

### GUILT BY ASSOCIATION

_a novel_  
by  
Kelvin L. Reed

Smashwords Edition

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Published on Smashwords by:

Kelvin L. Reed

Guilt by Association

Copyright 2012 by Kelvin L. Reed

ISBN 978-1-47647-798-8

Cover design by customgraphics.etsy.com

www.kelvinlreed.com

All rights reserved. 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 is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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### Also by Kelvin L. Reed

Rookie Year: Journey of a First-Year Teacher

Midnight Sunshine

President Pro Tem

* * * * *

### PROLOGUE

Reverend Isaiah F. Bradley peered through the dirty, cloudy back window of his weather-beaten sedan; an eighteen-year-old vehicle that groaned as it idled near the curb in front of Mount Calvary Baptist Church. The presence of four teenage boys loitering across the street about thirty feet away made him uncomfortable. No doubt he could dash inside, grab the book he needed and be back in a minute or two, but he didn't want to leave his twelve-year-old daughter—snoozing in the car—by herself, even with the doors locked.

The reverend glanced at the needle hovering over the red E on the car's fuel gauge and reluctantly turned the key in the ignition switch. The engine sputtered, gasped, then finally shut down like an old man on his deathbed. He turned to scrutinize the boys again. They looked to be about fifteen or sixteen years old. Just going to end up getting themselves in trouble, being out so late on a Saturday, if you ask him.

Reverend Bradley sighed and wished the narrow avenue that hosted Mount Calvary, located in the inner city of Boston, didn't adjoin a busy, four-lane street. Even at nearly midnight, foot and automobile traffic still passed by the eighty-year-old structure every few seconds. The reverend understood that the twenty-four-hour convenience store down the street and the spring weather enticed people to leave their homes; the early May daytime temperature had approached seventy, but the night air had chilled to the mid-fifties. He studied the front of the building and frowned. It appeared darker than usual. The street light above it had been out for weeks. It just wasn't a priority for local bureaucrats to help make black folks' lives easier, he groused. On Monday he'd call his city councilor and complain—again.

The reverend turned once more to check on the boys and regretted that as a black man he had to be careful around his own people late at night. He hadn't harbored such feelings for the first four years of his tenure as the spiritual leader of the small, always financially-struggling church. However, in the past two years the place had endured seven break-ins. Drugs were to blame, the minister assumed. No, he wouldn't leave his only child in the car alone.

The reverend resumed watching the teenagers and reached for the half-broken door handle on the driver's side of the vehicle. He was about to perform the deft, often-repeated act of opening the door without pulling the handle off, but stopped to examine his daughter's gentle, peaceful face. She had inherited her mother's dark brown color, not his medium brown complexion. Even with the streetlight not working, he marveled at how much she resembled his dear departed wife, God rest her soul. Veronica was all he had left to remember his beautiful Dora Mae, struck down by a drunk driver—a white man born into a San Antonio family with old money. The reverend grimaced at the thought of how little time the man had served in prison for killing the wife of a minister and mother of a five-year-old. Three years. It just wasn't right. Since then he held deep contempt for high-priced attorneys who secured lenient sentences for murderers.

The silent car engine allowed him to overhear the teenagers' conversation, such as it was. He scowled at their language.

"Man, fuck that shit!"

"So I told that muhfucka..."

The forty-nine-year-old pastor noticed that two of them held lit cigarettes. Kids today had no respect, he lamented, even when near the house of God. But they weren't entirely to blame for their behavior, he had concluded. The fault lay with their parents—and institutional racism, which had destroyed black families.

He shook the assessment from his mind and poked his daughter on the shoulder. "Wake up, baby," he whispered. "You come with Daddy."

The child whimpered a bit, then opened her eyes. "We home, Daddy?"

"We're at church, hon," the girl's father replied. "Daddy's gotta get a book to finish his sermon for tomorrow."

The reverend inspected the vicinity again. Finally, no pedestrians in sight—and the teenagers hadn't moved any closer. He felt a little foolish for being so careful. Those feelings shifted to regret. Maybe he shouldn't have changed his mind at the last minute and allowed Veronica to go to that birthday party, but the girl had fussed and pleaded so.

Still, the child was supposed to be home by ten-thirty, dropped off by the mother of her best friend, Nicki, his daughter's confidante for six years since her first day at Mount Calvary. But the mother had called at eleven saying her car wouldn't start, so he had to get dressed, go get the girls, drive Nicki to her apartment, and then bring his own child home. Maybe just as well, though. He hadn't been able to finish writing his sermon because he needed a translation of a few Hebrew words.

Veronica rubbed her eyes, then opened the car door. The hinges creaked, testifying to their losing battle against a stronger opponent. The girl smiled and pointed at the church. "Can I go turn the lights on, Daddy?"

"No, hon," the reverend said. He smiled back. Her angelic face warmed his heart. Maybe he _was_ a tad overprotective. She was so thin, like her mother, and small for her age—and she had always been such a sweet child. That's why he had allowed her to attend that party and had even run out and bought her a new dress. "You stay with me."

"When we get inside can I get a drink of water in the kitchen?"

"You can get some water when we get home, baby. It's late."

Veronica folded her hands together. "Please, Daddy," she begged. "I'm thirsty."

"From eating all kinds of junk food, I bet."

"Oh, it was so much fun!" the girl gushed.

The reverend smiled again and shrugged. Better not get her going about the party or she'd be up half the night. "Just half a glass," he conceded. "But don't be long."

It took less than three minutes for father and daughter to enter the church, take care of business, and prepare to exit. Reverend Bradley, standing at the narthex clutching the book that had been the purpose of _his_ jaunt, pushed open one of the double front doors leading outside only inches at a time. He peeked and winced.

The four boys now stood directly across the street.

The reverend could feel the blood in his fingers pulsing while pressed against the heavy, wooden door. He hugged his daughter with one arm and whispered into her ear, trying to sound nonchalant. "It's late and you should've been in bed. Let's get home. Okay?"

Veronica yawned and nodded. "Yes, Daddy."

The Bradleys slowly descended the eight crumbling concrete steps and stopped at the passenger side of the waiting car. The reverend unlocked Veronica's door, then eased around the rear of the vehicle to the driver's side. With his back to the boys—gathered only a few feet away—he wiped his sweating forehead with his left hand and fumbled with the keys in his right hand. The boys lowered their voices and began whispering, which unnerved him even more. He kept his head down, but raised it when he heard a car door open.

"I left my purse in the kitchen," Veronica announced and bolted out of the car.

"No!" the girl's father rejoined her. "It's late and we ain't got time for—" Helpless, he watched Veronica jet up the stairs. She unlocked the front door to the church with her own key and disappeared. Not knowing what else to do, he checked the watch his daughter had given him the Christmas before last. Exactly midnight.

He zipped up his worn out, discount store jacket and stepped around the car to the wide open passenger side door. He glanced at the boys, who continued to watch him and whisper. Before he could close the door, he noticed a yellow sweater in the backseat; Nicki's sweater. Apparently, the talkative girl had been so busy offering post-event fashion critiques she had forgotten about her own clothing, for which her mother had no doubt spent hard-earned money.

The reverend fumed at the position in which he found himself: unnerved by four loiterers across the street, his own daughter running around a dark church by herself. Kids could bring their parents such grief these days, he lamented. They got their heads all full up with parties and hanging out on the streets and whatnot. When he was younger, growing up in Texas, he didn't have time for such nonsense because his folks saw to it he had plenty of chores to do.

He opened the backseat door, grabbed the sweater and sniffed it to make sure it hadn't been exposed to any cigarette smoke. Nope. Still, he had to be careful and keep his eyes and ears—and even nose—open. Make sure his little girl didn't end up like so many pretty little things at Mount Calvary—at home with no husband totin' babies instead of going to college. He exhaled with relief and tilted his head backward to search God's heaven. The vast black canvas offered no trimmings. Clouds and the working streetlights had joined forces to hide the moon and the bounteous stars.

He checked his watch again. How long did it take to grab a purse? Well, if attending one party caused Veronica to lose all common sense, he would just see to it she didn't go to another, no matter how much she pleaded. The reverend tossed the sweater onto the front passenger seat and pushed both doors closed. More peeved at his daughter than fearful of the four teenagers, he marched toward the church still clutching the reference book.

It took him only a few seconds to reach the front door, where the explosion met him head on.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER ONE

Jayson Cook surreptitiously sniffed the air, taking in the gentle bouquet of expensive scotch. The handsome, dark-skinned man found the plush armchair supporting his six-feet, one hundred eighty-pound frame to be comfortable enough. His host had broken out the high-quality stock, but Jayson held no illusion his summons had been a social call. The thirty-five-year-old attorney raised a tumbler to his lips and sipped, showing off a monogrammed cuff and gold cufflink, and listened to Judge Robert O'Hare recount his grandchild's exploits at her first ballet recital.

While currently a highly-paid criminal defense lawyer, Jayson anticipated that, God willing, in the not-too-distant future he'd be sitting in the same room bending some poor lawyer's ear about his daughter. Toward that end, over the years he had contributed to the right political candidates and attended the right social events, hoping to be noticed by the right people. Of course, after accepting his robe and the keys to his chambers on the fifteenth floor of the McCormack Post Office and Courthouse building in downtown Boston, he would brighten the place up a little. The dark paneling on the walls would be first to go, and the place needed, as his wife would say, more cheerful lighting.

Jayson liked O'Hare, not only because he hoped to occupy his chambers some day but also because the judge had always been fair with him. Furthermore, he found the man amiable enough outside of court. However, inside the courtroom, Bob "By-the-Book" O'Hare could be impatient with lawyers making arguments based on emotions rather than law. He treasured efficiency and brevity. His motto: "Never say in ten words what you can say in five." Young assistant DAs and defense lawyers who entered his _sanctum sanctorum_ unprepared, stumbling over words or searching in their briefcases for a lost file, did so only once.

Eventually the burley judge finished his ballet story, and the two men shared a few laughs about the perils of being six years old. O'Hare, clad in a shirt and tie but no robe, glanced at his watch before engaging in one more bit of small talk. "You've got a little one yourself, isn't that right, Jayson?" he asked.

Jayson smiled. "Yes, Judge. About the same age as your granddaughter."

"Well," O'Hare mumbled, "thanks for letting me go on about my little ballerina."

"Not at all, Judge," Jayson replied. "I rather enjoyed it. I know the feeling." His words were sincere. He didn't mind listening to a man nearing retirement brag about his grandchild, even on a Friday evening. As a husband and father himself, he appreciated and respected a man's pride in his family. Besides, this was a side of O'Hare he had never seen. "So, Your Honor, you asked to see me?"

The judge stirred a few papers on his desk. "You're familiar with the Stone case, aren't you?"

"Um, the Stone case?" Jayson asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but his weak voice gave him away. His stomach started to do flip-flops at the mention of the name. He frowned at the realization of why he had been summoned. Of course he was familiar with the Stone case. Who wasn't? He peeked at the pictures on the judge's desk—handsome, elegant wife and five smiling grandchildren—then refocused on the judge and decided to not answer the question. "Your Honor, I've got too many cases of my own to worry about someone else's, you know?"

O'Hare nodded. "Um-hmm," he muttered, apparently allowing Jayson to indulge in his sin of omission. "Brian Stone is a white supremacist who's been sitting in jail for over a year and a half awaiting trial for that bombing two years ago that destroyed a church, killed a twelve-year-old girl and put her father—the minister of the church—in the hospital for a month."

"Oh," Jayson replied and nodded. "That case. I don't know much about it other than what I've read in the papers. Like I said, I'm doing my own thing." He ran his long nails over his head, covered with only a very thin coating of hair.

"Um-hmm," the judge muttered again, indicating his patience had begun to wane. "Well, Stone and his second public defender don't seem to be hitting it off any better than the first. He was arraigned and bound over for trial, but the whole thing's been moving slower than a glacier—and now he's insisting that I appoint him yet another lawyer." The judge sipped his drink and continued. "To tell you the truth, I'm not sure another PD is the best way to ensure that he gets a fair trial."

Jayson squirmed in his chair and finished his drink. "I see. Well, I'm sure you'll do what's best."

"I want you to take over his defense."

Jayson pointed at himself. "Me? You've gotta be kidding!" He raised his hands as if defending himself. "No offense, Judge, but from what I've read, the guy's some kind of super-conservative racist. If he's having problems with his white PDs, he's certainly not going to want his fate in the hands of an African American, liberal lawyer. Besides, I'm far from a public defender these days."

O'Hare opened his hands. "But you were once, and a damn good one, too." He finished his drink and poured a splash more into his glass. "Another?"

Jayson covered his glass with his hand. "No, thank you, sir—and thank you for the compliment," he said, "but you know the routine: put in a few years to get some experience, then—"

"And you acted as court-appointed lawyer with the State Bar Advocate System for a few years after that," the judge reminded him.

"And I recently stopped taking those cases, too," Jayson said. "To be honest, my private practice is going pretty well and I don't want to take cases for a fraction of what I could—"

"Charge your drug dealers, murderers, embezzlers, rapists, et cetera?"

" _Alleged_ drug dealers, murderers, embezzlers, rapists, et cetera," Jayson shot back politely, with his index finger in the air.

The judge ran his hands over his thick, white hair and sighed. "Jayson, you're one of the best goddamn lawyers I've ever seen in all my years on the bench, and one of the most successful. I don't want to see this case kicked back on appeal 'cause the man said he didn't get adequate representation. You're good, and you give a hundred percent for your client, no matter who he is." He pointed at Jayson. "If you're the man handling this there'll be no questions about Stone getting the best legal representation in the county—the whole goddamn state, for that matter."

Jayson stood. "But you can't afford me." He repositioned his tie inside the jacket of his pricey but off-the-rack suit.

The judge smirked. "Sit down, counselor," he commanded gently. His silver cufflinks reflected the dim light in the room.

Jayson did.

"However many hours you bill for you and your staff, the state won't question."

Jayson widened his eyes. "Really?" He thought for a few seconds. A big murder trial could mean several hundred billable hours. He resisted the temptation and shook his head slowly. "Well, the money part was in the second place. In the first place, the man's not gonna want a nigger for a lawyer."

"He asked for you."

Jayson stood again.

"Sit doooown, counselor," the judge ordered, clearly enjoying himself.

Jayson returned to his seat. The two men sat silently for a few seconds while the younger one collected his thoughts. "What do you mean, he asked for me?"

O'Hare shrugged. "Whatever the man is, he's no fool. He knows that just by getting you to sit next to him a jury might think maybe he's not so bad." He gestured toward the opposite side of the room. "Let me show you something. One of my clerks got this for me." He reached into his desk drawer, produced a remote control stained with faint traces of ketchup, mayonnaise and other condiments, and waved it in the air at a twenty-inch TV/DVD player across the room.

Jayson adjusted his muscular torso in his chair and watched the television behind him. He saw the screen flicker, then an attractive Asian woman in her late twenties appeared clutching a microphone. Jayson recognized the area: the lobby of the John Adams Courthouse in downtown Boston. The woman, one of about ten reporters huddled on the right side of the screen, spoke over her jostling colleagues. Jayson stood on the left side in the foreground, his hair about a quarter-inch higher than at present. A white, middle-aged, bald man stood next to him. Anyone with eyes could see the man, although only half-visible, grinning as if he had just left a whorehouse.

"Mr. Cook," Michelle Ling opened breathlessly, "are you and Mr. Morgan and Professor Greenberg and the ACLU pleased with the court's ruling today that Mr. Morgan can hold his group's rally at the Boston Common?" She extended the microphone closer to Jayson's mouth.

Jayson nodded at the woman and spoke in a low, measured monotone. "We're all pleased that the First Amendment will be applied to everyone, regardless of his or her views—as long as those views are expressed peacefully."

The woman, who measured nine inches shorter than Jayson, quickly asked a follow-up question. "And does it bother you, sir, as an African American, that Mr. Morgan is the leader of an organization that preaches what many consider to be racist beliefs against African Americans and other minorities?"

"Mr. Morgan's views are not the issue here, Ms. Ling," Jayson retorted. "The issue is whether the state can restrict the right to free, peaceful speech based on its content. The Supreme Judicial Court, the highest court in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, says it cannot. By safeguarding anyone's right to free speech, we safeguard everyone's—including yours and mine."

Other reporters shouted questions at him.

In O'Hare's chambers, present-day Jayson grimaced. "Okay, okay, Your Honor," he grumbled, adjusting himself to face his host again. "I remember all this. Your point?"

The judge pressed the button and shut off the television. "The point is, Stone must've heard about you and figured that if you busted your ass for one of his brothers, so to speak, you'd do the same for him."

"But that was different," Jayson insisted. "There was a principle involved, you know: free speech couldn't be restricted just because we don't agree with its content. This is a first-degree murder trial about the killing of a young girl." He leaned forward and lowered his voice as if revealing a secret. "And I only took that case because Seth Greenberg had asked me to. You know how hard it is to say no to him."

O'Hare chuckled. "I know what you mean." He tapped his desk with his index finger twice. "In his day, Seth was one son of a bitchin' top-notch lawyer. I know he was your law professor and mentor. How is the old goat these days?"

Jayson lowered his head. "Not too good. You know he's in a wheelchair now since that last stroke."

"Yeah, I heard."

"But he's still feisty," Jayson added. "He had asked me to second chair that case because I'd done some work with the ACLU before, but I ended up taking over the damn thing after he took ill."

"Well, everyone was impressed with how you put your personal feelings aside and defended that racist asshole's constitutional rights. Word was that you were—" The judge abruptly shifted his train of thought and cackled. "If I remember correctly, that stupid rally couldn't have had more than a dozen fellow assholes and their wives—probably all related by blood—in attendance."

"Jayson snickered. "Yeah, they had to pick a day when it rained buckets." The two men shared a hearty laugh.

The judge checked his watch and put an end to their levity. "You know, I could just order you to do this."

Now it was Jayson's turn to enjoy the upper hand. "Why don't you?" He knew signing on of his own volition would reduce the likelihood of an appeal due to a claim that defense counsel was a reluctant, half-hearted draftee.

"Because I want you to do just like you did three years ago with that other racist son of a bitch," O'Hare snapped, obviously unaccustomed to getting a lawyer to do his bidding by persuasion. "Defend his rights because it's the right thing to do."

"But why me?"

"Because you're the best, and the defendant won't take anybody else."

"And because I'm black."

"Yes, and because you're black."

Jayson sighed and ran his fingers along the edge of his smooth chin. "You don't know what I went through after that ACLU case. You don't know what my family went through. Old friends not speaking to me, my wife lectured at work by her colleagues..."

"Hah!" the judge snorted. He raised his hand in the air and brought it down forcefully on his desk. "I could show you hate mail I've gotten over the years that would curl your hair—if it was longer."

Jayson chuckled. "I bet you could."

O'Hare stood and grabbed his jacket, which hung on a wooden coat rack behind him next to his robe. "And if you want to sit on my bench after I retire some day, you better develop a thicker skin," he advised, arching his bushy eyebrows and slipping into his jacket. "Besides," he continued, "two years later almost everyone came to realize that you and Seth were right, and that the mayor was just pandering to get votes, like politicians always do."

Jayson stood as well and sighed deeply. After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, he did what he did best: negotiate. "Okay, I'm in, but no post-trial nitpicking about my fees. And after the trial is over, I'm done. No hanging around for appeals, federal trials, nothing."

"Okay," the judge replied. "Is that it?"

"Well," Jayson muttered, "let me get home and break the news to my wife. She's gonna be just thrilled."

A few minutes later Jayson stood alone in the elevator clutching his bulging leather briefcase. He rode the fifteen floors down to the lobby and wondered if he hadn't just made the biggest mistake of his life.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TWO

Jayson sat in a comfortable, high-back leather chair in his home office. Collectibles from his favorite pastime supplemented the standard office equipment: autographed baseballs encased in glass cubes, framed baseball cards on the walls, two autographed broken wooden bats, and stacks of filled baseball card albums. Jayson stared at a seventeen-inch, flat computer screen. He wore a pair of blue jeans, a Massachusetts School of Law T-shirt and a pair of leather bedroom slippers. He checked the bottom right corner of the screen, then his watch, then the clock on the wall. They all agreed—it was a little after eleven-thirty p.m.

Jayson's thoughts drifted back a few hours to his conversation with Judge O'Hare, but he blinked a few times and resumed reading newspaper accounts of his new client's arrest and subsequent pretrial activities, occasionally pausing to scribble on a legal pad. He glanced at the top of a file cabinet in the corner of the room and winked at a headshot of his wife, Renee. Suddenly, he felt a bit lonely.

His daughter, Jennifer, had gone to bed promptly at eight, and he hadn't seen Renee, a respected anesthesiologist at a midsize hospital, since he kissed her good-bye early that morning. She had left a message on his mobile phone at around two o'clock explaining that she had been summoned to work on what was supposed to be her day off. Now, Jayson regretted, he would have to inform her about accepting the potentially volatile Stone case after she arrived home exhausted from a grueling day at the hospital. Unfortunately their parallel driving ambition and demanding jobs kept them away from home—and each other—for many hours.

Jayson reached for the photograph sitting next to the computer and stared at his daughter. She sported thick, long hair, like Renee's, but very wavy instead of straight. In the picture, taken during the previous Christmas season, Jennifer sat on Santa's lap mugging for the camera, no doubt confident she'd receive all the goodies on her wish list. Jayson returned the photo to its spot and judged himself a very fortunate man. He and Renee had found such joy in their little angel.

They had also been lucky in the purchase of their dream home. Jayson derived much pleasure from the house he shared with his wife, their daughter and their live-in housekeeper. Jayson and Renee had chosen the spacious, five-bedroom home after she had received a tip from a colleague about a group of new homes being built on a quiet cul-de-sac in Belmont. The affluent, suburban town, located seven miles northwest of Boston, consisted of less than thirty thousand residents—over ninety percent of them white. Nevertheless, other than occasional stares from children, the Cooks had never experienced any racial problems in the four years of their residency.

Jayson blinked again and returned his attention to the computer, clicking on pertinent headlines and reading news stories. The death of Veronica Bradley had been _the_ local news event for virtually the entire month of May two years ago.

"Church bomb kills 12-year-old girl...."

Jayson examined media photos of the crime scene after the blast. The powerful homemade bomb had been planted in the kitchen, and the resulting fire from the explosion had decimated the church, necessitating that it be razed and rebuilt from scratch.

Jayson also studied several pictures of Veronica Bradley: her last school pose, a photo of her singing in the church choir, and a snapshot of her laughing—he couldn't tell under what circumstances. According to the police theory, the poor child had probably noticed the object on the floor next to the gas stove only after she had entered the church for the second time. Most likely, the theorists believed, she had bent down to investigate the unfamiliar object when the bomb exploded, killing her instantly. Jayson felt sympathy for her and for her father, who according to one article, would probably be reduced to walking with a cane for the rest of his life.

Jayson read reports about the subsequent investigation, which had eventually stalled, producing charges from local African American political activists and the girl's father that the police and the FBI hadn't devoted enough energy to finding the "conspirators" because of the girl's race.

"Authorities defend Mount Calvary bombing investigation...."

Jayson noticed most stories about the bombing originated from the _Boston Courier_ , the local black-oriented weekly newspaper. With each passing year the paper seemed to have become more sensational in its coverage and presentation, he assessed. While coverage of the bombing dwindled in the mainstream print and broadcast media about a month after the tragedy, over the past two years a new conspiracy theory had surfaced every few months in the _Courier_. Jayson skimmed over a few.

According to one unnamed source, the drunk driver from Texas who had struck the reverend's wife as she crossed a busy street, and members of his prominent family, were suspects.

"Killer of minister's wife questioned...."

A later notion receiving some press coverage involved various leaders of numerous white supremacist groups in Texas. Apparently, Reverend Isaiah F. Bradley, a man very fond of conspiracy theories, had floated stories about being targeted by members of hate groups who had followed him from Texas to Massachusetts. He claimed he had made many powerful enemies in the Lone Star State due to his advocacy for black people.

"Hate groups suspected in church bombing...."

In nearly two years of coverage, the _Courier_ had never printed even one story suggesting that the man arrested for the crime had acted alone.

"Bomber refuses to name accomplices...."

Jayson had personally enjoyed a love-hate relationship with the _Courier_. The hate part had begun when he had represented Gregory Morgan and his white supremacist so-called "Church of the True Savior" in that free speech case. Jayson vividly remembered the _Courier_ headline after Seth Greenberg and he had challenged the City of Boston. The mayor had refused to issue Morgan and his followers a permit to hold a rally at the Boston Common, the oldest public park in the history of the United States, according to the travel brochures.

"Black lawyer takes side of racist church...."

Jayson brought his attention back to the on-line news reports, which were sparse for several months after the bombing with the exception of the _Courier_. A lucky break in the "Mount Calvary Bomber" investigation had occurred when two police officers flagged down then twenty-three-year-old loner Brian Matthew Stone in a routine traffic stop. They claimed to have discovered a hand-drawn map of the area surrounding the Mount Calvary Baptist Church on the front seat of his vehicle, in clear view.

Jason scoffed as he picked up his legal pad and wrote, "Incriminating map in clear view?" He dropped the pad back on the desk and continued reading.

The discovery of the map provided the officers with enough probable cause to seek a search warrant for Stone's apartment. That search yielded a mountain of evidence against the socially withdrawn, low-level medical records clerk. Authorities discovered several registered handguns, bomb-making books, bomb-making instructions downloaded from various Internet web sites, stacks of anti-black and anti-Semitic literature, numerous pornographic magazines, and other "undisclosed incriminating evidence."

"Mount Calvary Bomber arrested...."

Jayson perused a few more stories about the investigation. A month after Stone's arrest, officials from the Boston Police Department, the Suffolk County District Attorney's Office and the FBI issued a statement claiming no evidence existed to indicate that Stone had acted other than alone. This prompted the printing of two stories in the _Courier_ , instigated by Reverend Bradley, alleging that a cover-up existed to protect white terrorist groups targeting black churches.

"Mount Calvary victim questions police findings...."

Two inner city church fires, the first occurring a year after the Mount Calvary attack and the second as recently as March, had been widely speculated to be the ongoing work of this band of homegrown terrorists. Many members of Boston's black community greeted the fire marshal's determination that both fires were accidents with skepticism.

"Questionable finding for questionable church fire...."

Several state politicians pushed their own agendas, citing the Bradley girl's death.

"Conservative lawmakers move to reinstate death penalty...."

Through it all, the _Courier's_ circulation continued to rise.

The familiar hum and clanking associated with the garage door opening diverted Jayson's attention. He felt relief upon hearing Renee's late model BMW slowly roll next to his late model Jaguar. He walked down the carpeted stairs into the dark kitchen and inhaled the residual, clashing scents of baked sole and apple pie. He flipped on the kitchen lights, opened the door leading to the garage and presented a cheerful smile to his wife of ten years as she emerged from her car. She wore a powder blue blouse above a navy blue pleated skirt and had tied her long hair at the back. "Hi, honey," Jayson said while holding the door open for her. "How'd things go at work?"

Dr. Renee Barron-Cook climbed the three steps leading to the kitchen and kissed Jayson briefly on the lips as they met at the threshold. She closed her eyes for a few seconds then opened them. "Not good," she replied, and stepped further into the kitchen. She plopped her purse and briefcase onto the dark wood breakfast table. "I had to fill in because Gill's flight was delayed. I was about to go home, but we got word that two cars full of high school kids were tearing down Mill Street. One of them wrapped his car around a tree."

Jayson stepped closer to her. "Uh-oh. Anybody hurt?"

"Everyone in the car," Renee said. She held up her fingers. "Four of them. Two of the four didn't make it. The other two'll pull through."

Jayson took a deep breath. He put his arms around Renee and squeezed. "I'm sorry, hon. I know you and the team did everything you could." He tenderly pressed his lips against her soft, very light brown cheek.

Renee rested her head on his shoulder and hugged him. "Dumb-ass kids," she whispered.

Jayson shrugged and pointed toward the semi-dark living room. "You want me to make you a drink?"

"No, thanks," Renee answered with a soft voice. She kicked off her shoes and made a face revealing pain, then relief.

Jayson understood. She wanted to close the subject of the hospital. After eight years as a physician, the death of a child still affected her. Sometimes when she became despondent because of such a death, she wanted to make love. They both spent so much time working, their lovemaking had become infrequent, not from a lack of desire but from a lack of energy and opportunity. Sometimes they made love to relieve stress.

Renee hugged him again and smiled for the first time since arriving home. "How's Jennifer?"

Jayson chuckled. "She went right to sleep after I read _Mufaro's Beautiful Daughters_."

"Oh, I like that one myself," Renee exclaimed. "And Magda? When I left she was furiously working on dinner." She sniffed. "Smells good."

"It _was_ good. She made dinner, cleaned up and turned in early."

"Any word about her kids?"

Jayson shook his head. "She didn't mention it and I didn't bring it up. I didn't want her to think I was meddling in her business." His heart filled with compassion as he considered the woman's plight. "Poor thing. I can't imagine what's she's going through, still not being able to get her children over here after all these years."

Renee put her hand on Jayson's face and lightly stroked it. "I'm glad you were able to help with that lawyer friend of yours, and we were able to help with that car." She giggled. "She thanked me again."

Jayson laughed. "She thanked me again, too." He peeked down the hall to ensure their privacy, then continued. "She's had that car for two weeks. I told her it was just a little subcompact, a leftover from last year's model so it didn't really cost much. I said we wanted to do something for her since she finally got her driver's license and because this house would fall apart without her."

Renee grabbed her purse and shoes, and started up the stairs. She spoke to Jayson without turning around. "We couldn't have asked for a better helper. She's an absolute angel. She works so hard. She takes all those cooking classes, and Jen's crazy about—" She stopped in the middle of the staircase and turned around. "I'm sorry, Jay. I've been so selfish. I didn't even ask you about you day. How was it?"

Jayson considered telling her about the Stone case, but he looked into her tired eyes and decided she had suffered enough for one day. "It was okay," he said. "Nothing that won't wait for you to hear about until tomorrow."

•

Jayson sat with Renee and Jennifer at the breakfast table in their kitchen. They wore casual clothes and chatted about how they would spend their Saturday. The arched windows over the sink attracted abundant sunlight. Looking out to the garden further enhanced the family's cheerful mood. They watched a husband-wife pair of blue jays darting in and out of the birdfeeder Renee had erected in the backyard.

"I'm gonna spend a few hours at the office, then come home and pump some serious iron, then I'll spend the rest of the day with my favorite ladies," Jayson declared.

"Jennifer clapped her hands. "Oh goodie, Daddy. What movie are we gonna watch?"

Jayson put his hand on his chin. "Hmmm...how 'bout you and Mommy decide?"

Renee sipped her coffee then spoke to her daughter. "Finish your breakfast, Jen, or we'll never make it to grandmommy and granddaddy's."

"Okay," Jennifer said. She grabbed her spoon and stuck it into her bowl of oatmeal.

"Um, honey," Jayson said to Renee, "did I fill that prescription for you last night to your satisfaction?" He grinned and admired his wife. She was still just as beautiful and sexy to him as the day he had married her. At thirty-four, a year younger than he, she looked considerably younger and had the body of a model: tall, with long legs, curvaceous figure and broad shoulders.

Renee glanced at Jennifer and gave her husband a feigned disapproving face. "Some of your best medicine," she replied and scooped up a section of grapefruit with a small spoon.

Jayson glanced at Jennifer, who was obviously unaware of her parent's veiled message, and laughed. "I may have to give you another dose tonight."

Jennifer turned her head back and forth, observing her parents. Her long, wavy pony tail brushed against the back of her pink T-shirt. "What are you laughing about, Daddy?"

Jayson smiled at Renee and suppressed the urge to carry on further. "Oh, Mommy and I are just so happy because we love each other so much and because we love you so much."

Jennifer beamed. "I love you and Mommy so much too."

Jayson considered it as good a time as any to break the news to Renee about his new client. He reached for a folded sheet of paper pressed between his thigh and his chair, and presented it to Renee. "Hon, take a look at this, please."

Renee took it from him. "What is it?"

"It's a newspaper article about a case I've just been assigned, kinda."

Renee unfolded the paper and skimmed over the article. "This is that man who bombed that church and killed that little girl, right?" She spoke without taking her eyes off the paper.

"The man arrested and charged with the crime, yes."

Renee looked at Jennifer. "Go brush your teeth, then straighten up your room and get your things so we can go." After the girl left the room, Renee took a deep breath and spoke quietly. "Are you representing this man now?"

Jayson nodded. "Judge O'Hare asked me to."

Renee slid the paper across the table and wiped her hands as if they had been soiled from it. "But you could've turned him down, right? I mean, this man destroyed a house of God and murdered a little girl—a little black girl."

Jayson spoke quietly. "First of all, I don't have to tell you that the man is presumed innocent. Secondly, saying no to a soon-to-be-retiring judge who might have an influential voice in selecting his replacement didn't seem like a good career move. Thirdly, I've got _carte blanche_ on billable hours. That'll more than keep Jennifer in uniforms at that fancy school we send her to."

Renee squinted. "Jayson, this isn't about money and we both know it. This is about you taking a case that's going to disrupt our lives again." She stood and began clearing the table. "I've got a good shot at becoming head of the department this year. You know how hard I've worked for that. Do you know what a plum job that is for a person of color, a female doctor my age?"

Jayson stood, grabbed his dishes and joined her at the sink. "Honey, we agreed we wouldn't argue over my work. It's what I do."

"As long as it doesn't interfere with our lives," Renee reminded him.

"Most of my cases never go to trial. You know that," Jayson said. "I'm going to look over the evidence on Monday, then meet with the ADAs in a few days. It could all be over before too long."

"And if it isn't?"

"Then I do my job."

Just then, Magdalena Lopez entered the kitchen and put her hands on her hips. "Dr. Cook, Mr. Cook. What you doing?" she asked in her heavily-accented voice. "Make big mess, no?" The stocky, forty-year-old El Salvador native flapped her arms like a bird beginning to take flight, trying to shoo them both away. "Do I tell doctor how to put sleep to someone at hospital?" She paused, apparently searching for the right words for her next quip. "Do I tell lawyer how to, um, 'cop a plea' you say? What for you make big mess in my kitchen?"

Jayson and Renee parted for the woman like the Red Sea for Moses. Jayson raised his hands into the air and laughed. "We plead guilty, Your Honor, but if you'll agree to probation, we'll leave forthwith." He turned to his accomplice. "We better go before Judge Magda finds us both in contempt."

Renee laughed. "Magda, don't spend all day in the kitchen. Get outside and get some fresh air. It's a beautiful day."

" _Si_ ," the woman answered absently while running water and banging dishes in the sink. "Fresh air be same fresh tomorrow."

Jayson and Renee reached their huge master bedroom and closed the door. She sat in a wooden chair, kicked off her bedroom slippers and put on a pair of sneakers. "You fulfilled your part of our contract, counselor, and served me with notice," Renee declared. She stood and ran in place for a few seconds, then pecked him on the cheek. "Good luck."

Jayson frowned and sat on the sofa. "Thank you, honey. It'll be okay. You'll see."

"Um-hmm," Renee muttered and eased out the door.

Jayson sighed. He didn't think his wife was going to be in the mood to have that prescription refilled later, after all.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER THREE

Jayson scanned the faces of his staff, all three. Their expressions indicated they greeted the news he had brought them with all the enthusiasm of an IRS tax audit. It was Monday morning. The four of them had gathered at his conference room table, which could seat six people comfortably. Jayson sat at one end with his back to a mostly glass, closed door positioned between six-feet-wide glass walls. From where they sat, his staff could visually survey the open area on the other side of the glass, which doubled as their shared workspace and client waiting room. A mug of freshly brewed, strong-scented coffee, a pen and a pad of paper rested within arm's reach of each person in the room, which measured about half the size of Jayson's master bedroom at home.

Jayson heard the telephone ring behind him—the first call of the new work week. Tenika, his thirty-six-year-old "office manager," placed her large palms on the arms of her chair to rise, but Jayson motioned for her to remain seated. "Let the voice mail system pick it up," he told her. He opened his arms and let them drop to his sides. "Well, don't just sit there," he said to his captive audience. "Say something."

Consuela "Connie" Gonzalez, an attractive woman in her early thirties sitting next to Tenika, spoke first. "What do you want us to say?" Her accented voice bounced off the three walls of built-in bookshelves crammed with law books. "The name on the door out there says 'Jayson Cook.'" She pointed at herself, adorned with abundant jewelry from her ears to her fingers. "I'm just your paralegal, and Tenika's the secretary, and—"

"Office manager," Tenika interjected with a nudge. She put a smile on her pudgy, baby face and adjusted her dark, full-figured body in her chair.

Connie giggled and nudged her friend in return. "Oh, forgive me, _amiga_. Office manager." She faced Jayson again and rubbed her thumb against her index and middle fingers. "I go where the money is, and last I checked, you're it."

Victor Chen, sitting to Jayson's left, offered his opinion. "Connie speaks the truth," he said as he grabbed a paper napkin to dab at a spot of coffee that had landed on his tie. "I've only been here for a few weeks. I'm your intern and my job's to help out any way I can. If you say you're defending Brian Stone, then my job's to help you defend Brian Stone." He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of coffee.

Jayson shifted his gaze from left to right as he addressed his staff. "I understand your loyalty to me because you know which side of your bread is being buttered, and I respect that, I do. But what I want to know is how do you feel about this case? I mean, let's get it all out in the open and clear the air so we know where we stand."

"Well..." Tenika said, barely above a whisper.

"Yes, Ms. Spencer?" Jayson asked, calling her by last name as a joke.

She pursed her lips and shook her head slowly. "I—I remember when it happened two years ago; the church bombing that is. They showed that little angel's picture on the news and I broke down and cried when I saw it." She raised her right hand. "That's the God's honest truth. I cried and said out loud, 'I hope they catch the animal who did it and shoot him down like a mad dog.'"

Jayson nodded. "I bet we all felt something similar two years ago when it first happened, Tenika. And how do you feel now that we're representing the accused?"

Tenika blew on her coffee, took a sip and made a face. She set the mug down and answered while tearing the tops off two packets of sugar and emptying the contents. "Well, I've been with you from the very beginning, back when you had that office in Roxbury. But let's just say I'm glad I just answer the phones and keep things organized around here." She folded her arms across her chest.

Jayson took her gesture to mean she had said all she wanted to say. He turned to his paralegal. "And you, Connie? You've told me that you and your boyfriend sometimes argue about what we do. Is this going to be a problem for you?"

Connie shook her head. "Not no more. We've finally agreed to leave our jobs at work. And it's not like he's investigating homicides or anything. He's mostly chasing car thieves these days. Besides," she added, "I might have to trade him in pretty soon anyway for something with more zip, ya'know?"

Victor raised his hand. "Is it okay if I say something else?"

Jayson resisted the urge to laugh at the young man's gesture. "Of course, Victor."

"Well," the twenty-four-year old law student said, "I had lunch with a bunch of classmates from Northeastern and they told me that at their internships, they spend all day in some closet-size room shuffling paper. One of them told me at the firm where she works, when one of the partners enters the room, the interns have to leave right away without speaking to him. I told them about how you've been, you know, letting me do stuff and even asking for my opinion, and they all told me how lucky I was. I told them that you—" He stopped and put his hands to his lips. "Oops, I'm doing it again, using ten words instead of five. Aren't I?"

"Yes you are," the two women and Jayson said in unison. The three broke into laughter.

Victor rubbed his face with his right hand, embarrassed. "What I mean is, I'm with you, Jayson. Whatever you say, I do."

Tenika laughed. "Very eloquently said, Victor."

Victor smiled. "Thanks, Tenika...um, I think."

Jayson chuckled, then grew serious. "This is going to be a tough one. Once this thing gets going, the media'll probably be on it. The DA's people have had a year and a half to get all their ducks in a row. They'll be trying their usual tricks—withholding information, promising the moon to anyone at the jail who can coax Stone into admitting something incriminating, coaching the police on what to say, you know."

"Who's representing the Commonwealth?" Connie asked.

"It'll be Samira Rahmani behind the wheel," Jayson replied.

Connie whistled. "The Iranian wolf?"

Jayson nodded. "Yep, and you know she's tough and crafty. And Omar Anderson's in the passenger seat. He takes everything so personally, so be ready for anything."

"Have you met with Stone yet?"

"Not yet," Jayson answered. "First I'm looking over the police reports, the crime scene photos, and so forth, to see what we're up against. Then I'll meet with him to see how he's doing. After that I'm meeting Samira and Omar to talk things over." He stood and buttoned his suit jacket. "Then if there are no objections let's get at it." He pointed at his office manager. "Tenika, we'll probably start getting calls from the media soon. Stall them. Tell them we've just gotten on board and want to get up to speed. If our other clients call, let them know it's business as usual here. I'm still devoting full attention to their cases, you know."

"Right," she said. "Anything else?"

"Yeah," Jayson replied. "Pay extra close attention to keeping me on track with respect to schedules, appearances, dates, time, reminders, all that—for this client and the others. We don't want to give anyone the impression that we're overextended. Send me messages on my e-calendar or call me, whatever you have to do."

"Don't be disturbed by that little voice you hear in your head, chief," Tenika announced. "It's not that you haven't taken your medication. It'll just be me reminding you about an appointment." She glanced at her watch and slowly rose. "Maybe I better get out there and hit the phones. Could even be a potential husband for me."

"Looking to beat a possible five-to-ten stretch for burglary, no doubt," Connie quipped.

"At this point, anything less than rape or murder and we can talk," Tenika retorted. She opened the door, stroked her chin and gazed at the ceiling. "What I need is a nice embezzler. Someone with some money stashed away."

Jayson laughed. "Thanks, Tenika. Go ahead and grab the phones." She closed the door behind her. Next, he addressed his intern. "Victor, I skimmed over at least two dozen newspaper articles about Stone and the investigation and bookmarked them. I'll get them to you in a couple of minutes. I want you to read them over from top to bottom and dig up anything else you can find. Call your friend at the news station and round up any of their stories over the past two years even remotely related to this. Write me up a synopsis." He rolled his eyes. "And please—"

Victor held up his hands. "I know. I know. Keep it short. What else?"

Jayson walked past him and positioned himself on the other end of the table. "According to what I read, Stone wasn't in town long before he got involved in Morgan's Church of the True Savior. Do a search on that fancy computer of yours and find out whatever you can about Morgan and that bunch. I had nothing else to do with them after the court ruling. I want to know what those idiots were up to at the time of the bombing and what they've been up to since." He marched to the door and opened it. "Tenika," he called. "Turn the air conditioner up, would you? It's warm in here." He turned back to Victor. "Get started on the church and I'll get you what you need for the other stuff after I talk to Connie."

Victor backed up his chair and got to his feet, clearly excited. "I'll get on it." At the door, he met Jayson face to face. He stood two inches shorter than Jayson, but at five-ten enjoyed being the tallest person among his circle of Asian law student friends at Northeastern University.

Jayson smiled and put his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Hey, do it like that Hamilton synopsis you gave me last week, only shorter. I know you worked hard on it, and I really appreciate it." He patted Victor on the back. "Go to it." Victor nodded several times, then all but sprinted to his table in the next room.

Jayson closed the door and pivoted to face Connie. They had developed a relationship based on mutual trust, respect and friendship. Still, because the blinds that hung over the connecting door and walls had been raised, he felt reasonably comfortable with the two of them being alone in the room. He also derived comfort from the realization that Connie's eyes, set in her youthful face covered with layers of make-up, had fixated on someone in the office, but not him. Nevertheless, he stayed at the opposite end of the table as he spoke to her. "Victor's a good kid."

Connie glanced at the door and grinned. "Good? He's absolutely adorable. I could just eat him up." She winked. "And I bet I could teach him a couple of things." She wiggled her hips, performing a little dance jig. "Um-hmm, let him get a hold of some of this extra spicy picante sauce and he—"

Jason wagged his index finger. "Now he's a nice boy, Connie. You just keep your claws off him and he'll stay that way."

