"Which one did you choose?"

"Adventure and babes. Either you just conspired with Ed Fiora to improperly influence a public official to get Blues out of jail, or you simply asked a friend if he'd put in a good word with the prosecutor to consider a reasonable bail for Blues. That's public relations."

Mason shook his head. "Don't ever run for office, Mickey."

"Why not, man?"

"You just might win."

Monday morning was bleak. The sun's weekend cameo appearance had not been renewed for an extended run. Heavy clouds, thick and dusky with nature's burden, had rolled in from the north overnight, limiting the day's light to the perpetual gray of dawn. The cold front that had delivered the clouds swept along at ground level with a gnawing, eroding wind.

Mason huddled in his Jeep, waiting for a stoplight to change and wondering whether the heater would kick in before he got to the courthouse. The day matched his mood of dark desperation. He'd spent the rest of the weekend chewing over his fall from grace at the feet of Ed Fiora.

Mickey's flexible ethic hadn't soothed his own wounded conscience. He knew where the line was drawn between zealous advocacy for his client and the dark side. Even so, he'd stepped over it. It wasn't a movable line, one that could be redrawn in the sand or one over which he could hop back and forth with a moral pogo stick.

He'd replayed Blues's case a thousand times in the last thirty-six hours, and each time come to the same fork in the road, and each time he'd made the same choice. Not that it gave him much comfort. Neither did the replays that he often watched with his mind's eye of the man he'd killed over a year ago. Then he'd been cornered, left without a choice. This time, there may have been another way out, but he hadn't been able to find it.

Mason knew that Ed Fiora wouldn't treat Mason's favor as a balancing of the books. Instead, he would record it as an investment, the rate of return only slightly less than that of a loan shark. Fiora would come to collect one day unless Mason could wipe the ledger clean once and for all.

Icy pellets peppered Mason's windshield as he parked in the lot across the street from the courthouse. He cursed the weather and his own weakness as he cautiously made his way on the newly slick pavement.

Patrick Ortiz was waiting in the hallway outside Judge Carter's chambers when Mason arrived. Ortiz was sipping from a cup of coffee, studying handwritten notes on his legal pad. Mason had decided to let Ortiz raise the issue of bail, not wanting to be too obvious with his knowledge that the fix was in. He knew that Ortiz wouldn't be happy, and he didn't want to rub his face in it.

"Morning, Patrick," Mason said.

"Morning, Lou." Ortiz greeted him with equal neutrality.

They stood like two commuters waiting for the train, strangers avoiding eye contact and conversation, until the outer door to the judge's chambers opened and her secretary summoned them inside.

Judge Carter was waiting for them in her private office, seated behind her massive walnut desk, signing orders from the previous day's hearings. Her black robe was hanging on a coat hook on the back of the door the secretary closed as she left them alone. A half-eaten bagel and a plastic container of yogurt sat on the edge of her desk next to an empty coffee cup.

Mason had appeared in Judge Carter's court a number of times in the last year. She was a fastidious judge in appearance and demeanor, impatient with the unprepared and notoriously unsympathetic to the guilty. Female African-American judges were no longer a novelty. A conservative, Republican female African-American state court judge who was on a short list for appointment to the federal bench was a rarer phenomenon.

Judge Carter's straight black hair, which she normally wore pulled back in a tight skullcap, hung loosely above her shoulders, several strands out of place as if she'd been twisting them while contemplating her rulings. She had dark circles under her eyes, made darker by the contrast with her own rich coffee-colored skin. Mason had the sense that she'd either worked late the night before or gotten an early start this morning. Either way, she didn't look like she was having a good day and he didn't expect a warm reception.

"Sit down, Counselors," she instructed, waving them into the leather chairs opposite her desk. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with statutes, appellate decisions, and treatises rose behind her, accenting her own imposing style. "Let's talk about your case. You're set for trial on Monday, March fourth. Tell me now if you'll be ready for trial. I don't like last-minute requests for continuances."

"The People will be ready," Ortiz said.

"I'll be ready as well, Your Honor," Mason echoed.

Judge Carter continued. "There's been an awful lot of pretrial publicity. Are you going to ask for a change of venue?" she asked Mason.

"No," Mason answered. "Hopefully, the press coverage will die down and we can get a fair jury." Mason had been pleased with the press coverage so far, and was actually counting on the jury to have read and remembered the stories that cast doubt on the police investigation and Blues's guilt.

"When we get to jury selection, you'll both ask the jurors if they've read anything about the case, if they've made up their minds already, and if they can be fair. The ones who want to serve will answer no, no, and yes. The ones who want to go home or go to work will answer yes, yes, and no."

Judge Carter had recited the truth about jury selection that every lawyer and judge wrestled with in every case.

She said it with more resignation than humor, and the lawyers nodded their own understanding of the dilemma.

"Any other problems lurking out there on either side?" she asked them.

Mason kept silent, waiting for Ortiz to raise the question of bail.

"There is one issue," Ortiz said. "Defense counsel is a suspect in an arson and a homicide that took place last Thursday night. In the event that he's charged with either of those crimes, it could affect the trial date." Ortiz dropped his bombshell with a routine matter-of-factness that underscored the crippling impact of his words.

Mason's stomach nosedived as he stared at Ortiz, unable to contain his utter amazement. Ortiz looked straight ahead at the judge like someone who'd farted in a crowd and pretended not to notice.

Judge Carter continued the exercise in understatement. "I can see how that would be a problem. When does your office expect to make a decision whether to charge Mr. Mason? I'm certain he is as interested in knowing that as I am."

"It's a complicated case, Your Honor. The fire marshal is still investigating the cause and origin of the fire. The autopsy of the victim has been completed, but I don't have the final report. The investigation is ongoing. It's hard to know for sure when we'll be ready to present something to the grand jury. Maybe Mr. Mason will withdraw as counsel and the defendant will hire somebody else so that we can stay on track for trial."

Mason felt as if he were having an out-of-body experience, as if he'd left the room completely and crossed over to the Twilight Zone. Fiora had returned Mason's life-saving favor with his own life-threatening ploy. That was the only thing Mason could conclude. Either that, or Fiora had only had inside information from the prosecutor's office, and not the juice to make Leonard Campbell give up his opposition to bail for Blues. Mason hated that he had compromised himself with Fiora. He hated it even more that his tactic had blown up in his face.

"Mr. Mason," Judge Carter said, "I assume you are aware of the ongoing investigation. Have you discussed with your client the possibility that you may have to withdraw as his attorney?"