Wu's day- from waking up hungover and alone, to her meeting with the Norths, then Andrew, then the fight with Jason Brandt- seemed to have lasted about a week so far, and the hardest few moments were no doubt still ahead of her.

Well, maybe not the hardest. For a combination of guilt, anger and shame, she knew that it would be tough to top the half hour or so after Brandt had stormed away from her. What made it even worse was that she found she couldn't even blame him. For it was true. Even when she'd first begun flirting with him the night before, she had known that her deal with Andrew wasn't consummated. If she wanted to have any claim to calling herself an ethical attorney, she would have disclosed her conflict about Andrew to Brandt first thing. You simply did not have sex with your courtroom opposite number.

Sipping her coffee, she was still sick with herself, appalled at what she'd done and at the situation in which she and Brandt now found themselves, a situation that she had orchestrated.

She had risked both of their jobs- still risked them, if the truth came out- to satisfy some undefined and pathetic need to connect. It was beneath her, she knew, or at least beneath the person she had been until her father's death had kicked the foundation out from under her, turned her into the kind of unstable, needy, manipulative, dangerous woman she'd always hated and resolved never to become. And the scariest thing was that the lapse with Brandt had completely broadsided her- she'd never even considered discussing Andrew's case with him. There had been that spark, the attraction, and lubricated by drink, she'd just gone for it.

Never mind that he was a colleague, a good guy, a no-bullshit attorney she felt she could really come to like and admire someday. Maybe more than that. Of course, now all of that possible future was out of the question. And that, too- the waste of it, the sheer stupidity- made her sick.

And now- she looked at her watch-right now, she had to face her young client and wrest a final agonizing decision from him, one that shouldn't have been his to make in the first place. She should have left the original disposition to fall where it would- with Andrew filed as an adult. Then there would have been an adult trial and he'd all but certainly have been convicted of some degree of murder, but it all would have been according to the system. Now, because of her arrogance, stupidity, blindness, she had placed the entire burden of choice on an unhappy, miserable kid. She wondered if it was a burden he would have the strength to bear. Earlier, when he'd broken down, she'd even viewed that as a positive thing- he'd be persuaded to do what she wanted. But what if he simply couldn't deal with it?

She shook her head, finished the last of her coffee and left the mug on the table.

As was the case with Jason Brandt, this was yet another example of where she'd acted- committed herself, really- before she'd considered the implications of what she was setting in motion. She could only pray that Andrew was in fact guilty, as she'd assumed and believed all along. As she'd convinced his parents. That would make Andrew's admission, though still difficult, acceptable, even preferable, as a strategy.

As she turned up the walkway to the cabins, she stopped and looked up at the razor-wire fence. After she got Andrew's admission sewed up tonight, she vowed she would change and never put a client in such a position again. But first she had to get his admission. First that. Then begin work on fixing herself.

But she couldn't lose sight of her objective in the short term. Too much was already riding on Andrew's admission. She couldn't let the accumulation of this day's terrible events weaken her resolve or blind her to her first duty.

"Don't wimp out now," she said aloud to herself, and started up to the cabins.

"Who was that?"

Frannie took off her reading glasses and put down her P.D. James. She was in bed, propped against her reading pillow. She had let her red hair down and now it hung to her shoulders and shone in the room's light.

Hardy turned from his desk by the room's door. "Amy."

Frannie checked the clock by the bed. "At eleven-fifteen?"

"She didn't want me to worry and lose any of those precious minutes of sleep that are so important to men of a certain age."

"What were you going to be worried about? That now you're not, I presume."

He spent a minute filling her in on his concern that Wu might find herself having to renege with Boscacci. "But she just got back home from what must have been a marathon session with Andrew down at YGC. She wanted me to know that she had nailed down the plea."

"Well, there's a relief. I would have tossed all night." Frannie went to pick up her book, stopped. "It took her twenty minutes to tell you that?"

"To do it justice."

"And how old is this boy?"

"Seventeen."

Frannie made a sad face. "Seventeen."

A nod. "And, unfortunately, a killer. A double killer, actually. Eventually, apparently, he gave that up to Amy."

"Confessed, you mean?"

"Well, agreed to admit the petition, which is pleading guilty. And since that's the deal Amy cut with Boscacci, I'm glad he finally got religion around it."

"So what was the deal with Boscacci?"

Hardy filled in the particulars for his wife, concluding with the comment that Amy had been smart to keep Andrew's parents away while she put the pressure on the kid.

"Why is that?" Frannie asked.

"Because he'd been telling Mom and Dad he didn't do it."

"But he did?"

"Yep, if he's pleading, which he is."

"So then tell me again why he wouldn't agree to plead guilty if his parents were there."

Hardy stopped and turned by the closet. "Because, my love, he continues to scam them. The dad's paying the bills. First he can be a good boy and assure them to their face that he's innocent, then he can save his own skin by telling Amy the truth. And- the real beauty of it all- he can then go back to his parents and tell them that Amy talked him into the whole thing. She coerced him. It wasn't his fault. He didn't really kill anybody. He's a good boy."

A long moment passed, his wife staring into the empty space in front of her. "You are so cynical."

"Life makes smart people cynical," he said. "It's a sad but true fact."

"Not all of them." Frannie let out a deep sigh. A shadow of distaste crossed her face.

"Cynical's not so bad," Hardy said. "It saves a lot of heartache down the line."

"Right. I know. That's what you think." She closed her eyes for a second, drew a heavy breath, weariness bleeding out of her. "I guess I'm just worried about you."

"Me? Moi? I?"

Tightening her lips, biting down against some strong emotion, she said, "Never mind," and turned away from him.

"That was a little humor, Frannie. Just trying to lighten it up."

Her chest rose and fell twice. Finally, she faced him. "That's what I'm worried about. Everything being a joke."

He tried to keep it light, josh her out of whatever it was. "That's funny," he said, "I wish more things were jokes."

When suddenly, none of it was a joke at all anymore. She threw off the covers and was out of bed, nearly running across to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. The lock clicked.

Hardy stood stock-still, his head down. After ten seconds, he went over and knocked. Whispered. "Fran? Are you all right?"

He thought he heard a sob.

"Whatever it is, I'm sorry." He waited a moment. "No more joking if you come out. Promise."

Finally. "In a minute."

It was more like ten.

He was lying on the bed, hands behind his head. He barely dared look at her, afraid he might scare her off. The two of them hadn't had a cross word since before the shoot-out nearly a year and half ago. He didn't want anything to be wrong between them now. He said nothing while she got into her side of the bed, pulled the blankets up over her. "I didn't mean to be so dramatic," she said. "I'm sorry."