'May I step inside?'

'Not until you tell me why you're here.'

Ferguson seemed to look her over in the silence that swept over them. She realized they were almost the same height and that his slight build seemed hardly more substantial than her own. But he was also the sort of man to whom size and strength were irrelevant.

'You're a long ways from home,' he said.

He turned and glared at the two officers hanging just behind her shoulder. 'What about them?'

'They're local.'

'Scared to come down here alone?' His eyes narrowed unpleasantly. The two backup officers stepped forward, closing the gap between them. Ferguson remained in the doorway, folding his arms in front of his chest.

'No,' she replied immediately, but the word only prompted a small grin that raced away rapidly.

'I haven't done anything,' he repeated, but with a flat tonality, like a lawyer saying something for a transcript.

'I didn't say you had.'

Ferguson smiled. 'But you wouldn't come all the way from Monroe County, all the way up here to this delightful place just to see me if you didn't have a good reason, right?' He stepped back. 'All right. You can come in. Ask your questions. Got nothing to hide.'

This last sentence was spoken loudly and directed at the two New Jersey policemen.

She stepped forward into the apartment. As soon as she was past him, Ferguson moved between her and the two backup officers, blocking their route.

I didn't invite you two goons,' he said abruptly. 'Just her. Unless you got a warrant.'

Shaeffer turned in surprise. She saw both Newark policemen bristle instantly. Like all cops, they were unaccustomed to getting orders from civilians.

'Move out of the way,' the older policeman said.

'Forget it. She has a question. She can come in and ask it.'

The younger officer moved to put his hand on Ferguson's chest, as if to thrust him aside, then seemed to think better of it. Shaeffer blurted out, 'It's all right. I can handle this.'

The two policemen wavered.

'It's not procedure,' the older one said to her. He turned to Ferguson. 'You want to push me, punk?'

Ferguson didn't move.

Shaeffer made a small, sweeping gesture with her hand. There was a momentary pause, then the two backup officers stepped back into the hallway.

'All right, the older one said. 'We'll wait here.' He turned toward Ferguson. 'I've got a good memory for faces, asshole,' he whispered. 'And yours just made my list.'

Ferguson sneered at the man. 'And you've made mine,' he said.

He started to close the door, only to have the younger officer shoot an arm out, stiff-arm like a football player, and say, 'This stays open, huh? No trouble that way.'

Ferguson's hand dropped away from the door. 'If that's the way you like it.' He turned and led Shaeffer into the apartment. As he walked, he said, 'I've seen them before. Just like half the COs on Death Row. Think they got to be tough. Don't know what tough really is.'

'What is tough, Mr. Ferguson?'

'Tough is knowing a time and date. Knowing you're perfectly healthy but society has delivered to you a terminal illness. Tough is knowing every breath draws you one breath closer to the last one.'

He stopped in the center of a small living room. 'But what about you, Detective? You think you're tough, too?'

'When I have to be,' she replied.

He didn't laugh but stared at her with a mixture of distrust and mockery. 'Have a seat,' he said. Ferguson slid onto the corner of a well-worn couch.

'Thanks,' she replied. But she didn't sit. Instead, she started to walk slowly around the room, inspecting, at the same time keeping an eye on him. It was something she'd been taught. Keep to her feet while the subject sits. It will make almost anyone nervous and makes the questioner seem more powerful. His eyes trailed her closely.

'Looking for something?'

'No.'

'Then tell me what you want.'

She went to a window and glanced out. She could see the pimp's red car and up and down the block, which was empty of life.

'Not much to look at,' she said. 'Why would anyone live here? Especially if they didn't have to.'

He did not answer her question.

'Whores on the corner. A crack house half a block away. What else? Thieves. Street gangs. Addicts She looked hard at him. 'Killers. And you.'

That's right.'

'What are you, Mr. Ferguson?'

'I'm a student.'

'Any others down here?'

'None that I've met.'

'So why do you live here?'

'It suits me.'

'You fit in?'

I didn't say that.'

'Then why?'

'It's safe.' He laughed slightly. 'Safest place on earth.'

'That's not an answer.'

He shrugged. 'You live within yourself. Not in that world. Inside. That's the first lesson you learn on Death Row. First of many. You think you forget what you learn there just because you're out? Now, tell me what you want.'

Instead of answering, she continued to move through the small apartment. She looked in at a bedroom. There was a narrow single bed and a solitary scarred brown wooden chest of drawers. She could see some clothes hung in a meager closet recessed into a black wall. The kitchen had a small refrigerator, stove, and a sink. A stack of chipped, utilitarian plates and cups drained next to the sink.

Back in the living room, she noticed a small table in the corner with a portable typewriter sitting on it and papers strewn about. Next to the table was a bookcase made from cinder blocks and cheap unpainted pine boards. She approached the desk and inspected the books on the shelves, immediately recognizing several of the titles: a book on forensic medicine by a former New York City medical examiner, one on FBI identification techniques put out by the government, a third book on media and crime, written by a professor at Columbia University. She had read them in her own course work at the police academy. There were many others, all relating to crime and detection, all well worn, clearly purchased secondhand. She pulled one from a shelf and flipped it open. Certain passages were highlighted in yellow marker.

'These your markings?'

'No. Tell me what you want.'

She put the book down and let her eyes sweep over the papers on the desk. She noticed on one sheet a series of addresses, including Matthew Cowart's. There were several listings from Pachoula, and a lawyer in Tampa that she didn't recognize. She picked it up and gestured toward him.

'Who are these people?' she asked.

He seemed to hesitate, then replied, 'I owe letters. People who supported me in my fight to get out of prison.'

She put the paper down. Next to the desk was a stack of newspapers. She bent down and flipped through them. There were local sections and front pages. Some of the newspapers were from New Jersey, others from Florida. She saw issues of the Miami Journal, the Tampa Tribune, the St. Petersburg Times, and others. She took out an issue of the Newark Star-Ledger and saw a headline that read: FAMILY OFFERS REWARD IN MISSING DAUGHTER CASE.

'This sort of thing interest you?' she asked.

'Same as it does you,' Ferguson answered. 'Isn't that true, Detective? When you pick up a newspaper, what's the first story you read?'

She did not reply but glanced down at the newspapers again. She noticed there was a crime story on each page. Other headlines leapt out at her: POLICE PROBE EVIDENCE IN ASSAULT and NO LEAD IN ABDUCTION, POLICE SAY.

'Where'd you get these papers?'

He glared at her. 'I go back to Florida with some frequency. Give speeches at churches, to civic groups.' His eyes locked onto her own. 'Black churches, black civic groups. The sort of people who understand how an innocent man gets sent to Death Row. The sort of people who don't think it's so damn unusual for a black man to get harassed by the cops. Who wouldn't think it so damn strange that every cheap homicide cop in the state who can't get anywhere on some damn case would roust an innocent black man.'