″No, they didn′t,″ I said.

″They never do. Not when they′ve already decided who they want to hang for the crime.″

I looked at Goldberg. ″What about the witness ID?″

Goldberg cast a sideways glance at Violet. ″Are you okay to hear these details, Violet?″

Violet scrubbed the tears off her cheeks with the tissue. ″Please go ahead, Mr. Goldberg. I want to hear everything about my son′s case. The good and the bad,″ she said with a quiet dignity.

″Antoine hijacked the Miller′s car; that′s true,″ Goldberg began, looking at me. ″But he was forced to do it. And despite what the police are saying, Antoine didn′t have a gun. Gang members were threatening to kill him and his family. That′s the way that gang operates. Violet filed several complaints about the fact that the M Street Crew had been threatening her and her son. But the police did nothing.″

″That′s right, Mr. Goldberg,″ Violet said, rocking back and forth in her chair. ″If you live in the projects, you′re invisible to the police. Only when somebody gets killed do they bother to show up. Especially when someone from outside this area gets killed. I hope you′ll do a story on that someday, Miss Gallagher.″

″It sounds like I should,″ I said.

Goldberg leaned toward me. ″The bottom line is that my client Antoine had nothing to do with killing Mrs. Miller,″ he said, keeping his eyes fastened on mine. ″They forced him to get in that car.″

″Forced?″

″Yes. Someone with a gun forced Antoine into that car, and that was the person who later shot Mrs. Miller.″

″Who?″

″It was Mad Dog!″ Violet blurted out the name in a scream.

Covering her eyes with her hands, she continued, ″Mad Dog told Antoine they needed the car to go to a party, and then they were going to dump it. Antoine was afraid not to do what Mad Dog said. Everyone is. Mad Dog will kill you as soon as look at you. It′s terrible out there for young men these days, Miss Gallagher.″

Goldberg glanced at Violet. ″Mad Dog′s real name is Akito Carver. He′s a major narco dealer with ties to Miami cartels.″

Removing a picture from another folder, he pushed it toward me. ″This is Akito Carver. Also known as Mad Dog.″

The photo showed a young African-American male with shoulder-length dreadlocks.

At the sight of the photo, Violet visibly recoiled ″Mad Dog′s a monster,″ she said. ″My son is getting punished for what he did.″

I felt sorry for Violet, but so far I wasn′t convinced by what the lawyer was saying about Mad Dog being Jana′s shooter.

″The eyewitness only saw Antoine during the hijacking, from what I′ve heard,″ I said, thinking of Shaina.

″But she didn′t see Antoine shoot Mrs. Miller,″ Goldberg said. ″She couldn′t have. The shooting happened a couple of minutes later. And Mad Dog was the shooter. He and a couple of his friends were parked around the corner in another vehicle. And he had the gun. He always has a gun.″

″That′s a good story. But where′s the evidence to support what you′re saying?″

Goldberg handed me a folder. ″An independent forensics lab has concluded that the angle of the bullets that killed Jana Miller couldn′t have been fired from inside the car where Antoine was,″ he said. ″They came from outside the car.″

″From the outside of the car?″

″Yes. But you won′t hear about any of this from the prosecution′s side-they′ll be testilying all the way through this case,″ he said, using a defense attorney′s portmanteau for police officers′ alleged habit of lying on the stand.

I couldn′t believe the prosecution would let anyone lie on the witness stand, but I was stunned by the report I had in my hand. If it was correct, it was clear evidence that the bullets that killed Jana came from outside her vehicle. How, then, could the police accuse Antoine of killing her?

″Shaina did say she never saw a gun in Antoine′s hand,″ I said. ″And she lost sight of the car before she heard the shots.″

″Exactly. And those shots were fired by Mad Dog. He was lying in wait for the car.″

I flipped through the rest of the report. It would take some time to go through all the technical details, but the summary indicated that what the lawyer was saying was true-Antoine couldn′t have fired the shots that killed Jana.

When I looked up from reading, Violet and the lawyer were quietly conferring. I took in our surroundings. The Hurley home was pleasant and well kept, but it seemed highly unlikely that she would be able to afford the services of an attorney such as Miles Goldberg, whose rates started at more than four hundred dollars an hour.

″How′d you happen to take on Antoine′s case, Mr. Goldberg?″ I asked the lawyer.

Goldberg shot me an evaluating look. ″Are you asking whether it′s pro bono?″

Violet straightened up in her chair. ″The Hurley family doesn′t take charity from anyone, Miss Gallagher,″ she said. ″I′m using Antoine′s college savings to pay for his defense. We′ll go into debt-we′ll go broke if we have to-but my boy will have the best defense money can buy.″

″I′m sorry if I seemed to imply anything else,″ I said, chagrined. So much for my theory that Gavin was paying for Antoine′s defense.

By the time we left Violet Hurley′s apartment, the atmosphere in the projects′ central court had a festive feel to it-everyone had heard that the TV news was doing a story about Antoine. Word was beginning to spread that it might be sympathetic to his case.

I planned to do everything possible to make the story fair to both sides. Based on my interview with Antoine′s mother and the attorney, there was an entirely new question to be considered.

Luke had been so positive that Antoine had been the one who pulled the trigger on the gun that killed Jana. Could he have been wrong?

Was Antoine innocent?

Chapter 30

My story about Antoine aired on the late news Sunday night. Early Monday morning, I walked into a firestorm of criticism. A string of irate messages was waiting for me when I arrived at the newsroom at eight a.m. The worst of them was from Luke Petronella of Durham Homicide.

″What the hell got into you last night, running that tabloid trash about Antoine Hurley?″ the detective′s message began. ″Don′t you know that every gangbanger in the world claims that he was ′coerced′ into going along with the crime? Shit. It was your friend he killed, Kate. Are you out of your mind?″

As I cringed back in my desk chair, Luke continued his rampage. ″So listen up-from now on, I′m not giving you shit about my investigation, ″ he said. ″You want a comment about a story, you call Public Relations. And you can go fuck yourself while you′re at it. You were way out of line to let some shiny-suit lawyer raise questions in public about my case. Fucking lawyers. You′re shit on my shoe, Gallagher. Total shit!″

I′d never been raked over the coals like that by someone I respected like Luke. And there was much more like that to come. The nicer callers implied that I was shilling for Antoine′s defense. The nastiest one said my mother should have aborted me in the womb. Most of the callers simply implied that I′d earned my journalism degree from an online school for hacks.

Good grief. They hated me. Maybe Evelyn had had a point when she said I was clinically depressed. I′d never felt so low, so barely alive. It felt as if my body′s vital signs were registering in the zombie zone.