10:24 a.m. Logan Hotel

Max Kramer stopped to catch his breath at the fourth-floor landing of the Logan. Sweat poured down his forehead, dripping off his chin. The son-of-a-bitching apartment building had no air-conditioning. What did he expect of a place that had a security door held open with a trash can? The elevator didn't work. No surprise. And if that wasn't enough, Carrie Ann Comstock lived on the sixth floor.

He took off his suit jacket, threw it over his arm and loosened his tie. He had just put on the crisply pressed suit and already it felt like a wrinkled wet rag. He swatted at a swarm of flies that had followed him in from the street. Maybe he was getting too old to be meeting clients at their houses. He pulled himself up the narrow flight of stairs and stopped again. This time he took a deep breath and almost started gagging.

"Good God!"

Someone on the fifth floor had burned their breakfast. It smelled like scorched milk mixed with something sour, something that reminded him of vomit. He held his breath and hurried up the last flight, pushing through the filthy, heavy door and letting it slam behind him.

He tried wiping the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shirt and slapped at the persistent flies. He hated feeling damp and sticky, unclean. He prided himself in looking pressed and polished. He kept remembering how good he looked on those videotapes he had made of his recent interviews. Thanks to Jared Barnett he had a whole library of videotapes.

He buttoned his collar and straightened his tie. He took one more swat at the flies then knocked on the door of apartment 615. The number six clung by a loose nail and had swung upside down so that it looked like apartment 915.

A grumble came from the other side of the door. He stepped back and waited for the succession of clicks as the locks were undone. The door opened a couple of inches, limited by the chain that held it. Max wanted to shake his head and restrained himself from rolling his eyes. In this building a door chain was about as worthless as a flyswatter. "Whadya want?"

Max recognized the woman's raspy voice and knew that it was, no doubt, the result of her prolonged usage of crack cocaine, not cigarettes.

"I'm Max Kramer. Are you Carrie Ann Comstock?" "Yeah, so whadya want?" "Actually, Carrie Ann, you called me." "I did?" She shoved one eye to the crack and gave him a once-over.

"You said your friend Heather Fischer recommended me to represent you."

"She did?"

"I just spoke to you on the phone last week. I told you I'd stop by on Wednesday. Today's Wednesday."

"Oh, right. You're the lawyer guy. Geez! Where's my fuckin' brain today?" She slammed the door. He heard the rattle of the chain, then she opened the door. "Come on in."

Max stepped in slowly, but the apartment wasn't bad. If he hadn't had to endure the hot, smelly, fly-infested climb, he might have called it cozy.

She offered him a seat in what had to be her favorite chair. It faced the TV set and had a small fan blowing directly on it. He declined, insisting she sit, letting her think that he was being polite when he simply liked the feeling of control standing gave him.

"I checked all the charges, Ms. Comstock. With the crack cocaine charge alone you're in some pretty serious trouble."

Her head went down as though she was ready to be punished. He tried to determine how old she was. Sometimes with crack whores it was difficult to tell. If the crack didn't whither their skin, their horrendous nutritional habits did. He decided she might actually be pretty if she cleaned up and put on ten pounds. As for her age, he guessed that Carrie Ann was maybe twenty-five or twenty-six. Her rap sheet had only estimated it. He wondered if Carrie Ann even remembered how old she was.

"I can help you, but we need something you can bargain with. You understand what I'm saying?"

He knew if she was a friend of Heather's she would understand. She looked up at him, and yes, there was already a look of recognition and relief in her bloodshot eyes. That was one thing he liked about his clientele. They could be very grateful to anyone who offered help. They were so used to everyone giving up on them-family, friends, even the justice system.

"When the time comes you'll need to listen and pay close attention to what I tell you. And you'll need to stay clean through the end of the week. If you want to stay out of jail, you'll need to do exactly as I say. Do you understand?"

She nodded, sitting on the edge of the chair as if ready to do whatever was necessary right now. "I know I'm in big trouble. If I just could have one more chance. That's all I need."

"I know. That's why I'm going to help you." Max wiped his forehead again. God! It was hot in the small apartment and yet Carrie Ann didn't seem at all affected by the heat. She didn't even have any of the windows opened. He wondered again why the hell he bothered to come to his clients' homes. This was ridiculous.

"I really appreciate this, Mr. Kramer. I don't know what I'd do if you couldn't help me. I really can't go to jail."

"And you shouldn't have to. But like I said you'll have to be able to do and say what I tell you. Okay?"

Another nod.

"I know you'll want partial payment today," she said as she slid off the chair onto her knees. "Right?" Without looking up at him she reached up and began pulling down his zipper.

In a matter of seconds Max Kramer remembered exactly why he came to his clients' homes.