Connie widened her eyes. "Kid? Boy? He's a young _man_ , Jaymeister, and a real cutie at that. And you know what? He absolutely idolizes you. The other day he asked Tenika where you buy your clothes."

Jayson nodded. "He's gonna be an outstanding lawyer some day."

"He wants to go into criminal law, but his parents want him to go corporate."

"I know. He'll do what's right for him."

Connie grabbed her notebook and pen. "Well, whatcha got for me?"

Jayson leaned on the arm of the chair in front of him. "I'm looking at how to possibly get the DA to go for second degree. I need some ammunition. No premeditation. That kind of thing. Look it up for me. And after I give Victor those news articles, I'm going to give you a few decisions on searches and seizures. Shepardize them and find out if anything's happened recently. Especially check out automobile searches. If those cops found a map in Stone's car lying in clear view, I'm the frickin' pope."

"You got it. Anything else, Your Eminence?"

"Nah. That should keep you busy for a while."

"Jayson, can I ask you something?"

"The answer's no. I pay you all too much as it is."

Connie giggled. "Not that...not today, at least."

"Go ahead."

"What did Renee say about this?"

Jason pulled the chair out and sat. He took a deep breath and stared at the table as he spoke. "She doesn't like it. You know she could become head of anesthesiology pretty soon. She's worried this case will hurt her chances. She's also afraid it'll disrupt our lives like that other one did three years ago."

Connie wiped her forehead with her fingertips. "Whew! What an awful time that was. I remember the angry phone calls and letters and stuff. Remember that box of dog shit somebody sent us in the mail?"

"Yeah, poor Tenika," Jayson said. "I've never seen her so upset. That's one of the reasons I moved the office to Brighton—besides the fact that I needed bigger and better space." He waved his hands in the air as if erasing the memories. "Well, thanks for asking. As the saying goes, 'This too shall pass.' Now let's go do what I hope the state is going to pay us handsomely to do."

Connie sashayed out of the room. Jayson stood and gathered his things while reflecting on Renee's interactions with him since he informed her about the Stone case. She had been polite, but a bit distant. No doubt she had devoted some of her Saturday visit with her parents to complain about his new client. Jayson liked Renee's parents, both successful college professors, but he knew they didn't approve of him completely. Renee had confessed to him years ago that, had her mother and father's desires been met, their daughter—their only child—would have married a corporate attorney; someone who sat in a fancy office on the twentysomething floor of some high rise building. The erudite professors found their son-in-law's association with accused criminals to be somewhat unseemly.

A knock on the door interrupted Jayson's thoughts. He turned and opened it.

Taneka positioned herself halfway inside the conference room. "Some woman's on the phone. Sounds young. Says she wants to talk to you. Wouldn't give her name but she said it's important. She's got a bit of a Spanish accent, I think."

Puzzled, Jayson moved his eyebrows closer together. "You sure she wanted me, not Connie?"

"She asked for _you_."

Jayson checked his watch and brushed by her, heading for his office. "Well, no name, no me. You know the rules, Tenika."

Tenika chased behind him. "I know, but she said it's about your daughter. She said you'd want to talk to her."

A few seconds later Jayson sat at the desk in his office staring at the telephone. It rang once and he picked it up. "Hello, this is Jayson Cook."

"Hello, Jayson. It's been a long time," the soft female voice on the other end said. "This is Leslie. I'm back."

Jayson closed his eyes and ground his teeth together the instant he heard her voice. "That's got nothing to do with me. Don't call me again," he commanded, and hung up. He pressed the intercom button and heard Tenika's familiar and comforting voice. "If that woman calls again, I'm not available," he said. He disengaged the intercom and turned his chair so that his back faced the desk.

Jayson stared out his window at the traffic on Cambridge Street two stories below. The sun shone brightly although not directly into his office. Two flowering pear trees in front of the church across the street had all but completely exchanged their exquisite white spring flowers for shiny green leaves. People hurried about, some in short sleeves and short pants. He watched the young striders—Boston College and Boston University commuter students, and the old amblers—several strolling to or from Saint Elizabeth Hospital up the street.

He swung his chair around and faced his desk again, then lowered his head, resting it in his hands and exhaled deeply. "Goddamn it," he whispered. "Not Leslie."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER FOUR

Jayson joined his daughter on the floor in her bedroom and watched as she arranged her plastic tea set. The unexpected call he had received from Leslie two days before briefly surfaced in his mind, but he chased the thought away by focusing on his surroundings.

He recalled he had disagreed with Renee's decorative choices for Jennifer's room: lilac-colored walls sprinkled with yellow butterflies and flowers, forest green carpet, ensemble cast of dolls and stuffed animals perched on the built-in shelves, white furniture, and so on. Too prissy and soft, he had argued; having a girl didn't mean she had to be a girlie girl. He expected her to excel at sports, climb trees and punch a boy in the mouth if he ever got too fresh. His opinion notwithstanding, he had chosen not to press the issue about Jennifer's room. Being an attorney had taught him to only expend energy fighting important battles.

Jayson returned to the present-day and to his hostess. She spoke over a ballet selection by Beethoven playing on her portable music player, recounting the numerous difficulties of the day: She had been subjected to the indignity of sharing a computer with a boy during science class. Her draw-and-read group had been last to put away its crayons, so she didn't get a front-row spot on the carpet when the teacher read a story. She had gotten her favorite blouse dirty during recess while playing tag. To make matters worse, Mommy, the absent Princess Renee, unaccustomed to packing her meals, had neglected to put a box of raisins in her lunchbox. As a result, Jennifer had suffered the embarrassment of being the only child in her class without a dessert during lunch.

Jayson nodded, acknowledging that being in the first grade indeed entailed numerous challenges. "Tough day, huh?"

"Yes, but we will forget all about that now and just enjoy our tea," Jennifer said, her voice throaty and regal.

Jayson nodded. "Very good, Milady. We'll do just that."

Earlier that morning, he had been reminded personally by "Duchess Jennifer Nicole Cook" that she would be delighted if he would join her for tea later that evening before her bedtime. The Duchess had informed Jayson, who had broken two previous engagements due to unexpected work responsibilities, that she expected him to keep their appointment this time. Before dashing off to the office he had kissed his hostess on the forehead and apologized profusely for having been so remiss. He had reminded the Duchess that he had called both times and advised her of his absence. Nevertheless, he had promised that he would be happy to be her guest at seven-thirty p.m.

"How's your tea, Daddy?" Jennifer asked. With the help of her loyal chambermaid, Magdalena Lopez, she had adorned herself with an assortment of costume jewelry the housekeeper and her mother had loaned her for the occasion. She also donned her "little princess" Halloween costume from the previous year and a pair of white gloves.

Jayson brought the empty teacup to his lips and set it back on its plate. "Oh, it's absolutely marvelous tea, Milady," he gushed. "The best I've ever had, but you shouldn't have gone to so much trouble."

Jennifer smiled. "Oh, it was no trouble. I'm just so glad you could make it."

Jayson clasped his hands together. "I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Thank you ever so much for inviting me."

"You're very welcome," Jennifer said. She reached for the tiny kettle and dangled it in the air. "Would you care for some more tea, Daddy?"

Jayson grabbed his cup and saucer, and held them underneath the kettle. "Don't mind if I do." He watched with pride and abundant love as Jennifer tilted the kettle. "Thank you. You are such a lovely and charming hostess." He noticed the hint of perfume in the air. "And you smell good, too!"

Jennifer drank from her empty cup then set it down. "Daddy..."

"Yes, Milady?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, Milady."

"Why is Granddaddy white and Grandmommy black?"

Jayson arched one of his eyebrows. "What makes you ask that?"

"Well," Jennifer said, "Megan saw them at my ballet recital and asked me. She told me all of her grandparents are white. Well, Grandpa and Grandma—the ones you gave me—are both black. But Granddaddy and Grandmommy—the ones Mommy gave me—are white and black. Why?"

"Megan didn't say anything mean about them, did she?" Jayson inquired.

"No. She just asked why Granddaddy was white but Grandmommy was black."

Jayson leaned on his left side to stretch out on the carpet and rested his face on his balled-up hand. "Remember at Sunday school when you learned that God creates people all kinds of different colors, but He loves them all just the same?"

"Yes," Jennifer said.

"Well, even though people look different, anyone can fall in love and get married," Jayson explained. "The grandparents Mommy gave you have loved each other for many years. Because they loved each other they had Mommy, and because your Mommy and I loved each other we had you." He sat up again. "Remember Mr. and Mrs. Carter at church? The couple who just had their baby dedicated? He's black and she's white."

Jennifer smiled. "They're nice."

Jayson nodded. "Yes, they're very nice."

A knock on the door halted their chat. "Oh your hiiii-ness!" sang the voice with a thick Spanish accent.

"You may enter," the Duchess answered.

Magdalena opened the door and addressed Jayson. "I hate to interrupt but it's time for the Duchess to get ready for bed."

Jennifer frowned. "Already?" She gave her father a pleading look.

Jayson glanced at his watch. "I'm afraid so," he replied and slowly got to his feet. "I had such a wonderful time, Milady," He took her hand in his and kissed it. "I shall definitely inform my wife, the Princess Renee, that she missed a fabulous tea party."

Jennifer threw her arms around his neck and squeezed. "Thank you, Daddy," she whispered.

Jayson wrapped his arms around her and gently lifted her, then kissed her and lowered her back to the floor. "My pleasure," he said, then turned his attention to Magdalena, who smiled with both joy and sadness. Once again, Jayson's heart filled with compassion for his longsuffering housekeeper. He knew she certainly missed her own children terribly. "I'll be up later to tuck the Duchess in."

Magdalena lowered her head. " _Si_. I get her ready."

Jayson patted the woman on the shoulder and walked down the hall. He entered his office and checked the wall clock: seven forty-five. Renee had gone to church choir rehearsal and wouldn't be home until nine. The look on Magdalena's face had reminded him how much his family meant to him. He reflected on the sermon the associate minister at church had preached the previous Sunday. She had admonished the congregation not to let the pursuit of material gain turn their hearts away from God and family. "No one on his or her deathbed will exclaim, 'I wish I had spent more time at work!'" she had advised. Her declaration had elicited several spirited "Amens" from members of the congregation, including Jayson.

Jayson took the familiar position in front of his computer and turned it on. He watched the screen flicker and waited for the machine to start up. Meanwhile, he recalled his visit to Judge O'Hare's chambers and resolved to take care that the Stone case didn't cause undue hardship to his family. But the judge had advised him wisely: If he aspired to the bench, he—and they—would have to learn to live with some inconvenience.

He grabbed the mouse and clicked on his e-mail. One message had sneaked past his spam-blocking software. He deleted the generous offer for reduced-price tablets guaranteed to enlarge his penis and considered whether to disclose to Renee how much a soft, seductive voice he had heard on the telephone two days before had upset him. He mentally rehearsed several scripts but decided against them all. He saw no need to share the secret he had kept from his wife for several years. It would only upset her. He had made a mistake years ago, a lapse in judgment, and now it had come back to haunt him. His indignant rebuke to her notwithstanding, he knew he would surely hear from Leslie again.

•

Two weeks after Jennifer's tea party, Jayson bent over his conference table and leafed through the discovery items for the Stone case. Connie had done a good job initially sorting the material, he remarked to himself, but he wanted to review the information alone. Her incessant chatter could be distracting.

He scanned arrest reports, search warrant documents, investigative reports, witness statements, police reports, crime scene photos, autopsy results, motions by the public defender, motions by the prosecutors, and so on. Three weeks after he had met privately with Judge O'Hare, he had officially been assigned the case. His client hadn't even been present in the courtroom when the judge had made the transfer from the public defender to him. In fact, he and Stone still hadn't met face-to-face. The wheels of justice do indeed turn slowly, Jayson admitted.

He checked the stacks on his conference table. Although the entire harvest appeared to be quite voluminous, he had expected there would actually be more. He suspected he hadn't seen all the available—and legally required—information. The material constituted only what the public defender had been given by the Suffolk county assistant district attorneys; certainly not everything the ADAs had in their possession.

Jayson wondered what kind of person would firebomb a church. As an attorney, he had encountered all kinds of evidence testifying to how horribly human beings could treat each other. He had seen photos of domestic violence victims with black eyes, blood running from their noses and mouths, and x-rays revealing broken bones. He had read psychiatric reports of rape victims who had attempted suicide after their ordeals. He had examined photos of corpses: people who had been beaten, stabbed, poisoned, shot, run over by a car, and thrown off a six-story building.

The victims had been someone's child, someone's parent, someone's spouse, someone's brother or sister, someone's best friend. Jayson had watched defendants in court lower their heads and sob like babies upon hearing how a loved one had been murdered. He had also watched defendants listen to such testimony calmly, displaying as little emotion as one would exhibit while watching paint dry.

Jayson took a seat and read Stone's background information. The man had spent most of his early life in Arkansas. His alcoholic father had run out on his mother shortly before his second birthday. His alcoholic mother had given birth to him shortly after her fortieth birthday. He had been her fourth child. Each of his siblings had a different father, each one willing to buy his mother drinks and give her a place to stay. The woman had eventually been put out of her woefully unhappy existence by a fatal bout with the flu after Stone had turned three.

Following their mother's death, Stone and his half-siblings had been placed in various foster homes. Stone had bounced from one foster home to the next and from one county to the next until his eighteenth birthday. He worked odd jobs in Arkansas, then moved to Tennessee. No reason was given for his relocation. Eventually, he moved to Massachusetts, again with no reason given. The fact that in spite of his unfortunate upbringing he had no previous criminal record surprised and impressed Jayson.

He opened the folder containing the report from the Boston Police Explosives Ordnance Unit, referred to in the department as E.O.U., but still commonly called the Bomb Squad by the public and the news media. The gist of the report indicated the powerful bomb had been constructed with ingredients easily attainable at hardware and home improvement stores. A gallon-sized glass bottle containing gasoline had been placed inside the box containing the explosive device for the purpose of ensuring a fire. A battery-powered digital timer had been used, set to go off precisely at midnight.

Jayson shook his head. Had Veronica Bradley not forgotten to turn off the light in the church's kitchen, or had Reverend Bradley not forgotten a book he needed for his sermon, his daughter would still be alive. He wondered if the reverend tortured himself with guilt.

Jayson reasoned that by setting the bomb to detonate at midnight the culprit hadn't intended to cause death or bodily harm. Therefore, a case could be made for second degree felony murder rather than murder in the first degree.

Next, Jayson picked up a list revealing the results from the search of Brian Stone's drab apartment. Apparently, Stone had amassed a huge assortment of ugly racist literature and media. All of his books, pamphlets, position papers, videos, DVDs and CDs collectively decried how America had lost its way during the 1960s after the law had forced decent, Christian whites to integrate with blacks and other undesirable and inferior races. According to much of the literature and media Stone had absorbed, a long-standing, dastardly plot existed, funded primarily by American Jews, to destroy the United States so Israel could become the next superpower. Jayson shook his head again. Twelve citizens of the Commonwealth serving on a jury would surely loathe a man who endorsed or even entertained such views. His client should definitely not testify on his own behalf.

Jayson looked over a rather damaging acquisition from the search warrant. Stone's hand-drawn map of the church did present a problem. Jayson laughed out loud as he envisioned arguing before a jury that his client had planned to visit Mount Calvary Baptist Church for religious reasons. Better to simply argue that the existence of the map proved nothing.

Another piece of evidence presented the biggest problem for the defense. The police had retrieved a copy of Mount Calvary's church bulletin from Stone's apartment, dated the day of the bombing. Reverend Bradley had informed the police that seventy-five copies of the church bulletins for Sunday had been printed the Friday before the bombing and placed on his desk. He also stated that none of the bulletins had been distributed. Forensic evidence indicated the church had burned to the ground, reducing everything in the reverend's office to piles of ashes. How then, did Stone get a bulletin unless he had been in the building?

"Dumb ass," Jayson whispered. Some stupid criminals just couldn't resist taking a souvenir. It wasn't uncommon for rapists and murderers to cut off a piece of a victim's clothing and hide it in their homes. They'd take out the memento and relive their crime, deriving sick pleasure from doing so. Some even kept journals detailing their acts. More than one criminal had been convicted because of the existence of a "trophy room." Such evidence could be next to impossible to challenge. _Next to_ , but not entirely impossible, Jayson thought. His client might have entered the church and taken a bulletin—perhaps as a prank—but that didn't mean he had planted the bomb.

Jayson reviewed copies of a few bomb-making documents taken from Stone's apartment. It surprised him that even after the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, and the passing of subsequent anti-terrorism laws, almost anyone with a computer and a credit card could obtain ample information on how to make a bomb. Jayson read through a copy of the three-page table of contents for one book. It featured an arsenal of homemade explosives recipes: pipe bombs, grenades, napalm, smoke bombs, bomb launchers, detonators, the works. Well, Jayson reasoned, a loner's fascination with explosives didn't mean he had acted on it.

Jayson took a deep breath, stood, and finally reached to the far side of the table for the pile he had been avoiding for two hours. He opened the coroner's report and felt his heartbeat accelerate and his palms become sweaty. He forced himself to look at the first picture.

There it—or she—was, on the medical examiner's table—the blackened corpse of twelve-year-old Veronica Bradley. She looked like a match after it had burned itself out.

Jayson closed his eyes. "Lord Jesus, give peace to that poor child's soul," he prayed. For a few seconds he thought of his precious daughter and how he would feel if her body lay on that cold, stainless steel table. He opened his eyes, took a deep breath and reminded himself that his loyalty rested with his client, not the victim.

He read the report. No surprises. Death had been instantaneous. The girl never knew what hit her. He closed the file and tossed it back onto the other side of the table. Nothing there that would help but plenty that would hurt. Fortunately for his client, the judge would allow the coroner's written report to be seen by the jury, but not the photos. Too inflammatory—pardon the gallows humor.

Jayson returned to his seat and lowered his head. It would be a difficult case in more ways than one. The prosecution had gotten an eighteen-month head start. He had a very unpopular client due to his racist views. The story had received a great deal of pre-trial publicity. Finally, from what the judge and both previous public defenders had told him, his client could be uncooperative.

Jayson checked his watch and the clock on the wall, then threw a few papers into his briefcase. Time for the main attraction. He walked to the door and opened it. "Connie, can I see you, please?" He leaned against the door to keep it open.

His always-ebullient paralegal strutted into the room. As usual, her skirt hung a bit shorter than he thought it should for a law office; and, as usual, he said nothing about it. "You rang?" she asked.

Jayson pointed at the table. "You did a good job of sorting the stuff the PDs sent over."

"Thanks."

"I rearranged things just a bit, nothing serious. Pile everything back into the boxes, keep them organized and," he lowered his voice, "make sure Tenika doesn't see those pics."

Connie grimaced as if she had just sucked on a lemon. "I know," she whispered. "They're terrible, aren't they?"

"Yeah," Jayson said. He stepped away from the door and spoke to Connie as it slowly closed. "I'm off to the County Jail to meet Brian Stone."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER FIVE

Jayson waited patiently in the tiny conference room at the Suffolk County Jail, located in downtown Boston. The off-white walls, harsh overhead lighting, and sparse furniture—a table and two chairs—gave the space a sterile feel. The facility faced the Charles River and had opened in 1990. The architects had designed it with a contemporary look relying more on thick glass rather than iron bars for security. However, in the space where Jayson sat, the upper third of two doors on opposite sides of the room contained the only glass available. One door led to the outside section, where visitors checked in and underwent processing. The other door led deeper into the building where the detainees were housed.

Jayson had sat in similar rooms throughout the facility many times. He had met men—and even a few women—accused of various crimes, including offenses of notorious depravity and cruelty. Most of the clients he met at the jail were indigent. Affluent people could raise money for bail. Accused white-collar criminals, through their attorneys, made arrangements to turn themselves in with assurance they would be released after being fingerprinted and booked. They would appear later at their arraignments—usually two days following their arrest—dressed in business attire and constantly glancing at their watches because they had other appointments that day.

Jayson's clientele included the indigent and the affluent, although over the past few years he had represented many more of the latter. Alleged embezzlers paid significant retainers up front. Accused drug dealers could also be especially generous, not uncommonly doling out their retainers in cash. Jayson had found it increasingly difficult to represent indigent clients because he was incapable of merely going through the motions for those who had little money. He usually worked seventy to eighty hours a week, including weekend work at home, so his per-hour rate dropped precipitously for a poor client.

He took very seriously the law's requirement that both the rich and the poor be given a fair trial, and that the state must prove the guilt of the accused beyond a reasonable doubt. He believed every client deserved his best efforts. As far as Jayson was concerned, Brian Stone had a legal presumption of innocence unless and until twelve impartial jurors declared him guilty. He also took very seriously his obligation to prevent them from reaching such a verdict.

Jayson reached into his briefcase, grabbed a fresh legal pad and a couple of folders, and dropped them on the table. He eased his hand inside the pocket of his suit and retrieved a gold-plated pen engraved with his initials. He examined the pen and snickered, remembering he had received the expensive gift several years before from a grateful client with a long history of arrests for shoplifting. Jayson had helped the woman beat the rap on a technicality. The note accompanying the pen had read, "Thanks for everything. Just a little something I picked up and thought you would like."

Primed and ready to go, Jayson glanced at the door leading into the detainees' unit like a racecar driver waiting for the green light. The door was opened and two clean-shaven white men stepped into the room: a little man in a blue jail uniform escorted by a short but husky jail officer. The hairy-armed, middle-aged officer wore a white, short-sleeved shirt and clutched a large set of keys in his right hand. He bid Jayson good afternoon. Jayson returned his greeting.

"We know this is the first meeting for you two, so take all the time you need—within reason," the officer said.

"Thank you," Jayson replied. He watched the man leave and after hearing the familiar sound of the door being locked, extended his hand to Stone. "I'm Jayson Cook, your new attorney." Stone shook Jayson's hand without apparent reservation or emotion. Jayson pointed at the table. "Sit down. We've got a lot of work to do."

Stone took his position at the table, exposing his right profile to the inside door. Jayson sat with his back to the same door, as was his practice. Just in case a detainee became violent, he'd be able to jump out of his seat, backpedal to the door and bang on it, summoning immediate intervention from the jail officers. In his entire career as an attorney, however, such action had never been necessary.

"So," Stone opened, "at last we meet. I've been looking forward to this." His Arkansas drawl filled the room like the heat and humidity in his home state during July.

Jayson raised his eyebrows. "You have?"

"Yes," Stone declared. "Well, given my situation, at this point I'm glad to be meeting anybody." His face remained stoic in spite of his apparent attempt at levity.

Jayson etched a slight smile on his face. "Well, I'm glad you've been able to keep your sense of humor." He dangled his pen over the pad, prepared to write. "Is there anything I can do for you? Call a member of your family, perhaps?" He always opened with that offer to establish himself as someone willing to help. He half expected his short, twenty-five-year-old, baby-face client to ask for a glass of milk.

Stone shook his head. "Thank you, no. I'm afraid I have no family these days."

Jayson set his pen on top of the paper. "Well, is there anything you need? Are they treating you alright here?"

Stone shrugged. "They're keeping me in the Protective Custody Unit for my own safety. My fellow 'residents' are mostly suspected informants and child molesters. But generally everybody leaves me alone and I do the same. The story of my life, Mr. Cook."

"Okay," Jayson said. "May I call you Brian?" His client nodded. "Call me Jayson, with a Y." He picked up his pen again. "Tell me, Brian. About three weeks ago Judge O'Hare asked me to take this case. He said that you and two public defenders hadn't gotten on very well. I'd like to know what happened and why you specifically asked for me."

Stone winced, showing the first sign of emotion. "What happened, Jayson with a Y, is that both of them hated the sight of me," he declared calmly and shook his finger. "The first one, that woman, she could barely make eye contact with me. And she kept telling me to plead guilty." He held up two fingers and continued. "The same with the second one, the curly-haired man who looked barely old enough to shave. He acted the same way. They kept advising me to plead guilty. Didn't want the air they were breathing polluted by having to sit next to me. Neither of them had the time or interest to even listen to what I had to say."

Jayson listened. The man hadn't presented himself the way he had anticipated. Stone had no college education but appeared to be intelligent. Despite his thick accent, he didn't fit the profile of the stereotypical redneck racist. Jayson decided it would serve no purpose to defend the public defenders. "Okay. Where do I fit in? Why ask for me?"

Stone shifted in his chair. "Because you're a respected man in this town, counselor. Mr. Morgan said you fought for his rights and the church even after you got stuck with the case when that Jew lawyer took sick."

"Professor Greenberg."

"What?"

"His name is Professor Seth Greenberg. And I never would have gotten involved if he hadn't asked me."

"Right." Stone held up his hands. "Now don't get me wrong. We don't have anything against you people—or Jews either. We just think things would be better if everybody just keeps to their own and stop mixing."

Jayson nodded. "I see." He had no interest in pursuing the discussion but resolved to keep his client away from the sound bite-hungry media under all circumstances. He could just see Stone's sentiments as they would look on the local evening news. "Well, Brian," he continued, "the fact is, I'm your lawyer and you can be assured I'm going to do everything I can to see to it that all of your rights are protected and you're treated fairly throughout this process." He paged through the papers inside a folder. "I understand you've been denied bail and have been here for about a year and a half."

"Yeah. That judge says I might take off if I was released, so they're keeping me here." Stone widened his eyes. "Any chance you can get me out on bail?"

"Do you have any way to raise money? A car or something you can sell?"

Stone chuckled. "If I had any money, would I be needing a free lawyer?"

"What I'm trying to tell you is I could file a motion for a bail hearing," Jayson replied, "but what would be the point if the judge reduced your bail to say, a hundred thousand dollars, which is the least he would set it? You'd have to come up with ten percent of that to be released." He sorted through his papers and found the public defender's notes on Stone's two previous bail hearings. "Getting bail would be a long shot anyway. You've got no job anymore. No money. No family. In the court's mind you have no ties; nothing to keep you here." Jayson slipped the paper back into the folder. "Better to spend our energy on your defense."

Stone shrugged again. "Well, no harm asking."

Jayson pointed at the ceiling. "Now here are a few important rules I'm sure you already heard from your previous lawyers. First, watch what you say here. Don't tell anyone anything you wouldn't want to see on the news the next day. Talk about the weather, the Red Sox's chances this year, some TV model's big boobs, whatever, but don't reveal anything about your case or anything you and I talk about, and don't volunteer information about yourself or your political views. You'd be surprised what the district attorney can use against you later on. Understand?"

"It's not like I make a whole lot of friends wherever I go," Stone answered dryly.

"Speaking of that," Jayson said, "is there anybody who'd be willing to speak on your behalf? A friend you made when you were working at the hospital or someone back home or a girlfriend or somebody?"

Stone shook his head. "No, nobody."

"There must be someone you've connected with over the—"

"What part of 'nobody' don't you understand?"

Jayson held up his hands. "Okay, okay. I'm just looking for something, anything that might help." He made a mental note to explore Stone's personal life more closely when he got back to the office. The man's inability to form close relationships clearly caused him great distress. Jayson had seen it many times—loners seething with anger, blaming everyone else for their situation rather than themselves. These were the types who set fires, committed rape, vandalized property—and perhaps planted bombs.

Stone sighed. "I learned long time ago not to depend on anyone. Don't get too close to people, you know? They only make fun or let you down or betray you."

Jayson nodded. "It's okay for now. If you think of someone, let me know."

"You'll be the first."

"Let's move on," Jayson suggested. "Tell me about what happened when the police stopped your car."

Stone scrunched up his face. "Don't you want to know if I'm guilty or innocent?"

Jayson shrugged. "It doesn't matter to me. What _is_ important is what the state can prove. From what I can tell, they've built a very solid case, but it's entirely circumstantial. There are no witnesses who can testify they saw you plant the bomb." He tapped on the table with his pen. "Their whole case rests on your unpopular political beliefs, the map allegedly retrieved from your car and a church bulletin that allegedly places you inside the church sometime before the explosion. But the law says you're innocent until the state proves otherwise."

Stone looked the room over and stretched out his arms. "I'll keep that in mind when I go back to my cell." He dropped his arms. "Okay, what do you want to know about when the police stopped me?"

"Just what happened."

"Well, I was driving north on Washington Street, you know, right near Dedham, and—"

"What time was it?"

"About nine, maybe nine-thirty in the evening."

"Coming from where?"

"A meeting with some friends."

Jayson took a deep breath. "We don't have time to waste, Brian. You don't have any friends. Who were you with?"

Stone's tensed up his face. "Mr. Morgan and some guys from the church."

"Oh, that bunch. Go on."

"Well, I'm driving and the police just pull me over."

"Why?"

"They say I weaved close to the center line and didn't come to a complete stop before I turned right at a red light."

"Did you?"

"No, because the light was green, not red," Stone insisted. "Then these two cops stand, one on each side of the car. They shine their flashlights into the car and ask me for my driver's license and stuff, you know. Then they tell me to get out. One of them, the older white guy gives me a sobriety test; you know, recite the alphabet, close my eyes, hold out my hands and touch my nose, then—"

"Had you been drinking?"

"Just one beer. That's all."

"Did you tell the officers that?"

Stone looked embarrassed. "Well, they asked, so I told them the truth. I guess looking back I shouldn't have."

Jayson continued to write. "That's okay. Keep going."

"Then the other one, the um, how do your people say?" He smirked. "The African American female?" He paused, clearly enjoying himself, and continued. "She gives the older white guy a piece of paper and whispers something to him, and he holds it up in his hand and says, 'Well, look what we found sitting on the front seat in plain view!'"

Jayson chose to ignore Stone's baiting. "Let me guess, a hand-drawn map of a neighborhood in Roxbury with details about the perimeter of the Mount Calvary Baptist Church."

Stone pointed at Jayson. "I can explain."

Jayson held up his hands. "Not yet. What I want to know is did you draw that map all by yourself? Just yes or no only, please."

"Yes."

"And was the map sitting on the passenger seat in plain view?"

Stone balled up his fist. "No, it was in the glove box."

Jayson paused to organize his thoughts. "Okay, I want to know about the church bulletin, but before I do let me tell you about a client I once had."

Stone looked puzzled. "Okay, if you say so."

Jayson scratched his hairless chin. "There was this kid accused of murder. He was a member of a gang. He was charged as an adult with killing another boy, a member of a rival gang. There was evidence indicating my client had been in the boy's apartment. See, he had in his possession the victim's prized possession—a home run baseball the victim had caught and gotten autographed at a Red Sox game when he was a kid."

"Didn't that pretty much close the deal?" Stone asked. "I mean, they could place him at the scene of the crime and all."

Jayson shook his head. "It would have if we'd gone into court and swore he was never in the apartment. We couldn't deny my client had been in the apartment, but we tried to plant reasonable doubt into the jurors' minds. My client admitted he had been there, but explained that he hadn't been involved in the murder. He had broken into the apartment earlier that day and taken the ball as an admittedly mean-spirited prank."

"And they bought it?"

Jayson nodded. "Fortunately, the victim had been furious about the theft and had called two people, cussing about it. We called them as witnesses."

"What happened? To your client, I mean?"

"The prosecutors argued the boy must have returned later and killed the other boy, but the jury found him not guilty."

Stone cackled. "I knew you were a smart one!"

Jayson frowned. "A smart one?"

Stone winced. "I didn't mean nothing by it. You're the last person I want angry with me. I mean, my life's in your hands."

Jayson leaned forward. "Like I said, I'm your lawyer and will do everything I can to afford you every legal protection our system offers. But I'm also an officer of the court. I can't suborn perjury."

This time Stone frowned. "What's that?"

"I can't put someone on the witness stand if I know he or she is going to lie under oath," Jayson answered. "My point is if we go into court and say you don't know anything about the church, had never been there, so on and so forth, the only thing that's gonna keep a jury from bringing in a quick guilty verdict is if they were looking forward to a fancy meal paid for by the state." He leaned closer and stared at Stone. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?" He waited, aware the next move had to be Stone's. He had gone as far as he could without actually coaching the young man on what to say.

Both men sat quietly for a few seconds. Stone rolled his eyeballs from side to side. A jail officer checked the room through the door behind Jayson and quickly disappeared. Stone glanced at the officer then returned his attention to his attorney. Finally, he cleared his throat and answered. "Yeah, I think so."

Jayson nodded. He recognized the two men had reached an uneasy alliance, built on a shared goal. Stone wanted a fierce advocate who would fight for his life. Jayson wanted to win. He shook his pen. "Good. Now let's move on to the search warrant."

"Do you think I should testify?" Stone asked. He scratched his head, which was covered with a thick mop of short black hair.

"Absolutely not," Jayson replied, his voice slightly elevated. "If you get on that witness stand the prosecutor will tear you apart and there'd be nothing I could do to prevent it."

"But we don't have any kind of defense," Stone protested. "If I can't testify, what witnesses can our side put on?" His voice indicated anxiety and fear.

Jayson leaned even closer and whispered. "Brian, if this does go to trial, we're not going to put on any witnesses at all."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER SIX

Jayson jotted down a few notes on a legal pad while Samira Rahmani and Omar Anderson, two assistant district attorneys, outlined their ostensibly ironclad case against Brian Stone. The meeting, the first serious discussion between the combatants-to-be, took place at the Suffolk County District Attorney's Office, which like so many other court-related buildings, occupied a space in downtown Boston. Because she worked the prestigious Homicide Unit, Rahmani enjoyed the privilege of a larger office than most of her colleagues. However, it appeared much smaller due to a score of white boxes stacked throughout the room.

One end of Rahmani's desk hugged the wall, so the lawyers claimed the three available sides. Rahmani sat behind the desk, Anderson took the spot to her right and Jayson made himself comfortable in a sturdy but old wooden chair opposite Rahmani. She and Jayson drank Iranian tea from small, clear glasses with no handles, as was the Iranian custom. Anderson drank from a twenty-ounce bottle of distilled water.

Jayson listened politely. He had met his client for the first time only a week before and still didn't consider himself quite up to speed. He didn't mind Rahmani and Anderson "wolfing"—as he called it—about their case. Such posturing was standard, part of the attorney negotiating game. Opposing counsel delineated why each would beat the crap out of the other in court. After exhausting themselves with saber rattling they would frequently negotiate a mutually agreeable plea. In this case, however, Jayson offered very little rebuttal to his counterparts' admonishments. He knew they held a huge advantage and thought it best to obtain rather than divulge much information.

Jayson had learned in previous dealings with her that Rahmani could be very clever and resourceful. She had the highest conviction rate in the Unit and possessed a seemingly inexhaustible supply of last minute tricks. Still, he liked her personally and considered the handsome, thirty-five-year-old woman, who grew up in America, to be a very worthy opponent.

He held a less favorable opinion of her partner. Anderson just seemed to have been born with a dark cloud over his bald head. The man fit the stereotype of the crusading but self-absorbed prosecutor whose public cries of moralistic outrage masked burning political ambition. Rather than bonding with him as a brother—a fellow African American male attorney—Jayson found Anderson to be sanctimonious and judgmental toward those who didn't share his views on race and religion.

Rahmani studied a thick, open folder as she finished explaining why Stone couldn't escape justice. She closed the folder and after a few seconds of silence, glanced at Anderson, who nodded, apparently indicating a mutual understanding between them. Rahmani cleared her throat. "In spite of the fact this is a slam dunk," she said, "we're willing to let your client plead to felony murder two."

Jayson slowly sat more upright. He had anticipated the offer but decided to stay with his "less-said-the-better" strategy. "Murder two," he repeated.

"We've got you both by the short hairs," Anderson chimed in, "but a lot of people don't want this whole thing dragged back up again."

"Face it, Jayson, this one's a lost cause anyway," Rahmani added. "We're just trying to save you a lot of trouble." The woman folded her hands, displaying fingers adorned with burgundy nail polish, and rested them on her desk.

Jayson put his right hand over his heart. "That's so kind of you, Samira. That's one thing I'm always telling my friends about going up against you and Omar here." He tilted his head in the man's direction. "You two are always working hard to save me a lot of trouble." He took a sip of the bitter tea, placed it on the desk and regretted having declined his hostess's earlier offer of two sugar lumps rather than one.

"Believe me, Jayson, Samira's giving you a gift," Anderson insisted. "If it were up to me your client wouldn't get shit."

"But it's not up to you, Omar, is it?" Jayson asked. He knew he shouldn't needle the man, but couldn't help himself. The thirty-eight-year-old assistant district attorney seemed to be stuck in the passenger seat when it came to trying big cases, which he attributed to racism within the District Attorney's Office. Jayson believed it had more to do with his temperament and personality.

Anderson adjusted the gold, wire-framed glasses on his hairless face and scowled. "You don't have an ace up your sleeve this time, Jayson. There's no ignorant jury for you to fool."

Jayson smirked. "It's interesting you used the words ignorant and fool, Omar."

"Now cut it out you two," Rahmani said. "This isn't getting us anywhere."

"Well, he started it," Anderson whined.

"I'm sorry, my brother," Jayson moaned, his voice laced with exaggerated sympathy. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"As one black man to another, I don't understand how you can live with yourself," Anderson said. "Stone's the devil himself."

"Well, don't strain yourself trying to understand too much, Omar, m'man."

"I said stop it!" Rahmani commanded.

Jayson laughed. "Okay, I'm done. Really." He reached for his tea, sniffed it and set it back on the desk. "Seriously, according to my client, you wouldn't budge an inch. It was first degree all the way. Why so generous all of a sudden?" He turned his profile to Rahmani and cut his eyes in her direction. "It wouldn't be you're hiding something, would it?"

Anderson stood. He tugged on the suit jacket covering his nearly six-feet frame and stepped to his partner's side of the desk. "I told you he wouldn't be reasonable, Samira. Let's just bury that child killer with all we've got and put that son of a bitch under the jail for life."

Rahmani turned in her chair and pushed the thick hair away from her eye. She leaned back to address Anderson. "Believe me, I'm only sorry we're not in Iran. Because if we were, he'd been put to death by now."

Jayson smiled. "Probably, but would this have been _before_ or _after_ an Iranian court put some poor unmarried girl to death for having gotten pregnant—after they tortured her into recanting her claim that she had been raped?"

Rahmani turned and smiled. "Touché, counselor. Now that we've all gotten in our obligatory jabs, can we get back to business?"

Jayson grabbed his glass of tea and, in a gesture of good will, took another sip. "I've got my gun in my holster but I'm keeping my hand on it, just in case." He glanced at Anderson. "Again, why the offer?"

Anderson scowled again. "What difference does it make?"

Rahmani leaned forward. "The mayor and the DA have been talking," she confessed. "They think a long, drawn out trial would be bad for the city's image, you know? Those clips of white Boston parents in the seventies shouting at a busload of black kids still occasionally play on the news even though it happened literally generations ago."

Jayson nodded. "I see. So I'm to convince my client to plead guilty to murder two so the city of Boston doesn't get a black eye." He chuckled. "Or white eye, depending on how you look at it."

"Yeah," Anderson said. "I guess the powers that be have been calculating how much the whole thing would cost the taxpayers: extra security during the trial, the trial itself, multiple appeals, you know. I guess they think it would save everybody some serious money."

"Hmm-hmm," Jayson replied. "Saving money is good for the city, but it'd be my client rotting in jail for the rest of his life."

"C'mon, Jayson," Rahmani said. "You know he'd probably get out in twenty or twenty-five years. He's what? Twenty-four? He'd be in his forties or fifties; not too old to still salvage something out of his life."

Anderson pointed at Jayson. "That's more than he deserves. The little Bradley girl doesn't have a life to look forward to."

Jayson rubbed his chin. "I respect your offer. I've discussed this possibility with my client when I met him last week, and I don't think he'd be interested. You've been sitting on this for nineteen months or so. It's still pretty early in the game for us."

Anderson pointed again. "It's a goddamn good deal. If I were you I'd go to my client and convince him to take it."

Jayson took a deep breath. "Well, we'll think it over but we're still looking over the evidence. I want to talk to the arresting officers, pour through the stuff you gave his PDs some more. I've got a couple of motions in mind, you know the drill."

Rahmani nodded. "I understand, Jayson. We can probably keep the offer on the table for a little while."

"Yeah, but we're not gonna fuck around with you two for long," Anderson announced, spitting his words.

Jayson turned to his left. "What's your problem, Omar? You still pissing in your pants because of that Clemente case?"

"Your client killed that boy and you know it."

"I don't know that and neither do you—and obviously the jury didn't think so."

"Now don't you two start up again."

"That jury was fooled by your slick talk," Anderson insisted.

Jayson pointed at himself. "I'm not the one who hung his whole case on that baseball."

Anderson shook his finger. "A boy—a young black boy—was killed and the murderer got away with it because he had a crafty lawyer who—"

"Did his homework, unlike the ADA who handled the case."

"You arrogant ass shyster!"

Rahmani stood. "Omar, why don't you let me talk to Jayson for a couple of minutes alone?" She opened her hand, gesturing at the door. "Please?"

Anderson frowned, apparently embarrassed. "Well, I guess it wouldn't do any harm. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. I could use a bit of fresh air anyway." He stormed out of the room and slammed the door.

Rahmani stepped around her desk and stopped a few inches from where Jayson sat. She leaned against the desk and folded her arms. "Jayson, you're not like this with anyone else but Omar. What is it between you two?"

Jayson shrugged. "I don't know. The guy just bugs me—and he ought to lighten up on that aftershave."

"You know he's going through a tough time. Why don't you give him a break?"

Jayson leaned back in his chair. "Hey, nobody forced him to marry that woman." He scowled. "Falling in love with the sister of a victim in a case he's trying? What was she, a waitress?" He rolled his eyes. "Now don't get me wrong, she was about as fine as they come, but hell, the woman was what—twenty-three or something? Anybody with eyes could've told him he was asking for trouble."

Rahmani sighed. "I know, but it destroyed him when she left. He's trying to put his life back together." She walked past Jayson to the other side of the room and inspected the plants sitting in front of the window. "You men, you're all alike. Thinking with the little head instead of the big one all the time."

Jayson sensed pain in her voice. He stood and reached for the two-year-old photograph on the desk. The glowing faces caused him to smile: Rahmani, with her long hair uncovered as always, her husband, and their then four-year-old son and two-year-old daughter, during happier times. He gently lowered the picture. "Why don't you tell Amir to cut down on those business trips and stay home more with his lovely wife and kids?"

Rahmani spoke but continued to face her plants. "He's too obsessed with building his empire to listen to a woman, unless she's looks like..." She paused for a few seconds and shook her head. "He's still an Iranian man, even if he has spent most of his life here." She spun around and returned to her official demeanor. "About Stone; it's a good deal, Jayson. We've got him by the balls and you know it. All that racist garbage, the map, the church bulletin. He's toast." She strolled past Jayson to the other side of the desk but remained standing. "You've pleaded guilty before when you were dealt low cards."

Jayson nodded. "True, but I haven't turned over all my cards yet to see what I've got."

"Alright then, counselor," Rahmani said, her voice indicating the onset of more "wolfing." "But if you don't take this offer soon, Stone's gonna go down hard. Then as Omar would say, it's life without parole in max bending over for a few of your biggest, meanest brothers."

"I'll talk to my client and get back to you," Jayson replied.

"Hey, off the record. How do you feel, representing this racist bastard?"

Jayson shrugged. "You know me, I never let my personal feelings interfere with doing my job. As far as I'm concerned, he's just another defendant _you_ have to prove guilty."

"Okay, if you say so."

"I say so."

"Let me add this," Rahmani said. "When that bomb went off two years ago the feds used it as an excuse to pick up dozens of my people—and other Middle Eastern men—for questioning under the guise of looking for terrorists."

"I heard," Jayson said. He grabbed his briefcase and walked to the door. "It wasn't right."

"Well," Rahmani said, "I'm just letting you know I might not be as wound up as Omar, but if we go to trial, for all the trouble he caused, I'm gonna make it my personal mission to send your client up for the rest of his worthless life."

Jayson opened the door and made a half-turn to respond. "Well then, we can't say you didn't warn us."

