mel
Tillis the most famous example. Many of us don't slammer when we sing.
So we sing in public to try to  ..." Her voice trailed off and there was
an awkward silence. She was afraid to ask what else he had seen. Had he
stayed? Seen her leave?

"I must tell you, Aaron, that I f-feel you and Skip were invading my
privacy.

I'm n-not happy about this whole situation."

"Well, that makes two of us, and like I said, maybe it's better you're
too busy these days." My God, she thought, he had seen
her--them--walking across the parking lot. Toward her brief interlude at
the motel next door.

"Don't worry," Aaron said, confirming her worst fear, "I don't need to
tell Grandpapa the rest. He's upset enough about you as it is." Grace
fell onto a kitchen stool, overwhelmed by frustration. She could hear
her father's judgment in Aaron's tone. Could she be losing him?

"Don't you want to say hello to him?" Aaron continued.

"No," she said. "Not tonight." Grace rang off sadly, wondering if she
should bring her son back before her father turned him into a knight of
the righteous. She dropped her head into her hands, wishing she had time
to cry.

Barrett, Klegg, now Aaron, all down on her. She might win her trial, and
the election too, but at what cost? She vaguely remembered a parable
about a man who had gained the world at the cost of his soul, but
couldn't remember if it was Old or New Testament. Did it really matter?
And couldn't worse things happen to her son than becoming religious?

Like becoming dead?

So she would not bring him home. What she would do is end this case as
fast as she could, consistent with her duty to the people, then take him
to Maui for a week before putting him back in school. She would
reprogram her son with her own set of weapons: walks on the beach
together, snorkeling, movies, the great water slide at the Hyatt,
sundown dinners.

She rose to her feet and looked around her, glad at least that Aaron
couldn't see the mess she had allowed to build up in his absence. She
started to pick things up, but felt too tired to do anything but
collapse in bed.

Then she would take the time to cry.

She rose the next morning without the new energy she had hoped for, bnr
with a firm resolve to take whatever they threw at her and give it back
with all the strength and skill she could muster. She had overslept, so
she skipped breakfast and raced to the Hall of Justice for the weekly
8:00 a.m.

"planning conference" with Jack Klegg. She had come to dread these
demeaning exercises as a waste of time.

Today's meeting would not be a mere waste of time, for Klegg was not
alone.

"You know Barrett Dickson, Grace." Grace nodded, feeling heat flooding
her face. Barrett nodded back.

Why hadn't Klegg warned her? She involuntarily ran the fingers of one
hand through her hair, knowing it looked a mess.

"As you might have surmised, Grace, Mr. Dickson and I have been
discussing the Ashford matter."

"I surmised that it must be something important," said Grace, "to
warrant getting Mr. Dickson out of bed this early in the day." She was
pleased with the ostensibly calm but deliberately edged tone in her
voice. She prayed she would not slammer.

Barrett was unruffled, even gave her a smile. Was he mocking her or was
there sympathy in that smile? She didn't like either possibility.

Klegg scowled. Then, to the apparent surprise of Barrett Dickson, Klegg
said, "As you know, Grace, the new indictments you obtained on the
Jefferson and Field killings are causing us hell in the press. I've
asked counsel here to be candid if he knows of any evidence connecting
Ashford to these crimes other than the similar m.o., and I accept his
word he knows of none. As we've found none either, I'd like you to
dismiss the indictments." Grace said nothing. The enormity of Klegg's
declaration rendered her speechless. Of all the indignities he had
perpetrated and all the dirty tricks he had ever pulled off in the ten
years she had known him, this was the Super Bowl, the Grand Slam, and
the Triple Crown of outrageous duplicity. It didn't get any worse than
this, she thought as she glowered in disbelief at the acting D.A.

Then it got worse.

"Mr. Dickson and I," said Klegg in his perfected sycophantic tone, "have
also been discussing the original case against his client." Grace looked
from Klegg to Barrett, then back to Klegg again. "Either my watch has
stopped, Jack," she said dryly, "or my invitation to your earlier
meeting got lost in the mail." But Klegg forged ahead as inexorably as a
landing craft bound for Normandy beach, indifferent to any obstacle
Grace might be about to lay in his path.

"Mr. Dickson has been quite persuasive in arguing that the second trial
will only be a reprise of the first. The pure and simple fact is that
the best we can hope for is a hung jury, another mistrial." Grace could
stand no more and knew her face was revealing her anger and humiliation.
"Don't you think, Jack, that we should discuss this matter privately?"
Barrett responded by starting to rise from one of Klegg's large leather
chairs. "No problem, Grace," he said, but by the time he reached an
upright state, Klegg had assumed a standing position as well and was
motioning Barrett to be seated.

"Look, Grace, there is no need for games here. The pure and simple fact
is that our posttrial debriefing interviews with the jurors came out the
same as the defense's. We were going to lose, and face it, there was
reasonable doubt." Grace rose to her feet also and gave Klegg a hard
look, but his expression was unyielding. She said, "But that was
because--" "Grace," said Klegg, "just hear me out."

"I w-won't hear you out, Jack," said Grace, "and I again urge you not to
say another--"

"Please, Mr. Klegg," interjected Barrett, "I'd prefer to step outside
for a moment."

"Stay right where you are, sir," said Klegg. "Let's all sit back down
and discuss this like professionals." Barrett shrugged but seemed to be
waiting for a cue from Grace before descending back into the beckoning
leather chair. But Grace was moving toward Klegg at a speed that
suggested she might vault over his desk. Instead, she planted herself in
front of it, solid as a fence post.

"Let me give it to you as 'pure and simple' as I can, Jack," she said.
"I will not be a party to whatever little scheme you've cooked up with
Mr. Dickson here. Nor will I dismiss Lara's case." Klegg said nothing.
So Grace turned toward the door and added, "Do it yourself." Klegg
circled his desk and blocked her path. "Are you blind to what's been
going on here, Grace? It was Earl! We never had a solid case against
Ashford. Earl's ambition blinded him to what every juror could clearly
see.

Sure, maybe Ashford did it, but we've never been in a position to prove
it and we never will be!" Grace stood her ground. "And where were you,
Jack, when the original decision was made to indict Ashford? Standing
right next to him as I recall." Klegg tilted his head toward Barrett and
said in a tone that only Klegg could pull off--at once soothing,
threatening, and, as always, patronizing-- "Grace, we're not alone."
Grace could not help smiling at the irony, "You soon will be, Jack.

Trust me." Barrett loudly cleared his throat and walked over to a
window.

Grace turned and started through the doorway. Klegg's voice rose,
saying, "You might also consider your future here, Grace! Prosecuting is
a tough job calling for tough decisions. Not suited for everyone." Grace
turned and said, "Thank you, Jack, for not adding that 'prosecuting is
man's work."

" She stormed down the hall to her office and flipped on her computer,
but not to draft a dismissal.

To: Interim District Attorney Jack M. Klegg From: Interim Chief Deputy
Grace Harris Date: 12797 Please accept my resignation from the Office of
the District Attorney, City and County of San Francisco, effective
immediately.

Grace hit shift-F7, then walked over and picked her memo out of the
printer. She signed it, then folded it in thirds, and sealed it in an
envelope with Klegg's name on the outside. She made two extra copies for
herself and began cleaning out her desk, then slammed a drawer shut.

Screw it, she thought, I've had enough for one day. She gave Klegg's
copy of the resignation to Bertha, a pool secretary, then went back for
her coat. It would be cold outside.

She heard her phone ring but ignored it and headed down the hall toward
the elevator lobby.

"Oh, my God, Grace, there you are!" said Pam, her regular secretary, in
a low but nearly hysterical voice. "I've been trying to reach you.
There's a person in reception who insists on seeing you; said it had
something to do with the Ashford case." Grace started to explain that
there wasn't going to be a case. Instead she just shook her head and
kept walking down the hall. But Pam was insistent.

"Grace! This witness overheard Ashford personally threaten Lani
Jefferson  ... the day she was murdered!" Grace's head spun around, and
she saw that Pam was serious. Her heart started dancing in her chest.
"What?"

"Really! She also has evidence connecting Ashford to Earl's death!"
Grace raced into the reception area.

There, looking up at her with innocent impassivity, was the alternate,
Amanda Keller.

Grace called for Sam Quon, then escorted Amanda into her office.

When Sam arrived, Grace offered her some coffee, then listened, hardly
breathing, while Amanda told her story. When she was finished, Grace
called in a steno and took her through it all again, hitting her this
time with everything but her swivel chair in an effort to shake a story
that, if true, would give her the ammunition she needed to send Elliot
Ashford to death row and to checkmate Klegg's most recent move.

"It was the same day Lani Jefferson was murdered," said Amanda. "I had
left the courtroom after the others and Lani was still waiting at the
elevator."

"Anyone else there?"

"There was another woman who appeared to be a county employee."

"Did Ms. Jefferson appear unusually nervous that day?"

"No. Lani was always poised, always dressed beautifully," Amanda said,
her eyes softening. "I envied her, but I admired her even more. She was
a beautiful person." Grace studied the woman in front of her,
remembering the way she had stormed out of Earl Field's office that day,
obviously upset. What had that been about?

"Can you tell me again for the record, Ms. Keller, how Ms. Jefferson was
dressed that day?"

"Yes. She had on a mauve blouse with large black buttons under a gray
jacket and a cream skirt." Grace was astonished by the woman's keen
memory for detail and apparent credibility. "Please continue."

"Well, the other lady--the one who seemed to work there--got off at the
second floor, and just as the elevator doors were about to close, he
came in!"

"He?"

"Ashford. Elliot Ashford. There we were, in an elevator with an accused
murderer. I should think jurors would be protected from that!" Grace
shrugged and said, "They used to not even have a jury room. Jurors sat
in the hallway during every recess alongside accused murderers." .

"Wp1l. T was terrified because of what he had said to me earlier, but
Lani seemed calm. Mr. Ashford smiled at both of us and said,
"Ladies?'--just like that--then stepped to the rear so that now he was
behind us."

"Can you describe this other woman? The one who got off when he got on?"
Amanda's brow knitted briefly, whether in concentration or annoyance
Grace couldn't tell.

"Medium height, dark hair, fortyish, I'd say."

"Would you know her if you saw her again?"

"I honestly don't know."

"Okay, then what happened?"

"As soon as the doors closed, Mr. Ashford started talking in a low, sort
of monotone voice, like he was having a conversation with somebody. But
nobody else was in there but us. I know that makes no sense but that's
how it hit me."

"Don't worry," Grace said. "Just tell it like you remember it. What was
he saying? The exact words if you can remember them."

"I'll never forget them. He said, "Ms. Keller, you're only an alternate
and about to be excused, so consider this your lucky day. Ms. Jefferson,
on the other hand, is someone who is going to vote to acquit--or she's
sitting on her last jury."

"Did either of you respond to this?"

"Not me. I was too petrified. But I'll never forget Lani just turning
around and looking him straight in the eye and saying, "I'll see you in
chambers tomorrow morning, Mr. Ashford."

"What did you take that to mean?"

"That she was going to tell the judge about the threat."

"What did he say then?" Amanda shivered in her chair and put her head
down, staring at her tightly clasped hands. She seemed on the brink of
tears.

"He  ...  told her  ...  he'd see her in hell first."

"Those were his exact words?"

"Yes, "I'll see you in hell first."

"What happened next?"

"Nothing. When we got to the ground floor, we tried to be casual but got
out as fast as we could. That's the last time  ...  the last time I ever
saw Lani."

"And the second threat involved Mr. Field?"

"Yes. That was after the mistrial. I was picking up some forms for my
mother at City Hall during my lunch hour and I walked into this little
restaurant called Pat's Seafood Grill, I think. I didn't see him at
first and he didn't see me either because I sat at a table closest to
the door with my back to his back. But then I recognized his voice."

"As Mr. Ashford's?"

"Yes. I couldn't believe it at first and I wasn't trying to listen, but
I was sure it was him."

"What made you sure?"

"Two things. First, I heard him tell his friend across from him that he
was going to have it out once and for all with that--I won't say the
word he used."

"It's all right. Tell me exactly what he said." "He said  ...  'that
nigger DA."

"

"What was the second thing?"

"That was when his friend was leaving a few minutes later. Mr. Ashford
got up and told him good-bye and I got a good look at him. I decided I'd
better leave, too, but the problem was he glanced around as he started
to sit back down and recognized me, too."

"How do you know that?"

"Because he leaned right down and said, "Well, well, if it isn't the
alternate," or something like that."

"What happened then?" "He sat back down at his table. I asked for my
check and I heard him ask for his, too."

"Did he say anything else to you?"

"Yes, but not just then. He got up after the waitress had delivered our
checks, then he picked mine up and went to the cashier and paid both of
them. I didn't know what to say. Then he came back and dropped two
dollars in front of me. "That's a tip for your waitress," he says, then
he says, "Now here's a tip for you: Keep your pretty mouth shut if you
don't want to end up like your friend."

"Meaning Lani Jefferson?"

"That must have been who he meant. Then he said, "Have a nice day," and
gave me that mean little smile of his and just walked out. I never saw
him again." Grace took the witness through another thirty minutes of
interrogation, forcing her back over her story a third time, looking for
the slightest inconsistencies.

There were none. She then readied her final question. If the witness
could provide a credible answer to it, no juror could doubt her.

"Why is it that you've only just come forward with this information."

"I was afraid, Ms. Harris. I knew Mr. Ashford had killed Lani and that
he could kill me just as easy!" Perfect, thought Grace, one of those
answers trial lawyers liked to bait a trap with. She knew if she didn't
ask the question on direct, Barrett would have to ask it on cross. He
would have the answer stricken, of course, but the jury would never
forget it.

"r)irl vnn fell anyone at all?"

"I tried to tell Mr. Field, but he accused me of lying. He almost threw
me out of his office!" So that was it, thought Grace, remembering the
day she saw Amanda charging out of Earl's office. Grace's last trace of
lawyer's skepticism evaporated.

"I even came back," Amanda added with a hurt look, "but he refused to
see me." Grace remembered that, too.

"Did you consider going to the police?" Grace continued. "Didn't you
know you would have been protected?" Amanda inhaled sharply, then slowly
dropped her flawlessly coifed head.

A well-manicured hand went to her ample chest, just below the sternum,
as if something were stuck in her throat. Grace could read the pain on
her face.

"Don't you think I wanted fo?" she said, her voice breaking, then asked
for a drink of water.

"Of course," said Grace, pouring from a Calistoga bottle she kept on the
credenza behind her desk. "Would you like to stop for a while?" Amanda
gulped the water, holding the glass in both hands. "No," she said. "It's
just that if I hadn't been such a coward, Mr. Field might be alive
today. But I figured that if he didn't believe me, the police wouldn't
either.

Now I wish I'd at least tried." Grace continued to scan the witness with
her lawyer's penetrating gaze.

She missed no movement of Amanda's hands, no flicker of the dark blue
eyes, no trembling of the dark red lips. She studied every inch, every
pore, of the witness's face, looking for any sign of deceit or
hyperbole. She saw only anxiety and guilt.

"Would you like some fresh coffee, Ms. Keller?" Amanda was biting her
lip and again seemed about to cry, but she took a deep breath and shook
her head.

"I've been terrified. I'm going to be even more afraid now that I've
come forward!" Perfect, thought Grace. She's afraid ofashford and the
jury will see it.

"You did the right thing, Ms. Keller," Grace said. "I think that's
enough for one day. Oh, wait ...  I guess the steno caught it, but I got
behind in my notes on something here. Would you tell me again what Ms.
Jefferson was wearing in the elevator that day?"

"Certainly. She had on a dark gray jacket over a mauve blouse. Her skirt
was a cream color; so were her purse and shoes. Did I mention that?"

"I don't think so," said Grace, again amazed at the witness's
consistency and attention to detail. "Not the purse and shoes." Amanda
laughed self-consciously. "I notice things like that," she said. "I was
in entertainment for a while."

"I know," said Grace. "I read that in one of the papers."

"Really? Someone told me that I was mentioned."

"Are you still at the same address?"

"Yes."

"I'll be in touch, and thank you for coming in, Ms. Keller."

"I'm glad I did. I feel relieved. Please call me Amanda. And may I call
you Grace?" "Of course," said Grace, glancing at her watch and nodding
toward the stenographer. "Time 3:47. Off the record." As soon as she had
escorted Amanda to the lobby, she returned to the pool secretary's desk
and was relieved to see the envelope containing her resignation right
where she had left it. She retrieved it, took it back to her office, and
tore it into pieces.

At her meeting with an astonished Jack Klegg early the next morning,
Grace ended it by saying she would try the case alone. Klegg could come
up with no defensible reason for denying her request. Barrett had
already declared to the judge that he would be trying the case himself,
and Grace knew that saddling herself with a co-counsel would play into
Barrett's solo underdog role, "pitifully outnumbered against the
unlimited resources of the government." He'll be outnumbered, she
resolved, but only by me.

As she put a copy of Keller's transcribed sworn statement in her
briefcase, she realized that Earl might have still been under the mob's
control when Amanda tried to talk to him. Either that or he simply
didn't have the patience to hear information that could have saved his
life. Either way, Grace now understood why Keller had seemed so upset
when she left that day and why she had been so persistent the day he
refused to see her at all.

Poor Earl. Headstrong and flamboyant, egotistical and manipulative, yet
she missed him. Missed his dash and good humor. As was said a dozen
times at his funeral: The man had style.

She took a cup of coffee to her office and glanced at the morning
Chronicle.

She nearly dropped her coffee, for there on the front page was a
headline that blared: MYSTERY .WITNESS HEARS D.A. MURDER THREAT She felt
heat flooding her body. She had told only Klegg and Sam Quon about the
witness. Who had they told?

Nothing was secure anymore, she thought, and no one would be safe once
Ashford read the article, especially Amanda Keller. Would her witness
still be willing to testify now that her cover had been blown so
quickly?

Keller would know that Ashford's connections reached well beyond prison
Grace decided she would call her key witness and offer police protection
as soon as she talked to Jack Klegg. She misdialed twice before
connecting with him.

"I didn't tell a soul," said Klegg. "I swear it. Look, Grace, this place
has more leaks than the office of the President. Who was your steno?"
Grace hung up. She doubted that it was the steno, and knew it wasn't
Sam. It never occurred to her that Amanda Keller had retained a public
relations consultant who had just taken the first step in choreographing
his new client's triumphant return to Hollywood.

A week later, Amanda Keller gave her face and hair a final touch-up as
she anxiously awaited her third conference with Grace Harris. She knew
this one might be difficult.

A secretary appeared in the reception area at 8.00 a.m. and led Amanda
to Grace Harris's office without a word, then quickly stepped out of the
line of fire as soon as Amanda stepped through the door. Amanda was now
certain Grace had seen the article in California Confidential that had
appeared five days after the Chronicle story.

Magazines had lined up for an interview with "the mystery witness" along
with every supermarket tabloid in the country. Amanda and her new public
relations agent had chosen California Confidential based on a weighted
formula that pointed to Confidential as the leading zookeeper feeding
the public's ravenous appetite for salacious gossip seasoned with a
touch of reality. Confidential also seemed to have the best linkage to
the Hollywood star machine.

The terms of the deal were simple: in return for an exclusive interview,
Amanda received a modest--but urgently needed--check for $20,000, plus
final approval on photo selection and republication of selected
favorable reviews of her work on Hope's People.

"I take it you've seen the article," said Amanda, her deep-set eyes
lowered contritely.

Grace stood behind her desk, hands on hips. "I've seen it." Amanda had
been concerned about Grace Harris's reaction, but her agent convinced
her that her status as the prosecution's key witness now entitled her,
like the proverbial eight-hundred-pound gorilla, to sit any damn place
she pleased. But the agent didn't have to face the diminutive Grace
Harris, staring at Amanda with an intensity that would have made any
gorilla blink.

"I can't believe you d-did this!" Grace said, pointing the folded
tabloid at Amanda like a pistol. "Then there was the Chronicle story
that came out right after our first meeting. Was that you also?" Amanda
looked down. She had decided to gain credibility with the prosecutor by
telling the truth on subsidiary issues.

"I'm sorry, Grace. I was just--"

"Didn't we agree you were not to talk to anyone?" Christ, thought
Amanda, this woman was beginning to sound like her mother. But she
concealed her irritation and stared at her hands, saying nothing.

"What were you thinking of, Amanda? Don't you see you've thoroughly
compromised your credibility as a w-witness?" A chill of concern passed
through Amanda. Had she gone too far? Was she being dismissed? This
would have to be good. She slowly raised her head, eyebrows slanted into
a picture of contrition.

"I  ...  I'm so sorry, Ms. Harris. It's just that  ...  well, I have no
job now, and  ..." Amanda reached into her purse at this point, removing
a wrinkled tissue, wishing for the millionth time she could cry real
tears.

" ...  and I had to have the money for my mother. She's an invalid, you
see. The reporter promised me I'd get to review the story before it was
published, and I planned to run it past you too, but then--"

"They did," interrupted Grace, "what they always do." "I suppose so,"
Amanda said, dabbing at her dry eyes with a Kleenex, a catch in her
voice, a sudden sobbing sound. That's it, she thought: Us against the
rotten tabloids. She plucked an inhaler from her purse, not even sure
she needed it except as an additional prop. "I feel so stupid, and I
swear I didn't even say most of those things." She saw Grace's features
soften. Amanda pumped the inhaler twice into her mouth.

"Asthma." "Oh," said Grace, the thread of her anger unraveling. "What
will you say when Mr. Dickson accuses you of making up the entire story
just so you could sell it?"

"I'll tell him and the jury the absolute truth, just as I've told you,"
said Amanda, knowing Grace was smart enough to read the subtext: And Vtt
break down for them, just as I'm doing for yon now.

"You realize you have created two problems for yourself. In addition to
the money motive, Dickson also now has an advance copy of your
'testimony' in writing. He'll be well prepared for you."

"But, I told you, I didn't even say many of those things."

"That just makes it worse. He may subpoena the Confidential reporter to
contradict you. Either way, you'll now start out on the defensive,
denying and apologizing." Amanda looked up pitifully. "Just as I'm doing
now." The assistant D.A. did not seem moved. "Exactly. This is how cases
get bogged down and start going sideways." Amanda decided to trust her
agent's assessment of her new importance and take a chance.

"Would you be better off without me, Grace? I don't want to do anything
to jeopardize your case against this terrible person." The offer seemed
to irritate the assistant district attorney even more.

"Of course not," she snapped. "It's just going to be tougher now." The
agent was right! thought Amanda. I am an eight-hundred-pound gorilla.
She moved toward Grace and touched her lightly on the arm. "Then I'll
need your help. I'm so stupid in these matters. But if you'll stand by
me, I know I can get through it. I'm telling you the truth, Grace, and
the jury will see it." Grace glanced up into the contrite face of the
taller woman, then fixed her with a scrutiny that was difficult for the
witness to endure. This girl's tough, thought Amanda. To break the
tension building inside her, she looked away and added, "I'm still so
afraid, Grace." "You'll be all right," said Grace, granting Amanda an
unenthusiastic smile. "I'll arrange some protection for you."

"Thank you. I was embarrassed to ask before. Do you think my stupidity
has made things even more dangerous for me?"

"Let's sit down," said Grace as if she hadn't heard her, "and get to
work.

We don't have much time now." "I'm ready," said the witness.

"So what about this Amanda Keller, guys?" said Mike Reasoner, holding a
copy of Califoftna Confidential in his hand. "What does Ashford say
about her claims?" Lev said, "Gee, Mike, take a wild guess." "He doesn't
know the woman," said Barrett, "other than having a vague recollection
that she was an alternate juror." The trio sat in Lev's office,
practically yelling at each other over the noise of the morning commute.
Lev rose and slammed a window shut.

"Okay," said Mike, "but this means Ashford will have to take the stand."
Barrett nodded. "I know." Mike said, "Have you contacted Keller, Lev?"

"She won't talk to me. Us. You'll have to get help from the judge,
Bear." I, "Or start publishing a tabloid," said Mike. ';' "I'll take it
to the judge," said Barrett, "but meanwhile we need to find something on
her." "I'm on it," said Lev. "Got me a guy working the angle in
Hollywood.

Got to be lotsa dirt in Hollywood." "What about the Confidential
reporter?" said Mike. "Didn't you tell me she gave him some bullshit
about being in an intimate relationship with Field? That sounds like a
fertile field." "That's what my guy down south heard," said Lev. "I'm
talkin' to the reporter face-to-face day after tomorrow. I'll come up
with somethin'." Barrett sighed and refilled his coffee cup. "I hope so,
Lev. The trial starts in three days, and I'm sitting here wondering how
to cross-examine an attractive woman who supports an invalid mother and
whose devotion to the cause of justice has compelled her to put her very
life in jeopardy." Lev grunted and gave Mike a rueful grin. "The Bear's
got himself a tiger by the tail." Mike nodded. The three men sat in
silence for a minute.

"Motive," said Barrett at last. "Maybe that's our angle." "Motive?" said
Lev. "Isn't that what the cops try to prove?"

"Not Ashford's motive. Keller's. Why did she come forward? And why now?"
"Maybe she got religion," said Mike in mock solemnity. "A longing for
truth, justice, and instant fame." "Her fifteen minutes," said Lev.

"Or," said Barrett, furrowing his large brow, "maybe it's another one of
Ashford's con jobs." "Con jobs?" said Lev.

"Yeah. Maybe our friend Mr. Ashford has created another Renee Bab- cock
masterpiece, this time with a Witness for the Prosecution twist.
Remember Marlene Dietrich?" "Tyrone Power and Charles Laugh ton," said
Lev reverently. "Man, they sure knew how to make a movie without
explosives in those days." "Think about it," said Barrett. "The Keller
girl testifies she heard Ashford threaten everybody but the Pope, then
breaks down under my withering cross and admits she's a queen from
another planet who played harpsichord for Lawrence Welk. The jury is so
pissed at the prosecution they walk Ashford out the door." "Maybe I
missed something," said Leviticus, "but isn't that good for us, assuming
it works?"

"That kind of game isn't good for anybody, especially if it works," Mike
said. "Besides demeaning the justice system, it makes fools out of all
of us.

"That may be a touch sanctimonious, Mike," Barrett said, "but after
Babcock I'm on guard. You know what they say:"Fool me once, shame on
you; fool me twice, pay the price.'" "The man's a god," said Levin mock
wonderment.

Mike groaned and said, "Let's go have some breakfast." Part Four.

THE RETRIAL.

If at first you dont succeed  ...  --Anonymous Attempt the end, and
never stand in doubt; Nothing's so hard but search will find it out.

Richard Lovelace, "Seek and Find"

The second trial got off the ground quickly and efficiently. Everyone
knew their lines now, understood their roles. The press knew their as
signed seats and the lucky lottery seat-holders knew how to behave,
thanks to a stern lecture from the bailiff, who now knew how much
confusion could be generated in a high-profile case on opening day.
Judge Hernandez had only to reach for his gavel to cow the courtroom
into abject silence.

Barrett felt the usual first-day panic that all trial lawyers suffer,
knowing that a crucial fact or witness might have been overlooked and
that at any minute something could, and probably would, go terribly
wrong. There was never enough time to prepare for all the inevitable
contingencies of a major trial.

Barrett glanced at Ashford, typically calm in appearance but no longer
tanned from his usual winter weekends in Palm Desert or skiing at Aspen.

Still, the jailhouse pallor had not completely eradicated the righteous
indignation reflected in his pale blue eyes and the upward tilt of his
aristocratic chin.

Barrett looked to his right. There was Grace, efficient, smart, and
scary.

Scary, because she was too small for him to bully and too smart for him
to fool. He turned his head further around and vaguely smiled in the
direction of the panel from whom he would soon select a jury. Mike
Reasoner was out of town on a case for C&S, and although his legal
research on the case was finished now, it would have been comforting to
see him in the courtroom.

Lev was there, thank God, right behind him and apparently as serene as
the Buddha, though Barrett knew he must be suffering inside, having
failed to dig up anything negative on the state's new star witness.
Three rows behind Lev sat Julian Gold, staring at Grace Harris as she
perused her documents, immobile except when an occasional cough shook
his skeletal frame.

Back in the fifth row on the side closest to the jury, and looking as
inconspicuous as possible, sat Dr. Eric Tremaine. Tremaine usually sat
next to counsel during jury selection, but Barrett always worked alone,
so a simple plan was devised. Tremaine would touch his right ear if he
liked the juror; his nose if he didn't. A cough meant Tremaine had no
strong feelings, in which case Barrett would rely on his trial lawyer's
instincts and the background information Tremaine had already pulled
together on each juror on the panel. If Tremaine removed a white
handkerchief from his pocket, Barrett was advised to accept all the
jurors then seated even if he had challenges remaining.

This white flag of surrender meant that the jurors in the wings were no
better or potentially worse for the defense than those already seated.

The jury was selected in three hours, considerably quicker than at the
first trial, mainly because Tremaine had removed his handkerchief from
his jacket pocket after Barrett had used just four of his challenges.
Barrett had hoped for either yuppie country-clubbers or anti-government
left-wingers, bookends bracketing the cultural continuum whose
"preexisting cognitive constructs," according to Tremaine, might make
them more sympathetic to the defendant. There were a few of these
strange bedfellows, but Grace sent them packing.

"We're perfectly satisfied with the jury as it sits, Your Honor," said
Barrett, concealing his disappointment.

Grace accepted Barrett's capitulation and was soon on her feet, making
an opening statement that within twenty minutes had Barrett perspiring,
Ashford scribbling notes, and the jury staring at Ashford with overt
disdain.

"Now we turn to the defendant's third victim," she intoned, an unfeigned
catch in her voice. "Earl Field. It is in Mr. Field's brutal murder that
the defendant's arrogance is best revealed.

"Yes, members of the jury," she said, taking a backward step in the
direction of the defendant, "arrogance. For killing his w-wife was not
enough; the defendant brutally tortured her as well. And threatening
jurors was not enough; he had to murder one, and in the identical way he
had slaughtered his wife. And even that did not satisfy his need for
revenge for having been brought to the b-bar of justice like a common
criminal. He had to kill the man who had dared to charge him with
murder." Barrett's usually inscrutable expression was giving way to
exasperation as Grace Harris now planted herself squarely in front of
the defendant and stared directly into his face.

