'I'd be surprised at that,' McNeil said levelly. 'He used to be a cop himself.'

'Hardy did?'

McNeil pressed his advantage. 'That's right. So I get the feeling he's pretty much on top of what's going on, and he's telling me there's no case. Which is also what I believe, since I know Manny Gait is a liar, especially about giving me cash for rent. That didn't happen. None of it happened. So if that's all,' McNeil started to get up again, 'thanks for coming by, but I'm afraid we don't have anything else to discuss.' He braved a smile. 'We're just going to have to let the lawyers duke it out.'

But Visser didn't take the hint. Instead, he leaned back again, rubbed a palm against the smooth leather armrest. 'Well, OK. It's just a case like this goes forward, it can get ugly. And Mr Logan doesn't want that.'

'Neither does Mr Hardy. We'll just have to let the facts decide.' He gestured with his palms out, forced another smile. 'Well, if that's all, I do have a pretty busy morning…'

At last, Visser got himself out of the chair. 'OK, but just for an example.'

'What's that?'

'You used to have a secretary named Linda Cook, didn't you?'

McNeil felt his stomach go hollow. 'What about her? That was a mistake. A long time ago. My wife knows all about it.'

'Yeah, sure. But the kids, you know, the grandkids. That whole thing comes up, it'd be kind of sad for them, the whole way they think about you.'

A shaky breath, steel now in the voice. 'Get the hell out of here.'

The fury and fear had no effect on Visser. He spread his own palms in a reflection of McNeil's earlier dismissal. 'All I'm saying is this kind of thing gets around in the public, it doesn't do you any good. You hear what I'm saying? Nobody needs that kind of aggravation, huh? Aren't I right?'

They were in the front window of a tony little lunch place on Union, and Jody Burgess had given up even picking at her salad. Instead, she glared across the table at her daughter, who had just told her after a meal full of preamble that she and Jeff were not going to contribute to the payment for Cole's defense. 'I don't see how you can be so unfeeling,' she said. 'This is your own brother.'

Dorothy hadn't even touched her sandwich, and it was her favorite – foccacio, goat's cheese, sun-dried tomatoes. She had no problem understanding how she could be so unfeeling – she'd had lots of practice, that was how. Every time she'd been tempted to feel something like compassion or sorrow or simple pity for her brother over the past half dozen years, she'd regretted it, and now the temptation wasn't all that great any longer. In fact, it was no longer a temptation at all.

But she told herself that this was her mother, and although they'd had similar discussions hundreds of times before, she felt she still owed her somehow. Damn it.

So she answered with her trademark enforced calm. 'My own brother,' she said, 'desperately needed a place to stay and because I felt something for him, I let him live in my house with my rather seriously handicapped husband and my own children. And Mom, you may remember this, you know what his thanks was? He stole from us. Repeatedly. From the kids' own piggy banks even. Can you believe that one? That was my reward for being nice to him, that the kids now will always remember Uncle Cole as a thief, if not a murderer. And isn't that a special thing for them to carry around for the rest of their lives?'

Jody nodded, swallowed. She'd heard all of this before. And, because it was her nature, she was ready with a response. 'He's not a murderer.'

'Well, he damn well is a thief.'

'He can't help himself, Dorothy. He's in the grip of something bigger than he is.'

'Oh, please.'

'It's true. You know it's true.'

'It may be, Mom, but I just don't care anymore. I don't care. Do you hear me?'

Jody stared into the face across the table, reached out her hand, touched her daughter's. 'Honey-'

'No!' Dorothy pulled her hand away. 'No. Not this time.'

'So what are we going to do?'

'I'm not going to do anything.'

'You'll just let him go?'

Dorothy nodded, her jaw set. 'Yep.'

'They're asking for the death penalty, Dorothy. You can't want him to die?'

A sigh. 'This is San Francisco, Mom. No jury is going to give him the death penalty. He's not going to die.'

'Well, the District Attorney sure doesn't agree with you.'

'The District Attorney…' Dorothy's gaze was flat. 'He's gone anyway, Mom. He's not coming back.'

'I don't believe that.'

'I know, but you should. Because it's true.'

Another silence.

Jody often thought that she was beyond tears. Certainly, only a few years ago if she'd heard Dorothy say that her only son Cole wasn't ever coming back, wasn't ever going to be her wonderful boy again, she would have welled up. But now there was nothing like that – only a deep weariness, but one that somehow didn't threaten her resolve. 'Look, how about if we just talk to Mr Hardy and-'

Dorothy was shaking her head. 'Mom, we've got three children to send to college if we can. Jeff's medical expenses are sure not going to go down. We just can't help here, even if we wanted to, which we don't. And frankly, Mom – I've got to say this – I don't know why you do.'

'He's my only son, Dorothy. That's why.'

'That's not a good answer Mom. Cole's ruined your life. Don't you see that?'

'He hasn't.'

'Oh no, that's right. He's enriched it, I suppose.' Dorothy picked up her napkin, wiped her mouth nervously, took a deep breath. 'He's ruined your life.'

'You keep saying that.'

'Because it keeps being true, that's why. Come on, Mom, look what he's done. He's forced you to move out here-'

Jody held up her hand, stopping her. 'No! There! That's a good example. He didn't force me.'

'You sold the house we both grew up in, where you'd planned to live the rest of your life – you told me this, remember? – because after we threw him out, you wanted a place near Cole in case he couldn't make it on his own. Tell me that isn't true!'

Dorothy couldn't say that, since it was.

'So now you're living in some dreary little apartment, uprooted from all your friends, everybody you've known your whole life, all alone…'

'I get to see my grandchildren.'

'Which wasn't an issue until Cole moved out here. That's not why you're here, Mom. You know that. It's Cole. It's always Cole, all the sacrifices, and you know what? He doesn't care. They haven't done any good.'

Jody cast her eyes around the restaurant, to the street outside, back to her daughter. 'He has stayed with me. He needs a place.'

'So let him get one, Mom. Christ, he's twenty-seven years old.'

'I can't let him die.'

'You can't save him. Don't you see that? He'll never grow up if you don't let him. You're letting him go on the way he does.'

'I don't have any option, hon. He just needs-'

'Stop talking about his needs!' Dorothy, suddenly, had heard enough and her string snapped. Her voice had a hoarse quality, but everyone in the restaurant heard it. 'He needs to get a life. He needs to beat this thing OK, but you can't help him. Nobody can. He needs to fail and figure it out or else he needs to die.' She brought the napkin back to her lips, shocked at her own outburst.

But she wasn't really through, not yet. She leaned forward, her voice more modulated. 'And now you're going to pay Mr Hardy by yourself, aren't you? Do you know how much that's going to be? It's going to wipe you out, your savings, and then what? Then what's it all been for?'

'But he didn't kill this woman. He needs a good lawyer.'

'He confessed, Mom.'

Which meant nothing to Jody. 'Not really, and if Mr Hardy can get him off, then he can get in some program-'