'Oh, Jesus, when will it end? Give me a break.'

'Can I get you ladies some more water?' It was the waiter, solicitous in his white shirt and black vest. 'Some dessert? Coffee?'

Embarrassed, getting the message, Dorothy shook her head. 'Just a check, please, thanks.' After he'd nodded – relieved – and gone off, she leaned across the table and whispered. 'You know, Mom, I shouldn't even have gone to see Dismas. That was my last mistake for Cole. I should have just let him die then in jail if he was going to. Get the whole thing over with.'

'Don't say that,' her mom implored. 'You don't mean that.'

Shaking her head in disgust, Dorothy threw her napkin down on her plate. It was hopeless.

13

Clarence Jackman was seated at the head of the mammoth mahogany table that filled the center of the conference room at his firm's offices. Assuming correctly that the arraignment of Cole Burgess would attract a number of Elaine's friends and colleagues, Jackman had arranged a catered lunch and had passed the word outside the courtroom that those whose hearts were in the right place were welcome.

This turned out to be a sizeable group, nearly two dozen people, although by now – getting on to one thirty – many had returned to their jobs or classes. The general buzz had subsided and most of the food was gone. Jackman shook hands goodbye with a young law intern who wanted to send in a resume, then grabbed a bottled water from the sideboard and pulled up a chair near the knot of people – most of them, Jackman gathered, from law school – who remained at the far end of the room, deep in a conversation that had progressively picked up some heat.

'There wasn't any reason, that's the whole point! You admit a reason, you give Hardy his ammunition to get the scumbag off.' This outburst came from Elaine Wager's fiance, Jonas Welsh. In his mid-thirties, big hair, extraordinarily handsome face, expensive clothes, Walsh was a surgeon who looked like he hadn't slept in a week, and maybe he hadn't. He was clearly not in the habit of hearing his opinions questioned, and the wringer he'd been through since Elaine's death probably made him sound testier than he intended.

The current object of his wrath was Peter Nesbitt, associate dean of Hastings Law School. He was a reedy-voiced logician in bow tie and corduroy sports coat. 'All I'm saying,' Nesbitt persisted, 'is that if Burgess in fact didn't voluntarily confess-'

'But he did, for Christ's sake.' For corroboration, Walsh turned to the others gathered around. 'Am I wrong here? Is this really in dispute?'

'Not really, Jonas.' Treya Ghent sat next to him. It was obvious to Jackman that the two knew each other, perhaps well. Treya didn't really smile, but there was something almost like humor in her attitude and body language as she attempted to pour oil on the waters. She patted Welsh's hand reassuringly. 'They're only talking about lawyer strategy.'

'The ever fascinating…' One of the female students, to general appreciation.

Jackman again noticed the sense of quiet strength that the Ghent woman exuded. Today, as always, she wore the simplest of outfits – black slacks, a fashionably baggy gray sweater, a thin gold chain necklace, little or no make-up. He had to force himself to take his eyes off her.

Billable hours or not, he resolved, I've got to think hard before I let this one go.

'So what are you saying, Jonas?' Jackman asked, eager to be in on it. 'What's the argument?'

'I'm saying that all this shop talk about maybe somebody having a reason to kill Elaine, it plays right into his lawyer's hands. Hell, you're a lawyer. Don't you think that's right?'

Jackman appeared to ponder, looked over at Peter Nesbitt. 'I suppose. But what I hear from Peter is don't let your rage over the act blind you to the facts. If this man Burgess didn't do it, you'd want to know who did, right?'

'Of course. But he did do it.'

Nesbitt spoke up again, shrugging. 'What I'm saying is that this Hardy fellow is just doing his job, trying to create doubt from the outset. It's a good technique.'

'Well, excuse me all to hell if I can't get behind it. What I know is that Elaine's gone. It doesn't leave me much in the mood for all this hypothetical bullshit.'

Treya touched his hand again. 'Jonas. They don't mean-'

He hung his head. 'OK, I know, I know.' Abruptly he stood up, rubbed a palm down the side of his face. 'Sorry,' he blurted. 'This just isn't some mind game for me.' He looked around the table. 'Down in the courtroom, all of you seemed as disgusted as I was. And now here…'

'We're only saying it raises some interesting points,' Nesbitt said.

'I'm not interested in them. It seems to me they caught the guy, now they're figuring out how they're going to let him go.'

'Well,' the woman who'd made the earlier comment said, 'if she did have enemies, and we all know she did-'

Welsh wasn't having it. 'If she did, it wasn't one of them. It was this kid.'

Jackman felt he ought to intervene. The young doctor was in the grip of his emotions. He wasn't used to the endless debate which was the cornerstone of nearly every gathering of law students and which could, Jackman silently agreed, in fact get wearisome. 'We all agree with you, Jonas.'

'That's funny. It doesn't sound like that.'

'We were all outraged by the events in court today. I think you heard that during the arraignment. We all walked in there having heard about the confession, wanting blood, believing that Mr Burgess was guilty. I think we all believe it still.'

Nods from around the table.

Walsh had remained standing, now nodding in acknowledgment. Suddenly a shadow seemed to cross his face. He bit down on his lip, brought a hand up to his mouth. 'I'm sorry,' he said, his voice cracking. 'I can't…' He shook his head again, got some composure, managed to speak. 'Excuse me.' Then he was out the door.

Treya Ghent excused herself as well, pushed back her chair, got up, followed him.

As her steps receded down the hallway, the room grew silent. Several of the students exchanged glances – an awkward moment. The woman spoke up again. 'The grieving man and his comforter.' But this time there was no appreciative chortle from the group.

'If it were me,' Nesbitt began. His voice told it all. He was in debate mode. He addressed the seated students. 'I think I'd go along with Mr Jackman's comments. It's important to nail the case down against every possible doubt. Eliminate every other possible suspect. Disprove every alternative. Do any among you not feel that way?'

There weren't any takers.

The thin voice pressed the point. 'And yet Dr Walsh, apparently, has no interest in that pursuit. Which could mean… what?'

Jackman wasn't in the mood to listen to any more theorizing. Nesbitt's hypothetical point was the bloodless logic of the academic. Welsh's genuine emotion was much more real – he was simply too upset to deal rationally with the case. In any event, the table would be cleared soon, and the last of his guests dispersed.

Time was money. He had to go back to work.

Treya saw him turn into Elaine's old office, across from her cubicle. He'd closed the door and she knocked, waited, knocked again – no answer. She turned the knob.

'Jonas?' Whispering.

The shades were drawn and the room was dim, but she had no trouble making him out, slumped in Elaine's chair, feet up on her desk, hands over his eyes. Treya quickly checked the hall in both directions, saw no one, and slipped inside. She closed the door again behind her.

'Are you all right?' 'Yeah, sure. Great.' He drew a deep, audible breath. 'I don't want to hear about her enemies.'

'I know.'

She waited, standing by the door. When her eyes had adjusted more to the light, she crossed the small room, removed some of Elaine's files from where they sat on her usual chair, stacked them on the file cabinet next to the desk. Sitting, she waited some more.