The corner desk placement left a relatively vast open space that Farrell had essentially made into an informal living room. When Hardy came in, Farrell was stretched out- tie and shoes off- on the longer couch portion of his green, matching sectional set. In one corner, an overgrown rubber tree draped itself over an arm of his wing chair. A brass and bamboo magazine table held a small television in the other corner. On the wall, where Hardy's dartboard had presided, Farrell had mounted a smallish hoop for his Nerf balls. Over by the bar/counter, there was still lots of room behind the couch for up to four people to play at the foosball table. On the other wall, by the desk, Farrell tended to use butcher paper on which he would draw flowcharts to track his various cases.

Farrell held up a finger, indicating he'd be a minute. Hardy crossed over behind the couch, picked up two Nerf basketballs from the floor, and took a shot, then another. He retrieved the balls, did it again. After a few rounds, Farrell said good-bye to whoever it was and sat up. "What's up?" he asked. "Though you've got to be quick. I've got a client coming up here in ten minutes."

"So you cleaned up for him?"

Farrell checked all around, looking for a problem, couldn't find one. "The guy's been in jail ten of the last twelve years and I'm afraid that in spite of my best efforts, he's going back soon. This will be the nicest room he's seen. I like my clients to feel comfortable. So how can I help you?"

Hardy tossed him the ball he was holding. "I can't find my darts. I wonder if you might have carried them out inadvertently."

Farrell shot, patted his pockets. "I don't think so." He went over and grabbed his jacket, made a show of a search. "Nope, not here either. When did you miss them?"

"Just now. A few minutes ago. I was going to meditate, as I like to do…"

"You check your desk?"

"Everywhere. I can't understand it. I don't know where they'd go."

Farrell looked at his watch. "I'm sure they'll turn up. What were you meditating on?"

Hardy rested a haunch on the back of the sectional. "Allan Boscacci, mostly. Amy a little bit. I've hooked up with her on this juvenile case she's been handling, and not a minute too soon, either."

"How's she connected to Boscacci?" Farrell had sat down and was tying his shoes. "Hell of a thing, though, wasn't it? I think I'm in the minority- I usually am- but I kind of liked the guy. Straight shooter, no bullshit."

Hardy nodded soberly. "I know. I felt the same way."

"Anybody have a clue who did it? Or why? Or anything?"

"Not yet. Abe was by here this morning. We exchanged a few bon mots." Hardy hesitated. "He seemed to entertain the thought that it might have been Amy."

Farrell stopped with his shoes, snapped his head up. "Get out."

"That's what I told him. You know the deal that went south? Allan yelled at her and people heard. But, fortunately or not, Amy was at Lou the Greek's getting picked up and pasted about the time Allan must have walked by outside."

"So she's clear now, right?"

"I don't think she ever wasn't. But Abe will get her statement on tape anyway because that's what he does." He was still holding one of the Nerf balls and dropped it onto the couch. "But still, on Amy, Clarence also called. He was his usual low-key and polite self, but said that given the history of this Bartlett affair to date with Amy and Allan and all that, he was sure I'd understand why he was pushing for the seven-oh-seven to get Bartlett back into adult court as soon as possible. He couldn't let people- even my good, well-meaning associates- get away with manipulating his office. Think of the precedent."

"Think of it," Farrell said. "How soon?"

"What's today? Thursday?" Hardy asked. "Next Tuesday. Five days."

"Five days?"

"That's what I said."

"He can't do that. He'll hand us an appeal."

"I said that, too, but I just now checked and there's no rule says he can't. So he can. On the appeal, he says there can't be one since he could have filed on the kid directly as an adult to begin with. He's taking the position that we can't base an appeal on some inadequacy in a hearing we should never have had to begin with."

"But nobody can prepare for any kind of hearing in five days. It's just not doable."

"That was more or less his point, Wes. Clarence wants the boy back upstairs where he belongs, and he wants him there now, to remove the taint, as he so delicately phrased it. After that, we can waive time for the Px"- the preliminary hearing-"and take as long as we want preparing for trial. But Andrew's out of juvenile next week if Clarence has anything to say about it. And then he's looking at life without."

"You don't want to let him get there."

"No," Hardy said. "I've got that part figured out. The rest of it's a little murky."

Farrell got to his feet, tucked in his shirt, buttoned up and grabbed his tie. "So. Are we still throwing that campaign kickoff party for our good friend Clarence?"

Hardy wasn't laughing. "Nothing's easy," he said.

"Stop the presses. You're onto something."

Phyllis buzzed, telling him his client was here, on his way up. "Sorry, but you've got to go," Farrell said. "This guy- my client?- he really hates lawyers."

14

Wu awoke at Hardy's house to another hangover of staggering proportions. Stabbing pain wracked every cell and joint in her body. Pinpoints of flashing light hovered in the periphery of her vision. How many drinks had she had at Lou's? She thought she'd counted six, but it might have been seven or eight, even nine. More than one guy was buying, hoping to get lucky, and Lou was famous for his heavy pour.

Nine drinks? Eighteen to twenty ounces of vodka. She weighed about a hundred and thirty pounds. She was lucky to be alive.

After Hardy had driven her to the All-Day and she'd picked up her car, he had recommended that she take yet another sick day, go home and sleep. And that's what she'd done. After a six-hour rest, at around three o'clock, she called work and left the message that she'd be back in the office tomorrow.

Then, in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, she walked from her apartment down to the Marina green. The sun sparkled off the Bay, and though the breeze was light, it carried a chill. She crawled over some enormous breakwater boulders and sat invisible down in among the stones, facing the water and hugging herself for warmth. There, she cried herself out.

When she came back to her apartment, she found that Hardy had left a message. Glitsky really for truly did want a statement from her right away. The 707 hearing would be in five days, next Tuesday.

Five days.

She played the message again, thinking she couldn't have heard it right. But it sounded the same the second time. She sat in her chair and stared blankly out her window. Five days was impossible. She couldn't possibly prepare.

But apparently, that's all the time she had. The DA and perhaps the judge were sending a very clear message to her, venting the system's righteous pique. It wasn't going to be a matter of choice anymore, of what she'd prefer, of what she could work out with Brandt or Jackman. With the clock now ticking, she had to meet with the Norths, get together with Hardy, above all find out more about who Andrew really was. If she had only five days, she had to start now on some real defense that would be worthy of the name. Her hangover wasn't forgotten- her head still throbbed with a dull and persistent pain- but she couldn't allow herself the luxury of suffering. She had to go to work. Lifting the phone, she punched in the Norths' number.

Glitsky's demand for her statement, to the extent that it had registered as important at all, was nowhere among her priorities.