•

Twenty minutes after his meeting at the district attorney's office, Jayson put his mobile phone to his ear. "Tenika, speak up, will ya? I'm downtown, not standing next to you in the office, you know." He enjoyed the relief the multistoried, cold cement parking garage offered from the warm June afternoon sun. He walked briskly, clutching his phone in one hand and his briefcase in the other, but continued inspecting his surroundings to ensure his personal safety. "Tenika, what's the matter with you? Why you sounding so strange? Is everything all right?" Suddenly all kinds of wild thoughts entered his mind. What if some disgruntled former client had just gotten out of prison, come to the office armed with a gun and taken everyone—"

"Can you hear me now?" Tenika asked.

"Yeah, what the hell's going on?"

"I'm in your office with the door closed," Tenika said.

"What for? Why aren't you at your desk?"

"There's a woman in the waiting area."

"What woman?"

"A slutty looking woman with a slight Spanish accent. She's wearing a slight skirt to match." An uncomfortable silence followed her description. "Jayson, you still there?"

"Yeah, I'm still here."

Tenika added more. "You know, the one who's been calling here for the past month. The one you've been giving the bum's rush to. She said her name's Leslie."

Jayson closed his eyes and groaned as if a sharp object had struck him in the chest. "I'll be a son of a..." he whispered. "What did she say?"

"She just said she wants to see you."

"Did she say what it was about?"

"She said you'd know."

"Didn't you tell her I wasn't in?"

"No, I told her you were in your office taking a nap," Tenika answered, her voice peppered with playful sarcasm. "Of course I told her you weren't in."

"And?"

"She said she'll wait until you get back."

"Damn it."

"What do you want me to do?" Tenika asked. "I mean, she's not dangerous or nothing, is she? I mean, she's not gonna whip out a gat and go crazy, is she?"

"No, nothing like that," Jayson replied. He reached his Jaguar and paused at the door to consider his options. "Um, tell her I won't be coming back to the office today. Then call my five o'clock appointment and reschedule. If you can't reach him, ask Connie to stay late and talk to him. She'll know what to do."

"Then what? What about this Leslie character?"

"Let her sit there," Jayson answered. "She doesn't have an appointment so no one owes her anything. If you can't reach my five o'clock and he shows, can you stay and close up with Connie?"

"Sure, but Victor's here. I could ask him."

Jayson imagined Connie finally getting Victor alone in the office. "No, I'd prefer if _you_ stayed with Connie. She might be, um, a little nervous about being alone with a man."

"Ha!" Tenika laughed. "Since when?"

"Would you just do as I ask, please?"

"Okay," Tenika said. "But you know, Jayson, go ahead and fire me for saying this, but I thought you were different. Not like other men."

Jayson could hear the profound disappointment and loss of respect for him in the woman's voice, but had neither the time nor the inclination to explain himself. "Call me back after she leaves. Got that?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks. Bye." He pressed the button on his phone and ended the call. "This can't be frickin' happening to me!" he exclaimed.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER SEVEN

Jayson listened to a stock market report on the radio as he backed into the thirty-feet-long driveway at his home and parked the car. He had to drive the car forward and back it up again to make sure he had left enough room for Renee to have a clear shot at her side of the garage. He turned off the radio but couldn't recall what he had just heard. Did the woman with the British accent just report that the Dow Jones had been up or down by twenty-nine points? It didn't matter. He certainly had more important issues on his mind.

All during his crawl home through rush hour traffic his thoughts had repeatedly returned to his conversation with Tenika. Apparently, Leslie, unsuccessful over the past month at reaching him on the telephone, had decided to risk an unannounced visit on his turf. The woman had some nerve, Jayson thought, coming to his office after they had agreed she would never do such a thing. She had embarrassed him and diminished the respect a loyal member of his staff held for him. Jayson turned off his vehicle's air conditioner and speculated about the woman's reasons for wanting to see him. Of course, he guessed, there could be only one thing she wanted.

Jayson reached for the garage door opener attached to the car's sun visor but hesitated. Although he had no additional appointments scheduled, he wondered if he might have to leave the house shortly. Should he put the car in the garage? If he did leave the car outside with the windows up it could be over a hundred degrees inside when he returned to it later. He sat in the car, unsure of what to do next.

He watched his neighbor's buxom, flirtatious, seventeen-year-old daughter saunter to the curb to check the mailbox. She wore a halter-top blouse and a pair of denim shorts. Her appearance made Jayson uncomfortable so he averted his eyes by checking his watch. An accusation of being the big bad _black_ wolf leering at some white teenage girl would be the last thing he needed.

It was a little after five-thirty but Tenika hadn't called him yet to report that Leslie had left the office. That meant Tenika's attempt to cancel his five o'clock appointment—a client's corroborating witness who had to be interviewed—had been unsuccessful. It would be at least another half-hour before he would hear from his office manager. Jayson closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He had a brutal headache. He finally got out of the car and squinted under the glare of the hot sun.

"Hello, Mr. Cook," the neighbor girl called. She waved.

"Hi, Doris," Jayson said. He waved back.

"Kinda warm for this time of year," she declared. Too warm for you to be in that suit."

"Yeah, you're right," Jayson agreed.

He turned his back to the girl, opened the car's backseat door, grabbed his briefcase, and slammed both car doors closed. Thankfully, Doris headed back to her home. Jayson walked to the edge of his driveway and inspected the work on the front yard the lawn care crew had performed earlier that day. The thick grass had been cut and the underground sprinklers had come on during the afternoon. People in the town of Belmont took pride in their lawns, Jayson recognized. Well, he concluded, the Cook's property could compare favorably to any home in the neighborhood.

As he approached his front door Jayson noticed that Jennifer had left her bicycle in the walkway, all but blocking the entrance. He had told her more than once in the past not to do that. Already irritated about the intruder at his office, he felt himself getting a little annoyed at his daughter.

He entered the front door and immediately smelled Magdalena's cooking. He remembered he had mentioned to her a few days ago that he and his family enjoyed the fancy recipes from her many cooking classes, for which he and Renee had paid. What had they eaten the previous night, fillets of lamb with onion sauce? However, sometimes, he had suggested to Magdalena, he just wanted something simple for dinner like hamburgers or baked chicken.

Although he had made the statement to Magdalena as deftly as he could, adding it would mean less work for her, he could still see the slight expression of hurt on his proud housekeeper's face. He understood that Magdalena's personal unhappiness contributed to her desire to keep busy, hence her near obsession with making Renee, Jennifer and him happy. Nevertheless, just as at work, he could pull rank sometimes and simply issue a directive that had to be followed.

Jayson entered the house and checked the stack of unopened mail on the table next to the door. Just the usual: bills, appeals for money from charities, and catalogues. He walked through the huge living room and winced at the sight of some buffoonish cartoon characters on the forty-two-inch television screen chasing each other. He counted four of Jennifer's dolls, along with various accessories, on the floor in front of the TV, but no Jennifer. Because of the open design of the house, with no walls separating the kitchen from the living room, he could see Magdalena putting dishes into the dishwasher. She had her back to him. "Um, Magda?" he called from a few feet away so not to startle her.

She turned, straightened up and smiled. " _Señor_ , er, Mr. Cook, you are home early today." She clapped her hands. "It's good. Dr. Cook be home soon too so family eat dinner together." She pointed at the warming tray on the stove and beamed. "I make you hamburgers—special recipe, and coleslaw—homemade, and french fries. You like, yes?"

Jayson smiled and nodded. "Yes. It looks very tasty. Thank you, Magda."

"I move everything so family eat outside, yes?"

Jayson noticed that Magdalena had already set the kitchen table for dinner rather than the table on the deck. "No, we'll just eat inside."

"You have tea some more with Duchess Jennifer?"

Jayson shook his head. "No, I have, um, some work to do in the office upstairs, so Connie's taking my five o'clock appointment." He inspected the kitchen and spotted Jennifer's drawing pad and a box of crayons on the breakfast table. "Speaking of the Duchess," he said, "where is she? Her bike's in the walkway." He pointed at the table. "And I bet that's not your pad and crayons. And how come the TV's on and her dolls are all over the floor? I don't think they're watching those stupid cartoons."

Magdalena stared at the carpeted floor. "Um, she upstairs in her room. I tell her pick up her things already."

"And?"

"She say okay but she not do yet."

"Is that right?" Jayson replied, feeling himself getting even more annoyed. He did an about-face and marched to the stairs. As his foot touched the first step he called back into the kitchen. "How many times did you tell her to pick up her things, Magda?"

"Um, not so sure, Mr. Cook."

Jayson removed his foot from the first stair. "How many times, Mag-da-len-a?"

"Um, maybe two or three times."

"It can't be both."

"Three times."

Jayson walked back into the kitchen. "Three times?" He put his hands on his hips. "And just how long have you had to tell her to do something more than once before she does it—excuse me, not do it?"

Magdalena shrugged. "Mr. Cook, please. She a good girl but she just at that age."

"What age?" Jayson said, raising his voice a little. "She's six years old." He pointed at her. "Magda, Dr. Cook and I made it very clear to you and Jennifer that when we're not here, you're in charge. Isn't that right?"

"Yes."

Jayson saw the hurt in the woman's eyes. He stepped closer to her, and softened his facial expression and tone. She could be so sensitive these days. He had to be careful about her feelings. "That's because you have our total trust. You know that."

"Thank you, sir."

Jayson sighed. "I think you and my wife have been spoiling Jennifer." He paused and pointed at himself. "But I haven't said much about it." He turned back around. "But enough's enough. I'm putting a stop to it right now." He bounded up the stairs. "Somebody's forgotten who's the child and who's the adult," he mumbled. He reached the top of the stairs. "Jennifer!" he barked.

Jennifer opened the door to her room and slowly emerged into the hall. She wore a pair of jeans and an orange T-shirt. Usually she greeted him with a big smile and jumped into his arms when he came home from work, but apparently detecting anger in his voice, she decided to try humility. "Yes, Daddy?"

Jayson opened his arms. "First a hug and kiss before I have to be mean. C'mon."

Taking slow steps, Jennifer inched down the stairs. She stopped at the bottom two stairs, extended her arms and received a hug and kiss from her father. "I was just gonna pick up my things right now."

"Um-hmm, you were, huh?" Jayson said. "Never mind that. Mrs. Lopez told me she asked you three times to do just that and you didn't. Is that right?"

Jennifer nodded.

"Answer me in words, girl."

"Yes, Daddy. I'm sorry."

"Don't tell _me_ you're sorry. Tell Mrs. Lopez," Jayson said. "You've been taking advantage of that nice lady and I won't have it another minute. Now move your behind right now, pick up your stuff in the kitchen, turn off that TV, and get your bike out of the front walkway."

"Yes, Daddy," Jennifer replied, sticking out her bottom lip. She trudged down the last two stairs and passed him.

Jayson walked behind her. "The kitchen first."

Jennifer entered the kitchen. When Magdalena saw them she quickly grabbed a wet, soapy towel and wiped furiously at the counter top of the center island. "You eat now or wait for Dr. Cook?"

Jayson put his hands on his hips again and ignored the question. Instead he addressed his pouting daughter as she slowly dropped crayons into a large box. "There's gonna be a few changes around here, young lady. From now on, when Mrs. Lopez tells you to do something, you do it right away the first time, you hear?"

"Yes, Daddy."

Jayson looked at Magdalena. "What's for dessert?"

"Um, butterscotch pudding."

"Well," Jayson said, "no dessert for Jennifer. Not today."

Just then Jayson heard the garage door open. He went to the door connecting the kitchen and the garage, opened it and waited for Renee. Within a few seconds she stepped into the house and they exchanged a brief kiss.

"You're home early today," Renee said.

"Yeah," Jayson replied. She looked so beautiful and sexy to him, even in a powder blue business suit. Her entrance conjured up memories of past years; before Jennifer, before Magdalena, when their passion drove them to immediately make love a few feet from whatever door she or he entered upon arriving home from work. However, at the moment, he felt irritated, uncomfortable—and sexually frustrated. Leslie's visit suddenly popped back into his mind. He also felt afraid, afraid of the damage the "slutty-looking woman," as Tenika described her, could do to his family if she ran her mouth. He forced himself to concentrate on his wife. It had been over a week since he and Renee had made love. That's what he needed—some nail-digging, hair-pulling, shoulder-biting sex.

Jennifer dropped her box of crayons on the table and ran to her mother in tears. "Mommy, Daddy said I can't have dessert today."

Renee kneeled to hug her daughter and raised her head to question Jayson. "What's this all about?"

Jayson became angry. "She's just trying to divide us, which isn't going to work." He tapped Jennifer on the shoulder and pointed with his thumb. "Get in that living room, pick up your things, turn off that TV and then go outside and get your bike like I told you." His voice grew louder with each command.

"Please, Mommy," Jennifer begged.

Renee widened her eyes, obviously surprised at her husband's rare tone. "I don't think you better cross your father, Jennifer."

"Go do what I tell you!" Jayson yelled.

Jennifer whimpered and bolted out of the kitchen.

"And don't forget this stuff on the table when you're done," Jayson added.

Magdalena tossed her towel into the sink and dashed toward her room. "Excuse me, please. I have to go check something."

Renee whipped her head from left to right, retracing the opposite directions Jennifer and Magdalena had taken and snickered. "Well, royal master of the house, you sure know how to clear a room. What's going on?"

"Nothing," Jayson said. "The girl's been taking advantage of Magda; not doing what she's told." He pointed at himself. "I drew the line at a forty-year-old woman telling a six-year-old girl to do something three times without results."

"Okay," Renee said, "but did you have to yell at her?"

"She'll get over it," Jayson replied. "You and Magda—and let me add your parents, too, you've been spoiling her for too long. When she's a teenager and none of you can do anything with her you'll regret it, but I bet I won't have any problems with her."

Renee put her arms around her husband and squeezed. "My, you're in a bad mood. Not a good day at work, I take it."

Jayson felt her embrace melt away his anger. After ten years of marriage she could still warm his heart and soul with just a touch. "I've had better days," he admitted. His voice had become soft again.

Renee pointed at the kitchen table. "Then sit down. I'm afraid it's going to get worse before it gets better." She waved a newspaper in the air.

Jayson took it from her. "What's this?"

"It's the latest edition of the _Boston Courier_."

"Really?" Jayson said. "It wasn't in the mail with the other stuff—and don't we usually get it on Saturdays?"

Renee nodded. "Yeah. This is a newsstand copy a colleague from work gave me. "Look at it."

Jayson placed the paper on the kitchen table and scanned the front page. "So what?" he asked, examining the paper. "What's the city council's fighting over the Boston Police Department's hiring policies got to do with—oh shit!" He read the headline to the right of the city council story aloud: "Black lawyer takes side of racist again."

"That's the one," Renee said.

Jayson sat down and read, occasionally sharing the news. "...not the first time Cook has sided against blacks....advocated for the Church of the True Savior, a white supremacist group....hasn't lived in the black community for years....could not be reached for comment." He stood and slammed the paper on the table. "Those idiots wouldn't know the truth if it bit them on the ass." His attention was diverted when Jennifer returned carrying an armful of dolls and accessories. The stony-face girl climbed the stairs without saying a word.

"Go wash your hands for dinner, please," Renee said.

"First put away your dolls," Jayson added, "then get your pad and crayons off the table and put them away too."

Renee nodded. "Then wash your hands for dinner, honey." She faced Jayson. "Did a reporter from the _Courier_ call you for a comment?"

Jayson frowned. "Yeah, some reporter left a short message on the voice mail at the office last week. I called him back but he wasn't in. He wasn't trying very hard to reach me, I bet."

"What are you going to do now?"

Jayson shrugged. "What can I do? The damage is done." He checked the clock on the wall in the kitchen and waved his hand. "The hell with it. Let's eat. Um, I'm expecting an important call from Tenika I'll have to take. She'll call because she knows I don't like texting anything even remotely sensitive."

Renee touched his arm. "You're all tense and crabby. What is it, darling?"

Jayson smiled. "It's just work. I'm sorry."

"Anything I can do?"

"Now, no. Tonight, plenty."

Renee put her arms around him again and pecked him several times on the lips. "Okay. How many times?"

"Where's the calculator?"

Renee put her hand over her mouth and giggled like a newlywed. "It's a deal." She abruptly frowned. "Oh, I better give you _all_ the bad news."

Jayson took one step back. "There's more?"

Renee nodded. "I only worked a short shift today, then I went to the church to help with the cleanup from the yard sale. You know Dr. Geter is in Jamaica on vacation."

"Yeah, mon!" Jayson quipped, with a mock accent.

"Well, we have a guest preacher this Sunday." Renee stopped and bit her lower lip.

"Yeah, some guy from Detroit, I think," Jayson said.

Renee shook her head. "I guess he had a death in the family and can't make it. Reverend Snow told me that Reverend Isaiah Bradley will be preaching at our church this Sunday. The arrangements were made before the _Courier_ article came out."

Jayson grimaced. "The father of the girl my client's accused of killing?"

"Yeah," Renee answered, "and his sermon theme is, 'The devil you know.'"

Jayson put a sad smile on his face, lowered his head and whispered. "Please don't do this to me, Lord."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER EIGHT

"So there were no problems?" Jayson asked. He wiped his hands for the second time on another extra-large paper napkin and strolled into his living room for privacy. He had changed into a pair of baggy denim shorts and a gray University of Massachusetts/Boston T-shirt. He glanced at the plush, long sofa opposite the TV but decided not to sit down.

"No," Tenika replied, "Miss Leslie slinked out of the office right after your five o'clock appointment came—at nearly five-twenty."

"Did she say anything? Was she angry?" Jayson asked. He stared out the front window at his car and regretted not having put it in the garage earlier. He looked over his shoulder into the kitchen. Renee and Jennifer whispered to each other while stealing furtive glances in his direction. No doubt Jennifer viewed his absence as an opportunity to submit oral arguments concerning her sentence of no dessert after dinner. Jayson took for granted that Renee Cook's Appellate Court would certainly deny the child's appeal.

"Naw, she didn't seem angry," Tenika answered. "Just said she'd be back. No attitude or anything, like she hadn't been waiting for an hour and a half for nothing."

Jayson heard Magdalena in the kitchen and checked over his shoulder again for privacy. The constantly busy woman searched the cabinets for something and paid him no attention. In six years of employment with the family she had never shown any sign of nosiness. "Okay. I'm going to get back to dinner," Jayson said. "Thanks for calling."

"You gonna let me in on what's going on?"

"Later."

"Okay, but there's one more thing you might want to know."

"Go ahead."

"Little Miss Thang sure attracts a fair amount of attention."

Jayson frown. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, she and Connie were chatting on and off in Spanish like a couple of old army buddies, you know?"

"Well, you know how Connie is. She'd talk to—"

"Then Victor kept finding reasons to get acquainted," Tenika reported, and imitated Victor's voice. "'I'm a third-year law student and Mr. Cook's intern' and 'Can I get you some water?' and 'The restroom is right down the hall.' I've never seen him wanting to be so helpful when other people take a seat and wait."

Jayson didn't like the news but decided not to call any more attention to Leslie's visit. "Doesn't sound like much," he said. "See you tomorrow." He had heard a high-pitched beep in his ear mid-sentence. "Bye." He pushed the flash button on the phone. "Hello."

"Hello, Jayson Cook, please?" the female voice on the other end requested.

"This is he," Jayson replied. He was in no mood for a sales pitch. If this was a telemarketer, he would—

"Jayson, this is Michelle Ling from Channel Eight News," the woman declared. "I called you at your office twice but you weren't in. I still have your home number you gave me, must be three years ago, when you were representing Gregory Morgan's Church of the True Savior. I wouldn't have used it but I've got a deadline."

Jayson sighed. So the _Courier_ story had started the media ball rolling. He respected and liked Michelle Ling. She had interviewed him a few times since the True Savior case and had always been fair. They had recently abandoned formalities and started calling each other by first names. "It's okay," he said. "I can't give you but a minute. I'm having dinner."

"It won't take long," Michelle insisted. "We're doing a story about the Stone case that could air as soon as tonight on the eleven o'clock news. You're his attorney now, right?"

"That's right."

"Assistant District Attorney Rahmani said..." She paused for a few seconds, apparently checking her notes. "...never in her career has she seen a murder committed in such a cold-hearted fashion. She said the people of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts will only be safe when Stone receives the maximum sentence under the law. Do you have any response?"

"Yes I do," Jayson said. He suppressed the urge to offer a snide remark. Samira should get some new material. How many times had she never seen a murder committed in such a cold-hearted fashion? "My client is being unfairly prosecuted because of his personal beliefs, in violation of his First Amendment rights guaranteed under the Constitution. He's been held in jail for over a year and a half, violating his Sixth Amendment right to a speedy trial."

"Um-hmm, um-hmm," Michelle grunted rapidly. "Go on."

"But our system of justice extends to everyone," Jayson asserted, "including this twenty-four-year-old, impressionable young man who for virtually his entire life has been searching for something to make up for a disastrous childhood."

"So your client admits he was a member, so to speak, of Morgan's Church of the True Savior and endorses that group's philosophy?"

"My client's beliefs are not the issue," Jayson insisted. "What is the issue is whether the Commonwealth has the evidence necessary to convince a jury that Brian Stone is guilty of premeditated murder. Time will show it does not. And time is another issue, because after Brian Stone is found innocent of all charges, where will he go to get back the probably two years he would have lost sitting in jail?"

"Um-hmm," Michelle muttered again. "And what's your response to—"

"Michelle, can't a man enjoy dinner with his family?" Jayson teased.

"Okay," the reporter said. "Just one more: What's your response to those who claim once again you're taking the side of a racist against your own people?"

"My response is that I was asked by Judge O'Hare to take this case because he felt it's the best way to ensure that my client receives a fair trial," Jayson answered. "And I plan to do everything in my power to see to it he gets a fair trial, just as I've done with all of my clients regardless of race."

"Okay. We oughta be able to squeeze in some of this between all those commercials we air for car dealerships," Michelle said half-jokingly. "Hey, Jayson—I just got an idea."

"My dinner's getting cold, Michelle."

"You know, we've got some stock footage of your client being led to his arraignment we can use and we've got Rahmani's statement today on tape. Why don't I meet you somewhere and you can say all this on camera? It'll be fairer. Maybe we could chat off the record for a couple of minutes after. How about it?"

Jayson thought for a few seconds. She had a point. Samira's on-camera statements would carry more weight with the viewing public than his off-camera remarks. "Okay," he agreed, "but I'll need an hour. I've got to change. And you ask only the same questions. No curve balls. I mean it. Deal?"

"Deal."

Jayson stared at his feet, covered with comfortable moccasins Magdalena had sewn and given him for Christmas. He decided to call Victor and ask him to accompany him. Michelle spoke Chinese. So did Victor. She was a little older than his intern, but he recalled Michelle expressing an interest in meeting a nice Chinese man to please her parents. Jayson liked the idea of introducing them. Perhaps Victor could wiggle some inside information from her every now and then. He spoke quickly. "Okay, so where should we meet?"

•

The following Sunday Jayson stared straight ahead and listened to the sweating minister who strutted back and forth on the altar platform like a rock star; so much for the news reports about the Reverend Isaiah F. Bradley walking with a cane for the rest of his life. The man had been preaching to the enthusiastic congregation at Cross of Christ Baptist Church for nearly a half-hour. Six middle-aged to elderly church officers sat in high-back, regal-looking chairs behind him cheering like Red Sox season ticket-holders. All the windows had been opened and ten fans, dangling from the thirty-feet high ceiling, rotated at full speed. The building's age, the crowd and the warm weather produced a musty, sweaty smell.

Jayson surveyed the area. The church, with its dark interior, seemed to be more full than usual for June. Must have been three hundred people in attendance. Even God-fearing Christians just couldn't miss the opportunity for a free show. He harbored no doubt that word of an impending Bradley-Cook face-to-face meeting had spread like dandelions in the spring.

Jayson rested his extended right arm on the wooden pew. Renee cuddled next to him. He stroked her shoulder with his fingers and felt regret at the discomfort the reverend's words no doubt caused her. Jennifer had been sent to Sunday school in the basement of the church, an impressive, sizeable structure located in Dorchester, a large inner-city community in Boston. Jayson and Renee had become two of its three hundred—now four hundred—members shortly after Jennifer had arrived.

At first, no one had sat next to the Cooks, but as the room filled up, people Jayson had never seen before squeezed alongside them, including two young women bearing no wedding rings, each with two bratty kids who had been squirming and fidgeting for an hour. Jayson assumed they were visitors.

Jayson and Renee had plotted their strategy for the fateful Sunday well beforehand, down to what they each, including Jennifer, would wear. Jayson had chosen a lightweight, tan-colored suit. Renee had decided on a loose-fitting, off-white, sleeveless dress with a matching shawl for the occasion. She had picked out a peach-colored dress for Jennifer. They believed lighter colors would make them appear more cheerful. They had agreed to be upbeat. They had also decided that although they usually sat at the middle of the church they would sit just three or four seats farther back, so not to prolong their exit.

"The devil isn't who we think he is," Reverend Bradley cautioned. "He's not that crimson-colored rascal with the horns and pitchfork you see on TV."

"That's right," a few scattered voices agreed.

"He could be any color," the reverend said.

"That's true," several parishioners affirmed.

"He could be white!"

"Yes, yes, yes!"

"He could even be black."

"Um-hmm."

"He could be sitting right here in this church!" the man in the black robe exclaimed, waving his arms but staring at Jayson.

"Go on and shame that devil, preacherman," a husky-voice woman sitting in front of Jayson shouted while vigorously fanning herself with the day's bulletin.

Jayson nodded along with the congregation. He didn't see the point in getting upset about the minister's sermon. As a trial lawyer, he had ample experience sitting stoically while someone a few feet away pointed in his direction and called his client a monster, tossing in a few thinly veiled, barely admissible insults at him as defense counsel. Reverend Bradley seemed to be enjoying himself, Jayson thought. The eyes of every adult in the room were probably shifting from the reverend to him, he suspected, hoping to catch some glimmer of embarrassment. Well, they wouldn't get it.

Reverend Bradley wiped his face with a white handkerchief and leaned against the pulpit he had vacated for the past fifteen minutes. "You know, I used to tell my little angel, Veronica, God rest her soul, now with her sainted mother: not all people who say they're your friends are telling you the truth."

"Amen," Renee said.

Jayson smiled. Renee had told him enough horror stories about jealous doctors and bizarre hospital politics to warrant such a response.

Reverend Bradley continued. "That was before the devil put such hate in another man's heart and told him he better silence this black man..." He paused and pointed at himself. "...for speaking out against the ugly racism and bigotry that's still alive and thriving in this United States of America."

The people in attendance registered vigorous amens, obviously agreeing with the man while feeling his pain. The call-response resumed.

"I used to say to my baby girl, 'Honey, don't let Satan make you just like them.'"

"Don't you let him!"

"You've got to pray for them."

"Pray for them!"

"You've got to forgive them because that's what Jesus said we've got to do."

"Forgive them!"

"You've got to hate their sin without hating them."

"Hate their sin!"

"But you've got to tell them like Jesus told the devil, 'Get behind me, Satan!'"

"Get behind me!"

Reverend Bradley stepped to the edge of the platform. "But before you can do that..." He paused for dramatic effect.

"Well?"

"Tell us!"

"Preach!"

The reverend leaned forward, so far Jayson feared he might tumble into the front pew.

"You've got to see that rascal," Reverend Bradley cried, "and recognize him for who he is—even if he's the devil you know." He did a little jig and stepped backward and sideways toward the pulpit.

The congregation broke into thunderous applause. The organist who had accompanied the reverend punched out a few notes to punctuate his words. Jayson and Renee joined the applause without hesitation. Jayson glanced at his watch. He had witnessed enough sermons to know the reverend had made his point and soon would have to do what most ministers absolutely hated to do: surrender the microphone.

Reverend Bradley had put on a good show and gotten his kicks preaching to—or entertaining, depending on one's point of view—a crowd much larger than his own Mount Calvary congregation. The reverend would enjoy numerous handshakes and accolades from scores of Jayson's fellow parishioners. Eventually, though, Jayson recognized, the visitor would return to his own flock while those inclined to gossip at Cross of Christ would find new fodder for the following week.

Forty minutes later Jayson stood in line, with Renee in front of him, waiting to shake Reverend Bradley's hand and congratulate him on a job well done. The visiting minister stood at the dividing line separating the huge, dark narthex from the huge, dark sanctuary. Hundreds of mostly black people scurried about on both sides of the line. Some spoke briefly with the guest preacher, then turned left, exiting the building quickly and stepping past the gigantic, open double wooden doors into the fresh air. Various mothers searched for their children. Various children ran back and forth, relieved to be finished with Sunday school. Jayson felt his heartbeat accelerate as he neared the reverend. He squeezed Renee's shoulders and leaned forward to whisper in her ear. "You okay?"

She nodded. "I'm fine. You want to get Jennifer and go home?"

"No," Jayson said. "We'll stay a while and share God's love with our friends like we always do."

Jayson rolled his eyes as Sister Almetra, a slender, elderly woman engulfed by a wide-brim hat, held up the line speaking at length to Reverend Bradley. Jayson couldn't hear what she said but heard the man's reply.

"Thank you, sister. I will."

Finally, the moment came. Renee shook hands with the minister and said good morning, then stepped into the crowd searching for Jennifer without a backward glance. Jayson could see the man trace his wife's body with his eyes. Well, at least he had good taste in women. Next, Reverend Bradley and he faced each other. "Good morning, Pastor," Jayson said. He wasn't sure why he used the term "pastor." The word wasn't a common title used at Cross of Christ.

Reverend Bradley maintained a polite smile on his face. "Good morning, Brother Cook," he replied. "I saw you on the news a couple of days ago. At last we meet." He used both hands to squeeze Jayson's hand tightly without shaking it. "I guess we'll be seeing each other again real soon," he said, continuing to squeeze the lawyer's hand.

Jayson detected a hint of sarcasm in the man's voice. "Well, I look forward to that," he declared, pulling his hand out of the man's grip. He moved forward and heard the reverend's last parting, ominous shot.

"Yes, real soon, my brother."

•

The following Monday Connie entered Jayson's office and closed the door. "What's this about you taking Victor with you to meet that skanky Channel Eight reporter last week?" she asked, breaking into a smile to let him know she wasn't completely serious.

Jayson couldn't help but laugh out loud. "I'm sorry, Connie, but I thought Victor would be helpful. You go with me when I have Latinos to speak to."

"Yeah, but that's to help you translate."

Jayson tried to suppress his laughter, but ended up shaking his shoulders instead. "Connie, you know I speak fluent Spanish myself."

"Yeah," Connie admitted, "but you have an accent." She stuck out her lower lip, exaggerating a pout. "Did that woman make a move on my man? 'If she did I'll—"

"Waitaminute," Jayson interrupted, "what happened to what's-his-face? The police officer?"

Connie waved her hand. "Puh-leez! I cut that old geezer loose long time ago."

Jayson chuckled. "He was what—eight years older than you? You told me your dad was twelve years older than your mom."

"And still chases every women in town," Connie added with disgust. "That's different. That's them. This is me. I know what I want and—"

"Didn't you say the same thing about this last one?"

Connie sat down and pretended to search her memory. "Hmmm...I don't remember." The two laughed, and Connie ran her hand through her long, wavy hair. "Come on, Jayson, tell me. Did anything happen between them?"

Jayson lifted a stack of folders and dropped them back on his desk. "Connie, I've got plenty of work to do, and do I need to remind you that so do you?" He stared into his legal assistant's brown eyes, partially hidden underneath layers of eye shadow, eye liner and mascara, and recognized an expression of real concern. She was a lovely, intelligent woman, but apparently had learned early on—perhaps from her mother—that a woman's happiness depended on finding a man. Connie had disclosed to Jayson that she pitied her mother, now middle-aged and married but lonely. Jayson feared Connie would one day suffer the same fate. He shrugged and delivered the report. "Victor spoke to her in Chinese for a few minutes after the interview. That's all."

Connie stood, obviously not satisfied. "What they say?"

Jayson opened his arms. "How would I know?" He considered asking for details about her own brief verbal exchanges with Leslie a few days before, but decided it would be better not to remind anyone about the visit.

Connie pointed toward the door and changed the subject. "So it's started up again, huh? Three on the voice-mail after we closed and one first thing this morning."

Jayson frowned. "I know. The police have been notified. How's Tenika?"

"She's okay," Connie replied and twisted her shapely body to peek at the outer office through the glass door. "She just stepped out for a few minutes. Victor said he'd help out on the phones until—" She stopped talking and pointed. "It's Victor. He wants me."

"Don't you wish," Jayson joked.

Connie opened the door. "No, really. I think he's got one."

Jayson stepped from behind his desk and walked slowly into the next room, stopping in front of Tenika's desk, where Victor sat with the telephone receiver pressed to his ear. Connie sauntered behind the young man and put her hand on his shoulder. Victor widened his eyes as he listened, but said nothing. After a few seconds he hung up.

"Was that another one?" Jayson asked.

Victor nodded. "Um-hmm. The return information was blocked."

"What'd he say?" Connie asked.

Victor shrugged. "He said that you..." He pointed at Jayson. "...were a sell-out, Uncle Tom, shit-eating motherfucker."

"You okay?" Jayson asked.

Victor nodded.

"That's the second live one today," Connie announced. "Like I said, it's started up again."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER NINE

A week after receiving the first nuisance call about the Stone case, Jayson studied the tight faces of Gary Scott and Alexis Washington. Omar Anderson sat between the two uniformed Boston police officers, tagging along as their "observer." The three had positioned themselves around a wobbly folding table in a small conference room located on the tenth floor of the McCormack Courthouse. They sipped canned sodas purchased by Jayson from the Superior Court's cafeteria.

Jayson didn't believe half of what Officers Scott and Washington told him. The gruff, fortysomething Scott, a middle-aged white male, did most of the talking. His partner, a young, attractive woman with dark brown skin, frequently glanced at her watch. "I know we've gone over this already," Jayson admitted, "but I want to go over it again just to be sure I understand." He glanced at Victor, sitting next to him. The young man occasionally took notes, stopping long enough to run his fingers over the keyboard of his wireless tablet computer.

"I'm sure you can appreciate that we're all very busy," Anderson declared.

"And I'm sure you can appreciate that a young man's life is at stake," Jayson replied, "and I've been trying to arrange this meeting for a couple of weeks." He skimmed over his notes from the initial interview he had conducted with Brian Stone, then did the same with the ones he had just made, and resumed his questioning. "Exactly where were you two coming from right before you first saw my client?"

"We were on routine patrol in the neighborhood," Scott answered.

"And you were in your cruiser. Is that correct?" Jayson asked.

"Yes," Scott said.

"Who was driving?"

Scott pointed at himself. "Me."

"And what had you been doing right before you saw my client's vehicle?"

Scott shrugged, "We were doing our jobs, counselor. Just driving around keeping our eyes and ears open for bad guys." He folded his arms across his chest.

Jayson nodded and turned his attention to Washington. "Okay, but what I mean is, had you stopped anyone prior to that—you know, for speeding or running a red light or something?"

Washington glanced at her partner. "Well..."

Scott leaned forward. "We can't remember if we stopped somebody over a year and a half ago, counselor." He opened his hands. "I mean, c'mon."

Jayson made eye contact with Scott, then Washington. "We?"

"I don't remember," Washington declared in a soft voice.

Jayson turned to Victor and held out his hand. The intern reached into a yellow folder, produced a sheet of paper and handed it to him. "Well, would it refresh your memory if I informed you that according to your log that day, nearly two hours had passed between your previous stop and the encounter you had with my client?"

Scott smirked and danced his eyes around the room. "Is that right? Musta been a slow day." He pointed at himself and his partner. "We don't stop people without probable cause. We respect the rule of law. I'm sure you can appreciate that."

Jayson smiled. "Well, Officer Scott, I sure wish there were more people like you and Officer Washington on the force. It would make my job so much easier."

"Can we get on with it?" Anderson demanded, gesturing at his watch.

"Okay," Jayson said. "Could you please tell me what you did for nearly _two_ hours?"

"Scott shrugged. "We drove around, making the city safe for you and your family, Mr. Cook."

"Where?"

"Just around."

"Just around where?"

Anderson jumped in. "Jayson, these officers aren't on the witness stand. There's no need to cross-examine them."

Jayson smiled. "Oh, I didn't think I was being hostile or anything, Omar. But I'd sure like to know how they spent two hours before they stopped my client."

"It was a long time ago. We don't remember," Scott said.

"Okay," Jayson said, "let's see what 'we' do remember. What prompted you to stop my client?"

Anderson leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table. "Jayson, they answered this already. They advised you that your client was weaving, he strayed close to the center line and he didn't come to a complete stop before making a right turn at an intersection. It's not complicated." He sat upright and looked at Victor." We're not here for you to teach basic interviewing techniques to law students. If you have any new material you'd like to cover, fine. Otherwise I'm going to declare this little get-together over."

Jayson glanced at Victor, who showed no sign of emotion. Still, the veteran criminal defense attorney didn't appreciate Anderson's remark. "How long have I been asking questions?"

Victor, clad in a shirt and tie, pushed his shirtsleeve back and checked his watch. "Twenty-six minutes."

Jayson leaned forward. "Okay, Omar. If that's how you want to play it, tell you what I'm going do: Either I ask all the questions I need to ask today, right now, or I'm going to request a pre-trial conference with the judge and tell him that after stalling me for a couple of weeks, the prosecution wouldn't even let me have an hour with the two officers whose discovery was the basis for my client's arrest." He closed his folder, stood, and after buttoning the jacket of his suit, addressed Victor. "Please note the time and how long this 'little get-together' lasted."

"Okay," Victor replied.

Anderson stood also and raised his hands. "Now there's no need to get all bent out of shape, Jayson," he whined. "I just don't see what good it does to ask the same questions over and over." He pointed and swung his hand to the left and right. "Of course these two public servants would be happy to answer any questions you have, but let's not keep them with repetition, okay?"

Jayson allowed the room to remain silent for a few seconds. He had called Anderson's bluff and embarrassed him in front of three others. Now he would have to give the man something to salvage his dignity. Otherwise, dealing with him in the future would be even more contentious and hostile than usual—and therefore harmful to his clients. "You're right, Omar. I apologize." He returned to his seat, as did Anderson. "I just need to clarify a few things. It won't be much longer, okay?"

Scott, Washington and Anderson nodded.

Jayson opened his folder. "Officer Washington, would you please tell me again just how you found the map on the front passenger seat _in clear view_?" He emphasized the last three words to indicate his disbelief.

"Um, w–well, um..." Washington stuttered, "it–it was just, um, lying there."

"Really?" Jayson asked. "Lying there all by itself?"

"Um, yeah."

"How about that!" Jayson exclaimed, arching his eyebrows and flipping through a couple of photographs in his folder. "These pictures here show my client's front and backseat cluttered with books, newspapers, clothes, tools; all kinds of objects." He dropped the photos inside the folder, closed it and leaned back in his chair.

"Well, um, I guess the map was lying on top of that stuff," Washington insisted.

"Um-hmm," Jayson replied. "But you just said the map was just lying there all by itself when you found it."

"Um, maybe I didn't hear your question right," Washington mumbled, staring at her fingers.

Jayson nodded. "And did you open the vehicle's door or just reach into the open window to retrieve the map?"

"Washington paused. "I–I reached into the open window."

Jayson jerked his head back as if he had been slapped. "Really? The window was down in December? With the temperature in the thirties?"

Washington looked helplessly at her partner, then back at Jayson. "Right. I mean—"

Scott jumped in again. "If my partner says the map was in plain view then it was."

"Very interesting," Jayson remarked. He pointed at Victor. "You know what this bright young man discovered while going over your logs and police reports?"

"No," Scott replied. "Please tell us."

Jayson stared at the senior officer. "Since you partnered up with Officer Washington here," he paused and pointed at the woman, "you've found more than your share of incriminating evidence in plain view on the passenger seat."

Scott smirked and shrugged. "What can I say? I guess criminals have been getting more stupid lately."

Jayson shrugged also. "Would it surprise you to know my client claims his driving that night shouldn't have given any _honest_ police officer reason to stop him?"

Scott's smirk evaporated. "He did, huh? Well, I guess he's—"

"My client also claims," Jayson interrupted, "the map wasn't anywhere in clear view as you—well—your partner claimed, but in the glove compartment."

"Well," Scott said, "I guess it's the word of a man who burned a child to a crisp against the word of two police officers, one with over nineteen years on the force."

"And you, Officer Washington, how many years do you have on the force?"

"Almost three," she replied.

"Three years," Jayson repeated. "So when you stopped my client you would've had maybe a little over a year on the force. Isn't that right?"

"So what?" Anderson demanded to know.

"So opening the glove compartment on a routine traffic stop is the kind of mistake a young, unseasoned officer might make," Jayson replied, nodding in Washington's direction.

"That's pure speculation," Anderson said.

"I think a judge would disagree," Jayson suggested. "There was no probable cause to open the glove compartment, so whatever was found would be inadmissible. And since all your evidence was obtained with a faulty search warrant, whatever was found in my client's apartment would also be inadmissible. In other words, you'd have no case."

"Jesus Christ, Jayson," Anderson growled, "that man killed a twelve-year-old child."

"Who's gonna take that racist pig's word over ours?" Scott asked, raising his voice.

"Take it easy, Gary," Washington cautioned.

"Judges sign search warrants," Jayson declared, his voice steady and calm, "and they don't like to be lied to."

Anderson rolled his eyes. "Even if your theory's correct and she opened the glove compartment, you know the courts don't throw out evidence based on honest mistakes."

Jayson tapped his index finger on the table. "The mistake has to be in good faith, Omar. Lying to a judge about how the map was obtained doesn't constitute good faith and you know it."

"I didn't lie to nobody," Washington blurted out.

Jayson pointed at the young officer. "Now that's an issue for a judge to decide." He softly tapped Victor on the knee and continued. "But remember, a squad car flashing its lights generates a lot of attention from passers-by and residents in the neighborhood. Wouldn't it be interesting if I produced a witness who's able to swear my client's telling the truth?" He opened a folder and pretended to read. "You know how it is nowadays: everybody's got a video recorder or camera or phone and just love to take pictures."

Anderson checked his watch and stood. "Do you have any more questions, Jayson?"

Jayson turned to Victor. "Anything?" Victor shook his head, and Jayson turned back to Anderson. "Nope, we're done." He stood also. "Thank you for your time." He watched as the two officers and Anderson left the room with faces as if they had just sucked sour lemons. He turned to Victor again and whispered. "You watch her after I tapped you?"

"Yeah," Victor answered. "I got the signal."

"How'd she react when I gave her that 'eyewitness' line?"

Victor tapped the screen to turn off his computer and stood. "She looked surprised—and scared."

Jayson nodded. "Yeah. She's the weakest link in their case." He glanced at his watch. "Let's dig a little deeper into both officers' background."

"Do you think you should file a motion to examine their personnel files?"

Jayson leaned against the table and examined the scarred, worn tile on the floor. "Their credibility's an issue, but I don't think a judge is going to let us poke around in their files based on Stone's claims." He stood erect and reached for his briefcase. "No. We'll see what we can find out on our own. And I'll ask Connie to check with a couple of people she met on the force when she was dating what's-his-name."

"How about a motion to suppress?"

Jayson shook his head. "Nope. Same deal. No judge is going to throw out mountains of evidence 'cause Stone said the map wasn't on the seat. I was the one wolfing that time."

"Okay," Victor said, and grabbed his briefcase and computer case. "I'll do some digging when I get back to the office. You'll be back later, right?"

Jayson nodded. "Yeah. I've got a motion upstairs on the Garcia case. I'll see you before you leave for the day." He slapped Victor on the back. "In the meantime, maybe you can chat up Michelle Ling." He walked to the door and spoke without turning around. "I assume you have her telephone number."

Victor blushed. "I, um, well, yes. I think she kinda gave it to me."

"Well, kinda give her a call."

Teacher and student exited the room and joined throngs of people hurrying about in the corridor. As they waited for an elevator—Jayson to ride up and Victor to ride down—they exchanged opinions about the Boston Red Sox's pennant chances. After thirty seconds, the "down" elevator door opened, revealing two men and two women, apparently strangers, who had each staked out a corner of the tiny space.

