4:10 p.m.

Max Kramer slammed the telephone receiver into its cradle. He couldn't believe it. Grace Wenninghoff had just passed on his offer. Was she recklessly stupid or did she know something?

Rumor was the cops didn't have jackshit as evidence in the string of convenience-store robberies. Nothing except maybe the stores' videos, which they had shown snippets of on the ten o' clock news. Not much to see there. It looked like the same routine, even the same guy in the same getup, but it also looked as if it would be impossible for anyone to ID the guy from those crappy videos.

There went his insurance policy, down the drain. Now he was stuck defending another crack whore who couldn't afford to pay him. Not even two weeks ago he was on the Larry King Show and he didn't think life could get any better. Well, he was right, because just when he thought he was on top of the world, he was sliding down shit hill again.

He leaned back in his leather chair and stared out his office window that overlooked the Gene Leahy Mall and downtown Omaha. It was this window and this view that made the small, cramped space prime commercial real estate. He couldn't afford it, but did, because he liked looking out over the city and feeling a sense of power. He had worked long and hard to win this city's respect. He wasn't about to have it taken away from him now.

He could cash in on his national media coupe for only so long. He knew that. It wouldn't take much before his colleagues started to try to knock him down- the bastards.

He sorted through the stack of voice messages. A half-dozen idiots, all wanting something from him. The one idiot he needed to hear from hadn't called. He checked his watch. He had to start thinking about an alternative insurance policy. It shouldn't be this difficult. After all, who better than a defense attorney knew exactly what the cops were looking for?

Max set aside the three messages from his wife. She'd want to know what time he'd be home. Should she keep dinner warm?

He hated that the bitch kept such tabs on him. He was sick and tired of her subtle threats. He had hoped after his national media blitz that he wouldn't need her or her money. What was he thinking? That Fox News would cancel Greta Van Susteren and be calling to offer him his own legal talk show? How likely was that?

Instead, he had a shitload of messages from death-row assholes all across the country, all wanting him to get them off. More assholes who didn't have a fucking dime to pay him. And there weren't any more favors he needed from any of them. Hell, the one bastard who did owe him couldn't get things right.

He checked his wristwatch again. He had better be getting a phone call and soon.