"Yes, ladies and gentlemen, arrogance. Elliot Ashford is not some
deranged multiple killer who buries his victims in a basement or shoots
people from a tower. He is not a disgruntled ex-employee who snaps one
day and wreaks vengeance on unknown citizens of the community. He is an
educated man, born to great wealth, a powerful man whose brutality in
committing these acts was equaled only by the diabolical skill he
employed in an attempt to deflect suspicion from himself." Grace paused
and turned back toward the jury. "How did he do this? By a means so
absurdly simple, yet so incredibly brilliant, it might well have
worked." Grace's voice rose now, both in volume and intensity. "The
evidence will show that Elliot Ashford staged the death of his last two
victims in the identical manner as his first, a strategy calculated to
make it appear that no one as smart, as rich, as powerful as he is could
possibly have done such a stupid and obvious thing; that the killings
must be the work of a copycat, or perhaps someone trying to frame him."
She moved closer to the jurors, lowered her voice, and looked into each
of their eyes as she continued speaking.

"But the p-police were not fooled, ladies and gentlemen. The prosecution
was not fooled. And I am confident that when you have heard the
evidence"--Grace paused here to make sure every eye was upon her--"you
will not be fooled either." Barrett Dickson rose to his feet almost
apologetically. "Your Honor, I have been reluctant to interrupt
counsel's stirring argument, but--"

"Say no more, counsel," said John Hernandez. "I was about to do it
myself if you didn't. Turn it down a notch or two, please, Ms. Harris.
Argument comes at the end of the trial, not now, as you well know."
Barrett's restraint had paid off. By allowing her to cross the line into
argument, he had won the first skirmish of the trial.

"Thank you, Your Honor," said Grace, then proceeded methodically to
outline her proofs as to each victim, focusing on motive, means, and
opportunity.

She stammered only a few times as she artfully exploited Ashford's
initial lie about attending a movie when the murder occurred, his second
failed alibi attempt in the first trial involving Renee Babcock, the
defendant's angry shouting at his wife overheard just before the murder,
his blood mixed with the victim's at the first crime scene, and the fact
that only one person had a motive to kill all three victims.

"Members of the jury, that person is Elliot Winston Ashford." Then, at
last, Grace opened the bomb-bay doors.

"But can you be certain?" she asked rhetorically. "Certain beyond a
reasonable doubt that the murders of Ms. Jefferson and Mr. Field were
also the handiwork of the defendant? Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you can,
because the People will present a witness who was an alternate juror
during the first trial and who has had the courage to come forward and
who will tell you from her own lips what she heard the defendant say
from his; who heard Elliot Ashford threaten the lives of both of these
victims! Who heard him threaten to do exactly -what he later did!" This
was what everyone in the courtroom had been waiting for: The clincher.

The key witness.

Your opening statement was terrific, Bear," said Leviticus later that
evening as they ate takeout in his office. "Really." Barrett knew that
his friend was really just acknowledging the fact that he had been able
to rise to his feet on cue and even managed to articulate a few complete
sentences as he swam against a prosecutorial tidal wave without
drowning.

"Well, hardly terrific," Barrett said, lifting a hot pot sticker with
his fingers, "but at least nobody laughed out loud."

"And I only saw two or three of 'em givin' you the finger when you
finished," said Lev.

Barrett dropped the pot sticker back on his paper plate. "Was one of
them Grace Harris?"

"Naw," said Lev. "You had already put her to sleep, along with most of
the spectators."

"Thanks for helping me through this problem I've got these days with
overconfidence."

"You're welcome. I just thought an eight-year absence from the winner's
circle might have gone to your head."

"Black humor from a black man. Just what I need in my hour of dark
desperation."

"Okay, seriously, Shylock," Lev said, stabbing ineptly at cartons of
kung pao chicken and chow fun with uncooperative chopsticks, "you were
good."

"Just good?" Lev dropped a chopstick. "I say 'terrific," you don't
believe me. Then I say 'good," and that ain't enough! Jesus, Bear,
you're one hard dude to please."

"You could have put a little more feeling in it." Barrett sipped from a
glass of iced tea in silence for a minute, then stood and stretched,
trying to coax some color back into his face. He knew his opening
statement had been flat and lacking in energy. His unsupported
allegations that the People's key witness was motivated not by the
courageous pursuit of truth but by fame and fortune had sounded hollow
and contrived, even to him. He tried to think of how he might have done
it better; maybe mention Kato Kaelin by name? Maybe point out that
nobody else had heard any such threats?

"Why didn't you mention the Confidential journalist?" asked Lev. "I told
you his notes are full ofearl-this-and-Earl-that and how much he loved
her and all kinds of bullshit." Barrett grunted. "You--or somebody
looking as big and ugly as you-- told me he won't come up here and
testify. "Protecting his source."

"He might change his mind."

"And he might not," said Barrett. "What you're really asking is why
didn't I pull ajohnnie Cochran and just tell the jury about it anyway?"
Lev looked out the window. "Eric Tremaine says eighty percent of jurors
make up their minds during opening statements and don't change them."

"I know, and yes, I was tempted."

"You're just too virtuous, my man," said Lev with a wink.

"I'm just too chicken-shit. I don't have Cochran's balls."

"Seriously, Bear, I think your openin' swung them back to where they'll
at least take a hard look at Keller. I'm sorry I've come up dry so far.
Not even a speedin' ticket."

"There must be something," said Barrett irritably. Discussing Keller
always triggered a rush of anxiety. "She was in Hollywood, for Christ's
sake." Lev shrugged. "There ain't nothin', Bear. What can I tell you?"
"What can you tell me?" said Barrett, jabbing his chopsticks toward Lev.

"You can tell me how I explain to our client that the best investigator
in San Francisco, operating with an unlimited budget, cannot find one
piece of trash in the world's biggest trash heap." "Oh, now that's
different," said Lev. "I found a heap of trash; it's just that none of
it helps. I talked to her ex-husband, for instance, a guy who gives
sleaze a bad name. Five minutes with him made me feel sorry for the
woman. The worst thing anybody says about Amanda Keller is she's a
little weird, like half the people you'll have on your jury. Like you're
being' right now." Barrett rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. "Sorry. All this
damned tea is making me cranky. How about any past contacts with
Ashford?"

"None. Forget your notion that she's an Ashford plant ready to take a
dive on cross. Fact is, she's probably telling the truth about the
bastard."

"Let's not get into that again, okay? Just keep looking."

"I've looked everywhere, Bear."

"Well, look everywhere again. I need dirt on her; I need dirt on the
cops, the crime lab, the medical examiner, the acting D.A., the D.A.'s
janitorial service. I need dirt on Amanda Keller's dentist and her
goddamn gardener if she's got one! I need dirt on anybody and everybody
they're going to throw at us!" Lev smiled and nodded his head. "Now
you're beginning to sound like a criminal defense lawyer. As for the
D.A.'s office, forget it. I've checked again with several lawyers with
an ax to grind. Nothin'." Barrett shrugged his massive shoulders. "All
right, but don't give up, okay? Especially with Keller."

"I'm back to L.A. tonight."

"Sorry, but it's necessary." Leviticus shrugged and said, "Don't be
sorry. This trip saved me from goin' home tonight to meet my
sister-in-law's first interracial boyfriend."

"Guess who's coming to dinner?"

"Exactly. The man is said to be of the white persuasion." Barrett smiled
and chucked his plastic container in the wastebasket.

"Thanks for doin' your own dishes," said Lev.

Barrett looked down at his friend as he stood near the door, but he
wasn't smiling now.

"If we don't get to Amanda Keller, Lev, Ashford goes down." Leviticus's
face suddenly betrayed fatigue, even discouragement. "I'll keep tryin',
Bear, but you best get some sleep. Big day tomorrow. Sounds like Harris
is leadin' off with Amanda Keller." "Yeah," said Barrett, "big day" In
her Russian Hill apartment across town, Grace sat with Amanda and Sam
Quon at the kitchen table, finishing a second pot of coffee.

"Let's go through it once more," said Grace.

Amanda shook her head. "I'm exhausted, Grace. I'll look a mess tomorrow
if I don't get some sleep." Sam nodded in agreement. Grace knew she was
being obsessive, even more so than usual, so she decided to call it a
night.

"Just promise me, Amanda, that you won't take the bait when he hits you
with the Confidential story. Tell it straight, just like you told us
tonight, okay?

And don't look for me to object no matter how hard he hits you. I don't
want to appear overly protective on this issue, so you'll be flying
solo. Just don't panic."

"I think you've hit'me harder than Dickson ever could."

"And you've handled everything I threw at you. But if you think of
anything the defense might have--so much as a DUI or spitting on the
sidewalk--call me here anytime. Remember, there's nothing we can't
handle, as long as we're the ones who handle it first." "There are no
skeletons," said Amanda, wdth a coquettish smile that had even charmed
the virtuous Sam Quon. "I know I must sound terribly boring, but I've
been a good girl." "Okay," said Grace, "and I've been an obsessive nut
who's just as tired as the two of you. So Sam will take you home now and
pick you up tomorrow at seventy-thirty sharp. No more showing up in a
limousine, okay?" The flat seemed eerily silent after Amanda and Sam had
left, and Grace wished she could call Aaron to hear his voice and tell
him how much she loved him, but it was after 2:00 a.m. on the East
Coast. She hadn't realized how much she needed him. She had never felt
so alone.

She picked up her Keller testimony outline, wondering why she was
feeling uneasy. The opening statements had gone better than she could
have hoped, and Amanda Keller seemed untouchable. What was gnawing at
her?

She knew what Earl Field would say in this situation: The bride is too
beautiful.

"Your first witness, Ms. Harris?" said John Hernandez at nine sharp the
next morning.

"Call Amanda Keller, Your Honor." The bailiff signaled the deputy at the
door, who quickly disappeared into the corridor. Witnesses had been
excluded from the courtroom, so Amanda was waiting outside. As the rear
courtroom door opened again, people turned around as if they were
wedding guests hearing the first strains of the processional. Grace all
but expected people to stand up as she came walking down the aisle,
radiantly beautiful despite the most toned-down dress Grace could find
in her wardrobe. Her face was relaxed and glowing with health, her body
as well toned as a gymnast's, with long, firm legs set off by medium
heels and taupe-colored stockings. She elicited a communal gasp from the
gallery as she strode forward. The courtroom artists might have been at
a Paris fashion show. Even John Hernandez seemed momentarily transfixed.

Grace would muse later that with her entire professional career riding
on the outcome of the next sixty minutes, she had somehow managed in
that moment to be painfully conscious of her own relative plainness.

It was all over in less than an hour. Grace's concise direct examination
of Amanda Keller had come off without a hitch as the witness recounted
Ashford's threats with startling realism. Barrett sighed as he saw two
of the jurors scowling at his client without even being aware of it. He
knew they were seeing themselves in Amanda's situation, sitting as a
juror.

On cross, Amanda immediately burned Barrett by flawlessly reiterating
her earlier testimony and volunteering things she hadn't even mentioned
on her direct examination--the trial lawyer's worst nightmare. Asking
the most simple yes-or-no question invariably provoked further lurid
descriptions of Ashford's menacing looks and warning gestures. Every
time Barrett touched the stove, he got his fingers burned.

Let her go, he told himself, yet this was the witness that had to be
broken.

He had to keep trying.

"You didn't tell the judge about any of this during the first trial, did
you?" "No. Like I said, I was terrified."

"If you were so terrified--as you have told us fourteen times now by my
count--why didn't you seek the protection of the judge, the bailiff, or
even the police?" Amanda sat quietly for a moment and Barrett thought he
had her. "I considered it," she said, a tremor in her voice, "but how
could I be sure they could protect me from the Mafia?" A murmur rose
from the gallery. The bailiff rose.

"Move to strike, Your Honor," said Barrett quietly. He was beginning to
feel weak and shaky, as if in the grip of low blood sugar. There was
suddenly not a sound in the courtroom, just his own breathing. He felt
every juror's eye on him.

How deep can I dig myself? wondered Barrett. I should be on the
prosecution payroll.

"The answer may go out," said the judge, "and the jury is instructed to
disregard it." Sure they will, thought Barrett.

"It is true, Ms. Keller, is it not," he said, "that you at no time told
anyone any of this until only a few days ago." "Mr. Dickson," said
Amanda, adopting the patient tone of someone addressing a child, "I've
been afraid to even tell the invalid mother I live with." Oh, Christ, he
thought, another land mine. Not that he needed any help burying himself
deeper. He figured he'd stop when he got to six feet. Everything was
backfiring on him. Still, he stumbled forward, bobbing and weaving, his
bloodied face absorbing her left-right combos, still looking for an
opening.

"Now about this elevator incident. Were there any other witnesses to
that?" The witness straightened up, refocusing. "Just the lady I
described in my direct examination."

"The average-height lady with average dark hair and average looks?"
"Yes," said Amanda, apparently missing his sarcasm. "And Lani, of
course."

"How about in the cafe, when you say you heard him tell some man he
intended to settle a score with Mr. Field. Anyone else hear that?" "I
don't think so," said the witness.

Barrett glanced at his notes. "And you say the man he was eating lunch
with in the cafe was medium height, dark hair, average build, and
fortyish?

"That's correct."

"He sounds like the twin brother of the lady in the elevator and half
the people in America. Can you be a little more specific?"

"Objection, argumentative."

"Sustained."

"Okay, so this average-looking gentleman was seated and facing you,
right?"

"No. He was facing my back. When I heard what sounded like Mr. Ashford's
voice, I turned around and saw the back of Mr. Ashford's head and that's
when I glanced at the other man."

"He was seated, facing Mr. Ashford?"

"Yes."

"Then can you tell the members of the jury how, if he was seated, you
know he was a man of medium height?" The witness hesitated, then said,
"I suppose I estimated his height based on what I could see of him."

"So he might have been a long-wasted short man or a short-wasted tall
man?"

"No, I remember now. I glanced at him again when he got up to pay the
check and leave."

"I see. That's when you saw that he was actually a normal-wasted man of
normal height with an average build, normal-looking hair, and--"

"Objection!"

"Sustained! No more of that, please, Mr. Dickson."

"Yes, Your Honor. Now tell us again what Mr. Ashford said to you after
this other man left?"

"That's when he turned around and recognized me. He asked me if I had
gotten an earful, and I said no, I hadn't heard anything."

"That was a lie, wasn't it?" Amanda bristled. "Yes, it was a lie, but
what would you have done under the circumstances?" Barrett shrugged. "I
guess I'd hope to be as good at lying as you are."

"Your Honor!" shouted Grace.

"Next question, Mr. Dickson."

"Yes, Your Honor. Please continue, Ms. Keller. What did he say then?"

"That's when he told me to forget I ever knew him unless I wanted to die
on a Lifespin like Lani Jefferson."

"Would that be the exercise bike Lani was riding in her living room when
she was killed?"

"Yes."

"And let's be clear on this, Ms. Keller. Because of the fact that Ms.
Jefferson is dead, and you can't identify the man he was with in the
cafe, or the woman you and Jefferson were with in the elevator, we have
only your word that any of this even happened, am I right?" Barrett saw
Amanda start to glance at Grace, then stop herself. He thought he saw
her lips tighten. She didn't like having her honesty questioned.

"Just your word, Ms. Keller," he repeated. "Am I right?"

"Well, there might have been someone--" "Objection," said Grace.
"Argumentative."

"Overruled."

"You were saying, Ms. Keller, there might have been someone else?"

"I don't know, maybe the waitress. I'm telling you the truth, Mr.
Dickson, really I am." Woman, thought Barrett, thou art beginning to
protest too much. He had also seen Grace's head snap up and Amanda's
eyes nicker in her direction.

Even a blind hog, thought Barrett, sometimes comes up with an acorn.

"And if the waitress did overhear something, Ms. Keller, what part would
she have heard, the part about Mr. Field or the threat to you."

"Objection! Hypothetical, argumentative, and assuming facts not in
evidence."

"This is cross-examination, Your Honor," said Barrett, puzzled that a
seasoned trial lawyer like Grace Harris would be making such technical
and doomed objections. "Not a very effective one, I'll concede," he
added, "but cross-examination all the same."

"Overruled. Answer the question, Ms. Keller." The witness paused as if
to think. "I guess it would have been when she came to give me my check,
after the other man had left."

"Can you give us a description of this waitress, Ms. Keller? Was she, by
any chance, average height, dark hair, normal--"

"Your Honor!"

"That's enough, Mr. Dickson," said John Hernandez.

"I apologize, Your Honor. Can you describe the waitress that may have
overheard this threat?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Dickson. I was quite upset by what had been said to me.

She might have had blond hair, I think, but I don't even know for sure
she heard anything." Barrett paused, wishing that Lev were here instead
of down in L.A. He'd be heading out the door on his way to Pat's Seafood
Grill. Keller seemed to be uneasy now, but in the jury's eyes, Barrett
knew he had only made himself look like a bully and the witness appear
more sympathetic. He figured he had done Grace enough favors for one
cross-examination and would let loose with his closing zinger and sit
down.

"Isn't it a fact, Ms. Keller, that you received $20,000 for the story
you sold to Confidential?"

"No, sir." Now he had her. "You weren't paid by Confidentiah"

"Oh, yes, but it was $20,575. They wanted me to come to Los Angeles for
photographs, and I made them pay my mother's expenses so that she
wouldn't be left alone. That's my mother sitting in the back in the
wheelchair." Barrett could only watch helplessly as the jurors' heads
turned as one to glance at Lucinda Keller, looking pathetic in the rear
of the courtroom.

He hoped no one noticed as he flicked a finger across his sweat-beaded
forehead.

"But the fact is, Ms. Keller, you did fly down there and tell them a
story that was different from the one you've told here. Correct?"

"Maybe different in some small part," she said. "They made up some
things, like I guess they always do." She paused for a moment as if
about to cry, then added, "You must understand, sir, that I would do
almost anything for my mother--and God knows we desperately needed the
money we got from that terrible magazine--but I would never lie under
oath. Not for her, not for anyone." Another backfire. Barrett almost
laughed at the absurdity of his situation.

The woman was ready for anything he could throw at her.

"That's all I have for now, Your Honor," he said in as confident a tone
as he could muster, and took his seat, feeling the cold wetness of his
shirt against the back of his chair, unable to meet the scowling eyes of
his client.

"Redirect, Ms. Harris?" said John Hernandez.

Grace Harris quietly replied that she had no questions on redirect--the
supreme insult to an opponent's cross-examination--and called her next
witness, a DNA expert, whose anticlimactic pedagogy would lull the jury
to sleep even before Amanda could complete her press conference in the
marbled first-floor lobby.

At the lunchtime recess, Sam Quon shot through the rail, grabbed Grace's
hand, and pumped it enthusiastically.

"We've got him, Grace! You might as well rest your case right now and
let the jury do its job. Well done, champ!" But Grace looked
preoccupied, even worried. "Champ?" she said. "Or chump."

"What are you worried about? The jury loved her. She was unbelievable!"
Grace looked at Sam with worried eyes. "That's exactly what I'm worried
about."

That night, still at the office, Grace finished propping her DNA expert
for his cross at nine o'clock the next morning, then entered the small
conference room to which Sam had delivered Amanda Keller. Sam Quon
looked uncomfortable, and Grace could see that Keller was not happy.

"Hello, Amanda," said Grace, "thanks for coming down."

"I'm not sure I had a choice, Grace, what with Charlie Chan showing up
unannounced at my apartment and all but arresting me. Would you mind
telling me why I'm here? I thought I was finished. I had important
commit ments tonight."

"I'm sure you did, Ms. Keller, but this is important too. Let's begin
with an apology to Mr. Quon. I don't permit racial slurs in my office."
Amanda flushed and turned to Sam Quon. "Of course," she said. "My remark
was stupid and insensitive, Sam. I guess I was trying to make light of
the fact that I was upset by the way you approached me. I felt like a
criminal." "Apology accepted," said Sam, "and as soon as you and Grace
are fin ished, I'll take you wherever you're supposed to be." Amanda
bowed her head slightly. "Thank you. Now, Grace, what can I do for you?"

"You can begin by explaining why you changed your testimony on the stand
today." If Amanda was caught off guard, she didn't show it.

"I don't understand," she said, her eyes questioning.

Grace opened her trial notebook. "You'd like examples? Why is it you
suddenly have seen the elevator lady around the courthouse and think
she's an employee. We went over this several times and you had never
seen her before."

"Did I say that? Well, I was nervous up there, Grace. It's not
important, is it?"

"It's important that you tell us the truth, Amanda, and the truth is a
con stant. It doesn't change from day to day, even if you're nervous.
Now who was this lady?" Amanda frowned. "I haven't the slightest, Grace,
really. Maybe I had seen her around, I simply don't know."

"And what was all that about a waitress possibly overhearing Ashford
threaten you in the cafe? How could you have failed to tell us about
that?" Amanda coughed, then coughed again. "May the accused have a drink
of water?" she asked. "Sam, would you be a gentleman?" Grace reached for
her Calistoga and poured a Styrofbam cup half-full and handed it to her.
Amanda sipped from the cup as if she were holding a very dry martini in
a stem glass at the Four Seasons.

"He was making me look stupid," said Amanda finally. "He might as well
have accused me of being a liar!"

"So are you saying you became one?" said Grace.

"No, there -was a waitress and she may have heard it. I didn't testify I
was sure she had heard it, did I, Sam?" Sam shook his head.

"Good," said Amanda, "and besides, I think I did tell you about the
waitress.

Look at your notes, Grace. Didn't I say that, Sam?" Sam shrugged and
said, "If you had, I would have gone there to interview all the
waitresses."

"Well, given Dickson's insulting behavior, I thought I handled that
question very well."

"You always handle yourself well, Amanda," said Grace. "Maybe that's
what's troubling me." Amanda rose to her feet and leaned against Grace's
desk. "Do you want to explain that remark?" Grace shrugged. "I think you
follow me; indeed, I'm beginning to think you're always a step ahead of
me." Amanda's dark eyes lashed Grace's face. "Well, I'll tell you what's
troubling me, Ms. District Attorney," she said in a tone Grace had never
heard from the soft-spoken woman. "I've come forward like a good citizen
and put myself in jeopardy, given you hours of preparation time, then
spent the worst sixty minutes of my life on the witness stand winning
your damn case for you--and this is the way you show appreciation?" She
snatched up her purse and added, "This meeting is over, Ms. Harris.

If you'll be so good as to call me a cab, Sam, I'll be waiting in front
of the courthouse."

"Hold on a minute, Amanda," said Grace, "I have an obligation to--" But
the door slammed behind the prosecution's key witness and she was gone.

Grace and Sam sat in silence for a moment, then Grace said, "Go pick her
up out front, Sam. Take her to her damn party or whatever." "Sure," said
Sam, then added in a gentle voice, "I guess you know you were pretty
rough on her, Grace." Grace doodled on a pad in front of her. "I'm
worried, Sam. I'm having serious doubts about her."

"Easy, Grace, you're talking about our star witness."

"That's what's bugging me, Sam. I think our Ms. Keller is a bit too good
to be true."

"And you're a bit too much of an obsessive worrier. I can't remember all
the times I've heard you say that about other witnesses." Grace shook
her head. "This isn't just another witness, Sam. Amanda Keller
represents the only evidence tying Ashford to Jefferson or Earl and the
sole reason I'm still a member of this office, prosecuting this case."
Sam shrugged and said, "That shouldn't raise the bar for her. Anyway,
what's done is done, and we've got nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, I
happen to think she's telling the truth. She was just nervous and
confused, like she said. Who wouldn't be?"

"I hope you're right, Sam, but how does a witness forget to mention
during the course of three lengthy prep sessions something as important
as having a death threat possibly overheard by a third party."

"Okay, but why would she stick her neck out in a case where people are
dying like flies?"

"I haven't a clue. Publicity? She's getting plenty." Sam threw his arms
in the air. "I haven't a clue either, Grace, but her credibility is for
the jury to determine, not us."

"Our job is to present the truth, Sam, you know that. We've got a
different burden than defense lawyers do. I also have a moral dilemma if
I think she's lying." Sam frowned, and Grace could see that he was
losing patience. "Well, I hope you can find a way to deal privately with
your private 'dilemmas."

" Grace reddened. "As a public servant, Sam, I don't have the luxury of
private dilemmas." "That's exactly my point!" said Sam. "You've got a
slam dunk with the jury now, Grace, and with the voters in the June
special election. Stop worrying so much." Grace turned away from him,
from further escalation.

"Excuse me now," said Sam, "while I go try to salvage our witness." The
breeze from the slammed door ruffled the pages of her trial notebook,
while out in front of the Thomas J. Cahill Hall of Justice, the subject
of their argument waited for the unmarked county vehicle she knew Grace
would eventually send to pick her up.

Sleep for Barrett Dickson that night was even more elusive than usual.
The spirit was willing, the flesh was weak, but the mind was racing like
a lin" ear accelerator.

If he had managed in the past by extreme means to assure himself that
his client was innocent, Amanda Keller's testimony had begun to convince
him otherwise. And now Sandra Weiss's revelation had put him in a trap.

Who said that knowledge is power? he reflected. Too much knowledge could
kill a person.

Whether innocent or guilty, Huntington's would kill Ashford, but Barrett
was a lawyer, not a doctor, and he knew he was sitting on a blackout
defense that could win Ashford a defense verdict. He owed Ashford that
much at least, particularly after his showing against Amanda Keller; his
dazed, sleepless state had not dulled the residual pain from his failed
encounter with the state's key witness. Even as a child, Barrett had
suffered an emotional afterburn from stupid mistakes, an angst that
persisted even after the specifics of the stupid mistake had long been
forgotten. The adult Dickson had held such anxieties in check by
becoming a workaholic, by simply obsessing most stupid mistakes out of
his life. Except for Ellen, of course, after whose departure he had
almost traded down from workaholicism to alcoholism.

He rolled over on his right side. Got up, went to the bathroom. Got back
in bed. Tried the left side.

Armed to the teeth with ammunition provided by Dr. Weiss, he would do
better with the state's DNA expert tomorrow, then maybe try another plea
bargain with Grace. Weiss had been able to review the expert's first
trial testimony and had driven a tank through the holes she found. The
bad news was that though she had concluded the shaving theory was
plausible, it was more likely Ashford's blood at the scene than anyone
else's. Still, he would kill Grace's expert tomorrow the way Keller had
killed him today.

What a business.

Barrett's anxiety would have been somewhat allayed had he known that
Grace was thinking along the same lines.

Maybe the best way out for everyone was a plea bargain, she realized,
though she hated the idea and hardly ever engaged in what she called
"backdoor" deals.

Meanwhile, however, despite her doubts, it was time for her to call and
make peace with her key witness. Sam had been right. She had been
unfairly rough with Amanda. Grace had seen witnesses so jittery they
couldn't even state their names after taking the oath. Amanda was at
least entitled to the benefit of the doubt. She picked up the phone.

Amanda graciously accepted the proffered apology and Grace hung up
feeling reassured by the conversation. She was so relieved, in fact,
that she didn't notice the expression of despair on Sam's face as he
entered her office and slowly approached her desk, dripping wet from yet
another storm raging outside.

"I just spoke with Amanda, Sam," she said, rising and glancing up at
him.

"I apologized and she accepted, so we're back on track." Sam wiped
residual drops of rain off his face. "No, Grace," he said quietly.

"We're completely off the rails."

"What?"

"I couldn't find the waitress Amanda told us about at Pat's Seafood
Grill." "So?" said Grace, looking puzzled. "It was a long shot, Sam.
It's not the end of the world."

"The reason I couldn't find her is because Pat doesn't hire waitresses.

Which is why, incidentally, he's being sued under Title VII. There has
never been a female waitperson at Pat's Seafood Grill. Never." Sam's
words registered first in Grace's head, then in her stomach. She fell
back into her chair, then leaned her head against her steepled fingers.

"Shit," said Grace.

"Yeah," said Sam. "Shit."

As predicted, Barren dismantled Axel Janes, the prosecution's pontifical
DNA expert, in front of a gratifyingly attentive jury. Ashford smiled
and shook Barrett's hand at the end of the day, and Grace gave him a
weary nod that conceded he had done well. Barrett then stalled after the
bailiff had taken Ashford away, systematically moving papers in and out
of his trial bag until Grace prepared to leave.

"Cup of coffee?" he asked, and she nodded yes.

They walked down the street to the Cafe Roma, Barrett feeling awkward at
first, slouching along with his trail bags banging at his sides. They
found a back table and engaged in small talk for twenty minutes or so,
finding they had more in common than they thought. They discussed
wayward sons and single life, and Grace found herself telling him about
growing up in New York and how she missed the shows, the shopping, the
museums. When he asked why she had left, she told him it was his turn
and asked about his early days as a trial lawyer.

He smiled, warmed by her interest and by the memory of it. "Opposing
counsel in civil cases used to meet in an Italian restaurant called
Rocca's," he began. "The place was so dark you couldn't read the menu at
lunch. It's now called Stars." "You're kidding," she said, pointing to
the cream.

He automatically put the cup in his right hand down on the table, then
passed the cream to her with the same hand. His left hand stayed in his
lap whenever possible, a habit born of vanity. The ugly stub there was a
grotesque reminder of the limitations of battlefield medicine. Also an
occasional reminder that he could never do again what his blind youthful
exuberance had compelled him to do that day: bravely, mindlessly
charging into the spurting barrel ofaviet Cong rifle.

He shuddered. What had Mike said about him in Moose's that day?

That it wasn't just losing he was afraid of?

That had rankled at the time, but now Barrett realized he was indeed
afraid of just about everything: losing, winning, even standing in front
of those twelve ordinary citizens who could somehow goad him into places
he no longer wanted to go. Like the way crowds he had seen in Spain
seemed to push the matador closer to the horns of the bull.

Like the way bullies could taunt an eleven-year-old boy lying facedown
in blood-caked dirt. am't chicken.

"Thank you," came Grace's welcome voice as she passed the cream back to
him. "I never would have guessed." Barrett blinked.

