“We are,” she says. “I mean I am. I’m telling you all I know.”

“Well, then it’s just not good enough,” I say. It’s a delicate line, attempting to draw out a client, getting her to help herself without suborning perjury. “There must be something you’ve forgotten. Somebody you talked to. A stop along the way that’s slipped your mind. Think.”

There comes a long moment of pained silence as she racks her memory. I’ve already taken signed consent forms from Talia and sent them to all of the companies from which she holds credit cards on the off chance that she made a credit purchase that day, a transaction she’s forgotten about.

“I’m sorry.” She can read the frustration in my expression. “It’s that bad?”

I nod. “You can tell ’em you heard it here first-Tony and Cheetam.” Seeing how Cheetam’s been glossing it with her, I am here in part to let her know the truth. “We could try to cut a deal with the DA.” I’m breaking new ground now. No one has yet dared to discuss the possibility of a plea bargain with Talia.

“You aren’t serious?” Tod plants both feet on the floor. He’s now leaning forward in his chair, looking at me incredulously.

“I do mean it. I couldn’t be more serious. We’re looking at the gas chamber,” I say. To Tod these words may be chilling, but still, for him, it is an abstraction. I wish I could say the same. I have been waking in a cold sweat at night, behind the crystal vision of Brian Danley twisting under the straps in that chair, his voice howling for mercy. I wonder after all these months why it is now that these thoughts are visiting me. But after viewing the state’s evidence it is no longer a quantum leap to envision Talia’s softer, feline, terror-stricken eyes in that place. I can tell by the look on Talia’s face that this thought is now finally beginning to settle on her.

“I know what Cheetam’s been telling you,” I say. I wait for a moment, to make my point stand out. “A lot of pixie dust and happy thoughts I’ve checked him out. He wins one in ten, publicizes the shit out of it until it makes him bigger than life itself.” My inquiries into Cheetam have confirmed my worst fears. “On the civil side it’s bad enough. Some poor slob with a leg off has to spend his life sitting on a littered street corner with a can of pencils.”

Talia’s expression turns hard. I know that to her such a scene makes her own situation appear merciful. She would always choose a quick death over poverty.

“To Gilbert Cheetam this is just one more case,” I say. “An opportunity to fill a few more pages in his scrapbook When it’s over he’ll go on to the next case, and then the one after that. Sure he’d like to win. But the Cheetams of this world don’t look back, or cry over lost causes. They forget them as quickly as possible. They remember only their victories, and they tell their publicists to do the same thing.” I can’t tell if I’m getting through to her.

“Did you know that he’s already sold book rights to the story of your case?”

This snaps Talia’s head in my direction.

“No, I didn’t,” she says.

I nod. “It’s true.”

Tod laughs. “Well, there it is,” he says. “He wouldn’t sell a book on a case he thought he was going to lose. The man would have to be a fool.”

“You think so?” I say. “Whether Talia wins or loses, you can be sure of one thing. Gilbert Cheetam will win the hearts and minds of any reader who pokes his nose between the covers of that book. He will offer her up as a sacrifice to justice, and himself as its high priest. There’s an old saw, Charlie”-I am looking directly at Tod now-“ ‘It doesn’t matter what they say about you as long as they spell your name right.’ And you can be sure that the biggest thing in that book will be Cheetam’s name on its cover. And inside, it will be repeated more times than there are periods.”

“I disagree,” he says. “The man must have confidence in the case or he wouldn’t …”

“Tod, shut up.” Talia’s heard enough.

I have the stage. “This brings us to the sorry fact that the chances of beating this thing in the preliminary are slim and none. I’ve seen their best evidence.” I hesitate a moment before dropping the hammer. “If you want my assessment, you will be bound over for trial on a charge of first-degree murder.”

Talia appears shaken, not so much by the news as by the blunt manner in which it is delivered. “I didn’t do it,” she says.

“It pains me to tell you this, but that doesn’t matter. The evidence says you did. And in the prelim, all they have to show is criminal agency, that Ben died at the hands of another, and that there is a reasonable basis to believe that you’re guilty of the crime.” I focus all the urgency possible in my voice, the clarity of my words. “Believe me, unless you can give me something more, they’re certain to make their case in the prelim.”

“Could they convict me?” she asks.

To this I don’t give an answer, except for the arching of eyebrows and a slight tilt of my head, like the odds-makers are still out.

Both of them are astounded. It appears that they’re heavily invested in Cheetam’s fairy tale of exoneration at an early stage.

Talia, it seems, is on the verge of taking offense, as if I am saying these things only because I do not believe her protestations of innocence. She vents her spleen, then closes. “You’re just a bundle of confidence,” she says.

Tod is more subdued, his gaze cast down into the brandy snifter cradled in his hands. I can see gyrations of liquid in the glass, like little temblors on a seismograph. Reality is beginning to settle on him.

He looks at her. “Talia, maybe we should …”

“No,” she says.

I think maybe he is counseling a deal with the DA.

Talia calms herself finally and takes me on a mental tour, her trip to Vacaville the day Ben died. What I hear is the same rendition of no alibi, a journey that began and ended alone. She tells me about the realtor’s lockbox key she used to let herself into what she describes as a mansion out in the country. Talia says she spent more man two hours going through the house, examining not only the rooms, but the glitzy furnishings. It seems the former owner had had a taste for modern decor. The owner had died without heirs. The house and its contents were being sold by the county administrator. It was one of those properties usually bought by the forty thieves, real estate speculators who traffic in good buys from the probate courts and public administrators, a circle in which Talia does not usually travel. How she was clued into this one I do not know. She returned to the city without making further stops for meals or gas. She claims she saw and spoke to no one.

“Great,” I say.

“Talia, listen to me.” Tod’s trying to reason with her. “Can we have a minute alone?”

I’m not anxious to allow Tod to talk to her alone, but from the signs of intimacy here, whatever damage may be done has probably already occurred-long before my arrival.

“Sure,” I say. “Talk.”

I get up, leaving my briefcase and note pad on the chair, and exit the room. I wander across the entry and through the open door to Ben’s old study. I turn on the desk lamp so that I’m not in the dark.

I can hear a lot of naysaying from Talia in the other room. Tod is not having much success at persuasion.

The study is like a living museum. There are pages on the desk written in Ben’s hand. A book is open under the lamp, as if he’s about to return at any moment to pick up his place in the text. I look at the cover. It’s a volume of West’s Digest, the firm’s name stamped across the ends of the pages, library style. There is probably some sorry associate running around the office wondering what has happened to it, I think.

There is a loud and final “No” from Talia in the other room, followed by much silence. My cue to return.

I leave the light on in the study and walk slowly toward the living room. As I enter the room Tod has his back to me, and looks out the window across an acre of closely clipped lawn toward the pool house.