"Lou, you've got to believe me. I didn't know. It wasn't me. I'm begging you to help me. Get those pictures for me. I want my life back."

They stayed that way for a time, neither of them saying anything, until Mason's legs started to ache. He stood and left her there without making a promise he didn't know whether he could keep.

Chapter Seventeen

On Wednesday morning Leonard Campbell swept into Judge Pistone's courtroom for the start of the preliminary hearing as if it were the Oscars. He stopped every few feet so that the press could take his picture, giving each reporter and photographer a hearty smile and a thumbs-up. He plopped his thin, cordovan-leather Gucci briefcase on the table reserved for the prosecuting attorney, pulled out an empty legal pad, and placed it neatly on one corner. Planting his hands on his hips, he pivoted slowly, surveying the courtroom as if he were a general trying to decide where to position his snipers. Dressed in a black suit, pale blue shirt with white collar and cuffs, and a subdued gray necktie, he was dressed to kill, if not to convict. He shot his cuffs through the sleeves of his suit jacket and snapped off a crisp nod to the press corps-the little general saluting the folks back home before going off to war.

Patrick Ortiz arrived a few moments later, along with two assistants; one of whom pushed a two-wheel handcart loaded with bankers' boxes. The other assistant carried two-foot-by-three-foot enlargements of photographs of the murder scene and the victim, the autopsy report, and the results of the tests conducted by the forensics lab. Ortiz and his crew ignored the media, and began methodically emptying their boxes and setting up the files and exhibits they would use throughout the preliminary hearing.

Court was scheduled to begin at nine o'clock. Mason had spent the previous hour locked in a cramped, windowless witness room, little bigger than a walk-in closet, bringing Blues up to date. Armed deputies waited outside the door to take Blues into the courtroom.

"I should have told you sooner about Ed Fiora, but I was afraid you'd try and break out of jail just so you could kick his ass," Mason told him.

"I might have done that," Blues said. "I think you were more worried that I'd take the deal to save your bony white butt."

Mason scribbled a bad sketch of the prow of the Dream Casino and laughed. "Yeah, I suppose that's right."

"Well, guess what? I'm not taking a fall for you or anybody else and you know that. So why are you telling me now?"

"You understand street war strategy better than I do. That's what this is. The trial may only be a side skirmish. I need your help tying all this together. I can't do my job if I keep you in the dark."

"In that case, get me bailed out of here. I can't do either one of us any good inside."

Blues was wearing the one suit he owned. It was brown, worn at the elbows, and too tight across his shoulders, but it was better than the jailhouse jumpsuit.

Mason said, "Pistone is going to bind you over and deny bail again. Our best chance is with the Circuit Court judge we draw for the trial. In the meantime, I'll try to find you a new suit."

Mason opened the door, and two beefy deputies on the Dunkin' Donuts diet plan approached Blues cautiously. Blues dropped his right shoulder and gave them a head fake like a running back looking for a seam. Blues cackled when they both grabbed for their guns, blushing like schoolkids when they realized he was pimping them.

"Careful now, boys. I'm a dangerous man," Blues said, sticking the needle in a little deeper.

One deputy cursed under his breath and the other nodded in vigorous agreement. A third officer joined them, and the three of them huddled briefly outside the room while Mason and Blues waited. The largest of the three deputies stepped into the room, flanked by his comrades.

"We're gonna let your little joke go this time, big man. Don't fuck with us again or it's gonna be a rough ride back up in the elevator. Got me?"

Mason said, "Lighten up, Deputy. He was yanking your chain and you just threatened him in front of his lawyer. That elevator gets stuck and you'll be on the other end of a civil rights charge faster than you can sing 'We Shall Overcome.' Got me?"

The deputy turned on Mason, his hand on his nightstick. "You tell your client we don't play games here."

"Sure. Blues," Mason said, "no games. They'll put you in time-out."

The deputies surrounded Blues and shepherded him through a side door into the courtroom. Mason followed behind; glad to have avoided the press encamped outside the courtroom. Blues took a seat at the defendant's table, disappointing those in attendance by refusing to turn around. The deputies sat down in a row of chairs directly behind him, while Mason sat down next to Blues. Mason's chair was covered in worn vinyl and the padding had long since surrendered. The chair swiveled and rocked, but Mason couldn't find a comfortable position, making him glad that the preliminary hearing wouldn't last more than a day or two.

The judge's bailiff, a middle-aged black woman with a stem face and a linebacker's build, entered the courtroom through the door to the judge's chambers.

"Judge Pistone says that if he sees a camera in the courtroom, he'll add it to his collection. Pregame festivities are over." Before anyone could grumble, the judge appeared at her shoulder. "All rise!" she barked. "Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye! The Associate Circuit Court of the Sixteenth Judicial District is now in session before the Honorable Joseph Pistone. All persons having business before this court draw nigh and pay attention. Court is now in session." Mason knew that the judge wouldn't need a gavel as long as he had her to keep order.

Everyone stood as Judge Pistone shuffled up the two steps to his seat behind the bench, elevated above the masses to remind them of the power of the court. They all waited for his permission to sit down. Without looking up, he offered a dismissive wave and said, "Be seated."

Mason glanced around the courtroom as the door opened from the hallway. Harry Ryman and Carl Zimmerman slipped inside and leaned against the rear wall. Harry and Lou looked at each other, both trying not to reveal anything. Harry tipped his head at Lou, who responded with the same sparse gesture.

Mason found Rachel standing in the corner on the opposite side of the back wall from Harry and Zimmerman. She was back in uniform, wearing jeans and a green-and-brown plaid flannel shirt over a tan crew-neck T-shirt. They exchanged winks and smiles, comforting gestures that distracted him briefly from the judge's monotone recitation of the name of the case and his instruction for the attorneys to state their appearances.

Leonard Campbell rose majestically from his chair, buttoned his suit coat, and slowly stepped to the podium in the center of the courtroom. "The people of the State of Missouri," he intoned as if it were an invocation, "are represented by Leonard Campbell, prosecuting attorney, and Patrick Ortiz, deputy chief prosecuting attorney. We are ready to proceed at the court's pleasure, Your Honor."

Campbell turned on one heel, struck a confident, serious pose for the crowd, and resumed his seat. Patrick Ortiz hated showboats and adopted Judge Pistone's head-down posture, pleased with the knowledge that Campbell had completed his only assignment in the hearing.

Judge Pistone raised his eyes at Mason, signaling that it was Mason's turn. "Lou Mason for the defendant. We're ready," Mason said as he stood up. "I've got a preliminary matter that I'd like to take up before we get started," he added.

"Proceed," the judge said.

"There are a lot of people in the courtroom, Your Honor. Some of them may be witnesses. I recognize Detectives Ryman and Zimmerman, who investigated this murder, and there may be some others. I'd like to invoke the rule that prohibits a witness from being in the courtroom prior to testifying."