Jayson slapped Victor on the back again as the intern grabbed his belongings. "You've been doing a great job. Keep up the good work."

Victor stepped into the middle of the elevator and turned to face Jayson. "Thank you, sir," he said, his face beaming.

Jayson pointed at him and displayed a playfully angry expression. "Hey, what'd I tell you about that?"

Victor smiled. "I mean, thank you, _Jayson_." The elevator door closed.

Jayson felt a sudden rush of pride and affection toward his protégé. He stepped into the elevator next to the one which had carried Victor away and wondered how he would have felt if he and Renee had brought home a son instead of a daughter. He absolutely adored Jennifer, but tended to defer to Renee about the child's upbringing, assuming a mother possessed more insight about rearing a girl than a father.

Although only thirty-five years old, Jayson accepted the reality that Jennifer would be their only child. Even with full-time domestic help, he and Renee barely had enough time for one. Still, he thought, it would have been a thrill to have had a little boy, maybe even a little Jayson. The idea caused him to curl up the corners of his mouth.

He gradually adjusted his expression to a more appropriate poker face as he entered the cramped courtroom on the fourteenth floor. The room showcased high ceilings, dark wood paneling on all the walls, and large pictures of three of the grimmest-looking deceased white male judges he had ever seen. Court officers wearing white, short-sleeved shirts stood on the other side of the bar separating the spectators from the well and escorted handcuffed detainees—all males—in and out of a side door.

Judge Allen Van Buren, a fortyish, impatient man whose blond hair had turned mostly gray after five years on the bench, feverishly worked to lighten the Commonwealth's docket with the help of two middle-aged female clerks. Lawyers had already begun taking bets on how long it would take before Van Buren would drop dead from a heart attack, perhaps while perched on his throne in the courtroom.

Jayson knew his client wouldn't be present during the hearing, but he searched the room for other familiar faces. He recognized a few but didn't spot Samira Rahmani, his worthy opponent for the hearing. They were scheduled to do battle over a speedy trial motion he had filed on behalf of a twenty-one-year-old indigent woman awaiting trial for nearly two years. Jayson believed the prosecution repeatedly requested delays on a very weak possession with intent to distribute case to pressure his client, who spoke very little English, into giving evidence against her former boyfriend, an alleged murderer. Rahmani possessed a huge bag of tricks, but Jayson felt confident his motion would be granted.

Jayson sat in the back of the court, away from the door, and reviewed his notes for oral arguments, occasionally checking the tall, padded double doors for Rahmani's entrance. She eventually arrived and saw him but sat close to the door and began chatting with a young woman Jayson recognized as a public defender. Rahmani played the game well, Jayson admitted to himself. She didn't want to appear too eager to make a deal. Make him wait. He watched her out of the corner of his eye for a couple of minutes then returned to his notes. Eventually, he reasoned, Rahmani would approach him and offer a deal for time served. He would hold out for a misdemeanor plea. She would wolf for a couple of minutes but both would tacitly acknowledge he held the high cards on this one.

Jayson heard the sound of light footsteps and felt the floor shake as a body plopped down into the seat behind him. "Are we ready to talk, counselor?" he heard the woman behind him whisper. He nodded, prepared to negotiate with Rahmani, but the unexpected faint smell of lavender surprised him. He glanced by the door to see Rahmani twelve feet away, still whispering to the public defender. He closed his eyes and sighed in resignation as he felt a pair of soft, light brown hands gently caress his shoulders. Eventually, Leslie Melendez leaned forward, holding her lovely, smooth, light brown face parallel to his.

"You've been such a naughty boy, avoiding my calls, Jayson," she moaned softly. "Now you have to buy me a drink."

Jayson ground his teeth together and sighed. "Sorry, I–I can't, Leslie," he said. "I have to take care of some business here."

"I'm afraid I'm gonna have to insist," the woman whispered. "You don't want me to make a scene here in front of all your friends, do you?"

Jayson sighed again. His case could be called next. She had him pinned down with no escape. As Tenika testified, Leslie's sexy appearance and coquettish manner generated a great deal of attention. His best move would be to get her out of the room as quickly as possible. "Okay, okay," he conceded. "Wait for me on the bench outside the room and we'll go somewhere and talk."

"Okay. I trust you," Leslie purred. "I'll be waiting." She got up and sauntered out of the room as slowly as she could.

Jayson kept his eyes on his notes.

After a few seconds Rahmani took the seat next to his. "God, she's beautiful—in a street kind of way. Who is she?"

"Someone I have to deal with," Jayson muttered.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TEN

An hour after waylaying Jayson in the courtroom, Leslie Melendez grabbed her purse and slung the strap over her shoulder, lay bare by a silky, red top that hugged her hourglass figure. "I'll be right back," she whispered, and slid out of her seat opposite Jayson's. "Order me a Brandy Alexander."

"Okay," Jayson said, and out of habit, stood. His father had taught him to stand when a woman approached or left the table, which in this case rested in the corner of a spacious but very dark room. He sat and checked his watch, which indicated it was almost five in the afternoon. He wouldn't make it back to the office before Victor left for the day.

"Now don't go away," Leslie teased.

Jayson said nothing. He watched the young, admittedly beautiful woman in her tight jeans and high-heel shoes as she sashayed down a long corridor leading to the ladies room. Jayson felt a little guilty about ogling the woman's shapely figure, but hell, he was still a man—a man with a sparse sex life.

A short, thin waiter in his early twenties stepped into Jayson's field of vision, diverting his attention away from his "date." The young man, who wore a white shirt, red tie, black pants and an apron, held an order pad. "What can I bring you?"

"Bring me any kind of diet soda—and a Brandy Al for the lady right away, please," Jayson instructed, "and make sure her drink is strong."

The man glanced in the direction of the ladies room, indicating that he had seen Leslie. "Sure, I get it," he cackled, and gave Jayson a wink.

Jayson frowned as the waiter rushed off to fill the order. Sitting alone, he counted heads and concluded the place offered adequate privacy. The patrons in the half-full bar—mostly professionally attired men with much younger, attractive women hanging on their arms—paid him no attention.

He had driven Leslie to an out-of-the-way spot near UMass/Boston. A former client whom he had successfully defended for tax evasion owned it. Forever grateful to have escaped what four previous attorneys had advised would be a certain one-to-five-year stretch, the proprietor had assured his savior if he ever needed a favor, all he had to do was ask. Forty-five minutes before arriving at the bar, Jayson had called and asked for a quiet, very private table.

Modern instrumental jazz seeped through circular speakers hovering alongside dim recessed lights in the ceiling. Jason hardly noticed the music as it blended with the low, indecipherable murmur of the room's occupants. He played with the small table lamp shaped like a lantern, spinning it around, and weighed his options. He had successfully avoided Leslie for over six weeks, but had known sooner or later she would catch up with him. He had to consider the best way to get her out of his life—permanently. Too bad he had scruples and believed in God. In his line of work he had met more than one man who, for the right price, would be willing to remove Leslie from the face of the earth.

Jayson knew he possessed far more education and life experience than Leslie, a twenty-four-year-old Costa Rican native who hadn't finished high school, but he knew he shouldn't make the mistake of underestimating her. She possessed keen survival skills and street smarts. For the time being, he decided his best bet would be to ply the woman with alcohol, listen to her demands and stall.

The waiter returned with the drinks and winked at Jayson again before heading back to the bar area. Jayson felt reassured by the strong bouquet of quality brandy coming from Leslie's glass. She returned and eased back into her seat and immediately began slurping her drink. "Hmmm. It's delicious," she declared, and pushed her long, curly hair away from her face. "Aren't you having one?"

"It's a little early for me and I'm driving, remember?" Jayson replied. He raised the glass containing his diet soda. "I'll just stick with this."

"Suit yourself—and oh my, it's a nice suit, too," Leslie gushed, inspecting Jayson. "So it looks like you're doing pretty good. When'd you get that Jag?"

"Last year," Jayson said. "It's just a car."

Leslie gulped her drink and shook her head. "People with money always talk like that. They live in some castle in Belmont with a maid and say 'it's just a house' or drive a Jag or Beemer and say 'it's just a car.'"

Jayson recognized her warning shot. She had discovered where he lived. Although alarmed, outwardly he just shrugged. "People blessed with some money often worked hard or made sacrifices, Leslie. A lot of times they went to college and studied their asses off."

"That how you and...what's your wife's name?"

Jayson felt himself become angry but displayed no outward sign of emotion. "Renee."

Leslie nodded. "Um-hmm. That how you and Renee got all that money?"

Jayson leaned back in his chair. "What is it you want, Leslie?"

She slowly raised her glass to her mouth, showing off a set of elaborately decorated artificial fingernails, then slammed the glass, almost empty, on the table. "First, I want some respect around here from you, counselor. Who do you think you are, giving me the runaround for two fucking months?"

Jayson nodded. "You're right. I shouldn't have done that. I apologize." He signaled for the waiter. "Another for the lady right away, please." After the waiter left, Jayson continued. "But we're here now. And I assume this isn't a social call."

Leslie put a coy smile on her face. "It could be."

Jayson tightened his. "Please, Leslie."

"Well, I did have something in mind," Leslie announced. She paused for a few seconds, apparently waiting for Jayson to solicit more details. He didn't, so she presented her case. "I talked to a lawyer—one of those feminist dyke types—about our little arrangement years ago." She paused again and waited, but Jayson still offered nothing. "And she told me giving a woman money for her baby amounted to baby-selling and is against the law in Massachusetts."

Jayson opened his hands. "I still don't know what you want, Leslie."

Leslie brought the glass to her lips again and set it down more gently. "This lawyer tells me I could go to court and tell my sad story—you know, how six years ago a poor, ignorant eighteen-year-old girl, all alone with no man, wanted to give up her baby for adoption, but couldn't make up her mind who would be the best parent until—"

Jayson pointed at the approaching waiter who dropped off another Brandy Alexander. "Thank you," he said.

Leslie finished her first drink and grabbed the second one. She stirred it for a few seconds, took a huge swallow and resumed her tale. "Until one day this lawyer paid her a visit and offered to give her five thousand dollars if she would agree to let him and his doctor wife adopt her beautiful, precious daughter."

Jayson sighed. "Leslie, don't tell me that after all this time you suddenly miss Jennifer and want her back?"

Leslie winced. "'Jennifer,' huh? Whatsthematta? 'Yesenia' wasn't good enough? That's the name I gave her."

"It wasn't that," Jayson said. "Jennifer was my wife's grandmother's name. Jennifer's middle name is Yesenia."

"Does Doctor Mrs. Jayson's wife know about our arrangement?"

Jayson spoke slowly. "What do you want, Leslie?"

Leslie chugged down her second drink and waited as Jayson signaled for another. "Life hasn't been so good for me for the past six years. I went back to Costa Rica but five Gs don't go very far, even there." She shrugged. "I was able to land a couple of opportunities, though."

A couple of _men_ you mean, Jayson thought.

"But the country's a mess. So I came back here. I got an aunt living here. She works at one of the hotels and got me a job with her doing housekeeping." She grimaced. "But I couldn't fucking stand it."

"Leslie, please get to the point."

"Goddamn it! I need money, okay?" Leslie snarled. "There. I said it."

Jayson shrugged again. "So get another job, one more to your liking."

"Don't be a smart ass, counselor," Leslie ordered. She pointed. "You and Mrs. Doctor got plenty." She leaned back in her chair and pushed out her ample bosom. "But I ain't greedy. I just need a little something to help me get by."

"How much would help you get by?"

"I think I should be able to make do with..." She stopped talking when the waiter returned with her drink. He grabbed the other two empty glasses and quickly disappeared. "...twenty-five thousand dollars."

Jayson moved his eyebrows close together. "The adoption was final years ago, Leslie. The transaction you described would certainly have been in cash, so there's no proof to your claims. You've got no bargaining chips."

Leslie pointed at him again. "Now that's where you're wrong. I don't need to prove shit. I just need to stake a claim. Maybe I could get my picture in the paper showing a little skin and cleavage, and maybe add a little flavor to my story."

"Flavor?"

"You know, tell everyone I was you mistress." Leslie made thrusting movements with her hips. "That you started banging me after we met, you know, complaining your wife was too busy at work to open her legs for you."

Jayson felt himself becoming enraged but forced himself to breathe regularly. "Leslie, if I remember correctly, you offered but I declined."

"That don't matter," Leslie retorted, slurring her words a bit. "Men see me and want to fuck me. From my no good ass stepfather when I was twelve years old to that drooling priest at the church in the province where I grew up." She slowly ran her hands over her breasts and down to her waist. "No one's gonna look at me and believe you were stupid enough to turn this luscious shit down."

Jayson thought for a few seconds. Jennifer knew she had been adopted but she had no idea how fortunate she had been to get Renee for a mother rather than the one God had given her. Of course Leslie would never get Jennifer. She didn't even want the girl. She just wanted money, and the clearly ruthless vixen did have some leverage. She could severely damage his reputation and his family's life if she made good on her threat. "Leslie, you know I can't do this," he said. "I guess what I did was wrong, but my wife took one look at the photos of that little angel and fell in love with her. So did I. We've been good parents, not that you're interested, obviously." He pointed. "All this time and you haven't asked even once how your daughter is."

Leslie changed her demeanor. She smiled and spoke tenderly. "Look, Jayson, you don't have to get nothing out of this for yourself." She dipped her finger into her drink, stuck out her tongue and slowly licked it. "I know you like what you see. And I don't mind telling you I think you're very handsome and sexy. I've always had a thing for black men. Yesen—um, Jennifer's father was black, you know." She reached across the table and squeezed Jayson's hand. "You could still take me up on my other offer. Trust me. You'd get your money's worth."

Jayson slowly pulled his hand away from hers and stared at her. The air conditioning had kept the room chilly. He could see the outline of her nipples through her tight blouse. True, she was beautiful. Still, he felt repulsed by her. "I don't think so, Leslie."

"I can tell just by looking at you that Mrs. Doctor Renee hasn't been giving you regular doses of your medicine."

"Leave it alone, Leslie."

"You're missing out on some wonderful affection."

More likely an _infection_ , Jayson thought. "Leslie, we both know you'd never get anywhere with this. Why come back here and hurt Jennifer?"

Leslie finished her third drink. "I'm not looking to hurt the kid but I'll do what I have to do." She slowly stood and clung to the chair to steady herself.

"Let me think about this for a while," Jason replied. "Do you have a number where I can reach you? Where are you staying? I'll drive you home."

"I ain't stupid," Leslie insisted and held out her hand. "Give me some money for a fucking cab."

Jayson stepped around the table and took Leslie by the arm.

She pulled away. "You don't touch for free, nigga. How many times I gotta tell you muhfuckas that?"

"Okay," Jayson whispered, raising his hands in the air. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a few bills and dropped them on the table. "I saw a couple of cabs outside when we got here. I'll get you one." He walked alongside the shaky woman and opened the front door for her. The warm, muggy, late June evening air greeted them. Jayson didn't relish the thought of standing outside where the two of them could be seen. Fortunately, a cab pulled up a few feet away and another couple got out. Jayson couldn't help but stare at them. The woman was young enough to be the distinguished, white-haired man's granddaughter. Jayson approached the yellow automobile and held the door for Leslie, who all but fell inside and stretched out across the backseat.

"Take care of the driver, Jayson," she commanded through a long yawn.

Jayson closed the door and walked to the driver's side.

"Where to, amigo?" asked a fiftyish Latino with a thick accent and cigarette breath.

Jayson handed the man two twenty-dollar bills and spoke to him in Spanish. "Take her wherever she wants to go." He slipped the man his business card and whispered. "And there's another fifty for you if you call me tomorrow precisely at nine a.m. and tell me where you dropped her."

The cabby cranked his neck to give Leslie the once-over. He turned and winked at Jayson. "Sure. I get it."

"Not until you call me, then you get it," Jayson joked. "What's your name?"

"Juan."

"Don't talk to anyone but me and say it's Juan the cab driver."

The man laughed. "Okay, amigo." He drove off.

Jayson whipped out his mobile phone, but after a few seconds of indecision, put it back in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, and peeled the jacket off. He walked toward his car, parked a block away, and considered his options. Should he tell Renee about his meeting with Leslie? No. Perhaps he could deal with her without involving Renee....

* * * * *

### CHAPTER ELEVEN

Two days after his meeting with Leslie, Jayson chatted with Connie as he maneuvered through congested downtown traffic en route to the Suffolk County Jail. Only a few clouds coasted alongside them, like secret service agents riding alongside the president's motorcade. The noonday sun, stationed directly overhead, could be felt but not directly seen. Its rays beat down on Jayson's car less severely than it had in past days. The humidity had also subsided significantly.

Just the same, Jayson kept the windows up, the air conditioner on, and soft jazz music playing in the background. The latter helped him endure Connie's nonstop chatter. He rolled his eyes when she flipped the mirror on her sun visor and inspected her hair and make-up for the second time. Renee would do the same thing at least once whenever they rode together.

"It's nice today," Connie observed for the third time. "I hated all that heat and humidity, you know?"

"Yeah, and it's still only June," Jason answered. "Did you find out anything about the two cops who stopped Stone?"

"Yeah. I talked to a friend," Connie said, "a detective, who works at their precinct. I met her at a party a while back and we hit it off. She told me the woman, Washington, had the reputation of being an affirmative action hire. This detective says Washington did just well enough on the exam and cadet training and all to get her badge, but she scored at the bottom half on everything."

Jason shrugged. "So did half her class, not including those who washed out. There's always that kind of talk for people of color with the fire or police. What about Scott?"

"She told me Gary Scott's a fascist. Used to be military police in the army. He believes the law allows people too much freedom."

"So do a couple of hundred other officers on the force," Jayson droned. "So what?"

"Well, there's a rumor that he and some other cops are in some kind of secret society."

Jayson glanced at Connie. "What kind of secret society?"

Connie shrugged. "I don't know. She didn't say."

"What does this 'society' do?"

"She didn't say that either," Connie replied. "This detective and I are gonna go out on the town tomorrow night; you know, hit the clubs. I'll gather more intelligence then." Clearly overcome with self-satisfaction, she made drumming motions on her legs, covered with sheer, black pantyhose. "Not too shabby for my first reconnaissance mission, huh?"

Jayson smiled. "You did okay. Stay on it and see what else you can find out."

"We oughta get rid of those private dicks you use and just have me do the investigations from now on—for some extra _dinero_ , of course." Connie rubbed her fingers together.

Jayson chuckled. "Well, I won't be expecting to catch 'Connie Gonzalez, P.I.' on TV anytime soon." He changed the subject. "I wanted you to come with me to see Stone because I've met with the guy three times and I don't seem to be moving forward with him."

"What do you mean?"

"He's not the easiest man in the world to talk to. He's the passive-aggressive type: makes snide remarks meant to irritate you."

Connie winced. "Yee-uck. Don't you just hate them?"

Jayson nodded. "He can't be more than five-foot-five, but he's got a chip on his shoulder ten feet long."

Connie laughed. "Well, what'd you expect? You saw that stuff in his apartment. The man's a racist. He hates blacks, Jews, Asians—and he ain't too fond of my people either."

"Yeah," Jayson said. "All true, but I'm hoping he might be more willing to talk to a woman." He slowed down and stopped behind a large truck to wait for the light to change. The smell of burning diesel fuel blowing out of the truck's exhaust pipes caused him to wince. "We can't put Stone on the stand. Samira would tear him apart."

"That's for sure," Connie agreed.

The light turned green and Jayson stepped on the accelerator. "Since we've got no defense we can actually put on, the only thing left to do is put the prosecution's case on trial as weak and circumstantial. I've been trying to portray Stone to the media as a confused, damaged little boy who followed the wrong path."

Connie snickered. "From those pictures I saw of all those smutty magazines and movies in his apartment, I'd say our little boy's all grown up."

"Let's see if we—you—can get him to tell us more about himself," Jayson said. "It'd help if we could get someone to sit near him in court—maybe a long-lost aunt or something."

"Maybe we can subpoena his dominatrix," Connie joked. "She can come to the court in her five-inch stiletto heels and testify that little Brian takes an ass-whipping better than any pervert she knows."

Jayson laughed out loud but stopped when he saw the jail come into view. He scrutinized Connie's appearance. She had applied too much make-up, as usual. Her black skirt hung too short, as usual, and she wore a red jacket over a white, low-cut blouse showing too much cleavage. She had recently painted her fingernails ruby red. "I thought I told you to dress conservatively today," Jayson politely scolded. He decided not to mention her jasmine-scented perfume.

Connie pulled down the sun visor's mirror and checked her lipstick and earrings, simple gold twisted hoops. She looked over her outfit and lifted her arms. "I did!"

•

"You look well, Brian," Jayson opened. He shook hands with his client in the same attorney consultation room where they had met three times before.

"Thank you," Stone replied, and slowly observed Connie from head to toe. "I–I see we have company."

"This is Connie Gonzalez, my legal assistant," Jayson said. "She'll be assisting me during your trial."

Connie held out her hand. "Mr. Stone."

Without making eye contact, Stone took only a second to shake her hand. "Um, call me Brian, please." He gestured. "I'm sorry I can't offer you some refreshments but since I didn't know you were coming, I gave the maid the day off." He stared at the numerous scuff marks on the floor, apparently embarrassed by his attempt at levity.

Connie smiled. "I'm fine. Thank you."

Stone dashed to the table and held out a chair for her. "Please make yourself comfortable." His thick southern drawl sounded even heavier than usual.

Jayson sat next to Connie. He watched Stone pull out a chair on the other side of the table and sit facing Connie. Jayson opened with his usual line. "Is there anything we can get for you? Anyone we should contact for you?"

Stone continued to stare at Connie. "Nothing, thank you."

"Well, I want to let you know what happened so far," Jayson said, "and I have a few questions."

"How long have you lived in our country, Miss?" Stone asked.

Connie glanced at Jayson, then faced Stone. "Brian, we don't have a lot of time. It's best we use it to discuss your case."

Good girl, Jayson thought.

"And I'm a United States citizen, just like you."

"But you have an accent."

"So do you."

Bad girl, Jayson thought. He interrupted. "Brian, like Connie said, we're limited on time. We should use it to discuss your case."

"I'm sorry," Stone said. "Please forgive me. It's just that it's not every day I get such a pretty visitor."

Jayson pointed at himself. "Not true. _I've_ come to see you three times."

All three of them laughed. Jayson's joke seemed to put everyone at ease.

Connie glanced at Jayson. "It's okay, Brian. This must be very difficult for you."

Jayson opened his briefcase and dropped several folders on the table, then reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and produced a gold pen. He waited as Connie took out a legal pad, a pen and several folders from her own briefcase. "Brian," Jayson said, "I reviewed the witness list the prosecution gave me." He opened a folder, grabbed a sheet of paper and handed it to Stone. "Most of the people on the list are expected: police officers, the forensic pathologist, that kind of thing. But there're a couple of names on the list I don't recognize. I want you to look at the names I've circled and tell me if you recognize these people and tell me what they could possibly say that would help the prosecution."

Stone held the list for a few seconds then dropped it on the table. "I don't know any of these people."

Jayson sighed. "Brian, please take another look."

Stone snatched the paper, examined it again and shook his head. "Nope. Nobody."

"Look at their first names and then their last names," Jayson instructed. "Are they people who lived in your apartment building? Someone you worked with? Someone—"

"Damn it, I said I don't know them!" Stone shouted, tossing the paper back to Jayson. "How many times do I have to say it? I don't know anybody. I haven't made _any_ friends here." He sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "I don't know how to make it any clearer."

Jayson put the paper in the folder and closed it. "I don't understand you, Brian. Every damn time I come here it's like pulling teeth to get you to cooperate."

Stone ignored Jayson and turned his attention to his female visitor. "Where were you born, Connie?"

"Um, my family came here from the Dominican Republic."

"I see. Were they legal?"

Jayson slammed his open hand on the table. "Brian, I'll let you make your stupid remarks to entertain yourself at my expense, but I'm not going to sit here and let you insult a woman who I asked here to help you."

Connie grabbed Jayson's forearm and squeezed hard. "It's okay. It's his quarter. Let him spend it." She made eye contact with Stone. "Yes, they were legal," she informed him softly. "But I understand you didn't know your real parents. That's a shame."

Stone scoffed. "Just as well. They were no good."

"What about the people who brought you up. What were they like?"

"Which ones?" Stone asked. "There were so many of them."

Jayson arched his right eyebrow. Stone's self-disclosing reply surprised him.

Connie folded her hands. "Were any of them nice?"

"Who?"

"The people who helped bring you up," Connie replied. "Were any of them nice?"

Stone shrugged. "Some were okay. Most just provided a roof over my head and a place to eat. I was in nine different foster homes growing up."

Jayson watched the exchange between the two. He had seen Connie successfully solicit information from clients before; big brawny men sometimes accused of committing brutal murders with their bare hands. Beneath her veneer of Latina party girl lay a compassionate woman who could reach the coldest heart.

Connie smiled. "That must've been tough. But there must've been a couple of families that took you in were better than the others, yes?"

Keep going, girl, Jayson thought.

Stone offered no reply for a few seconds, then a slight smile etched on his face. "There was this one family; black too. The state put me there because the home of the people I was staying with caught fire. I was supposed to stay with them for a week or two but I stayed there for about a year when I was twelve or so."

Connie nodded. "You liked them?"

Stone nodded. "The old woman there was nice. Religious, you know? Read the Bible every day. There were ten other kids there—I was the only white kid—and she made sure the other kids treated me okay. We had to call each other 'Brother Franklin' or 'Sister Marilyn' or me, I was 'Brother Brian.'"

"That sounded like a good place," Connie remarked. "What happened?"

Stone balled his hands into fists. "The nig—I mean, black kids at school hated the sight of me. Used to beat me up and call me names like 'cracker' and 'ghost' and stuff. So they took me out of there and put me with a white family where I belonged."

Jayson pulled out a legal pad and began to take notes.

Connie shook her head. "That wasn't right, the way those kids treated you. Did you make any friends later on, like in high school? Maybe a girl? I bet you had a few crushes."

Stone shook his head again. "I just never learned how to talk to girls. I didn't have a real mama to teach me those things. Girls used to laugh at me and make fun. The way I talked. The old clothes I wore." He pulled on his blue jail shirt. "Them that didn't laugh, they felt sorry for me. I could see it in their eyes. That was worse."

Connie reached for the paper in Jayson's folder and gave it to Stone. "Brian, who are the people we don't know on this list? Are they people you worked with at the hospital?"

Stone nodded. "I–I guess that's probably who they are."

"And what do you think they're gonna say in court?"

"I don't know."

"I think you do," Connie gently suggested. "We're only trying to help."

Jayson opened his mouth to affirm Connie's statement but closed it. He sat back in his chair and continued taking notes.

Stone closed his eyes, then opened them and sighed. "Well, they might say I was kinda anti-social and wasn't well liked at work, and the supervisor had to give me a little cubby hole all to myself so I could work in peace."

"What do you mean, work in peace?"

"They were always picking on me, playing practical jokes—hiding the mouse of my computer, loosening the bolt in my chair so it collapsed when I sat down; that kinda stuff."

"That wasn't right either," Connie said, shaking her head. "Brian, is there anybody, a friend, acquaintance, maybe a distant relative here or back home who we could talk to about you?"

Stone said nothing for a few seconds, then shook his head. "No, nobody."

"Did you ever find out what happened to your brother and two sisters?"

"No."

"We have an investigator. Maybe we could—"

"No!" Stone snapped. "I wouldn't want any of them to see how I turned out."

Jayson listened as Connie and Stone continued their conversation as if they were the only two occupying the room. They chatted mostly about his case, then digressed to Stone's first reaction to the New England winter and how strangers react to their accents. Eventually Jayson announced their time was up. He could see the hurt expression on Stone's face. All three arose from their chairs as a husky female officer with dark skin and very short hair pushed the door open. "Time to go," she announced.

"W–will you come back again sometime soon, Connie?" Stone asked.

She shrugged. "If Jayson wants me to."

Stone shook each visitor's hand and walked to the door, but abruptly spun around and whispered something to Connie before the officer took him by the arm and led him out the door.

Jayson and Connie took the familiar walk through the jail without saying a word. He didn't like to discuss privileged information until they exited the building. Eventually they stepped outside and engaged in small talk about the weather. The temperature had risen slightly but the air remained comfortably dry. They entered a huge multi-storied parking garage two blocks from the jail and took the stairs to the third floor. Not until they approached the car did Jayson finally ask Connie about Stone's departing words.

"Not good," she answered. "I know how you always say you'd rather not know."

Jayson nodded. "True. It's always the huge white elephant in the middle of the room. Ignoring it keeps me sane." He pressed the button on his remote, opening the trunk of the car. He and Connie placed their briefcases inside and switched to speaking in Spanish, as they always did when returning to the office from an appointment. Jayson pushed the trunk closed. "So what did he say?"

Connie took a step closer to Jayson and whispered. "He said: 'No one was supposed to get hurt.'"

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TWELVE

A few hours after he and Connie had met with Stone, Jayson sat in his office reviewing a brief Victor had drafted supporting a motion to dismiss a complaint. Jayson had accepted the case only because the defendant, charged with assaulting the girlfriend of her husband, attended his church. A paper cup filled with iced tea lay within reach. His desk lamp and the overhead lights were on because the sun, which wouldn't set for nearly three hours, no longer shone directly into his office.

He played with a red erasable pen and a highlighter, lightly tapping them on his desk like drums. Jayson felt reasonably comfortable, having taken off the jacket to his suit. He raised his eyes toward the glass wall and mostly glass door long enough to catch a glimpse of Victor, who wandered back and forth in front of his office like a father-to-be outside a delivery room.

Jayson finished his drink and the last page of the fourteen-page document, and judged Victor's first try at independently drafting a brief to be impressive. The young man had a talent for writing and understood the fine points of the law; he would be an exceptional asset to the bar some day. Of course, Jayson thought, give credit where credit was due: he had given the kid a three-year-old brief he had drafted to use as a guide. Jayson had read that Buddhists say a student can only be as good as his teacher—or had he heard those words from Professor Seth Greenberg in law school?

Victor came into view again. Jayson suppressed the urge to laugh and decided to put the young man out of his misery by waving him into the office.

Victor rushed in and closed the door behind him. He straightened his tie. "Well?"

Jayson stood and stepped around his desk, leaving the document on it. "I'm impressed. It's good. Very good."

Victor smiled. "I put a lot of work into it."

"And it shows," Jayson acknowledged. He pointed at the top of his desk. "There were just a few places I marked. I want you to look them over tomorrow and read my notes. Probably won't take you a half-hour to make the changes.

Victor nodded enthusiastically and held out his hands. "I'll take care of it right now."

Jayson shook his head. "No. Leave it. We've got plenty of time. Look at it tomorrow with a fresh pair of eyes. I don't even want you to hold it in your hands until then."

"I guess you're right," Victor agreed. He turned to leave but turned back. "Um, if you were giving it a grade, well, what would you give it?" He looked like a five-year-old seeking approval from his father.

Jayson approached Victor and put his hand on the young man's shoulder. "I would give it a B+."

"Damn," Victor muttered. He put his hand over his mouth and grimaced. "Oops, sorry about my language."

Jayson chuckled. "It's okay. Look, you did real well. Just got a little wordy, like you do on occasion. Remember, sometimes—"

"Less is more," Victor chimed in. Apparently preferring to stay a while longer, he brought up another topic. "Um, what's your take on the Stone case?"

"Well," Jayson replied, "you know Samira withdrew the second degree offer?"

"Um-hmm," Victor said. "I thought she would. The way your dueling interviews and formal statements have been—"

"And don't forget leaked information."

"And leaked information played on the news, it's no surprise. What did she say?"

Jayson mimicked Rahmani's voice. "'The offer of second degree is withdrawn. Your client's going to rot in prison for the rest of his life for first-degree felony murder.'"

"Did she add just the right touch of righteous indignation?" Victor inquired.

"Not too much; not too little," Jayson said. He pinched his index finger against his thumb. "Just right."

"Does what Stone said to Connie this morning change anything?"

Jayson rolled his eyes, laughed and pointed at Connie, sitting at her desk talking on the telephone. "For _me_ , yeah. She's been insufferable. You know she's going to be impossible to work with for the rest of the week."

Victor laughed as well. "You're right, but she was so proud of herself."

Jayson's tone became businesslike again. "But to answer your question, what Stone said isn't going to matter. I didn't go into law school with my head all full of crap from watching TV. I knew most of my clients would be guilty."

Victor leaned against the small work table a few feet from Jayson. "So how do you justify what you do for a living when people ask you at parties or whatever?"

Jayson shrugged. "I usually give them the standard speech, you know? My job's to provide a vigorous defense for my client, forcing the state to prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt. What I do, and what all defense attorneys do, is keep those who serve the state honest in how they prosecute those charged with a crime, thereby protecting the rights of everyone and anyone charged with a crime." He laughed and made gestures as if he were playing the violin.

Victor joined him, playing a few imaginary notes himself and laughed. He stopped and pointed at the floor. "I've learned more here in a couple of months than in two years at Northeastern."

Jayson shrugged again. "I've met some pretty good attorneys who went there." He pointed at himself. "I went to Mass School of Law, where the kids without money go. My dad's a bus driver and my mom checks in patients at a hospital." He leaned against his desk. "I've told you about my law school mentor, Seth Greenberg?"

"The one who had the stroke?"

"Yeah," Jayson replied. He stared absently at the carpet as he spoke. "I'll never forget the first class I had with him years ago, when his body had just begun to bend with age but he hadn't been victimized by that first stroke." Jayson leaned forward and imitated the professor's gestures. "The old man pounded his hand on the podium and delivered the gospel to a roomful of wide-eyed law students, including me."

"What did he say? What did he say?" Victor asked, excited.

"Well, I'll tell you," Jayson said. He squinted and changed his voice to sound much older. "'In our system of justice, all people charged with a crime get their day in court and a fair trial from an impartial jury or judge. The police don't get to coerce suspects into confessing, plant evidence on them, or falsify information about them even if they're guilty.'" Jayson shook his finger and continued. "'They also don't get to charge people with crimes that, according to the letter of the law, they didn't actually commit. They don't even get to be sloppy in how they gather evidence or present evidence. If they do, then it's your job to see to it your client goes free, even if you saw him commit the crime yourself.'"

Victor clapped his hands. "Wow. He must've really been something."

"He really was," Jayson agreed. "Still is." He leaned against his desk again. "A lot of non-lawyers—and even some lawyers—just don't understand. Sometimes I'll get an angry family member of a crime victim who'll accost me in the hallway outside of some courtroom. The father, mother, son, whatever will cuss me out and swear that when I die I'm going straight to hell. They yell: 'That son of a bitch raped my daughter! That bastard stole thousands of dollars from my company! That drunk got behind the wheel and killed my child! How could you represent such a person?'"

Victor made a face. "I bet that's no fun."

Jayson raised his hand and brought it quickly downward. "I'm used to it. But months, sometimes even years later, after they or a member of their family get arrested, some of those same people will knock on my door and beg me to take money from their life savings or their pension plans or the second mortgage they took out on their homes." He pointed at the brief Victor had written. "Shoot, that woman from my church who knocked two of her husband's girlfriend's teeth out had just told a bunch of folks a couple of weeks ago that I should be ashamed of myself for taking the Stone case."

"But you still accepted a retainer from her and from those other people, right?"

"Of course. I'm not the kind of guy to hold a grudge."

Victor placed his hand over his heart. "A real humanitarian, that's the man I work for." He and Jayson shared a loud laugh. Victor cleared his throat. "Um, Jayson, can I ask you kind of a personal question?"

"Go ahead."

"Um, what did your family, I mean like, your mom and dad, think about you going into criminal law?"

Jayson shrugged. "They were fine with it. I come from humble stock. My folks think being a lawyer is like what you see on TV—I defend innocent people wrongly accused of crimes. They're just thrilled their son's a lawyer." He pointed at Victor. "What do your folks think about all the unsavory characters you've been exposed to here?"

"They don't know."

Jayson raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean they don't know?"

Victor lowered his head. "Did I ever tell you about my dad?" He looked up, saw Jayson shake his head, and continued. "My dad's a strict, self-made, successful businessman who came to America with virtually nothing. He sent me to business school and law school with the expectation that I'll join the family export business."

"You'd make a fine lawyer, whatever area you choose," Jayson said.

"Thanks, but I hate the family export business."

"Have you explained this to your father?"

Victor lowered his head again. "You don't understand what traditional Chinese families are like. My mom's never held a job outside of the home. My dad doesn't show affection to her or to any of his kids. We don't talk like this, like you and I are doing right now."

At that moment Jayson understood his loyal intern's devotion to him a little better. The psychiatrists called it "transference." Apparently Victor's father didn't understand that his son, having been born and raised in America, wasn't Chinese but Chinese _American_ , and like most American children desired some warmth from his parents. "Well," Jayson said, "what are you going to do?"

Victor shrugged. "I don't know."

Jayson opens his hands. "Hey, if you're interested, I still know a few people at the Public Defender's Office. I could put in a word for you. Just let me know."

Victor beamed in that little boy way again. "Thanks. I will." He turned to leave but Connie appeared.

She stepped into the doorway, blocking his path and took him by the shoulders to gently spin him around. She pointed at him. "Hey, Jayson, this one's been keeping secrets from us. You know today's his birthday?"

"Really?" Jayson replied. "Well, happy birthday." He folded his arms across his chest. "You know you shouldn't even be working today."

Connie hooked her arm under Victor's. "And I'm taking you out for a drink right now, remember?" She backed up, pulling him along with her.

Victor flashed an embarrassed smile and spoke to Jayson. "You coming?"

Jayson counted the papers on his desk. "Well..." He glanced at Connie, standing behind Victor, frantically shaking her head to indicate what his answer should be. "I better not. I'd really like to, but I've got a pile of work to finish up."

Victor stepped toward Jayson's desk. "Do you need me to stay and help out?"

Jayson put his fingers on his chin and decided to get even with Connie for being so puffed up all day about her success with Stone. "Well, there's this other complaint you could..." He paused and glanced at Connie again, with her arms akimbo and an exaggerated glare on her face. "No. You kids go and enjoy yourselves. I'm hoping a service technician might still show up to take a look at the copier in my office."

Connie yanked on Victor's arm, then literally pushed him to his table in the outer office and helped him gather his things. Jayson walked out of his office and approached Tenika, who stood behind her desk also gathering her belongings to leave for the day. He leaned against her shoulder, whispered a few words in her ear, and the two shared a not-so-private laugh at Connie's expense. Connie turned around, catching their antics, and responded by balling up her fist and playfully shaking it at them. Jayson and Tenika poked each other on the arm. The ring of the telephone cut short their playtime.

"Shoot, just when I was about to go home too," Tenika complained. She turned off the light on her desk and answered the telephone. "Cook Law Office...Who may I say is calling?...One moment, please." She pressed a button, putting the caller on hold.

"Who is it?" Jayson asked.

Tenika said nothing. Instead she watched Victor go through the front door with Connie lagging a few feet behind him. The ebullient paralegal turned to face Tenika and Jayson again. She licked her lips and rubbed her hands together as if she were about to devour a delicious meal. Tenika giggled as Connie ran to catch up with Victor, then she finally answered Jayson's question. "It's that woman we spoke about before. You know, Miss Thang?"

Jayson attempted to read the information on the telephone console. "Is the caller ID information blocked?"

"Yep, just like it always is when she calls."

"Um-hmm," Jayson muttered. "Tell her I want to talk to her but I'm just finishing up on something, and ask her to call me back in ten minutes."

Tenika held her index finger right above the flashing button on the console. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Jayson said. "And we're getting a bit swamped with paperwork. Call the temp agency in the morning and get us a bit of help."

"Okay....you sure you want me to tell Ms. Thang to call back in ten?"

Jayson smirked. "Yeah. I have a little surprise for her." He walked toward his office. "Now you go on home but don't lock the door. Someone might still swing by to look at my copy machine."

He marched back to his office, leaving the door open and sat at his desk. Tenika conveyed his message to the caller, then grabbed her purse and bid Jayson goodnight. After watching her leave, Jayson reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a piece of paper with some writing on it. He glanced at the address Juan the cab driver had given him and scrutinized the telephone number underneath it he had obtained through a simple Internet search.

He picked up the telephone receiver on his desk and punched out a few numbers, blocking his identity. He could feel his palms begin to sweat. He switched the receiver to his left hand and wiped his right one on his pant leg. He heard the telephone ring once, twice, three times, then a woman's voice—an older woman's voice, no doubt the aunt Leslie had mentioned.

"Hello, may I please speak to Leslie?" Jayson asked. He could hear the woman call her niece, and switched the receiver back to his right hand.

"Hello?" the soft, sultry voice on the other end said.

"Hello, Leslie. This is Jayson. I'm returning your call."

"W–w–what?" Leslie muttered. "How did you—I mean, I can't talk right now."

The sound of the telephone going dead gave Jayson great pleasure. He gently cradled the receiver. "You're playing in the big leagues now, bitch," he whispered.

The sound of the front door opening broke up Jayson's self-congratulatory glee. A white, middle-aged bald man wearing a tie and an outdated, ill-fitting suit entered the room. He was accompanied by two, tall white males in their early twenties, one with dark hair and the other blond. Jayson had never seen the younger men, and he had not seen the older man in person in over three years, since his free speech victory on behalf of the Church of the True Savior. "You don't have an appointment," Jayson called out without leaving his chair, clearly irritated. "What can I do for you, Mr. Morgan?"

Gregory Morgan flashed a broad smile. "I'm fine counselor. How are you?" Jayson didn't answer. "I just wanna have a little talk."

"I've got a few things I need to do."

"It's okay, we'll wait."

Jayson stood and watched his three visitors make themselves comfortable in the waiting area. He closed the door to his office and returned to his desk, then picked up the telephone and dialed Tenika's mobile phone number. Within a few seconds he heard her recorded voice mail. "Gregory Morgan's here," he announced. "Call me." He dialed Connie's mobile phone also but failing to reach her, left the same message. He hung up, grabbed another brief on his desk and starting reading it. "Let the son of a bitch wait," he whispered.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Well, it's about time," the pot-bellied Morgan snorted as he stepped into Jayson's office. The blond young man followed him and stood on his right side. He wore a pair of new blue jeans and a black T-shirt with the words "Church of the True Savior" printed on it. The dark-haired young man, dressed similarly except his T-shirt was blue, entered the room last and stood to Morgan's left. Morgan pointed at his watch. "We were waiting out there for a half-hour. Is that how you treat all your clients?"

Jayson checked the clock on his desk, which indicated that the time was five forty-five. "You waited for twenty-four minutes, to be exact—and you're a former client," he retorted with an edge to his voice. "Like I said, you didn't have an appointment, but what can I do for you, Mr. Morgan?"

"Do you mind if I sit down?" Morgan asked.

Jayson gestured toward the chair on the other side of his desk. "If you insist."

"Hey, watch your mouth," the blond man snarled.

"Yeah, we ain't taking no smart talk from the likes of you," the dark-haired man added.

Jayson tilted his head to the side and bounced his attention off each of the young men as he spoke. "First of all, jackasses, the name's Cook, Mr. Cook. Second, you three are in _my_ office and will remain for as long I say it's okay, and if you don't like my hospitality—or lack thereof, you're free to leave. " He turned to the older man. "I'm not going to ask you again, Morgan. What do you want?"

Morgan grinned like a used car salesman. He pulled up the chair Jayson had reluctantly offered and sat. His men stationed themselves at the opposite sides of Jayson's door. "Like I said, I just want to have a little talk about a mutual acquaintance of ours." He extended his index finger. "But first, I want you to know again how impressed I was with how you handled my case back when no one else would stand up for my rights." His voice betrayed a slight southern twang.

"Um-hmm," Jayson said. "I didn't do it for you or your church. I did it for Professor Greenberg." He glanced at the two men standing in front of his door. Their presence made him nervous, but he tried to appear calm. He looked down at the bottom desk drawer near his right foot. The drawer contained a strong box he had unlocked before summoning his uninvited guest.