"About Stars," she said.

He smiled. "Yeah, we'd fight like hell all morning, then go to Rocca's
and drink too much at lunch, then go back and fight all afternoon. But
we settled cases when we could, fought hard when we couldn't, and were
friends again at the end of the day."

"Back at Rocca's?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Sounds like the good of' days, with the good of' boys," Grace said,
ofering a wry smile.

"We thought so," he said, sipping his coffee. "But that was a long time
ago. I don't know how or when trial lawyers lost their civility toward
one another, but it's taken the satisfaction and joy out of trial work."

"I know what you mean." "So this is it for me," he said. "My last trial.
I'm going into real estate." Grace looked surprised, though not as
surprised as he was that he had told her.

"I can't believe you would leave  ...  I mean--"

"I've got my reasons," he said, rescuing her and changing the subject.

"Look, Grace, we got off on the wrong foot somehow. I'd like to see our
gloves come off when the bell rings at the end of the day." She held up
her hands. No gloves.

"I'm serious, Grace. These 'frigid purgatorial fires' between us aren't
helping me sleep any better at night." Grace glanced up from her coffee
cup. "Dylan Thomas?" Barrett smiled. "I'm not sure. T. S. Eliot, I
think. Anyway, you said you're sorry about those indictments and I was
wrong to think you were the architect." He then paused to see if she
would say anything, but she just sat there looking beautiful, waiting
him out.

"So," he said, "let's get civil, okay?" "I'd like nothing better," she
said.

He allowed a moment of silence between them, then decided on a little
more conversation before he tried his pitch. "Are you going to be our
next district attorney after you finish me off?" A smile crept up into
her eyes. "Not if Jack Klegg's ambition or my own good judgment
prevails."

"I wouldn't bet a nickel on either of those things stopping you."

"Well, there's also the good judgment of the voters to consider. No,
Barrett, I think I'm safe." Barrett watched her as she pensively stirred
her coffee. She wore no ring.

He knew that, but wondered if she was in a relationship. "Your folks
sdll alive?"

"Yes. My father's a rabbi. Forbade me to become a lawyer, actually. "A
woman's place' ...  well, you know."

"So you had to make it on your own?"

"Thanks to a student loan. Columbia Law."

"What brought you out here?" he asked.

"Long story. My interviews for a litigation job at the best firms on
Wall Street did not go well. I'd make it almost to the end before my
first slammer, at which time I'd get some enthusiastic advice on the
merits of a career in estate planning." "Not what you had in mind," said
Barrett, smiling.

"I figured anyone could write a will or form a corporation. I wanted to
be a trial lawyer."

"This woman's place," said Barrett smiling, "was in the courtroom."

"Exactly. The place where people go for justice." Barrett was touched by
her ingenuous and unembarrassed declaration.

He guessed that the courtroom was also a place where a mark could be
made, a father proven wrong, his grudging approval ultimately won.

"Anyway, I decided to take a break and visit an old boyfriend, an NYU
undergrad classmate named Harris who was living in San Francisco. He got
me an interview with Wilson & Lively, a small local firm. They offered
me a job, and on an impulse, I took it."

"I think I can figure out what came next. Harris offered you marriage,
and you were seized by another impulse." She nodded. "The only two
impulsive acts of my entire life. Two years later, I wound up here and
he wound up somewhere else. No regrets."

"I suspect that a third impulsive act will wind you up in the corner
office on the third floor someday."

"Two impulsive acts in one lifetime is enough for me." She laughed, a
soft, low sound that captivated Barrett. "Besides, I'd be a crummy
administrator," she said.

"You could assign yourself to try all the tough cases. You're damn good
at it."

"I appreciate that, particularly coming from you. I saw you in court
when I was just starting out." Barrett looked into his cup. Her remark
had made him suddenly feel old.

Was that intentional? What the hell, time to get on with it.

"I do have an agenda in asking you out to this elegant place." He knew
he was sounding flirtatious but couldn't help himself.

"I suspected as much, which is why I didn't wear my dancing shoes."
Maybe there's hope, he thought, and smiled at her.

"I want to propose a plea bargain," he said. "This thing has cost our
taxpayers enough. You've got a weak case on Lara which, no thanks to me,
you would have lost the first time out but for the intervention of fate.
Clayastin says my client's telling the truth and didn't kill anybody and
you know Clay is good. You've got no case at all on Jefferson and Field,
except for a truck named Amanda Keller that ran over me yesterday. Of
course, I don't expect you to agree with anything I've said so far."
Grace's brown eyes glowed. "But I do, Barrett. The part about Amanda
Keller running over you." Barrett smiled again. "Okay, and I ran over
your expert today. Let's end this thing."

"Why would I want to? We've been there, Barrett. I'm opposed to
plea-bargaining in general, particularly in a case where my own boss was
the victim. Besides, the last time I checked, I was ahead by about three
touchdowns."

"It's only the first quarter, and I scored today. Win or lose, there'll
be a costly appeal, then maybe a third trial. Somewhere along the way,
the taxpayers will insist on a deal. Why not make it now?" Grace raised
an eyebrow. "What kind of deal did you have in mind?

Time already served and a heartfelt commitment from Mr. Ashford to stop
sticking glass into people's throats?" '*' "Much tougher," said Barrett,
granting a smile, then threw out his opening gambit: "Voluntary
manslaughter on Lara. Six years." Grace rolled her eyes. "And maybe out
in three? Where do you dream up these ideas?" "Will you communicate it
to Klegg?" said Barrett.

Grace's expression darkened. "You know I have to," she said.

"There's more I could tell you, Grace, but for my own personal reasons I
can't."

"Why should that surprise me? We're adversaries, Barrett, remember?

Although I confess I'm intrigued by your 'personal reasons."

" The curiosity in her wide, dark eyes cut to Barrett's soul, and he
wanted desperately to tell her about Ashford's illness. But since he
couldn't in good conscience bare his client's soul, he decided to bare
his own.

"I don't want anything in this crazy contest to get in the way of
getting to know you better after this is all behind us." Grace surprised
Barrett by tilting her head in a playful manner and allowing her full
lips to part into a coquettish smile. "Well, Mr. Dickson, I do believe
you are coming on to me."

"You could say that."

"I believe I did say that. Are you?"

"Yes."

"Good, but also unwise."

"I know it."

"At least premature."

"I know it. Another reason to settle now." Grace raised an eyebrow in
what he hoped was mock disapproval.

"I was kidding," he said. "Bad timing. Bad taste."

"Your specialty, I hear."

"I'm changing."

"That's good. As for the kidding, at what point did you start with the
kidding?"

"Just the last part. The part about the case, not about you."

"Okay." Barrett's intuition told him she would like to recommend the
deal, but that she would not be shaken from her principles. He decided
not to press it further. He got them both refills at the counter and
they returned to small talk. When they had drained their cups, she rose
and they walked outside.

They shook hands, and he found it hard to let go of hers.

They headed in different directions toward their cars, and Barrett kept
watching her as she walked away, hoping she would look back.

Barrett drove home with the windows open to the December air and his
radio turned up. He sniffed at the back of his hand where she had
touched it and smiled as foolishly as a boy in love. ;; * * * Grace
unloaded her dishwasher at home, heard herself singing for the first
time in weeks. But beneath the stirring in her heart, she knew that to
allow feelings of affection for one's adversary in the pitch of battle
was not just unprofessional, it was dangerous.

Early the next morning, Grace and Sam Quon met for a hastily scheduled
meeting with Jack Klegg. She had called this one in order to comply with
her obligation to inform Klegg of Barrett's indicated plea offer. She
smiled as she thought about Dickson, pictured him lumbering toward her
the day before with his typical unstudied languor. There was something
in that walk that belied Barrett Dickson's legendary reputation as a
courtroom killer. She could tell a lot about a man by the way he moved,
and only a man essentially decent and pure of heart could walk in such
an ungainly manner.

What was she thinking? What she should be thinking about is what she
would tell Klegg, who was ready to jump at almost any offer. She had
lowkeyed her doubts about Amanda when she called Klegg, deciding she
should give her witness an opportunity to explain the Pat's Grill
problem before writing her off completely. Besides, Klegg already had
enough leverage in his crusade to end the case.

Grace rubbed her red-rimmed eyes as she waited for Klegg, and for just a
moment the thought of ending the case was like a calming warm bath. She
briefly surrendered to thoughts of seeing Aaron home again and not
having to deal with Amanda Keller anymore. She thought about how Keller
had eaten Dickson alive. She was smart. But was she honest?

Klegg walked in, listened to Barren's floated plea offer, and without
hesitation said, "Take it, Grace." Before Grace could respond, Sam
objected, even more strongly than before.

"Your objection is noted, Sam," Klegg said in a patronizing tone, "but
Grace's instincts are nearly infallible and she's told me about your
lying key witness."

"I didn't say she was lying, Jack," protested Grace. "There are just--"

"I know what you said, but it's time we end this damn thing." Sam stood
and faced Klegg, as erect as she had ever seen him. "I realize I have no
vote," he said, "but I have served here longer than anyone in this
office.

We have a clear murder one case, Jack, and the public will know
something is fishy if we cave now."

"Why would they think that?" "Because," said Sam, "I'll tell them what
it is that's fishy." Grace wondered if she had heard Sam correctly.
Klegg narrowed his eyes but remained calmly curious. "And just what will
you tell them, Sam?"

"I'll start with the fact that someone at your office extension has been
making and receiving calls from a number listed to a Julian Gold in
Chicago and another number at the Acropolis hotel in Las Vegas." Grace
could have kissed him.

"How do you know that?" said Klegg, his jaw muscles starting to work.

"I'm an investigator, remember?" said Sam, who then smiled wryly and
added, "I knew you'd want to know about someone using your telephone."

"Maybe you'll soon be a private investigator, Sam," said Klegg, and
stormed past them out the door.

"My God, Sam," Grace said, "when did you suspect Klegg?"

"Probably about a hundred years after you knew all about him. Am I
right?" Grace nodded. "For what it's worth, Earl--just before he was
killed-- had decided to take them all on." Sam nodded. "Anyway, I think
you can tell Mr. Dickson that Mr. Klegg declines his kind offer. And now
you'd damn well better win."

"Don't worry, Sam. I think we've got Mr. Ashford where we want him now."

"I'm talking about the election!" said Sam. "I need this job." At nine
o'clock that night, Julian Gold paid Barrett Dickson a surprise visit at
his apartment.

"I'd offer you something to drink, Julian," said Barren, "but I don't
like you." Gold smiled. "Ever the comedian, Dickson. Your remarkably
droll sense of humor justifies my trip from Chicago just to see you."

"I assume you've heard about my masterful cross of Keller and have come
to relieve me of my engagement? You could have fired me by phone,
Julian."

"I've not only heard about it, I've already perused the daily
transcript.

She took you apart, Dickson. Embarrassing, was it? A woman with no
formal college education thoroughly dismembering a man once regarded as
one of the finest cross-examiners in America."

"I could hardly have done worse. It will get better."

"Really? That would be very disappointing."

"Pardon me?"

"I think you might do considerably worse if you applied yourself.
Indeed, Mr. Dickson, we're counting on it."

"You want me to throw him to the wolves. Is that it?" Gold laughed, the
first time Barrett had ever heard him laugh out loud.

"Dickson, the things you don't know about criminal law astonish me."

"And amuse you as well, I see. What's your point?"

"My point is that with Keller in the picture, Ashfbrd can't win. So we
want to alter our strategy now to ensure the success of his appeal."
Barrett felt a sharp pain in his stomach. So that was it. The appeal
would be based on inadequacy of counsel, a ground currently in vogue and
often as successful in winning a new trial for the convicted defendant
as it was in destroying the reputation of the incriminated trial
counsel.

"No," he said firmly, "I couldn't do that."

"Of course you could. Just go through the motions and finish it out.

Keep screwing up. Keep your money. Everybody parts friends. Agreed?"

"I mean I won't do that." Gold cocked his head, seemingly unperturbed by
his reaction. "With all respect, Mr. Dickson, your current reputation as
a trial lawyer could hardly be further damaged. We're only asking that
you continue to do what you are obviously well suited to do, which, of
course, is nothing. No objections unless they are ill founded, nothing
but a token cross of the state's witnesses.

Then put on little or no case of your own. After the appeal, I can
assure you there will not be a third trial and your client will be a
free man." Barrett met the consigliere's cold eyes. "I think this is the
point in the movies where they say, "And if I don't go along?"

" Gold laughed again, but it was his little ventriloquist laugh, the one
where his lips neither opened nor moved; the laugh that never left his
throat.

"Come now, Mr. Dickson. This is real life. Your health and well-being
are not in jeopardy. We're just talking lawyer to lawyer about how to
salvage a disastrous situation for our mutual friend and client."

"I'm not recording this conversation, Mr. Gold. You don't have to
sugarcoat it.

More silence. He's waiting me out, thought Barrett. Okay.

"You mentioned my health and well-being, Gold," Barrett added.

"What, may I ask, is the state of my client's health and well-being?"

"Never better. What's your point?" Barrett told himself to be careful.
Either Gold was being typically cool or he didn't know about Ashford's
Hunting-ton's. "Nothing specific," he said, "but I've been thinking that
the best way for Elliot to be sure of ducking death row would be to
assert temporary insanity."

"On what possible grounds?"

"The argument goes like this: A person like Elliot Ashford could not
have committed such a savage piece of butchery unless he was temporarily
insane. We buy a pair of shrinks who are opposed to the death penalty
and they'll weave a spell on the jury. I just thought I'd throw it out
there since you seem to have sworn off optimistic thinking."

"I haven't lost my optimism, Mr. Dickson. Indeed, I've just outlined the
way Elliot is most likely to escape death row. My way."

Barrett rubbed his chin. At least he had learned something. Gold didn't
know about the Huntington's.

"Well?" said Gold.

"Well, what?"

"I'm waiting for your answer." Barrett took a deep breath. "I'll
continue to conduct myself the way I have, which, according to your
assessment of my competency, is exactly what you have in mind."

"Don't play word games with me, Mr. Dickson. You know exactly what
Carmine and I want, in addition to which I now want a straight answer."
Barrett tried to rotate the tightness out of his shoulders. He realized
he had stopped breathing and took a deep one before delivering his
answer.

"Okay, Mr. Gold, here's your answer: You can all go fuck yourselves."
Gold winced, but only for a second, then shrugged. "Life still has many
pleasures, sir," he said casually as he turned toward the door, "but at
my age and state of health, rucking is no longer one of them." Then he
paused in the doorway and added with a malicious grin, "All things
considered, however, I have preferred growing old to the only known
alternative. Wouldn't you, Mr. Dickson?" Gold then disappeared down the
hallway, not waiting for a response.

Barrett closed the door and walked slowly to the kitchen. He microwaved
some day-old coffee and was pouring it unsteadily into a cup when the
phone rang, sending both cup and coffee flying, scalding the back of his
hand. He grabbed the phone, then stretched the cord to the sink so he
could douse his hand with cold water. It was Grace.

"I'm sorry to bother you at home, Barrett."

"It's no bother at all," said Barrett, the burn forgotten.

"I thought I should t-tell you that  ...  well, there won't be any plea
bargain."

"Oh."

"So  ...  see you tomorrow then?"

"Sure. Tomorrow."

"Thanks for the coffee yesterday. I enjoyed talking with you."

"Me too. With you." She added a good-bye and hung up. Barrett had
forgotten his hand but now realized that a large blister was forming.

And that the pain was about to increase.

Grace had rarely felt sorry for an opponent, nor had she expected anyone
to feel sorry for her. Trial advocacy was dog-eat-dog in the service of
the Greater Good of Justice. You won some, you lost some, but the
judicial system generally emerged victorious and that was what was
important. She would win this one, she thought, as she threaded her way
through heavy traffic toward home at 8:20 p.m., but it would be a
bittersweet victory over someone she had grown to care about.

She parked her car in the basement garage, then stopped at the first
floor to check her mail. Sam Quon had stuffed an envelope in her box.
She stuck her purse under her arm and opened it immediately. Sam had
scribbled a short note on an article from Entertainment Weekly, then put
a red circle around a piece on page 3: Hollywood UPI. Emory Goldsmith,
CEO of Reprise Productions, today announced the signing ofamanda Keller
to star in the screen adaptation of David Heller's Thursday's Wife,
currently in preproduction. Keller won critical acclaim for her TV role
in Hope's People, then disappeared from sight, surfacing last week in
San Francisco Superior Court as the prosecution 's star witness in the
Elliot Ashford triple-murder trial.

Asked to compare her real-life role in the Ashford case with her acting
role in Thursday's Wife, Keller said, "Acting is real life. It's good to
be back." The note from Sam said, "Don't tell me you told me so, okay?"

Monday's session was unremarkable and would have been outright boring
but for frequent and impassioned skirmishes between counsel that had
Mike Reasoner and Leviticus Heywood exchanging perplexed looks as they
observed their friend's strange and aggressive conduct.

Barrett Dickson was behaving like a man possessed, objecting and waving
his arms like a man under attack by stinging bees. His contentious
manner throughout the day inspired a cartoon on the editorial page the
next day depicting Grace Harris armed with a whip and chair, fending off
a growling hear in a cage.

On the witness stand, Thomas Yang, the coroner and chief pathologist,
droned on despite Barrett's constant interruptions about how carefully
he had supervised the autopsy and how diligently he had followed the
standard approved procedures for preserving evidence in a murder trial.

Judge John Hernandez sat as upright as he could on the bench, his eyes
hooded with mingled boredom and curiosity, wondering what the hell
Barrett was up to, fighting each and every point with such uncommon
fury.

Yang didn't seem important enough to warrant the torrent of objections
and constant requests for voir dire examinations that Barrett was making
during the coroner's direct examination.

When it was Barren's turn to cross-examine the coroner, he fired
questions so fast the court reporter frequently had to appeal to the
judge to urge Dickson to slow down.

"You never saw it, Dr. Yang? The evidence bag?"

"Just at the scene."

"So the scrapings were taken."

"Yes."

"By you?"

"Yes."

"Because?"

"Pardon me?"

"Why did you take scrapings from under the victim's fingernails?"

"Isn't that obvious, sir? To assist in identifying the perpetrator."

"Of course it's obvious, Doctor. What isn't so obvious is why you lost
or disposed of them."

"Objection!"

"Withdrawn. Let me put it this way. Were the scrapings lost or
intentionally disposed of, do you know?"

"Lost, of course."

"Not disposed of?"

"Lost."

"Who lost them?"

"I don't know."

"If you don't know who lost them, then how do you know they were lost,
not disposed of?" And so on for the entire afternoon until, despite
Grace's skillful efforts to intercede, Coroner Yang's calm arrogance
progressed from petulant defensiveness to quarrelsome invective, then
abject surrender.

"So can we sum up, sir, by saying you don't have a shred of forensic
evidence connecting Elliot Ashford to the murders of either Jefferson or
Field?"

"That's generally true."

"It's specifically true as well, is it not?"

"Well, it is my opinion that Jefferson and Field were killed with the
same weapon that killed Lara Ashford, so if the defendant killed Lara--"
"No, Dr. Yang!" said Barrett, grabbing People's Exhibit 1 and thrusting
it so close to Yang's face he involuntarily recoiled. "This was the
weapon that killed Lara Ashford, according to your testimony in the
first trial." Yang shrugged. "I meant to say they were killed by the
same type of weapon."

"You meant to say. This is a capital case, Doctor Yang, and you have
been offered by the People as an authority, so I urge you from now on to
say only what you mean and mean only what you say." "Objection," said
Grace, "he's arguing again, Your Honor."

"Sustained. Don't lecture the witness, Mr. Dickson."

"It's true, isn't it," continued Barrett, seemingly oblivious to the
interruptions, "that you think Elliot Ashford killed Jefferson and Field
because you think he's the one who killed Lara Ashford?"

"Yes."

"You mean that, sir, or are you just saying it?" Grace started to rise
again, but let it go.

"I believe it to be true."

"But it's also true, isn't it, that if you had the lost or disposed-of
fingernail scrapings, we wouldn't have to 'believe' anything, would we?
We'd know the true identity of Lara's murderer, wouldn't we?"

"In all probability, we would, assuming we could tie them to a specific
person's DNA."

"Not 'in all probability," sir. If we could do that, we'd know beyond a
reasonable doubt who murdered Lara Ashford, wouldn't we?"

"Yes, you are correct."

"And then, in your view, isn't it a fact that we'd also know beyond a
reasonable doubt who killed the others?"

"Yes."

"Because you believe the same person killed all three." "I have said
that many times."

"But we don't have the scrapings, do we?"

"No."

"So we can't specifically tie them to anyone, can we?"

"No."

"So you can't say, and we can't know beyond a reasonable doubt, who
really killed Lara Ashford, can we, Doctor! Or either of the others!"

"Objection," said Grace, though she also seemed drained by Barrett's
tireless campaign, "invading the province of the jury and calling for a
legal conclusion." But Yang was already slowly shaking his head in the
negative and everybody in the courtroom saw it.

"What the hell was that all about?" asked Mike an hour later as he took
a seat next to Barrett at Bix, located in an alley called Gold Street,
an informal border marking the end of the Financial District and the
beginning of North Beach. It was only five o'clock, but the bar was
already lined with upwardly mobile stockbrokers, lawyers, and other
yuppie life forms, all of whom, Barrett had noticed, were considerably
younger and prettier than himself. But the food was good and it was a
long way from the courthouse.

"Not that you weren't terrific, Bear," Mike added, "just a little over
the top." Barrett sighed and drank straight from his bottle of
Clausthaler. "I've got a problem, Mike."

"No shit? Stop the presses."

"No, something new. I've been instructed to take a dive, play the
deadhead." Mike expelled a stream of air from puffed cheeks. "Inadequate
counsel," he said, slowly nodding. "Grounds for appeal. Smart. Might
even work in your case. "Counsel had hardly any criminal experience,
tried only one in his career."

""And lost that one," " Barrett added.

""Inherently unreliable."

"

"Don't forget 'occasional lush."

" "It'll play," said Mike. "They'll get a new trial after he's
convicted, then find a way to disappear Amanda Keller."

"Or the D.A. will be justified in throwing in the towel." Mike reached
for his single malt scotch and said, "Ironic, huh? We pressured you into
this case at the outset and you agreed on condition you wouldn't have to
do anything but deadhead. Now you're alone in the case, sober, regaining
your legendary skills, and suddenly they want you to deadhead." Barrett
shrugged.

"But now the Bear is back, and the taste of possible victory is like
honey in his mouth."

"Poetic, Mike," said Barrett, "but they're going to hurt me if I don't
roll over." Mike's drink stopped short of his lips. "You've been
threatened?"

"Gold's meaning was pretty clear, even to me."

"So that's what you were up to today: sending Gold a message."

"I wanted him to know I won't roll over for anybody." "You're an idiot,"
said Mike, then said nothing for a minute other than to order another
scotch.

"Stipulated," said Barrett.

"What are you going to do?" Mike said at last.

"I thought I'd ask you, Mike. I'm a little too close to all this now."
Mike looked into his drink.

"So what do I do?"

"Jesus," said Mike, surveying the ceiling as if wisdom might be lurking
there. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."

"Yeah, well, thanks for your wise counsel, Mike. I knew you'd come up
with something." The maitre d' interrupted Mike's dazed distress to take
them to their table, where Mike rendered his carefully thought-out
answer. "I don't have the slightest fucking idea what I'd do, Bear."

"Yeah, well ..."

"Maybe it's time to see the judge."

"I've got no evidence. Gold would just deny it." Mike nodded, sipped his
drink, then bobbed his head from side to side and said, "Look, Bear, you
do think Ashford's innocent. Maybe you should go along, just skate a
little."

"This from the country's greatest proponent of the adversary system."

"You're my best friend, Bear. To hell with it."

"Aren't you forgetting the victim in all this?" said Barrett.

"Not for a minute. Ashford will win his appeal and he'll be free."

"I wasn't talking about Ashford. Who saves my reputation, Mike? Who
exhumes the rotting remains of my professional status in this town if I
tank this case?" Mike looked up in surprise. "I didn't know you gave a
rat's ass anymore."

"I give a rat's ass."

"Okay, how about another shot at plea-bargaining."

"No hope. She's rejected two offers already and came back with nothing."
Mike rattled the ice in his glass.

"Drinking for two now, Mike?"

"The reformed pot calling the kettle black?" Barrett chuckled and said,
"Touche. I'll join you for a toddy or two as soon as this nightmare is
over and I'm out of this fucking business."

"Selling real estate," said Mike in a tone of disgust.

"It's not a crime, for Christ's sake." "In your case," said Mike through
tight lips, "it should be a felony."

"What the hell are you pissed about?" Barrett said.

"Don't ask," said Mike, his eyes suddenly hot and intense.

"I'm asking."

"All right, here it is: I've been pissed for a long time, and watching
you today in court just dug it all up again." Mike paused to signal the
waiter. "I don't know if you know this, Bear, but I'm not really a great
trial lawyer."

"The hell you're--"

"Let me finish. I know what I am. I've had my share of honors and I've
won more than my share of cases, some of them big ones. I'm a damn good
trial lawyer, okay?"

"I think that's what I was trying to say, Mike."

"But I'm not a great trial lawyer, and what Pm trying to say is that I'd
give anything  ...  anything, you asshole  ...  to have in my possession
for just one year the gifts  ...  the natural ability you seem so
goddamn determined to throw away." Barrett solemnly regarded his friend,
then shook his head slowly and stared down at his hands.

"Look at me, Bear, damn you! I meant what I said about you being my best
friend, but I've also hated your guts at times, did you know that?
Partly because I've always envied you, but mainly because the thing I
envied most means nothing to you. Nothing!" Barrett couldn't help
smiling.

"Grin, you prick! Think it's funny, do you?"

"No, Mike, it's just another irony. You see, all I've ever wanted  ..."
Barrett felt his throat tightening. He took in a breath, then a sip of
his nonalcoholic beer. Then he took in another breath and let it out.
"All I've really wanted is to have what you have, Mike--a home and a
wife and kid to talk to. Hell, I'd settle for just a home." Mike's
shoulders relaxed and he reached out, put a hand on Barrett's arm. "You
have a home at C&S, Bear. I know it's not the same and that you've been
a runaway. But the door's still open, and it may be the only home you'll
ever know. Don't throw that away, too." Barrett shook his head again.
"It's over, Mike. Even if I did try to come back, I know I'd find a
stranger sleeping in my bed." ""Said the Papa Bear," " Mike murmured
through a forced smile. "So we're back to Steve Wilmer again. Or is it
the bond salesman who ran off with Ellen? Or the son who ran off by
himself? Or are we all the way back to some scared teenage girl leaving
a cardboard box at the fire station with a baby in it?" Mike was no
longer smiling, getting angry again. "Jesus, Bear, it's time to let it
all go, okay? Stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something about
it." Barrett said nothing. He wasn't smiling either.

"Oh, fuck it!" Mike said, breaking the tense silence. "I think I liked
you better when you were drinking." Barrett threw two twenties on the
table and rose to his feet, saying, "I think I liked you better when I
was drinking, too."

"Fine, so where the hell do you think you're going?" Barrett didn't
answer at first, but then turned and met his friend's angry, anxious
eyes. "I'm going," he said quietly, "to do something about it." Part
Five.

THE JUDGMENT.

My soul is a broken field, plowed by pain. -Sara Teasdale Try the
linguine carbonara," suggested Julian Gold to his pallidfaced and
perspiring dinner companion. "I'm told it's quite excellent here."

"Here" was a tiny restaurant named Ciao Bella, hidden deep in the Santa
Cruz mountains north of Monterey in a rain-swept village called Ben
Lomond.

Passing through the large open doors five minutes earlier, Jack Klegg
had been startled, tor the inside of the place was as garish and
astonishing as the outside was understated and inconspicuous. He felt he
had entered a time warp. "Twist and Shout" blared from concealed
speakers, and every square inch of wall space was covered with
entertainment and sports memorabilia.

The memory of Marilyn Monroe was clearly held in reverence.

Record album covers picturing Pat Boone, Chubby Checker, and Elvis, plus
glossies of Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays, and Vida Blue covered the walls
and ceilings.

The spectacle of icons from another time and the insistent beat
assaulting Klegg's eardrums as he passed through the bar momentarily
silenced the fear that had been stalking him throughout the day.

Why had he been summoned by Julian Gold? And why to this place?

Should he have even come? Klegg knew that Santa Cruz had been branded
three decades before as "the murder capital of the world," and it
occurred to him that a body buried in these mountains might well lie
undiscovered for at least another three decades.

"I'm  ...  not that hungry, Mr. Gold," said Klegg later as a waiter
hovered.

He wondered why they couldn't open a damn window somewhere.

"Late lunch," he added. "Maybe I'll just have a glass ofchianti and a
Caesar salad." "You don't look well, Jack," Gold said. "The drive over
the hill must not have agreed with you. I'm told they average one
killing a month on that winding fourteen-mile-long butcher shop they
call Highway 17." Klegg nodded, loosened his tie. This was his first
face-to-face meeting with the notorious consigliere and it had taken him
less than a minute to mention the word "killing."

"I want to thank you, Jack, for meeting me at this rather out-ofthe-way
spot," said Gold, his voice as soothing as its raspy quality would
permit. "I hear the food is marvelous and I don't expect that the
mountain folk around us will recognize you. Of course, after you're
district attorney of San Francisco, you'll find privacy more difficult
to come by." Klegg's wary eyes softened with relief. "I could live with
that," he said.

"Assuming all goes well, I think you could live with that a very long
time," said Gold, his mouth offering what Klegg took to be a smile. "So,
let's get our business out of the way, shall we?" For the next five
minutes, Klegg listened in amazement as the consigliere outlined a
dramatic reversal in strategy.

"We would like, Jack, for you and Ms. Harris to press Mr. Ashford to the
wall. To that end, we expect you to leave no stone unturned and spare no
cost in terms of forensic experts and technical support."

"You want Ashford convicted?"

