"Something like that, Granny."

"I got some witch hazel to put on those scratches. Ain't even gonna ask what you look like under your clothes."

"Sorry about the suit, Granny."

"Always knew it was a waste of money. Like putting britches on a mule."

I reached for the coffeepot, and she swatted my hand away. "You need some sleep."

I didn't disagree. I just ate my grits with some buttermilk biscuits that oozed with butter. I thanked Granny, went to my bedroom, and sacked out fully clothed until midafternoon. When I woke up, I felt worse than when I went to bed. Everything hurt.

I downed six aspirin with coconut water, showered, and put on a pair of faded Penn State running shorts and an old T-shirt with the saying "I May Be Old, but I Got to See All the Cool Bands." I was alone in the quiet house, the only noise the quiet whir of the ceiling fans. Kip was at summer football camp. Granny had either gone grocery shopping on her bicycle or fishing in the Coral Gables Waterway. She had her own spot under the bridge that connects LeJeune Road with Cocoplum Circle, and she'd likely bring back a snapper or two.

I turned on the television and found the country music station on the satellite. Listened to Patsy Cline sing "Crazy" with that tremulous little hitch in her voice that makes you want to put your arms around her and protect her from the big, cruel world.

I hobbled into the backyard and toppled into the hammock that hangs between two palm trees. Cloudy and steamy hot. Palm fronds hung limply like wet laundry on a line. Humid as a jock strap after an August practice. Thunder boomed in the distance.

I grew drowsy again. I must have fallen asleep because I dreamed of a fine snow falling on a Vermont football field. I jogged across the field in a sweat suit, a whistle around my neck, shouting at my pale prep schoolers, all skinny arms and pipe stem legs.

"Hustle! Hustle! Hustle! And for God's sake, hit somebody!"

Then I heard my name called.

"Jake. Jake. Are you awake?"

I blinked my eyes open. Victoria sat in a wooden rocking chair on the porch, ten feet from my hammock. Next to her, on a table-an old wooden wire spool Granny had sanded and painted-was a bottle of Jack Daniel's and two tumblers. The bottle was full, so she must have brought it.

"Hey," I said, using up all my witty conversation.

"How you feeling?"

"Tip-top."

She gestured toward the booze. "Ice?"

"Straight up is fine."

She poured us two tumblers, half-full. I didn't peg Victoria for a sour mash whiskey gal. Maybe a cosmo or a margarita. Maybe a mojito with fresh-squeezed cane juice and pulverized mint leaves. But she took a long pull on the Jack Daniel's, so I had some catching up to do. The first taste was golden heat in the throat, soothing to body and soul.

She was wearing short white shorts. Very short shorts. Her long legs were crossed at the ankles. On her feet were platform sandals with those crossing straps that go halfway up the calf and make a woman look like a Roman gladiator. Except on Victoria, they just accentuated her floor-to-ceiling legs with nicely developed calves. Pilates or weights, I imagined. She wore a stretchy pink tank top, which showed her well-formed delts and small, perky breasts. To sum it up, it looked as if a high-fashion model had just decided to plop down in my backyard for an after-work drink.

"I love Steve and I admire you," she said between drinks.

"I hear a 'but' coming."

"But you both infuriate me. Steve lied to me! How can I deal with that?"

"That's between you two. Leave me out of it."

"Really? Then let's talk about your strategy, which just happens to be based on Steve's phony story."

"What would you have me do? Withdraw because my client might be guilty?"

"Might be guilty? You said he was a murderer!"

"No. I said he was a killer. Not every killer is a murderer or even committed a criminal act."

She polished off her whiskey. "You're talking about self-defense."

"One possibility."

"Or defense of another. In this case, Nadia."

"Possibility number two."

"Stand Your Ground."

"That's three."

"And there's always accident."

"Unlikely but yes."

"Or insanity."

"I forgot about that one," I admitted.

"Instead of telling Steve to shut up, why don't you get the whole story and defend him based on what he did?"

"We've been over this, Victoria. Two reasons. First, we have to defend him based on what he told the cops. Otherwise, he gets skewered on cross based on prior inconsistent statements and we lose. Second, if he tells me he shot Gorev and has no defenses, I can't put him on the stand to say otherwise."

"I know. I know. The one ethical rule you cling to."

"Like a drowning man with a Styrofoam cooler."

"I hate this game we have to play. And I thought you hated it, too."

"I do, but I don't make the rules. I just try to do my job and not hit anybody after the whistle."