"Hey, the man's talking to you," the blond man said.

"He trying to be nice to you," the other young man chimed in. "Why, I don't know."

Jayson gestured in the direction of the two men by the door but spoke to the older one sitting in front of him. "Morgan, is this the best you can do at that church of yours? A couple of dumb goons like these? Even Brian Stone has more on the ball than these two put together."

The blond man took a step forward. "Why you uppity—"

"Shut up!" Morgan snapped. He twisted around and pointed at the door. "Stay at your post." He turned back to Jayson and smiled. "You may have a point. They don't do all that reading like Brian, but they're good boys."

"It'd be a miracle if they could do _any_ reading," Jayson said.

Morgan ignored the taunt. "And that's what I come here to talk to you about—Brian Stone, your client. The man you've sworn to defend to the best of your ability."

Jayson sighed. Morgan knew his weakness: He would do whatever was necessary within the limits of the law to aid his client, and putting up with Morgan definitely fell under necessary within the limits of the law. "Go ahead," he said. "I'm listening."

"Well..." Morgan crowed, grinning again, obviously enjoying his upper hand. "I want to make sure you understand neither I nor anybody at the Church of the True Savior knew about or had anything to do with the bombing of that church that killed that kid." He shook his finger. "We told the police that, over and over again."

Jayson shrugged. "Yeah, well Brian was coming from a meeting at your..." He paused and winced. "... _church_ when he was stopped by the police, and he was a regular attendee. With the views you espouse—"

"Protected views, thanks to you," Morgan interjected.

"Don't remind me," Jayson said. "Views protected by the Constitution. Surely you can understand the police's interest in whether there was some kind of conspiracy. I mean, a little girl was killed."

Morgan dropped his smile. "And I condemned such violence myself in the strongest terms." He leaned forward. "I've got four kids myself. We don't believe in violence. We just want to make sure there's no race mixing going on and that the white man's rights don't get trampled on by—"

"Save that crap for your meetings," Jayson barked. "I know what you stand for and I couldn't care less." He slowly reached for the bottom desk drawer while keeping an eye on Morgan's men. They scowled but didn't move. He sat up straight again. "Tell me about Brian Stone."

Morgan opened his hands. "That's the whole point. My church has been unfairly castigated for nothing. Nobody really liked Brian. He wasn't well liked around the church; just tolerated."

Jayson reached for a legal pad and started taking notes. "Oh? And why wasn't he well liked?"

Morgan frowned. "He was an odd bird. Kinda socially inept. A weird kid with a weird sense of humor. Kept to himself, which is hard to do at a small church like ours. And when he did speak he was always questioning the Word of the Lord." He lifted his voice and hands as he spoke the last four words.

Jayson rolled his eyes. "You mean the word of Gregory Morgan."

Morgan chuckled. "Call it what you want, but in a movement like ours, a movement to take back this great country of ours from the Communists and the Jews, we can't afford to have a Doubting Thomas—or a Doubting Brian—around."

"Um-hmm," Jayson grunted. "Did Brian know how you felt?"

"Yes and no," Morgan replied and clasped his hands together. "I treated that little lamb like a son and tried to be patient with him; tried to get him to act like a man." He sighed. "Hard to believe that boy's from the South, like me."

"Yeah, hard to believe," Jayson muttered. "What happened at your church before the bombing?"

"What happened?"

Jayson sighed. "People don't just wake up one morning and decide to blow up a church. What happened at your church shortly before the bomb at Mount Calvary?"

"Nothing."

Jayson sighed even longer. "Morgan, unless you level with me, in a few months there's going to be a trial. A big one. The prosecution's going to say 'Church of the True Savior' and 'bomb' and 'Brian Stone' in the same sentence over and over again." He pointed at himself. "Me, I'm going to say 'Church of the True Savior' and 'bomb' and 'undiscovered _conspirators_ ' over and over again. You get the picture?"

Morgan frowned. "But we had nothing to do with any of it."

"That doesn't matter," Jayson insisted, raising his voice a bit. "Now what happened at your church before the bomb?"

"Um, well," Morgan mumbled, "I may have said something to the boy, like he might not be welcomed at the church anymore." He peeked over his shoulder. "Um, nothing we say goes out of this room, will it?"

"No," Jayson replied. He paused for a few seconds, then ripped out the top sheet in his legal pad. He swung his chair around, fed the paper into a small shredder behind him and faced Morgan again. "A written witness statement can be subpoenaed if it exists. Go ahead."

"Um, well..." Morgan looked around. "You got anything cold to drink?"

Jayson pointed at a miniature refrigerator sitting on a small table in the corner of his office. "I've got some soft drinks in there."

Morgan pointed at the refrigerator and snapped his fingers. The blond man raced to the corner, opened the refrigerator and retrieved a bottle of iced tea, which he presented to Morgan. The church leader squinted and pointed. The young man apologized. He twisted the cap off and tossed it onto Jayson's desk. Jayson offered Morgan a paper cup but he declined. The young man joined the other one by the door. Morgan took a couple of deep gulps and nodded, clearly relieved. "That's better," he said. "Now where was I?"

"You were about to tell Brian to take a hike," Jayson reminded him.

"Oh yeah," Morgan said. "Well, we couldn't have doubters and questioners and weak-willies around because our movement is so important."

"So you told Brian he'd have to leave the only place where he had planted himself."

"I just hinted it _might_ happen to scare the boy," Morgan said. He raised his arms. "What could I do? The boy just didn't fit in."

"And?"

"Then that bomb went off and the police came down on us like fire and brimstone from heaven," Morgan replied.

"You telling me!" The blond man blurted out.

Morgan turned and gave the man an angry look, then resumed his conversation with Jayson. "We closed ranks and stuck together, so we put up with Brian for a little longer."

Jayson shook his head. Even among misfits, Stone was a misfit, he thought. "Was there anyone at your church who Brian got even a little close to—maybe a woman?" he asked. "He did seem to act differently around my female paralegal."

The blond man cackled. "Ha! That sissy? Everyone thought he was a fag."

"Yeah," the other man joined in. "He wouldn't know what to do with a woman if she got naked and jumped in his lap." The two men shook as they laughed.

Jayson watched Morgan smirk while the two men laughed. He didn't care much for Stone, but he liked the three men in his office even less. However, he knew he had to tolerate them in order to help his client. "None of this was in your interview with the police."

"They didn't ask me," Morgan said, "but I said it to that Arab camel jock princess when she talked to me a couple of days ago." He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. "What was her name? Ramona? Ramani? Something like that."

Jayson raised his eyebrows. "Look Morgan, I need your cooperation to help my client, but I've had enough of your racist crap here in my office. Now one more word of that nonsense and out you and your hyenas go. Do I make myself clear?"

Morgan held up his hands. "Alright, alright. Take it easy."

So Rahmani was up to her old tricks, Jayson thought. Double back to an important witness _after_ sending the discovery materials. She wasn't called the Iranian wolf for nothing. He knew how she operated. She'd subpoena Morgan at the last minute, then put him on the witness stand to provide a crucial element previously missing in her whole case: a motive for the bombing. She'd argue Stone was about to be kicked out of the only place he had called home, so he blew up the Mount Calvary Baptist Church to prove his loyalty to the racist ideals espoused by Morgan and his clan—or Klan. Jayson pointed at Morgan. "But you never instructed anyone to commit an act of violence. Is that right?"

Morgan shook his head sharply. "Absolutely not. We have the Lord's truth on our side. We don't believe in violence. We just believe God didn't intend for people to go..." He wiggled his fingers. "...mixing all up." He shook his finger at Jayson. "And look at all the trouble that boy has caused us. The police have been spying on us and following us even more than usual."

Jayson was puzzled by what he had just heard. He furled his eyebrows together. "What are you talking about, more than usual?"

Morgan took another swig from his bottle and paused, apparently savoring the taste of the beverage—and the fact he knew something Jayson didn't. "My, my. Didn't Brian tell you? I guess he's not so smart after all."

"I don't have time for games," Jayson said. "Didn't Brian tell me what?"

"That the police were always on our tails. Spying on us. Following us around." Morgan paused and chortled. "You don't think they just happened to stop Brian, do you? It just made sense they'd pick on the weakest of the flock."

"You mean he was being followed?"

The blond man giggled. "I thought you said he was a smart one?" He pointed at Jayson. "This is what happens when they let you people into law school with affirmative action."

Jayson pointed back. "And you're what happens when a brother screws his sister and gets her pregnant, limp dick."

The man's smile disappeared. He stepped slowly toward Jayson while reaching into his back pocket. "I ain't gonna let no nigger talk to me that way. I'll—"

Jayson reached into his bottom desk drawer, whipped out a large revolver and pointed it at the man, stopping his forward progress. "You'll what, asshole?" He waved the gun. "Get your hands where I can see them!"

Morgan slowly stood and backed up past the blond man, who had raised his hands. "N–now there's no need to get excited, Jayson."

Jayson raised his right eyebrow and kept the gun trained on the blond man. "Who's excited?" In spite of his bravado, he could feel drops of sweat roll down from his armpits.

The dark-haired man held up his hands. "We–we didn't mean nothing, honest, Cook, I mean, Mr. Cook. We was just foolin' around."

The blond man blinked his eyes a few times. "He's bluffin, ya'll." He took a step back, just the same.

Morgan smiled, apparently attempting to regain control. "Yeah, if he shoots you he goes to jail." He pointed at the dark-haired man behind him and at himself. "We'd testify against him in court."

Jayson tilted his head again. "Unless all three of you were lying on the floor dead when the police got here." He needed to maintain a cool façade but worried Morgan and his goons would notice his upper body shaking with each fierce heartbeat.

The dark-haired man whimpered. "N–now waitaminute, Mister," he pleaded, pressing his back against the door. "I–I just come here because Mr. Morgan told me to. I ain't got nothing against nobody."

Jayson blinked. "Well in that case you'd better leave."

Morgan nodded. "Yeah, um, I said all I came to say anyway." He pulled the blond man toward him by the T-shirt and slapped him in the face. "You damn fool! Didn't I tell you to keep your mouth shut?" He motioned for the other man to open the door. He did and all three slinked past the waiting area and disappeared into the hallway.

Jayson, still standing behind his desk, listened for the sound of the elevator bell. When he finally heard it, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He waited a few seconds for his heart to stop pounding, then, still holding the gun, walked to the front door and locked it. He returned to his office and gently placed the gun on top of his desk. Would he have shot the man, he asked himself? Yes. Would he have turned the gun on anyone else afterwards? No.

Jayson walked to the refrigerator, opened the door and grabbed a can of orange juice. He sat at his desk, drank the juice straight from the can and stared at the revolver. It was after six. He secured the weapon, then handwrote a long memo to Connie detailing everything that had just occurred, including the gun incident. An office memo would be considered a work product and couldn't be subpoenaed.

An hour later Jayson shredded his handwritten memo and reviewed the typed version he had printed. Feeling a sudden surge of energy, he bounded out of his chair and raced into his conference room clutching the document. "I helped you, Morgan, you bastard," he declared as he took a seat and quickly flipped through a thick law book. "But now we're even." Morgan had provided potentially very valuable information, especially one piece of it in particular. If he had spoken the truth, and if Jayson could prove it—no small feat—he might just be able to get every charge against Stone dismissed.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Nearly three hours after his encounter with Gregory Morgan, Jayson turned into his driveway. He clicked on the garage door opener and watched as the rising door revealed two empty spots. Renee was attending a fancy, work-related, fund-raising soirée. In addition to performing her regular, very demanding duties at the hospital, she had volunteered to co-chair the committee organizing the huge event; part of her strategy to become chief of anesthesiology. Jayson had called her and reported the truth, although not the whole truth: He had lost track of time while researching a new development in a case and wouldn't join her, as originally planned. He could still hear the disappointment in her voice. "Everyone's spouse is here but mine."

Jayson stepped into the kitchen and saw only a dim light shining above the breakfast table, an indication that Magdalena had fed Jennifer, eaten her own dinner and cleaned up. He took a whiff of the air and a few seconds to inspect the large, glass-covered dishes on top of the stove and surmised he would be eating some type of fish for dinner, along with rice and string beans. He had skipped lunch and could feel his stomach growling. He wanted to quickly change and return to eat. Receiving additional confirmation that one's client had killed a child, surprising a blackmailer with a phone call, and pulling a loaded gun on a witness could sure work up a man's appetite.

Jayson checked the clock on the wall—about quarter to nine—and knew Jennifer would have been in bed for at least fifteen minutes. Although he had called Magdalena at around eight o'clock, Jayson regretted he had arrived home too late to read Jennifer a story before bedtime. He and Renee had agreed that if at all possible, the child would be tucked in and read a story every night by one of her parents, not the housekeeper. They had each been remiss at times in fulfilling that shared obligation. Because of Renee's event, neither of them had been expected to tuck Jennifer into bed. Jayson assumed, pursuant to his instructions, Magdalena had read Jennifer a tale from the large book of children's Bible stories his parents had given her for her last birthday.

Jayson stepped into the great room and observed a half-dozen young men on television crooning a ballad in Spanish about how much they missed a _senorita_ with beautiful eyes. He assumed Magdalena had recently gone upstairs to get Jennifer ready for bed. He slowly tiptoed up the stairs, reaching the top just as Magdalena exited the child's room. She put her finger to her lips. Jayson understood and nodded. Magdalena closed the door behind her, then spoke softly. "Good evening, Mr. Cook. I not hear you come in. I was checking on the little one. She's asleep. She go to bed fifteen minutes ago."

Jayson smiled. "Thank you, Magda. Why don't you go downstairs and watch your program? There're some handsome hunks singing a love song just for you."

Magdalena's face softened and she giggled. "Oh, Mr. Cook, I'm too old for love songs now." She stepped closer to him and whispered. "There some trouble at the little friend's birthday party. Some of the children was teasing Jennifer."

Jayson made a face. "Teasing her? Teasing her about what?"

Magdalena stared at the carpeted floor and mumbled. "About you."

Jayson frowned. "Me? What the hell would anyone tease her about me for?"

"Some little boy say something his father told him about you, about the case you do with the bomb," Magdalena replied.

"Which little boy? What's his father's name?"

"I don't remember, sir," Magdalena replied, "but Jennifer, she tell me other child say her mother say something too, so the children make fun of her."

Jayson felt himself becoming indignant but recognized nothing productive would come from having a temper tantrum in the middle of the hallway. "Thank you, Magda. Does her mother know about this?"

"No, Mr. Cook. She gone all day."

Jayson paused to think for a few seconds. "Well, let me break the news to her, and either Dr. Cook or I will deal with it tomorrow." He patted her on the shoulder. "I don't know what we'd do without you."

Magdalena nodded. "That little one, she so sweet. She bring sunshine and love everywhere. It not right what they do."

"No, not at all," Jayson agreed, "but you know children can be cruel but they recover quickly." He attempted to lighten their mood. "Did you read her a story?"

Magdalena nodded. " _Si_ , um yes, Mr. Cook. I read about Queen Esther."

"Okay, that's a good one," Jayson said. He reached for the doorknob. "I'll just look in on the Duchess, then I've got to get out of this suit."

Magdalena eased past him. "I go put dinner on for you. What you want to drink?"

"Just orange juice, and I'll scoop up my own dinner, thank you," Jayson said. "Why don't you go watch your fancy men serenade you on TV?"

Magdalena giggled again. She turned and hummed along with the faint music as she slowly made her descent toward the kitchen.

Jayson heard the thump, thump, thump of Magdalena negotiating the stairs. She might be carrying a few extra pounds, but at only forty years old he didn't know why she considered herself too old for love songs. He knew exactly what she would do next. First she would turn off the television. Then she would go into the kitchen, set the table for him, load his plate with food and put it in the microwave. Finally, she would go into her room and finish watching her program.

Jayson recognized Magdalena's status constituted a balancing act. As far as Jennifer, Renee and he were concerned, she was a member of the family, yet as an employee she could give a month's notice and leave at any time. She spent more hours with Jennifer than either he or Renee put together and ate dinner with the child, but she never dined with the entire family. She didn't seem comfortable engaging in a conversation with the adults of the house for very long. She did seem quite comfortable spending countless hours in her room, in which she could boast many comforts, including a separate telephone line, a television, a Blu-ray player, and a stereo system. In fact, she seldom ventured out of her room during the evening, especially if Jayson was home without Renee.

Sometimes Jayson would compliment Magdalena when she bought a new outfit for church. Occasionally he would inquire about events at the Catholic church she attended—she had a beautiful voice and sang in the church choir. He knew Magdalena had come to America to work after her husband in El Salvador had run off with some young girl, leaving her to raise three children alone. Jayson had referred her to an attorney friend who specialized in immigration to assist with her children's visa applications. Every now and then he'd ask about her progress. Magdalena always provided short answers.

Although Magdalena Lopez had lived with them for six years—they had hired her shortly after bringing Jennifer home—he really didn't know much about her. Renee seemed more comfortable with the woman's "station," as she often referred to it, having grown up in the company of a nanny and other domestic help. Jayson, however, always felt a little awkward about the distance between Magdalena and himself.

He brushed the thoughts aside, turned the doorknob to Jennifer's room and stuck his head inside. A nightlight shaped like a pair of praying hands next to the bed offered a dim but comforting glow. Jayson smiled at the sight of his little girl, lying on her back fast asleep clutching a brown-skinned, smiling, cloth doll. He gently closed the door and felt guilty that his precious child had suffered because of him. "How dare those little bastards tease my little sweetie-pie," he grumbled.

•

"Honey?" Jayson heard the familiar voice say. "Honey."

He opened his eyes. A six-feet-tall floor lamp and the big-screen television in the great room provided enough light for him to see Renee standing over him. He sat up and observed a somber-looking man on television reporting the results of a Red Sox game. "Hey there, baby," Jayson replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

"You better get to bed," Renee advised. She bent down and yanked off her high-heeled shoes. "Tough day?"

Jayson considered telling her about his day but instead reached and pulled her onto his lap and kissed her. "So how was the party? Did you raise a lot of money?"

Renee nodded and beamed with apparent self-congratulation. "It was a big success. We did pretty good."

"I knew it'd be a hit with you running things," Jayson said. He stretched and yawned "What time is it?"

"Um, almost eleven-thirty," Renee said, and wiggled out of his lap.

Now with a clearer head, Jayson inspected his wife. She wore a long purple gown with a handkerchief hemline and one shoulder bared. He whistled. "You look lovely. What did your boyfriend say?"

"Which one?" Renee teased. "How's Jennifer and Magda?"

Jayson grabbed the remote control, turned the television off and staggered to his feet. "Well, Magda told me Jennifer had a little trouble at the birthday party."

"What kind of trouble?"

Jayson stretched. "Well, it seems a couple of kids' parents have strong opinions about the Stone case." He waited for the inevitable reproach.

Renee backed away from him. "Damn it, Jayson, how long is this going to go on?"

Jayson pointed at the stairs leading to the second floor and whispered. "Let's go into the bedroom and talk about it there." He followed Renee up the stairs and waited as she stopped to look in on Jennifer, then continue down the hall into the master bedroom. She flipped a switch by the door, producing light from two tablelamps on the nightstands.

Renee entered their walk-in closet and emerged wearing only her panties and a kneelength satiny bathrobe. She sat at her vanity and started removing her jewelry. "This is more than we can take, Jayson," she insisted and slammed her earrings on the vanity. "We go to church and people whisper and criticize you."

Jayson adjusted the window air-conditioner to a lower temperature, then flopped onto the foot of the bed. "So what," he retorted. "Let them."

"Just like you to say that," Renee insisted. "You don't care about us." She stepped into a pair of bedroom slippers and shuffled into the bathroom. She could be heard but not seen. "All you care about are your sick, psychopathic criminals."

Her words hurt and angered Jayson. He followed her but stopped at the doorway of the bathroom and leaned against the doorframe. "What kind of nonsense talk is that? It's just how I've been making my living for almost my whole working life, that's all."

Renee wiped off her purple eye shadow with a chemically treated pad and spoke to her husband's reflection in a mirror that covered the entire upper half of a wall. "Well, what you do for a living is starting to hurt your family, but you're either too self-absorbed to see it—or worse, too obtuse."

Jayson stepped into the bathroom and took Renee by the arm. "Come sit down with me, honey." After pausing for a few seconds, Renee joined him at the foot of the bed. Jayson took a deep breath. He felt great sadness at his wife's attitude. As a rule, they didn't go to bed angry because they believed the Bible forbade such a thing. He just wanted to understand why she felt so much resentment toward him about the Stone case. "Renee, is there something going on I should know? Like at work, I mean?"

Renee folded her arms across her chest. "Well, now that you asked, I've heard whispering about the case, too."

"The Stone case?"

"No, the goddamn O.J. Simpson case," Renee muttered. "Yeah, the Stone case. What other case are we talking about?"

"What about it?"

Renee grabbed a pillow from the head of the bed and squeezed it. "You know doctors. They don't like lawyers anyway because you're always suing them."

Jayson shrugged. "And I'm sure this includes that pompous ass in cardiology whose daughter I helped get off with probation on that nasty hit-and-run accident back in—"

"Alright," Renee said. She tossed the pillow back on the bed. "So you're good at what you do."

Jayson opened his hands. "What does this have to do with you?"

"This could cost me the chief's job," Renee whined. She scooted off the bed and stood. "And for what? Some hick who'd run over you with his pickup truck if you crossed the street in front of him?"

Jayson found himself in a quandary. He avoided divulging specifics about his cases to anyone, even his wife, mostly for client confidentiality reasons, but also because he understood Renee preferred not to know. He usually spoke to her only about whether he believed he could win a case, or his opponents' strategy, or the fairness of a judge's ruling. He decided to go with his standard Professor Greenberg speech. "Honey, you been married to me long enough to know that by protecting Brian Stone's rights I'm protecting—"

"I don't give a shit about Brian Stone's rights!" Renee declared. She pointed at him. "That monster killed that little girl. Doesn't that bother you?"

Jayson stood and gently placed his hands on Renee's elbows. "I'm just doing my job," he said, and caressed her soft skin, trying to show affection.

Renee trudged back into the bathroom. "Well, your job's going to cost me my lifelong dream, that's all, not that it matters to you."

Jayson approached the bathroom doorway again. He watched Renee drop her bathrobe and panties onto a chair near the shower and step inside. In spite of their argument, the sight of her naked body intrigued him. They hadn't made love in nearly two weeks. He grabbed a bath towel and waited in silence. After a few minutes she stepped out and he handed it to her. "Honey, you're getting yourself all worked up when they haven't even announced who the new chief's going to be."

Renee returned to the mirror and applied moisturizer to her face. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. It's late."

Jayson sighed, then walked to the door leading into the hall. "I'll go check everything and turn on the alarm. You want me to bring you anything?"

"No," Renee replied. "Take your time."

Jayson entered the hall and closed the door behind him. He suspected in the morning after a good night's sleep, Renee would feel better and apologize for her deliberately hurtful remarks. However, her words had inflicted wounds on him he feared might not heal overnight. He realized the Stone case had widened a hairline fracture that had always existed in their marriage: his wife didn't fully approve of his livelihood. He assumed her parents had been whining to Renee about the Stone case every time it hit the local news. Well, he thought, he didn't need permission from anyone to do his job.

Jayson wandered around the first floor, checking doors and windows. He approached the numbered keypad near the front door and pressed the buttons necessary to pre-arm the security system. He'd activate the system completely by remote control once he reached the top of the stairs. He moseyed up the stairs very slowly, remembering Renee's parting shot: "Take your time."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Jayson stood in his office thumbing through one of several thick folders stacked on his desk containing documents about the Stone case. As usual, he had discarded his jacket. He had also opened the window blinds behind him. The meteorologist on the news had predicted a hot, humid day, but Jayson always kept the temperature in his office very cool so he could enjoy the natural sunlight of the morning. His first appointment wouldn't arrive until ten o'clock, so he had nearly an hour to complete his task. He suspended his search long enough to check the time and scan the waiting room. It was empty with the exception of Tenika, who sat at her desk reviewing June—the previous month—expenses.

His thoughts drifted back to last week's argument with Renee. She had apologized the following morning, as he had expected. They had even made somewhat tepid love the next night, but during the following weekend she had been a bit distant with him emotionally and physically. Jayson skimmed a police report and brooded because Renee had always played the "withdrawal of affection" game better than he did. He had decided he would simply have to wait her out and focus his energy on Jennifer and on his work, Renee's disapproval notwithstanding. Jayson chuckled sadly at how quickly his life had changed in seven weeks since Judge O'Hare had asked him to take over the Stone case.

He blinked and returned his full attention to his task. He flipped pages of documents, being careful to avoid the photographs of twelve-year-old Veronica Bradley's body, until he eventually found what he sought—the affidavit for a warrant to search Brian Stone's apartment. Officer Alexis Washington had prepared it. The young policewoman had hustled up a judge for the search warrant without consulting the ADA on duty—at her partner's insistence, Jayson believed. No doubt Scott had smelled a grand opportunity for personal glory.

Jayson read the name on the warrant and laughed out loud. Simon Wickham. Everybody knew that late in the evening even a circus clown could stop by the Purple Rose Tavern in the affluent Boston community of West Roxbury and get Judge Simon Wickham to sign anything, especially after he had consumed his third martini.

Jayson reread the affidavit. Other than the names of the principles involved, he didn't believe a word of it. "Lying bastards," he whispered.

He heard a knock, raised his head and waved, giving Connie permission to enter. He resisted the urge to comment about her being a bit late to work. After exchanging good mornings and plans for the impending Fourth of July holiday, Jayson got down to business. "Well, did you and your detective friend go out Friday or Saturday night after all?"

Connie nodded. "Um-hmm. She had to cancel on me before, because she had to work, but we went out on Saturday."

"And?" Jayson asked.

"We met a couple of guys. She kinda liked hers, but as far as mine, I don't really go for men with beards."

Jayson couldn't help but laugh. "Connie, you know that's not what I meant." He fell backwards into his plush, comfortable chair while maintaining eye contact with her. "Did you learn anything else about those two police officers?"

Connie giggled. "I know. I'm just messing with you." She sat in one of two chairs on the other side of his desk. "Well, my friend told me Gary Scott has a history of disappearing while on the job; he's even been reprimanded for it a couple of times."

Jayson rubbed his chin. "Really? Did she say why?"

Connie shook her head. "Most people think he's got some floozy stashed away he's doing the horizontal dance with on company time." She rolled her eyes. "You know how you men are."

Jayson shrugged. "Not really. Anything else?"

"According to the grapevine, the other cop, Alexis Washington, is kinda scared of Scott. He's told people she made so many stupid mistakes in her first year if he hadn't covered for her, she would've never made it past probation."

"What kind of mistakes?

"My friend didn't say."

"So Washington owes him, huh?"

"Um-hmm."

Jayson leaned back in his chair and rocked a bit. "Connie, you've done real well, but—"

"And one more thing."

"Yes?"

Connie pushed her hair away from her forehead. "They're called 'The Protectors.'"

"Who?"

"Scott's little secret group," Connie said. She folded her hands. "That's all I know."

Jayson grabbed a pen and scribbled the word on a notepad. He pressed his fist against his mouth, thinking for a few seconds, then stood. "Connie, I'm really impressed with the intelligence you've gathered, but this is as far as you go."

She frowned and got on her feet as well. "How come?"

"Because these things have a way of turning ugly," Jayson replied. "Next thing you know, cops are pulling you over for traffic violations or following you around."

"I'm not afraid, Jaymeister. I can—"

"No, Connie, no more," Jayson ordered. His lowered voice indicated he was serious. "Now you know I don't pull rank around here too often, but that's a directive I insist you follow for your own good."

"But I can just—"

"I don't want to have to say it again, Connie" Jayson warned. His voice had become even sterner. An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Jayson began shuffling papers on his desk, then shoving documents into folders. He kept his eyes downward.

Connie backed up a couple of steps, turned and reached for the doorknob. "O-frickin'-kay, _Papi_. Only because I know you're doing this because you love me."

Jayson didn't look up, but he smiled. "It's not that. It's just I don't want you coming even later to work than you already do because cops are stopping you." He had returned to his usual playful tone but kept his focus on his papers. He didn't want Connie to recognize he felt a little guilty about sending her on a reconnaissance mission, potentially exposing her to harassment. He waited, expecting to hear the door open and close. Instead he heard Connie's voice yet again.

"Um, Jayson?"

"Yes?"

"Did Victor say anything to you about last week—about his birthday, I mean?"

Jayson continued stuffing papers into folders and sighed. "Connie, you know I don't get all into your—" He raised his head and recognized the look of vulnerability in Connie's piercing brown eyes. He immediately felt compassion for her. He had in fact made a polite inquiry to Victor about his birthday. Victor had only replied it had been "fine." Jayson shrugged. "Um, I asked him about his birthday and he told me he had a good time and enjoyed your company."

Connie beamed at the news. "Did he tell you about our kiss?"

Jayson shook his head. "No, we didn't get into specifics."

Connie took a step forward. "Well, I kissed him goodnight on the mouth and he didn't seem to mind. I mean, he didn't throw up or anything."

Jayson chuckled. "Well, that's always a good sign."

"Did he say whether he—"

"Would you please go type up that witness statement you took on the Johnson case, the one I've been asking you for since Friday?" Jayson moaned. His face displayed mock pain as he pointed to the door. "Please."

"Okay, okay. But just for that you're not invited to our wedding," Connie joked and scurried out the door. She returned and stuck her head back in. "Did you know Victor speaks fluent Chinese _and_ Spanish?"

"Get!" Jayson yelled. He laughed and shook his head. As Connie closed the door he stacked his folders into a neat pile and sat down, then picked up his electronic organizer, punched a few buttons and picked up the telephone. After a few seconds he heard a female voice. "Hello, Michelle, this is Jayson Cook," he said. "How are things at Channel Eight?"

"Jayson, I'm glad you called," Michelle said.

"You are?"

"Yeah," she replied and paused. "Um, I haven't heard anything from Victor in a while. Has he said anything to you about me?"

You've got to be frickin' kidding me, Jayson thought. First Connie, now Michelle. Who had he hired for an intern, Adonis? Jayson detected loneliness in the reporter's voice but thought it best not to get into his intern's private life. "Um, well, Michelle, you know, Victor and I pretty much just talk business."

After a few seconds of silence, Michelle returned to her professional tone. "Oh, okay. What can I do for you?"

Jayson repeated all the information about Boston police officers Scott and Washington that Connie, on two separate days, had reported to him. "What do you think?" he asked. "Something to look into? Might be a good story."

"Yeah, if there's something to it," Michelle replied. "Tell you what, I'll do a little poking around."

"Fair enough," Jayson said. The two agreed to keep in touch and hung up. Jayson checked his watch and looked up in time to see Tenika approaching. He waved her in.

She entered, walked all the way to Jayson's chair, and whispered. "It's her again—Ms. Thang—on the phone."

Jayson felt his heartbeat accelerate. He sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. "Tell her I'll call her back in, um—no, I'll take it."

Tenika frowned. "Jayson, something's obviously not right. Let me help." She spoke soothingly, like a mother talking to a child.

Jayson shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't. But it's not what you think. The woman and I have never been involved, but this is something I have to take care of myself." He squeezed Tenika's hand. "I appreciate the offer. I really do." He sighed again. "Put her through and close the door behind you, please."

Tenika nodded and followed his instructions.

Jayson picked up the telephone and tried to sound nonchalant. "Hello?"

"Thought you were pretty damn cute, calling my house, huh, smart ass?"

"So nice to hear from you, Leslie, but you sound upset," Jayson replied. "Why don't you call me back when you've calmed down?"

"I'm calm," Leslie retorted. "Meet me today at Vivid Dreams at six o'clock and you can give me that gift we talked about the other day."

Jayson winced. "Meet you at Vivid Dreams? A strip club? I don't think so."

"You chose the first place," Leslie said. "Now it's my turn."

"I can't meet you today anyway, Leslie. I have to—"

"You meet me at six _today_ , Goddamn it," Lesly growled, "or I swear to God after we hang up I'm calling the fucking media and give them a fucking earful!"

Jayson thought for a few seconds. He knew the best thing to do would be to buy more time until he came up with a plan to get Leslie out of his life. "Okay," he said.

"And don't forget my gift. You know where the place is?"

"I'll find it. I have to go," Jayson said and hung up.

He took a deep breath and massaged his forehead with his fingertips. He blinked a couple of times and reached for the recent photograph on his desk of himself, Renee and Jennifer, decked out in their Sunday best. He studied their smiles conveying happiness, love and harmony, and replaced the picture.

He couldn't let this shrew hurt his family, but he knew if he paid Leslie, she would return again and again, like a dog that's been fed from the dinner table. He could have her arrested for extortion, but much as he would like to make her disappear permanently, he knew he could never take any steps to harm her in any way. Leslie Melendez was many things, but most of all she was still the woman who had given his daughter life. Besides, having her arrested would guarantee his secret would be exposed.

Jayson had an idea. He picked up the telephone again, pushed a few buttons and waited. "Hello," he said, "this is Jayson Cook. I need to speak to Samira Rahmani right away."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Jayson waited to board an elevator with six others on the eleventh floor of the McCormack Courthouse. He and seven strangers had spread themselves a respectable distance from each other in front of three closed elevator doors. Jayson stretched out his left arm and gently shook it, uncovering his watch. He reasoned by the time he walked to the parking garage it would be about an hour before his appointment with Leslie. The stressful rush hour drive to his destination would take that long, if not longer.

Jayson tilted his head slightly to observe the bright, numbered circles flashing from right to left above the elevator doors. He eased over to the middle of the three choices, expecting its double doors to open first. His preoccupation with Leslie slightly dampened the satisfaction he felt about a recent victory. He had just argued successfully for reduction of bail on behalf of a client charged with obstruction of justice: shredding documents indicating his employer had hired illegal Chinese immigrants to assemble computers.

Jayson couldn't help feeling a bit smug as he remembered how the fifty-year-old human resource director had drilled him about his background and credentials when they had first conferred. This wasn't uncommon when Jayson met his white clients for the first time. Often, employers hired Jayson with the tacit expectation of buying an employee's silence. The employers who retained Jayson also chose him because his fees, considered high by lower middle class individual standards, were still at the lower half of the price scale according to corporate norms.

Jayson had surmised that his client, who held a bachelor's degree in psychology and was guilty as sin, considered himself better than his attorney. The man couldn't afford to raise ten percent of the $100,000 bail originally imposed; neither could he afford to hire a lawyer on his own. He had spent himself near bankruptcy with multiple mortgages, excessive credit card charges, a fancy wedding for his eldest daughter and private college tuition for her and his son.

Yet, Jayson recognized, the defendant saw his white skin as still bestowing him rank above any African American. Of course, the man and his wife had hugged their black lawyer like a member of the family after the judge had agreed to knock a zero off his required bail. Jayson didn't anticipate he would be questioned any further about his qualifications by his grateful client.

The opening doors of the anticipated middle elevator brought him back to the present and revealed an unpleasant surprise: the Reverend Isaiah F. Bradley. Judging from how the minister directed his voice, Jayson assumed the five other African American riders inside were acquainted with the minister. Jayson considered waiting for the next elevator but recognized such a move would be conspicuous for its cowardice. "Oh, hello, Reverend," Jayson said, trying to sound cheerful. He and another man and woman, both black, boarded the elevator. "It's good to see you again," he added, then turned around and watched the doors close, trapping him like Daniel in the lion's den.

Reverend Bradley nodded. "Good afternoon, counselor," he replied, and backed further into his corner, allowing additional space for the added passengers. "Brothers and sisters," he said, apparently addressing the entire elevator congregation. "Do you know who this is?"

Jayson felt his heartbeat begin to race as all riders focused on him. He tightened his grip on the handle of his briefcase. It was going to be a long ride to the lobby.

"This brother is the lawyer who's defending the white man who killed my little girl."

Everyone but Jayson gasped as if he had just spat in the middle of the floor.

Jayson said nothing. Fortunately, the elevator stopped at the seventh floor and two white males squeezed inside. By their attire and briefcases, Jayson assumed they were fellow attorneys.

A rotund middle-aged woman standing to Jayson's right wearing shiny dark brown hair that hung just below her ears, obviously a wig, gave him the once-over. "He seems like a nice enough young man," she said.

Jayson made brief eye contact with the woman and smiled but said nothing. Instead he stared at the indicator lights on the wall, partially hidden by one of the lawyers who had just entered. Jayson assumed the reverend's entourage and the other black passengers wouldn't comment on the minister's revelation with two white men present; many blacks felt it inappropriate to air their internal disagreements in the presence of white people.

Unfortunately for Jayson, the elevator stopped at the fourth floor and the two men exited. Three white men and one white woman who stood in front of the elevator didn't move, apparently waiting for a ride up, not down. Jayson shook his head almost imperceptibly at his bad luck and watched with dread as his potential rescuers shuffled left to board another elevator while the doors to the one he occupied slid shut.

The advantage clearly his, Reverend Bradley resumed his introductions. "These people are members of my congregation, Mr. Cook," he announced. "They're here to monitor the trial of a young black man falsely accused of raping a white girl." The reverend paused to allow a few passengers to "um-hmm" his remarks, then continued. "He can't afford fancy representation from someone like you, so he's got a public defender." He shifted his upper body. "That's his poor grandmother right there."

Jayson made eye contact again with the woman who had professed his niceness. She appeared far too young to have a grown grandson. He nodded. "Ma'am," he said.

The woman offered a sad smile.

Jayson sighed with relief when the elevator finally stopped at the lobby. The doors opened and he gestured to the grandmother with his left hand. "After you," he said. She thanked him and waddled out of the crowded space. The other passengers exited also, leaving Jayson and Reverend Bradley to disembark together.

About three dozen people meandered about in the lobby. A few wore suits and clutched briefcases. Most wore very casual clothing. Jayson strolled slowly down the corridor, heading toward a flight of stairs leading downward to the front door. He would feel more comfortable once he had reached the stairs, past a half-dozen federal security marshals checking the belongings of people entering the building.

A young man with a scraggly beard and hair braided into tight cornrows stepped into Jayson's path and backpedaled, attempting to keep pace with him. "What kind of black man are you, defending that racist pig? Huh?"

"He ain't no black man," a young woman chewing a huge wad of gum declared from a few feet behind Jayson.

"I could tell he was an Uncle Tom the minute I saw him," exclaimed another young man with a clean-shaven head who walked alongside the gum-chewing woman.

Jayson could feel himself becoming incensed. As a man who had grown up in Boston's inner city and been taught by his father never to take mess from anyone, he didn't appreciate someone with the backing of a small mob getting in his face. Nevertheless, his experience as an attorney had taught him to avoid such confrontations. He had been through similar situations many times and recognized nothing positive would result from responding to anyone's taunting.

He stepped around the bearded man and maintained a leisurely pace, not wanting to convey to Reverend Bradley or his crew that their presence had affected him in any way. He finally turned the corner and breathed a sigh of relief as he approached the marshals, who sported sidearms, performing their duties, oblivious to his situation. As he descended the stairs he heard parting shots from Reverend Bradley's followers.

"Sellout!"

"Traitor!"

"You better run, punk."

Jayson stepped into the muggy, warm outdoors and joined hundreds of people squinting to avoid the harshness of the sun, which wouldn't set for another two hours. Out of his nemeses' field of vision, he quickened his pace to a near trot for several seconds, then slowed down just in case the reverend and his flock had reached the front door. He didn't want to be perceived as running from them. However, he felt confident by the time any of them reached the door he would have lost himself in the crowd. He resisted the urge to steal a glance over his shoulder at the courthouse, now at least twenty yards away. He had a more pressing matter that demanded his attention.

•

The curvaceous, late twentyish waitress approached Jayson for the second time. She had tied her long, jet black hair behind her head. It matched her all-black attire—a bow tie, a low-cut vest and hip-hugging slacks, but no blouse, a stark contrast to her white arms. "How 'bout a real drink this time, handsome?" she asked, raising her voice above the dance music. The flashing lights bounced off her soft, lovely face.

Jayson examined his near-empty glass of diet soda, for which he had paid three times what he would have shelled out at his regular watering hole. He glanced at the front door. "Not yet, hon. I'm waiting for someone. When she shows up, then I'll partake."

"Partake?" the woman asked.

"Order a real drink."

The woman smiled. "Okay, be back in a few." She pirouetted and strutted to a table several feet away where three college-aged men fought over a near-empty pitcher of beer.

Jayson checked his watch and the door again. He didn't want his meeting with Leslie to turn ugly, so he told himself when she finally arrived he must resist the strong desire to scold her for keeping him waiting. He had arrived on time, paid a fifteen-dollar cover charge, chosen the table farthest away from the door, and ordered a drink.

For the past fifteen minutes he had kept his head down like a priest at a whorehouse, focusing on his soda. He had already declined separate offers from two heavily made-up, surgically top-heavy dancers for a lap dance. In an attempt to take his mind off his surroundings and fury at Leslie, Jayson recalled the information he had garnered from its Internet web site about Vivid Dreams, the club he had been forced to visit.

Glendale, a small town about an hour's drive south of Boston, hosted the club, which had changed management two years before. All the action at Vivid Dreams took place on one floor, which could seat two hundred patrons comfortably. Nude women danced on four stages—a large platform four feet off the ground at the center of the club, and three smaller, slightly higher ones, spread throughout the room. In addition to the four stage performers, several bikini-clad dancers paraded around attempting to entice men to buy them drinks, pay for an individual lap dance, order a table dance for everyone seated at the table, or consent to a private dance in one of three "champagne rooms."

Bored with sitting and doing nothing, Jayson sighed and scanned the area. He had found a seat near the kitchen as far away from the main show as possible, but the circular floor plan ensured one could view the entertainment from anywhere. The club was only half full at the moment and populated by men of various ages; some, like Jayson, wearing suits while others were dressed casually. Several brawny men in black, obviously security employees, canvassed the area watching for patrons who violated the "look but don't touch" rule too brashly.

The brunette moving on the small stage in Jayson's vicinity surrendered her spot to another, taller dancer. Both were Caucasian, as were all the dancers on stage and almost all the waitresses. At first Jayson found the new dancer's movements to be unpleasantly vulgar, but after observing for a few minutes he grew to appreciate her position—in a manner of speaking. With increasing curiosity, he watched the young blonde ten feet away as she caressed, writhed and swung on a steel pole.

In honor of the impending Fourth of July holiday, she had begun her act sporting a red, white and blue bikini; an obviously patriotic woman, Jayson mused. Having quickly discarded her outfit, she wore nothing but a pair of red shoes with five-inch heels. Jayson watched and felt guilty that he had begun to enjoy her performance. His wife was far prettier than the woman on stage, but just look at those bouncing big-ass jugs! Perhaps, he thought, his frustration about his less-than-satisfying sex life had affected him more than he had realized.

"Enjoying the show?"

Jayson turned to see Leslie standing almost behind him, smirking as if he were a child caught stealing a cookie. "Well, it's about time you got here," he hissed.

Leslie made no apologies. She just pulled up a chair and watched the blonde for a few seconds. She made a face, then offered her opinion. "She ain't shit."

Jayson's waitress scooted over to their table and cackled. "Leslie, is that you? Where the hell you been, girl?" she howled.

Leslie flashed a broad smile and hugged the woman. "Damn Jamie, you still here?"

"Yeah," she answered. "Had to get my old job back to help pay some bills."

Leslie pointed. "Almost all new faces."

"Yeah," Jamie said. "Well, the place hasn't been the same since you left." She inspected Jayson. "You're just in time to keep from losing your man. The girls here can't leave him alone. He sure is a cutie." She grabbed her order pad. "Now what can I get you?"

Jayson opened his hands. "Just bring—"

"Two Long Island ice teas," Leslie said. "He ain't my man. We've got some business to discuss." She turned her head from side to side, searching. "Didn't I see Jerry?"

"Um-hmm." Jamie nodded. "He had to come back too, after that other place he ran in Boston closed up. He's one of the assistant managers."