"No, but that's something even we can't control. What we want now is for
Elliot to plead insanity--and soon. You see, Jack, with this new witness
in the picture, it appears our friend will indeed be convicted. Our
prior plan, as we have discussed, was to appeal and secure a reversal
based on inadequacy of counsel. You then, without fear of great
criticism, would dismiss the case rather than burden the taxpayers with
a third trial." "Of course," said Klegg, "so why the full-court press
now?"

"Patience, Jack," said Gold as a waiter retreated. "Mr. Dickson recently
suggested to me the possibility of an insanity plea. Although Elliot has
refused, it occurred to me that it would be very much to Mr. Rizzo's
advantage if he were to enter such a plea."

"Because he might win on such a defense? I doubt it."

"Of course not. But Mr. Rizzo has decided to take advantage of the
corporate dissolution provisions under California law in order to secure
the return of his $60 million investment. A recent inventory revealed
that the tangible assets--heavy equipment and the like--are sufficiently
valuable after liquidation to assure the return of our investment and
then some."

"And you would be able to do this if Ashford admits insanity?"

"He'd not only be admitting it, Jack, he'd be asserting it, and
California law permits a shareholder with more than thirty-three percent
of the stock to sue for dissolution in a closely held corporation where
such action is 'reasonably necessary' to protect his investment." Gold
then extended his hands, palms up, and added, "One can't expect a
multimillion-dollar company to be run by a lunatic, can one?" "Hell, Mr.
Gold," said Klegg, his appetite returning, "I'm not a com__ __ __ __ __
__ mercial lawyer, but isn't that option already available to you? He's
a defendant in a multiple-murder trial, for God's sake." "Yes and no,"
said Gold sipping a decent local red, a '92 Ahlgren Cabernet.

"Yes, you are definitely not a commercial lawyer, and no, it's not
available to us now. He is innocent until proven guilty under the
Constitution, and by the time his appeals are exhausted and final
judgment is rendered, he will have been in absentia from the company for
more than one year, triggering an automatic reversion of all Resource
International stock to the family charitable foundation." Klegg issued a
low whistle, which he noticed seemed to irritate the consigliere. "A
foundation?"

"For cancer research," said Gold, "which is what Ashford's old man was
dying of. Anyway, with your able assistance, Jack, we anticipate a
rather different beneficiary of the assets of Resource International."
The next day, Grace Harris, aware of the disastrous fate of her Los
Angeles counterparts in the Simpson case, continued to move the state's
case forward swiftly and without fanfare, refusing to be seduced by her
growing celebrity into overtrying her case. Although the Ashford trial
was not being televised, publicity about the triple murder and its
social and political connections had mounted to a fever pitch, and Grace
had become nearly as famous and recognizable as L.A. prosecutor Alarcia
dark. Nearly everybody wanted a piece of her, and although she
steadfastly refused to be interviewed, she found herself on the cover of
Newsweek and hounded by the press and TV talk shows.

Barrett, though less in demand, also shunned publicity, and contributed
to the streamlining of the prosecution's case with a unique--some called
it "bizarre"--manner of cross-examining the prosecution's lineup of
criminologists, lab technicians, and DNA experts. Each time Grace
finished the direct examination of an expert witness, Dickson asked but
two questions: "Hypothetically, Doctor, could the traces of blood on the
victim's fingers you claim to be Mr. Ashford's have gotten there as a
result of Mrs. Ashford rinsing out the basin after he had cut himself
shaving and before she ivas murdered?" After extracting grudging but
inevitable concurrence with this question, Barrett would then ask
whether the blood on the towel could also have been placed there by
Ashford after shaving, and before the murder. Another pause, followed by
reluctant agreement.

Barrett would then turn to the jury, shrug, and sit down. The brevity of
the cross appealed to Julian Gold, who, though highly capable, was no
trial lawyer, and therefore mistook Barrett's sudden succinctness as
belated capitulation to his demand for a rollover. But Grace saw through
the strategy and reduced questions to her forensic experts by half and
tentatively canceled two of them altogether.

"May I ask, Grace," said Klegg outside the courtroom at a recess, "what
the hell you two are doing in there?"

"He's playing chess, Jack, and I have no choice but to check him," she
said. "He knows he can't beat our experts on cross, so he's trying to
make us look foolish for wasting so much of the jury's time. But the
real genius in his approach is that it focuses their attention on the
only facts that tend to support his case. I've got to avoid playing into
his hands." Klegg took her firmly by the arm and guided her out of
earshot of a crowd milling around in the hallway.

"I'm reluctant to second-guess you, Grace, but I don't like it. We need
to give this case everything we've got, and what we've got are some damn
good expert witnesses." Grace was both stunned and gratified by Klegg's
apparent change of attitude.

"I agree, Jack, but with Amanda Keller's testimony the only way we can
lose now is if we overtry our case like they did in Simpson."

"Okay, streamline the expert witnesses' testimony if you think it's
best, but at least put them all on the stand. I want Ashford pressed to
the wall, and I damn sure don't want it said that we held anything back.
I want pressure on this guy." Grace gave Klegg another questioning look,
but he didn't blink. "All right, Jack," she said, too busy to try to
figure out the latest turn of this particular worm. "I'll keep on
pressing."

"Good," said Klegg. "And if Dickson comes sniffing around again looking
for a deal, tell him to go to hell. We're going all the way on this one,
Grace." The afternoon session went well, and with Klegg having
flip-flopped, Grace thought she saw a bright light at the end of the
tunnel.

Until five o'clock that afternoon, when Sam Quon walked into her office
and, without comment, handed her a handwritten and undated letter that
drained the blood from her face and told her the light was from an
oncoming locomotive.

"Where did you get this, Sam?"

"It was in Earl's personal files. I was assigned the project of putting
his stuff in order before turning everything over to his daughter. I
just now finished going through them." The letter was postmarked
December 6, 1997, a week before Field's death, was addressed to Earl
Field, and purported to be from Amanda Keller. The third paragraph read:
Like you, I hate people of Ashford's ilk, bigoted, pretty-boy brats born
wealthy, going through life sneering at the rest of us.

The paragraph went on to say that her involvement in the first trial had
been "foretold," then professed her gift of special insight into
people's thoughts and her "absolute certainty" ofashford's guilt. The
letter closed by saving she would do anything to help him "convict this
animal and put him where he belongs." Grace stared at the words until
the witness's misspelled prose began to blur on the scented,
apricot-colored paper.

Worst of all, the letter, though postmarked after the claimed threats by
Elliot Ashford, bore no mention of any such threats.

She handed it back to Sam and said, almost to herself, "We're dead." Sam
nodded slowly. "Giving this to you instead of to the shredder was the
hardest thing I've ever done."

"Does Klegg know?"

"I wanted you to see it first. He would have used it to make you go for
a plea bargain." Grace shook her head. "He's swung a hundred and eighty
degrees now.

Claims he wants to convict. But let's confront her before we talk to
him."

"Why do you suppose Earl never mentioned it?" asked Sam.

"He thought she was a crackpot. I saw her leave in a rage one day after
he had given her the shoe."

"He might have been right about her being a crackpot."

"That 'crackpot," old friend, has outsmarted all of us." Sam winced.
"When do you want her in here?"

"Yesterday, okay? I've put it off too long as it is. Ms. Hollywood and I
have to have a chat. And no warning of the agenda. I want to see her
face when I confront her regarding the 'waitress' at Pat's and this
little literary gem. Dickson's got a standing subpoena to recall her as
a witness; just tell her we think he might do it and we want to prep
her." "I'll do it, Grace," said Sam, his browr creased with concern,
"but let's keep an open mind, okay? She might have a perfectly good
explanation." "I'm sure she will, Sam," said Grace, her voice quaking
with anger. "She always does." That night, Grace reluctantly entered her
empty flat, wishing more than ever that Aaron was there.

She shed her coat and walked to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass
of wine and sat at the breakfast table, looking out at the empty,
darkened street, the streetlights barely visible in the heavy fog.
Dishes from breakfast, rinsed but unwashed, were scattered on the
kitchen counter where she had hurriedly left them. An unread morning
paper lay in front other.

She wondered how things had gotten so out of hand. After talking to
Amanda, she would have to show the letter to Klegg and the worm would
turn yet again. She pictured his statement to the press: Mr. Hams, who
has been under severe emotional pressure since the death of Earl Field,
simply misread the qualify of the People's evidence. Once her error came
to light, I had no choice but to dismiss the case.

She would be offered up to satisfy the media's need for a scapegoat.
Ashford would walk. Klegg would be elected D.A.

Her father would have been right.

The sound of the telephone jarred her out of her thoughts. She picked up
the receiver, hoping it was Aaron.

"Hello, Grace," came a familiar voice that was definitely not Aaron's.

"It's Barrett Dickson."

"Yes?"

"I need to talk to you about a couple of things."

"All right."

"I mean privately."

"Isn't that what we're doing now?"

"On the phone? One never knows these days. May I swing by your place?"
Grace said nothing. It would be the worst possible time to see him. He
might see through her despair.

"It's not phonefare, Grace."

"All right," she said at last, and gave him her address.

Twenty minutes later, Grace--her hair brushed out and a light blush
applied--was looking into Barrett Dickson's red-rimmed eyes.

They engaged in small talk for a few minutes, during which Grace,
despite her own travails, felt a growing sympathy for him. His face was
pale and his clothes had begun to hang shapelessly on him. She offered
him coffee and a piece of a boysenberry pie she had bought on a whim,
thinking of Aaron. He accepted, and she led him into the kitchen, where
he tore into the pie as if he hadn't eaten in days. Then he stared
thoughtfully at the empty plate. "Did you make this?" "I'm a lawyer,"
she said, sitting across from him at the dinette table, "not a ceramic
artist." Barrett smiled. "I figured you could do pretty much anything,
Grace. Bake pies, convict killers, make plates." Grace laughed and shook
her head. "My culinary ambitions went into remission years ago. I leave
that to Marie Callender now. I just try to be a decent mother and a
decent lawyer. That's enough for me."

"Is it really?" said Barrett, holding her gaze. She knew what he meant.

She finally broke the tension with a smile to let him know she had
caught his meaning. "For now, yes."

"May I ask how long you've been a single mom?"

"Aaron's father left before he was one year old. That was in 1982."

"I admire you, all you've done." Grace shrugged off the compliment,
though it warmed her pleasantly.

They then stirred awkwardly and silently in their seats, and Grace, not
knowing what to say, offered him more coffee and pie. He declined.

"So," she said at last, "now that your hunger is taken care of, might
there be something else on your agenda tonight?" "All right," said
Barrett, pushing the plate aside. "First, I want to explain why I've
been a bit ...  blustery lately. I've been told to go in the tank. The
Attila routine was my little way of telling them no."

"Your people are already planning their grounds for appeal," she said.

"Or should I say, 'planting'?" He nodded.

"Amanda was that good, was she?" "You know she was," said Barrett. "If I
were in better shape, I'd take off my shirt and show you the tire tracks
on my back."

"Well, thanks for telling me. I wondered what was going on."

"I saw the look on your face and needed you to know."

"Is my opinion so important or were you suddenly obsessing for
boysenberrypie?"

"Both, I guess." He smiled and took a breath. "What you think has become
very important to me." Grace felt a stirring that was hard to suppress.
She wanted to reach out to him, to touch his weary face, to tell him she
was glad he felt that way. But years of discipline contained her
feelings, and she kept her hands on her empty cup.

"I'm glad you t-told me," she said ambiguously, a sudden shyness
overcoming her. She was afraid to meet his eyes and decided to keep the
conversation on safe ground. "But if you plan to lead the Huns into
court again tomorrow, perhaps I'd better eat a raw animal for
breakfast." Barrett laughed easily but said nothing. He was going to let
her set the tone now.

She looked at him and said, "What else?"

"What else?"

"Did you want to tell me. You said there were a couple of things."

"I was going to try another shot at a plea bargain, but I already know
your answer, so forget about that. Maybe I just needed to see you."
Grace felt her pulse pleasantly quicken again. It hurt her to see him
sitting there looking so utterly defeated, completely unaware that the
state's key witness might be a perjurer.

"Oh," she said.

As if encouraged by her hesitation, Barrett leaned forward across the
table and kissed her on the cheek. She didn't move, partly out of
surprise.

Barrett didn't move either, except to kiss her again, this time on the
corner of her mouth.

Now she moved, meeting him halfway across the table, their lips joining
in a kiss that somehow must have survived Barrett's maneuvering around
the table, for he was now pulling her up out of her seat and enveloping
her in his arms. For a moment, her thoughts were scattered by a dizzying
passion, but she managed to pull her lips from his and bury her head in
his chest.

She could feel his heart pounding, felt it like a drumbeat that was
leading her emotions deeper into conflict with sound judgment. This was
insane, she realized, but she heard him saying her name over and over
and felt his gentle touch on her hair, her neck, and she allowed herself
another twenty heartbeats, then another twenty. She felt his need for
her and she realized she wanted him too. Now. Right now.

This was beyond insane, but she granted herself another ten heartbeats,
then somehow found the will to pull herself back from him. "Please,
Barrett," she heard the voice of reason say. "No more. Not now." He
smiled self-consciously as he let her go. "I think this is where I say
I'm sorry, but obviously I'm not. I ..."

"Please," she repeated, embarrassed by the breathless sound of her own
voice, "please go now." Barrett held up his hands in mock surrender and
collected himself. "This trial can't last forever, Grace, and when it's
over--" Grace shook her head quickly, resolutely. "But it's not,
Barrett, it's far from over."

"All right, but when the trial is finished, Grace, I hope we'll be just
starting.

Can we at least talk about that?" She met his eyes, relieved that her
emotions were back under control.

"Look, Barrett, a couple of lawyers having a cup of coffee and
discussing a possible plea is one thing, but adversaries making out over
boysenberry pie in the middle of a murder trial is something not
contemplated by the rules of professional conduct and you know it."

"The pie was your idea." She didn't smile. "It shouldn't have happened,
Barrett. It didn't happen." "Okay then," said Barrett, his smile erased,
"let's be a couple of lawyers discussing a possible plea. The problem is
you've already indicated that the pleabargain part of my agenda is as
doomed to futility as the part just completed." She could see she had
hurt him. "I'm sorry, Barrett, about all of it. But yes, I'm afraid this
is a c-case that will have to be decided by a jury."

"You don't need to be sorry for anything. I was out of line a minute
ago. As for dealing this case, I really can't blame you for saying no to
that either. You hold all the cards." Including, she thought, feeling
ashamed, a joker that's wild.

Grace shrugged, feeling worse by the minute.

"Thanks for the coffee and pie," Barrett said, attempting a congenial
tone. As he turned toward the door, he gave her a weary smile that
stabbed her heart.

Why, she wondered, did I let him come here?

But she said nothing as he took himself out the door and headed down the
hallway. Grace watched him for a few seconds, fascinated as usual by the
way he walked, the unstudied languor in his stride.

She closed the door before he could look back, then turned and leaned
against it. It would be a long night.

Grace greeted her key witness during the noon recess the next day,
trying to muster a tone of cordiality she did not feel. Sam had warned
Grace that Amanda was furious about being summoned from Los Angeles,
where she had taken up temporary residence at the Hotel Bel-Air. He had
endured a blistering verbal assault all the way in from the airport.
Waiting for fifteen minutes in Grace's cramped office while the morning
session spilled over into the noon hour had done little to improve her
mood.

"Give me one good reason, Grace, why Dickson would call me back as a
witness?" she demanded. "Didn't I hurt his client enough last time?"
"It's standard procedure," said Grace. "He has you on twenty-four-hour
recall, but he may never exercise the option. Still, it's best for us to
be ready, just in case."

"I hope you realize you could hardly have picked a worse time for this,"
she said, her voice still crackling with annoyance. "I was supposed to
have finished a photo shoot this morning, the script for Thursday' Child
was just delivered to me, and I had to put off a lunch date with the
film's director today!"

"We'll get you back to Los Angeles on the two-thirty flight, Ms. Keller,
and we do appreciate your coming."

"And do you have any idea what flying does to my skin?" she demanded
rhetorically as she checked her makeup in a compact from her purse, then
smoothed out the folds in her beige Chanel jacket--an original. No more
knockoffs for Amanda Keller.

Grace realized the woman was not listening, so she stopped talking.

"Well," continued Amanda haughtily, "I'm parched. Sam, would you be a
gentleman and get me some Evian water?" Grace poured water into a cup
and handed it to her.

"Don't you still want to see Ashford convicted?" Grace asked as Amanda
took a sip.

"Of course I'd like to see justice done," said Amanda, uncrossing and
recrossing her long legs, "but life moves on, don't you know? I'm in a
world now beyond anything you could imagine, Grace. Do you know who I
dined with last night at Spago?"

"We'll not take much of your time, Ms. Keller," said Grace, her patience
exhausted.

"Good. I can't imagine what Dickson thinks he could get from me that
would help his case one bit." Grace poured Sam and herself some water,
then looked straight into Amanda's eyes and said, "Suppose he knew of a
letter you wrote to Earl Field. A letter in which you say you'd do
anything to convict the defendant, but a letter that makes no mention of
the threats you've testified to." Amanda blinked, then blinked again.
Her lips tightened slightly, but that was all.

The witness was listening now.

Grace could hear the clock ticking behind her. Sam coughed. No one
moved.

"A letter?" said Amanda, laughing nervously.

"A letter bearing your signature." Grace felt a grudging admiration for
the woman. She was obviously buying time with the pretext of trying to
remember, too smart to rush into the trap of a quick denial. Grace
continued to study her, the deep-set dark eyes, no longer flinching, the
long and lustrous blond hair that age had not yet coarsened with brittle
streaks of gray like her own, the large rectangular designer gold ring
she now wore, the fine navy blue skirt and jacket that had traveled from
L.A. without succumbing to a single crease.

"Yes," she said, meeting Grace's eyes, "I believe I did write him."

"Did you write him more than once?" "Just once," said Amanda, rubbing
her ring with the thumb of her right hand. "I believe it was just once."
"Do you recall what you said in the letter?"

"I presume you have the letter, Grace," Amanda said coolly, "and that
you know exactly what's in it." Grace said, "I just want to be sure you
do, Amanda. In case you're asked."

"And just how would Dickson know to ask? Does he have the letter?" "No,"
said Grace, "but that's n-not the point."

"Then what is the point? In the first place, Dickson apparently knows
nothing about this so-called letter. In the second place, what's wrong
with a concerned citizen writing to an elected public official?"

"It depends," said Grace, "on whether the author of the letter is a key
witness for the prosecution in a murder case and whether the letter
betrays overt hostility toward the defendant and a willingness to do
anything to convict him."

"Because I called Ashford a beast or whatever I called him? All the
jurors felt that way about him." Amanda's voice began to take on a tone
of righteous indignation. "Because I said I would do anything to help
convict him? That just meant I was willing to risk my own life to see
justice done!" Amanda leaned forward and her voice took on a
conciliatory tone.

"Don't you see, Grace, I had to make the letter strong to try to get his
attention.

The truth is, he had  ...  not taken me very seriously. If only he had
..."

"Then why didn't you mention the threats that were the basis of your
testimony in this trial?"

"I don't know. I guess it was because you don't put something like that
in a letter. You don't know who's going to open the mail for someone as
important as Earl Field. But that's what I wanted to tell him,
face-to-face. But he didn't respond. Then he was killed and I was afraid
to speak out." Grace was beginning to feel like a straight man in a
surreal comedy act.

The witness had an answer for everything and was not only unembarrassed
by the letter, she was proud of it. One more try.

"Do you have special powers, Amanda?"

"What?"

"You say in your letter that you have a gift of special insight into
people's thoughts." Amanda gave a self-deprecating laugh and said, "Did
I say that? I just meant I have a woman's intuition. I was, after all,
writing to a man." Grace didn't smile. "Are you a religious person,
Amanda?" Grace saw the witness's face darken. "Not really," she said. "I
would say spiritual, hardly religious. Isn't this getting awfully
personal, Grace?"

"Not nearly as personal as Mr. Dickson might get if he calls you back to
the stand. Do you believe in ESP or parapsychology?"

"No," snapped Amanda, obviously fed up with the interrogation, "but I
often locate water with one of those magic wands when I'm not busy
practicing voodoo and worshiping Satan. Satisfied?"

"Amanda, this is necessary--"

"If you feel I'm some kind of kook, Grace, then the hell with you. I'm
finished with this case anyway!" "Maybe," said Grace, "maybe not. Please
just tell me what you meant when you said your involvement in the first
trial was 'foretold." Do you believe in tarot cards, Amanda? Astrology?
The I Ching?"

"All of the above, like plenty of other people," Amanda snarled. "So
what?"

"Do you believe you were put on the first trial jury for a purpose? Is
that what you meant by your presence being 'foretold'?" Amanda suddenly
seemed tired. Her voice now took on the bored tone of a teacher
lecturing a child. "Are you aware that water covers seventy percent of
the earth's surface and makes up ninety-seven percent of your body
weight?"

"I've heard that, yes."

"And are you familiar with the effect of the moon on ocean tides?"

"Yes."

"Then can you doubt that the movement of celestial bodies such as the
moon and the stars can influence our own tiny, insignificant bodies? Or
that the positions of the planets in the zodiac at the time of birth can
provide a perfectly logical basis for determining events? Yes, damn it,
I do feel that my call to jury duty was a sign, and you should be
grateful I was there and stop treating me like a nutcase!" Grace glanced
at Sam, who only raised his eyebrows slightly as if to say, Now what?
She walked over, opened a window, and decided to follow her intuition.

"I have serious doubts about what you said in court, Amanda," she said
in a quiet voice that belied her growing apprehension.

"That's quite clear," snarled Amanda, "even to a nutcase like me."

"Chief Investigator Quon checked out your story regarding Pat's Seafood
Grill. They don't hire waitresses at Pat's." "Oh, Christ," said Amanda,
springing to her feet, "that does it! Waitress?

Waiter? How am I supposed to remember such details? Am I a witness in
this case or a defendant?"

"It depends, Amanda. Perjury is a crime in this state." Amanda Keller's
face was flushed with anger, and Grace guessed she wasn't acting. Sam
apparently didn't think so either, for as Amanda advanced on Grace's
desk, Sam rose and moved in closer.

"Just who do you think you are? The jury? The judge of my character?

Well, fortunately for me and the people of this state, you're neither
one.

Whether I told the truth--which I did--is up to them to decide, not
you!" Grace knew she was right, and that if Barrett did call her back to
the stand, she would fly up from L.A., beat him up again, then fly right
back and resume the launching of her movie career. This was a formidable
woman, a frightening woman.

"Open any newspaper in America, Ms. Harris," continued the glowering
witness, now pacing theatrically in front of Grace's desk, "and you'll
find your horoscope. Any day of the week! People all over the world
believe in astrology and predestination, and I won't stand here for
another minute and be humiliated by your witch-hunt!" Grace glanced at
Sam and he shot her a look that told her to back off.

She collected herself, not easy with an enraged and well-muscled, nearly
sixfoot figure looming over her. The blue of the witness's eyes had
turned as dark as night.

"Ms. Keller," interposed Sam Quon, "I think there might be a
misunderstanding here. We have a duty to check and double-check
everything and everyone, particularly witnesses we have vouched for.
Please sit down and let me get you more water. I'm sure we can work this
out." Bless you, Sam, thought Grace, though I still think you're wrong
about this one. Grace decided that her own horoscope from this morning's
Chronicle should have read, "Don't take on any major problems today."
Amanda stood now as if frozen in front of Grace's desk, taking in Sam's
words without detaching her dark gaze from Grace's eyes.

A horn blared from Bryant Street, followed by a shouting match three
floors below them. Amanda suddenly shivered, turned, and walked over to
the window, arms clasped around her.

Now what? thought Grace.

As she broke the silence, Amanda's voice seemed to come from another
place, another person.

"If there has been a misunderstanding here," she said, sauntering back
and resuming her seat, "I'm sorry for my part in it. I hardly ever
notice clerks or people waiting on me. So maybe it was a waiter at the
restaurant, not a waitress. Let's face it, one can't always tell the
difference here in San Francisco." No one laughed.

"As for the letter, I was just trying to help out. I had been treated
rudely by Mr. Field a few days before when I went to him directly.
Perhaps I overstated things in an effort to get his attention, but my
only regret is that I failed." Grace took in Amanda's contrite
expression, the angled eyebrows, the innocence conveyed by the awkwardly
clasped hands. She again recalled the irate Amanda leaving Earl's office
that day weeks ago, a recollection that did tend to corroborate her
account. She watched Amanda now as she removed her inhaler from her
handbag. She didn't use it, but closed her eyes and rubbed her neck with
her free hand.

Grace's neck was aching now too. What if she really was telling the
truth?

"Well?" said Amanda, absently rearranging some errant strands of hair
that had fallen across her eye. Then the hint of a smile as she said,
"Now what? Take me away in irons?" Now it was Grace buying time. She had
never been in the presence of a person at once so suspect and yet so
maddeningly convincing.

"You do believe me, don't you, Grace? Sam?"

"I honestly don't know, Amanda, but as you've pointed out, I'm not the
jury. I'm going to leave it to them." Amanda rose quickly to her feet
again, her momentarily calm features giving way to the flush of anger
again. "Well, thank you for that inspiring vote of confidence. May I
leave now?" Grace rose too. "Chief Quon will take you to your mother's
apartment." Amanda snatched up her purse and glared at Grace. "That
won't be necessary.

Just call me a cab, please." Sam called her a cab and saw her out, then
returned to Grace's office.

"Well?" he said.

Silence.

"You don't trust Amanda," said Sam.

"Do you trust her?"

"She's our witness, Grace, and she's right about one thing."

"And that is?"

"You're starting to look at this case more like you were a juror than
the meanest prosecutor west of the Mississippi."

"Just because I'm distrustful of a woman who keeps lying to us?"

"Damn it, Grace, you've never liked her. Admit it. I'm as cynical as you
are, but I think her explanations have been plausible." Grace knew that
on the rare occasions Sam resorted to an expletive-- even in its most
benign form--it meant he was getting very angry.

"May I ask," he said, "just how you intend to 'level the playing
field'?" Grace shrugged. "I really don't know, Sam, but it doesn't feel
right the way it is." Sam unbuttoned his jacket and jammed his hands in
his pockets. "Look, Grace, I don't trust Keller completely either and I
don't like her at all, okay?

But Ashford's guilty as sin, and if we don't win this case, any respect
for our criminal justice system that somehow survived the Simpson
debacle will go right down the toilet. Can't you hear it, Grace?
"Another guy with money, so he beat the system."

"But what if she's lying, Sam, and an innocent man takes the needle
based solely on her testimony? Have you thought about that?"

"That's good thinking, Grace," said Sam, throwing up his hands and
heading for the door, "for a defense lawyer!" Sam's words resonated in
Grace's head long after he had left, and as much as she hated the
thought, she knew she could not delay taking the matter to Klegg as
acting D.A. She found him reading a copy of the Will Street Journal.

"Hello, Grace. Take a load off." She laid the story out quickly for him,
then watched as he read the letter.

"Interesting," he said, folding the letter back up.

"I think Earl considered her a flake, Jack. I saw her leaving the office
one day in a rage after he had given her the shoe. I think we've got a
real problem here with our star witness." Jack Klegg gave his head a
quick shake. "From what you've told me, Grace, she has a logical
explanation for everything in this letter. What does Sam think?" Grace
had hoped he wouldn't ask that question, but she answered it honestly,
then said, "I respect Sam's opinions, Jack, but my instincts scream out
that she's lying to us and that we should get out of this case."

"Obviously the defense hasn't seen this, right?"

"They haven't seen it."

"It's clearly not so exculpatory that we have an obligation to reveal it
to them, right?"

"I suppose you're right--interpreting the law technically." "No one,"
said Klegg, his close-set eyes fixed on her as he slid the letter back
toward her, "has ever accused Amazing Grace Harris of doing otherwise."

Barrett parked in front of his apartment, depressed and dog-tired from a
failed final attempt to persuade Ashford to plead temporary insanity.

Ashford had refused to even discuss the matter, but Barrett resolved to
try again before court the next morning.

He had pressed Ashford, pressed him harder than a defense lawyer should
ever press a client. But Ashford's admission that he was seeing another
woman had triggered a renewed suspicion in Barrett that his client had
fooled everyone--except for Lev, of course--and that Arm and Ligretti
had indeed been telling the truth.

If so, then Ashford had indeed introduced a young woman to the Rizzos at
a Mafia meeting as "the next Mrs. Ashford." If so, Barrett had used his
skill and experience to destroy the credibility of a truthful witness, a
major step in helping a possible murderer escape justice.

If so, the old Dickson Curse was alive and well.

He opened the door to his apartment and entered the small living room.

The place smelled musty, rank. He remembered he hadn't emptied the
garbage in days. On his way back out the door with a bulging plastic
bag, he noticed the light blinking on his answering machine. He set the
garbage down in the hallway, then walked back and pressed "Play." The
last message was from Grace Harris. "Call me" was all it said. No name
or number. He needed neither. His heart pounded as he dialed her flat.

She picked it up on the first ring, and spoke quickly, mechanically,
like a person who has made a decision and wants to act on it before she
changes her mind.

"I need to speak with you," she said, "as soon as possible."

"Ten minutes," he said, then hung up and raced out the door, almost
tripping over a bag of garbage that would have to be dealt with later.

"Don't say anything, Barrett, just listen. I have  ...  I'm beginning to
have concerns  ...  oh, God, this is too damned difficult!" Barrett
glanced around the silent living room. "What's the problem, Grace?" "I
asked you not to say anything, okay?"

"Well, somebody around here has to try to complete a full sentence."
Barrett could see she was deeply troubled. The skin on her face was pale
and stretched thin over her prominent cheekbones. The hollows under her
eyes were darker than ever and, to Barrett, gave her face a gaunt beauty
he found irresistible. He had seen traces of gentleness in Grace, but
never vulnerability.

He saw it now, and had to fight the urge to take her in his arms.

"All right," she said at last, "I'll p-put it to you straight: I'm
having concerns about the credibility ofamanda Keller." Barrett put up a
restraining hand, but she continued, the words coming even faster than
before. "It started with the mystery waitress you questioned her at
length about. It turns out Pat's Seafood Grill hires only male waiters."
Barrett stared at her in such stunned silence she averted her eyes. He
had never seen her looking so troubled, even during the Ligretti
catastrophe. He decided not to tell her he had sent Lev to Sam's and
that Pat's illegal policy was what had prompted him to recall Keller as
a witness.

