"Yeah," Monahan said thoughtfully, then added: "I'll be damned."

Washington pushed open a door and held it open as Monahan and Stillwell walked through it.

Stillwell found himself in a windowless, harshly lit room forty feet long and twenty-five wide. Against one of the long walls was a narrow platform, two feet off the floor and about six feet wide. Behind it the wall had been painted. The numbers 1 through 8 were painted near the ceiling, marking where the men in the lineup were to stand. Horizontal lines marked off in feet and inches ran under the numbers. Mounted on the ceiling were half a dozen floodlights aimed at the platform. There was a step down from the platform to the floor at the right.

Facing the platform were a row of folding metal chairs and two tables. A microphone was on one table and a telephone on the other.

There were a dozen people in the room, four of them in corrections officer's uniforms. A lieutenant from Major Crimes Division had a 35mm camera with a flash attachment hanging around his neck. There were two women, both holding stenographer's notebooks.

I wonder how it is that 1 was left sitting outside on that bench when everyone else with a connection with this was in here?

Stillwell recognized Detectives D'Amata and Pelosi and then a familiar face. "The proceedings can now begin," Armando C. Giacomo announced sonorously, "the Right Honorable Assistant District Attorney having finally made an appearance."

Giacomo, a slight, lithe, dapper man who wore what was left of his hair plastered to the sides of his tanned skull, walked quickly to Stillwell and offered his hand.

"Armando, how are you?" Stillwell said.

"Armando C. Giacomo is, as always, ready to defend the rights of the unjustly accused against all the abusive powers of the state."

"Presuming they can write a nonrubber check, of course," Jason Washington said. "How are you, Manny?"

"Ah, my favorite gumshoe. How are you, Jason?"

Giacomo enthusiastically pumped Washington's hand.

They were friends, Stillwell saw, the proof being not only their smiles, but that Washington had called him "Manny." He remembered hearing that Giacomo was well thought of by the cops because he devoted thepro bono publico side of his practice to defending cops charged with violating the civil rights of individuals.

"Aside from almost getting myself fried on the way over here, I'm fine. How about you?"

"Whatever are you talking about, Detective Washington?" Giacomo asked.

"Detective Washington is now Sergeant Washington," Stillwell said.

"And you stopped to celebrate? Shame on you!"

"We was Molotov-cocktailed, is what happened," Albert J. Monahan explained.

"You must be Mr. Monahan," Giacomo said. "I'm Armando C. Giacomo. I'm very happy to meet you."

"Likewise," Monahan said.

"What was that you were saying about a Molotov cocktail?"

"They threw one at us. Off a roof by Goldblatt's."

Giacomo looked at Washington for confirmation. Washington nodded.

"Well, I'm very glad to see that you came through that all right," Giacomo said.

"I came through it pissed, is the way I came through it. That's fucking outrageous."

"I absolutely agree with you. Terrible. Outrageous. Did the police manage to apprehend the culprits?"

"Not yet," Washington said.

"Mr. Giacomo, Mr. Monahan," Washington said, "is here to represent the people we think were at Goldblatt's."

"And you're friends with him?"

"Yes, we're friends," Giacomo said solemnly. "We have the same basic interest. Justice."

Jason Washington laughed deep in his stomach.

"Manny, you're really something," he said.

"It is not nice to mock small Italian gentlemen," Giacomo said. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

Washington laughed louder, then turned to Joe D'Amata: "Are we about ready to do this?"

"Yeah. We have seven different groups of people." He pointed toward the door at the end of the platform.

Washington turned to Monahan: "If you'll just have a chair, Mr. Monahan-"

Detective Pelosi smiled at Monahan and put his hands on the back of one of the folding chairs. Monahan walked to it and sat down.

Washington waved Giacomo ahead of him and headed for the door. Stillwell followed them.

There were two corrections officers and eight other people in a small room. The eight people were all Hispanic, all of about the same age and height and weight. One of them was Hector Carlos Estivez.

"Okay with you, Manny?" Washington asked.

Armando C. Giacomo looked at the eight men very carefully before he finally nodded his head.

"That should be all right, Jason," he said, and turned and walked out of the room. Washington and Stillwell followed him.

Giacomo sat down in a folding chair next to Monahan. Washington sat on the other side of him, and Stillwell sat next to Washington.

"Okay, Joe," Washington said.

"Lights," D'Amata ordered.

One of the corrections officers flicked switches that killed all the lights in the room except the floodlights shining on the platform. The people in the room would be only barely visible to the men on the platform.

"Okay," D'Amata ordered. "Bring them in."

The door to the room at the end of the platform opened, and eight men came into the room and took the two steps up to the platform.

"Stand directly under the number, look forward," D'Amata ordered. The men complied.

The Major Crimes lieutenant with the 35-mm camera walked in front of the men sitting in the chairs. He took three flash photographs, one from the left, one from the center, and one from the right.

"You didn't have to do that, Jason," Giacomo said.

"Oh, yes, I did, Manny." Washington said. "I only get burned once."

I wonder what the hell that's all about, Stillwell thought, and then the answer came to him: I will get copies of those photographs. If Giacomo suggests during the trial that Monahan was able to pick out Estivez because the other people in the lineup were conspicuously different in age, or size, or complexion, or whatever, I can introduce the pictures he's taking.

He remembered what Tony Callis had said about Washington having forgotten more about criminal law than he knew.

"Number one, step forward," D'Amata ordered when the photographer had stepped out of the way.

"Number three," Albert J. Monahan said positively.

"Just a moment, please, Mr. Monahan," Washington said.

"Number three is one of them. I recognize the bastard when I see him."

"Mr. Monahan," Washington said, "I ask you now if you recognize any of the men on the platform."

"Number three," Monahan said impatiently. "I told you already."

"Can you tell us where you have seen the man standing under the number three on the platform?" Washington asked.

"He's one of the bastards who came into the store and robbed it and shot it up."

"You are referring to January third of this year, and the robbery and murder that occurred at Goldblatt's furniture store on South Street?"

"Yes, I am."

"There is no question in your mind that the man standing under number three is one of the participants in that robbery and murder?"

"None whatever. That's one of them. That's him. Number three."

"Mr. Giacomo?" Washington asked.

Armando G. Giacomo shook his head, signifying that he had nothing to say.

"Jason?" Joe D'Amata asked.

"We're through with this bunch," Washington said.

"Take them out," D'Amata ordered.

A corrections officer opened the door at the end of the platform and gestured for the men on the platform to get off it.

That man didn't show any sign of anything at all when Monahan picked him out, Stillwell thought. What kind of people are we dealing with here?

"Mr. Monahan," Giacomo said. "I see that you're wearing glasses."