Leslie thumbed toward her right as if hitchhiking. "Well, tell Jerry we need a few minutes in the little champagne room before someone else takes it."

"Okay," Jamie replied and scampered off.

Jayson stared at Leslie. She wore a pair of jeans and a red, almost backless halter top showcasing considerable cleavage with thin strands crisscrossing the front. He imagined her on stage, then erased the thought from his mind. "You used to work here?"

Leslie nodded. "Yeah. I was a waitress first, then a dancer. Money was good. I could've been a big star but I met one of your brothers and got pregnant."

"Oh," Jayson said. He didn't know what else to say.

Leslie rolled her eyes. "Sorry we can't all go to med school and live in a fancy house in Belmont. Some of us have to let perverted married men get a hard-on dancing for them."

Jayson decided to get right down to business. "Leslie, about, um, your gift..."

Leslie put her fingers on her lips. "Not here." She waved to a young, broad-shouldered man wearing a black shirt and pants who approached them. "Hurry up, Jerry, shit. We ain't got all day."

The man reached the table, smiled and whinnied. "Well, well, well," he declared. "Look what the cat dragged in!" He and Leslie exchanged a few playful barbs, then he unhooked a set of keys from his belt and approached a set of double doors a few feet away, built into a black wall. He unlocked one door and opened it.

"We're gonna talk, so no music," Leslie said. She slid off her chair and pointed at Jamie, who arrived with their drinks. "Don't be cheap and make me look bad," she warned Jayson. She said goodbye to Jamie, grabbed the drinks and sauntered into the room.

Jayson paid for the drinks, giving the waitress a five-dollar tip and headed for the champagne room. He stopped at the door. "How much?" he asked Jerry.

The man waved. "Hell, seeing you're a friend of a friend, I'll let you have fifteen minutes for just twenty-five bucks."

Jayson thanked the man and handed him thirty-five dollars. Jerry stuffed the money into his front pants pocket and swaggered off.

Jamie raced over to Jayson and grabbed his arm. "You two got something going?"

Jayson shook his head. "Nope. Just business."

The woman rubbed Jayson's arm and winked. "I get off at midnight."

Jayson held up his left hand. "I got a wife."

"I won't tell her if you won't, tiger."

Jayson backed away. "Um, thanks, but I just came here to conduct business and go. I won't be back." For some reason her resulting frown bothered him. "But I think you're very pretty," he added. He felt surprisingly flattered by her attention.

Jamie's frown turned into a smile. She backed up as well. "If you change your mind, you come see me first, hear?"

Jayson assured her he would and joined Leslie. Their champagne room was the smallest of the three and about half the size of his conference room. It had a pole, mirrored walls, a large easy chair, a small table, and windows on the doors so the security detail could peek in. He could see a camera hanging on one wall.

"We've only got a few minutes," Leslie announced and sashayed closer. "I wanna make sure you ain't wired or nothing."

Jayson decided not to argue. Attempted extortion carried a maximum penalty of fifteen years in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Leslie might not have attended college, but she was obviously intelligent and resourceful. Jayson recognized he would have to keep that in mind. He extended his arms. "Hurry up."

Leslie smiled as though they were lovers and took her time running her fingers under his suit jacket, caressing his chest and back. "Oooh, you work out, don't you?" she asked.

Jayson suspected she had been taught that line during Strippers Training 101, but still felt pride at the remark. He also felt an involuntary sexual stirring when the beautiful young woman touched his legs and groin.

Finished with her frisking, Leslie took a step back. "You bring my gift?"

Jayson shook his head. "No."

Leslie bared her teeth like a panther. "You son of a bitch!" she snarled, and stomped toward the door. "You think I'm fucking around with you. Don't you?"

Jayson's heartbeat pounded in his chest so loudly he could feel his body shaking. "Listen, Leslie—"

She spun around and pointed at him. "No, you listen. Don't think I'm one of your illiterate clients."

Jayson opened his arms. "Do you think I can just yank twenty-five Gs out of my joint savings account?" His question obviously got Leslie's attention. She calmed down and stood silently with her hands on her hips. Jayson recited the script he had rehearsed. "I need some time to do this so it won't be noticed."

"How much time?"

"Two weeks."

Leslie shook her head. "Fuck that." She paused to think. "You got one week." She pointed again. "One week or you can kiss your comfortable life goodbye."

Jayson nodded slowly. "Deal."

Leslie changed her demeanor and stepped closer to him, becoming coy and seductive once more. She grabbed Jayson's tie and gently tugged, pulling his face close to hers. "Don't disappoint me again, baby," she cooed, and kissed him briefly on the lips before releasing him and strutting out of the room.

Jayson closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He reached into his pocket, produced a handkerchief and wiped the lipstick from his mouth. After waiting for a minute, he stepped out of the room. He searched for Leslie, but couldn't locate her among the scores of employees and patrons in the area. Grateful not to have found her, he eased out the front door and walked to his car.

As he trudged across the half-empty parking lot he noticed the sun, partially hidden by a cloud, and anticipated at least another hour of daylight. The air felt humid and uncomfortable, adding to his irritable mood.

After three minutes of cruising in his vehicle enjoying the air conditioner Jayson punched in a number on his mobile phone and waited. "It's me," he said. "I've got a week. That's all. If you can't do it by then, I'm screwed."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Tenika knocked on the door to Jayson's office and stepped inside. "I just heard something on the radio about the Stone case," she exclaimed. "It's going to be on the five o'clock news on Channel Nine, I think."

Jayson arched his eyebrows. He had been reviewing his first draft of a legal brief. Actually, he had been holding it while staring at the July calendar. In four days he would have to meet Leslie. He checked the clock on his desk. "Five o'clock? That's in ten minutes. Are you sure it was Channel Nine?"

Tenika rolled her eyeballs to the left, then to the right, apparently trying to replay the voice on the radio. She nodded. "Um-hmm. I'm pretty sure the man said Channel Nine."

"Do you know what it's about?"

"I didn't catch that. Something about Stone's apartment."

Jayson pointed at the outer office. "Tell Connie and Victor to join us in the conference room."

Tenika closed the door behind her. Jayson slid his chair closer to the desk and reached for the mouse to his computer. He located the television station's Internet web site, but could find nothing about the Stone case on the news page.

A few minutes later he, Connie, and Tenika sat at one end of the conference room table watching the sharp picture on a twenty-inch television. Two recently hired temporary helpers had gone home for the day, leaving several piles of papers stacked at the other end. Victor stood next to the television, ready to record the news program. Connie and Tenika speculated about the possible content of the segment.

Precisely at five o'clock, Victor pressed the record button and sat down, and the Channel Nine male-female anchor duo appeared. Both were white, with the woman at least ten years younger than the man. They alternately read lines introducing the first story about a four-alarm fire at a manufacturing plant in a town twenty miles north of Boston. Jayson watched the story, which ran for several minutes, with moderate interest. Connie expressed her sympathy for the people who would be out of work. After the fire story had concluded the camera focused on the attractive, dark-haired female part of the anchor team.

"Who's doing that girl's hair?" Connie asked. "And look at that ugly outfit."

"Shhh," Jayson said.

The anchorwoman, her face stern and her voice serious, read the teleprompter's words about "shocking new revelations" concerning items found in accused murderer Brian Stone's apartment. Next, the scene switched to the front exterior of Stone's former residence. A pretty Eastern Indian reporter barely thirty years old pointed at the twelve-unit apartment building and gave the address. Jayson listened to her introduction and jotted down a few notes in case the program didn't record properly.

"Brian Stone used to live here," the woman declared, "but his neighbors had no idea that the quiet, reserved man had a dark side." As she spoke of "unnamed sources familiar with the investigation," the cover of a paperback book appeared on screen. The bold yellow title on a plain green background read _The Threat of the Negro Race_.

Jayson ground his teeth.

"Uh-oh. This isn't good," Connie exclaimed.

"You don't think so?" Tenika quipped.

"Hush!" Jayson ordered.

The now unseen reporter offered a deduction. "Stone seems to have taken a particular interest in this book because several passages were underlined, including these..." Black words in quotation marks against a white background flashed on screen while the reporter read the text: "'The threat of the black man against the white woman must be eliminated at all costs if the United States of America is to regain its dignity and honor.'"

The reporter reappeared and presented two other books containing similar passages Stone had apparently underlined. Eventually, she wrapped up the story. "No date has been set," she declared, "but Brian Stone's trial is expected to begin sometime this fall. Many legal experts believe his lawyer, Jayson Cook, himself an African American, has a very uphill battle." With those final words she signed off and the anchor duo announced they would return with an update on a Boston City Council skirmish.

Victor stood and approached the television. "You want me to turn it off?"

Jayson nodded. "Yeah."

Tenika rose also. "The phones are going to ring in a minute," she said. "Every time your name is mentioned in connection with the Stone case we get a bunch of angry callers."

Jayson shrugged. "Goes with the territory," he said and waved at Tenika. "You go on home and let the voice-mail take the calls. Tomorrow, you know the drill. Take down anything threatening and give it to the police. I'll lock up the store myself."

Tenika nodded and hurried out of the room.

Connie jumped out of her seat and faced Jayson. "Any of that information new?"

Jayson shook his head. "You kidding? Not one word. Samira and Omar have had that stuff from day one. They leak out a bit every now and then to affect the jury pool."

"How about a motion for a change of venue?" Victor suggested.

Jayson shook his head again. "Not a chance. There's no trial date yet. If I filed the papers tomorrow we wouldn't get heard for a month. By then the story would be out of sight—enough to deny the motion—but not out of mind; just like they want it."

Connie nodded. "A good plan, I'll give them that. Anything you want me to do?"

"Yeah," Jayson said. He stood. "Go home. Victor and I'll lock up."

Victor shrugged, but his facial expression indicated surprise. "Sure," he said.

Connie walked to the door connecting the conference room to the waiting area and hesitated. "I can stay, Jaymeister, in case Victor, I mean you and Victor, need some help. I'll just—"

"You'll just go on home like I said," Jayson commanded with a slight smile. He made a shooing gesture with his hand. "Goodnight, and close the door, please." He watched Connie back up and slam the door, which made him wince.

Victor grimaced. "What's wrong with her?"

Jayson didn't answer. He sat down again and reached for the telephone on the table. He put the receiver next to his ear and punched numbers. "You're going to be at the office all day for the next couple of days, right?"

"That's right," Victor answered. "Why?"

Jayson motioned for him to sit. "I want you to go with me to—Hello, Michelle? Jayson Cook...Yeah, I saw the program." He pointed at Victor as though speaking to Michelle in person. "Victor's standing right here next to me. He says hello." Jayson studied Victor's face but couldn't judge the young man's reaction to his words. He swiveled in his chair and focused on the wood grain on top of his conference table. "First, anything on those two police officers?...No?"

Victor placed his palms against the arms of his chair. "I'll give you some privacy."

Jayson gestured with his free hand for Victor to stay and continued his conversation. "Well, the reason I called is this: I'd have a few restrictions, but how would you like to be the first to land an exclusive interview with Brian Stone?"

•

Two days after the airing of the Channel Nine news story and two days before his appointed date with Leslie, Jayson sat on a metal folding chair alongside Stone in the visiting area of the Suffolk County Jail. The large room, on the second floor of the building, could accommodate sixty people. The sterile, mostly brick-walled room offered little natural light but did have two small windows overlooking the Charles River. Michelle Ling sat directly across from Stone reviewing the notes sitting in her lap. A burley redheaded male jail officer stood a few yards behind Stone out of the camera's eye.

Jayson squinted and fought two bright lights to make out the outline of Victor standing behind one of the two camera operators. They adjusted the positions of their lighting umbrellas and cameras perched on tripods. One operator, a fortyish white male, focused on Michelle. The other, a young black male, aimed his camera at Stone. Jayson had chosen a gray suit for the occasion. He had convinced the jail superintendent to allow Stone to wear street clothes. Stone wore a light blue dress shirt and navy blue tie that Jayson had bought for him.

Jayson realized allowing Stone to be interviewed constituted some risk, but he understood a paid attorney's pronouncements alone would not be enough to counter the impact of the Channel Nine story. He had laid out the ground rules to Michelle, and she had agreed. Before the interview she had expressed her gratitude to Jayson for refusing her station manager's demand that the interview be conducted by one of the senior news reporters. "Ms. Ling is very fair. My client will only agree to be interviewed by her," Jayson had insisted. He suspected Michelle wouldn't forget his loyalty.

Jayson had spent an hour the previous day prepping Stone for the interview. He explained the ground rules again to the twenty-four-year-old: "The purpose of the interview is to portray you as a human being instead of a monster...It's TV, so keep your answers short...Ms. Ling's not to ask any questions about your alleged involvement in the death of the girl or the trial...If she asks you something and I object, you're not to answer it, period...When I say 'thank you Ms. Ling' to conclude the interview, you say 'thank you' and nothing else...."

The interview began a little after one-thirty in the afternoon. Michelle, wearing an olive suit with a matching skirt, introduced her guests, then opened with an expected question. "Brian, why did you agree to this interview?"

Stone scratched his head. "Well, I've heard all kinds of things said about me from people who don't know me at all, and I thought I better go and speak for myself." He smiled. "I know me."

We're off to a good start, Jayson thought. Stone's baby face, quiet demeanor and even his southern drawl would be an asset. As the grandmother in the elevator had done in his case, people were inclined to judge others by their appearance. Some viewers would see Stone and declare, "He seems like a nice enough young man."

Michelle knew she didn't have much time so she had apparently decided to bolt right into the speed lane. She leaned forward. "What about the items that were found in your apartment: the books, magazines and videos? Why do you watch and read that stuff?"

Jayson took a deep breath.

"I–I'm not sure why I took an interest in that stuff," Stone replied. "I never had many friends. I guess you could say I was searching for some way to understand my life."

"Do you understand that most people would find books like _The Threat of the Negro Race_ offensive and racist?"

Jayson balled up his fist.

"I guess," Stone admitted, "but having a book doesn't mean someone believes it."

Michelle glanced at Jayson and smiled, silently and reluctantly complimenting him for preparing his client well.

Jayson returned her smile. This wasn't a court of law. No rules existed against coaching someone about to be interviewed on television.

Michelle returned to Stone. "Do _you_ believe in what the book says?"

Stone shrugged. "I don't know what I believe anymore, ma'am."

"How do you feel about the death of twelve-year-old Veronica Bradley?"

"Stone closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. "I think what happened to that poor child was just terrible." He paused. "Terrible." He seemed on the brink of tears.

Jayson knew he couldn't control Stone's reaction to the girl's death. More than once the young man had attempted to speak to him about the matter but each time Jayson had cut him off, insisting that his job consisted of aiding him in his legal battle against the state, not to serve as his priest.

"Do you believe in God, Brian?" Michelle asked.

Stone nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yes, ma'am. I sure do."

"Do you believe God punishes people who sin, especially murderers?"

Stone shrugged again. "I believe God forgives people if they ask for forgiveness."

Jayson couldn't help but feel satisfied about his preparation of Stone. His client came across as a gentle, thoughtful, intelligent person. Jayson preferred not to consider what demons lurked beneath the surface.

"You were a member of Gregory Morgan's Church of the True Savior, weren't you?"

Uh-oh, Jayson thought.

"Well, I went there. I was never a member."

Michelle gazed at her notes. "Did you accept the teachings of Mr. Morgan and the Church, including the parts about stopping all immigration from Latin America, Jews secretly controlling the United States government, and recommending re-establishing laws keeping blacks and whites from marrying?"

Stone paused. He glanced at Jayson, but Jayson had cautioned him before the interview that once the cameras started rolling he would be on his own unless Michelle violated one of the ground rules. She hadn't. "Well, um," he began, "I don't think I fit in real well there because I kept questioning things."

"Which things?"

"Um, kinda like all of them."

Jayson relaxed in his chair. Not bad. Not bad at all—for a man responsible for the death of a child.

Michelle changed the topic, peppering Stone with numerous questions about his background. Jayson could see Stone's pain as the young man relayed his story about his difficult upbringing. Michelle seemed very interested in the details of Stone's personal life, which suited Jayson just fine. The tale would bring tears to the eyes of the viewing public, especially women.

After a few minutes, Michelle pointed at Jayson. "Brian, what was your reaction when you first found out Mr. Cook would be your lawyer?"

Jayson glanced at his watch. They had been sitting for about fifteen minutes. He would end the interview after Stone answered the question, which they had also anticipated.

"Well," Stone said, "I'm glad to have Mr. Cook as my lawyer. He's a real good lawyer. He just wants to make sure I get a fair trial. Anybody who would be unfortunate enough to be sitting where I am would want the same thing—a fair trial."

Jayson held up his hand. "Time's up, Ms. Ling."

Michelle nodded. "Can I ask _you_ one question, Mr. Cook?"

Jayson maintained a cordial expression. He had negotiated the boundaries of questions posed to his client, not to him. With the cameras rolling he couldn't decline to answer Michelle's inquiry without potentially tainting the interview. He smiled. "My client is the one being interviewed, but I'll answer one question, just one," he said, with his voice going up the way it did when answering Jennifer's request for a cookie an hour before dinner.

Michelle leaned forward again. "Can your client get a fair trial here in Boston?"

Michelle's question put Jayson in a tough position. If he said yes, he would forever forego any chance of petitioning the court for a change of venue. However, if he said no and the trial took place in Boston, those registered voters selected to be on the jury would certainly resent any pronouncement he had made questioning their fairness. He remembered Seth Greenberg's admonition: "Eighty percent of your case is won when you seat the jury." Jayson chose his words carefully. "The people of Boston are a very fair-minded people. I believe with the proper safeguards we'll be able to select an impartial jury, just as the Constitution of the United States requires." He stood. "Thank you, Ms. Ling."

Stone voiced his thanks as well.

Jayson shook hands with Michelle. Stone did likewise. After the two men removed their microphones the jail officer escorted Stone to the door leading back to the detainees' area. Stone turned around. "How'd I do?" he whispered.

Jayson recognized something in Stone's voice he hadn't heard before—a desire for validation. He raised his index finger and made eye contact with the jail officer. "A moment with my client, please?"

The officer hesitated, then nodded and remained by the door. Jayson and Stone took three steps sideways, within sight of Stone's escort but not within earshot if they whispered. Jayson patted Stone on the arm. "You did just fine, Brian."

"I was real nervous," Stone confessed.

"Well, it didn't show," Jayson said. "You conducted yourself very well."

Stone smiled a bit. "Jayson, I–I wasn't just saying that stuff. I've been talking to this priest who comes to the jail and doing some serious think—"

"That's good, Brian." Jayson said and patted him on the arm again. "I really have to go." He nodded at the officer, who responded by taking Stone by the arm and leading him out of the room.

Jayson returned to where the interview had been conducted. Michelle and Victor whispered and laughed like a couple of high school sweethearts. Their obvious comfort with each other made Jayson uncomfortable. He liked Michelle but he didn't want to see Connie hurt. Ultimately, he decided, his intern's personal life wasn't his business and decided to ask about the interview.

"Well, Ms. Ling, you think you can use any of it?"

Michelle slung her huge purse over her shoulder. "Are you fucking kidding me?" she exclaimed, clearly elated. "It'll be on the five, six and eleven o'clock news tonight. Another coup like this and that weekend anchor chair's as good as mine."

Jayson smiled but said little else other than to exchange promises with Michelle to keep in touch. He dragged Victor away and the two men waited until they reached his car before they discussed the interview.

"It went real well," Victor gushed. He strapped on his seatbelt and pointed at himself. "The guy almost had me in tears with his childhood bit."

The two men continued their conversation while Jayson drove back to the office. Eventually they shifted to discussing cars, baseball, and legal history; three of Victor's obvious passions. With less than five minutes remaining before they would reach the office, Jayson retrieved his mobile telephone from his jacket pocket and switched it on. It rang immediately. Fear crept up on him like Canadian air in the winter. Perhaps Tenika would report that "Miss Thang" had called, and Leslie would increase her demands or bump up the date for her expected "gift." Jayson excused himself. He read the tiny data screen on his telephone and recognized his office number. "Hello?"

"It's Tenika. How'd it go?"

"Real good," Jayson replied. "We're almost at the office. I'll tell you about it when I get back."

"Judge O'Hare's clerk just called."

"Yeah?" Jayson asked.

"Yeah," Teninka answered. "She said the judge insists that you and Samira Rahmani and Omar Anderson meet him in his chambers at eight-thirty tomorrow morning or he will issue a bench warrant for your arrest."

Jayson laughed. "Come on, Tenika. What did she really say?" He listened but heard nothing. "Tenika, can you hear me?"

"I heard you," Tenika replied solemnly. "What I told you is what she told me."

Jayson said goodbye and hung up.

Victor could read the look of discomfort on Jayson's face. "Trouble?"

Jayson nodded. "Sure seems to be following me around these days."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Having arrived a few minutes early, Jayson found himself alone with Judge O'Hare and attempted to engage him in a little small talk. However, his inquiries about the judge's upcoming retirement, his golf game—even his granddaughter's recent ballet exploits—yielded short, tightlipped responses. Jayson got the message and proffered nothing further. He made himself as comfortable as he could in a chair near O'Hare's desk and retrieved a set of interrogatory responses from his briefcase to review. The judge, wearing a dark blue suit, read a legal brief and paid no attention to his guest. Jayson felt like a child summoned to the principal's office awaiting likewise errant classmates.

As uncomfortable as he felt in O'Hare's chambers, his thoughts turned once again to weighing options for his impending date with Leslie. He expected her to call sometime in the next few hours and provide him with instructions about when and where to deliver her "gift" the next day. Jayson hadn't been completely forthright with her about his access to funds. Of course he and Renee shared several accounts, but each also maintained separate accounts to which only he or she had access. They referred to these as their "personal money" and used them primarily to buy gifts for each other.

The day after his meeting at Vivid Dreams, Jayson had confirmed his ready access to a little over fifty thousand dollars in personal money. However, he had no intention of handing half of it over to Leslie. As a matter of principle, he wouldn't pay to prevent her from publicizing a regrettably truthful item—along with an assortment of mostly spurious allegations—about their past.

That was in the second place. In the first place, after exhausting the funds, which Jayson assumed would take no short amount of time, she would surely be back for more. He had prayed about the best course of action for nearly a week, and now, sitting in a hostile judge's chambers, he decided he must confess everything to Renee. Tomorrow he would tell Leslie to go to hell and take the consequences.

Renee's current emotional distance toward him would make the task difficult. Her coldness had, of course, begun after he had accepted the Stone case from Judge O'Hare in the very office he now found himself being snubbed. Renee had always been extremely sensitive to what other people thought of her. When she and Jayson had begun seeing each other seriously nearly a dozen years before, she had explained that as a biracial child, she had occasionally faced rejection from blacks, whites and others, which had left her with lasting emotional scars. While Jayson was satisfied to have a couple of very close friends and a handful as acquaintances, he noticed that Renee constantly sought the approval of others, courting friendships like a fluttering bee seeking flowers.

Jayson anticipated that after he disclosed the whole Leslie mess, Renee would rail and wail at the ignominy of a public scandal. He feared their marriage might not survive the resulting trouble. He had to consider how a scandal about her birth mother would affect Jennifer.

Shortly after she had turned five years old, he and Renee had casually informed her she had been adopted. Contrary to Renee's fear the revelation would emotionally damage the child forever, Jennifer had welcomed the news of actually having been chosen by her parents, then asked if she could watch cartoons on television. A month later, her kindergarten teacher had mentioned when the subject of adoption had surfaced at school, Jennifer had explained with aplomb what the word meant. Nevertheless, Jason thought, if she had endured taunting from her peers about the Stone case...

The sound of footsteps outside of the judge's chambers jarred Jayson back to his present situation. He glanced at O'Hare and privately fumed. The son of a bitch had a lot of nerve treating him like dirt after practically begging him to take the Stone case. Jayson heard a knock on the door. He stuffed his papers back into his briefcase and stood as Rahmani and Anderson entered, one minute late. He knew he would have the advantage for having arrived a bit early.

"Good morning, Your Honor," Anderson said.

"Good morning, Your Honor," Rahmani echoed. "We're sorry we're a bit late. There's some construction going on—"

"I know about the construction, Ms. Rahmani," O'Hare replied, his voice low but sharp. He turned to Jayson. "Did you encounter the construction project a few blocks away?"

Jayson felt uncomfortable. He didn't want to collude with the judge to embarrass his opponents because he respected both of them as colleagues. He had also recently asked Rahmani for a monumental favor. However, he thought, if one is presented with the upper hand in battle, one must accept it. "Um, well, yes, Judge," he answered, then attempted to soften the blow, "but it can get real bad depending on when you get there."

"Um-hmm," O'Hare mumbled. "Not for those who plan ahead." He pointed at the chairs. "Sit down, and let's get down to business." The three attorneys sat and declined an obviously insincere offer of coffee from their host. The judge scooted his chair closer to his desk and folded his hands. "I saw the promos about your client on TV yesterday afternoon and watched the interview last night."

Jayson said nothing.

O'Hare pointed at Rahmani and Anderson. "And I saw another one of your stories on Channel Eight a couple of days ago."

"Channel Nine," Anderson said.

Jayson clamped his teeth together to keep from smirking. He glanced at Rahmani, who closed her eyes and winced, apparently understanding what Anderson didn't: on a trivial matter, correcting a judge who's pissed off at you will piss him off even more.

"Channel whatever, okay?" O'Hare growled. "The point is, Stone's been sitting in jail for over a year and a half, and I'd like to see if we can get him a jury that hasn't seen stories about the case every day on the fucking news!" The loudness of his voice at the end of his sentence caused all three trial attorneys to lower their heads.

"I completely understand, Judge," Rahmani agreed. "What can we say? You know how the media are."

"Yeah," Anderson agreed. "They're like hungry animals that have to be fed."

Jayson still said nothing.

O'Hare stared at Anderson. "They are, huh?" He pointed at Jayson. "At least this man has the integrity to feed them out in the open."

Anderson flashed an uncomfortable smile. "Um, I don't understand."

"You wouldn't," the judge snarled. "All the stories on Jayson's side have been on the record. He's given short statements and quotes to the media, and this recent interview of his client was face to face." O'Hare pointed at Rahmani and Anderson. "Almost all of your recent stories have been from 'anonymous sources'"

Anderson sat up and straightened his tie. "Judge, I hope you don't think Samira or I had anything to do with those—"

"Don't waste my time with a whole lot of crap!" O'Hare snapped. "I could gag all three of you and be on solid ground, but here's why I called you here." He took a deep breath to calm himself and spoke slightly slower and softer. "Jayson, I know you acted in self-defense, but I'm telling you I wouldn't be happy to see another interview."

"I understand, Judge," Jayson replied.

"As for you two," O'Hare said, bouncing his cold glare between the two ADAs, "I'm flat out telling you if I see one more 'unnamed source' story on the news about the Stone case, I _will_ grant a defense motion for a change of venue." He paused and leaned forward. "Then I'll come down on you two like fire and brimstone on Sodom and Gomorrah. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes," Rahmani and Anderson whispered and nodded.

"I want to hear from all parties about scheduling a pre-trial conference by five o'clock the day after tomorrow so we can get this thing on the docket."

Rahmani opened her hands. "There are still a few—"

"Get out," O'Hare demanded and waved in the direction of the door.

Jayson stood and followed Anderson and Rahmani into the outer office. He was about to close the door when he heard his name called. With his hand still on the doorknob, he leaned forward so only his head broke the plane into the chambers. "Judge?"

O'Hare didn't look up but spoke gently. "That little grandangel of mine, she's been doing real well in ballet. How's your little twinkletoes?"

Jayson smiled. "Real good. Thanks for asking." He appreciated O'Hare letting him know that no ill feelings existed between them. He closed the door and stepped into the hall with Rahmani and Anderson. The building didn't open until nine a.m., so foot traffic in the area was still almost nonexistent.

"Old racist fart," Anderson said. "What did he want?"

"Nothing important."

Anderson shook his finger at Jayson. "Now you know any _ex parte_ communication between you and the judge about the case is—"

"Didn't the old man bite your butt hard enough?" Jayson shot back. "Channel Nine, huh, smart ass?" He pointed at Anderson. "None of this would've happened if your office hadn't been leaking confidential information about the case to the press."

Rahmani raised her hands near her face as if Jayson held a gun. "Okay, it's water under the bridge." She set her briefcase down. "So what day is good for you to meet?"

"First, I want everything you haven't given me, Samira," Jayson said.

Anderson stepped closer to Rahmani. "We've given you everything you're entitled to."

Jayson frowned. "How about the witness statement you took from Gregory Morgan?"

Rahmani opened her hands. "We gave you that."

"You gave me the first one from the police, not the second one you took later."

Anderson spotted an attractive black female dressed in a business suit. Apparently recognizing her, he excused himself and dashed off to speak to her.

"Um, well, I thought I gave that to you," Rahmani said, clearly embarrassed.

"And I want that other stuff too," Jayson insisted. He only had knowledge of the Morgan witness statement, but decided to bluff.

"What other stuff?"

Jayson pointed at O'Hare's chambers and took a step forward. "Don't mess with me, Samira. We can go right back in there and debate this in there."

Rahmani stepped in front of him. "Now let's not get all upset, Jayson. Sometimes things slip through cracks. I'll make sure you get anything else we missed, um, right away."

" _Before_ I agree to a pretrial conference."

"Of course," Rahmani said. "It'll be sent over to you, um, by the end of the day."

Jayson checked to ensure their privacy and changed the subject to a much more important matter. "Any word on that other thing?"

"No, but it's just a matter of time before—"

"Christ, Samira. I don't have any more time!"

"I'm doing what I can, Jayson. Take it easy. I'm waiting on someone, too."

Jayson patted Rahmani on the shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I appreciate your efforts. I do."

Anderson returned. "So what did I miss?"

Jayson and Rahmani exchanged guilty looks. "Nothing important," Jayson said.

•

Later that evening Jayson, in his shirtsleeves, found it difficult to concentrate on his driving. He turned the steering wheel left and right as he snaked through the winding and surprisingly busy Fresh Pond Parkway in Cambridge. With the moonroof's tinted glass panel open, he tried to enjoy occasional glimpses of the bright half-moon and abundant stars offered by the clear, early July sky. He casually listened to a talk radio discussion about upcoming cases on the docket for the United States Supreme Court. Normally he would be totally engrossed by such a program, but his life was anything but normal these days.

After the meeting in Judge O'Hare's chambers, he had raced back to his office and spent the entire day there. The telephone had rung repeatedly, mostly legitimate business, along with a few cranks complaining about his appearance with Stone on television—as well as additional requests for interviews. Leslie hadn't called. Jayson assumed she had decided to make him sweat. If she wanted to follow scripts from the movies, she would call his office the next day and give him barely enough time to meet her at a location of her choosing. The less time she gave him, the less likely he would be able to surprise her. Smart.

Jayson checked his rearview mirror and noticed a compact, red BMW convertible with the top up had been trailing him since he had left the office at around eight-thirty. He checked the clock on the dashboard: eight-forty. He had not paid particularly close attention at first. Victor drove a similar vehicle, so did thousands of motorists in Greater Boston. Due to the darkness and his preoccupation with Leslie, Jayson had not been focusing on the other vehicles in his vicinity. He noticed the driver of the Beemer stayed well behind even when an open lane next to him became available.

In ten years of practicing law Jayson had never been followed from his office—at least so far as he knew. He slowed down and watched his rearview mirror. The driver appeared to be a male. He wore sunglasses, no doubt to obscure his identity, and had short, dark hair.

Jayson didn't recognize the man or know why he was following him, but he knew better than to lead the driver to his home. Jayson could feel the rate of his heartbeat increase. He kept his right hand on the steering wheel and reached for the lower side of his seat with his left, checking for the tire iron he kept there. "If you need to bust somebody's head, that hunka metal won't do you no good in the trunk of your car," his father had told him when Jayson was just a teenager.

Although he had an unlisted home telephone number, he recalled that the _Boston Courier_ , in more than one snide article, had revealed "Cook lives away from the black community, in Belmont." After Leslie had flaunted her awareness that he lived in Belmont, Jayson assumed she knew his address. He now realized that most likely she didn't: if she had, knowing her, the troublemaker would have presented herself near his home in some fashion. Jayson surmised that Leslie had engaged the services of this operative behind him to ascertain his address. It made perfect sense.

He had an advantage—he knew the area. Jayson made a sudden right turn into a dark, narrow, two-lane private street that fed into a large parking lot for a mall. The mall consisted of a dozen stores, and its main attraction: a ten-screen movie theater on the far side of the property. Jayson had been there many times and knew the lot as well as he knew his front yard. He drove about fifty yards before he spotted the reflection of the red convertible as it turned onto the street.

When Jayson reached the edge of the parking lot, he quickly turned left and jetted to the end of the lot another forty yards away. He approached the streetlight that controlled traffic for cars entering and exiting the lot, then checked for oncoming traffic and turned right onto the busy main street just as the light turned red. Even at that hour, dozens of vehicles rushed behind him. Given that the lights favored the main street for some length of time, he knew he had lost his tail.

•

Jayson sat on the bed and tenderly placed his hand on Renee's leg. She lay on her side with her back to him. A nightlight similar to the one in Jennifer's room allowed him to see that Renee had pulled the bed sheet up to her shoulder and covered her legs with a thin blanket. Jayson could see the straps of her familiar one piece white nightgown. The air conditioner hummed on quiet mode. "Sweetheart, you okay?" he asked. "Magda told me you've been in bed for hours. She said you're not feeling well." He lowered his face to kiss her.

Renee pulled on the sheet and placed her hand on her cheek. "Don't," she whispered.

Her response annoyed Jayson. He heard her sniffle and realized she had been crying, changing his annoyance to concern. He put his hand on her shoulder. "What's the matter, honey?"

Renee spoke without facing him. "The promotion, I didn't get it," she whimpered.

Jayson's heart sank. "Oh honey, I'm really sorry. I know how much you wanted it."

Renee abruptly swung her elbows and sat up. She scooted to the other side of the bed and spoke without facing him. "And I know all about your slutty, young girlfriend with the big tits you've been meeting at some strip club." She folded her hands across her chest. "I guess that's where you met her in the first place, huh?"

Jayson closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had a lot of explaining to do.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER NINETEEN

Jayson studied the face of his precious daughter, who had just closed her eyes. He had promised he would sit next to her until she fell back to sleep, no matter how long it took. Observing the details of her features, he had to acknowledge privately the child did strongly resemble Leslie rather than either him or Renee. Jayson relaxed, sitting in the chair next to the bed where he usually sat when reading his daughter a story.

He enjoyed the serenity the nightlighted room offered, with no noise other than the soft hum of the window air-conditioner. He watched Jennifer's chest, covered by a short-sleeved, ladybug-imprinted pajama top, rise and fall. She clutched an Asian female doll named Jade, if Jayson remembered correctly. He reached for the soft, purple blanket and slid it up to Jennifer's shoulders. Jade's face would be hidden, but he felt confident the plastic girl wouldn't object.

Jayson reflected on Jennifer's anguished sobs when he had first entered her room: "I had a bad dream, Daddy," she had cried. "I heard Mommy yelling."

He felt no regret for not correcting the girl's belief that she had been dreaming. Unlike Renee, who occasionally told Jennifer "little white lies for her own good," Jayson never lied to her. However, that didn't mean he always volunteered the truth. What purpose would it have served to have told the child, "You weren't dreaming, sweetheart. Mommy _was_ yelling at Daddy as if she had just lost her mind. Mommy's just a little upset because she thinks Daddy has ruined her career. But don't you fret. Daddy was able to convince Mommy he's not fooling around. He's just being blackmailed by your birth mother."

Jayson leaned to his right and whispered. "Jennifer?" No answer. "Jennifer," he said again. She had fallen back to sleep. He stood and slowly opened the door connecting her room to the hall. A squeak from the lowest hinge made him cringe. For over two weeks he had promised Renee he would oil that thing. He resolved to do so in the morning, then closed the door and walked downstairs to the kitchen. The clock on the stove, partially hidden by a large, stainless steel pan covered by aluminum foil, read a little after nine-thirty. He didn't stop to peek at the treasure underneath the foil. Although he was very hungry—and made more so by the aroma in the kitchen—he knew he had to face Renee again right away. Dinner would have to wait.

When he returned to their bedroom he saw Renee sitting up in bed reading a book. "She's asleep," he reported.

Renee glanced at Jayson, then stuck a bookmark in her book and placed it on the nightstand. "She okay?"

Jayson nodded. "Yeah. She thought she was dreaming." He handed her a glass of iced water. "I brought you this. Figured your voice would be all raw from overuse."

"Thank you," Renee said as she accepted the peace offering and took two large gulps.

"You calm enough to talk rationally or are you going to scare the child awake again?"

Renee sighed. "I'm sorry."

Jayson sat at the foot of the bed. "Forget it. Make it up to Jennifer." He opened his hands. "This is very serious, Renee. We have to work together for our daughter's sake."

Renee sighed. "I know." She took another sip from her glass and placed it on the nightstand. "But I just can't believe you paid that woman money for our baby. What the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking I'd do anything to make you happy," Jayson replied. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"But to buy her."

"I didn't buy her," Jayson protested. "I told you, we called it money for, um, expenses."

"Five thousand dollars?"

Jayson frowned. "I know it was wrong, but..." He stopped and shrugged. "I don't know. I just didn't want to disappoint you. Remember how you cried for days when you heard we might not get Jennifer? I guess I thought—"

"Don't you dare try to put it on me," Renee said, shaking her head. "I never told you to bribe that woman. Now look what trouble you've brought on me—on all of us."

Jayson ground his teeth together. His patience had worn thin. "You can lie to yourself, Renee, but don't lie to me."

She grabbed the edge of the sheet and tugged on it, pulling it up to her chest. "What are you talking about?"

Jayson opened his hands. "What the hell did you think happened? You pouted and boo-hooed rivers of tears about losing 'our baby.' You took to your bed just like now and demanded I do something, anything. So I left the house one morning and came back with Jennifer that same night. Don't give me that 'what were you thinking' crap."

"I didn't know you were going to bribe her mother."

"You didn't want to know," Jayson declared, shaking his finger. "And you never asked. You were too happy about getting what you wanted, like always."

Renee shook her finger back at him. "What? It's my fault now? It's my fault I wanted to give a beautiful little girl a better life than she would have had with her birth mother."

"And I'm damn tired of hearing that song, too."

"What do you mean, song?"

Jayson scooted closer to Renee. "Adopting a child rather than giving birth to one ensured you wouldn't lose ground in your career. No morning sickness, no taking months off work. Hell, you hired Magda right after Jennifer arrived. How many days did you take off after I brought her home? A week?"

"How many days did _you_ take?"

Jayson nodded. "Yeah, you're right. We both wanted to be parents without the hassle. But at least I admit it. I don't go telling everyone we did it for some greater good."

"You're so noble," Renee scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Let's get back to this woman. Anything you want to tell me before it gets out?"

Jayson raised his eyebrow. "Like what?"

"Like have you ever slept with her? You been screwing other women?"

"No, never."

"But you've thought about it, haven't you?"

"Damn, Renee, what man hasn't thought about it?" Jayson replied. "Especially since we haven't exactly been carrying on like newlyweds for the last year or so, have we?"

Renee opened her mouth as if she would respond but instead offered no reply. After a few seconds, she changed the subject. "I heard she's very pretty. Is she?"

"Who?"

"Who have we been talking about? Jennifer's mother."

Jayson shrugged. "I guess. Where do you think Jennifer got her looks?"

Renee pointed at him. "And nothing ever happened between you and this woman—this wench who's supposed to be every man's wet dream?"

Jayson took in a deep breath. "How many times do I have to say no, Renee? And who told you about me being at that club, anyway?"

Renee scowled and dismissed the informant with a wave of her hand. "Some punk ass intern who's been bothering me for weeks. When I told him in no uncertain terms I wasn't interested and mentioned my wonderful husband, he asked me if you're so wonderful, how come he saw you at some strip club hanging all over some young cutie with tits the size of melons?" She put her hands over her face. "I've never been so humiliated in my life."

Jayson balled up his fist. "Lying son of a bitch. Who is he, this intern?"

"It doesn't matter. What are we going to do about this heifer?"

"I told you already," Jayson said. "I'm working on a way to stop her, but if that falls through, when she calls I'm going to tell her I'm not giving her a dime, that I've told you everything, and we're united on this." He reached for Renee's hand, squeezed and kissed it. "We are, aren't we?" He stared at her.

After a very long silence, Renee kissed his hand and returned the gaze into his eyes. "Yes, we are." She scooted closer and kissed him. "Now tell me what you've been working on to stop this bitch."

•

The day after his conversation with Renee, Jayson, seated at the worktable in his office, examined the package that Rahmani, as promised, had sent concerning the Stone case. It contained the second witness statement from Gregory Morgan and a few follow-up reports. To Jayson they indicated the state's lack of confidence about some of its forensic tests and witness statements, something he could use to plant reasonable doubt in the minds of the jury. Overall, the package held no shocking revelations. Still, Jayson felt annoyed the information hadn't been turned over without his prodding.

He checked his watch. Nearly seven p.m. Damn. How come Leslie hadn't called?

He picked up six envelopes that had arrived in the afternoon mail for Brian Stone. He had never before received a letter directed to Stone. Jayson counted one perfume-scented, rose-colored envelope with only the return address; one avocado green envelope with a woman's name and return address; two white envelopes with no return addresses; and two white envelopes with women's names and return addresses. Of course Jayson hadn't opened the envelopes but he could guess their contents. Stone's interview had yielded initiatives from single women wanting to make his acquaintance. Jayson shook his head and chuckled, recalling his conversation with Tenika earlier.

"I checked with my friend at the jail," Tenika had said. "She told me they opened seven letters addressed to Brian Stone from women ranging from eighteen years old to thirty. Four of them had sent photographs—two were wearing swimwear."

Jayson separated the six envelopes. Three seemed a bit heavy; they probably contained photographs. He wondered what kind of woman would write to a man in jail, charged with murdering a child, and all but offer to be his girlfriend? He supposed loneliness could drive a person to do strange things. He had seen such weirdness more than once in his ten years defending accused criminals. He had once defended a tall, handsome, well-read Italian man who wrote poetry. Before being convicted of armed bank robbery, the charmer had received about a hundred letters from interested women, some all the way from Italy.

Jayson checked his watch again. Still no call from Leslie. "Bitch," he muttered.

He reflected on his own mixed feelings about Stone. He didn't understand the man. Initially he had found his young client absolutely repulsive, but after working with him on his defense strategy he had also found him to be intelligent, lonely, confused—and guilt-ridden. In his line of work, Jayson had met sociopaths who displayed not even a hint of compunction about their crimes. Stone's attempted declarations of remorse—which Jayson had repeatedly interrupted—hadn't totally fallen on deaf ears. Jayson believed the man had done a terrible thing but hadn't intended to hurt anyone.

Jayson's mother had often advised him that when he encountered people accused of committing sometimes heinous crimes, he should take the time to think about how they would have turned out if their pasts had been different. He could hear his mom's voice: "You were brought up in a God-fearing family with people who loved you. What if those people sitting next to you in court had had the same good fortune?"

Beatrice Cook's advice notwithstanding, Jayson tended to adopt Seth Greenberg's philosophy: "Never get emotionally involved with a client one way or another, especially a client of the opposite sex. Don't go cluttering up your minds with distractions. Your job is to provide them with the best criminal defense possible within the law. If you start wondering what makes them tick and try to analyze them, you'll lose your objectivity and your ability to do your job. Leave their souls to the clergy and concentrate on keeping the state honest by representing their bodies." Jayson had seen numerous television programs in which defense attorneys agonized over the innocence or guilt of their clients, and had met a few public defenders, fresh out of law school, who did the same. He never did. He concentrated on his job: to keep the state honest by providing the best defense for his client.

Why hadn't Leslie called?

