Glitsky finished his spiel and scratched at a petrified lump of ketchup, waiting for the reactions. Judging from the body language and the palpable air of tension in the room, they were not going to be positive.

Arlene, still not dead, groaned in the agonies of some dog dream.

Inspector Ridley Banks scraped his chair forward, straightening up at the table. His face was a dark mask, the voice strained. 'The man confessed, Abe. On tape, he admits he shot her.'

'That's right. And that's why we're here, Rid.' Glitsky didn't blame Ridley for his fury. He had given his lieutenant what he had wanted. Now because of it, he was screwed. 'The message here today is that the buck stops with me on this one. I'm taking the heat.'

'If we dump the confession,' Ridley said.

This, of course, wasn't the job of the police, but Glitsky knew what he meant. 'If we go to the DA, yeah…'

'And you want to run by me again why we want to do that?' Ridley's insubordinate tone would ordinarily have drawn a rebuke, but not today.

'Because of what I just told you,' Glitsky replied. 'There are problems matching what Burgess said with what apparently happened.'

'So what? There's always problems. The guy confessed. He had the GSR…'

As Batiste had noted, things were heating up. 'It's not about guilt, Rid. Nobody's talking about guilt. But there's going to be a hearing on the confession, and I'm going to tell the truth.'

Ridley glared. 'You're saying I'm not?'

'No. I'm not saying that.'

'You weren't in the room, Abe. I was.'

'I saw the tape, Rid. I know what I told you to do.'

'And I did it. By the book. It's my ass on-'

'Guys, guys. Easy.' This was Batiste, stepping in. 'I think the point is we're trying to get clear here on the confession. Isn't that right, Abe?'

Glitsky nodded.

'Excuse me, sir.' Ridley hadn't cooled off much. He was talking to Batiste, not Abe. 'I must be missing something. I got a confession from this dirtball. Anybody see on the tape where I'm telling him he gets some smack if he talks? No? No, I don't think so. What? I'm an idiot?'

'Nobody's saying that, Rid.' Glitsky again.

'No? That's funny. 'Cause it sounds like you're saying I made him lie, then tried to hide it off tape.'

'No. Only that he should have been cleared by the paramedics and I ordered otherwise.'

'Uh-uh, no.' Banks wasn't having it. 'You didn't sweat him. I did. It's me on the tape. And it's a righteous confession.'

'I don't think so,' Glitsky said. 'A good chunk of what he said is just wrong. He said he crossed over to her. After she was shot. He remembered she was this lump on the ground.'

The lanky coroner figured it was time he got on the boards. Meeting the eyes of the men around the table, he stretched out his arms and cracked his knuckles, inserting his laconic drawl into the silence. 'She was shot with the gun right up against her hair. There wasn't no abrasions on her knees, legs, anywheres. She was laid down gentle as you please.'

Glitsky, the voice of reason. 'Burgess was drunk as a lord, Ridley. If he'd tried to hold her up and let her down easy, he'd have fallen with her.'

'Maybe he did,' the inspector replied. 'He fell under her, broke her fall.' He turned to Strout. 'No abrasions then, am I right, John?'

Strout cast a glance at Glitsky. 'It could have happened.'

Banks continued. 'I really don't see the problem, Abe. I didn't put a gun to this kid's head and make him talk.'

'He wasn't in withdrawal? He wasn't just agreeing to what you said?'

'Maybe. I don't remember exactly, it was a long day. But either way, nobody's gonna prove it. And even if he was, what of it? He could tell the truth and get the interrogation over with. So for once in his life the scumbag made a good decision.'

'The details are all wrong.'

'So his brain's fried. He gets things wrong. Big surprise. Let a jury work it out. We got plenty, more than enough to charge him. Isn't that what we do?'

Glitsky was unwilling to give it up. 'We can't get him this way. That's all I'm saying.'

Banks shook his head. 'Burgess was there, Abe. He took her stuff, he had the gun, he fired the gun, he fucking said he did it, all right? Jesus. So he changes his story when he starts feeling better? Who wouldn't?'

Batiste cleared his throat. 'Abe?'

The lieutenant raised his eyes.

'It's admirable that you wanted to protect your men when you thought you'd pushed them to excesses, but I don't see evidence that anything went too far here. I'm coming down with Ridley. Going back to Pratt at this point would be pointless. We're going to stand behind the confession. We're going to stand together on it…' He let that hang, the message clear.

Glitsky, defeated, scanned the faces around the table. 'Well,' he said, 'I want to thank you all for coming.'

11

Hardy checked his watch – 8:35. Cole was already supposed to have been delivered. After his experience at the jail three days ago, he was finding himself challenged in the patience arena regarding the jail's employees. But here in the hallway behind the courtrooms on the second floor of the Hall of Justice, he knew that five minutes was a unit of time that had no real meaning. Until somebody was at least fifteen minutes late, they were on time, so he cooled his heels outside the holding cell behind Department 11 and tried to ignore the show, which – given the traffic – was not all that easy.

The hallway, which ran most of the length of the building behind the courtrooms, hummed with life or, more precisely in Hardy's view, with lowlife. Defendants in their orange jumpsuits went shuffling and clanking along – handcuffs and sometimes chains – escorted by their bailiffs. This was the morning delivery from the jail next door to the courtrooms here, a steady and depressing parade.

It reminded him of nothing so much as a zoo, the inmates chained and moved from one cage to another by their handlers, who only forgot the dangerous nature of their charges at their own peril. Hardy had been here a hundred times, and it never failed to depress him, because in fact he knew that every one of these defendants was a human being who'd been born with rights, dignity, hope. Even, in most cases, a mother and perhaps a father who had loved them, at least for a while. Now, here, they were reduced to little more than animals – to be caged and controlled.

Sadly, he realized that this was pretty much the way it had to be if the system was to handle them. Because he didn't fool himself – nearly every inmate passing him had lost their hope, abandoned their dignity, forfeited all but their most basic rights.

He wished they'd hurry up and deliver Cole. He'd be ready for Prozac himself by the time his client arrived. So he leaned against the cell door, then went inside and sat. He put his briefcase on the concrete bench, intending to take the opportunity to get some paperwork out of the way, keep his attitude up.

But it wasn't to be.

He saw the whole thing, since he was just checking the holding cell for Cole's arrival one last time when it began. He heard the bell of the elevator and as the doors cracked open, the sharp command. 'Move it! Move it! Now!' From the tone, something was already going very wrong.

Looking over, he was watching as something huge filled the elevator door opening. Two bailiffs stood slightly behind and to either side of a gigantic Samoan. The man probably weighed three hundred pounds. The bailiffs had no room to move.

The man was handcuffed but not shackled. He wore a hairnet. The jumpsuit he'd been issued didn't even come close to covering the enormous flesh of his tattooed torso; the sleeves ended midway between the elbow and the wrist. Hardy didn't know what had been going on in the elevator, but by the time the doors opened, the inmate's face was a mask of rage.