He looked up at the ceiling. “Uh…I don’t know. Probably. He’s here a few times a week.”

“Do you know if he was here that day in particular?” I asked.

Another glance at the ceiling. A little shift of the plates on his arms. “Yeah…yeah. He was. I remember now because he asked me how my weekend was.”

So maybe Mick was telling the truth.

“Just one more question. How long was he here?”

“He left right before my shift ended, so he was here a few hours. He left right about four.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Jane died between three and six, and Mick had given me the impression he’d been at Uncommon Ground the whole time.

Maybe Mick wasn’t telling the truth at all.

Outside the coffee shop, fans in Cubs gear were sauntering toward the stadium, beers in hand.

I got in Grady’s car and tried to figure out what to do next. I called Mayburn, told him about Uncommon Ground.

“Hmm.” I could almost hear him thinking. Then, “I’ve got phone numbers and addresses for all those doctors. I’ll e-mail them to you right now. I’d try the home phone numbers since it’s the weekend. Easier than getting past their office staff, too.”

“You’re the best.”

“I know. How are you doing?”

“I’m wearing my mother’s clothes.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. What do you think about this Mick guy?”

“Well, you should tell the police his alibi is shaky, but it doesn’t sound like the cops want to let you go just yet.” Mayburn grunted. “It sounds like you need to visit Jackson Prince.”

“Got it.”

I hung up with Mayburn, then called information and got the number for Prince & Associates. I needed to see Prince face-to-face, but how to get in front of him and fast and on a weekend? The service answered.

With firms like Prince & Associates, there is always a way to get a hold of someone because they’re all about flash and cash. Attorneys like them love big, tragic situations that allow them to sue a boatload of people. They want people calling them around the clock with possible cases, tipping them off when there’s a bus crash or a catastrophic mishap at a hospital. If I could pretend I had a huge case, they might see me. If, for example, I could say I was a pregnant woman who’d eaten a contaminated Pop-Tart that burned the roof of my mouth, and that my Pulitzer-prize-winning husband drove me to the hospital and died in a car accident on the way, and that at the hospital the doctor screwed up and I lost my baby because the doctor was watching a rerun of the series finale of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Prince might see me. Alas, I wasn’t that great of a liar.

But maybe my real story, and Jane’s name, were good enough.

“I’d like to make an appointment to see Jackson Prince about a case.”

“Are you an existing client?”

“No, I got Mr. Prince’s name from a friend. I worked with Jane Augustine at Trial TV. They fired me yesterday, and I want to talk to Mr. Prince about a wrongful termination suit.”

“An associate of Mr. Prince’s could probably see you on Monday.”

“I’d like to see him today. I’m considering other attorneys and I’m going to sign with someone by the end of the day.”

“Well, let me see if I can get an associate to call you.”

“Actually, I need to see Jackson Prince. In person. And tell him that I also need to talk to him about Jane Augustine.”

“Mr. Prince doesn’t see people on the weekends, generally.”

“If you could just contact him, I’d appreciate it.”

She was silent for a moment. I could imagine her debating calling Prince and pissing him off versus not letting him know about my call until Monday and possibly pissing him off even more if it turned out to be a big case.

“Hold, please,” she said grumpily. A minute later, she was back on the line. “Mr. Prince will see you today if you can be at the office in one hour.”

65

P rince’s law firm was on the fifteenth floor of a building at Dearborn and Washington. A cranky secretary who had probably had to interrupt her weekend brought me into Prince’s office and pointed sternly to forest-green bucket leather chairs in front of a desk large enough to play hockey on.

Instead of sitting, I walked toward the two walls of glass windows that overlooked the Daley Plaza-the civil courthouse-and the steel Picasso sculpture that stood in front of it. Visible in the distance was a hint of the rounded, mirrored Thompson Center, where state business was conducted, and the funky black-and-white sculpture that graced its facade. From a legal standpoint, this was one of the best views in the city.

A minute went by, then another. I took a seat and stared at Prince’s wall of fame-his diplomas from Yale Law School, a plethora of plaques from various bar associations. I checked my watch. It had been five minutes. He was icing me. An old trial lawyer technique-Make ’ em wait. Keep people sitting long enough to get them pissed but not long enough to get them to leave.

Finally, Prince strode in. He was wearing a light gray suit that matched his hair and set off his clear, sharp eyes. I wonder if he’d put the suit on for me or whether he just lived in them all the time. It was hard to imagine him in anything but a suit.

“Ms. McNeil, a pleasure to see you again.” He extended his hand the way the Pope does, as if I should bow and kiss his ring. I gave his hand a firm shake.

He walked around his desk, moved a few objects-his paper blotter and a silver pen holder-an inch or so to the left, then sat down. “I understand you might have a wrongful termination suit?” He didn’t sound at all put out that he’d been called in to see me on a weekend.

“Yes. Until yesterday, I worked at Trial TV.”

He nodded.

“They fired me,” I continued, “because I was named a person of interest in Jane Augustine’s murder.”

No reaction. “Tell me about your position there.”

I told him how Jane had offered me the position, how I’d been an on-air analyst but that I’d been promoted when Jane died. I told him that they had fired me yesterday, after the police press conference. He asked me a few questions about my background, about Trial TV.

“Hmm.” He moved the silver pen holder again. Just a fraction of an inch. His eyes zeroed in on mine again. “Do you have any kids?”

“No.”

“Anyone you’re supporting?”

“Just myself.”

“And in the course of firing you, did anyone at the firm mention the fact that you are a woman?”

“No.”

“Well, Ms. McNeil, you should probably consult an employment lawyer, but it doesn’t sound to me like you have a strong termination suit. As a woman you’re a member of a commonly protected class, but it doesn’t seem that played a part in your firing. And you don’t have a large amount of damages. You’d only been there a few days, and you’re clearly capable of mitigating your damages by getting another job-whether it’s in the law or in broadcasting.” He gave me a tough break kind of face. “My secretary said you also wanted to talk about Jane Augustine.”

I nodded. “I wanted to ask you about Monday, when Jane interviewed you the first time. You seemed to be upset at something she said to you.”

He pursed his mouth a little and tilted his head. “Not at all. I’m used to dealing with the press, and that is simply how those interviews go-sometimes they’re softball questions, other times they’re more in depth. I respected Jane immensely, and I knew she never asked the easy questions. But I certainly wasn’t upset by anything she said that day.”

“You left rather abruptly. While the segment was still on-air.”

Prince sat back. He put his hands in front of his chest and made a crown with his fingers. “Did you tell the police that I was angry with Jane? That I might have been angry enough to kill her?”

I felt a little blush flooding into my cheeks. There was no reason to be embarrassed, but I felt as if I’d been caught at something. “They asked if anyone had been mad at Jane. I told them about you leaving the segment early.”