"Any questions so far?" she said.

"Yes. Do you have any of that berry pie left?"

"You're just trying to ease the situation."

"Yes, plus I missed dinner tonight." She smiled as she shook her head in
resignation and led him into the kitchen. The pie had been thrown out,
but she made tea and toast and he made small talk and she seemed to
relax somewhat, but her expression remained serious. They sat in the
kitchen and the memory of his last experience there aroused him. He
noticed that the morning paper lay on top of the table again, still
folded and bound with a rubber band.

"Why are you telling me this, Grace?" he said. "I represent the bad guy,
remember?"

"Because there's more at stake here now than the guilt or innocence of
Elliot Ashford."

"Like what?"

"Like convicting a man on possibly perjured testimony. Like the
integrity of our little piece of the American system of justice."
Barrett chuckled. "When the American system dispenses justice, it's by
accident." Grace wasn't amused. "You wouldn't be in this case if you
really believed that."

"Thanks, Grace, but I'm in this case strictly as a favor to a
friend--and I don't mean Elliot Ashford."

"It doesn't matter why you're in the case. I need your help."

"That's a good one, Grace. Like the Chicago Bulls asking the Warriors to
spot them points."

"I need you to recall Amanda Keller as a witness."

"Funny you should say that. My subpoena was served today."

"Good. I'm going to give you a letter she wrote to Earl Field a week
before the murder and you're going to cross-examine her on it." She
pushed the letter toward him.

Barrett exhaled, his amorous longings abruptly forgotten. He said, "Are
you disclosing exculpatory evidence to an adversary pursuant to a legal
obligation to do so?" Christ, he thought, I sound like a real lawyer.

"No, but I feel I have a moral obligation to give you an opportunity to
deal with it." Barrett cocked his head to one side, raised one eyebrow,
and said, "Hypothetically, let me see if I have this straight. You're
asking me to help you discredit your star witness?"

"By George, I think you've got it." Barrett shook his head. "What's
going on here, Grace?" he said. "Has your Prozac prescription run out?
Your oath as a representative of the people in an adversary system means
nothing to me, nor does your treasured justice system, but I know it
means everything to you. Hold a gun to your head if that's what you want
to do, but don't expect me to pull the trigger." Grace gave her head an
impatient shake. "Just let me tell you what--"

"No, damn it, I won't let you! Maybe it's just slipped your mind, so
I'll say it again: You're the D.A., Grace; I'm the slimy defense
lawyer."

"What's your guess," she said, pointing her spoon at him, "as to the
probable outcome of this case?"

"I make it Bulls 120, Warriors 30."

"Then I suggest you do as I say." Barrett started to rise. "Sorry,
Grace. I may not be keen on the justice system, but I know that you
don't make it better by breaking the rules."

"Okay, I'll put it in basketball terms: I've played by the rules because
I believe the sport would be in chaos without them. But maybe a game has
to be lost once in a while to keep the sport clean."

"Do you know what they do in basketball to players who shave points?"

"I don't even know what that means, but I'm ready to take the risk,
whatever it is." Barrett leaned across the table and looked into her
tired eyes. "Well, I'm not. For a person so enamored of the system,
you've apparently forgotten how it works. Number one: If I rip your key
witness apart, your whole case could go down, including Lara's murder
counts, even though Keller has no connection with that one."

"I know how it works, Barrett."

"Number two: If you provide me with a document that could only have come
from your files and I use it to win the game, you won't just lose the
game, you'll be banned from the sport for life. Follow me?" Grace said
nothing. Barrett reached over and covered her hand with his.

It felt cold. "Listen, Grace. There's a lot you don't know about me and
my track record when I try to 'help' people. Let's just say that I care
too much about you to be a part of what would happen if I did what you
want me to." Grace's eyes met his, taking in the implication.

"That's right," he said, brushing strands of hair back off her tired
face, "you must have figured out by now how I feel about you, Grace. I
guess I've loved you since the day of that crazy bail hearing. I just
didn't trust it. I've got a little problem with trust, which is another
thing you don't know about me. Anyway, the bottom line is that I won't
sacrifice someone I care about for a system I no longer care about or
for a guy like Elliot Ashford."

"He's your client, Barrett."

"As if I could forget it." Grace got up and poured them both another cup
of tea. Barrett watched her, wondering if she was thinking about his
impetuous declaration of love or Elliot Ashford. She put the cups down,
then took his hand.

"Barrett, you do realize the timing couldn't be worse? For us, I mean."
Barrett sighed. He knew she was right. "And timing is everything," he
said, forcing a smile.

"Well, n-not quite  ...  everything." "I see," he said, though he didn't
really see and didn't want to see what else--or who else--was standing
in their way. He felt his face reddening with embarrassment and wished
he could take back his foolish words. God knows he could come up with
plenty of good reasons she might have for not wanting to involve herself
with a burned-out guy driving a burned-out Ford Mustang, carrying a
briefcase full of multiple listings instead of high-profile cases. He
should have known.

"I don't think you do see," said Grace, interrupting his emotional
selfimmolation. So Barrett waited, hardly breathing, while she sat
staring into her empty cup again as if looking for just the right way to
let him down.

"Okay," she continued, "it's partly your obvious disdain for the justice
system that I'm a part of. It bothers me, Barrett. It bothers me a lot."
"Jesus, Grace," he said, "according to the polls, a majority of the
country feels the same as I do."

"But they're not trial lawyers. All they see are the high-profile cases
that bring out the worst in all of us. They see Judge Ito unable to
control Cochran in Simpson, Judge Weisberg unable to control Abramson in
the first Menendez trial, but they don't see thousands of competent
judges and decent lawyers trying murder cases to a just conclusion every
hour of every day of the year."

"That's true, but--"

"So you know better, Barrett, yet you wear your contempt for the system
as if it were a badge of honor. I see it as a chip on your shoulder and
it bothers me." Barrett sat silently for a minute, then said, "Like I
said, Grace, there are things you don't understand about me: about me,
my past, and the system."

"All right, but you don't seem to understand that when you belittle the
system, you belittle me too. You may think of me as naive or a dupe or
whatever, but I believe in the criminal justice system, and I honor it
too." Barrett reached for his tea but said nothing. Grace looked a
little embarrassed by her high-minded declaration. "It's like what
Churchill said about democracy, Barrett:"It's the worst system in the
world--"

" '--except for all the others that have been tried," " said Barrett. "I
know, I know. But like democracy, it can be exploited, Grace. I know,
because I've done it, and good people are dead now because I did." Grace
looked perplexed but undeterred. "Would you want to add your client to
the list? See him on death row because of your failure to expose a lying
prosecution witness? I may or may not win on the Lara murder, Barrett,
but Keller is all I have on Jefferson and Field." Barrett said nothing.

"You were one of the great trial lawyers, Barrett, and I care about your
reputation, whether you do or not. You can help me and also help a
reputation that doesn't need another loss right now." Barrett felt a
chill pass through his body and slowly withdrew his hand from hers. A
terrible sadness suddenly came out of nowhere and engulfed him. He
couldn't stop it. He thought of Tim Hardin and his hit from the fifties.

If I were a carpenter, and you -were a lady Would you marry me anyway
Would you have my baby So, thought Barrett, I wasn't wrong about the
beat-up guy in his beat up car.

Her voice broke through his thoughts again. "So will you help me,
Barrett?" Angry now, he said, "Like I said, Grace, you don't fix a
failed system by breaking its rules. You get out of the system."

"That's the easy way," said Grace.

"The coward's way?"

"I didn't say that." "You haven't said a lot of things," said Barrett
with obvious annoyance, and reached for his coat, "but I can read
between the lines. I won't help you destroy yourself, Grace, even if it
would make me someone you could be proud of." Grace looked puzzled.

"I would never want to be an embarrassment to you, Grace, but I'm
finished with the law. I'm  ...  not what I was, okay? Nobody knows that
better than me. So the hell with it." He slid the letter back across the
table and got up to leave, but Grace jumped to her feet also and grabbed
him by the arm with a force that surprised him.

"They call you Bear," she said, angry now, "but you're nothing but a
stubborn mule! I'm doing this for the justice system and your goddamn
client, not you! Don't you see that your obstinance is depriving me of
my moral options? Your macho paternalism won't allow anything bad to
happen to me or anything good to happen to you!" Barrett pulled his eyes
away from the heat in hers.

"Forget about me for a minute," she continued, "and forget about the
brilliant lawyer hiding somewhere in that baggy suit, but don't deny
your client a shot at a fair trial!" Barrett picked up his coat and
headed for the door. "This conversation never happened, Grace. Thanks
for the tea and misplaced sympathy. I'll see you in court."

Barrett could see that Elliot Ashford was seething the next morning. He
stormed out of the holding cell into the courtroom like a Brahma bull
with spurs sunk in his side.

"What the hell did you tell Julian Gold, Dickson?"

"About what?"

"Did you or did you not tell him about your expert's bullshit
diagnosis."

"I didn't tell him about Huntington's if that's what you mean. Why?"

"He's insisting I plead insanity; says it's my only hope. Says you sug
gested it."

"I did tell him that an insanity plea is your only hope," said Barrett,
"and he obviously agrees it would be in your best interest. But I didn't
mention Huntington's. You have my word on it." Ashford began pacing with
such truculence as to draw a concerned look from the bailiff.

"Sit down, Elliot, and let's resolve this issue calmly once and for
all." "There's nothing to resolve, Barrett," said Ashford. "I'll spell
it out for you. Number one: There won't be an insanity defense, because
I'm not in sane. Number two: I want you to fire Dr. Weiss and stop
trespassing in my bloodstream! Am I going too fast for you?"

"Yes, Elliot, and in the wrong direction. We've got to have an expert
wit-"

"And I've got to have some privacy! My blood is my business. So is my
bloodline. You think my future wife is going to give me a son after you
get me out of this if she thinks I'm some kind of genetic monster?"
Barrett glanced to his left at the bailiff, who averted his eyes. "Hold
it down, Elliot! I don't have to tell you the consequences of an affair
with an other woman coming out at this point, particularly one that
preexisted Lara's murder."

"And I don't have to repeat the consequences to both of us, Dickson, if
Carmine hears that a man walking around with names, dates, places, and
certain events in his head may sometimes be out of his head!" Barrett
ignored the tacit threat. "He doesn't know, okay? Now listen closely,
Elliot. The one thing the prosecution has lacked up to now is a clear
motive for killing Lara. Does anyone else know about this woman?"

"Tony. Nobody else."

"How about at the party Ligretti described?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Do you think I'd take Linda into that den of
vipers? She wasn't there. Sure, I've had girls--one-nighters--but Linda
doesn't even know that I'm connected!"

"All right," continued Barrett, "but the fact remains that if we don't
plead insanity or at least put on a DNA expert, your hotly desired
procreation efforts will be limited to Lady Palm and her five daughters
while you await your turn on death row." Ashford gave Barrett his most
malevolent smile. "Joke, you Neanderthal.

At least I'll still be alive. Will you?" After court, Grace grimly
awaited the arrival of Amanda Keller. She had rested her case midway in
the afternoon and Barrett had earlier informed the court that he would
recall Amanda Keller as his first witness the next day. When Sam had
informed Amanda of this, she had reacted with obvious apprehension and
insisted on meeting with Grace.

"What is he going to ask me, Grace?" asked Amanda, obviously nervous as
Sam escorted her through the door. "Does he have the letter?"

"No, he doesn't have the letter." Grace could see instant relief spread
across the witness's face. "Why did you want to see me?" Grace asked.

"Aren't you going to prepare me for my testimony tomorrow?" "I prepared
you thoroughly the first time," said Grace. "I'm sure you'll do fine."
Sam's normally inexpressive face registered as much surprise as
Amanda's, and Grace knew what he was thinking. Hadn't Grace joined
herself at the hip with Amanda during three arduous prep sessions before
the key witness's first appearance on the stand? Hour after hour of
tough mock cross, preparing her for anything Dickson might throw at her?

Grace turned her eyes from Sam and back toward Amanda, watching her
reaction. She remembered that there had hardly been a trace of
uneasiness in Amanda during those earlier meetings, or even when she was
on the stand. But now, the witness's fingers trembled slightly as she
touched her bloodless face.

"That's it?" she said. "You're not going to give me any preparation at
all?" Grace resumed her seat behind her desk, then held Amanda's eyes
hostage to her own. "Here's your preparation, Amanda," she said. "Tell
the truth."

"So you're going to hang her out to dry?" said Sam after he had returned
Amanda to the Ritz-Carlton. "Just like that?" Grace tapped the end of a
pencil against the top of her desk. She turned slowly in her chair and
stared out the window.

"Earth to Grace," said Sam. "Jesus, this is becoming a habit. Come in,
Grace."

"She needs no preparation," she said quietly. "Dickson doesn't have
enough to hurt her, and she'll chew him up and spit him out. Again."
"So?" said Sam, a wide smile breaking across his face. "Is that so bad?

The good guys win one? Faith in the criminal justice system restored?

Crime doesn't pay and all that?" Grace turned back toward him and Sam
was surprised to see the despair in her face. She said, "I'm no longer
so sure what's supposed to happen, Sam." Across town on Telegraph Hill,
Barrett Dickson sat at his kitchen table, trying to decide how best to
examine the state's key witness. The Pat's Seafood Grill story would
hurt Keller, but he knew he'd need more to destroy her credibility. He
called Lev.

"I'm cross-examining Amanda Keller tomorrow. Anything new?"

"You callin' her back to the stand?"

"Yes."

"Even a dumb cat don't jump up on a hot stove twice, Bear."

"Thank you, Uncle Remus. Does that mean you haven't found anything on
her?" "I'm afraid not," said Lev. "You want me to call that California
Confidential reporter? Take another try at gettin' him to come up and
testify to his notes?"

"Could you go down there tonight? You know calling won't work."

"Check your watch, Bear. "Tonight' ain't that far off from being'
tomorrow." Barrett knew he didn't have to tell Lev that there were
plenty of night nights to L.A. or that he wouldn't be asking unless he
was desperate.

"I'll call you later if I can get in the door," came a tired voice
through the phone. "I'll call from L.A. in the mornin' either way."

"Thanks. Lev."

"If I don't find him, it won't be for lack oftryin'."

"I owe you, Lev."

"A thousand dollars plus expenses to be exact." Barrett said goodbye and
inventoried his meager arsenal. The waiterwaitress thing--she might be
ready for that--and possibly the claimed romance with Earl Field, too.
But together, they'd at least put a dent in her credibility even if they
didn't smash it.

Which is what it would take now to turn this thing around.

You've already been sworn, Ms. Keller," said John Hernandez, "but I will
remind you that you are still under oath."

"I understand, Your Honor," said Amanda, radiant in a navy Calvin Klein
blazer, a white silk Valentine blouse and mid-length skirt.

It was 9:00 a.m., and as Barrett slowly rose to his feet to begin his
examination, he felt wired and light-headed. He wished he had skipped
that fourth cup of coffee. His mouth felt as dry as the carpet he stood
on.

Lev had called at 7:30 a.m., having bushwhacked the hapless Confidential
journalist earlier as he came out on the front lawn of his Brentwood
home for his morning paper. When the reporter threatened to call the
police, then tried to hit the private investigator with his rolled-up
newspaper, Lev knew his trip had been in vain.

Judge Hernandez looked down at Barrett, waiting for him to say
something.

Barrett glanced at Grace, whose expression betrayed nothing and whose
eyes avoided his. Mike was back in the courtroom for moral support, and
Julian Gold sat in the rear row, monitoring his performance as usual.

"Mr. Dickson?" said the judge, his tone concealing any impatience
Barrett knew he must be feeling.

"Yes, Your Honor," said Barrett, and cleared his throat as he sauntered
out from behind the security of counsel table. "Ms. Keller, we talked at
great length about the threats you say my client made against two of the
victims in your presence, do you recall that?"

"Yes."

"I'd like to pick up where we left off. You told us you heard Mr.
Ashford say something about Mr. Field in Pat's Seafood Grill. Do you
recall that?"

"Yes."

"Would you refresh our memories as to what you claim Mr. Ashford said?"
"He said something about having it out with that--then he used the N
word--'once and for all."

" Barrett concealed his disappointment at the response: word for word
what she had said the last time. Grace must have prepared her well.

"And you told us a waitress might have overheard some of it, do you
recall that?" Amanda cocked her head and gave Barrett a bemused and
knowing look that did not bode well for the home team.

"Oh, did I say waitress?" she said winsomely. "It could have been a
waiter. I was pretty shaken by Mr. Ashford's threat. It could have been
either one. In fact, now that I think of it--"

"It was probably a waiter, right?" said Barrett, returning her shrewd
look. At least he would let her know he knew she was lying. Control was
always the issue in cross-examination, and he had to start somewhere.

"Why yes, I think it was. He was." Barrett snatched up a bound volume
and said, "I believe you also told us this waitress who is now a waiter
had long blond hair, do you remember that?"

"Many men have long hair these days, Mr. Dickson," Keller said, smiling
amiably.

"Tell me, Ms. Keller," asked Barrett, feeling frustrated and deciding to
abandon the scapel in favor of a meat ax. "When did you find out that
Pat's Seafood Grill doesn't hire waitresses? Was it after you realized
you had lied to the jury last week?" Whispering rose from the gallery.
Amanda's left eyebrow shot up and she again looked over at Grace.
Barrett followed her gaze and saw that Grace's eyes were on her notepad,
on which she was calmly scribbling. He then glanced up at the judge, who
was also staring expectantly at Grace, but still no objection came.

"I didn't lie, sir, I told you I was just confused." "I see," said
Barrett, noticing offended looks from two of the jurors who were
probably viewing him now as a desperate bully, which is exactly what he
was feeling like. Terrific, he told himself. Grace is making herself
look bad by not objecting and I'm getting nowhere anyway.

"You're not entirely free of bias in this case, are you, Ms. Keller?"
Amanda gave Grace a worried look, and Barrett wondered if she was afraid
Grace had given him the letter. Good, let her think it.

"I believe I am completely unbiased, sir." Dickson leaned against a
corner of the defense table, fingering a cassette tape he had removed
from his pocket. Amanda's eyes nicked at it, then darkened.

"Isn't it a fact that you were in a  ...  personal relationship with one
of this defendant's alleged victims?"

"Absolutely not." Grace's head popped up for the first time, then she
casually turned and glanced at Sam Quon seated behind her. Sam shrugged
to say he didn't

know what was up. Dickson softly clicked the cassette twice on the
table, then pocketed it again and fished a tabloid out of his briefcase.

"You were interviewed by California Confidential magazine, were you
not?"

"Yes, I believe I was."

"On or about January 17?" Amanda shifted in her seat, but her voice and
expression were unwavering.

"That sounds about right."

"By a Mr. Damone?"

"Yes."

"And that interview was taped, was it not?" "I don't remember," she
said, and Barrett saw the first glimmer of hope.

"I've given dozens of interviews in connection with my new film project.
I suppose it might have been." Barrett patted the pocket into which he
had just slipped the tape and said, "Yes, Ms. Keller," then proceeded to
recite a litany of statements in the article, all of which the witness
calmly admitted were both true and accurate.

"Now, did you also tell Mr. Damone some things that did not appear in
the article?"

"Of course. They never print everything."

"All right. Now, if you told Mr. Damone during that interview that you
were in a romantic relationship with Earl Field, would that also be true
and accurate?"

"But I didn't tell him that. I hardly knew the gentleman. Mr. Field,
that is."

"So you admit that everything in Mr. Damone's story is true, but you
deny now, under oath, that you told him you were romantically involved
with Mr. Field?" Amanda shifted in her seat and her eyes grew even
darker. The imperious smirk was gone now.

"I can't imagine why I would have said anything like that." Out of the
corner of his eye, Dickson caught a hunched figure quietly rising to his
feet in the rear of the courtroom. Dickson's absurdly charged brain
registered the notion that Julian Gold was preparing to shoot him, but
the consigliere was just reaching for his cellular phone as he headed
for the hallway. Calling Carmine Rizzo, thought Dickson.

"Can you think of any reason why Mr. Damone might think you did tell him
that?" Still no objection.

"No, I can't, other than to say those tabloid writers are all a bunch of
iackals." Dickson moved closer to her and spoke in a quieter, almost
sympathetic voice.

"I don't fault your characterization, Ms. Keller, but just suppose that
Mr. Damone had made a tape of that interview, and you were to hear your
own voice describe a personal relationship with Mr. Field. Would that
refresh your memory as to whether you told Mr. Damone that you had an
affair with Mr. Field?" Several people in the gallery audibly gasped.
Sam Quon's foot jiggled wildly, but Grace sat silent as a stone.

John Hernandez cleared his throat in Grace's direction. Twice. Suddenly,
utter silence prevailed in the courtroom. The air was so packed with
tension Barrett felt that if he so much as snapped his fingers, the room
would explode.

Amanda openly glared at Grace now--how could the jury miss it?--but the
assistant district attorney seemed preoccupied again, this time with
something on her fingernail. The witness's eyes then returned to the
pocket into which Barrett had dropped the tape. Her face was pale where
she touched it with the back of her trembling hand, her eyes pleading as
she turned toward the judge, who continued to stare at Grace.

When she could delay no longer, Amanda spoke in a voice bereft of its
earlier authority.

"Well  ..." Her voice trailed off and she asked for a drink of water,
quickly provided by the bailiff. "It's possible," she said at last. "I
don't recall everything I said to every interviewer." Barrett decided to
go for the end zone. "Ms. Keller, isn't it a fact that you were in an
intimate relationship with Mr. Field, but intentionally failed to
disclose it when you testified two weeks ago?" Amanda Keller was flushed
now, whether with fear or anger Dickson could not say, even after she
replied in a voice shaking with emotion. "That, Mr. Dickson, is a rude
and provocative question, and you are not a gentleman."

"Stipulated, ma'am. Now answer my question."

"Is it so wrong to protect the memory and reputation of a dead man?"

"The jury will decide that, Ms. Keller, and I will assume from your
answer that you were intimate with Mr. Field and that you concealed that
fact when you testified during your first appearance here and lied when
I asked you about it a few minutes ago. Are my assumptions correct?"
After yet another awkward silence, Amanda nodded her head in the
affirmative and uttered a soft

"Well, yes, but for the perfectly good reason I just told you."

"Because you were fearful you would appear biased toward anyone charged
with his murder?" All eyes but the judge's were on the witness. The
judge's eyes were locked on Grace, questioning, reproachful eyes. Then,
before Amanda could answer the next question, John Hernandez beckoned
counsel to the bench but waved off the court reporter.

"You both know I rarely meddle with trial counsel's approach to a case,"
he said softly when both were leaning toward him, "but I must say,
Grace, you're letting Barrett get away with murder, and maybe his
client, too. I'd like an explanation before I start making objections
myself." Grace paused for a moment as the clerk handed the judge a note,
then glanced at Barrett and said, "I can't stop the court from making
any objections the court might believe to be required by the rules."
Hernandez glanced at the note, then gave Grace an even more puzzled
look. "Well, you may not have noticed, Grace, but the acting D.A. is in
the rear of the courtroom having apoplexy. He doesn't seem to understand
your approach either. I've got to take a quick phone call off the bench,
but I'm holding the jury right here. Take a minute to sort out your
intentions, Grace. If you won't start objecting when we resume, I will."
Barrett cleared his throat and said, "It's moot, John, I'm finished with
my cross." Grace shot Barrett an annoyed look as John Hernandez nodded
and informed the jury he was being called to chambers for sixty seconds.
He told them to remain seated, then moved swiftly off the bench, leaving
Grace and Barrett standing at sidebar.

"Good job, counsel," Grace whispered, "given the limited material you've
chosen to work with. Where did you get the cassette, Tower Records?"
Barrett shrugged noncommittally.

"Oldest trick in the book," she said, almost smiling. "Now listen up,
you bullheaded genius: the letter is undated but addressed to Earl. She
calls Ashford an 'animal' and claims she can read people's thoughts.
She's a nut, Barrett, and a pathological liar." Barrett gave his head a
quick shake and spun away from her. She followed him down from the bench
and cornered him as he took his seat at counsel table.

"Nowhere to hide, big guy," she whispered, bending over, her lips close
to his ear. Despite his frustration, he was aware that her scent was
evocative of a spring garden, a bouquet of jasmine and boxwood.

"The letter makes no mention of any of the threats, Barrett. Not a word.
She's made it all up!"

"Damn it, Grace," he snapped back at her, "we've been through this. I'm
sorry about the way I handled things the other night, but I haven't
changed my mind. My cross-examination is finished."

"But you haven't finished her} You've only wounded her, Barrett, but you
do have her scared now. Look at the way she's watching us. She's sure
I've given you the letter, and you can probably bluff her into admitting
the contents even if you won't take the letter itself!" Barrett shook
his head. "Klegg would know my information had to come from the letter
or from your own lips. Either way, he'd blow you right out of the
office, maybe out of the law altogether. Now please get the hell away
from my counsel table." Grace leaned in closer. To anyone watching, they
were two adversaries having an argument over an evidentiary ruling.

"You're a rookie at reading criminal juries, Barrett Dickson. I tell you
your client's still ticketed for death row. You'll never forgive
yourself if that happens and I won't either. You've got to finish her
off if you want to level the playing field. I'm right about this, trust
me." Everyone was watching them now, including Ashford, who was
straining unsuccessfully to hear what they were whispering to each
other. No one would doubt that the lawyers were angry now, and the
jurors stirred uneasily.

Barrett forced himself to relax. "I've always been trust-impaired,
Grace, but that's not the point. Hell, I know what you're trying to do
and it's commendable, but I still won't be a party to it. And despite
the fact that my client may be guilty, I think I've done damned well by
him. If I take the next step and use what you've told me, you could end
up selling real estate and that would be very embarrassing to me."

"Oh, God! Are you still on that?"

"I'm being funny now."

"There's nothing funny about senseless martyrdom, Barrett, and as for my
future that you seem determined to control, I considered the risks
before I called you two nights ago. Don't underestimate me. I'm not
quitting, just making it a fair fight."

"Grace, I really think--"

"J, /, // Just where did you get the ego to presume that everything bad
that happens to people you care about is your doing? You're good,
Barrett, but you're not God! My son told me once that shit happens and I
got mad at him. Well, maybe we both need to understand that sometimes it
just does, and that you might want to take a close look at why you need
to think otherwise!" Barrett turned crimson. "Thank you, Doctor, now get
the hell--"

"You represent a client in a capital case, counselor! Now represent
him!"

"Like you're representing the people? We're both screwing our clients,
Grace, and we both have our reasons. But I won't let you destroy
yourself, so get the hell away from me!" Grace suddenly smiled at him.
"Well, I won't let you not let me. Do you remember what you said to me
at the bail hearing that first time we were opposed, just before you
cleaned my clock?"

"No." "You said, Watch this.'" John Hernandez returned to the bench, and
Grace sauntered back to her chair even as Barrett reached out to stop
her.

"Any farther questions, Mr. Dickson?"

"No, Your Honor, I'm finished."

"Thank you, Mr. Dickson. May the witness be excused then?" "Yes, Your
Honor," said Barrett.

"No, Your Honor!" said Grace, rising to her feet and approaching Amanda
amid surprised looks from everyone in the courtroom.

"Ms. Keller," said Grace. "Just three quick matters. First, you've been
accused by Mr. Dickson of bias. Are you biased against Mr. Ashford?"
"Not at all," said Amanda, looking relieved.

"You have no personal animosity toward him, do you?"

"None."

"You've never referred to him in any kind of derogatory fashion," Grace
said, "have you?" Amanda's eyes narrowed. "I don't ...  no." "Good,"
said Grace, turning and staring directly at Barrett. "And I assume
you've testified here based on what you heard, not speculation or
guesswork."

"That's correct."

"You don't claim any secret sources of information, special powers, or
other such abilities, do you?" Amanda's eyes narrowed slightly, but she
managed to appear puzzled by the question. "Of course not," she
answered.

"Excellent. Finally, then, Ms. Keller, you have candidly admitted a
romantic relationship and your understandable reason for concealing
it--"

"Objection, Your Honor," said Barrett quietly.

"Sustained," said John Hernandez. "It will be up to you, members of the
jury, to decide whether the witness's reasons were 'understandable' or
not.

You will disregard counsel's characterization." "Of course," said Grace
in a tone of exaggerated repentance, "and I apologize both to you and
the members of the jury." Judge Hernandez, looking almost as confused by
now as the witness, nodded politely. Now she's even suckered John into
her game, thought Barrett.

"What I was getting to, Ms. Keller, is that to protect Mr. Field's
reputation, you were concealing your relationship with him before he was
killed as well as after. Correct?"

"Absolutely"

"You didn't tell friends?"

"No, Ms. Harris, no one."

"Didn't reveal letters he had written to you or you had written to him?

"No."

"And that was to protect his reputation?"

"Yes."

"Very well, then," said Grace casually, and turned to Barrett. "Your
witness, counsel." Barrett looked at Grace, saw the hint of a smile,
then turned away, slowly shaking his head. To outward appearances, she
had merely performed a routine rehabilitation of her witness. But
revealing the letter had bounced the ball back into his court and he had
no choice but to catch it. He was being tricked and cajoled into trying
to win his own damn case!

"Mr. Dickson?" said John Hernandez.

Barrett felt every eye in the courtroom on him. But most of all he felt
his client's hand gripping his arm and his client's breath in his ear.

"Barrett," whispered Ashford, "Keller's lying. I swear on my mother's
grave, I threatened no one. She's lying!" Barrett stared into his
clenched hands, then, without turning his head, said, "I know she's
lying, damn it, now shut up!" The harshness of his words caused Ashford
to pull his hand back.

"Sorry," said Barrett, "I'm trying to think, okay?" The problem was how
to prove that the letter was written after the threats, and that Amanda
had made no reference to them at the time she wrote it--letter that
he--Barrett-- wasn't supposed to even know about. The bigger problem was
that Grace had said the letter was undated and Keller would probably
remember that.

