Its print run had grown to twenty-five thousand, and it positioned itself as the voice of the people – the downtrodden, the disenfranchised – the political pals of Lacey and Pratt. Before any papers had been filed in the matter, for example, the Democrat had run a five-thousand word piece on the tragic plight of a powerless and law-abiding citizen named Manny Gait, who'd trusted his landlord, paying advance rent in cash while he'd gone to care for his dying mother for a few months. He returned from this errand of mercy only to find himself evicted from his long-time residence, in flagrant defiance of human decency and the city's rent control laws, by a grasping, crooked and heartless developer named Rich McNeil. They'd run a picture of poor Manny on the front page and he had, indeed, looked very sad and downtrodden, sitting there on his motorcycle.

Now Sharron Pratt stood over her desk and punched numbers on the phone so hard that her whole desk shook. She had the speaker on so her voice would boom slightly on the other end. 'I need to talk to Mr Lacey right now. Yes, a personal matter.' This was their code phrase – Pratt wouldn't call the Democrat under her own name and appear to be giving orders to its publisher. To do so would do fatal damage to the credibility of his objective editorials. She waited impatiently, looking at her watch.

Less than a minute elapsed. 'I'm here,' Lacey said. 'How are you?'

'I'm not well, Chad. Not well at all.'

'What's the matter?'

'The matter? Oh, let's see. Perhaps it's the fact that last week we talked before my speech at the Commonwealth Club. Do you remember that?'

'Sharron-'

'Do you remember telling me you'd make sure this death-penalty decision I announced would get a lot of favorable press, editorial coverage, like that?'

Lacey didn't respond.

Pratt took a breath and softened her tone. 'And yet I notice you have rather loudly stayed silent, while your colleagues over at the Chronicle, particularly Jeff Elliot, have been having a great deal of fun at my expense.' She picked up the receiver, spoke in a still more measured tone. 'I certainly don't mean to tell you how to run your paper, Chad, but I was under the impression that you were in my camp. Have I offended you in some way? If I have, I'm sorry, but I've kind of been waiting for you to step up.'

She heard his sigh over the line. 'Well, we've had some problems, Sharron. I suppose I should have called you sooner.'

'About what? What kind of problems?'

The publisher paused. 'Well, frankly, some of my reporters… as you know, Sharron, we haven't been much in the death-penalty camp here over the years.'

'Well, neither have I, Chad. But this is a special case.'

'I know it is, Sharron. I am on your side. The thing is, we're having some trouble figuring out how it's so special and then what kind of spin to put on it. I had to personally kill the first article I got on it. You know why? Because it sounded a lot like Jeff Elliot's "CityTalk".'

'Who was it? Whoever it was, he works for you, doesn't he? If he doesn't write what you want, it seems like you'd have some leverage.'

'It doesn't matter, the individual. He's a good reporter, he's been on your side a lot. He doesn't like this, that's all.'

Pratt pursed her lips, stripped off a piece of Scotch tape from the dispenser on her desk, began dabbing at imaginary spots on her skirt. 'I've got an idea, Chad,' she said. 'Why don't we do an exclusive interview, you and me, one on one. The spin is that while in general the death penalty is the wrong penalty, it is the only remedy for a hate crime such as this one. This was a hate crime, make no mistake. And I believe, Chad, that a hate crime like this calls for blood vengeance.'

She could almost swear she heard him thinking about it. 'That might play,' he said at last.

'Damn straight,' she replied. 'The two of us, we can make it play. It has to play.'

Treya was supposed to start on Mr Jackman's project – the Grayson matter – on Monday morning, but the firm had been excused to attend Elaine's memorial. In the aftermath of Glitsky's collapse, she had been unable to make herself come in for the rest of the day. She knew that, under other circumstances, this would have been inexcusable. She herself would not have condoned it. And to make matters worse, the time she'd spent at home had been wholly unproductive. Now it was Wednesday afternoon.

Mr Jackman, at least, seemed to understand, but she felt awful about it. Yesterday she did come in, but she worked only about six hours, all of it on Grayson. Mr Jackman had been right, it was about the most tedious number crunching that she had ever experienced. After her sleepless Monday night, she had made almost no headway and finally she realized that if she was going to call on Lieutenant Glitsky at the hospital that night – which after her behavior seemed a sacred duty – she would need some rest first. So she'd signed out early again.

She'd come in this morning with a new resolve, went directly to the abandoned associate's room that was her workspace for the new project – seventy-four cardboard boxes filled with data stacked around the walls, into the bookcases, everywhere – and began where she'd left off the night before – on the third manila folder in the first box.

And could not do it.

In four and a half hours, she estimated that she'd done twenty minutes of useful work. At twelve thirty, she checked her watch, looked at the pages spread out before her, and got out from behind the desk.

His secretary was at lunch, the gatekeeper's desk deserted.

His door was open a crack. She heard him talking on the telephone. The conversation wound to a close and she knocked on the door and pushed it open slightly further.

'Mr Jackman? Excuse me? Can I bother you a minute?'

He looked up, surprised. His hand was still on the phone and now he stopped, placing the receiver back into its cradle. 'Ms Ghent? What can I do for you? How's Grayson coming along?'

She steeled herself and told him the truth – that it wasn't the project, it was her. She was wasting the firm's time these past few days and after he'd been so kind to her…

He stopped her. 'What's really bothering you?' he asked.

She drew a long breath and stared across at him. 'That I can't seem to get focused on anything. Except Elaine.' The rest of it – Glitsky and her feelings there – was too nebulous to mention. She pressed on. 'The talk you and I had last week about her enemies, that you knew about some of them.' She paused, looked down at her hands, back up at him, told him she'd gone to visit Glitsky at the hospital. 'I felt like I'd made it happen somehow.'

'What? His heart attack?'

A nod. 'It sounds ridiculous, I know.' She shrugged. 'I just felt I had to make sure he was all right.'

'And was he?'

'He seemed fine.' Wonderful, in fact, but she merely nodded again. 'But he's still worried about the case.'

Jackman's face grew grave. 'Did he say why? Or give any reason?'

She thought of what he'd said – it was as though Elaine were finally talking to him – and knew there would be no way to communicate that. 'Nothing specifically, but the reason is all wrapped up around Cole's confession – he thinks it's internally inconsistent, maybe inadmissible.'

'To the point that it's completely invalid? Not just inadmissible but untrue?'

She shrugged her shoulders. 'I don't know.'

He cocked his head, intent. 'But what do you think, Treya?'

She hadn' t worked it through completely yet, although she found it compelling that a veteran cop like Glitsky would believe it enough to get laid off over it. 'I think it's a gap worth closing.'

'And that isn't happening with the police? With Glitsky?'