Cowed, the client nodded. "If I'm not sure, the jury will think I've still got a motive."

His mouth a tight line, Hardy nodded. "Good, Andrew. That's correct. And you know for sure they didn't have sex because you and Laura talked about that, the way you talked about everything, isn't that right?"

"Yes, sir. That's right."

"And because you talked about everything, you knew everything important about her and her life, isn't that true?"

Andrew sat back in his chair, suddenly wary. "Pretty much everything, yeah," he said. "Everything important."

"Andrew." Wu couldn't wait any longer. "What Mr. Hardy's getting at is that Laura was pregnant. Did you know that?"

"That's what they told me, after the autopsy."

"But before that? Didn't you know she was carrying your baby?"

Hardy asked him, "You know that DNA sample they took when they booked you? They called with the results before we came up here today. It was yours."

"It had to be," Andrew said. "I know that."

"But you didn't know it while she was alive?" Wu asked. "That she was pregnant? She didn't tell you?"

"No. She didn't."

Andrew's face went slack and told the whole story. He'd just told his attorneys that he and Laura shared everything- their most intimate secrets- but he'd had no clue she'd been pregnant. Hardy, certain that he'd never had a client who was less inherently credible, cast a quick glance at Wu.

Andrew must have seen it. "It's really bad, isn't it?"

Hardy rubbed a hand back and forth across his forehead. "This might be a good time to take a break," he said.

18

Hardy left for a lunch meeting, and Wu stayed with Andrew, preparing her witness list, revisiting his alibi, playing devil's advocate for what she guessed would be Brandt's attack at the 707 hearing. It continued to be dispiriting work. Getting information and/or cooperation from Andrew was like pulling teeth without an anesthetic. It was early afternoon by the time they finished.

Ray Cottrell was coming up the hill to the cabins when Wu walked out into the sunshine. He got to the gate a few steps before she did, and held it open for her.

When she thanked him, he took it as an opening. "So how'd it go today?" he asked.

She made a face, shrugged. "All right, I guess."

"Curb your enthusiasm."

"You really want to know, he's pretty depressed."

"He's looking at life in the joint. You'd be depressed, too."

"I guess so." She paused. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"You were in court when Andrew wouldn't plead. When he said he didn't do it? Well, that's what's got him looking at life without."

"Okay. What's the question?"

She considered her phrasing. "You pretty much know how things work up here. You've seen a lot of these kids. I'm thinking Andrew's got a lock on an eight-year top; he's got to take it. He doesn't understand that whatever the actual truth is, it looks like he did it. Almost any jury is going to find him guilty. I don't understand why he can't see he can still get out of this. Johnson might still take a plea. Andrew doesn't have to be looking at life."

"He probably thinks it matters that he's innocent. If he is."

She shook her head, frustrated. "That's so not the point."

"He probably thinks it is."

"Well, that's my question. Why can't he see it isn't? What matters is playing it to your best advantage. There's a system here, a way that it works, and it's not going to work to let him out. So he should take the best deal they offer, right? Is it only because I'm a lawyer that I see that so clearly?"

Cottrell stared off somewhere behind her. "Maybe."

"Okay. But look," she said, "even if he's in fact innocent, he could take the plea and his dad could buy a team of private investigators who might find something that could get him out."

" 'Might' and 'could.' Not exactly a lock. Eight years, a kid his age, it's the rest of his life. You ask how he feels, he just wants to get back out. He doesn't care how it works."

She set her jaw. "Here's how it works, Ray. There's one rule. Maybe you could help Andrew with it if you two talk."

"What's that?"

"You listen to your lawyer. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred you're better off."

"But there's that one," Cottrell said. "If you think the one chance where you're not better off happens to be you, it's hard to take."

"You still play the odds. You deal with it."

For a second, he seemed almost angry with her view of it. But then he shrugged. "Or not," he said. "Anyway, it looks like you're feeling better today."

The reference took her a minute. "Oh. Than yesterday?" She broke a smile. "I always feel better than I did yesterday. That was the low point of my life."

"That's good news then."

"The low point of my life? How's that?"

"It's behind you. Everything's better from now on."

"That's a nice way to look at it." She paused, then added, "Though I may never drink again."

"Darn," he clucked with disappointment. "I was going to ask if I could buy you a drink sometime."

The comment stopped her cold. Glancing quickly up into the pockmarked face, she cocked her head, sighed as though she meant it. "I'm flattered, Ray," she said, "I really am. But I've got a policy about seeing people with whom I have a professional relationship. I've found it's just not a good idea."

"Sure," he said, "No sweat. It's cool."

"I'm sorry. I really am. It's nothing personal at all."

"No," he said. "Why would it be?" He pointed at the cabins. "Well, I've got to get in to work. See you around."

If she thought cabs were few and far between downtown, they were an endangered species up here on the hill. Now she waited at the corner of Market, berating herself for more stupidity, being friendly to the bailiff. But again, her actions had been misinterpreted. This was becoming a goddamn trend. She was tired of it.

No cab.

She checked her watch. Quarter to two. She'd been standing here for nearly fifteen minutes. She should have called and ordered one. Now she reached down into her briefcase, pulled out her cellphone, flipped it open. Suddenly a purple PT Cruiser pulled up to the curb. She stepped back as the window came down. Brandt was leaning over. "I couldn't help but notice you standing here when I left the building five minutes ago. Are you waiting for somebody? Where are you going?"

"Downtown."

"Me, too. You want a lift?" He pushed open the passenger door. "Professional courtesy," he said.

She started to hesitate, then realized she was being foolish. She could take a ride downtown with him.

Ray Cottrell was outside on guard duty, watching an inmate basketball game. The court was on the far side of the cabins, at the highest point of the grounds. The fence, topped with more razor wire, ran along a ridge that fell off in about a hundred-foot cliff to Market Street, just below.

He turned around for a minute and happened to see something familiar in the woman standing on the corner down there. Squinting in the bright sun, he moved to the closest spot on the court for a better look. It was her, all right.

Uptight lawyers. He should have known.

"I don't see people with whom I have a professional relationship."

But still, he watched her. Even at this distance, she was a lot easier to look at than anything else he was likely to see today. All dressed up today, but yesterday with the jeans and sweater, he'd seen what she packed under that business suit.

Man.

The basketball slammed into the fence a foot in front of him, rattling the chain link, maybe one of the players noticing he didn't have his eye on them, taking the opportunity to shake him up a little. He shot a glance at the court, everybody getting a kick out of making him jump.