The biggest problem of all was to somehow expose Amanda without also
exposing Grace.

His head raced with questions without answers as the specter of old
fears and failures plagued his efforts to think clearly. How did he let
himself get into this situation? His heart was pounding so hard against
his ribs he imagined the lapel of his suit coat jumping with each beat.

"Mr. Dickson?" repeated the judge.

Barrett rose slowly, then walked stiff-legged toward the witness. "Just
a couple, Your Honor.

"First, Ms. Keller, at the risk of sounding like Perry Mason, I want to
remind you that you are still under oath."

"Yes."

"I'm back to this issue of possible bias, Ms. Keller. In response to Ms.

Harris's question, you said you've never referred to the defendant in a
derogatory manner. Do you recall that?" Barrett was somewhat encouraged
by the sound of his surprisingly resonant voice. Maybe this could work.

"Yes."

"As I recall, you used the word 'jackal' in reference to tabloid
reporters earlier today. Do you consider that a derogatory comparison?"

"Yes, I suppose it is."

"So here's my question. Have you ever compared my client to a jackal, or
to any other kind of animal?" Barrett watched Amanda's eyes narrow again
and dart accusingly between Grace and himself. A cornered jackal came to
mind.

"I don't remember," she said finally, and a juror raised her eyebrows in
surprise. "I suppose it's possible, given the things he had said to me."

"You might have called him an animal, for instance?"

"It's possible."

"And it's true that you have wanted this 'animal' convicted of these
crimes, haven't you?"

"Of course, but who wouldn't, Mr. Dickson, having overheard the threats
he made."

"I'll come back to that in a minute, Ms. Keller. Now, other than hearing
those threats, you've just told Ms. Harris you possessed no other inside
information or 'special powers." Do you remember that?" Amanda's face
was suddenly flushed with barely contained anger. Barrett was sure every
juror saw it and must be wondering what was going on.

"Can you tell where I'm going with this line of questions, Ms. Keller?

Can you read my thoughts?" Amanda started to speak, but stopped herself
and again stared angrily at Grace Harris. Barrett noticed that Keller's
breath was fast and shallow. She seemed short of breath, nearly gasping
for air. She's scared, thought Barrett.

This just might work. She knows I've got the letter now, or thinks I've
got it, which is just as good.

"I really  ...  don't have the slightest idea  ...  what you mean, Mr.
Dickson." Bullshit, thought Barrett. Stay cool, he told himself,
remembering the denouement must not implicate Grace. He had to make
Klegg think he knew less than he knew, while making Keller think he knew
more.

"My last few questions have to do with the letters you mentioned to Ms.

Harris. First, how many were there?" Keller's expression hardened. "Just
one."

"Did you write it or did he?"

"I wrote it."

"He didn't write you?"

"No."

"All right. How long before Mr. Field's murder was your letter written?

"I have no idea. I didn't date the letter and haven't seen it since I
wrote it.

"I assume that one of the purposes of your letter was to inform Mr.
Field that you'd be willing to testify against the defendant?"

"Yes."

"And still you say you weren't biased?"

"I was a concerned citizen."

"It sounds to me like what you were concerned about was convicting Mr.
Ashford!" As Amanda shook her head in denial, Barrett, the hook now
baited, strode toward her and added in a louder voice, "Do you really
expect this jury to regard someone who volunteers to help the
prosecution convict an 'animal," then does so, to be an unbiased
witness?" Amanda recoiled from his approach. She put a hand to her chest
and her breath began to come in quick gasps. Barrett knew he was being
seen by the jurors as a bully, by others as just plain stupid, but he
held his position, staring into her eyes from but two feet away. She
would either take the bait nowr or back away.

She smiled then, a confident and radiant smile, "Well, I'm afraid you
don't know much about human nature, Mr. Dickson, plus you've forgotten
what I said just a few minutes ago." Yes! thought Barrett. It might
work.

"Oh?" he said.

"How can you say I was biased about saying those things when I had heard
that man saying worse things! Making those vicious threats! Using the N
word! Anyone hearing what I heard would have said what I said and would
have called him what I called him!" Bingo! thought Barrett, though
probably neither Keller nor the jurors yet understood that the
prosecution's star witness had just handed Elliot Ashford the keys to
his freedom.

"Now, getting back to this letter you sent, you didn't mention the
threats you claim to have overheard, did you?"

"I don't know," said Amanda, "probably not."

"Didn't you think them important--as a concerned citizen?" Amanda's eyes
darted toward Grace, then over at the papers on his desk.

"Well, I'm sure I would have mentioned them if they had already
occurred." Perfect, thought Barrett. She's counting on the fact that the
letter is undated.

"And since you can't remember the date, you assume you wrote it before
hearing the threats? Is that where the matter stands?" "Exactly, sir,"
said Amanda, her features relaxing.

"Well, ma'am, I've got a problem with that. You see, you told me just a
minute ago that your justification for calling Mr. Ashford an 'animal'
in the letter was not because of any bias against Mr. Ashford but
because of the 'vicious' threats you had already heard him make!" A
quiet murmur from the gallery rippled through the courtroom, silenced
not by the gavel but by Barren's own raised hand. Such was his sudden
control now that it extended to everyone in the courtroom.

Amanda appeared to have had the wind knocked out of her.

"So the letter had to have been written after the threats, Ms. Keller,
and we're left with the real reason you didn't mention these so-called
threats to the D.A. in that letter, are we not?" Amanda said nothing as
he moved up to within inches of her face.

"There simply weren't any threats, were there, Ms. Keller." There was no
upward inflection of Barren's voice at the end of his sentence.

Amanda stared at Barrett with unconcealed hatred and the shallow
breathing started again. Several of the jurors leaned forward in their
seats, and it seemed that at least a minute passed before Amanda looked
up at the judge and said, "Must I answer these impertinent questions
about my private letter, Judge? Is nothin' sacred anymore?" Barrett
wondered where the Southern accent had come from.

"In the absence of any objection, Ms. Keller," said the judge, glancing
at Grace, "you must answer the question if you can." Amanda started to
answer, but then glared again at the judge. "Is this how you treat a
concerned citizen who risks her life to put that  ...  yes, damn it,
that animal where he belongs?" An eerie silence had fallen on the
courtroom as Amanda turned her gaze of unrestrained hatred on Barrett.

"And just who do you think you are, sir?" she snapped. "I'm a lady} I'm
a respected actress! I'm not the one on trial here."

"You are at the moment, Ms. Keller," said Barrett softly, "and I
sentence you to return to Hollywood, where your acting skills might be
better received than they were here today." Amanda sat silently, her
lips in a tight line, her face pale even through her makeup. Barrett
then returned to his seat amid a renewed babble of sound from the
gallery, only partially silenced by successive blows of the gavel.

"Any further questions, Ms. Harris?"

"None, Your Honor."

"You are free to go, Ms. Keller," John Hernandez said, then added
ominously, "for now." Grace looked up as Amanda stepped down from the
witness stand. Although the witness appeared to be in need of CPR, she
managed one final wrathful glare toward her as she passed. But Grace
hardly noticed, for she had just seen her career pass before her eyes.
Although Barrett had done a masterful job of concealing the source of
the knowledge she had provided him, she knew it wouldn't fool Klegg. It
would be over for her now.

She glanced over at Barrett, whose expression reflected not victory but
despair; the reluctant warrior she had forced into the kill.

Then she looked at the jurors as they filed out of the courtroom. They
were glowing with excitement. They had seen it all now, at least so they
thought. But among the things they didn't notice as they left the
courtroom were the following: Judge Hernandez's lingering look of
confusion Sam Quon's raised eyebrows as he stared at Grace Mike's
unconcealed thumbs-up to Barrett Barrett's rejection ofashford's
attempted embrace Grace's barely perceptible nod to Barrett Julian
Gold's murderous gaze at Jack Klegg Jack Klegg's murderous gaze at Grace
Harris Barrett's hand returning an Eric Clapton cassette to his trial
bag John Hernandez sat alone in his chambers during the lunch hour,
wondering if his trial had just careened out of control. What was going
on with this Keller woman? And what had Grace Harris been up to? Why
hadn't she objected to the verbal annihilation of her own witness?
Should he have jumped in sooner? Should he have stopped the fight,
thrown in the towel when it became evident that Grace would not?

He couldn't resist switching on the Noon News and they were already all
over it, of course. WTIEN something went wrong in a courtroom, the media
were as predictable as line dancers. The late edition of the Examiner
would have a hurriedly sketched cartoon in the editorial section
captioned "Amanda's Last Dance," picturing the key witness as the
beautiful Salome, bearing the head of Elliot Ashford on a platter--but
about to step on a banana peel.

Thank God he had at least kept the prying eye of the TV camera out of
the courtroom. It could have been worse. Still, he felt like a man
walking a tightrope without a safety net. And the day wasn't even over.

But a boring calm blanketed the courtroom during the afternoon session,
and Judge Hernandez once again leaned back in his swivel chair. The
highly anticipated appearance of Nobel Prize winner Sandra Weiss had
been canceled at the insistence of the defendant, leaving Barrett
Dickson to rely on Menghetti's expert from the first trial. John
Hernandez observed two of the jurors snoozing as the balding, overweight
defense toxicologist launched a tedious two-hour, three-pronged
assault--"corruption, contamination, and conspiracy"--against the crime
scene officers and the city labs.

Maybe, he thought, his expression once again serene, the ship of justice
was drifting back on course.

In the rear of the courtroom, Jack Klegg also looked relaxed for the
first time all day. The morning session had outraged him and filled him
with grim forebodings, but a lunchtime call from Julian Gold had put him
at ease. When he hung up, in fact, he realized the scenario couldn't
have played out better if he had written it himself. Gold had adjusted
to the new development, having abandoned his insanity-plea notion now
that it seemed obvious that Ashford would soon be free to return to the
helm of Resource International.

Even his political fortunes would be improved, Klegg realized, for Grace
Harris's bizarre abandonment of her star witness would focus all blame
for the inevitable loss on her alone, thus eliminating his most credible
opponent in the upcoming special election.

But nonetheless, members of the press, he would say, looking solemnly
into a camera's lens, I hold myself responsible. After Earl Field's
untimely death, I should have taken over the Ashford retrial rather than
entrusted it to Grace Harris.

Things had a way of working out.

No such consolation awaited Amanda Keller, who seethed as she lay in
wait on the third floor near the offices of the district attorney. When
Grace finally emerged into the public corridor just before 7:00 p.m.,
Amanda fell into step beside her.

"I thought we had become friends, Grace," said Amanda. She appeared calm
to Grace, almost cordial, though her manner seemed even more staged than
usual.

"And I thought you someone worthy of trust," said Grace, not breaking
her stride toward the elevator. "We were both wrong."

"Well, you're wrong if you think you can just brush me off now after
ruining my name and reputation. I won't have it." Grace said nothing, as
she could see that her former witness was deeply troubled. Just keep
moving, she told herself.

"I trusted you, Grace, and damn it, you lied to me. You gave him the
letter, then sat there like Rip Van Winkle and let him make a fool of
me." Grace kept walking. The elevator seemed a hundred miles away.

"Here's the afternoon Examiner, Grace. Have you seen it?" Grace shook
her head.

Amanda thrust the front page in front of her. In the center, Grace could
see a large photo of "the state's key witness" descending the steps of
the Hall of Justice over a blaring caption that asked: Actress or Bad
Actor?

"The article implies I'm some kind of crackpot who made up a story just
to get publicity!" Amanda snarled, slapping the paper against her hip.
Two Asian city employees turned to look at her. Grace's apprehension
rose, but they had reached the elevator at last.

"Don't you see, Grace," she said, hands balled into fists at her side,
"what happened this morning could ruin me in Hollywood."

"If it's any consolation, Ms. Keller," said Grace, turning her back on
Amanda and punching the down button next to the elevator, "your
machinations have ruined me too, right here in San Francisco." Amanda's
features stiffened as she moved in front of Grace. "Then you'd better
figure a way out of this for both of us."

"There is no way out, Amanda," said Grace, meeting Amanda's eyes for the
first time, "for either of us."

"Of course there is. Just put me back on the stand and we'll put things
back together."

"Humptv-Dumpty would be easier--"

"Stop it!" snapped Amanda, her tone now menacing. "You listen to me when
I speak to you. Hear? You do what I tell you right now or I swear you'll
regret it." "Are you threatening me, Amanda?" said Grace.

"That's exactly what I'm doin'," Amanda said in that same chilling
Southern accent. Grace's fatigue was turning to apprehension, but she
knew she must not let Amanda see it.

"I've had enough of you, Ms. Keller. Why don't we go right down to the
Southern Station on the first floor and talk to the duty officer about
whatever it is you're going to do to me." Amanda's dark eyes blinked and
she shook her head wildly. "Don't be silly, Grace. I just meant  ...  I
just meant that I might  ...  consult my Los Angeles lawyers about my
rights in this matter. That's all." Tine," said Grace, stepping around
Amanda, who was trying to block her passage into the opening elevator,
"you'll need lawyers if I decide to charge you." Amanda's eyes widened.
"Charge me? That's insanity!"

"No, Amanda. "Insanity' is putting up with you even one more minute.

Now please get out of my way and stay out of my life." Grace was
relieved to see that the elevator was fall of people as she stepped in.
But just as the doors were closing, Amanda got on too, her expression
suddenly contrite.

"Please, Grace," Amanda whispered pleadingly, "I can explain everything
if you'll just listen." The elevator started its descent, which, to
Grace, had never seemed more sluggish. When the doors finally opened at
the ground floor, she headed for the rear of the building, hoping Amanda
would turn toward the main entrance. "Even the newspapers say you failed
to protect me."

"You could easily have protected yourself by simply telling the truth."
Grace knew she was being drawn in, but the remark annoyed her. "That's
t-r-u-t-h, Amanda. Means not to lie. About yourself, about Earl, about
what you've done--" Amanda suddenly reached out and took Grace by the
arm. "About what I've done? How did you  ...  what did you mean by
that?"

"Let go of me, Amanda, or damn it, I'll have you arrested right here and
now!" Amanda stiffened as if in a seizure. She stared at Grace, her lips
pressed together, her features frozen except for her eyes, which had
again turned dark with fury. But Grace saw something else, too. Fear.

"How could you do that to me, Grace? I thought we were friends! Can't
you see that I need your friendship more than ever now?" Grace shook
free of her grasp and walked away. She was relieved to see Amanda's
reflection in the glass window, hurrying off toward the main doors.

As Grace entered Klegg's office with Sam Quon the next morning, she saw
several newspapers spread across his large conference table.

"Congratulations, Grace," Klegg said. "My first case as D.A. and the
press is clobbering us." Each paper had put its own spin of ridicule on
the previous day's proceedings: "The Unreal Deal" (the San Jose Mercury
News); "The Jurisprudential Equivalent of Mad Cow Disease--Tragic, Yet
Inescapably Humorous" (the San Francisco Chronicle), and "The Trial of
the Century or the Guile of the Century?" (the Marin Independent).

"Acting D.A., Jack."

"What?"

"Unless I somehow missed the election, you're still acting D.A." Klegg
offered his lips-only smile. "You gave him the letter, didn't you."
"No," said Grace truthfully, though she knew he wouldn't believe her.

"Why would I do a thing like that?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out. You damn sure didn't protect
Keller.

You served her up and Dickson ate her for lunch." "You're right," she
said. Ironic, she thought, that after she had struggled so long to
convict Ashford, she had to stand here and be reprimanded by a man who
had probably wanted him freed all along.

Klegg exhaled loudly through pursed lips to make sure she knew how
stupid he thought she had been. "So how will you handle all this in your
opening argument?" he said. "I've told the press we'll work together
from now on, so it better be good."

"I won't."

"You won't what?"

"I won't 'work together' with you and I won't 'handle' it in my opening.

Amanda Keller is a liar who had everybody fooled until yesterday. I
don't like it any better than you do, Jack, but my apology--our
apology--to the jury for having vouched for her as our witness will be
to ignore her in opening argument." Klegg ran a hand over his burr head,
fixed her with his close-set eyes.

His eyes darted over to Sam.

"She's putting me on, right?"

"I don't think so," said Sam.

"Don't act so damn stricken, Jack," said Grace. "I'll make a great
argument anyway and you'll take complete credit for it. Ashford will
probably still walk, so you won't have to wake up in the morning next to
a horse's head. I'll get blamed for the loss and you'll be elected D.A.
You're getting everything you've wanted." Klegg couldn't hold back a
grin that never failed to irritate her. "Okay.

Just promise me you'll at least say something to explain her in opening.

Otherwise, we both look bad." Grace smiled wryly. "Afraid the voters
might pick up a new broom in June, Jack? Sweep the whole place clean?"

"Just do it, Grace. That's an order. Explain Keller and show some
contrition in your opening argument for not protecting her or I'll hang
you out to dry the minute you leave the courtroom."

"I've already hung myself out to dry, Jack," said Grace, "and if you
think you can make it hurt more than it already does, go for it."

"Don't tempt me, Grace. You do what I say or I'll confirm to the press
that you tanked. I'll tell them you betrayed the People's case by
turning evidence over to your adversary." "Oh, God, Jack," Grace said,
sighing deeply, "how I'll miss you when I'm gone."

"And don't tell me you didn't give him the goddamn letter; I know
better.

I'll get your ticket pulled and maybe Dickson's, too. So forget that
crap about refusing to mention Keller in your opening."

"Listen, Jack," said Grace, dropping her shoulders. "I was just kidding,
okay?"

"That's better."

"The truth is, I won't miss you a bit."

Mr. Dickson," came a voice from behind Barrett he had grown to dread,
"there's a man here who wants to meet you." Barrett spun around
impatiently, for the judge would be entering the courtroom any minute
now. There stood Julian Gold beside a stout, vigorous-looking man in his
mid-sixties with a still-smoldering cigar jammed deep into one cheek.
Though no more than five feet eight in height, power issued from every
inch of his robust body. His head was perfectly round and his hair was
thick and ash gray, the same color as his eyes. He smiled at Barrett
like a man who knew he needed no introduction, and his handshake was
firm and friendly.

"Mr. Rizzo, I presume," said Barrett, freeing his hand from the
enthusiastic pumping.

"I'm pleased to make your acquaintance at last, Mr. Dickson," said Rizzo
in an incongruously high-pitched voice. "I know you are busy at the
moment, but I wanted to pay my respects. You've done a wonderful job for
my dear friend Elliot, and I wanted you to know I am in your debt."

"I wish I could say it's been a pleasure." Ashford glowered at him.

"I know, I know," said Rizzo, squinting with delight, leaning close to
Barrett in a conspiratorial manner and speaking in a stage whisper. "The
man can be a giant pain in the behind, eh? But you see, I'm the one to
blame. Elliot wouldn't be in this situation if I had let my idiot son
come out here and simply tell the truth for once in his wasted life. Do
you have a son, Mr. Dickson?"

"Yes."

"Then perhaps you can forgive an old man the weakness of fatherly love
and understand why I am so grateful to you, eh? If an innocent man had
been convicted, it would have been on the head of Carmine Rizzo."
Barrett cocked his head. "Tony was really in Napa that night?"

"Oh yeah, he was there, the little shit. I've seen the pilots log and
the dated documents signed by Elliot. Tony and Elliott were definitely
together that night." Rizzo then extended his hand again. "But you are
busy. I'll let you--"

"Mr. Rizzo," said Barrett. "Tell me about Arm and Ligretti. I'm sure Mr.
Gold described his testimony." Rizzo's features compressed as if in
pain. "That weasel! He fooled us all for months, but he didn't fool you,
thank God. Oh, sure Elliot had a girl; what the hell, we all did! I had
two of 'em myself that night! But the remark about 'the next Mrs.
Ashford'? Hell, I heard it, too, but it was Tony who said it, not
Elliot. Tony brings in Elliot's 'escort' for the evening and says, "Here
she is, boys, the next Mrs. Ashford." A joke, for Christ's sake! But
that's what the little rat must have heard." Before Barrett could decide
what to say next, Rizzo was pumping his hand again, then spinning and
disappearing into the protective custody of Gold and two bodyguards.

Barrett turned and met the accusing eyes of his client. "You didn't
believe me," said Ashford quietly. He actually looked hurt, the one
emotion Barrett had never observed in Ashford.

"I had my doubts," Barrett said, "but it didn't affect my efforts, did
it? So what do you care?" Elliot Ashford rested a hand on Barrett's arm,
so gently he could barely feel it. "I care," he said.

"All rise," shouted the bailiff, and the judge entered the packed
courtroom for what promised to be the last day of trial. Lev and Mike
sat in the first row, just behind Barrett. Glancing to the rear of the
courtroom, Barrett scanned the SRO crowd and spotted two judges, the
speaker of the California State Assembly, a local TV star filming a cop
series in San Francisco, Jack Klegg, Julian Gold, Carmine Rizzo, and
Amanda Keller, sitting next to an immaculately groomed gentleman Barrett
figured to be her publicist or agent. A full house.

"Does the defense have any further witnesses, Mr. Dickson?" asked John
Hernandez.

Barrett said he didn't and bounced the ball once more back into Grace's
court. She said she did, and Barrett was impressed with her brief but
hardhitting rebuttal case: first, Dr. Theodore Benton, a toxicologist,
who shored up the DNA proof that the blood at the scene had to be
Ashford's; then Dr. Pauljankowitz, who established that the amount of
Ashford's blood found at the scene was unlikely to be the product of a
shaving cut.

The jury paid little attention to either one, or to Grace for that
matter.

They were ready to do their work and go home. But Barrett knew that even
when the jury proclaimed Ashford not guilty, it would be Grace's
victory, not his, and his face burned with shame. There was anger, too,
for he was still smarting from the things she had said that had goaded
him into complicity with her professional-suicide attempt; implying that
his demon curse was merely a cynical mask he wore to hide from reality,
wallowing in the sanctimony of an imagined victimhood. Bullshit! What
was the payoff in that? What the hell, he thought, it was nearly
finished now, and in defeat, Grace would suffer a bitter victory; in
victory, he would suffer an equally bitter defeat. He just wanted it
over with.

Grace stood and rested her case, and it was time for argument. She rose
without hesitation, her carriage erect and confident as she strode
toward the waiting jurors and began her opening argument.

He had never seen her more passionate and articulate. She relentlessly
hammered on the defendant's blood at the scene, his lies, and his
attempted subornation of perjury involving Renee Babcock in the first
trial. When she had finished milking every detail of the People's
evidence, she walked to the clerk's table, picked up People's Exhibit 1,
and moved back toward the jury.

"Finally, I suggest to you members of the jury that neither the
defendant's great wealth nor his ability to buy testimony nor his past
political notoriety"--the litany gathered speed and volume now--"nor his
powerful connections nor his lawyer's eloquence nor anything else can
alter the fact that on August 7, 1997, shortly after a violent argument
with his wife Lara"--she paused, turned, and stared straight into the
eyes of the defendant--"Elliot Ashford tortured, then murdered her."
Ashford stared back, unblinking, and an uncomfortable silence
momentarily dominated the room.

Grace then turned back toward the jury. She slowly raised the gleaming
shard of glass over her head so that it was pointed toward the jurors,
then swung the object in a slow horizontal arc across their faces,
brandishing it in such a way that no one could fail to observe its cruel
and lethal potential as a weapon.

"He plunged this very shard of glass into her small, helpless body," she
said, her arm suddenly slashing the air between herself and the wideeyed
jurors, "again and again, mutilating her body--her skin, her flesh, her
organs--as her life slowly drained away." Barrett, wide-eyed himself,
noticed that juror Lloyd seemed about to cry and several others had gone
pale. Grace, her voice quaking with emotion, then demanded a verdict of
guilty of first-degree murder and took her seat.

It occurred to Barrett only after a quick scan of his notes that there
had been not one mention ofamanda Keller.

Christ, Barrett thought, could she possibly have turned them around?

Not likely, but whatever the pundits might have written about her
yesterday, it was obvious that Amazing Grace Harris was back today.
Barrett was amazed at her spirit and humbled by her resiliency. At the
same time, he felt a new, gut-gnawing uneasiness. She had done what she
felt she had to do concerning Amanda, and was now a prosecutor again.
She would give him no quarter in this final round.

Hernandez was making some notes and, in a minute, would call on him.

It was her goddamn argument that was making him uneasy. It had been pure
emotional hokum, of course--a manipulation of the irrational part of the
jurors' minds--but it had been damned effective. Her words hung in the
air around him still, charging the atmosphere with density that weighed
him down in his chair.

"Mr. Dickson?" The judge's voice cut through Barrett's distraction, and
he glanced at the jury and willed his shoulders to relax as he took a
minute to gather himself.

He looked over at Grace, who even now refused to meet his eyes. Why was
that? he wondered. Was it because he had helped her wreck her own
career?

Or had she figured out he was no longer the man who had inspired her ten
years ago? Hell, he could have told her that, he thought, and besides,
I'm the one who should be pissed-off here, considering all the things
she had said to him.

"Your argument, Mr. Dickson?" He rose and faced the jury, all eyes upon
him now, waiting for magic.

Waiting.

He had almost forgotten how insatiable jurors could be in their silent
hunger for words that would sway them, words that would disturb and
excite them. In that passive silence, they demanded more attention than
a division of West Point generals. And given enough opportunities over
enough years, Barrett knew those twelve silent citizens could suck trial
lawyers dry and turn them into barren husks.

They had done it to him.

Then it hit him, the thing Grace had somehow intuited when she had
accused him of needing to feel responsible for "everything bad that
happened to people you care about." Why, he had asked, would any one
want to do that?

There it was. The payoff. In ascribing blame to himself for Ellen's
suicide--playing God--he had found an excuse to escape the ravenous gaze
of jurors, the outrageous demands of clients, the possibility of losing,
the need to prove himself week after week. am't chicken.

Grace hadn't needed great skill to get him to sink her key witness, just
enough persistence so that he wouldn't look like a total heel. Not that
he wanted to hurt her--that part was sincere--but in the end he just
couldn't face losing again. He had quit caring about winning, but he
couldn't live with his fear of losing.

When had it started? With Harlow Flagg in that dirt pit stained with the
blood of roosters forty7 years ago? He'd never know for sure, but
somewhere along the way, he had, in fact, become "chicken." After he'd
given all he had to juries and to clients, Ellen's death had given him
all he needed to give it up.

"Mr. Dickson?" So now what? He looked at Grace again and this time she
met his eyes.

He couldn't read them. He didn't need to. It was all up to him now.

He silently mouthed two words to her that only she would understand.

"Watch this." No hesitation now, by God; no sympathy for his beloved
adversary.

Nothing now but himself and the jury and the doing of that which he had
once done so well. Any seed of irrational doubt his opponent had planted
would soon be revealed for the emotional humbuggery it was--a seed
planted on rock. Then he would plant his own seed of reasonable doubt
into the fertile opening she had chosen to leave him.

At Grace's table, she had indeed read his words and knew she was lost.
It made her angry, for she had begun to think there was hope for a
guilty verdict, at least as to Lara. She knew she could not blame
Barrett for using the weapon she had forced into his unwilling hand.
Still, his accepting of it, then his aggressive wielding of it, had hurt
her deeply. Maybe this is the way she should have expected to feel after
abandoning the rigid code that had held her life together for forty
years. Had she expected it to feel good?

"I'll be brief, members of the jury." Grace heard his baritone
voice--typically deep, but not yet fully resonant--and saw that the
jurors were watching him carefully for any trace of weakness in his
demeanor; any clue to what he really believed beneath his advocate's
words.

"I'll start with the question that is on every one of your minds: What
became of the state's key witness?" Already, she saw two jurors in the
back row nodding. What was more fickle, more capricious, she thought,
than a jury. And what was more mercurial than the pendulum's swing
during closing arguments. She looked at Barren now and could almost feel
the sense of challenge surging up his spine, the adrenaline surfing his
bloodstream straight to his brain.

"Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you must be wondering why the prosecutor
eloquently commented on every witness except one: the one witness on
whom all three of her murder charges rise or fall. Yes, folks, I said
all three.

"You see, the prosecution wants you to believe that Elliot Ashford
committed the first murder because the modus operand! in the last two
murders--the glass, the torture, the wounds--were nearly identical to
Lara's. The prosecution also wants you to believe he committed the last
two murders because the state's key witness allegedly overheard him
threaten the victims.

"Get it? You're supposed to believe so much in the testimony of their
key witness regarding the Jefferson-Field murders that you forget about
the frailty of their proof surrounding Lara's death!" Grace winced as
she saw juror number eight, Mary Lloyd, an obvious leading candidate for
foreperson, nod slightly at this. Seeing that movement of her head was
like watching a lover flirting publicly with another woman.

He was on a roll now, demanding the confidence of these people, their
trust; yes, he would want their trust most of all. And she could only
sit by helplessly as they gave it to him. At that moment, she hated him.

"I give Ms. Harris credit for creativity. I'm reminded of a Hollywood
set.

A dazzling set, complete with a lovely leading lady, Amanda Keller. Have
you ever seen one of those sets? They consist of a facade so realistic
you'd swear it was real. You'd be wrong, though, because if you went
behind it, you'd see there's nothing there.

"This facade of a prosecution case might have succeeded in convicting an
innocent man but for the fact that the leading lady--currently the
hottest and probably the highest-paid interview in Hollywood--forgot her
lines." Grace saw him turn toward her as he added, "And was exposed as a
liar.

"Yes, members of the jury, a liar. An 'intimate friend' of Earl Field,
Ms.

Keller was so starved for vengeance she came in here determined to do as
a witness what she had been unable to do as a juror: convict Elliot
Ashford.

Then, so that you would think her testimony was objective--therefore
truthful--she tried to conceal her relationship with Field. And so you
would think the defendant was guilty, she made up threats, unmentioned,
of course, in a letter written to the very object of the supposed
threats, unmentioned because they never happened.

"But Ms. Keller had another motive for making up her stories about
Elliot Ashford. The oldest and most seductive of them all: fame and
fortune.

In this, she has succeeded, though her talents might lie even more in
creating fiction than in acting it out. Fortunately, in this drama at
least, she finally slipped up and was upstaged by the truth--at least
all we need of it.

