She sat up and stretched. She said, "I'm going to confess something you might find… a little strange."

"You like me?"

She punched me. "Not that strange." She said, "I hope we're wrong. I truly do. I'd hate to think one of the good guys turns out to be a bad guy."

Nice sentiment, although I really hoped she was wrong. If we didn't get a break soon, the federal government was going to be depopulated, and Ms. Margold and Mr Drummond were going to be standing on somebody's carpet explaining why we let that happen. Surely she knew that. I said, "Get your stuff. Let's go."

About thirty feet from the helicopter, a shiny blue Crown Victoria and a shiny young man, who introduced himself as Special Agent Theodore "call me Ted" Baltimore, awaited us. Ted jumped into the driver's seat, we climbed into the backseat, he twisted around and informed us, with true southern surliness, "Buckle your seat belts."

I said, "Wha-"

"Don't you argue with me, sir. Bureau policy. Buckle up or the car ain't movin'."

I felt a strong urge to choke Ted to death. But Jennie said, "Thank you, Agent." She buckled up, glanced at her watch, and asked, very nicely, "You live here, Ted? In Richmond?"

"Sure do."

"Like it?"

"Yup. Born hereabouts. Home for me."

"I'm glad to hear that, Ted." After a moment she added, "You have eight minutes to deliver us at Mrs. Barnes's front door. Eight and a half, and I'll have your ass shipped off to the northern tip of Alaska."

"You're kiddin', right?"

"It's late, I'm tired, and I'm having a really bad day."

The stakes and the pecking order apparently crystallized in Ted's mind; he punched the accelerator and burned rubber out of the parking lot. We took a right and then a left and another right and then we barreled at high speed down a wide boulevard filled with office buildings. Ted asked Jennie, "All right with you, ma'am, if I flip the lights and siren?"

She said, "Yeah, great idea-wake everybody up." I made a note to remember that Ms. Margold woke up a tad on the moody side.

"Yee-hah," squealed Ted, reaching out the window and slapping a light on the roof.

I leaned forward and asked Ted, "You go to Ole Miss?"

"Hell no!" He laughed. "That school ain't good for nothin', 'cept, sometimes, maybe football." After a moment he added, "Alabama U-better football, better parties, and better women."

"Right." And there, in a nutshell, was the mentality of the young, virile southern male. Ted yelled, "Hey, what the hell y'all got goin' up there in Washington? A goddamn war, sounds like."

So, having nothing better to do, Jennie and I took turns giving Ted a watered-down version of the killings, withholding the juicy parts, like why and who, which wasn't difficult, since the who remained an open question, and we had not a clue why. That could change in the next hour, or it might not. But it hadn't changed yet. Anyway, everything we informed Ted about he could get off the morning news, and when we'd concluded our little duet, Ted commented, "Sheeeit."

Having lived in the South, I was aware this amorphous expression actually meant, "Well, that's a sizable issue, and I sympathize with you." It can also mean, "Sounds like you're utterly fucked."

Anyway, having gratified his curiosity and established a spirit of mutual bonhomie, I asked Ted, "Did you know Judge Barnes?"

He scratched his head and thought about that. He said, "He was federal. Had a few cases got worked up to his level. Never testified myself. Heard his reputation, though."

"And what was his reputation?"

"A good judge. Hated criminals. Heard he was a fine man, too." He added, "Damned shame what happened."

Jennie asked, "What did happen?"

I suggested to Ted, "Why don't you take a stab at that?"

"Sheeit."

In this case, I believe the aphorism meant, "Forget it, pal."

"Suicide," I informed Jennie. "The judge hung himself."

"Not exactly," Ted corrected. "The man shot and hanged hisself."

Jennie asked," Simultaneously?"

"Hard to do sequentially," Ted replied with a rare, thoughtful expression.

Jennie asked, "Is that possible?"

"Guess so."

"But… how?"

"Seems he got hisself up on a stool, slipped a rope 'round his neck, and put his granddaddy's revolver in his mouth. Pulled the trigger and kicked at the same time."

"That's unusual," commented Jennie.

"Yup," replied Ted. "A meticulous man. Don't see many like that these days."

No kidding, Ted.

Jennie turned and asked me, "Do we know why he killed himself?"

"That's what we're here to find out."

We had just departed a business section and entered a long and obviously prosperous urban boulevard. Homes of considerable size and grandeur closely bordered the sides of the street, grand manses from another time and another era, when Richmond was widely regarded as the Rome of the South. Times change, the Old South is gone, the New South has risen, and Atlanta and New Orleans have long since eclipsed Richmond as business, cultural, and political epicenters. Richmond has become a backwater, but it remains a lovely, even pleasant place, while Atlanta now has all the character and charm of L.A. sans palm trees. Narrow grass strips divided the thoroughfare, and every block or two stood a statue of a long-dead Virginian hero disinterring old myths and glories. "Still the best street in Richmond," Ted informed us. "Used to be, took tobacco money to live here. Mostly, nowadays, it's lawyers and doctors."

Jennie commented, "Darwinism."

Ted replied, "Whatism?" apparently missing this anthropological farce. What once gave wealth, prosperity, and optimism to Richmond's finer residents remained a meal ticket, and now it was lawyers and oncologists cashing in.

Ted swung hard to the right, hit the brakes, and we screeched to a sharp halt at the curb of a three-story townhouse. Clearly, Judge Barnes had not been without means. Actually, the guy was loaded. The house was tall, wide, and constructed of sturdy southern clay brick that had browned with age. From the looks of it, the house was circa 1920 or so, and in the architectural manner of that era, was austere, not garish or ostentatious, though still regal and impressive. The building's facade appeared well-kempt and tended, though the grass and shrubbery in front were overgrown and in need of loving care, evidence of a widow as the landlady.

Perhaps it was the darkness, but the judge's house struck me as slightly creepy and claustrophobic, a brooding gothic tableau awaiting a nightmare appropriate to its size and scale. But my imagination sometimes runs away with me.

Ted commented, "Whew-seven and a half minutes."

Jennie said, "Lucky you."

"Sheeit," said Ted, surely meaning, Yes, indeed, lucky me.

Two agents stood guard outside the door, and we clearly were expected, as one rushed forward and opened the rear door for Jennie. He informed her, "Mrs. Barnes is waiting in the home office. Incidentally, she goes by Margaret. I wouldn't suggest you call her Marge, or Maggie." He added, "Per orders, we haven't disclosed what this is about."

Jennie replied, "Good." She turned and said to me, "This is going to be delicate. If we upset her, she'll clam up. Let me handle it."

"You mean I can't just throttle her and ask how she raised a monster?"

"You cannot." She smiled. "Unless I get nowhere. Then she's all yours."

The agent pushed open the door and we three passed through the threshold with the sure knowledge we were about to ruin Margaret Barnes's night.