He grabbed another set of letters that had been piling up over the past two months: his hate mail. He counted twenty-six in all, five new ones since his recent television appearance; nothing overwhelming. Fortunately, people were too lazy to write letters these days, Jayson assumed. They preferred to pick up the telephone, utter a few profanities, and hang up. He had grown immune to rantings by telephone or by letter. Tenika allowed the letters to upset her. Connie found them amusing. Victor, initially shocked, came to dismiss them when he saw the numerous spelling and grammatical mistakes they contained.

Jayson opened one letter signed by a "fighteen year old."

"Dear Mr. uncle Tom oreo cookie," the writer had opened. "I seen you on tv last night with that man who killed the black girl and wonder what kind of black man would help a white devil destroy our peeple. Does it make you feel proud to be on tv and betray your peeple? My father is in jail because the white devils like to put black men in jail. Why dont you help innosent black men like him insted of getting on your nees on tv and sucking some white man's—"

Tenika rescued Jayson from further insults by knocking on the door and entering. She carried two paper cups filled with iced diet soda. "Jayson, I don't want to pry," she said solemnly, "but are you okay?"

Jayson let go of the letter like a live wasp and covered the pile with a folder. He didn't want Tenika to see it. "Huh? Sure, I'm fine."

Tenika approached his table. "No, you're not. You've been sitting in your office for two days now and moping around like you just lost your best friend." She put her hands on her massive hips. "Now I want to know what's going on."

"It's personal, Tenika," Jayson replied dryly. "I know you won't be in tomorrow until noon. I said you don't have to stay late, so go lock up and let me get back to work."

Tenika sat down at the table as though she hadn't heard him. She pushed his papers aside, slid one cup toward him and folded her hands. "Any time you're ready."

After a long period of silence, Jayson closed his eyes, then opened them and took a deep breath. "I'm in big trouble," he confessed, and told Tenika the entire story about Leslie.

Tenika shook her head. "Sheesh, I had no idea. So today's doomsday, huh?"

Jayson nodded.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I guess I didn't want anyone to know what an idiot I am."

Tenika squeezed Jayson's hand. "Nonsense. You're one of the most brilliant men I know." She put her hand to her chin. "I've got to confess, all this time I thought you were just another man messin' around on his wife. I should've known better."

Jayson shrugged. "What else could you have thought, the way I've been acting?"

Tenika hung her head. "I'm kinda resigned to the reality I'm never going to get myself married." She patted her meaty thighs. "There ain't a lot of men looking for fortysomething-year-old women my size."

"You never know, Tenika. God can—"

"Yeah, I do," she retorted. "But I wanted to ask you something: I was wondering if you might recommend someone who handles adoptions. If I can't make some man a good wife, maybe I can make some child a good mother."

Jayson flashed a broad smile. "I think you'd be a wonderful mother. Um, you sure you want to take advice from me?" He burst into laughter.

Tenika laughed too. "Of course." She checked her watch and stood. "It's late, almost seven-thirty, but I'll stay here with you until that witch calls if you want me to."

Jayson shook his head. "No, you go on home, and I'll have a couple of names of some good adoption attorneys for you in a day or two."

"Take your time," Tenika said. She ambled toward the door but stopped when the telephone rang and turned around, displaying widened eyes. "Do you think it's her?"

"Only one way to find out."

Tenika darted over to Jayson's desk and picked up the receiver. "Cook Law Office...One moment please, I'll see if he's available." She put the caller on hold. "It's Samira Rahmani. She said she's got important information about that special project."

Jayson felt his heart pounding and finished his drink. He bounded out of his chair, stepped to the other side of the desk and took the receiver. "Stay here, please," he asked. "Hello?...You sure?...Um-hmm." He sat down and switched the receiver to his other ear. "What happens now?...I understand. I'll call you at home tonight. Thank you so much." He hung up.

Tenika stepped closer to his desk. "Well?"

Jayson smiled. "I got a reprieve. Samira told me Leslie and a male companion—probably the man who tried to follow me yesterday—got picked up by Immigration."

"Immigration?"

"Yeah. Leslie's illegal," Jayson said. "She's from Costa Rica. I needed help so I called Samira and she called a friend."

"So are they going to deport her?"

Jayson shook his head. "Not right away. Unfortunately for her, that companion, who's Colombian, had several pounds of marijuana and a few handguns in the trunk of his car, so they're holding them both in a detention center under federal anti-terrorism statutes."

"Where?"

"She didn't say."

"How long can they hold her?"

Jayson shrugged. "Seven days without charge. After they're charged, I don't know."

Tenika stood. "At least you've got seven days. Maybe more to—" The telephone rang again. She grabbed the receiver, repeated her routine and put the caller on hold. "It's Michelle What's-Her-Name from Channel Eight."

Jayson took the receiver. "What's up Mich?...Really? What happened?...Okay. I'm on my way." He hung up. "Must be my lucky day."

"What do you mean?"

"Michelle wants to see me right away. Said she's got some news that could possibly change the whole dynamic of the Stone case." He pointed at his suit jacket on the coat rack near the door. Tenika grabbed it and handed it to him. He spoke rapidly while slipping on his jacket. "I'll call Renee from the car and tell her about Leslie." He paused. "I don't like you locking up by yourself."

Tenika nudged her boss with her right hand. "It's still daylight, but I'll have one of the guys from the restaurant down the street come over. Go."

"Well, be real careful. Thanks for everything," Jayson said. He snatched his briefcase off the floor near his table and left Tenika standing in the middle of his office.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TWENTY

Thirty minutes after speaking to Michelle Ling on the telephone, Jayson studied images on a monitor in the editing room at the Channel Eight News studio. The room wasn't much bigger than the walk-in closet of his master bedroom. He kept his distance to avoid touching any of the electronic equipment stacked against the wall. A multiunit shelving system about ten feet wide, and taller than he, housed over twenty video-editing and viewing machines. Some of the equipment looked unfamiliar to Jayson. He assumed the black boxes with the numerous dials were for video playback, definitely more complicated than a Blu-ray player.

Michelle, standing next to him wearing a carnation pink sleeveless shirt and burgundy pants, pressed a button on one of the black machines and took a step back. She pointed at the monitor and described the scene. "They sat in the squad car down the street from that house for about thirty minutes," she reported. "They were waiting for them. This is at the end when the meeting broke up."

Jayson stared at the monitor and noticed the police cruiser at the bottom of the screen. "Is that Washington and Scott?"

Michelle nodded. "Yep. We watched them for a couple of hours for the past three days. For the first two days, nothing, but today we got lucky."

Jayson returned his attention to the squad car and its surroundings. A half-dozen black men exited a small, two-story home with a poorly-kept front yard. They wore casual clothes, mostly jeans and short-sleeved shirts, and conversed with each other in a leisurely way before fanning out and getting into three cars parked on the street. One man entered a subcompact vehicle. Two large men opened the doors to a two-door coupe; the other three got into an old sedan. The red lights at the rear of the vehicles lit up and the automobiles slowly pulled away from the curb. "Where's this?" Jayson asked.

"In Mattapan," Michelle answered. "It's part of District Eighteen, their beat."

"Who are those men in the cars?"

"A small group of Black Muslims," Michelle said. "Call themselves the Warriors of Islam. Their leader would make Louis Farrakhan sound like Santa Claus. They were in the news a few months back because of some allegations about child neglect."

Jayson tapped his lips with his index finger and searched his memory. "I read something about them in the _Boston Courier_ ; not sending their kids to school." He shook his finger. "Isn't their leader some nut who says he's Moses reincarnated or something?"

"Yeah," Michelle replied. "And he says the white devils are the real illegal aliens and should leave this country to the rightful inhabitants—the black and brown people, and if the white devils don't leave they should be driven out."

"Whew!" Jayson exclaimed. "At least I won't have to move when they take over." He cut his eyes at Michelle. "I don't know about you, though."

She laughed. "Put in a word for me. Will ya?"

"I'll see what I can do," Jayson joked. He turned back to the monitor. "So cops have been assigned to keep them under surveillance, huh?"

Michelle shook her head. "I'm not sure. I've got a feeling some of Boston's finest have taken it upon themselves to check out undesirables."

"The Protectors, huh?"

"Maybe."

Jayson nodded. "They're checking out groups with questionable—some would say radical political beliefs, like these people and Greg Morgan's Church of the True Savior."

"Exactly. Equal opportunity vigilantes."

Jayson watched the monitor and followed the police car as it coasted behind the three vehicles at a distance. One automobile reached the first intersection and turned left. The sedan turned right. The third car, the subcompact, proceeded through the intersection. "Who's taking the video?"

"A real talented kid named Juan Carlo, one of our camera operators," Michelle said. "I'm driving his SUV and he's holding the camera. We didn't want to use one of the station vans or we would've been spotted."

Jayson chuckled. "Smart." He paid close attention as the police cruiser followed the lone driver of the third vehicle for several blocks. "When did you take these?"

"A couple of hours ago," Michelle said. She became excited and pointed. "This is where they flashed their lights and pulled him over. We didn't have sound so we weren't able to tell what they said."

Jayson stared at the screen. The camera operator zoomed in on the subcompact's license plate, then on Scott, who got out of the squad car and swaggered toward the driver. Scott became a bit smaller as the scope widened just enough to capture both officers standing at opposite sides of the vehicle. Washington peered into the passenger side. Jayson chuckled. "So they target someone who's alone; no witnesses."

"Um-hmm," Michelle said and ran her index finger over the edges of the screen. "And they flag them down when they're in an area with few houses."

Jayson observed Scott, who stepped back enough to allow the driver, a small-framed, dark-skinned, bald young man, to emerge from the car. The man appeared to be very angry. He yelled at Scott and shook his finger violently in the officer's face. The seasoned policeman took another step back and put his right hand on his belt.

"Uh-oh," Jayson said. "He's going for the mace."

"Uh-un," Michelle disagreed. "He's gonna make the driver prove he's not drunk. Stand on one leg, walk a straight line. Total BS." She pointed. "But watch Washington."

Jayson leaned closer and observed the policewoman. Her head and arm disappeared as she reached into the car through the open window. A few seconds later she emerged holding an object in her right hand. Jayson leaned even closer. "Oh my God. Is that a gun?"

"Um-hmm."

Jayson watched. Washington held the gun in the air and apparently called to her partner, which caused the driver to turn in her direction. The young man pointed at Washington and shouted something, then took three rapid steps toward the rear of the vehicle. He didn't get very far. Scott tripped him; then he and Washington easily subdued and handcuffed him. "Son of a bitch!" Jayson exclaimed. "I bet that gun was in the glove compartment."

Michelle nodded. "But the police report will say Washington found it somewhere else."

Jayson chuckled. "Let me guess, um, on the passenger seat?" He turned back to the images on the screen. Washington escorted the handcuffed driver to the squad car and opened the backseat door. Scott, walking a few feet behind her, stopped and gestured, almost as though pointing at the viewers. "Uh-oh," Jayson said. "They spotted you."

Michelle frowned. "Yeah. I wanted to stay and confront them but Juan Carlo, who's had bad experiences with cops growing up, shouted at me to go."

Jayson observed further. Scott grew bigger as he approached the SUV, but the space between him and the bottom of the screen grew wider as Michelle jetted the car backwards. The images blurred, then the screen abruptly went black. "You think he got your license plate number?"

Michelle shook her head. "I don't think so. Juan Carlo's not too comfortable, though. He says he's going to stay at his sister's tonight." She shut off the machine.

"Now what?" Jayson asked.

"Now I need to contact the officers and their immediate supervisor," Michelle replied, "and find out who that man is and ask him for a comment before we run the story."

Jayson rubbed his fingers against his chin. "I recommend you get hold of Washington first, and alone. She's the weakest link. Put a little pressure on her and she might crack." He snapped his fingers. "My paralegal says she lives in an apartment complex down the street from her."

Suddenly Michelle grabbed Jayson's arm, clearly excited. She looked at her watch. "I think they get off at eleven."

Jayson checked his watch also. "Then we've got plenty of time. Let's study the video real good, then grab a bite to eat and pay her a visit."

Michelle nodded enthusiastically. "Okay. I'll have to hustle up a camera op on standby." She shook her fists. "That weekend anchor chair's as good as mine!"

•

Jayson sat in his car and listened to soft, mellow contemporary jazz music on the radio. Among the twenty-four parking spaces at the rear of Alexis Washington's apartment building, he counted five empty. He had parked his car as far from the back door as possible and watched the only entrance into the lot. He had removed his jacket and rolled down the two front windows, allowing intermittent soft breezes of humid air to caress his face. According to the news report he had heard on the way, the temperature, which had reached ninety degrees earlier that day, had dropped to seventy.

Michelle had stationed herself at the front entrance. She had agreed to allow Jayson to make first contact. He understood he would have to approach Washington quickly, before she entered the building, but carefully, so not to startle her to the point she believed she was under attack. Many police officers carried their service weapons on them even when off duty.

Jayson listened to the saxophone player's deft rendition of "Sweet Love" and allowed his thoughts to drift to his recent calls home. Other than for a few minutes in the morning, he hadn't seen Jennifer or Renee that day. He suddenly felt lonely and recalled the brief advice he had received on his wedding day. His father, a quiet man who had presented his mother with a red rose every month for nearly forty years, had warned that a man who didn't make time for his family should not be surprised to find his wife distant and his children indifferent toward him.

Jayson had discerned distrust in Renee's voice when he had informed her he would be home perhaps after midnight and why. After ten years of marriage he had come to realize beside the fact she disapproved of his profession—especially his involvement with Brian Stone—she had never been completely willing to trust his fidelity. Jayson recalled Renee's tearful admissions that occasional rumors about affairs between her father and the sexually aggressive female students at the university where he taught English literature had been a constant problem for her parents. Renee's mother, a temperamental art history professor, had married Renee's father believing she had chosen what her own mother had not: a faithful husband. Renee's grandmother had admonished her daughter, who in turn had admonished Renee, "A man's not going to keep his pants up when tempted."

Unlike Renee's mother, who took pains to confront Renee's father about every rumor, Renee had chosen two different strategies. The first involved emotional distance. She would never place her career after her husband's—not that Jayson would ever ask for such a sacrifice. She also didn't allow herself to become too emotionally open or vulnerable. Jayson now realized that for Renee, having taken such precautions, if and when he cheated, the hurt wouldn't be too severe. Her second path involved passive aggressiveness: the silence, the sulking, the nonresponse to her hand being squeezed, the withdrawal of physical affection—all part of her arsenal. Jayson suspected he had made a mistake by putting up with Renee's mood swings for ten years rather than by confronting her; he had been too busy with work, he had to confess.

The change in music to a Latin jazz beat caused his concern to shift to Leslie's situation. He felt some guilt about his daughter's birth mother being held at a federal detention center because of his initiative. Noncitizens could claim a few legal rights under federal immigration laws, but they didn't enjoy the protections afforded citizens under the U.S. Constitution. Depending on the whims and ambitions of the officials involved, Leslie could possibly spend years behind bars for drug trafficking. That had certainly not been his intention, but how was he supposed to know the woman had a drug dealer for a boyfriend? Beatrice Cook's repeated admonition came to mind, conveyed to Jayson as a child: "Bad things often happen to good people in bad company."

Jayson's mobile phone rang. He read the screen information and answered. "What've you got Mich?...She's here?...You sure?...Okay. Go to the diner I showed you down the street and sit tight until I call you." He hung up and felt his anxiety rise when he saw the driveway ground light up, followed by the appearance of a black, sporty compact car. The female driver parked in an empty spot directly across from the backdoor. Jayson suspected a trained police officer would probably notice a late model Jaguar parked nearby, boxing in three of her neighbors, so he rolled up the windows and exited his car just as Washington, carrying a duffel bag, did the same.

Jayson called to her when she reached the middle of the lot about halfway between her vehicle and the door. "Officer Washington?"

She stopped, then took a step backward. "Who are you?"

"It's Jayson Cook, the attorney," Jayson replied and walked slowly toward her with his hands visible.

"What do you want?"

He closed in to within five feet of her. "I want to help you."

"And why do I need help?"

Jayson took another step forward. "Because today you and your partner illegally stopped and arrested a man because he's a member of the Warriors of Islam."

Washington started for the door. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"It's all on camera and I've seen it."

Washington halted and turned around. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply. "You're not here to help _me_ , counselor."

Jayson approached to within arm's reach of her. "I'm not going to lie to you, Alexis. I'm interested in helping my client Brian Stone. Are you one of the Protectors?"

The mention of the word caused Washington to wince. She shook her finger at Jayson. "I heard you were real good." She beckoned with her hand. "We'll talk inside."

They took the stairs to the second floor and entered her spacious one bedroom apartment. Jayson found the air in the unit to be cool and comfortable due to a running air conditioner in the window, probably on a timer. He examined his surroundings and respected that Washington had decorated the place nicely and kept it tidy. Apparently she possessed a fondness for plants. He counted ten potted plants hanging or sitting near the large front window, covered by green curtains. Two large photographs hanging on opposite walls consisted of nature scenes: leafy trees surrounded by tall grass and patches of wildflowers.

A very furry cat appeared from the hall leading to the bedroom and bathroom, and greeted the mistress of the house by rubbing against her legs. Washington picked up the animal and stroked it a few times, then carried it into the hall, tossed it into her bedroom and closed the door. She entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. "You want a beer?" she asked.

Jayson accepted the offer and noticed her refrigerator contained much more beer than food. While his hostess rummaged around in the kitchen, Jayson examined a photograph on top of a bookshelf in the living room. In it, a beaming, uniformed Washington, with her hair a few inches longer, posed between a much older man and woman. "Your folks?"

Washington entered the living room holding two bottles of beer and handed one to Jayson. She pushed a button to lower the temperature of the air conditioner and plopped onto the loveseat. "Yeah. My dad's a retired cop."

Jayson reclined on the sofa a few feet away. "Really? He must be very proud of you." He took a swig from his bottle.

"Um-hmm," Washington replied in a soft, lethargic voice. She appeared to be quite tired. Her shoulders and eyes drooped. "She took several long gulps of beer. "I never really wanted to be a cop."

Jayson sat up. "No?"

Washington shrugged. "Maybe that's why I'm not really good at it. I've tried. My older brother got killed in a car accident when I was a teenager. He was a star at the police academy. I guess I just wanted my dad to..." Her voice tailed off. "Now, I'm fucked."

Jayson leaned forward. "Listen, Alexis, you can still do the right thing here. Michelle Ling from Channel Eight's waiting at the diner down the street. She's got a camera operator on standby and she's waiting for my call." He reached into his pants pocket and retrieved his mobile phone. "Come clean and you'll be a hero for exposing this mess." He saw the irony in dispensing advice he would find laughable if serving as her legal counsel. He always told his clients when in trouble, keep their mouths shut and wait for an attorney.

"I can't betray my partner."

"Look, Alexis," Jayson said. "When the shit hits the fan, it's gonna be everyone for himself. Scott only helped you in the past to control you." He pressed a button, causing his mobile phone screen to light up. "I know you're a good woman and this thing's been tearing you up inside. You're young. Get this behind you and then start a new life."

Washington sighed, clearly exhausted. She stared at the new carpet for several seconds, then spoke very softly. "I didn't like what we were doing, not one bit."

Jayson nodded. "I know. I could tell when I interviewed you that you were nothing like Scott." He hit the redial button on his phone and raised it to his mouth. "Mich, Officer Washington's willing to give you a statement. Get your guy over here, but hurry. We don't want to keep her any longer than we have to. She's tired and needs to rest." He hung up.

Washington smiled. "Alex," she whispered. "Most people call me Alex."

Jayson smiled. "Alex it is." He pointed at himself. "Jayson, with a Y."

Washington looked him over. "Too bad you're married, Jayson with a Y," she moaned. "It's been almost a year since I've had a little..." She finished her beer instead of her thought, then sighed and whispered, a blank expression on her face. "When this is over, I could sure use a good fuck."

Jayson couldn't think of a response.

•

Five days after his unannounced visit to Alexis Washington's residence, Jayson and his staff gathering in his conference room to watch Channel Eight's five o'clock news, which would begin in five minutes. Connie and Tenika, sitting next to each other, bantered back and forth like two high school cheerleaders awaiting a playoff game. Victor, the self-appointed e-technician, stood at his post alongside the television ready to start the recorder. He joked with Jayson and the two women about the thick layers of makeup the female news anchor usually wore, calling her a white geisha. Even Jayson couldn't hide his excitement. He tapped nervously with his pen on the legal pad in his lap.

The telephone rang and Tenika put her hands on the arms of her chair.

"Stay there," Jayson told her. "I'll get it. He darted out of the noisy conference room, then closed the door behind him and grabbed the telephone on Tenika's desk. "Cook Law Office," he said.

"It's Samira. I guess you're about to watch the news."

"Yeah," Jayson replied. "One of your witnesses is changing her story."

"The word of a marginal employee against a twenty-year veteran," Rahmani retorted. "Anyway, I called to tell you that your Costa Rican friend's being charged with trafficking. The feds are squeezing her to find out what she knows about her boyfriend's operation."

"Where is she?"

"I don't know, but just leave her there, Jayson. Serves her right for—"

"Find out, for me, Samira, will you?"

After a long pause, she replied. "Okay. Go watch the news. Bye."

Jayson hung up and heard his staff clamoring for his return. "Okay!" he shouted back. He returned to the conference room and replayed Rahmani's advice in his head: "Just leave her there." Could he do such a thing to Jennifer's mother?

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Clutching his notes, Jayson stepped behind the podium and stood between his table and the prosecutors'. He made eye contact with Alexis Washington, seated in the witness box ten feet away sipping from a paper cup filled with water. A month had passed since he had seen her lengthy, explosive late-night interview with Michelle Ling on the news, in two parts. Although he had questioned witnesses in pre-trial hearings numerous times, he still felt nervous at this stage. He had been up late working on his questions, honing them to ensure he didn't ask any more than necessary to support his motion to suppress evidence. He knew he wouldn't be granted unlimited time to elicit testimony from his chief witness. Judge O'Hare didn't allow long, flowery statements and excess verbiage. He frequently cut off dramatic or loquacious lawyers in mid-sentence with a curt "save the speech for trial."

Jayson offered a slight smile to Washington, who wore a white blouse and pleated plaid skirt. She looked like a Catholic schoolgirl; not an accident. He had recommended her outfit because he remembered O'Hare had proudly mentioned that all his children and grandchildren had attended such schools. Washington glanced at Connie—who sat at the defense table to Jayson's left—and frowned at Brian Stone, who sat at the end of the table wearing a tie and dress shirt. Jayson peeked at Stone. The man took surreptitious deep breaths, attempting to calm his nerves.

Jayson turned to his right. Rahmani and Anderson sat at a table identical to his. Behind them, on the other side of the partition, the spectator section was crowded with all eighty seats occupied. Two additional court officers stood watch. Members of the news media took up half the seats, with the national press outnumbering the locals. Word of Jayson's reluctant, beleaguered star witness for the mid-August pre-trial hearing had traveled fast and far. O'Hare had forbidden electronic recordings of the hearing, so reporters scribbled feverishly on notepads of all sizes.

Jayson spotted Reverend Isaiah F. Bradley and a few of his followers glowering at him. Earlier, Stone had pointed out three young, reasonably attractive women—fortunately spread out among the spectators—with whom he had been corresponding. Rather than being pleased, he seemed bewildered by their attention. Jayson attributed the young man's feelings to his limited experience with women.

After asking a few standard name, rank and serial number background questions, Jayson got right to the meat of his inquiry. "Officer Washington, did you make contact with the defendant, Brian Stone..." He paused and pointed at Stone. "...in your capacity as a Boston police officer the year before last on December fourteenth?"

"Yes," Washington replied.

"And under what circumstances did you encounter him?"

"We stopped him for a moving violation."

"I'm sorry, Officer," Jayson said. "By 'we' you are referring to whom?"

Washington looked in the direction of Rahmani and Anderson. "My partner, Gary Scott, and I," she replied.

"I see," Jayson said. "And why did you and your partner stop Mr. Stone?"

"We said because he had strayed close to the dividing line in the middle of the street and didn't come to a complete stop when making a right turn."

Jayson decided to test the waters to see how far he would be able to go in his questioning. "And this reason was just a pretext, was it not?"

"Objection," Rahmani said. She stood. "Leading the witness."

Jayson replied before O'Hare could sustain the objection. "I'll rephrase the question." He waited for Rahmani to return to her seat. "Was Mr. Stone's driving the real reason you stopped him?"

Washington shook her head. "No, it was not."

"Had the defendant actually strayed close to the dividing line and failed to come to a complete stop before making a turn?"

"No."

"What was the real reason you and your partner stopped him?"

"Objection," Rahmani offered and stood again. "Counsel is asking the witness to speculate on the motivations of another. She can only speak for herself."

"I'll allow it," O'Hare declared, and motioned for Rahmani to sit.

O'Hare's response to Rahmani's objection assured Jayson he would be given some latitude. "So what was the real reason, Officer, for stopping Mr. Stone?"

"We knew he had been attending meetings at Gregory Morgan's Church of the True Savior and hoped we could find something on him to incriminate Morgan."

Several spectators began murmuring. Judge O'Hare banged his gavel once. "Quiet!" he bellowed. Everyone hushed.

Jayson nodded. "And did you flash your lights and stop Mr. Stone?"

"Yes."

"And who approached Mr. Stone on the driver's side?"

"Gary, um, Officer Scott."

"And you approached on the passenger side?"

"Yes."

Jayson leaned on the podium. "Did you later personally fill out a police report about this incident?"

"Yes."

Jayson turned to his table and held out his hand. Connie gave him four sheets of paper. He held them in the air. "Your Honor, the assistant district attorney and I stipulate that this two-page police report dated December fourteenth of the year before last may be admitted into evidence and marked 'Exhibit A.'"

"Proceed," O'Hare said.

Jayson stepped around the podium. He delivered one copy of the document to O'Hare's plump, middle-aged clerk and the other to Washington, then returned to the podium. "Officer Washington, I've given you a document marked 'Exhibit A,' which I've presented to the court. The people already have it in their possession. Do you recognize it?"

Washington briefly looked the paper over. "Yes."

"Is this the police report you personally filled out with respect to the incident on December fourteenth?"

"Yes."

"And did you indicate in this report that you had stopped Mr. Stone due to his driving?"

"Yes."

"And was this true?"

Washington paused and swallowed. "No."

Jayson leaned forward on the podium again. "Please tell the court what really happened that day."

Washington cleared her throat and took a sip from her cup. "Well, my partner and I pulled Mr. Stone over. He ordered Stone out of the car and proceeded to give him a field sobriety test—you know, count backwards from a thousand, stand on one leg, walk a straight line. That kind of thing."

"And what were you doing at the time Officer Scott was conducting this test with Mr. Stone?" Jayson asked.

Washington squirmed in her seat. "Um, well, I was checking out his car."

"How?"

"Well, first I shined my flashlight inside."

"And did you notice anything unusual when you did that?"

"No."

"Then what did you do?"

Washington took another sip of water and stared at the half-empty cup in her hand. "Then I opened the door to his car and looked in the glove box."

Jayson feigned a look of surprise for dramatic effect. "And Officer Washington, was the door to the glove compartment open or closed?"

"Closed."

"And what did you find in the glove compartment?"

"A hand-drawn map."

"A hand-drawn map of what?"

"A map of an area in Roxbury surrounding the Mt. Calvary Baptist Church."

Jayson scratched the top of his head. "Now Officer Washington, after your discovery of the map, did you personally fill out a search warrant affidavit seeking permission to search Mr. Stone's residence?"

"Yes."

Jayson accepted another set of papers from Connie. After again receiving permission from the judge, he delivered it the same way as before, returned to the podium and folded his hands. "Do you recognize the document in front of you, marked 'Exhibit B'?"

Washington briefly scanned the paper and nodded. "Yes. It's the search warrant affidavit I filled out on December fourteenth."

"And Officer Washington," Jayson said, "in that document did you state you had found the map lying in plain view on the seat of Mr. Stone's car?"

Washington nodded. "Yes, I did."

"And was that the truth?"

Washington sighed. "No, it was not."

Jayson opened his hands. "So you lied in your police report."

"Yes."

"And you lied in your search warrant affidavit."

"Yes."

"So both of these documents contained lies, did they not?"

"Objection," Rahmani said. "Asked and answered."

"Move it along, Mr. Cook."

Jayson nodded, "Yes, Your Honor." He faced his witness again. "Officer Washington, whose idea was it for you to lie about where you had found the map?"

"My partner," Washington answered, "Gary Scott."

"And whose idea was it for you to conduct this illegal search?"

"Objection!"

"Withdrawn. Whose idea was it for you to open the door to the glove compartment and inspect its contents?"

"My partner, Gary Scott."

"Officer Washington," Jayson continued, "are you still on active duty?"

"No," Washington answered. "I'm on paid leave pending the outcome of several investigations."

"And when was your leave initiated?"

"About a month ago."

"Was this immediately following your on-camera interview with Channel Eight reporter Michelle Ling?"

"Yes."

"And Officer Washington," Jayson said, "up to the date of your leave, had you and your partner ever done anything like this before?" He opened his hands. "You know, pull a motorist over on some pretense, then one of you keep him occupied while the other inspects the glove compartment of his car?"

Washington closed her eyes, then slowly opened them. "Yes."

"How many times?"

"Um, maybe about...twenty times."

"And when was the last time you did this?"

"The day you came to see me. The day Ms. Ling conducted the interview."

Jayson faced the judge and pointed at a wheeled cart next to the witness box. It housed two DVD players and a thirty-six-inch screen monitor. "At this time, if it pleases the court, I'd like to show the footage."

Rahmani stood. "Your Honor, for the record I'd like to renew my objection. What did or did not occur on this footage, which we've all seen numerous times on the news for the past month, has nothing to do with the charges against the defendant, Brian Stone." She put on a pair of reading glasses and stared at a legal pad in her hands. "Also, electronic wiretapping without the consent of all parties is illegal in Massachusetts, according to _The Commonwealth v Michael Hyde_."

Jayson faced O'Hare. "And for the record, Your Honor, I submit that the misconduct displayed here today goes to show a pattern of behavior one officer has already admitted to, at great personal and professional expense. Also, _Commonwealth v Hyde_ covers voice recordings, not images without sound taken of two public servants on a public street."

Judge O'Hare tilted his head to the side, then straightened up. "We've already been through this in chambers, Ms. Rahmani. I'm going to allow it." He motioned to the court officers. "Let's get this show on the road."

Connie moved to the empty seat on her right, allowing Jayson to sit next to Stone. While one officer set up the television monitor and DVD player, another turned off the lights. Jayson could hear the spectators behind him whispering. Stone tugged on his jacket sleeve. "This is good, right?"

Jayson nodded. "Maybe yes," he whispered. "The reporters'll certainly eat this up, but there's no jury to impress. Right now we have to persuade just one person that what happened in this screen happened to you: that's the judge. He's all that counts."

"Do you think he'll believe it?"

Jayson shrugged. "I don't know, Brian. I just don't know."

•

Jayson paced in his office conference room. The three members of his staff sat at one end of the conference table four feet away. As usual, Connie and Tenika sat side by side while Victor sat opposite them. "It's almost seven, guys," Jayson announced, "and I know it's late, but I want to review what you saw today," He peeked at his watch. "It looks different from the field than from the sidelines. Let's hear the negatives and positives."

Connie exchanged glances with Tenika and Victor, then plunged right in. "It looked pretty good for our side, Jaymeister," she exclaimed. She pushed her hair away from her face and continued. "I've got to admit, Rahmani's cross was pretty good. She got Washington to admit she didn't like her partner, she wasn't a very good cop, she got immunity for cooperating, et cetera."

"Um-hmm," Victor agreed. "And it didn't help that the judge wouldn't allow you to probe very far about the Protectors, since Scott had only told Alex about them and she hadn't been directly involved."

Jayson shrugged. "He was right. There was no way around it. Classic hearsay." He turned to Tenika. "How'd it look on the news?"

"The station I watched spent a lot of time showing that poor child's photo," Tenika reported, "and they interviewed Reverend Bradley yet again."

"No doubt he was foaming at the mouth as usual," Victor droned.

"The man lost his only daughter, Victor," Tenika snapped. "Show a little humanity."

Victor slapped his open hand on the table. "Hey, whose side are you on anyway?"

"I'm here, aren't I?" Tenika snorted. "And I'll be here long after you're back with your preppy friends telling them how you were slummin' this summer."

"Cut it out, you two," Jayson ordered. "Nobody's enjoying this."

"He started it," Tenika whined. She pointed at Victor. "And he's enjoying it plenty."

Victor leaned back in his chair and pointed at Tenika. "I just want to make sure we're all on the same team."

"I said that's enough!"

After a few seconds of silence, Victor spoke. "I–I'm sorry, Tenika," he mumbled. "You're right. I shouldn't have questioned your loyalty. I respect your feelings. I really do."

Tenika reached across the table and squeezed Victor's hand. "No, I'm the one who's sorry. Guess I'm getting touchy in my old age."

Connie poked Tenika on the arm. "I know what you need, girl!" She giggled.

Tenika giggled as well. "You're telling me! The cable guy came by last Saturday, and I don't mind admitting he was lucky to get out of my place alive."

All four laughed. Jayson waited a few seconds, then addressed Tenika again. "So what was your impression of the news coverage?"

Tenika wiggled her fingers. "About even. I'm sure they want this thing to go to trial on schedule in February so they can start the hype all over again."

Jayson nodded. "And Alexis, did she sound credible?"

All three enthusiastically shook their heads. Victor added his voice. "Absolutely! I can't imagine anyone saying she was making it up."

"And the footage removed any doubts about what happened the last day she was on duty," Connie declared.

The telephone rang. Tenika jumped out of her seat. "I'll get it." She raced out of the room.

Connie smiled. "So counselor, are you ready for Gary Scott tomorrow?"

Jayson nodded. "Yeah, but I don't like the way the media's been playing it up, as though they're expecting some big showdown, like something out of an old western."

Tenika returned and stood in the doorway. "It's for you."

Jayson waved his hand dismissively. "Take a message." His voice indicated annoyance.

Tenika briefly glanced at Connie and Victor, then returned her attention to Jayson. "Um, I think you'll want to take this."

Jayson frowned and stepped into the outer office while Tenika walked back into the conference room and closed the door. He lifted the receiver. "Jayson Cook here."

"Jayson?"

"Yes," he said, clearly irritated. "Who is this?"

"It's Leslie," the caller on the other side revealed with a weak, broken voice. "You gotta help me."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Jayson stationed himself at the podium, maintaining his distance from Gary Scott, who had been on the witness stand for nearly an hour. The scene in the courtroom appeared identical to the day before when Washington had raised her right hand and sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth—only a different police officer faced questioning and the other participants had changed clothes.

With gentle probing from Anderson for about fifty minutes, Scott, who wore a suit and tie, had given his expected testimony: "I'm sorry to say my partner was a very poor police officer...I never manufactured reasons to stop a driver...Any search I conducted in the line of duty was within the letter of the law...I know nothing about Officer Washington lying on any police report or search warrant affidavit...."

Jayson had questioned the nineteen-year veteran of the Boston Police Department for about ten minutes. Over Anderson's objections, his questions had revealed that Scott had faced discipline for various offenses including using excessive force, failure to follow proper procedures when making an arrest, disobeying orders, and the like. Jayson had also managed to garner Scott's admission that, like Washington, he had been placed on leave with pay pending the outcome of numerous investigations. Jayson had not planned to keep Scott on the stand for very long, so he decided to return to his best weapon. "With the court's permission I'd like to show the footage again."

Anderson immediately arose. "The people object, Your Honor," he declared. "We've seen Mr. Cook's show once. There's no reason to waste the court's time by showing it again."

Jayson pointed at the television cart resting in the corner. "Your Honor, we haven't seen it with Officer Scott testifying under oath. I share Mr. Anderson's respect for the court's time and only wish to show one small part."

O'Hare sighed. "How long, counselor?"

Jayson shrugged. "Maybe two or three minutes."

O'Hare nodded. "The court will grant you five minutes," he paused and shook his finger, "not a second more." He turned to Anderson. "Your objection is overruled."

Jayson kept a poker face but felt glee upon seeing Anderson pouting, as he usually did after an overruled objection. "Thank you, Your Honor," Jayson said. He took his seat between Stone and Connie, and watched as the court officers set up the machinery and turned off the lights, as on the previous day.

Stone whispered to Connie. She, in turn tugged on Jayson's sleeve. "How come—"

"Shhh," Jayson responded.

The court officers rolled the cart to a corner of the room behind the witness box near the United States flag. The spectators would be able to see the screen, although the images would be tiny. Although the opposing attorneys could see quite well from their table, Scott and O'Hare had to twist in their seats to view the monitor. The spectators began whispering in anticipation, then talked loudly.

O'Hare banged his gavel twice. "This is the only warning you'll get before I clear this room!" he barked. "This is a court of law, not a Red Sox game."

The room became as silent as a vacant house.

Jayson stood and asked a pear-shaped female court officer holding a remote control, "Would you fast-forward until the timer reads thirty-five minutes, please?" Jayson watched the numbers roll on the bottom of the blue-screened television until they reached the desired spot. He gestured in Scott's direction. "May I be allowed to approach the witness and adjust the picture myself, Your Honor?"

"Go ahead."

Jayson stepped around the podium, thanked the officer and accepted the remote control. He aimed the device and pressed a button. The screen flickered, then produced the image of Officer Scott standing with his hands on his belt as the hapless black male next to the subcompact vehicle walked toward him straddling an imaginary straight line. Jayson pressed the pause button and pointed. "Is that you, Officer Scott?"

"Obviously," he answered.

Jayson could sense Scott's annoyance. If he could bait the witness into displaying anger, Washington's emotionally tortured testimony would compare much more favorably. "And what are you doing?"

"As you can see, conducting a field sobriety test," Scott answered gruffly.

Jayson nodded. "I believe you're requiring this man, um..." He paused to look at his notes. "...Mr. Field, whom you stopped, to walk a straight line. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

Jayson pressed the play button and observed the monitor. Scott and the man unfroze, and adjusted their positions. The man had his back to the vehicle while Scott stood in front of him. The camera operator refocused to keep the man, as well as Scott and Washington in the picture. Jayson pressed the pause button again. "Now what are you doing?" he asked.

Scott stared at the still images on the screen. "I can't tell for sure, but I'm probably telling the motorist to count backward from a thousand."

"I see," Jayson said. "Now the motorist has his back to his vehicle, correct?"

"I guess so."

"Then please take a closer look, Officer Scott," Jayson instructed. "Does the motorist have his back to his vehicle or not?"

"Okay, so he does," Scott growled.

Jayson took pleasure at Scott's behavior. He had none of Washington's sympathetic qualities. "And is it fair to say you're clearly facing his vehicle?"

"Yes."

"Watch carefully, please," Jayson commanded. "I'm going to zoom in on your face and slow it down." He did so. After a few seconds he paused the image and pointed as if he had just seen a UFO. "Did you see that?"

"See what?" Scott groaned.

"What was that movement of your head, sir?"

Scott shrugged. "I don't know. Could be anything."

"Let's see it again," Jayson said.

Anderson stood and waved his hands. "I object. Mr. Cook is wasting the court's time with these questions, which are based on pure speculation."

"Overruled," O'Hare replied. He leaned further, trying to get a better view. "I want to see it again, too."

Jayson rewound and replayed the footage. "Are you nodding your head at your partner, Officer Scott, giving her a signal to go ahead and search the car?"

"Absolutely not!" Scott fumed, "and I resent the question."

Jayson returned the image to its normal size. "So it's just a coincidence that right after that movement of your head, Officer Washington began searching the car?"

Scott spoke through clenched teeth. "She did that on her own. I didn't even notice. I was busy with the motorist and wasn't paying any attention to her."

"I see," Jayson said, his voice peppered with sarcasm. "Well then, let's see how long you didn't notice her from the time you signaled her—"

"Objection!"

"Withdrawn. From the time Officer Washington started searching the car to the time she retrieved the firearm—according to her, the firearm she retrieved from the glove compartment." Jayson pointed at the screen. "Would you please tell the court the numbers in the seconds column on the counter, please?"

Scott leaned forward. "Thirteen."

"Thank you," Jayson said and pressed the play button. He watched for a few more seconds. When Washington raised the gun into the air he froze the image again. "And what does the seconds column say now?"

"Um, twenty-nine."

Jayson handed the remote control to the court officer and returned to the podium. "Is it your testimony that although you were the senior officer on the scene and facing your partner you didn't notice her searching that vehicle for sixteen seconds?"

"Like I said, I was busy with the motorist," Scott insisted.

"I'm sorry, sir. Is that a yes or no?"

"No! Okay?"

"Just answer the questions," O'Hare advised sternly.

Jayson smiled. "Thank you, Officer Scott. I have no further questions." He took his seat.

O'Hare addressed the prosecutors. "Do the people wish to redirect?"

Anderson stood. "Yes, Your Honor."

The judge checked his watch. "Then we'll break for lunch. Afterwards, the people will conduct its redirect examination, then the court will hear very short closing arguments." He banged his gavel.

"All rise!" the court officer commanded. After O'Hare exited, the people in the courtroom began clamoring. Reporters shouted at Jayson, Stone, Anderson and Rahmani, attempting to nab someone for an interview.

Jayson slowly arranged his stack of folders and paid no attention to the noise behind him. As he went about his task he reflected on the wisdom of Professor Greenberg. He could hear the old man's voice: "Be prepared. Streamline your questions. Don't go fishing during a hearing or trial, so only ask questions you already know the answers to. A witness may surprise you when their side is asking questions, but if I ever hear that a witness surprised you when you were asking the questions I'll—"

The sight of an approaching officer holding two pairs of handcuffs connected to long chains refocused the lawyer's thoughts. Jayson put his hand on Stone's shoulder. "Try to relax, Brian."

After the cuffs were placed on Stone's hands and feet, the prisoner held out his hands for Jayson to see. "Easy for you to say," he quipped. "What now?"

"Now you go eat lunch and I go review my closing," Jayson replied.

•

Jayson relaxed in his living room. He had driven straight from court to Jennifer's school to attend an open house with Renee so they could meet the woman who would be Jennifer's teacher in two weeks when the school year began anew. Jayson had found her to be pleasant enough, but all of the people at the school grinned and talked too much for his taste. After enduring the event, he had gone home to enjoy dinner with the family.

Having changed out of his suit into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and after a hearty meal of barbecued steak, Jayson sat in his recliner and half-watched the six o'clock news. He enjoyed the coolness of the newly-installed central air conditioning system while wincing over the latest edition—two days old—of the weekly _Boston Courier_. Renee, dressed like him, sat on the sofa reading a magazine, but dropped it into her lap when Michelle Ling, wearing a beige dress, appeared and mentioned the Stone hearing. The reporter posed in front of the courthouse and recapitulated the events that had transpired earlier that afternoon.

"The long-awaited showdown being Brian Stone's attorney, Jayson Cook, and Boston police officer Gary Scott lived up to its expectations," Michelle opened, "when Scott took the witness stand to refute his former partner's testimony that they had routinely violated the civil rights of..."

Jennifer, who had been at the kitchen table playing with Tabitha and Sharon, two of her dolls, entered the living room holding a red, miniature evening outfit. "Mommy, Tabitha's been naughty," she complained with indignation. "She tore Sharon's dress!"

"Come here, sweetie," Renee said, and stretched out her arms. "Mrs. Lopez'll sew her dress later. I think you're going to see Daddy again on television."

Jennifer beamed and sat on the floor facing the TV. "Really?"

Jayson shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not." He didn't think it appropriate for Jennifer to watch the news story but said nothing.

Michelle's voice described the interaction between Jayson and Scott with the now famous "head signal" footage running in slow motion. Michelle reappeared and moved on to the afternoon's closing remarks. "Both assistant district attorney Omar Anderson and Cook, who some say are bitter enemies inside and outside of the courtroom, gave closing arguments that could mean the difference between Brian Stone going free or spending the rest of his life in prison for first-degree murder..."

Renee scoffed. "I hate when they push rumors, citing 'some say.'"

"Me too," Jayson replied. "But, as some say, it sells newspapers." He laughed.

