I gave him the same explanation I'd offered Jean Jeffers.

Midway through, his phone rang. He picked it up, said, "What? Okay, sure… Hi, Bill, what is it? What? What? You've got to be kidding! No walkie, no talkie- I mean it. This is a bullsquat misdemeanor we're talking abou- I don't care what else he's- okay, you do that. Good idea. Go ahead. Talk to him and get back to me. Bye."

He put the phone down. "Where were we? Oh, yeah, harassment. What kind?"

"I don't know all the details."

He pulled his head back and squinted. His neck was thick, but soft. His short arms folded over his abdomen and didn't move. "Cops ask you to consult but don't let you in on the details? Typical. I wouldn't take the gig."

Not seeing any way out of it, I said, "Someone's been sending people harassing tapes with what may be Hewitt's voice on them- screaming "bad love'- the same thing he screamed after he murdered Becky Basille."

Coburg thought for a minute. "So? Someone taped him off the TV. No shortage of strange souls out there. Keeps both of us busy."

"Maybe," I said. "But the police think it's worth looking into."

"Who's getting these tapes?"

"That I don't know."

"Must be someone important for the cops to go to all this trouble."

I shrugged. "You could ask them." I recited Milo's name and number. He didn't bother to write it down.

Taking another licorice stick from the jar, he said, "Tapes. So what's the big deal?"

"The police are wondering if Hewitt might have had a close friend- someone influenced by what he did. Someone with the same dangerous tendencies."

"Influenced?" He looked puzzled. "What, some kind of harassment club? Street people going after the good citizenry?"

"Hewitt wasn't exactly harmless."

He began twisting the licorice stick. "Actually, he was. He was surprisingly harmless when he took his medicine. On one of his good days, you might have met him and found him a nice guy."

"Was he off his medicine when he committed the murder?"

"That's what the coroner says. Too much alcohol, not enough Thorazine. Given the biochemistry, he must have stopped eating pills a week or so before."

"Why?"

"Who knows? I doubt it was a conscious decision-"hmm, guess I won't take my meds this morning and let's see how the day goes.' More likely he ran out, tried to get a refill, and ran into such a hassle he gave up. Then, as he got crazier and crazier, he probably forgot all about the pills and why he was taking them in the first place. Happens all the time to people at the bottom. Every detail of daily living's a struggle for them, but they're expected to remember appointments, fill out forms, wait in line, follow a schedule."

"I know," I said. "I've been to the center. Wondered how the patients coped."

"Not well is how they cope. Even when they play by the rules they get turned away- mean old Mr. Recession. Do you have any idea how hard it is for a sick person without money to get help in this city?"

"Sure do," I said. "I spent ten years at Western Pediatric Medical Center."

"Over in Hollywood?"

I nodded.

"Okay," he said, "so you do know. Not that I'm glossing over what Dorsey did- that poor girl, every attorney's nightmare, I still lose sleep thinking about it. But he was a victim, too- as sappy and knee-jerk as that sounds. He should have been taken care of, not forced to fend for himself."

"Institutionalized?"

His eyes turned angry. I noticed their color for the first time: very pale brown, almost tan.

"Taken care of. Not jailed-oh, hell, even jail wouldn't have been bad if that would have meant treatment. But it never does."

"Had he been psychotic for a long time?"

"I don't know. He wasn't someone you just sat down and had a chat with- so tell me your life history, pal. Most of the time he was somewhere else."

"Where was he from, originally?"

"Oklahoma, I think. But he'd been in L.A. for years."

"Living on the street?"

"Since he was a kid."

"Any family?"

"None that I know of."

He took hold of the licorice, touched it to his lip, and used his other hand to caress his tie. Somewhere else, himself.

When he touched his phone I knew he was ready to break off the conversation.

"What kind of music do you play?" I glanced at the guitar-pick clasp.

"What? Oh, this? I just noodle around on weekends."

"Me, too. I worked my way through college playing guitar."

"Yeah? Guess lots of guys did." He pulled the front end of the tie down and looked at the ceiling. I felt his interest continue to slip.

"What do you do mostly, electric or acoustic?"

"Lately I've been getting into electric." Smile. "So what's this? Gaining rapport with the subject? Got to hand it to you. At least you didn't get into the usual police-prosecutor rap- guilt-tripping me for what Dorsey did, asking me how can I live with myself defending scum."

"That's because I don't have a problem with that," I said. "It's a good system and you're an important part of it- and no, I'm not patronizing you."

He held out his hands. "Whoa."

I smiled.

"Actually, it's an okay system," he said. "I'll bet if you met the Founding Fathers, you wouldn't think they were such great guys. Slaveowners, fat cats, and they sure didn't think much of women and kids."

The phone rang again. He took the call while gnawing on the remains of the licorice, talking lawyerese, bartering some defendant's future, never raising his voice.

When he hung up, he said, "We try to make the system work for the people the Founding Fathers didn't care about."

"Who funds you?"

"Grants, donations- interested in contributing?"

"I'll think about it."

He grinned. "Sure you will. Either way, we'll get by- bad salaries, no expense accounts. That's why most of these people'll be gone by next year- soon as they start thinking home equity and German cars."

"What about you?"

He laughed. "Me? I'm a veteran. Five years and thriving. Because it's a heck of a lot more satisfying than drawing up wills or defending polluters."

He turned serious, looked away from me.

"Sure it gets ugly," he said, as if responding to a question. "What Dorsey did was as ugly as it gets." Eye flicker. "Jesus, what a… it was a tragedy. How else can you put it? A goddamn stupid tragedy. I know I couldn't have done anything differently, but it shouldn't have happened- it just stinks, but what can you do when society keeps lowering itself to the brutal denominator? Dorsey'd never shown me any signs of violence. Nothing. I was serious when I said you would have liked him. Most of the time he was pleasant- soft-spoken, passive. One of my easier clients, actually. A little paranoid, but it was always low key, he never got aggressive with it."

"What kind of delusions did he have?"

"The usual. Voices in his head telling him to do stuff- cross the street six times one day, drink tomato juice the next- I don't remember exactly."

"Did the voices make him angry?"

"They annoyed him, but no, I wouldn't call it anger. It was as if he accepted the voices as being a part of him. I see that a lot in the long-timers. They're used to it, deal with it. Nothing aggressive or hostile, that's for sure."

"As long as he took his medication."

"I assumed he was taking it because he was always okay with me."

"How well did you know him?"

"I wouldn't call it knowing. I did some basic legal stuff for him."

"When did you first meet him?"

He looked up at the ductwork again. "Let's see… it would have to be around a year ago."

"Walk-in?"

"No, he was referred by the court."

"What kind of theft were you defending him on?"

Smile. "Cops didn't tell you?"