"Do you remember what you said the day I retained you?"

"I think I mentioned the retainer had to be paid up front."

"You asked me, 'Does it ever get you down? That nearly everyone is guilty.'"

"And you told me it comes with the territory. You were right. I was just venting. All these years banging my head against the courthouse door gets to a guy. But the truth is, if I only represented the innocent, I'd starve to death."

"Today, in the jail, you seemed to relish it. That Steve may be guilty and you have a way to get him off. As if half-assed lawyers can get an innocent client acquitted . . ."

"Actually, they can't."

"But it takes the great Jake Lassiter to get a big fat NG for a guilty man."

I hoisted myself out of the hammock, lurched to the porch, and eased my aching body into the chair next to Victoria's rocker. It was getting dark, and in the distance, lightning flashed against a backdrop of silver clouds.

"You're starting to worry me, Victoria. Are you able to sit second chair and help me win this thing?"

For the second time today, I saw tears fill her eyes. "I don't know."

"You started this conversation by saying you love Steve. That's the touchstone. The starting point and the finish line. If you focus on that, you'll be fine."

A single teardrop tracked down her cheek. "I think Steve was screwing Nadia."

"He tell you that?"

"Of course not."

"Elena tell you that?"

"No."

"So what's going through your mind? Why would Steve cheat on you?"

"Because he's a man, and men are assholes."

"Okay, I'll grant you that. But have you ever suspected him of anything? Ever caught him?"

She wiped the back of a hand across her eyes. "No. But before we met, he was one of those commitment-phobic bachelors who went from woman to woman."

"Statute of limitations has expired on that." As we talked, I was fighting an internal battle. Part of me wanted to torpedo their relationship, but the better part compelled me to say exactly what I believed. "So basically this is just some woman's intuition thing."

She refilled her glass. "Don't be condescending."

"All I'm saying, you have no proof. Victoria, it's been a really long couple of days. You need to step back, get some sleep, then start going through those color-coded files of yours."

She took a sip and closed her eyes, enjoying the taste of the whiskey. "You've been in committed relationships, right?"

I thought I knew where she was going, and I wanted no part of it. I'm protective of my private life, especially the embarrassing parts. "Sure. I've been involved with a couple women who should have been committed."

"C'mon, Jake. Be serious."

"Yeah, I've had relationships. What about it?"

"You ever cheat?"

"When there was a problem in a relationship, and I was young and stupid, instead of working on the problem . . . yeah, I stepped out."

"Proves my point. Before all this happened, Steve and I had been arguing a lot. Some of our closeness had been lost."

"Happens to everybody. Then you know what? If you've bonded and you love each other, like you two do, it all comes back together."

"Maybe it's too late."

"Jeez, Victoria, you're adding two and two and getting five. Steve didn't cheat on you with a B-girl."

"How can you be so sure?"

I didn't want to answer, but it just came out. "Because I wouldn't have."

"What?"

"You're the one who said how much alike we are. Solomon and me. Frankly, I didn't see it, but maybe you're right. And I wouldn't have cheated on you with a B-girl or anyone else, and neither would Solomon."

She took a long drink. Too long, if you ask me. "I'm lifting the Code Yellow," she said.

"Meaning what?"

"Code Green, Lassiter."

"Does that mean what I think it does?"

"You're not half bad looking."

"And you're beautiful and you know it. So what? Where does that get us?"

"You want to make out?"

I laughed because it was . . . well, damn funny, coming from this gorgeous, smart, tipsy young woman who happened to be in love with my client. "Just where will we do this making out? The local drive-in movie?"

"My place. The male inhabitant is indisposed."

"And after we make out, what then, Counselor?"

"Why don't we take it one step at a time? See what happens. We're both adults."

"No, we're not. You're a sixteen-year-old girl who's flirting with the captain of the football team because you think the guy you really like just kissed a cheerleader under the bleachers."

"You're rejecting me? No man has ever . . ." Her eyes welled with tears.

"There was a time when I wouldn't have been man enough to say no. But those days are gone, and I'm not taking part in get-even sex. We're not going to wake up tomorrow hating ourselves and each other."

"I already hate you for turning me down."

"Tomorrow, you'll thank me. Look, I need you. Steve really needs you. And when this is over, you and I will have a drink-preferably coffee-and laugh about tonight."

She pushed the tumbler of Jack Daniel's away, apparently realizing there was no more need to loosen her inhibitions. "So we're going back to work?"

"First thing tomorrow."