“I can’t help what I am,” Johnny said, his voice surprisingly tender. “The way I was brought up.”

“Your mother would never-” Ben choked his words off. “I can’t believe anyone ever taught you to hate people just because of who they are.”

“Are you kidding? At my church, the preacher used to come down on fags every other week! He told us homosexuals are all going to hell. That as Christians, it was our duty to try to lead people away from lives of sin.”

“So that’s what that beating was? A Sunday school lesson?”

“Since when were Christians ever afraid to use force? Even Christ tossed the moneylenders out of the Temple.”

“Did he break their legs?”

“Look, opposing homosexuals is part of my religion. You can’t criticize me for following my religion.”

I might, Ben thought silently. “Is religion important to you, Johnny?”

“Hell, yes. I sang in the church choir, you know. Even taught a Sunday school class. The Bible specifically speaks out against homosexuality. A hundred years ago, no one would’ve questioned it.”

“Yeah,” Christina said. “And schools were segregated. And women weren’t allowed to vote. And children went to work at the age of eight.” Having been down this road before, Christina knew it was a dead end. “Look, Johnny, we don’t have a lot of time, and we didn’t come here for a socioreligious debate. I just wanted your approval to add another lawyer to the case. And to ask you if you remember seeing anyone else at Remote Control the night you confronted Tony Barovick. Maybe someone who left the bar about the same time you did? Or Tony did?”

“There was another guy. He was hanging around the bar for a long time. I remember because… well, we talked about going after him. What he does is almost as disgusting as what Tony Barovick did.”

“What’s his name?”

“Probably not his real name. But everyone at Remote Control called him Charlie the Chicken.”

“Do you know where Mr. Chicken lives?”

“Nah. Why?”

Christina craned her neck. Talking into a phone receiver for so long made it stiffen up. “Just following every possible lead. If there’s anything else…”

“Look-” Johnny said, before she hung up the phone. “I know what the score is. I know you two don’t like me. You think I’m an ignorant putz. But I’m telling you-I did not kill that guy. Brett did not kill that guy. He was alive when we left him. I promise you. I promise.” His eyes began to well up again. “I’ll pay the price for what I did, but please don’t let them kill me for something I didn’t do. Please. Please.”

“I just don’t get it,” Ben said as they emerged from the detention center. “How Ellen could raise a kid like that.”

“She’s only his stepmother,” Christina replied. “Maybe the damage was done before she was involved.”

Just as she had during the flight out of Tulsa, Christina continued to bring Ben up to speed on the case as she led him across the parking lot to their temporary offices in Kevin Mahoney’s suite. “I’ve got angles on all the prosecution witnesses,” she explained, “and I think I can deal with, if not totally defuse, most of them. But what I don’t have is a real defense. An alternate explanation. Kevin didn’t have one, either.”

“Any theories?”

“You know what Mike said. There may be a connection between his murder and ours-and it may have something to do with drugs.”

“That’s not much to go on.”

“Agreed. Without concrete evidence, the jury will just think we’re grasping at straws, trying to complicate an open-and-shut case. I’ve asked Vicki to go over the arrest records for-”

“Excuse me!”

Across the parking lot, Ben saw a young black man waving at them. “Could I speak with you?”

“I’m sorry,” Ben said, “but I’m really pressed for time and-”

“Don’t mean to interrupt,” the man said, as he caught up to them. “But it’s the lady I want to talk to. Are you Christina McCall?”

She nodded.

“You’re handling the Christensen case?”

“We both are,” she answered.

“I’m Roger Hartnell,” he said. “I-I knew Tony Barovick. Well.”

Christina remembered reading about him in one of Loving’s reports. “Do you know something about what happened to him?”

“No, sorry-I didn’t mean to mislead you. I haven’t come as a friend of Tony’s. I came in my capacity as regional director of ANGER.”

“You’re the creeps who redecorated our elevator lobby.”

“We’re not responsible for that. Our press release merely said that we sympathized with those who did it.”

Ben frowned. “So you’re not here to help us with this case?”

“No, sir. I’m here to ask you to drop it.”

Ben took Christina by the arm. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have time for-”

“Listen to me. What you’re doing is wrong.”

“Sure,” Christina replied. “We should just let the posse string Johnny up.”

“I don’t mean that he should have no representation. Let the court appoint someone, if necessary. But when it comes from attorneys of your stature-it seems like an endorsement.”

“It’s how the legal system works. Now if you’ll excuse me-”

“Please just give me one minute. You don’t understand everything that-”

“I’m sorry,” Ben said, “I think I do understand your position. And I admire you for trying to combat hate and prejudice-up to a point. But we have a job to do-”

Ben was cut off by a sudden crack of thunder-except the skies were clear. It was a gunshot.

“Get down!” he shouted. He grabbed Christina and pushed her behind a low retaining wall.

Another shot followed. Where was it coming from? Ben scanned the horizon, while simultaneously scrambling for cover behind a parked car.

“Get out of the way!” he shouted at Roger, a moment too late. A bullet caught the man in the right leg. He tumbled to the ground.

“Ben,” Christina asked, clinging to the pavement, “have you got your cell phone?”

“Left it in my bag,” he said bitterly. He tried to pull Roger to safety, but another shot fired; the bullet bounced off the sidewalk just inches from Ben’s hand. He gave it another try and this time managed to pull Hartnell behind the car. The three of them huddled there, pinned in place.

“Any idea where the shooter is?” Christina asked, huddling close.

“Somewhere in the parking lot. Not far. Not far enough.” Another shot rang out. Ben raised his head just enough to see movement about four rows of cars away. Their sniper was even closer than he’d imagined.

“Give me your briefcase,” Ben said.

“Why?” She didn’t comply. “Don’t do anything stupid, Ben.”

“Hartnell is bleeding to death.”

“We’re just off a busy street in downtown Chicago. Someone will call for help.”

“Maybe. But help won’t be able to get to him as long as there’s a killer trying to pick off anyone who comes close. Give me the briefcase.”

With profound reluctance, Christina passed him the hard-shelled attaché case. Ben took it to the front of the car, aimed himself toward the next row, and dove.

Just after he appeared in the open space between rows, another shot rang out, but by that time Ben had already scrambled behind another sedan. Still not close enough to do anything.

His heart was pounding so intensely it was hard to think. “Here goes nothing,” Ben muttered, then dove again.

This time the sniper was ready for him. The shot came much sooner. Ben heard the shrill whine, then felt it rip through his suit jacket.

“Damn!” He rolled behind the next row of cars, patting himself down, making sure he was still intact. His right side stung. He pulled up his shirt and saw that he was bleeding. Just a scrape, but that was way too close. If he tried that stunt again, the sniper was bound to get him.

He knew it wasn’t safe to peer over the top of the cars, so he crouched down and looked beneath. Sure enough, one double row away, he spotted a pair of sneakers: blue-striped Nikes.