He smiled when he saw Lang, probably the first friendly face he had seen since Darleen's last visit. Lang felt a twinge of guilt. He guessed those visits had been limited during the time Manfred had been staying with her.

Larry's escorts moved to the courtroom's door and Larry hobbled toward counsel table.

Lang spoke cooly to the marshals. "The leg irons need to come off."

"Not till the judge comes in," growled one of them.

It was hardly a major issue, but Lang knew the importance of not acceding to the slightest infringement of clients' rights. Likewise, he was aware of jailers' tendency to intimidate their charges whenever possible. "The rules say restraints come off in the courtroom without a specific order to the contrary. Don't make me file a formal complaint."

The guard who had spoken before shot Lang a poisonous glare before producing a key and removing the shackles. Lang caught a satisfying whiff of a muttered, "Goddamn smart-ass Atlanta lawyer."

From her private entrance, the judge appeared on the bench like magic. Short blunt-cut steel gray hair, little if any makeup. Before sitting, she fluffed her robe, the sole feminine gesture she would make. Although he had never seen her in person, Lang had done his homework on Judge Linda Carver. Like all federal judges, she was a political appointee, this one from the Reagan administration. She had served as one of the then rare Republicans in both the state senate and house as well as vice chair of the Georgia Republican Party. Although never as important in the appointment process as the politics, her legal abilities were reflected in the fact she had been a partner in a major mid-Georgia law firm when female associates, let alone partners, had been rare. Even though her experience had been more in the boardroom than the courtroom, she had surprised a number of unwary lawyers with a knowledge of evidence, procedure and the other arcanum of the trial practice. She had a reputation of being fair but hard-assed, the description usually given to a judge who suffered fools poorly and the unprepared worse.

Judge Carver lowered half-moon glasses from her forehead and studied the papers in front of her before looking up. "You are Mr. Langford Reilly?"

Lang, still standing, nodded. "Guilty, Your Honor."

A trace of a smile flickered and disappeared across the judicial countenance. Score one small point for the good guys.

"Welcome to the middle district, Mr. Reilly. I understand you practice mainly in Atlanta."

Lang wasn't the only one who had done their homework.

"You have already met Mr. Roads, I see."

"Yes, ma'am."

She was still scanning the papers in front of her. "We are here today for a formal arraignment, plea and scheduling. Is that you gentlemen's understanding?"

"And application for bond, Your Honor," Lang added.

Roads was on his feet. "Your Honor, the defendant is charged with trafficking in narcotics, a serious felony…"

She silenced him with a frown and a cocked eyebrow. "Have a seat, Mr. Roads. It's customary to hear the defendant's plea before a bond application."

Flustered, the assistant US attorney sat back down and began thumbing through one of the file folders.

Judge Carver began reading the charges, a long, repetitious list of misdeeds and offenses. When she finished, she looked up. "How does the defendant plead?"

Lang was still standing. "Not guilty, Your Honor."

There was a tug at the back of his suit jacket. Larry had a question.

"May I confer with my client?" he asked the judge.

After receiving an affirmative nod, he knelt beside Larry.

"I done it, done what they said. I unnerstan' from the

folks down to the jail you get a lighter sentence, you admit what you done"

"I didn't say you didn't do what they charge," Lang whispered. "I said you were not guilty. Believe me, there's a difference. Besides, if we have to, we can change our plea."

"But how-?"

Lang held out a hand for him to be quiet. He understood Larry's discomfort. His fate in the hands of a system he did not comprehend, he understandably relied on what he knew usually worked: honesty and candor, two traits virtually unknown to the judicial system.

"Do we still have a 'not guilty'?" the judge asked impatiently.

"We do, Your Honor. Now, if I may, I'd like to ask the court to set bond. Mr. Henderson is a lifelong resident of Lamar County, where he was born and grew up as did both his father and grandfather. He owns considerable real estate and has family there. As far as I know, this is his first brush with the criminal justice system. He has been incarcerated since his arrest. I don't understand why he wasn't promptly brought before a magistrate a week or so ago."

It never hurt to point out your client's rights had already been compromised.

Judge Carver was scanning the file in front of her, presumably verifying what Lang had said. "It says here your office informed the clerk you were out of the country. For once the glitch wasn't in the system."

Whoever kept the file on this case did a more meticulous job than Lang was used to. He made a mental note to go easy on the righteous indignation in the future.

"Mr. Roads?"

Dusty was already on his feet. "The government opposes, Your Honor. Mr. Henderson was using his 'considerable property' to grow marijuana. Under the law, he stands to forfeit every square foot of it as contraband. He has no incentive not to flee."

Lang started to reply but the judge silenced him with a wave of the hand. "Bail is set at one million dollars, cash or property. Does Mr. Henderson possess a passport?"

Lang looked at Larry, who shook his head.

"No, Your Honor."

"Very well, then. He may bond out anytime after this hearing."

Dusty half stood. "But-"

"And, Mr. Roads, don't even think about the government interfering with Mr. Henderson putting his real estate up as collateral. You might be able to condemn it as contraband under the law, but not unless and until he's convicted. Understood?"

A hangdog. "Yes, ma'am."

Judge Carver glanced at her watch, seemed satisfied the time so far had been well spent and said, "Now, then, scheduling. Mr. Reilly, what do you propose?"

With his client about to be freed on bond, there was little incentive for a speedy trial. In fact, just the opposite. "Motions in ninety days, trial in six months?"

Again, Dusty was about to stand. The judge waved him back into his seat. "A little prolonged, Mr. Reilly. All motions will be filed not later than sixty days of today." She consulted a computer terminal on the right corner of the bench. "We will begin striking a jury sixty days thereafter."

"That's mighty quick, Your Honor," Lang complained mildly.

"We move a little faster here in the middle district, Mr. Reilly. We don't have the caseloads judges have where you practice. Anything eke gentlemen? No?" She stood. "Good. I'm glad we're all in agreement."

Then she disappeared.

Dusty intercepted Lang in the hallway. "Don't suppose you're interested in discussing savin' the taxpayers the cost of a trial, seein' if we can make a deal?"

Lang shifted his briefcase from his right hand to his left and punched the elevator's "down" button. "You're right, I'm not."

Dusty studied his face a moment as if trying to ascertain if he were serious. "You shittin' me? Your man was growing marijuana, acres of it. We got witnesses, photographs. He's guilty as hell."

The elevator door pinged open and Lang stepped inside. "Maybe. Question is, can you prove it?"

Dusty s expression of incredulity was erased by the closing door.

Lang was certain of the course his defense of Larry would take. There would be no point in challenging the government's case but every reason to prevent them from proving it. The bird-watcher was the obvious starting point.