"Judge Hernandez is going to tell you that you cannot convict Elliot
Ashford if you entertain a reasonable doubt concerning the charges that
have been brought against him. But the defense does not have to rely on
the concept of reasonable doubt, for are you not ceitain that Amanda
Keller was lying to you? Or how about their other star witness, Arm and
"the Weasel" Ligretti from the first trial. Remember his sterling
testimony I read to you last week? Are you not certain he was lying?"
Barrett was at the rail now, on top of them, not letting one of them
escape the righteous indignation of his words, the demands of his eyes.
"I understand why the prosecution did not mention Ms. Keller. I won't
dwell on her either, except to say she would have gone after anybody
charged with her lover's murder if it would get her to Hollywood. When
you see her on the screen, folks, you can say, "I knew her when; I knew
her when she used the witness chair instead of a casting couch as her
path to stardom."

"Amanda Keller is not worth one more minute of our attention, but when
you go into that jury room to decide Elliot's fate, ask yourself why the
prosecution would vouch for patently false and treacherous witnesses--
unless they realized, as we all do now, that their case was so weak they
had no choice." God, thought Grace, he's calling him "Elliot" now.

"So, there's not just a reasonable doubt about the prosecution's failure
to shoulder that burden, ladies and gentleman, there's a reasonable
ceitainty} "You may wonder," he continued, his tone suddenly relaxed and
conversational, "what is the reality here? Who did kill these people?

"I submit that nobody knows. That reality is up to the police now,
though their bungling loss or intentional destruction of Lara's
fingernail scrapings will surely hamper their quest. That reality is
beyond us; it's not up to you or me to discover the true killer. It's
only up to me to point out that it was not Elliot Ashford. And it's only
up to you to know a liar when you see one.

"The only person Elliot cut, members of the jury, was himself--while
shaving." Grace saw two of the jurors nod in agreement. She realized
they believed him; they were with him now. No reasonable doubt about
that. Hell hath no fury, she thought, like a juror deceived, and
Ligretti and Keller had been revealed as the king and the queen of
deception.

How could she get them now to consider even the valid evidence against
Ashford? How could she even get to her feet for her closing argument?
Was there a small opening in Barren's "reality" argument? Maybe.

Barrett finished up with a quick review of his best evidence and another
attack on the police department and crime lab, then walked up close to
the jury and rested his hands on the rail, connecting with them.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is not a movie. This is a courtroom. We are
not playing roles here. Oh, it's true that like actors, you and I will
go home after our jobs here are finished. We will go to dinner or watch
television or go dancing.

"But if you find Elliot guilty of murder as charged, he goes to a real
prison with real bars or to a very real death.

"But I know that's not going to happen. The case against him is like a
bad movie built around a rotten actress. Ladies and gentlemen, give it
the reviews it deserves. I urge you to send a message to people who
would ex_____ ___ ____ ____ ploit our criminal justice system for
publicity, fame, and fortune. I urge you to find Elliot Ashford not
guilty!" There was not a sound in the courtroom. Grace had heard
silences like that before--she called it a Gettysburg silence--and she
knew what it signified.

"Your closing argument, Ms. Harris?" said John Hernandez, and all eyes
fell on the assistant district attorney.

Barrett barely heard John Hernandez's words. Ashford was whispering
things into his ear and he didn't hear them either, though he could feel
Ashford's hand closing around his wrist like a claw, squeezing hard with
gratitude.

He didn't want to hear or feel anything outside himself until he had to.

He wanted to drink it in, drink it all in. He had forgotten how good it
could be, how spine-tingling, intoxicatingly flicking grand it could be!

The claw increased its pressure and Barrett turned to acknowledge his
client's appreciation. He then glanced over at Grace, who seemed
preoccupied with a pad of paper in front other. She scribbled something
there, then crossed out what she had written and wrote something else.

"Ms. Harris?" Then she crossed that out, too, and threw the pad into her
trial bag on the floor. Get up, Grace! thought Barrett.

She got up, then walked past the lectern and took up a position directly
in front of Barrett.

"First, I'd like to address counsel's preoccupation with my failure to
mention Ms. Keller in opening argument. I mention her now because he
talked about Ms. Keller and me in his argument more than he talked about
his own client. Mr. Dickson would have you believe that the witness was
on trial here, and perhaps me as well.

"He seems particularly concerned about Ms. Keller's credibility, and why
I didn't prolong this trial in my opening remarks by dwelling on her
relationship with Mr. Field. I'll deal with this concern now, not
because Mr. Dickson is troubled but rather because some of you might
be." She strolled back toward the jury, as casually as if she were in
her own living room entertaining friends. "Remember when Mr. Dickson
asked you "What is the reality here? Who did kill these people?"
Remember what he said then? He said you should let the police take care
of that. In effect, you shouldn't care about reality. Well, let me tell
you, members of the jury, that caring about 'reality' is precisely why
you are here! That's why His Honor is here. That's why we're all here.
To find the reality; to find the truth.

"Even if we ignore reality elsewhere in our lives, we must not do it in
a courtroom, ladies and gentlemen, for if we do that, we are lost as a
democracy.

At the very heart of a democracy is respect for the justice system, and
the foundation of our justice system is a search for the truth: the
'reality' Mr. Dickson tells you not to concern yourself with." Barrett
squirmed uncomfortably. Unfair, he thought, but clever: twisting his
words about catching the real killer into a polemic on patriotism and
casting him in the role of Benedict Arnold. Grace may have ended up
being the director of a bad film, but people were watching it. He looked
up at the clock, wishing it were tomorrow. Wishing she'd get on to
something else.

"So despite Mr. Dickson's request, let's do face reality here, members
of the jury. Yes, Amanda Keller came across as a hopelessly muddled
witness.

Why? I submit her confusion on cross-examination was a reflection of her
despondency. Amanda Keller was tragically and secretly in love with Earl
Field, a highly visible public figure engaged to another woman. So yes,
she concealed her love, from you and from the rest of the world. Then,
in her grief at his death, she resolved to do nothing that might sully
his fine reputation.

So she kept her secret. Was that so evil?" Barrett saw a juror
involuntarily shake her head in the negative. Well done, kid, thought
Barrett, kicking himself again for giving her that "reality" opening.
But how will you explain the unmentioned threats? And the
waiter/waitress problem? And Keller's blowup at me?

"But the real reason I didn't waste time on her testimony in my
opening," continued Grace, "is because the other evidence we have
presented to you is more than sufficient to eliminate any reasonable
doubt as to the defendants guilt." Smart, thought Barrett. Do the best
you can with a disaster like Keller, then get the hell out of town. What
else could she do? But Grace's problem is that jurors aren't stupid.
They'll know--at least some will, and they will point it out to the
others--that she sidestepped the real issues with Keller.

"So how do we know from the evidence before us," continued Grace, "that
the defendant is guilty of Lara's death? Members of the jury, let me
count the ways.

"First, the defendant's blood is everywhere. The bathroom that became
her chamber of horrors was awash with blood, ladies and gentlemen, hers
and his! Does the defense really expect you to believe you can bleed
that much from a shaving cut that was healing and barely noticeable
three hours later?

"I think not, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, but 'reality' is for you
to decide."

"Second, this was a domestic-rage killing with sexual revenge written
all over Lara Ashford's tortured body. You heard the maid's testimony:
Senator Dwight Clifton's name was mentioned during the loud argument she
overheard between them just hours before her death. Was she preparing to
see the senator? He denied it, of course, in his deposition that Mr.
Dickson read to you, though he had to admit he was in town for a
fund-raiser. Senator Clifton was in town and the maid heard them
fighting about him. Just a coincidence?

"I think not, members of the jury, but 'reality' is your province, not
the judge's, not mine, and certainly not Mr. Dickson's." The old Jesse
Jackson repetitive-theme routine, thought Barrett. Effective too, given
the material she's got to work with, but not enough. They get in the
jury room and somebody says, "Yeah, that was stirring, but where's the
beef?"

"Mr. Dickson mentioned the first trial," Grace continued. "I'd like you
to bear in mind the transcripts I read to you and ask you to answer this
question as soon as you reach the jury room: Does a truly innocent man
claim that he was at a movie, then, when that is proven to be a total
fabrication, offer to pay someone $50,000 to provide him with a phony
alibi?

"I don't think so  ...  but 'reality' is for you to decide.

"I suggest that Elliot Ashford murdered his wife in a jealous rage,
ladies and gentlemen, then belatedly went about the business of
deceiving the police so that they, and you, would think he was innocent.
Did it work?

"I don't think so, but 'reality' is for you to decide.

"Yes, the defendant committed Lara's murder, and probably the other two
identical murders as well: Jefferson's, to send a message to the other
jurors; Field's, to settle a long-standing personal and political score,
his enmity further aroused when the district attorney dared to bring him
to the bar of justice.

"But let me be most clear on this: If you do have a reasonable doubt
concerning the murders of Field and Jefferson, you must not let it
affect your judgment on the evidence in Lara's case." Brilliant, thought
Barrett. She's punting on both murders supported by Keller and going all
out for a conviction on Lara. Hoping for Solomonic justice, the baby cut
in half. They give me Jefferson and Field and give her Lara. Shit.

He began to feel uncomfortable again and a glance told him Ashford was
worried now too. Christ, could he possibly lose this case despite all
the help she had given him? He was astonished to realize how much he
wanted-- needed--to win it now. He had lost any possibility of a
relationship with Grace--along with a large measure of his own
self-respect--but must he now lose the case too? He swung around just
enough to catch Mike's eye.

He looked worried, too.

Grace picked up the shard of glass again. She walked toward them again,
but her arm hung freely from her side, and this time her voice was soft
and unthreatening, pulling the jurors closer to her.

"Can we begin to imagine the pain Lara Ashford suffered at the hands of
this man before death finally liberated her? Can you hear her screams of
anguish?" Barrett glanced at the distressed looks on the jurors' faces,
none more distressed than the look on his own.

"Now, from that place of final peace, Lara Ashford screams out once
more. She screams out for justice, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. She
screams out to you, for no one can give it to her but you. You must not
let these crimes of unimaginable cruelty go unpunished."

"I urge you to find the defendant guilty of first-degree murder." Grace
took her seat and John Hernandez broke the silent tension by excusing
the jury for the mid-afternoon recess.

That was strong, thought Barrett, despite his concern. Damn good, but
probably not enough to blast through the barrier of reasonable doubt the
judge would soon instruct them on.

He wondered if she was aware that she had delivered her entire closing
argument without a single slammer.

After the jurors had been instructed by the judge and locked in the jury
room to begin their deliberation, the clerk told counsel the judge
wished to see them in chambers. As Grace stood at counsel table packing
her trial bag, she turned and met Barrett's eyes. A look of despairing
acceptance passed across the gulf that now separated them.

A familiar voice from behind startled her from her thoughts.

"Hello, Grace," said Amanda Keller, leaning against the rail.

"Hello, Ms. Keller," said Grace. "Sorry, I can't speak with you now."

"I just want to know one thing," said Amanda, running fingers through
her lush blond hair. "Where did I slip up?" Grace tossed the last of her
papers into her trial bag, stuffing them in now so that she could get
the top closed and reach the privacy of chambers.

"It doesn't matter anymore, Amanda."

"Well, damn it, it matters to me! At least turn around and look at me!
I'll lose everything now! Look at me, Grace! It matters to you, too!"

"Only three things matter to me right now, Amanda. A hot bath, seeing my
son soon, and never seeing you again." She turned and walked toward the
door to the judge's chambers, trying to shake off a nagging sense of
menace.

John Hernandez offered both lawyers a drink from a decanter he removed
from an oak credenza. Barrett declined with thanks, though he would have
liked nothing better. He felt numb from the sheer craziness of it all
and thought it best to stay that way. He'd buy himself a beer or two
later to cry in when no one was around.

"I'm sure my worthy adversary could use one," he said, "after the
tongue-lashing she just got from her star witness." Grace offered them a
wan smile. "She's looking at me as the one who ruined her comeback in
Hollywood." Barrett nodded. "If looks could kill, John, Grace would not
be drinking your fine brandy now."

"I'm sure she'll salvage her career somehow," said Grace. "She's smart."

"Almost too smart," said Barrett.

Grace took a seat across from John Hernandez, then accepted the glass he
held out to her. Barrett remained standing beside her, feeling awkward
but too nervous to sit down.

Hernandez toasted them both. "Now that our work is finished and it's in
the hands of the jury, Grace, would you like to tell me what's been
going on with her?" Grace sipped her drink, and Barrett saw her take a
deep breath as color slowly ebbed back into her face.

"I'm still working through it, Judge. She was lying, of course, and now
she's demanding to know how she 'slipped up."

"Sounds like she's now admitting she was conning us all along," said
John Hernandez.

Grace nodded.

"You handled her well in argument," said Hernandez, "but I'm afraid she
killed you with the jury."

"Grace," said Barrett, "I hope you understand that--"

"Of course I do, counsel," she said, looking up at him. "You had no
choice but to draw and quarter me in your closing argument. I would have
done the same thing to you if the situations were reversed--though with
considerably more finesse." He smiled. They were the first words she had
said to him about Amanda Keller's testimony, and her attempt at humor in
the face of disaster touched him.

He said, "I've never once--in all my years in this tough business--had a
tougher opponent." "Well, come on!" said Judge Hernandez. "You needn't
both look so glum.

Christ, Barrett, you look even more dejected than Grace, and unless I
misread this jury, you're probably going to win! You destroyed Keller on
cross!" Barrett forced a smile, avoiding Grace's eyes.

John Hernandez's prediction was correct, for in less than three hours of
deliberation, with the courtroom still jammed, the jury returned with
its verdict.

"We the jury, in the above-entitled case of People versus Elliot
Ashford," read the clerk in a loud voice, "find the defendant not guilty
on all counts." The courtroom was surprisingly silent as the judge
thanked and excused the jury. Grace accepted condolences from Sam Quon
and consoling looks from two of the jurors. She wouldn't look at Klegg
and didn't want to look at Barrett. In the tradition of adversaries,
however, he approached her now, hand outstretched.

"I'm sorry, Grace," he said, taking her hand. "Sorry about all of it.
For whatever small consolation it might be, I really believe he's
innocent and that you did the right thing."

"I have no regrets," she said, "but forgive me if I'm not able to be
more gracious in defeat. I had hoped the jury would give me Lara."
Barren pulled her closer.

"Ashford had an alibi he couldn't use and wouldn't let us use, Grace. So
he got inventive. I still think he's innocent." Barrett could see she
wasn't in the mood for consolation.

She picked up her bag and headed for the preplanned escape route through
the judge's chambers. "I guess the best man won after all," she said.

"No," he said. "I think we were both beaten by a woman." The judge had
ordered an expedited property release so that citizen Ashford could also
be swiftly spirited away through chambers and avoid the nearly 150
reporters and photographers gathered on the front steps of the Hall of
Justice.

The prosecutor, defense attorney, ex-defendant, and escort of sheriff's
deputies slipped out through the side door of the judge's chambers. They
took an elevator to the basement, then walked quickly and without
speaking through the bowels of the hall. Eventually, they broke into the
pale daylight, where Sam Quon's city vehicle and Carmine Rizzo's gray
limousine sat double-parked on Harriet Street. A handful of reporters
and photographers who had foreseen the stratagem were across the street
under umbrellas, held at bay by a phalanx of raincoated police.

Sam was waiting with an umbrella for Grace and she was almost into his
car when she heard Barren's voice.

"Grace," he shouted, obviously winded from the sprint through the
catacombs, "are you going to be okay?" She was touched by his look of
concern and weariness. She considered just saying

"Okay, yes, I'll be okay" and moving on, but she decided to be straight
with him.

"I've decided to resign from the office, Barrett. I'll pick up Aaron in
Florida, then go job hunting back in New York. I've passed the bar there
and should have no trouble getting work now." She saw the look of
astonishment on his face as she entered the car and signaled Sam to
drive off. When they made a turn at the end of Harriet Street, she could
see that he was still standing where she had left him; alone, pelted by
rain, and as stark and motionless as the tree next to him.

Barrett was stirred from his dazed state by the sound of Ashford
shouting at him. "Dickson! For Christ's sake, have you gone deaf on me?
It's payday, you incredible hulk. Come up to my hotel in an hour and
I'll have a check ready for you." Barrett looked toward the sound. A
tinted electric window descended in the stretch limo, revealing Julian
Gold's head, with Rizzo's profile barely visible on the other side of
him. Gold turned his face to him. Barrett thought of a death's-head, a
memento mori. The head, though, gave a quick nod reassuring Barrett
that, barring an act of God, he would now outlive his client.

"All right," he said as Ashford hopped inside.

He would take the money, but what he really wanted--now that Ashford was
free and could never be tried again--was to know the truth once and for
all.

Come in, counselor," said Elliot Ashford with a theatrical sweep of his
arm, and Barrett entered the spacious living room of his client's suite
in the St. Francis hotel. "We'll have to make this quick," he said.
"Victory party down on the peninsula."

"No problem," said Barrett, watching Ashford's hand as it reached into a
pocket of his robe and withdrew a check. Barrett had never seen a
client's check. Checks always went straight to the firm's accounting
department.

Reddening, he quickly slipped it into his trouser pocket without looking
at it.

"I'd like you to stay in touch, old chap," Ashford said, pouring himself
a drink that he raised in tribute. "Well done and thank you. By the way,
the firm's been paid, and that check's for one million dollars. Personal
bonus." Ashford sipped from the glass, then, getting no response from
Barrett, clicked on one of the several television sets Barrett knew must
be scattered throughout the suite and began surfing channels. Barrett
felt mildly disappointed not to have been offered a drink. It would have
been cold comfort to have turned down a victory drink from this
supercilious bastard.

But he was not surprised. He knew from long experience that defendants
quickly distanced themselves from their lawyers following a favorable
verdict, choosing to attribute the victory to the inexorable hand of
justice rather than to the skill of a resourceful lawyer. To credit the
lawyer was to tacitly concede merit to the charge. "Of course I won,"
the client would say over cocktails with a casual shrug. "The facts were
all on my side."

"I might want to retain you as my local consigliere" Ashford tossed over
his shoulder.

"Consigliere?" Barrett said. "I had just about persuaded myself you were
not really a member of the family, Elliot; just connected."

"I was just kidding about the consigliere. I'm only important to Carmine
because he owns a big piece of me. But after what's been said during
this trial, every one will be sure I'm thick with the mob no matter what
the hell I say. Hell, old friend, you know how it is. Lie down with
dogs, and all that." Barrett wandered toward the window. He was feeling
the itch of a flea himself.

"But I'm quite serious about working with you again," said Ashford,
still switching channels, ignoring news bulletins about his victory and
release.

"No thanks."

"Why not?" Barrett shrugged and forced a smile. "Hell, old friend, you
know how it is. Lie down with dogs." Ashford smiled wryly, sipped his
drink. "Well, we'll see. You took my money once. You'll take it next
time."

"There won't be a next time, Elliot."

"What's your problem, old boy?" Ashford turned around to look at him,
showing mild interest for the first time. "You've just won this
month's, "Trial of the Century," scored a quick million for yourself, and
locked in a place on Larry King Live and the Today show. New York
publishers will besiege you, old man. Your phone will be ringing off the
hook." Barrett thought about how little he would miss his client's
sardonic smile, the reflection from his tinted glasses, the posture that
spoke of the invincibility of wealth. He looked through the window
overlooking Union Square. A field of umbrellas bloomed like black
flowers in the rain.

Barrett wished he could be like so many of his brethren at the bar:
"Don't ask, don't tell." Do your job, take the money and run. But he
lingered.

He had to know.

Ashford stared vacantly at the screen as he cruised the channels,
stopping for a few seconds on an old Rumpole rerun.

"You'll work for me," he murmured, as if to himself.

"I don't think so," Barrett said, succumbing to a mean anger for which
he reproached himself even as he uttered the words. "Working with you
has no future. You'll soon be more in need of a skillful mortician than
a fleainfested lawyer." The arc of Ashford's glass to his lips froze in
midair and the room went totally silent. His eyes drained of their usual
disdain, he turned toward Barrett.

"I know, counselor," he said. "I know all too well." Jesus, thought
Barrett, there it is. Part of it anyway. He had never wanted a drink so
much. He took a step toward the door, but only a step, for years of
unconvincing protestations by lying clients, posttrial purges of
wrongdoing, and other metaphoric deathbed confessions held him there.

He had to know the rest.

"You've had blackouts, haven't you." It wasn't a question.

Ashford drank deeply. "Several," he said, then held his empty glass out
to Barrett, as in a toast. "One of them at the worst possible time."
"For Lara," said Barrett, rubbing his suddenly throbbing temples.
"Still, you managed to make it up to Napa afterward--"

"Strange how things work out, isn't it? I didn't kill Field. I hated the
bastard, but I didn't kill him. The Jefferson woman either. I still
don't have a clue who killed them or why. Someone wanted them added to
my docket, I suppose. Ironic, isn't it? If they hadn't, I might not be
here in these reasonably decent rooms, a free, if dying, man, doing the
postgame locker-room interview with my victorious attorney." Barrett
stared at the back of Ashford's head, waiting for more, waiting for the
rest. The how. The why.

Waiting.

But Elliot Ashford just turned his back to Barrett and the volume up on
the TV Amanda Keller checked out of the Ritz, hounded by the press,
demanding that she respond to the defense's attack on her character that
had gone unanswered by the prosecution.

"Were you really in love with Earl Field?" one reporter yelled as she
leapt into the backseat of a waiting limo. "Why did Grace Harris throw
you to the wolves?" shouted another. "Do you expect Harris to instigate
perjury charges against you?" demanded a third.

She collapsed in the rear seat, her chest too tight to allow air passage
into her lungs. She pumped from her inhaler, but without relief. She
felt her heart racing faster and louder. She closed her eyes against
flecks of light that pierced her vision like steel splinters. Bright
lights flickering from without and within.

She took refuge at her mother's apartment and was amazed at how quickly
Lucinda, who had been glued to local Channel 2, began to regain the
upper hand.

"Congratulations, dear. You've managed to make yourself more unpopular
than Mark Fuhrman. I'm embarrassed to leave the apartment."

"As if," sneered Amanda, hating the woman even more than usual.

"As if what?"

"As if you ever leave the apartment anyway and as if anybody would give
a shit if you did. As if there was somewhere for you to go and someone
to recognize you if you went there." Lucinda shifted in her wheelchair.
"That's cruel, Amanda, even for you.

But I've got to know what happened with Grace Harris."

"Nothing happened. She just sat there and let Dickson maul me." The
phone rang. "Don't answer it, Mother!" The last call Amanda had taken at
the Ritz was from Emory Goldsmith.

Not one of Goldsmith's secretaries, not his assistant director, not one
of the production assistants. Emory Goldsmith himself.

What the hell's going? he had demanded. The media is killing you down
here! They're saying you're not only a liar but probably nuts! He told
her his money people were "waffling." What happened to "just spell my
name right"? she had said, but he hadn't laughed, just told her that
being a little kooky was still okay, but they don't buy undependable or
uninsurable. He told her the L.A. papers were saying there might even be
perjury charges filed. It was a new industry now, run by bean counters,
he had told her, and she had damn well better straighten things out fast
and call him the minute she had.

The problem was things would never be straightened out now, and a voice
was screaming at her from somewhere deep inside: Can't you do anything
right?" Nausea flooded her body and she started for the bathroom, but
dizziness sent her reeling back to the couch. Her head was throbbing and
the light show was back, playing across her eyes, whether open or shut,
accompanying the voice.

Who do you think you are?

"I'm Amanda Keller, damn it!" Lucinda looked at her daughter. "Who are
you talkin' to, child?" "You asked me who I was, you withered bitch, and
I told you. Who the hell arejoh?"

"I know," said Lucinda, each word sounding like a footstep in gravel,
"exactly who I am. I am a maimed woman who endures day after day without
knowing why! A woman who bore a cruel and ungrateful daughter who's
apparently ready for the rubber room again! That's who I am." Amanda
stared blankly into her mother's calm face.

"You heard me, the institution! So just stop it if you don't want to get
more of that electroshock like when you were a kid." Amanda continued
staring, her face contorted by memories she had long since given up
trying to hide from herself. Why had they never talked about it? A
detente of silence for more than twenty years.

"Why did you send me away, Mother?" she said finally.

"For your own good," she said, a harsh edge to her voice.

"I remember seeing my name in the paper," said Amanda, her voice
suddenly a pained monotone. "I was the one who found him, the gun barrel
still in his mouth."

"Of course you were the one, child," said Amanda, a sinister grin on her
face. "That was not so surprising was it, since you were the one who put
it there?" A grim smile crossed Amanda's face. "Well, well," she said,
"the wise old witch has known all along?"

"Of course. It's been just another burden I've had to bear."

"A girl has to protect herself," said Amanda, "when her mother won't."

"I didn't know what he was doin'."

"You didn't want to know. You just ignored what he was doing to me, then
you ignored what I did to him. Other than to send me off to the
institution." Lucinda bristled. "You can't blame me for sendin' you
there. I could have had you put in some reform school! You murdered him
in cold blood!"

"And I'm sure you grieved a full ten or fifteen minutes for that dear
husband of yours who couldn't seem to keep himself off his little beauty
pageant queen. I should have done you while I was at it. My head's still
full of the electricity you let them pump into me." Lucinda looked
uneasy now as she raised herself up into her walker and scuttled like a
crab toward her room, furtively glancing back at Amanda.

Amanda groaned and let her head tilt back, felt her eyelids flutter, and
allowed her mind to escape the walls of time and space surrounding her,
just as she used to do as a child in the institution.

She let the delicious memory play across the screen other consciousness,
allowing the nostalgia to cool the fire in her head.

The man sleeps a deep and drunken sleep and doesn't hear the door open.

Doesn't see the shiny black barrel of his .12 gauge shotgun inches from
his face. Doesn't smell the metal or feel the steel against his lips.
Not until it's jammed against his teeth, and even that pain won't have
time to register in his alcohol-drugged brain before it splatters
against the headboard.

Barrett Dickson sat in his office at Caldwell & Shaw, caressing an
Anchor Steam from a six-pack he had picked up from the grocery store on
the corner, wishing it were a Ketel kamikaze or three fingers of Patron
tequila.

He was in the mood to taper on.

Grace was leaving, getting as far as she could from the scene of their
crime. That fucking Ashford. Should he tell her he was the one who
killed Lara? That would be the frosting for sure.

With nowhere else to go, he had decided to get a start on cleaning out
his desk at the firm. He had grabbed a newspaper from the reception area
on the way in, wondering what they'd say about him. What could they say
about him? That he could sing on key? Knew all the words to the Sergeant
Pepper album and a dozen Dylan songs plus Hoagy Carmichael's

"Stardust"?

That he had a kind disposition outside the courtroom (where he now
intended to spend roughly 100 percent of his time), and that he had just
collected a million bucks for sending a wife butcher back onto the
street? And that he had needed help from his opponent to even accomplish
that worthy feat?

Jesus.

Should he tell her? Maybe he should. Maybe not.

He reread the part of the article that reported on how Lani Jefferson
was "apparently seized by the hair from behind while exercising on her
stationary bicycle, then stabbed to death in almost precisely the same
manner as Lara Ashford." He reread the sentence again. Something other
than its macabre tone was bothering him, nagging at him.

Stationary bicycle.

No, he thought, it couldn't be. Yet he felt the hair stand on his neck,
his scalp tingling like it did when he used to see something no one else
had.

No, no, it couldn't be, but he read the paragraph again, then reached
for the phone and called Stars, where he was supposed to be celebrating
with Lev and Mike. He asked Ken the bartender to find Leviticus Heywood.

"Lev? It's Barrett. You work out all the time. How many kinds of
exercise bikes are there?"

"Bear? You said you was goin' straight to bed, not to a crack house."

"I'm serious."

"Hell, I don't know. Twenty or more, I'd guess."

"That's what I figure. You still have your cop buddy working swing?"

"Far's I know."

"Do me a favor. Call him and have him check the investigation report on
Jefferson's death. I want to know what kind of bike she was on when she
got killed."

"Okay, Bear, now listen. You wait right there, 'cause I'm gonna send him
to pick you up instead. And don't operate any heavy machinery in the
meanwhile, okay?"

"Just do it, Lev. Is Mike still there?"

"Yep."

"Good. I'm at C&S. While you're talking to your buddy at SFPD, tell Mike
to get over here pronto and get on his computer. Tell him to--"

"Whoa, Bear-man, slow down. You best tell him your own self, you know,
given the fact you're makin' no sense whatsoever."

"Okay, put him on." Barrett tapped his fingers on the desk, waiting  ...
"Barrett? Terrific! Are you coming to join the party?"

"I'm at the office, Mike. I need you to get over here right away. Get
into your computer and Lexis, Nexis, Texas, or whatever the hell you
people do with computers to see if any news story since November 5,
1997, mentioned the kind of exercise bike Jefferson was on when she was
killed."

"What?"

"Mike, don't argue, okay? It's important. I've seen something in today's
Examiner that's got me thinking."

"Barrett? It happens I'm holding that very same paper in my very own
hands. Now, I want you to turn to page one of that very same paper and
look carefully at the headline thereon. I think you'll see not only that
the trial is over, but that you actually won! So get over here and I'll
buy you a soda pop."

"It's not over, Mike."

"Then I'd better call the Chronicle so they don't make the shame
mistake.

Same mishtake. Fuck it. Anyway, Bear, why should I have to leave the
good company of our mutual friend, the Right Honorable Leviticus
Heywood, and go to the office when you're already there?"

"Two reasons, Mike. One, I don't know how to even start a computer.

Two, I'm heading over to Lev's office to start going through trial
transcripts.

I'm serious about this, Mike. I think I'm onto something important. Call
me at Lev's the minute you have the answer and tell Lev to do the same
after he's talked to his cop friend." Mike groaned, "Give me a break,
Bear--"

"It's important'. Have Ken pour you some coffee to go and take a cab.

Leave your car right where it is." Barrett hung up, jammed the article
in his coat pocket, and ran for the elevator.

