"He's got to think he can get off."

"And why, looking at all the evidence arrayed against him, would he think that? Is he stupid? Does he think a jury won't convict him somehow?"

"No. I don't think he's stupid."

"Well? Could it be that he believes the system will work because he's innocent? I mean, is that even a possibility?"

"If it is, then he's a very unlucky guy."

"Okay. And if he's unlucky, what does that mean?"

She frowned, shrugged. "I give up, what?"

"It means someone else killed these victims."

She rolled her eyes. "The famous other dude. But-"

"Don't say it. It doesn't have to be a real person. It just has to be a believable story that a jury can take as an alternative. Let's say the teacher, what's his name?"

"Mooney."

"Okay, Mooney had another girlfriend before Andrew's, Laura is it?"

"Yes, Laura."

"Right. So this other girlfriend might have been jealous, too. As jealous as Andrew was. And maybe she also told a friend of hers. And, lo and behold, her father also owns a gun, and she had no alibi that night." Wu started to reply, but Hardy held up a hand. "I'm not saying there's any of this. But there's something out there somewhere, I guarantee it. There's always something." He paused, looked directly into her face. "At any rate, Wu, that's what I'm going to be looking for."

It took her a minute for the message to sink in, but then Wu sat up straight. "You? What do you mean, you?"

"Me. Your boss. I'm going to sit second chair with you on this."

"But…"

"No. No 'but,' I'm afraid."

Her mouth hung open for an instant. She swallowed hard, looked down then up. "If you don't think I can do the job, sir, then you might as well fire me."

"No. Although honestly, we considered it. You realize that nearly every decision you've made with this client from the beginning has been dead wrong, don't you? That you've compromised the firm's reputation to a significant degree?"

Unable to deny it, she could only nod.

He let her live with the harsh reality for a minute, then softened it somewhat. "But everyone makes mistakes, Amy. Everyone. And we don't want the firm to lose you. Beyond that, on a personal note, I've got to bear my own share of the blame for where this has all gotten to. I didn't do my job."

"And what was that?"

"Supervising you. Advising against your deal right from the first minute I heard about it. Letting you go ahead afterwards. You want more? I've got 'em, believe me. But now we've got an opportunity to right those wrongs, both of us." He leaned in toward her. "Listen, by turning down the plea, Andrew basically bet us that he didn't do it. Whether or not we believe him, the firm signed on to keep the DA from proving he did. I still like to think that we can get this kid off."

"You and me, together?"

"Yes."

"Get him off completely?"

"Maybe even that. It happens sometimes. You prepare the seven-oh-seven hearing on the kind of person Andrew is, whether he was temporarily insane or had a lousy childhood or organic brain damage from braces that didn't fit right. Or if he's got uncontrollable rage that should put him in a program instead of jail. Me, I try to find a good alternative story. Time the trial comes around, we've already seen the DA's case at the hearing, so we choose the best option and run with it."

"So he goes to trial after all? I was hoping there was some chance with the seven-oh-seven that I could at least keep him down as a juvenile."

"Not likely," Hardy said. "Murder one with specials goes to adult court every time."

"Well, then, why wouldn't every murder go adult?"

"Murder one does. Some homicides don't, but they've got to be really close to an accident, or a retarded kid, or an abused kid who kills his dad, something like those. A righteous one-eighty-seven"- the code section for first degree murder-"the kid goes up, I don't care if he's fourteen years old."

"So why are they having this hearing in the first place, if the outcome is foreordained?"

Hardy broke a sad smile. "Because you made them, Wu. It might not have been your original plan, but you made them."

13

Before they'd even come close to removing the body, the city's power elite had descended upon the All-Day Lot- besides Glitsky, his boss and his underling, Police Chief Frank Batiste and Homicide Lieutenant Marcel Lanier appeared within fifteen minutes of each other. Of course Clarence Jackman needed to be on hand- the victim, after all, had been his chief deputy. Even a tuxedo-clad Mayor Washington himself, called from whatever party he'd been attending, showed up in his limo.

Everyone agreed that this was no ordinary homicide- the tendrils of Boscacci's career extended near and far in half a dozen directions. Over the course of his life, he'd either personally or administratively been involved with the prosecution of a wide range of wrongdoers- gang members, white-collar criminals and drug dealers; scam artists, rapists and murderers. But he'd also been extremely active in the city's hyperactive and often acrimonious labor negotiations. Politically, he had been slated to run Jackman's next campaign, and his abrasive, no-nonsense style had not enamored him to any of the DA's six or eight challengers.

By the time all these heavyweights were ready to go home, they'd unanimously agreed to assign an event number to the investigation. The police department, like all city departments, had a budget and was expected to stay within it. But when something extraordinary happened- an earthquake or a papal visit, say, the mayor would agree that the event would get a number, and extraordinary expenses would come from the General Fund. Practically, this provided nearly limitless funds to allow the work to proceed. Inspectors wouldn't have to worry about their overtime; the crime lab could run any sophisticated tests it needed beyond the routine; the whole apparatus- for a welcome change- working in unison toward a common goal. Abe Glitsky, not only as deputy chief of inspectors, but as a former head of homicide, was the logical choice to take point.

Now, before the building had come alive, before any other staff had come in, Glitsky sat in his office, door closed, with Jeff Elliot, the influential writer of the "CityTalk" column for the Chronicle. Elliot and Glitsky were both members of Jackman's informal kitchen cabinet, and had a lengthy and decent history between them. Not exactly close personal friends, they nevertheless got along about as well as a cop and a reporter could.

Maybe part of that was because, in spite of Glitsky's hatred of the reporter's basic prying function, he couldn't help but admire Elliot's essential bravery in the face of his ongoing struggle with multiple sclerosis. The bearded columnist lived and worked without reference to his wheelchair, his crutches, his specially designed car so he could get around. There was no hint of victimhood about Elliot, who had more claim to it than most. He was a true mensch, and Glitsky respected him.

"At least," Elliot was saying, "we don't have to talk about LeShawn Brodie, which was the original plan for today's interview, as you may recall."

Behind his desk, Glitsky sipped at his tea. "I'd be curious to hear your take on that, though, just as a matter of interest."

"What's to take? Your call was the only thing that made any sense. And in fact, until the clowns who picked him up let him escape…" He let the statement hang. "What were you supposed to do, storm the bus?"

"Apparently. But what I don't understand is all the vehemence, the rush to lay blame. Not that I feel anything personally, of course. I'm a cop, and therefore have no feelings."

"Of course," Elliot said. "That goes without saying. Why would you need them? But you know as well as anybody how these frenzies develop. It's lucky for you that you're not an elected official. Brodie could have done you in."