"Gates?" asks a surprised voice. "What are you doing in Mississippi?"

Lutjens is obviously looking at some sort of caller-ID readout. "This isn't Jim Gates, Peter. It's Penn Cage."

"Penn Cage? Jesus, you've got some nerve. What kind of trouble do you want to get me into now?"

"Did I get you into trouble before?"

"Well… the acknowledgment in your book made me semi-famous up here. And the new director is no fan of yours, as you well know."

"The new director's an asshole, Peter, as you well know."

"No comment. What's going on?"

"I need a favor. It's right up your alley, historical stuff."

"Save the Vaseline. What is it?"

"I'm looking into a thirty-year-old murder case in my old hometown. A civil rights murder. I know the Bureau worked the case. Somebody took a shot at a couple of your agents on Highway 61 during the same time frame."

"You've sure got piss-poor timing."

"Why?"

"Since the opening of the Mississippi Sovereignty Commission files, we've been deluged with requests for records from that period. I'm talking about requests by law enforcement, i.e., legitimate requests."

"I really need this, Peter. It's personal."

Lutjens doesn't reply. There's no reason for him to bend any rules on my account-other than the goodwill resulting from a few enjoyable lunches, the easy rapport of kindred spirits-and all the reason in the world for him not to. "I know a guy who's processing those requests," he says in a cautious voice. "We worked together on the internal history of the Bureau."

"Peter-"

"Give me the victim's name."

"Delano Payton. Killed Natchez, Mississippi, fourteen May 1968."

"Was anyone convicted of the crime?"

"No one even arrested."

Lutjens clucks his tongue in admonishment. "You'll never get a file on a case that's technically open. Not under the Freedom of Information Act."

"I just want names. The agents who originally worked the case."

"These guys worked for J. Edgar Hoover, Penn. They're not the talkative type."

"Somebody always wants to talk. Nobody'll ever know how I found them."

"Portman would boil my balls for this." He hesitates a moment longer. "Stay by your phone. I'll know all I'm ever going to know within five minutes."

"I'm at-"

"I've got the number."

I hang up and hit the accelerator, feeling a burst of adrenaline as I eat up the miles between Emerald Mound and the city limits. Lutjens's willingness to help me says a lot about the success-or lack of it-that John Portman has had since taking over the Bureau. When he was appointed to the directorship seven months ago, great things were expected from the former field agent, both within the Bureau and without. But according to the reports I've heard, Portman has displayed the same traits in the Hoover Building that brought him into conflict with me when he was a U.S. attorney. He masks coldness as competence, manipulation as management, and megalomania as superachievement. The simple fact that he still carries a grudge against an ex-assistant district attorney from Houston tells me that he is a pygmy in his soul.

Lutjens calls back as I pull into the drive-through line at Hardee's Hamburgers for some breakfast.

"Call me back from a land line," he says.

Two pay phones stand at the edge of the gas station lot next to Hardee's. "Give me thirty seconds."

I pull out of the line of cars and use my credit card to call Lutjens back. He answers his line in a near whisper.

"This is the only conversation we're going to have on this matter. Don't use names."

"Okay."

"You're not the only interested party. A request for the same file came in forty-five minutes before you called. From your local D.A.'s office. An A.M. made the request. You know him?"

Austin Mackey. "Yes. This case is political dynamite down here. He's probably got the mayor pushing him, trying to cover their asses. Is there any way you can-"

"No copy of the file. No way, no how. Anyway, it's forty-four volumes."

"Forty-four volumes! How many pages in each?"

"Two to three hundred."

"Jesus, I wish I could get a look at that."

"You're not alone in your disappointment. A.M. won't be seeing the file either."

"Why not?"

"It's sealed."

"Sealed how?"

"There are several exceptions to the Freedom of Information Act. Reasons we can refuse to release documents. The most common ones exist to safeguard the lives of informants or to protect the privacy of citizens involved in investigations-"

"I know all that. But A.M. is a law enforcement official."

"We can also refuse to release documents that pose a risk to national security. Under this exception we can refuse to release documents to anyone, even other law enforcement agencies."

"This is a thirty-year-old Mississippi murder. It's got nothing to do with national security."

"Nevertheless, the file was sealed on grounds of national security in May 1968. The order was signed personally by the director."

A faint buzzing has started in my head. "J. Edgar Hoover?"

"The man himself. The file can't be opened for nine more years. Not without a vote by Congress. There's no telling what you've stepped into. Hoover used the rubric of Vietnam to conceal a multitude of sins during the sixties."

I'm so lost that I don't even know what questions to ask. "What about the names? The agents."

"I'm going to send a fax to your office. A list of agents working out of the Jackson, Mississippi, field office in the summer of sixty-eight. I don't know how complete it is, but it's the best I can do. Personal memoirs from the period might help you narrow it down."

"I owe you big-time for this."

"Yes, you do. Listen, the Bureau has been very supportive of Mississippi prosecutors this year, providing files on these old civil rights cases. Even if the files embarrassed us a bit. This file is obviously different. I'd think long and hard about pursuing it."

"I will."

"Watch your back, buddy."

And with that he is gone.

I pull back onto the highway, heading toward my parents' house. I suddenly have a lot to do today, but I can't do it with a murder weapon in my car. Accelerating through the bypass traffic, I punch in my office number and get Cilia, who tells me Lutjens's fax is already coming through.

"No cover page. It looks like a list of some kind. Sixty or seventy names. Social Security numbers too."

I say a silent thank-you to Peter Lutjens.

"There's a handwritten note at the bottom. It says, 'If you telephone anyone on this list, you've announced your interest to Washington.' Penn, what's going on?"

"You don't want to know. Those names belong to FBI agents, probably all retired. Find phone numbers for every one you can. Then start calling them. Give them the usual line: you're working for me, researching a novel. I need to know which agents worked in Natchez, Mississippi, in the summer of 1968. Particularly on the Delano Payton case. Okay?"

"Delano Payton. No problem."

"Fax a copy of the list to my father's medical office."

"Right."

"And, Cil?"

"Yes?"

"Use a fake name on these calls."

"I will. I'll- My God, a KHOU truck just pulled into the driveway. Got to be about the Hanratty execution."

"You can handle them."

"You got that right. I'll call you."

She rings off.

As I punch End on the cell phone, I see my hand shaking. I am crossing a line I have crossed only a few times previously, and always with a sense of euphoria mingled with dread. In the great train of cases that crossed my desk as a prosecutor, a few engaged not merely my mind or my talents or even my heart. A few penetrated the deepest springs of my being: my fears, my prejudices, and my desires. When that happened, I became more than a lawyer. I became a personification of justice. And not justice as the law defined it, but as / did.