Amanda was back in her room, the brief euphoria vanished, huddled
against the headboard of her bed with a chair lodged against the door.
She could not stop trembling. She sat like that for a half hour, swaying
back and forth, arms hugging her knees, her head bombarded by swirling,
painful scraps of data--mistakes, regrets, illnesses, disasters,
humiliations, frustrations, penetrations--Christ Almighty, a lifetime of
experiences, nearly all of them bad, jarring her brain.

"I won't go back," she screamed. She went into her closet and pulled
down a shoe box from the top shelf, too high for Lucinda to reach. All
these years and not even Lucinda knew she still had the gun the studio
had arranged for her eleven years before. She had never had a use for
it.

"I won't go back," she repeated, more softly this time.

She paced around her bed for a few minutes, trying to focus,
occasionally glancing out the window, the loaded gun in her hand.

Then she put the gun down and studied herself in the dresser mirror. She
lifted an arm. Her image in the mirror raised an arm too. Okay, she
wasn't crazy, but she looked awful. Still, she was a lot prettier than
Grace Harris, the little bitch. Harris!

No fancy law degree like Harris, but she was just as smart! Had her
fooled for ages. Yet the little bitch had the upper hand now. No doubt
about it. think you're protecting yourself, Amanda, she says to me.
Accuses me of lying about Earl, about what you've done, she says.

"Something will have to be done about Grace Harris," Amanda said out
loud. "For my own good." Barrett let himself into Lev's office at 7:15
p.m. and went straight to the answering machine. Lev had already scored.
The message said the bike was a Lifespin, manufactured by a company
called Health-Ease, and sold direct to consumers via TV infomercials.

Barrett went from file cabinet to cabinet, yanking each one open until
he located the box of trial transcripts he was looking for. Lev called
to make sure he was all right and Barrett told him to go on home.

Thirty minutes later, Mike called. He still sounded high, but
clearheaded.

He also sounded disappointed.

"Not one mention of the type of bike Jefferson had, Bear. Sorry. I've
checked everything, including the local-newspaper morgues."

"Okay," said Barren. "Perfect! Thanks, Mike."

"That's a good thing?" said Mike. "Then would you mind telling me what
the hell I've been doing this for?"

"Don't have time. Call you at home later. I think I'm on to something
...  sonofabitchr "Well, thanks a lot--"

"Not you, Mike. I love you. Goodbye." There it was, right in front of
him, where it had always been.

Amanda had no idea how long she'd been lying on her bed before the harsh
ring of the telephone caused her head to snap up.

The phone kept ringing, over and over again. Good, let it ring. But the
next time it rang, she heard her mother pick up the phone, heard her say
hello to someone.

"Amanda!" she whispered from her bedroom doorway a minute later.

"It's Emory Goldsmith! He knows you're here and insists that you talk to
him." Amanda cocked her head to one side. Words registering.

Familiar.

Goldsmith. Hollywood. Hollywood Goldsmith.

Hollywood.

"Calm yourself, Amanda," said her mother. "Take a deep breath." Then it
all came back to her; came back with painful force. She remembered
everything. The trial, the cross-examination, Harris figuring out what
she had done, threatening to have her arrested on the spot, Goldsmith
calling to tell her she was nothing but shit in Hollywood unless she
could "straighten things out." And all because of Grace Harris, the
bitch who'd sold her out. think you're protecting yourself, Amanda.

"Amanda!" shouted Lucinda. "Did you hear me? The man won't hold on
forever!"

"Tell him I'll call back in an hour." Amanda's bedroom door slammed shut
again. When she emerged ten minutes later, she carried a workout bag
Lucinda had never seen before.

"Amanda!" But Amanda had gone to straighten things out.

Barren's heart was pounding in his throat and his hands shook as he held
page 973 of the daily trial transcript for Wednesday, February 11, 1998.
It was all there, just as the nagging voice inside had told him it might
be.

He had been examining Keller on the threat she claimed to have overheard
in Pat's Seafood Grill. She had testified that Ashford had then asked
her if she had "gotten an earful" and she had said no, she hadn't heard
anything.

Barrett read the passage once more to be sure.

Question (by Mr. Dickson): "Please continue, Ms. Keller. What did he say
then?" Answer (by Ms. Keller): "That's when he told me to forget I ever
knew him unless I wanted to die on a Lifespin like Lani Jefferson."
Question: "Would that be the exercise bike Lani was riding in her living
room when she was killed?" Answer: "Yes." My God, thought Barrett, it
all made sense. Not one mention of the brand name anywhere in the press.
Only an admitted exercise freak like Amanda would have noticed something
like that in the middle of killing someone. But why Jefferson? Had she
killed Jefferson to get on the jury to ensure that the "animal" would be
convicted? Or was it to gain publicity as a regular juror? Or both?

But then the mistrial had thwarted her ambitions and had required a new
strategy.

Amanda Keller had become the key prosecution witness to a murder she had
committed herself!

Had she killed Field, too, making the killings look like the "animal"
had done it, then devising the threats to confirm it?

Then something else hit him, hit him harder than a defensive cornerback
at full throttle: the image of Amanda's face when he was walking into
chambers after the verdict. The "tongue-lashing" he had overheard and
mentioned to the judge in chambers. The look he had seen on Keller's
face when she was barking at Grace about her lost Hollywood career.

If looks could kill, he had said to John Hernandez. Shit!

He called Grace, got her answering machine. Was she out? Was the phone
unplugged? Should he leave a message? He hung up and tried again.

Was she all right? Was he being crazy? He was sweating now, the
dizziness gone but his head throbbing.

He slammed the phone into its cradle and raced down the stairs.

As Barrett encouraged his Mustang up Market toward Seventh, then up
Leavenworth toward Russian Hill, Amanda casually walked up from the
sidewalk in front of Grace's apartment building and fell into step with
an elderly gentleman walking up the stairs to the outside door. She had
been waiting for someone to show up for nearly an hour.

"Allow me," said the old man.

"Well thank you, kind sir," she said, and preceded him through the
security door. She knew he would use the elevator, so she took the
stairs, and within minutes she was standing in the deserted fourth-floor
hallway, ringing the doorbell to 4B.

She tried to compose herself as she rehearsed in her mind every movement
she would make once inside. She knew where everything was from the prep
session they had done here. She prayed Grace would be alone so she
wouldn't have to fire the gun. That would attract attention. She wished
the gun had a silencer like they always had in the movies.

Grace was surprised to hear her doorbell ring. No one had buzzed from
below. She looked through her peephole and groaned. Oh Christ, she
thought, of all people! And just when I thought my day couldn't get any
worse.

She opened the door, but kept the night chain latched.

"Hello, Grace," said Amanda, smiling. "I hope you don't mind. I was in
the area and thought if you had a minute, well  ...  I'd like to clear
the air about Earl and me."

"I'm sorry, Amanda, but I'm very tired--"

"I understand, and I know how you must feel about me personally, but I'm
feeling so stupid about all that's happened, the ridiculous things I've
said to you."

"How did you get in?"

"Just as I was about to ring your apartment, a gentleman came along and
we entered together. I'm sorry if I've been impolite barging in like
this, but I'm returning to L.A. tonight and knew I wouldn't sleep a wink
if I didn't explain what happened in court today."

"I'm simply not able to see you now, Amanda. Come by the office the next
time you're in town."

"Please, Grace, let me come in, just for a minute. What I have to tell
you will make sense out of all this mess I've caused. I know how you
must feel about the way I've behaved, but you've become important to me
and I can't go back to L.A. without your forgiveness; at least your
understanding.

There's something Earl wanted you to know, too. And it's rather drafty
out here in the hallway." Grace took in the woman's contrite face and
almost felt sorry for her.

She also had to admit a certain curiosity about Earl.

"Please," Amanda added. "I'm deeply troubled by all this." Troubled is
right, thought Grace, which is why I'm not letting you inside.

"Grace, I'm begging you. Just two minutes." "I'll give you one minute,"
said Grace.

Grace released the night chain, but instead of inviting Amanda inside,
she quickly stepped into the hallway and blocked the door. She had
smelled Randy and Krys's dinner cooking in the apartment next door, only
a shout away.

"All right, Grace, I'll be brief. But what I have to tell you about Earl
is extremely confidential, so perhaps we could get out of this draft?"
"No," said Grace, "we can't. Whatever you have to say can be said out
here." Amanda's features suddenly contorted with anger. "I don't think
so," she said, opening her handbag and removing the .38 snub-nose.

Grace gasped, not just at the gun now pointed at her heart but at the
other object she had seen in the oversize handbag: a shard of glass with
a patch of leather attached to the thick end.

"Not so much as a peep, Grace! Now let's go inside."

"My God!" murmured Grace. "kill?" At the main entryway downstairs,
Barrett pushed the buzzer to apartment 4B, "G. Harris." No answer. He
pushed it again. And again. She was probably not home yet or maybe in
the shower. He suddenly felt ridiculous standing there: Knight-errant
Dickson to the rescue without a distressed maiden in sight.

He started back toward his car, then shook his head in frustration and
began pushing buttons up and down the brass plate.

"Now what?" said Grace in a tone that belied her fear.

"I really did come to tell you something, Grace," said Amanda, the gun
leveled at the smaller woman. "First, you'll be happy to know that your
cruelty has cost me my role in Thursday' Child--" Grace smiled despite
the circumstances.

"You think that's funny?"

"No, I think it's absurd," said Grace. "You stand there whining about
Hollywood after testifying against a man charged with murders you
committed?"

"That brings up the second reason I came up here. Let's move inside,
Grace. It's time for Elliot Ashford to take revenge on another
prosecutor who tried to put him on death row." Grace didn't move.
"Nobody will believe you this time, Amanda. Let me get you some help."
Amanda let out a humorless laugh. "You get me some help? That's good,
but the last time I checked, I was the one with the gun here. Now get
inside!" "It won't work," said Grace.

"Why not?" said Amanda.

"Ashford's modus operandi," said Grace, eyeing the gun. "He doesn't
shoot people, right?"

"The gun was just to make sure I got inside," said Amanda, smiling
again. "Mr. Ashford's standard weapon of choice is right here in my
handbag." "Well," said Grace, silently pulling the door shut behind her.
"Mr. Ashford's going to have to do it right out here in the hallway.
Forgive my lack of hospitality, Amanda, but I seem to have locked us
out." Grace thought she heard a buzzer, or was it coming from next door?

Amanda's calm expression vanished. Her lips tightened against her bared
teeth.

"Open it, you little bitch!" she whispered, and hit Grace hard across
the face with the pistol. "And no more talk. You are irritating me. STOP
IT!" Grace sagged against the door, holding her jaw. She started to
speak, but was hardly able to breathe. She knew she had to keep talking
somehow.

"I'm sorry, Amanda," she gasped. "Calm down, okay? I'll stop. What do
you want me to stop?" Grace knew she was babbling, but she had no
protection now but words.

"Open the door, damn it!" snapped Amanda. "Now!" "I have no key,
Amanda," said Grace, opening her bathrobe pockets.

"But listen to me  ...  it's not too late, let me help you  ..."

"Help me?" Amanda sneered. "I think we've been through that." Grace
tried to control her fear, but the pain in her jaw and Amanda's rage was
engulfing her.

"Amanda, please  ..."

"Stop it!" Amanda snapped in a hushed but intense tone. "You want it
right out here then, Gracie? Okay, why not?" As Amanda spoke, she
lowered the handbag to the floor. Neither her eyes nor the point of the
gun left Grace's face. Then, dropping into a crouch, she deftly grabbed
the makeshift leather handle at the thick end of the glass shard with
her free hand.

Grace tried to slide sideways, but Amanda quickly rose and jammed the
barrel of the .38 into Grace's throat, hard up under her chin. She
placed the glass fragment between her teeth, then ripped Grace's robe
open, exposing her bare breasts.

"First, the ritual torture to those nice little tits. Ashford's
trademark, right?" Grace instinctively covered her breasts and felt a
sharp pain as the point of the shard pierced the skin on one other
hands.

"Drop your goddamn hands, child," whispered Amanda, "or I swear I'll
pull the trigger! And remember, one scream, even a peep, and a bullet
goes right into your brain!" Grace obeyed, vaguely aware of blood
drenching her white robe. The shard must have struck a vein in the back
of her hand.

Though her chin was thrust upward by the cold barrel of the .38, Grace
helplessly watched Amanda's hand as she guided the glass lance toward
her left breast. Then came the searing pain as one, then another wound
was opened by Amanda's shallow, piercing thrusts. Grace's scream of
agony was cut off by the hard point of the gun jammed deep into her
throat.

"Please don't do this, Amanda," she gasped, fighting to remain conscious
from the blow to her head and the pain from the punctures. It was her
only hope now. "We can  ...  work this out." But Amanda wasn't
listening. "I didn't get to do this to Jefferson while she was
conscious. Had to nail her right away. Same with Earl. This is
interesting." Grace felt as if the gun jammed into her neck was the only
thing keeping her on her feet now, for her legs had gone limp under her.

"Enough with the foreplay," said Amanda, and through half-closed eyes,
Grace saw the point of the deadly icicle of glass launched toward her
throat.

"Amanda, no--"

"Grace!" Barrett shouted as he hit the top of the stairs at the end of
the hall and began racing toward the two women. He saw Amanda look
toward him and saw Grace grab for the gun as she deflected the glass
shard.

But Amanda was too powerful and pinned her to the wall with her left
forearm, then calmly steadied her right hand on that same forearm and
said: "Hold it right there, big boy--this gun is loaded." But Barrett
barely hesitated before continuing his suicidal charge down the hall.

The shot rang out and Barrett felt the first bullet hit him in the
shoulder, but he staggered forward, zigzagging like they had taught him
in the army.

Less than twenty-five feet separated them now as he saw Grace bobbing
and weaving under the red-tinted piece of glass.

And Amanda, leveling the gun straight at him again.

She fired off two more rounds and Barrett felt the first as it shattered
his sternum. The force of it knocked him off balance for a step or two
and he heard himself howl in pain as he resumed his charge, bellowing
maniacally now, arms wildly nailing the air, as a fifth shot buried
itself somewhere in his stomach. That leaves only one left in the
chamber, he thought, but only ten feet separated them and the barrel,
looking as big as a cannon now, was pointed directly at his face.

But Amanda never got the last shot off. He was on her now and all three
of them hit the floor with Amanda on the bottom. He pinned her arms and
saw that Grace had struggled to her knees. He was amazed at Amanda's
strength, and was relieved to see Grace chopping at Amanda's arm and
wrist with the side of her hand. The shard finally fell from Amanda's
fingers, aided by a head butt from Barrett that KO'd Amanda--and nearly
himself as well.

Krys peeked out cautiously from next door and curious neighbors from
other floors were peering out of the stairwell. Police Communications on
the fifth floor of the Hall of Justice received three 911 calls in the
next five minutes.

After Amanda had been taken away, Barrett lay back on the floor, woozy,
his head cradled in Grace's lap, a police attendant standing anxiously
nearby.

"You okay?" he said.

"I'm fine," she said. "Just be quiet now. An ambulance is on the way."
"This  ...  cinches it," he said. "I'm  ...  getting into another line
of work."

"Don't talk, big guy."

"Guess Amanda didn't appreciate my cross-examination."

"I could have shot you myself during that cross-examination."

"That good, huh?"

"That good. Now relax. The medics are on the way."

"Churchill ...  summed it up pretty well."

"About democracy?" "No," gasped Barrett, "when he said  ...  there is
nothing more exhilarating  ... than being shot at without result." Grace
shook her head and held him closer. "It was not entirely without result,
dear Barrett," she whispered. "You are hurt. Badly."

"You should talk. You're bleeding all over my blood."

"Hush."

"He did it, Grace," Barrett whispered. "That's one of the things I came
up to tell you."

"Churchill? I doubt it," Grace said. "He would have used the navy."

"Seriously. Ashford did it."

"No, dear, Amanda did it. She admitted it to me."

"Field and Jefferson. But it was Ashford  ...  Ashford killed Lara."
Grace clamped her eyes shut against the words and Barrett felt a shudder
pass through her.

"I'm sorry, Grace. Look, we're not mind readers; just lawyers doing our
job."

"Did we 'do our job," Barrett?" said Grace, looking down at him with
eyes so anguished Barrett had to look away. "Did we really? If I had
done my job, a murderer would be behind bars now." Barrett tried to find
the right words, but all he could think about was his stupidity in
telling her about Ashfbrd, particularly at this particular moment.

"Listen, Grace, based on what we knew  ...  hell, we thought we were
doing the right thing. Sometimes  ...  maybe you just have to do the
best you can  ...  then accept the consequences." Disconsolate, Grace
shook her head and said nothing.

"You did do the right thing, Grace; even I can see that now. And for
whatever consolation it is  ...  Ashfbrd will probably be dead from
Huntington's sooner than he would have been executed by the state.
Besides, I'm the one to blame--" Barrett grimaced and arched his back as
the burning ache in his stomach merged with the pain from his shattered
sternum.

"Hush, Barrett."

"I was  ...  completely taken in by the bastard, Grace." "And I by the
bitch," said Grace, trying to smile. "So now be quiet while I think of
how to thank you for saving my life."

"That one's easy. Just stay right here in San Francisco. The city needs
you. I ...  need you, * oo." Grace managed to smile and said, "Now
please, dear Barrett, be quiet for once in your life." He felt Grace's
hand on his clammy forehead, was vaguely aware that her hand was red
with blood, whose he could not tell. He heard someone trying to get her
to lie down. Felt darkness crowding in on him.

"There was another thing I came up here to tell you  ..." He heard the
distant wail of a siren, the closer sound of a dog responding.

His voice had trailed off into a dream in which he was back in Vietnam,
heading a patrol near Pleiku, looking through the stubble of burnt grass
for a lost finger.

And this time he found it.

A faint trace of color had crept into Barrett Dickson's face as he lay
confined for a second day in Ralph K. Davies Medical Center's intensive
care unit following surgery for repair of his sternum and removal of a
bullet that had barely missed his liver. A third bullet had passed
through the flesh of his shoulder.

His color improved even more as he realized that Grace Harris, a bandage
on her head from the pistol-whipping, was at his side, holding his hand,
and that Leviticus Heywood was pushing his way into the ward.

"Jesus, Bear, can't I go home for an hour or two without you getting
your ass shot up? Oh, excuse me, Ms. Harris." Barren smiled weakly at
his friend. "Fortunately, it was nothing so important as my ass," he
whispered, then turned to Grace. "Lev knows that's where I keep my head
buried most the time." Before Grace could formally introduce herself, a
nurse with a young intern in tow caught up with Lev and insisted upon
his immediate departure.

"Come back tomorrow," the irate nurse told him. "I'm throwing him out of
my ward at 8:00 a.m. He'll be somebody else's problem then and you'll be
welcome to him."

"Don't get Nurse Ratched pissed off, Lev," said Barrett weakly. "I've
got to live with her one more night after you've reached the safety of
the streets." The nurse offered Barrett a good-natured raised fist and
motioned again for Lev to follow her out.

"Okay," said Leviticus, his hands raised in surrender. "I'm gone. Sorry
I wasn't there to protect you, Bear." He then glanced at the nurse and
added, "And can't stay to protect you now that you really need it."
After Lev had allowed himself to be escorted out of the ward, Grace told
him that Caldwell & Shaw had arranged for him to be moved into a large
private room tomorrow. Mike Reasoner had tried to get in to tell him
that Winston Cray had stepped aside early so that Mike could be elected
to join the executive committee without delay. On a motion made by Cray
to the full partnership, Mike had also been elected as the firm's
presiding partner.

Mike told her that Wilmer would remain on the committee to serve out his
term, but a change back to the professionalism and civility of the past
was, according to Mike, "blowing in the wind." Barrett grunted with
satisfaction. "Good for Mike," he said.

"Good for you, Barrett," said Grace. "Mike also wanted me to tell you
that the doctors have given Nancy at least ten more years, to match the
extension you've won for him." "Now that's good news," said Barrett.

"There's more. A corner office is ready for you as soon as you're able
to return to C&S." Barrett laughed, then grimaced in pain. "Don't make
me laugh," he told her.

"It's no joke. They want you back."

"In their dreams."

"Me too."

"They want you, too?" "Jwantjw< back," she said. "On your feet." Then
she gave him an enigmatic, half-lidded, seductive look that excited him
despite the effects of the morphine dripping into his right arm, and
added, "Or off your feet for that matter."

"Talk like that makes for a swift recovery," he said, taking her hand
again. "Now say you're not leaving San Francisco."

"Okay. You're not leaving San Francisco."

"Please, it really hurts to laugh."

"I'm not going anywhere, Bear."

"Good. There's somebody I want you to meet. His name is Jared Dickson."

"Your son?" Barrett smiled. "I hired Leviticus to find him. He's flying
in from New Zealand and will be here tomorrow. He thinks I'm hurt, so
play along."

"That's wonderful, Barrett! When can I meet him?"

"Soon. He and I have some catching up to do first. Some fence-mending."
Grace paused a beat. "I hope ours is in good repair."

"I hope ours no longer exists." Grace looked at her clasped hands. "I've
been a bit withdrawn since the verdict. I guess flouting all the rules
doesn't come easy to a rabbi's daughter, especially when it results in
the bad guy getting off. Anyway, thinking about how easily one or both
of us could have been killed that night somehow put things in
perspective. Forgive me, Bear?"

"Your request is under submission, counselor. Which reminds me, I never
finished telling you the other thing."

"What other thing?" Barrett yawned. "The other thing I wanted to tell
you that night."

"Before you passed out on me."

"Yeah  ...  well ...  it wasn't out of boredom," he said, then closed
his eyes and fell asleep.

As the facts emerged during the following week, Grace, her relatively
superficial cuts bandaged and healing, was besieged by requests to run
in the special June election to fill Earl Field's office. Her bravery
during the attack by Keller was portrayed in the press as "heroic" and
"beyond courage." The National Law Journal described her as the "new
paradigm of prosecutors-- tough but temperate, fearless but flexible."
Grace mused at the irony. She horl rnncnirpd with a defense lawyer to
set his guilty client free and for that had become everybody's choice
for D.A. Everybody's but her own. She couldn't convince herself she
deserved it.

Still, there was no stopping it now. What had started as a quiet women's
movement had become a tidal wave of national support, fed by newspaper
and magazine articles that trumpeted her track record of courtroom victo
ries and community committment. People magazine picked up on rumors of a
romantic angle involving her trial opponent, a man who had helped her
trap, then vanquish the murderess Keller. The Bar Association wanted to
run a plebiscite on the candidates for D.A. but could find no one of
repute willing to run against her.

Grace tried not to take it too seriously, but when her mother called to
say she was proud of her baby, Grace burst into tears despite herself.
"Your father is praying for you, dear," her mother added, then
whispered, "I heard him tell a friend on the phone that you were going
to be the Attorney General of San Francisco." "Tell him  ..." said
Grace, laughing and choking back more tears, "tell him I'm proud of him,
too." Jack Klegg, sensitive as always to the direction of the wind of
public opinion-and to the skeleton in his own closet-shocked Grace by an
nouncing his support for her candidacy.

Wednesday night, as the groundswell continued, Grace drove across the
Bay Bridge to Sponger's with Aaron to renew their traditional weekly
dinner together.

"I know you've felt gypped by having no father and a working mother,"
she told him after they had shared a beer. "I need to know how you would
feel if I ran for the D.A. job. If I won, it would demand even more of
my time, and I won't run if I don't have your support." Aaron stared
pensively into her eyes, then reached over and took a swig from Grace's
beer glass. "You've already got a ton of support, Mom, and I can't even
vote."

"You know what I mean. Can you put up with being ignored even more than
you have been?" Aaron sat erect, then reached across and covered her
hand with his. She was amazed at how large his hand was, how mature he
seemed. "If you can keep putting up with a brat of a son who's violated
every law of the Torah," he said, meeting her gaze with steady eyes that
reminded her more other father's than of his.

She nodded, and was relieved when he smiled and added, "And who's been a
full-blown pain in the ass for the past three years."

Grace sat outside at Sam's in Tiburon, warming her hands with an Irish
coffee and watching a handful of sailboats bravely venturing out of the
San Francisco yacht club, the norwesterly wind at their backs. Barrett
came lumbering up to her table, late as usual and carrying a dozen
rosebuds.

"For you, madame," he said with an awkward nourish.

"They're beautiful, Bear, and they're just opening up." Barrett nodded.
"I noticed," he said, and sat down beside her.

"What inspired this romantic gesture?" He smiled libidinously. "I
enjoyed last night."

"Oh, that," she said, blushing. "The third impulsive act of my life."

"Don't forget the fourth," he said.

She slapped him playfully on the arm.

"Have you thought about what we talked about earlier last night?" Grace
asked.

"About me accepting Doug Young's offer of partnership?" She nodded.
"He's good and he's ethical and has a solid criminal defense practice.
Undeserved though it may be, the whole world also seems to be pounding
on your door again. You'd be good together." "I don't know," said
Barrett, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm not sure.

I was thinking of applying for a job as your campaign manager instead.
But I don't think you even need one."

"I think we were talking about your career, not mine."

"I love the National Law Journal story," he said, ignoring her remark.

"Called you 'fearless but flexible."

"You know better."

"Words like flexibility could kill your Iron Maiden reputation."

"And also my slammer by the way. At least for now."

"I've noticed that, too."

"So are you going in with Doug?"

"I want to, but there's one thing I'm not quite sure about."

"Are we back to the God complex? The fallibility of the justice system?

The grandeur and mystique of peddling real estate?" Barrett smiled and
shook his head. "Nah. The Dickson Curse is dead and my problem with the
justice system was that I expected it to be perfect. That's too heavy a
burden to put on anything that involves imperfect people." Grace put a
hand on her hip. "Excuse me?" Barrett smiled and said, "Except for you,
of course, dear. Any system that produces someone like you can't be all
bad."

"Then what's the thing you're not sure about?" Barrett reached over and
took her hand.

"I'm not sure it's a good idea to have two lawyers in one family." Grace
looked up and saw the confirmation in his eyes. She took his hand in
hers and kissed it.

"If that was a proposal, Barrett Dickson," she said, "I accept." He
said, "You realize we're talking about a life sentence here?" She felt
the tears coming then, couldn't stop them. "It's the only deal I'll make
with you, counselor," she said. "Now, let's get out of here."

As Amanda Keller was transported under heavy guard to the van that would
return her to the Fontera Prison for Women the day after her sentencing
to life without the possibility of parole, she heard it-softly at first,
then louder as she approached the van.

It was a crowd numbering in the hundreds, many of them shouting,
"Aman-da, Aman-da, Aman-da!" Someone had breached security and the press
was all over the place. She tried to wave to them as she heard the van's
rear steel door swing open with a squeal and mounted the first step
leading up into the van. As she reached the second step, she shielded
her eyes from the afternoon sun and saw them then, saw all of them,
heard them chanting her name. Some carried

"Free Amanda" signs; others carried placards that decried child abuse.
Most were women. Cameras everywhere.

Newspapers from around the world had covered the sentencing hearing the
previous day and many had quoted Amanda on their front pages.

"I'm not insane," she had insisted to the judge. "In fact, I've never
felt better. Really. It is too bad about those people who died, but in a
way you could say it was self-defense." "Self-defense?" the judge had
said.

"Killing them saved my life, Judge. Gave me life, actually, empowered
me. Made me into a whole person. The irony is now that I'm finally a
whole person, you might have to kill me. Makes perfect sense, doesn't
it?" At this point, the judge had again urged the defendant to cooperate
with counsel, accept further testing, and plead insanity, but Amanda had
looked offended and said, "I'm quite all right, Judge. For the first
time in my life I have total clarity, though I'll admit there's a hazy
ring around it sometimes, like the moon in winter." While spectators had
exchanged glances over this, the judge asked her if she was ready to be
sentenced. She shrugged and asked him what he could do to her that would
be worse than having a father who had stolen her innocence, a husband
who had stolen her career, and a mother who had stolen her mind before
it was old enough to discover itself.

Before the judge could manage a response, she added that if he had
decided to sentence her to death, she'd just have to live with it--then
broke out in raucous laughter.

But no one was laughing today as Amanda ascended the top step of the van
that would return her to Fontera. A crescendo of solemn enthusiasm
greeted her, the signs held high, the voices shouting her name as one,
louder than ever.

"Amanda, Amanda, Amanda!" Amanda looked out at them, a quizzical half
smile on her pale face. She glanced around quickly and suddenly realized
how poor the lighting would be for the photographers. Oh, well ... She
wet her lips and gave the whirring cameras her best look, the perfect
tilt other head, chin up, kid. Chin up.

"Amanda, Amanda!" they shouted.

She waved again as best she could with the damned manacles on, and
reveled in the warmth, the enthusiasm of the crowd; the fame that could
never be taken from her now. Tomorrow, she would read in the Chronicle
that she had, for a third time, been a participant in a high-profile
murder case. But this time, not just as an alternate juror, not even as
a key witness.

Both important, but only featured roles.

This time she had unmistakably been the star.

As guards beckoned her to enter the van, she gave the cameras and
onlookers what she knew they had come for: her extraordinary smile.

Then she gave them something else, something nobody had ever seen:
tears, real tears, euphoric tears streaming down radiant cheeks. Amanda
smiled again and raised her manacled hands high above her head, one fist
clenched in the power salute, the other showing two extended fingers.

Victory.

A NOTE ON THE TYPE The typeface used in this book is a version of
Janson, a seventeenth-century' Dutch style revived by Merganthaler
Linotype in 1937. Long atributed to one Anton Janson through a mistake
by the owners of the originals, the typeface was actually designed by a
Hungarian, Nicholas Kis (1650-1702), in his time considered the finest
punchcutter in Europe. Kis took religious orders as a young man, gaining
a reputation as a classical scholar. As was the custom, he then
traveled; because knowledge of typography was sorely lacking in Hungary,
Kis decided to go to Holland, where he quickly mastered the trade. He
soon had offers from all over Europe--including one from Cosimo de
Medici--but kept to his original plan, returning to Hungary to help
promote learning. Unfortunately, his last years were embittered by the
frustration of his ambitions caused by the political upheavals of the
1690s.