Torrey had finished the self-serving part and was getting down to his point. '… with the confession on tape and all, you know I could get a grand jury indictment in five minutes, so if you're inclined to ask for a long delay, you should know I've scheduled the grand jury for next Tuesday. Unless, of course, you decide not to waive time. Then we'll do the hearing in two weeks as the law provides.'

With a sick feeling, Hardy realized that Torrey was right. There were two ways by which a case got scheduled for trial. There could be a preliminary hearing to determine if the evidence was sufficient to bring to trial. Or the grand jury could come to the same conclusion and issue an indictment.

Hardy wanted to delay, but his client didn't, wouldn't. Torrey was telling him that he would seek an indictment and potentially an even earlier trial date if Hardy tried to stall on the preliminary hearing. Actually, he realized, Torrey might not understand it completely – his strategic grasp of things lawyerly had always seemed weak – but he was doing him a favor by letting him go for a preliminary hearing at all. He could indict at will. If Hardy didn't waive time, he would get at least another ten days to prepare for the hearing, maybe even get his discovery – the evidence in the case – a little earlier.

But ten days! It was an impossible joke. Still, better than a grand jury indictment.

And maybe in that time he could at least convince Cole that it would be in his best interests to agree to a delay before they went to trial.

But either way, this thing had just jumped to the fast track, where any number of disasters were more likely to occur, and where the damage from high-speed impact was likely to be that much greater.

Hardy forced a casual smile. 'It never crossed my mind to waive time.'

'Cole Burgess.' From his bench, Judge Timothy Hill gave it the dramatic reading. The judge was an ancient patrician. Wispy white hair, combed back over his ears, clung close to a bony skull. His skin was parchment stretched over long bones and his robe hung off him like a shroud. The physical look, combined with an utter lack of personality, had earned him the nickname of the Cadaver. But today with the full house, he possessed if not a youthful exuberance, at least a detectable pulse. 'You are charged by a complaint filed herein with a felony, to wit, a violation of Section 187 of the Penal Code in that you did, in the City and County of San Francisco, State of California, on or about the first day of February, willfully, unlawfully, and with malice aforethought murder Elaine Wager, a human being.'

Hardy was standing in the center of the courtroom next to Cole.

At the prosecution table, in a highly unusual appearance in an actual courtroom, Sharron Pratt had entered at the last second and taken a seat next to Gabriel Torrey. Judge Hill nodded to his clerk, who began to read out the special circumstances that could make this a death penalty case.

Driving downtown, Hardy had tried to predict what Pratt would produce on this score, but she proved more creative than he was, and he only got one out of two, a killing in the commission of a robbery. The one Hardy hadn't guessed – because it was so grossly incorrect – was a hate crime, in that Elaine Wager was black and Cole was white. And when he heard it, he had to speak up. 'Your honor!'

The words seemed to strike the Cadaver with a physical force. Clearly, he did not expect any objection during the reading of the complaint. Straightening to his full height in his chair, he frowned down into the bullpen. To what, Mr…' Shuffling some paper. 'Mr…'

'Hardy, your honor.' He was willing to risk the judge's displeasure. This idiocy could not go unquestioned, and Hill might as well get used to it early. 'With respect to the second special circumstance, your honor. Regardless of who committed it, there is no race or bigotry issue associated with this crime.'

The Chief Assistant DA was already on his feet. 'I'm shocked to hear Mr Hardy's characterization of the murder of a black woman by a white man-'

'Your honor, that's absurd. Just because someone of one race kills a person of a different race, we can't assume race is the motive.'

But Torrey knew his constituency. 'Any time a black person is killed in a white neighborhood, race is an issue.'

Hardy came back at him. 'Union Square is not a white neighborhood, your honor. It's downtown.'

The Cadaver scowled down from the bench. 'Enough! I know where Union Square is, Mr Hardy. Have you got a problem with the complaint? File the appropriate motions. Meanwhile,' he looked at the prosecution table, 'is this a capital case, Mr Torrey?'

'Yes, your honor. The People seek the death penalty.'

Hill nodded, keeping it moving, snapped, 'Mr Hardy, how does your client plead?'

He and Cole hadn't really formally gotten around to this, but he nudged his client and the young man looked up, very much aware. He didn't hesitate at all. 'Not guilty, your honor.'

An immediate and angry buzz filled the room. Hill seemed to have been expecting it. Certainly, he made no attempt to gavel things to silence. But the electricity created an opportunity, and Hardy took it to turn around and check out the gallery again.

Jeff Elliot, whose column in the Chronicle had already significantly raised the level of dialogue around this case, had gotten his wheelchair up to the front, and sat at the end of the first row, next to Dorothy. Significantly, Hardy thought, Jody Burgess was a couple of seats away, not right next to her daughter, the intervening spots filled with reporters.

To Hardy's left, the prosecution side of the courtroom, particularly, continued its foment. Three-fourths of the gallery on that side were people of color. Hardy was again struck by the thick, nearly palpable sense of outrage he felt from Elaine's friends and colleagues. And beyond that contingent, at least a dozen young people – Hardy thought they must be students from Elaine's classes – were turning and squirming in their seats, reacting with an obvious disgust and fury.

In the front row, Hardy recognized a couple of assistant DAs and the homicide inspector Ridley Banks. There was Clarence Jackman, famous lawyer from Elaine's firm, sitting next to a striking dark woman who was staring at Hardy with a smoldering malevolence. Next to her, a very handsome, early middle-age white man sat back in his seat, a statue, hands folded in his lap. Who was he, Hardy wondered?

Glitsky hadn't made it down from the fourth floor.

Finally, suddenly, Judge Hill had let it go on long enough. Perfunctorily, he tapped his gavel several times and waited for the noise to subside, then spoke to Torrey. 'The People seek to deny bail?'

'Of course, your honor. This is a capital case. There can be no bail.'

Hardy spoke up again. 'Your honor, if it please the court-'

The Cadaver was losing patience with these interruptions. This was supposed to be, after all, a simple administrative procedure. He snapped out a response. 'There is no bail in a capital case, Mr Hardy.'

'Yes, your honor, I'm aware of that. But again, there is no way this should be a capital case, or even a special circumstances case.' Hardy took a deep breath, then forged ahead. 'This charge is a clear case of politics with Mr Burgess as the pawn. Women get raped and murdered and this DA doesn't allege specials; policemen get killed, no specials. Now, in an election year, all of a sudden we get not just specials but a request for death. They want my client to die, your honor, so Ms Pratt can make a last shoddy attempt to hold on to her office. And it stinks.'

'Your honor, please!' Torrey was out of his chair, his voice at full volume, and it served as a prod to the gallery, which responded with another outburst, the anger welling all around.