The area over by the bar and the law books was the more formal of the two seating arrangements- the other had a loveseat and upholstered wing chairs- and Mrs. Oliva and Hardy sat kitty-corner to each other on stiff-backed Empire chairs. She had taken a cup of espresso, too, though it rested untouched on the low table in front of her. Not yet thirty years old, she was carefully made up and as well dressed as Wal-Mart could make her. She was explaining why she supported the charges the DA had filed against Hardy's client, her ex-husband James, a San Francisco policeman.

"I completely understand," Hardy said when she'd finished.

"I don't know if you can. I realize it sounds ridiculous. I mean, a box of baby wipes." She smiled almost apologetically at the absurdity of the words. But the reality was too serious to allow that. She'd called police alleging that James had gotten angry during a scheduled visitation with their one-year-old, Amanda. From a distance of less than five feet he had thrown a full box of baby wipes at his estranged wife. The force and surprise of the thing had knocked Mrs. Oliva down, broken her nose, blackened both eyes. Hardy thought he could still detect halos of bluish bruise under her foundation.

"The issue isn't what may or may not have been in the box. The issue is that he threw it in anger at you."

As though curious, she cocked her head to one side. "You're not trying to defend it?"

"Call me old-fashioned," Hardy said, breaking a small grin, "but I'm opposed to guys hitting girls. Throwing things at them, too, if you want to get technical." His voice went dead sober. "I'm acting on behalf of your husband, Mrs. Oliva, but not trying to defend what he did. I've suggested he get himself into an anger management program and he's done that, but what he did to you, he and I both agree, is completely inexcusable. He wants you to know that that's how he feels."

Mrs. Oliva digested this unexpected viewpoint for a short moment. She seemed to remember the demitasse on the table and reached down, picked it up, took a sip. "So, if that's the case, why are we having this meeting?" she asked. "Why are you defending him?"

"Well, as I've indicated, I'm really not there yet. Defending him, I mean, in the legal sense. At this point, he's retained me and I'm representing him. If this case eventually comes to trial, I'll probably advise him to seek other counsel."

She carefully put her coffee cup back down and faced Hardy, her lips now tight. "What do you mean, if this case goes to trial? The DA's charged it and they're planning to go forward."

"I know that. Of course." Hardy sat back, crossed one leg over the other. "But I wanted to talk to you in person and ask you if in your heart you really wanted Jim to go to jail over this. I'm sure you've heard stories about what happens to cops when they go to jail."

Her mouth worked, but she didn't speak.

Hardy pressed her moment of hesitancy. "I'm not suggesting that Jim not be punished, or that if he does go to jail he wouldn't deserve whatever happened to him there. What I am saying is that I'd like you to consider what that type of punishment for him would do to you." He uncrossed his legs and came forward. "If Jim gets convicted, Mrs. Oliva, he loses his job, which in the here and now means no income for you and no child support. I understand he's been good about those payments up until now."

She nodded. Her face showed that this was something she hadn't considered. The possibility of losing that precious income clearly struck a nerve.

Hardy continued. "He's not trying to duck his responsibility to you, Mrs. Oliva, or even his punishment, which he knows he deserves." He lowered his voice to near inaudibility. "I doubt if he would want anyone to know about this, but I sat across from him in this very seat two days ago and watched him break down in remorse for what he'd done to you. He'd never harmed you physically before this one incident, had he?"

"No." Suddenly one of Mrs. Oliva's eyes overflowed. She made no effort to wipe the tear away.

Hardy handed her a Kleenex from the box on the table beside him, his voice a caressing whisper. "He lost his temper, Mrs. Oliva. He never meant to hurt you, and certainly not so badly. He says he thinks you know that. Is that true?"

"No. I mean yes. I don't think he meant to do it. But it was so… so violent. And in front of Amanda."

"I know. Amanda. She's his main concern, too. What's going to happen to her if Jim's in jail and you've got to be working to support the both of you? What's that going to do to her, living in a succession of daycare places, as opposed to her having her own mother…" He stopped.

Her tears flowed over her cheeks and she dabbed at them with the Kleenex. She sat straight-backed, under rigid control.

"Mrs. Oliva," Hardy said, "Jim is more sorry for this than he can express. He plans to write you a formal apology. Beyond that, he doesn't want the baby you had together to be brought up by strangers. He understands that you're not comfortable seeing him for a time, or having him around Amanda. But these anger management classes can work wonders. I've seen it happen many times. In the meanwhile, at my suggestion, Jim has agreed to double his monthly child support payments to you, which will be a burden on him, but one that he accepts, would gladly accept if you'd agree to it and ask the DA to to drop these criminal charges."

Hardy knew that it was up to the DA to press or drop the charges. Jackman felt continual pressure from women's groups to go to the max on every case such as this one. Nevertheless, with the victim on board, Hardy thought he had a good shot at getting his client into some kind of program that would result in the charges being dismissed. Jackman might not like these diversion programs, where nothing substantive ever really happened, but he was stuck with them. And sometimes, as in this case, they served a purpose.

"You know your husband," Hardy continued. "Basically, he's a good man. He'll honor his debts, especially to Amanda. You know he will. But he needs to keep his job. He needs to go back to work, for all of your sakes."

Every day, under his dress shirt and tie Wes Farrell wore a T-shirt with a message. He was buttoning up now, having just shown Hardy today's: "Dyslexics of the world, untie!" Now Farrell, religious in his avoidance of good posture, had gotten himself comfortable sideways and slumped in the loveseat, his legs up over the armrest. He said, "For this twenty minutes you made five thousand dollars?"

Hardy had his cabinet open and was throwing darts in an abstracted manner. Now he turned to face his partner. "It was grueling work. But it wasn't any twenty minutes. More like fifteen."

"Fifteen minutes. And what's this, the fifth one this month?"

"The fifth what?"

"Whatever you call it. Facilitation?"

"I love that word." Hardy threw a dart. "But I don't keep track of the numbers. It's bad luck, counting your money at the table." He threw another dart. "More than a couple anyway."

"And this one, she's calling the DA today?"

"That's the deal."

"And her husband doubles the child support and also pays you five grand?"

Hardy felt enough guilt about it himself. He didn't need to get an extra dose from his partner. "Don't look at me like that. He's still better off. It's way cheaper than if he went to trial. I didn't do anything unethical. Everybody wins here."

"If you believe that, I believe you," Farrell said. "I'm just trying to figure out how I can get some of that action."

"Well, I'm not really sure I do believe it, to tell you the truth. But it seems to be what I'm doing lately. Nobody really wants to go to trial anyway. It's too expensive and time-consuming."

"You're kidding. When did that start?" Farrell stood and walked over to the dart board, from which he extracted Hardy's last round, all twenties. "Although if memory serves, those pesky trials are the traditional way we establish guilt or innocence."