Michelle looked earnestly into the camera. "Cook championed his client's cause before Judge Robert O'Hare, who alone will decide whether to suppress the mountains of evidence found in Stone's apartment..." A sketch appeared of Jayson addressing O'Hare with Stone watching.

Renee pointed. "Look sweetie. That's Daddy!"

Jennifer looked confused. "It is?"

Jayson chuckled. "Didn't capture my best side, I don't think."

Michelle continued. "...an explosion that destroyed the Mount Calvary Baptist Church, killing twelve-year-old Veronica Bradley nearly two years ago." The image switched to the familiar photo of the smiling girl's seventh grade school picture.

Jennifer pointed. "That's the little girl who got killed, Mommie."

"I know, dear," Renee replied, and frowned.

Michelle returned. "Citing several Supreme Court decisions, Cook passionately argued the warrant used to search Stone's apartment was invalid because the police had lied when they claimed they had found a hand-drawn map..."

"Are they going to show Daddy again?" Jennifer asked.

Jayson shook his head. "I guess not, sweetheart."

Jennifer got up and walked over to Jayson. "They should show you again, Daddy."

Jayson picked her up and sat her on his lap. "I don't mind, honey. To tell you the truth, Daddy wouldn't mind if he stayed off TV for a while." He glanced at the screen. Some Harvard Law professor explained the legal concept of the exclusionary rule, in which a judge suppresses illegally-seized evidence. Jayson tugged on Jennifer's shirt. "Hey, go upstairs and change your shirt. You've got ice cream on it."

"Okay," Jennifer said. She crawled out of his lap and ran upstairs.

The professor had finished, so Michelle wrapped up. "Judge O'Hare's decision is expected in a few days."

As the story ended, Jayson waved the remote in the air. "You still watching?"

Renee shook her head. "You can change the station or turn it off."

Jayson did the latter. He scanned his newspaper but couldn't resist the urge to bask in his wife's own recent success. "So," he opened smugly, "your interview went well, huh?"

Renee beamed with self-satisfaction. "Um-hmm. It seemed more like they were wooing me rather than interviewing me; almost begging. One woman told me privately I was a head and shoulder above all of the other candidates, even the inside ones." She crossed her fingers. "It looks like I might be chief of anesthesiology soon, after all."

Jayson smiled. "Don't surprise me none," he joked. "I'm glad."

"And this hospital's far bigger and better than where I am now," Renee gushed. "It's got more modern equipment and it's half the commute—and I'd even make a lot more money!"

"I'm glad," Jayson repeated. "Looks like a win-win deal."

Renee bit her lower lip. "Um, honey, I'm sorry about how I acted after I didn't get the other job. I shouldn't have blamed you."

Jayson held out his hand. Renee got up and tumbled into his lap. He hugged and kissed her. "I'm sorry what I do for a living sometimes creates hardships for you."

Renee pressed her cheek against his. "Just like the reverend said last Sunday: God closes some doors, opens others. The important thing is we're grateful for what we have."

"Well," Jayson said, "I'm grateful for you and Jennifer."

"And I'm grateful for Jennifer and you," Renee whispered. She kissed him tenderly on the lips. "And tonight I'm going to show you just how grateful."

Jayson arched his eyebrows. "It's a date." He kissed her again.

Magdalena entered the room, causing Renee to quickly rise. "Excuse me so much," the housekeeper said and turned around.

Jayson stood and called to her. "It's alright Magda." The woman stopped at the foot of the stairs leading to the family bedrooms but didn't turn around. "Magda?" he called louder. Finally, she turned. Jayson gestured with his index finger. "Come on. What is it?"

Magdalena slowly inched her way back and stopped. " _Si_?"

Renee pointed at the envelope in her hand. "What's that?"

Magdalena raised the envelope toward Jayson but said nothing.

Jayson accepted it and looked it over. "It's from Immigration." He stepped closer to her. "Maybe this is information about your children?"

Magdalena shrugged. " _Seńor_ , um, Mr. Cook. I so afraid I don't open."

Renee took the position next to Jayson. "When did you get this?"

"The mail today. A few hours."

Jayson widened his eyes. "A few hours? Why didn't you say something?"

"I so afraid," Magdalena repeated. "What if my children, they no come?"

Renee took the woman by the arms and gently dragged her onto the sofa. "Now you just sit right here and if you want, Mr. Cook will open the letter for you." She sat as well.

Jayson nodded. "Would you like me to do that?" Magdalena nodded, then put her hands over her face and started crying. She pulled out a set of rosary beads from her apron pocket and made the sign of the cross. Jayson felt deep compassion for her—as well as trepidation. His own heartbeat began to race. "Okay, here goes..." He tore off the edge of the envelope, tossed the scrap on the table and pulled out three sheets of paper. Please Lord, he prayed in his thoughts, give this dear woman some peace.

Renee held on to Magdalena and looked up at Jayson. "Well, what does it say?"

Jayson sat on the other side of the sobbing woman and dropped the letter into her lap. "Congratulations!" He smiled and put his hands on her shoulders. "Your children will be arriving in America around Thanksgiving."

Magdalena stared at Jayson. She opened her mouth but no words came forth.

Renee hugged her. "That's wonderful news!"

Magdalena folded her hands and looked to the heavens. "Thank you, Jesus! Thank you! I promise I be so good mother. I take them to mass every Sunday."

Jayson stood. "I'll get you a glass of water—or would you like a beer?"

Magdalena laughed. "Oh, Mr. Cook, you make so funny. No trouble for me."

Jayson walked toward the kitchen. "It's no trouble. I was going to get a soda anyway. He stopped at the refrigerator and opened it. "What'll it be?"

Magdalena, clearly not used to being served, fumbled for words. "Um, soda, thank you."

Jayson pointed. "How about you, hon?"

"I'll just take a sip of yours."

Jayson busied himself in the kitchen but the uncertain fate of another person at the mercy of Immigration officials flooded his thoughts. The ringing telephone jarred him back to his more immediate situation and he answered it. After less than a minute on the telephone he slowly walked back into the living room holding the full glasses.

Renee stopped chatting with Magdalena and focused on her husband. "What is it, hon?"

"That was Judge O'Hare's clerk," Jayson announced. "He wants everybody back at eleven tomorrow."

Renee put her hand to her mouth. "Don't tell me he's already—"

"Um-hmm," Jayson replied. "He's made his decision."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

His palms were sweaty. Jayson's, not the judge's.

Jayson stared at the papers in O'Hare's hands, trying to count how many sheets he held. In his experience as an attorney, a judge holding several sheets of paper meant the granting of a motion. Unfortunately, O'Hare only held a couple of sheets.

Jayson noted that superior court judges in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts secured lifetime tenure. They didn't have to bother with the indignity of running for re-election as in some other states. Nevertheless, they tended to be an ambitious lot, hoping for a higher appointment from the governor, perhaps being favored for one of only seven coveted Supreme Judicial Court seats, or a spot on some high-profile blue ribbon panel. Consequently, no judge wanted to be seen as soft on crime, so when granting a defense motion to dismiss a complaint or suppress evidence the judge usually laid out a myriad of reasons with great care. The pronouncement tended to be long, with the words, "The court has no choice but to..." almost always preceding the decision.

Jayson studied O'Hare, who, at precisely 11:05 a.m., put on a pair of reading glasses and filled the crowded room with his loud, raspy voice.

"This case," he opened, "presents one of the most difficult tasks a sitting judge can be faced with: whom to believe. On the one side we have the word of a young woman at the beginning of her career as a law enforcement officer."

Jayson glanced at Stone, who appeared stiff and frightened, like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming automobile. Jayson had advised the young man to expect the motion to be denied. He generally dispensed this advice because that was the outcome in the overwhelming majority of cases. Jayson wanted his clients to prepare for a long, tedious slog. Contrary to what appeared on television, the wheels of the criminal justice system turned very slowly. Stone's two-year stint at the Suffolk County Jail awaiting trial wasn't uncommon. Jayson had seen the time between arrest and trial for some defendants stretch to three years.

O'Hare continued: "On the other side we have a man who has served the public for over nineteen years..."

Jayson had found Stone, as defendants go, to hold more contradictions than most. He hadn't graduated from high school, but read voraciously. He had lived in the home of a black family for a year and admitted open affection for its matriarch, but expressed clearly racist beliefs. He longed for what he had never enjoyed—the intimate companionship of a woman, but was disconcerted by the amorous attention of several women. He considered himself a religious man, yet he had willingly committed an act of terrorism. Finally, rather than repeatedly profess his innocence to Jayson—as almost all clients did—Stone had repeatedly attempted to confess his guilt.

The tone of O'Hare's voice rose a half note. "For this court to determine which witness is more credible—Gary Scott or Alexis Washington—it must examine who has the most to lose if his or her testimony is true."

Jayson glanced at Connie. She shrugged and crossed her fingers.

"In this situation it's clearly Officer Washington," O'Hare asserted. "In fact, Officer Washington has everything to lose by volunteering her testimony, including her career, her reputation, and quite possibly, her freedom..."

Jayson dared not take the judge's opening remarks to mean a positive outcome for his side. He sneaked a quick look at Rahmani and Anderson. Rahmani sat emotionless. Anderson as usual, looked like a man who had just lost a sporting bet.

O'Hare shifted from an assessment of people to an assessment of evidence. "Not only was a credible witness produced by the defense, but so was substantial evidence corroborating the claims of that witness."

Jayson checked on Stone. How long could a man stare without blinking?

Judge O'Hare shuffled his papers to the next page. "However..."

Jayson hated that word. It meant "close but not close enough." He made brief eye contact with Stone and shook his head to indicate they had lost.

"...evidence of current or recent wrongdoing does not necessary mean such behavior occurred in the past."

Damn it, Jayson thought, but he did have a few ideas for other motions.

"It can, however..."

Jayson sighed. There he goes again with that however business.

"...provide evidence supporting a claim of a pattern of behavior." O'Hare peered above his glasses and resumed reading. "That leads this court to ask, does the evidence presented support the defense claim of past behavior?"

Jayson clenched his fists. Here it comes.

"The court finds that it clearly does."

What? Jayson widened his eyes. Did he hear the old man right? Now his silent reactions mirrored the call-response pattern at church.

"Does the evidence support the defense claim that the police did in fact misrepresent the truth when reporting the circumstances surrounding the search of the defendant's vehicle?"

Well?

"This court finds that it clearly does."

Clearly does!

"Does the evidence support the defense claim that the police did in fact misrepresent the truth in order to obtain a warrant to search the defendant's residence?"

Go ahead, Your Honor!

"This court finds that it clearly does."

Thank you!

"The Supreme Court of the United States has been unequivocally clear: _Mapp v Ohio_ held the Fourth Amendment prohibition against 'unreasonable searches and seizures,' and therefore the exclusionary rule, extends to defendants in federal and _state_ court."

Preach!

"The people have asserted that _United States v Leon_ and _Arizona v Evans_ extend to 'good faith' exceptions. Their point is accurate and well taken, but clearly this was not a 'good faith' error on the part of the police..."

Clearly!

"...but deliberate disregard for proper search warrant procedure." Judge O'Hare stopped and sighed. "This court's reservations notwithstanding, it has no choice but to find the search of the defendant's vehicle and the warrant used to search the defendant's residence were in fact tainted by police misconduct. Therefore all evidence obtained therein is inadmissible."

The spectators gasped, then talked loudly among themselves. O'Hare pounded his gavel, silencing them.

Jayson stood. "Your Honor, in light of the court's decision, the defense moves for dismissal of all charges."

O'Hare addressed the ADAs. "Do the people have any evidence other than the map and the contents from the defendant's apartment?"

Rahmani stood. "Well, um, Your Honor, we, um, don't think so but—"

"Then the defense's motion is granted."

Anderson stood. "Your Honor, the people ask that the defendant remain in custody pending an immediate appeal. He has no ties here in Boston, poses a significant flight risk and—"

"Your Honor," Jayson interrupted, "the defense ask that the defendant be immediately released." He mounted the perfunctory protest for show.

"Forget it, counselor," O'Hare told Jayson. "Mr. Anderson is correct. I'll hold my decision in abeyance. It's back to jail for your client pending the appeal. The people's request is granted. Take the defendant back into custody. We're adjourned." He banged his gavel one last time.

Immediately after O'Hare descended from the bench, the reporters lunged toward Jayson. Stone's three female admirers called to him, but he didn't turn toward them. Four court officers, spread out between the spectators and the attorneys, kept the crowd back.

Jayson faced Stone. "It's not over yet, Brian. It's a hot case. O'Hare did the right thing because he's retiring."

Stone glanced at the approaching court officer, brandishing handcuffs, and held out his hands while turning his face to ask Jayson a question. "What happens now?"

"They're going to appeal. I told you they would if we won."

"How long will it take?"

"Could be days—or weeks," Jayson replied. "I'll do everything I can to speed it up."

"Wh-what should I do?"

Jayson leaned closer to Stone. "Be patient, and remember: Don't talk to anyone about the case. Nobody. Especially now." He pointed at himself. "I'll handle the reporters."

Jayson asked Connie to take care of his briefcase and Stone. He squeezed past the hordes of spectators and stepped into the hall. Rahmani and Anderson stood a few yards away already busy putting their spin on the results.

"This certainly isn't over by any stretch of the imagination," Rahmani insisted. "We expect this ruling to be overturned almost immediately by the Appellate Court."

Anderson fumed. "No child will be safe if this ruling is allowed to stand. It's a—"

The reporters abandoned the ADAs in order to stick their cameras and microphones into the victor's face. "Jayson, how does it feel to be a winner?" one woman asked.

"I'm not the winner. It's the people of Massachusetts who are the winners," Jayson retorted. "Because of the courage of one Boston police officer, and the wisdom of one judge, the rights guaranteed to all of us by the United States Constitution have been affirmed."

"Are you disappointed the judge didn't let your client go free?"

"Well, Brian and I are disappointed, but we understand the judge's position."

"What do you say to comments that Stone's life isn't worth last week's newspaper if he manages to walk on account of a technicality?"

Jayson opened his hands. "Legally, Brian Stone is presumed innocent. If he goes free it's because in the eyes of the law he's an innocent man." The reporters, eager to see a public brawl, cleared a path for Reverend Bradley. Jayson frowned.

The reverend snorted like an angry bull. "How does it feel to betray your people and help a white man who murdered an innocent little black girl to go free?"

Jayson maintained eye contact with the reverend, whose breath stank from coffee consumption. He didn't want a heated confrontation with a grieving father to play on the news. "I'm very sorry for your loss, sir," he said calmly, "but the judge has ruled. The best thing everyone can do is to proceed from there."

"This isn't over," Reverend Bradley declared. "We'll get justice for my little girl!"

Jayson said nothing. Fortunately, a six-feet tall, male court officer stepped near Jayson, his silent presence ensuring that matters would not get out of hand. Jayson answered a few more questions, then waved the reporters off. They respected his wishes and focused on Reverend Bradley, a man not known for turning down a microphone.

Jayson and Connie boarded an elevator, already occupied by several people obviously unaware of the drama that had recently unfolded. Attorney and paralegal would say nothing about the hearing until they reached his car, as was their practice. While the elevator carried him down to the lobby, Jayson imagined the headlines in the papers echoing what Anderson, Rahmani and Reverend Bradley had all said: "This isn't over."

•

Jayson watched the large television mounted eight feet off the ground on the second floor of Terminal B at Logan International Airport. Business dropped off considerably after seven o'clock, so less than thirty people stood or walked in his vicinity. The twenty-four-hour New England-oriented news station featured a handsome Latino with a smooth, velvety voice. The station identification and current time, seven-fifteen p.m., were displayed electronically below the breast pocket of the anchorman's suit. Jayson paid attention to the current story.

"This morning an appellate court in Boston denied the appeal of the Suffolk County district attorney, which had sought to overturn last week's dismissal of all charges against accused murderer Brian Stone."

Jayson checked the other large screen a few feet away for Renee's flight number. She would arrive a couple of minutes before eight; a bit early. She had attended a work-related, three-day conference in Chicago; her last duty for her current employer before she would smugly give a month's notice. Highway traffic had been better than expected, so Jayson had reached the airport early, a feat he rarely accomplished. He refocused on the news story.

"The Massachusetts seven-member Supreme Judicial Court is expected to announce whether it will grant a hearing on the matter sometime within the next few days."

Jayson felt relieved the reporter hadn't mentioned his name. Since Judge O'Hare had granted his motion, a uniformed police officer had been assigned to watch his law office twenty-four hours a day. He had received numerous threatening and nuisance telephone calls, and the police scanned all packages he received for possible dangerous contents.

Jayson took a few steps forward while listening to the end of the report and spotted the last person on earth he wanted to see coming toward him. She toted a large overnight bag and purse.

"Hello, Jayson," Leslie purred and stopped about two feet from him. She wore jeans, a tight fitting, short-sleeved blouse that zipped up the front, and a pair of high heel shoes. She turned her head left and right, apparently checking for the presence of anyone else.

Not wanting to be seen in public with her, Jayson checked as well. "What are you doing here, Leslie, following me?" he snapped. Although greatly annoyed, he noticed she had lost a little weight, which made her sexier than ever. He also noticed the pleasant scent of her perfume but chose to keep that fact to himself.

"Get over yourself," Leslie grumbled. "I was going to ask if you were following _me_."

Jayson glanced at his watch, then hustled Leslie to a nearby dark, enclosed bar and grill. He bought two diet sodas, which they carried to a small table farthest from the door. The other ten people scattered about paid them no attention.

Leslie clutched her bag with her left hand and managed her drink with her right. "Guess I'm the last person on earth you wanted to see, huh?"

Jayson sighed. "What are you doing here, Leslie?"

"We're at an airport," she said. "I'm catching a flight. Duh."

"Where?"

"Back to Costa Rica, thanks to your ass," Leslie informed him sarcastically.

"I didn't do much," Jayson replied, responding as if the remark had been sincere. "I just called your lawyer and made a few suggestions. The drug case was weak. She probably would've done those things anyway." He noticed Leslie holding her breath. "What's wrong?"

"Shit," she muttered and furtively stared at a person standing near the door.

Jayson scrutinized a tall female security officer who had barely entered the room. "Take it easy," he advised. "Drink your soda."

"I beat the drug rap, thanks to you," Leslie whispered, "but Immigration's still looking to deport my ass."

Jayson snickered. "Leslie, she's airport security, not Immigration. That's in the second place. In the first place they've got millions of people to contend with, not just you." He chuckled. "Look, didn't they let you walk out the front door after the drug charges were dropped when they were supposed to keep you for a deportation hearing? They're not exactly famous for their efficiency." He made a slight gesture with his head. "See? She's leaving."

"I just can't go back to being locked up," Leslie whined. "You don't know what it was like."

Jayson shrugged. "Then you're doing the right thing, getting the hell out."

"Bet you're glad to get rid of me."

"Yes I am."

"Then why'd you help me?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

Jason sighed again. "I helped you because you needed help, because I _could_ help and because you're Jennifer's mother."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. So how's the kid anyway?"

"Her name's Jennifer. She's fine. She'll turn seven in a few days."

"Um-hmm," Leslie mumbled. "So you're holding the gun now. If I bother you again you'll pull the trigger and I'll get my ass picked up by Immigration." She paused to sip her drink. "Guess I should've known better than to tangle with the great lawyer, Jayson Cook." She changed her demeanor and smiled. "You spanked my ass good—but not the way you wanted to, I bet."

"Get over yourself already," Jayson retorted. "You need to start a new life. What are you going to do once you get back to Costa Rica?"

"Leslie leaned forward and grinned. "I got nearly ten grand in cash in this bag."

Jayson widened his eyes. "Really?"

"Damn straight. A little present from that asshole they picked me up with for keeping my mouth shut," Leslie added. "He told me to take ten, which I already wired to myself back home, but you know how I like a big tipper." She jiggled the bag. "And I got me some fake ID shit that'll get me out of the country."

Jayson whistled. "Jesus, Leslie. What if they check—"

"They don't check out nothing but these honkers," Leslie said and kneaded her breasts with her right hand. "I could sneak a goddamn battleship past them."

Jayson shook his head. Same old Leslie. She'd never change. He stood. "Well, if there's nothing else, I better go."

Leslie grabbed him by the hand. "Do you have to go already?"

Jayson looked into her eyes and detected intense loneliness. She reminded him of Connie, a little. But while Connie still believed in love, Leslie obviously didn't know the meaning of the word. "We shouldn't be seen together," he finally answered. "I've been in the news lately. The last thing you need is some nosy reporter bothering us."

Leslie looked around. "You're right. You better go." She stood also.

For an awkward moment, Jayson didn't know what to do. How does one say good-bye to his blackmailer? Leslie answered his silent question. She grabbed him by the tie, pulled him toward her and kissed him on the lips. Jayson didn't resist.

Leslie whispered in his ear. "I chose the right father for the kid, whatever the reason."

Jayson smiled. "Thank you," he said. "Go with God, Leslie."

She smirked and backed away shaking the bag. "I'm going with more than that." She turned and fired one more parting shot. "You might see me again."

Jayson reached for a paper napkin and wiped hard to remove the woman's lipstick from his mouth. Any trace and Renee would surely go ballistic. He watched Leslie sashay away and garnered pleasure at seeing Leslie's backside—for more reasons than one.

He waited for five minutes before leaving the bar and grill. As he exited the place he heard his telephone ring and answered it.

"Jayson, guess what? I located that person," Connie announced.

Jayson became excited. "Really? And?"

"Once we hear from the SJC about Stone, we're all set." Connie's voice indicated concern. "Um, Jayson, are you sure about this?"

"No, but I can't think of any other way," he replied, and swerved to avoid colliding with a running child. "Hey, Renee's flight is due so I'll talk to you later. Thanks." He hung up and considered his plan involving Stone, about which his client knew nothing. He recognized his idea constituted a gamble, a gamble way outside his comfort zone.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Two days after Labor Day, Jayson, with Stone at his side, cautiously walked a gauntlet moving away from the rear of the Suffolk County Jail. The voices of over two dozen shouting reporters blended with those of roughly eighty protestors.

"Jayson, were you surprised the SJC refused to even hear the appeal?"

"How does it feel to get away with murder, you pig?"

"Brian, whatcha gonna do now that you're a free man?"

"Do you see the face of the little black girl you killed in your dreams?"

Photographers, camera operators and sound technicians jostled for positions closest to the just released jail inmate. Jayson stayed close to Stone, who carried a duffel bag containing his personal belongings. The latter wore a slight smile and the long-sleeved dress shirt and tie he had worn for court nearly three weeks before.

With the bright sun overhead and the one o'clock temperature in the mid-seventies, Jayson wished he were at a Red Sox game. He read the various, bobbing, handmade signs wielded by the mostly black, teeth-baring, angry protestors, which included "No justice, No peace!" and "Child Killer!" Reverend Bradley of course, stood at the head of the crowd—or mob, depending on one's point of view—urging them on.

Jayson whispered to Stone. The nervous young man nodded, then after approaching a waiting rented van, turned around to face the reporters. He cleared his throat and prepared to answer a few questions. An hour previously, he and Jayson had reviewed a few remarks they hoped would play well on the afternoon and evening news.

"How do you feel, Brian?"

Stone smiled. "Um, I feel good."

"Were you surprised the SJC didn't even hear the appeal?"

"Um, I think Mr. Cook should answer that," Stone replied, as he had been advised should any questions about the legal aspects of his situation come up.

Jayson smiled. "We were very pleased and not at all surprised that the Commonwealth's Supreme Judicial Court saw no reason to review the ruling by Judge O'Hare."

Michelle Ling squeezed between her colleagues to get closer to Stone and brandished her microphone. "Brian, did you feel confident when you discovered your attorney would be an African American?"

Jayson maintained a neutral expression. He respected Michelle. They both understood that although romantically interested in Victor, she had a job to do. Besides, none of the questions asked so far—including that one—had been unanticipated.

"Well, I don't have much experience with lawyers, ma'am," Stone said, "but Mr. Cook is a fine lawyer who treated me with respect and worked very hard for me."

"Whatcha gonna do now, Brian?"

"I–I'd like to find someplace where I can get some ice cream," Stone answered.

The reporters laughed and proffered more questions, but Jayson held up his hands. "Come on now, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "we have to be going." He nodded at Stone, who promptly turned toward the van. "Get in the back seat quickly and sit behind the driver," Jayson instructed. Stone followed orders. Jayson climbed into the front seat and closed the door.

Victor, behind the wheel, checked the rearview mirror. "Everybody buckle up," he ordered. "We've got to get past the protestors."

Jayson pressed his back against his seat and spoke to Stone. "Look straight ahead. The television cameras are rolling. Don't do anything you don't want rebroadcasted on the evening news."

Stone nodded. "Okay, I just want to get out of here."

Jayson faced the front. "Okay, Victor. Nice and easy."

Victor drove the van slowly past the protestors, who were being collectively restrained by Boston police officers. Jayson couldn't help but be struck by the irony of the situation: Boston cops protecting a man whom Boston cops had unfairly put in prison. One protestor, a young African American man, broke past the human barricade. He ran to Jayson's side of the van and pounded on the door with his fists.

"Fucking Uncle Tom," he yelled before a police officer grabbed him and pulled him backwards. "You let me catch you on the street, nigga!"

Embarrassed, Jayson winced and wished the brother hadn't uttered that word, especially in front of a white man. The crowd disappeared from view as Victor turned onto Nashua Street and joined the stop-and-go dance of vehicles entering Storrow Drive. Jayson turned to check on his client. "You okay?"

"Yes, thank you. Where're we going?"

Jayson faced the front again. "Like I told you, we're taking you to a motel out of town." He felt uncomfortable talking to Stone about anything but the case. "Connie's already booked a room for you under her name. You shouldn't be bothered."

"What about my things? My car, such as it is, my clothes, my, um personal things."

"What's left of your clothes are at the motel," Jayson informed him. "Your landlord sold your furniture. The police still have your car, computer and books. My guess is right now the feds are looking for anything they can, hoping to get you on federal charges."

Stone covered his mouth with his fist. "Can they do that?"

Jayson shrugged. "Let's not talk about that right now. Let's just get you to your room so you can rest."

"Who's paying for the hotel?" Stone asked.

"Motel," Jayson corrected him. "It'll be part of the tab the state picks up for your legal costs. I chose an out-of the way place that a former cli—um, someone I know owns. It's got woods and not much traffic, so you can walk around. I figured you'd want to do that."

Stone nodded. "Thank you, Jayson. I appreciate everything you've done for me."

Jayson leaned closer to Victor. "Everything set?"

"Yeah," Victor replied. "Let's keep our fingers crossed."

Jayson could feel the tension inside the car and again noted the irony. An African American and an Asian were protecting a white racist. He and Victor started talking about the third year law student's new term at Northeastern Law School, which had just begun. Eventually, they drifted to a polite argument about the best contemporary baseball sluggers in the game.

Jayson reached for the radio and found a country music station. Normally he would have no idea where to locate such music. However, he recalled that in one report concerning Stone's car, the investigator had made note of the radio station. Jayson chuckled and adjusted the volume loud enough for Stone to hear but soft enough to keep the sounds from irritating him or interfering with his chat with Victor.

Jayson flipped down the sun visor near his head, uncovered the mirror attached and again checked on his client. Stone stared out the window like a curious child, obviously getting reacquainted with freedom.

After about twenty minutes, traffic began to thin out. Jayson and Victor shifted to discussing the engines of cars. Jayson stretched to see the driver's console and asked aloud, "How much gas do we have?" He lowered his voice. "Nobody's following?"

"The tank's full," Victor replied loudly. "Nope, I kept an eye out," he whispered.

"Um, Jayson?" Stone called.

Jayson suddenly felt uncomfortable again. "Yes?"

"About those books and things the police have..."

"Yeah, what about them?"

"Um, as far as I'm concerned, they can keep them," Stone said. "I mean, I won't be needing them anymore."

Jayson nodded. "Okay."

•

"We're here!" Jayson called to his snoozing client.

Stone awoke and sat upright. "W–where are we?"

"We're at the motel in a small town called Norwood," Victor replied, "about fifteen miles from Boston."

Victor had parked at the end of the sixteen-unit complex, away from the main street, such as it was. The three men walked to the last room and stopped in front of a door marked 116. Jayson knocked. Connie opened the door and stepped outside, literally blocking their entrance. She wore a burnt orange dress and had tied her hair back with a matching scarf. She closed the door behind her and stood next to Jayson.

"Congratulations, Brian," she said.

"Thank you," Stone replied. He looked puzzled. "Aren't we going inside?"

Jayson stepped between Stone and the door, and took a deep breath. "Not yet."

"Why not?"

Jayson opened his hands. "Brian, I've—we've taken the liberty of doing something we think is in your best interest."

"What do you mean?"

Jayson sighed. "Well, the bad search ruling is only good for this case by the state of Massachusetts. The evidence they found can still be used in a civil case against you. Also, I can guarantee you the Justice Department has a team of lawyers working on some way to pick you up sooner rather than later—and they'll find something. Trust me, they will."

Stone shook his head. "So you're saying that my freedom won't last long."

"I don't think so," Jayson conceded. "Now, we came up with this idea, but we don't know what you'll think of it, but it was all we could do to keep you out of court—maybe prison, for many years." Jayson turned and knocked on the door.

"Come on in," a soft voice on the other side said.

Jayson grabbed the doorknob, turned it and pushed the door open.

A short, portly, African American woman about sixty-years-old got to her feet with the aid of a hand-carved wooden cane. She wore thick glasses and a simple, long blue dress spotted with small, white flowers. She made no attempt to move forward as the four adults entered the room and spread out. Victor closed the door and turned off the television. All eyes focused on Stone.

Stone took two steps toward the woman and stopped. He widened his eyes in terror and pressed his knuckles against his lips. "Two Mama?" he asked.

"Yes, child," the women answered in a gentle voice.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. King," Jayson said. "What did he call you?"

The old woman smiled. "He called me 'Two Mama.' All my children who I took care of call me that. They say I'm their second mother." Her voice indicated southern roots.

Stone's breathing became labored. He glared at Jayson. "Why'd you bring her here? You had no right!" he shouted. "I told you not to go—"

"It's my job to do what's best for you," Jayson interrupted, remaining calm. "As you obviously know, this is Rosetta King, the widow who took you in for a year when you were a child in Arkansas. It wasn't easy, but we found her and contacted her."

Stone shook his head. "I told you not to pry! You shouldn't have dragged her into this."

"Mrs. King _volunteered_ to help," Connie asserted, stepping forward. "She did."

"That's right," the woman insisted. "I ain't never turned my back on one of my children no matter how much trouble they went and got themselves into." Victor helped her sit down. She thanked him and continued. "Over the years I done raised over a hundred children in my house. Later, sometimes they's in jail or in trouble, and I takes my Bible and goes down to see them, do what I can." She held out her arms. "Come on, child. Come to Two Mama."

Stone took a step forward but stopped. He put his hands over his face and started sobbing. "I can't, Two Mama. You don't know what I've done. I didn't mean to, but I've done a terrible thing."

Mrs. King kept her arms extended. "I knows all about it, and if you did what they said, you're right. You done a terrible thing."

"God won't ever forgive me!" Stone wailed. "I'm going to hell!"

"God forgives anybody who asks for forgiveness, child," Mrs. King said. "And the good Lord ain't never turned His back on you and neither will I." She shook her arms. "Now are you gonna come here or do I have to get up?"

The hum of the air-conditioner and Stone's sobs produced the only sounds in the room for several seconds. Jayson watched with compassion as Stone slowly shuffled to the woman, fell on his knees and rested his head in her lap. He cried so hard and shook so violently Jayson feared he might pass out. Jayson glanced at Connie, tears rolling down her face, and Victor, who quickly used his index finger to wipe under his right eye.

Jayson smiled and sighed. So his mother's advice had finally trumped Seth Greenberg's. What Stone needed now a lawyer couldn't give him, but a mother could. This kind woman, with her meaty arms wrapped around his guilt-oppressed client, seemed to be just what...well, in this case, what the lawyer ordered.

Jayson knelt next to Stone. "Listen, Brian," he said. "Mrs. King has a vacant room above the garage at her home in Arkansas. She's agreed to let you stay there. Nobody will know. We only know about her because you told us. There was a fire so all the records were destroyed."

"No!" Stone said without lifting his head. "I can't bring her any more pain than I have."

"Brian, you've got to understand," Jayson insisted sternly. "You've got to disappear or in a week or a month you'll be back in court and there'll be nothing I can do."

"Yeah," Victor agreed. "You should change your name."

"And grow out your hair and grow a beard or something," Connie added.

"You wouldn't be able to fight the Justice Department," Jayson declared, and stood. "They've got millions of dollars at their disposal."

Stone wiped his eyes with a tissue Connie gave him, and blew his nose. "But I don't have a job or any money to pay for my room and board."

Mrs. King smiled. "I've got so many things that need fixing and looking after on that big ol' place. And I still take care of young'uns. You could help out there too. Oh, you'd earn your keep, all right."

Stone closed his eyes and whispered. "But Two Mama, I'm...I mean, I used to be...I mean, I was all mixed up...I mean...I–I..."

"Well, used-to-be don't count," Mrs. King declared. "I used to be thin at one time." She laughed.

Jayson smiled at the woman's self-depreciating humor and addressed Stone. "It'll be okay for you to stay here for a day or two, then you've got to get out of Massachusetts and vanish. There's nothing about Mrs. King in any of the background material I read about you. They don't know anything about her."

Connie nodded. "So no one would think of looking for you there."

Stone wiped his nose again. "What about the county sheriff there?"

Mrs. King pointed at herself. "He used to be one of my boys, just like you. He won't bother nobody."

Stone stood and faced Jayson. "After all that I...well, after everything, the way I talked to you—and Connie. Why're you doing this for me?"

Jayson shrugged. "To be truthful, I'm not really sure." He shrugged again. "Let's just say I'm doing this not just for you, but for my One Mama."

•

Later that evening, Jayson, still wearing his suit, sat on the floor with the Duchess Jennifer and sipped imaginary tea. For five minutes he had listened to his daughter, wearing a plastic tiara, speak enthusiastically about her second-grade teacher and the homework she had recently completed. Eventually, she switched to the subject of one of her classmates.

"I showed Marie, one of the new girls, how to check out a book at the school library," Jennifer said. She arranged the unused cups into a straight line and continued. "I like Marie. She has an accent because she's from Haiti."

"That's good you helped her," Jayson said.

"And how was your day, Milord?" Jennifer asked. "Did you help someone today?"

Jayson smiled at his precious little girl. The "Milord" bit was new, but he recognized the question. It had been the theme for the previous month at their church. She, Renee and he frequently posed that question when inquiring about each other's day. Jayson stared into Jennifer's large brown eyes and privately conceded the child did strongly resemble Leslie. However, she expressed herself like he and Renee did. She was definitely their child, not hers. "Yes," he finally answered. "I did help someone today."

"What did you do, Milord?" Jennifer asked.

Jayson smiled. "Well, I helped someone who was lost find his mother, then she bought him some ice cream."

Jennifer smiled. "I'm sure he liked that."

"Yes," Jayson agreed, and took a sip from his tiny cup. "Yes he did."

* * * * *

### EPILOGUE

Seth Greenberg pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and wiggled in bed, preparing to watch the Saturday eleven p.m. news. His fellow residents at the nursing home in Wellesley, one of the most affluent towns in Massachusetts, had long since retired for the night. Greenberg had rebuffed an attendant's intrusion into his room to help him get ready for bed. He recognized that later he would have to apologize and accept her offer.

The promo for the news earlier that day had indicated that Jayson Cook would be featured. Greenberg felt very proud one of his students had done so well. He was a good man, that Jayson; the best of the lot who had attended the Massachusetts School of Law. In fact, he had stopped by just a couple of weeks ago to watch a Red Sox game with his old mentor.

Greenberg's bony hands shook as he opened his large scrapbook filled with clippings and notices about his former students. He wanted to review the recent entries. The eighty-year-old man flipped pages and laughed out loud, regaled by the headlines touting Jayson's success. It had been about two years since he had taken that nasty Brian Stone case and kicked everybody's ass; a case no one thought he could possibly win—no one but his old law professor. Now his protégé was back in the news, and deservedly so.

Greenberg believed the big muckety-mucks running the local news stations in Greater Boston hated to acknowledge the accomplishments of those who hadn't attended one of the expensive colleges in the area. Whenever reporters wanted to invite a talking head to explain some legal point to the viewers, they always scrambled to find some snooty professor from Harvard. Hardly anyone had ever called him or one of his MSL colleagues. Okay, okay, with his large glasses, bald head and five-feet, eight-inch frame he didn't look like a movie star. Oh well, those days had long since passed. To hell with those reporters, he thought, and to hell with those supercilious bastards at Harvard, for that matter.

Greenberg pushed a button on the television remote control, turning up the volume. He could still do that much. Before that second stroke he could get around fairly well and fend for himself. Now he had to depend on others—and other things—to assist him in his daily activities. He turned his head to glance at the wheelchair next to the bed. Damned contraption. Well, he mused, people do get out of the way when they see a motorized wheelchair approaching. Greenberg chuckled. He had never been one to complain or feel sorry for himself. He had enjoyed a good eight decades on earth, had married—and been divorced by—three lovely Jewish women, and had sired seven reasonably bright children, who all visited or called regularly.

Greenberg heard the music signaling the beginning of the news program. He stopped ruminating and started watching.

Michelle Ling appeared, sitting alone at the anchor desk. After bidding the viewer good evening, she explained that her co-anchor had the night off and launched into the top story. "Today was a special day for a man considered a lawyer's lawyer in the Massachusetts legal community."

That Chinese gal sure was a pretty little thing, Greenberg noted. She had interviewed him a couple of times and had always been respectful and fair. She had made a name for herself on that Stone case, and had married Victor Something, one of Jayson's former interns. Victor had tagged along on one of Jayson's visits to the nursing home the previous year. A bright kid, too, Greenberg remembered. Really knew the law—and baseball.

"Jayson Cook," Michelle Ling reported, "was one of three recipients who received the highly respected Courage Award from the former First Lady of the United States." After a brief mention of Jayson's résumé, she relinquished the air time to a young, attractive woman originally from Vietnam whose name Greenberg couldn't repeat accurately.

Must be Asian girls night on Channel Eight, Greenberg joked. Well, he had always been an equal opportunity ogler: white, black, Asian, whatever. He couldn't touch anymore, but he could still look as much as he wanted.

The reporter stood in a spacious corridor accompanied by the muffled sound of big band music. "Michelle," she opened, "the Courage Award ceremony is always held in the city of one of its recipients." She pointed at a large mahogany door. "I'm standing outside the door of the Plaza Ballroom at the Boston Park Plaza Hotel and Towers in downtown Boston. About three hundred guests are dancing right now, but a few hours ago they watched three brave Americans accept a great honor from the former First Lady."

Greenberg checked on the clock radio next to his bed. He normally didn't watch Channel Eight's news but suspected much time would be allocated to Jayson's event because one of its reporters had been so involved in the Brian Stone story.

The reporter's prerecorded voice could be heard while the image on the television screen switched to a large, well-lit banquet hall. The camera focused on a handsome elderly woman standing at the podium delivering a message, but the reporter spoke over the woman. "The Courage Award is presented to only three people every year—people demonstrating courage by taking a stand on some issue or cause, or on behalf of some person or group, often standing alone against prevailing public opinion."

Greenberg judged that the woman at the podium wearing a smart navy blue suit still had some good looks left in her. She wore her gray hair conservatively, hanging just below her ears, from which dangled huge diamond earrings. Since her husband, whom Greenberg had never considered the brightest bulb on the tree, had left office, she had made a name for herself from involvement with charities and causes for social justice.

Finally, the First Lady's voice could be heard. "...taking a very unpopular case, which criminal defense lawyers often do, and agreeing to defend an alleged white supremacist accused of planting a bomb that destroyed a church and killed a twelve-year-old black girl. But Jayson Cook put aside his personal feelings..."

"Just like I taught him," Greenberg whispered smugly.

"...and worked to ensure that his client would get a fair trial, as required by our Constitution..."

Greenberg smiled when the camera zoomed in on Jayson, sitting with his wife and nine-year-old daughter. The old man couldn't have been more proud if one of his own children had been sitting there. He had met Jayson's wife and daughter a couple of times; the wife had seemed a bit standoffish, but that little cherub—what was her name, Jennifer? She had been a real delight. Good manners, too. Not like most of the spoiled, bratty grandchildren—including his own—who visited the residents at the nursing home.

The First Lady continued. "He received numerous threats directed at him and his client, but he continued to work tirelessly to do what each of us hopes an attorney would do for us if we were charged with a crime: defend his client to the best of his ability."

"You tell them, little lady," Greenberg exclaimed. He pressed the button to turn up the sound one more notch.

The "little lady's" volume rose. "This brave man's efforts in defending his client took an unexpected turn when he discovered there existed within the local police department a rogue group of vigilantes calling themselves 'the Protectors,' who were routinely violating the civil rights of people they deemed 'un-American' by spying on them, stopping them without probable cause and conducting illegal searches of their property." The camera panned out to show the mostly white, mostly middle-aged, well-dressed guests, and about thirty media professionals. "Jayson Cook," the speaker said, "understood that in our system of justice, constitutional protections cannot be selectively applied."

Greenberg pulled on the swinging arm of the table next to his bed. He grabbed a cup filled with water and took a sip from a straw. "I always liked her," he asserted.

"Subsequent investigations led to the destruction of this band of criminals carrying badges," the First Lady announced, "and led to the arrest or forced resignation of fourteen Boston police officers, including a deputy chief."

"Hanging's too good for those sons of bitches," Greenberg growled.

"Since then, Jayson Cook has been appointed by the governor to serve the state in another capacity, and has already distinguished himself there as well." The presenter smiled and extended her hand. "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you our third recipient of this year's Courage Award: Superior Court Judge Jayson Benjamin Cook."

As Jayson made his way to the stage and the podium amid a thunderous standing ovation, Greenberg dropped the remote control onto his lap. He had intended to applaud with the other members of the audience, but he could no longer feel his hands. Also, for some inexplicable reason he felt extremely sleepy. He closed his eyes and seemed to be having a strange dream: He could see himself in bed watching Jayson on television. Such a wonderful student, that one.

Judge Jayson Cook addressed the crowd of admirers, but Greenberg couldn't hear his words. No matter. The discomfort and restrictions that had afflicted his aged body for years had all miraculously disappeared. Yes, he would close his eyes and go to sleep. He felt such peace. Such contentment. He hadn't felt this happy in many years....

###

Author note: I hope you enjoyed reading this novel. For more information on my writing projects visit my website at www.kelvinlreed.com. You can send me an e-mail at kelvin@kelvinlreed.com. Thank you for reading.

Discover other titles by Kelvin L. Reed at Smashwords.com

President Pro Tem

### Acknowledgments

First of all, I thank my beautiful and wonderful wife, Marieta, for her willingness to sacrifice so much of our precious time together, which enabled me to complete this novel. As my initial reader and critic, her contributions have been extremely valuable throughout the process of writing this book.

I appreciate the considerable time fellow church parishioner Jan Woodbine and my sister, Pamela Shaw, took to read the entire novel and provide me with valuable feedback.

I thank my family for their support, especially my brother Melvin. I also thank friends Jimmy, Ken, Hugh and Barry for their encouragement in whatever endeavor I undertake.

I thank two individuals from my past who have passed away: Arvid Goplen, my high school English teacher, who was the first person to suggest I keep writing, and my first writing mentor, D. Mark Rider, who challenged me to become a better writer. I'm still working on that.

I appreciate the time many individuals spent answering my numerous questions about technical matters substantially outside of my knowledge. They suspended the activities of their workday to assist a stranger who said he was writing a novel. Among these individuals, Boston attorney James Dilday was especially charitable with his time.

Finally, I thank attorney Joseph Hill in Madison, Wisconsin, whose generosity years ago helped me finish graduate school.

* * * * *

This book is dedicated to my beloved wife, Marieta, and to my dear, departed brother, Gregory

* * * * *

