'Here's the problem. My client is charged with robbery and murder. I believe I've got a better than decent chance to get him off by arguing to a jury that he was too drunk or stoned or both to have planned to tie his shoes, much less rob or kill anybody. You with me?'

Lou guessed that he was.

'Okay, but if I argue that, best case he gets years in prison. Whereas if I argue that he didn't do it at all, and the jury believes that, he gets off completely. The problem is, no jury is going to believe it, since I've got no alternative suspects. Hell, I don't believe it myself.'

Lou, a lifelong bartender, knew that Hardy wasn't drinking alcohol, but he also knew that any conversation with even a sober customer that lasted over five minutes was somehow bad for business. He cut back to the chase. 'I hope we're closing in on the question.'

'Almost. So I'm supposed to do what's best for my client, give him the best defense the law allows. Now, the question is, what do I do?'

Lou cocked his head. 'You're kidding me? That's the question? What's best for your client – prison or walk out the door?' He jerked a thumb. 'Out the door, no contest.'

'But I've got no chance to win. I can't prove he didn't do it.'

Lou hadn't worked in the Hall's watering hole for a lifetime without picking up some rudimentary knowledge of the law. 'I thought they had to prove he did do it.'

'They do.'

'Well, don't let 'em. It doesn't matter what you believe. Besides, ask your client. He's not going to think prison is winning.' Lou thought another minute, picked up a glass from the counter under the bar and began to wipe it with his rag. For the first time in the conversation, Hardy had the feeling that he'd engaged his mind. 'You got any idea what you're going to be doing in ten years, Diz? If you're even going to be alive? Ten years.'

'Nope.'

Lou nodded. 'Same with most people, I bet.'

Hardy worked as a defense attorney, but as he walked the second floor hallway in the Public Defender's office, he felt very much out of place. Although it had been nearly a decade since he'd been a young assistant DA, in his heart he still considered himself very much in favor of the prosecution. If it wasn't for the politically misguided and extra-legal idiocy of Sharron Pratt and her administration, he had no trouble envisioning himself working hard and long to put bad people behind bars.

Here in the Public Defender's building, however, two blocks from the Hall of Justice, the ethic was the diametrical opposite. Just walking to Saul Westbrook's office gave Hardy a strong sense of unreality, as though he'd suddenly made a turn into an alternative universe. It seemed to extrude from the very plaster in the walls. It shouted from every bumper sticker, cartoon, or poster on the doors and bulletin boards – 'He's NOT GUILTY until you prove it!!' '3 Strikes = Bad Law!!!' 'No Victim, No Crime!!!' 'Alternative Sentencing Works!!'

The vibe, Hardy thought, so different from his own. It was disorienting.

From Lou's, he'd gone back to the Hall and discovered the name of Cullen Alsop's lawyer. Saul Westbrook had been in his office when he called him and said, 'Sure. Come on up.'

Now he knocked at the open door. The office was about the same size as those of his prosecutorial counterparts over in the Hall of Justice – ten by twelve feet crammed with two desks, overflowing file cabinets, cardboard boxes bulging with three-ring binders, metal bookshelves to the ceiling.

'Mr Westbrook?'

He was the only person in the room. The other desk was empty. Westbrook didn't look as though he was old enough yet to shave. He wore blue jeans and tennis shoes, a white shirt with a collar but no tie, and either had just won the Masters Golf Tournament or had his own Green Jacket from another source. He looked up, stood, extended his hand. 'Saul.'

'Dismas Hardy.'

'Dismas? So we're both named after a couple of early Christian saints, huh?'

Hardy cracked a grin. 'I think my guy was first.'

'I think you're right.' Saul had an open, angular face with a sincere smile. A shock of surfer-length blond hair flopped across his forehead. The smile faded briefly. 'Maybe between us we can try to put a word in to God about poor Cullen.'

Hardy was tempted to like him right away, but he couldn't duck the truth. 'I'll need to wait until I find out if poor Cullen screwed my client before he died.'

'Cole Burgess,' Westbrook said, and it wasn't a question. The expressive face seemed to sadden. 'I don't think he did.'

'You think he had the gun?'

'I don't know. Why would he make it up? Burgess was a friend of his.'

Hardy wanted to tell Westbrook to give him a break – the list of good works by addicts to protect or save their friends was short indeed. In his experience, addicts did not have friends in the usual meaning of the word. They had sources, but no friends. But he didn't wish to antagonize Westbrook, so he was matter of fact. 'Maybe somebody made it up for him. And it got him his OR -' out of jail on his own recognizance '- so he could stay high. That's why.'

The idea was distasteful, and Saul shook his head. 'Who would have done that? I'm his lawyer. If I was sharp and crooked, I might have dreamed up something like that. But I'm the only one who would have been motivated, and I'm not and I didn't.'

'How about someone who wanted to strengthen the case against Cole Burgess?'

'But that would be…'He stopped, then spoke carefully. 'One of the DAs?'

Hardy shrugged. 'It's Torrey's case.'

'But that would mean, if Cullen was killed…' The young man's voice trailed off. It was the kind of moment, Hardy knew, that would eventually put some age on Saul's face.

'It's a long shot,' Hardy admitted. 'I don't have any idea if Cullen was an accident or a suicide or what he was. I was hoping you might have an opinion.'

They shared a look. Saul sat back in his chair, picked a paper clip off his desk, opened it up. 'You know Ridley Banks?'

'I talked to him last night.'

A nod. 'He came by yesterday, asking about the same thing. Which, for a cop, I thought was a little weird. What did he say to you?'

But here Hardy was stymied. He'd had the impression Ridley was going to tell him something about his suspicions, but with the no-show, he never did. 'He kept it pretty vague.' Hardy could do vague, too. 'But I got the strong impression the coincidence made him nervous.'

The discussion was threatening Westbrook's world view, and his reply came out sounding defensive. 'But coincidences do happen.'

Spoken like a true defense lawyer, Hardy thought. But he said, 'Undoubtedly. This would be a particularly unlucky coincidence for my client, though, so I'd like to be a little more sure it was one. I'm waiting for Banks to get back to me now, which I'm sure he will. But listen, in the meanwhile, if you don't mind, I wanted to ask you how this whole plea thing came down.' At Saul's dubious look, Hardy prodded. 'I don't see how it can hurt your client now.'

The face softened. 'You're right.' Still working the paper clip, he rocked back in his chair. 'Actually, the first I heard of it, I got a call from Cullen, from the jail. And it was already pretty much a done deal.'

'This was over the weekend? He just remembered?'

'Yeah, maybe Monday.'

'So he'd been in jail how long on his own thing?'

Westbrook came forward now, opened a black calendar book on his desk and leafed through it briefly. 'He was arrested on the second.' His expression became confused. 'So he started trying to cut the deal on… I guess the eighth.'

'Six days in jail,' Hardy said. 'I wonder what made him think about it? Or more to the point, made him forget it for so long?'

'That's a good question.'

'Has he ever snitched before? How'd he know who to go to? How'd he know the gun was the missing link in my case?'