"Have at it, Jason," Wohl said.

"By then, I think we can count on somebody going to Mr. Stillwell to make a deal," Washington said. "There's seven of them. I think the odds are pretty good that at least one of them will try to save his skin."

Farnsworth Stillwell, whose wordless role in the little playlet had been orchestrated by Sergeant Washington, had played along for several reasons. For one thing, he had never seen how something like this was actually carried out, and he was curious. For another, when he had worked with Wohl during the investigation and prosecution of Judge Findermann, he had come to understand that Wohl was anything but a fool, and it logically followed from that that if Wohl was willing to play along with Washington, there was probably a good reason for it.

Secondly, the one bit of specific advice he had been given by District Attorney Thomas J. Callis had concerned Jason Washington.

"Not only does he know how to deal with, in other words, read, this kind of scum, but he has forgotten more about criminal law than you know. So don't make the mistake of trying to tell him how to do his job. I can't imagine Washington doing anything dumb, but if he does, Wohl will catch him at it, and he will take 'suggestions' from Wohl. Understand?"

The idea of getting one or more of the seven to testify against the others to save himself had a positive appeal. The State had only Monahan as a witness, which was rather frightening to consider. If this case went down the toilet, he would have egg all over his face. People with egg on their faces only rarely ever get to become the governor.

Kenneth H. Dome, aka "King," aka Hussein El Baruca, in handcuffs, a uniformed police officer on each arm, was led into Homicide and taken into a second, identical interview room and cuffed to the steel chair.

"Here we go again," D'Amata said. "Anyone want to bet that this one will announce that he has been thinking of his aged mother and wants to make a clean breast of the whole thing?"

D'Amata, Wohl, and Washington waited until Mr. Estivez had been uncuffed from his steel chair, cuffed behind his back, and led out of Homicide before going into the second interview room. Stillwell followed them.

The only thing that bothered him was how long this process was taking. He had scheduled a press conference to announce the arrest of these people, and the determination of Assistant District Attorney Farnsworth Stillwell to prosecute them to the full extent of the law, for nine o'clock, and two things bothered him about that: Should he take Wohl and Washington with him, or, more accurately,ask them, one of them, or both, to come along?

Having Washington in the picture-literally the picture, there were sure to be photographers-might be valuable, vis-a-vis the AfroAmerican voters, somewhere down the pike. Wohl, however, was a little too attractive, well dressed, well spoken, and with a reputation. The goddamn press was likely to be as interested, even more interested, in what he had to say than they would be in Farnsworth Stillwell.

And finally, is there going to be time to get from here to my office in time to meet the press?

The little playlet was run again, and a few minutes later, Wohl, Washington, and Stillwell were standing outside Captain Quaire's office again.

"I don't want to bubble over with enthusiasm," Washington said. "But I have a feeling that Mr. Dome may decide that being a religious martyr is not really his bag."

Detective D'Amata came out of the interview room, and announced, surprising no one, that Kenneth H. Dome, aka "King," aka Hussein El Baruca, had also elected to avail himself of his right to legal counsel before deciding whether or not he would answer any questions.

"What about him, Joe?" Washington said.

"You picked up on that too, huh, Jason?" D'Amata replied. "Yeah. Maybe. Maybe after the lineup. I wouldn't bet on it."

"I'm tempted to," Stillwell said. "Sergeant Washington's insight into things like that is legendary."

The flattery,he decided, after looking at Washington's face,had not gone wide of the mark.

"If you and Inspector Wohl could find the time," he went on, having made that decision, "I'd like you to come help me deal with the press. I asked the ladies and gentlemen of the press to be at the office at nine."

"I'll beg off, thank you just the same," Washington said. "I want a good look at the others."

"Peter?"

"No, thank you. I live by the rule never to talk to the press unless I have to. And anyway, I want to go back to Frankford Hospital. The officer who was shot works for me."

"I'm going up there too," Washington said. "When I'm finished here."

"Tragic, tragic," Stillwell said. "Thank God, he's alive."

"Yes," Washington said.

"Would you call my office, Sergeant, when you're finished? I'd really like to hear your assessment of these people."

"Certainly."

Farnsworth Stillwell offered Wohl and Washington his hand.

"Thank you very much for letting me share this with you," he said. " It's been a-aneducation. I've never been in here before."

"This is where it happens, Mr. Stillwell," Washington said.

Stillwell rode the elevator down to the main lobby and started for the parking lot, but as he reached the door, he had a second thought, one he immediately recognized to be a first-rate idea.

He turned and went to the desk, asked permission of the sergeant to use the telephone, and dialed his office number.

"When the press arrives," he ordered. "Give them my apologies, and tell them I have gone to Frankford Hospital to visit the police officer who was shot this morning. I feel I have that duty. Tell them that too. And tell them if they come to the hospital, I'll meet with them there."

When he hung up, he had another idea, even better, and pulled the telephone to him again and dialed his home.

"Darling," he said when his wife answered, "I'm glad I caught you. Something has come up. I'm going to Frankford Hospital, to visit with the cop who got himself shot this morning-"

"What are you talking about?"

"-I'll tell you all about it in the car. I want you there with me. The press will be there."

There was twenty seconds of silence.

"Darling, this is important to me," he said firmly. "I'll be waiting outside for you in fifteen minutes."

He hung up thinking, somewhat petulantly, If she really wants to be the governor's wife, she damned well had better learn that there is no free lunch, that certain things are going to be required of her.

"Mother," Officer Matt Payne said, "why don't you get out of here? I' m all right, and there's nothing you can do for me here."

Patricia and Brewster C. Payne had been in the Recovery Room when Matt was taken there from the surgical suite. It was strictly against hospital policy, but the chairman of the board of trustees of Frankford Hospital entrusted his legal affairs to Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester. A telephone call to him had resulted not only in a telephone call to the senior staff physician, but the physical presence of that gentleman himself, three minutes later, to make sure that whatever Brewster Payne thought the hospital should do for his son was being done.

Aside from access to the Recovery Room, the only request Brewster Payne had made was that Matt be given a private room, something the senior staff physician had already decided to provide to spare some other patient from the horde of people who had come to the hospital to see Matt Payne.

The mayor, the police commissioner, two chief inspectors, and their respective entourages, plus a number of less senior police officers, plus representatives of the print and electronic media had begun to descend on the hospital at about the same time screaming sirens on two Highway Patrol cars had announced the arrival of the Payne family.