The cops look at me and nod. I disappear back inside with Tom and his entourage.

We take our seats again.

"They're getting ready to take me out, aren't they?"

"I don't know. They're definitely saying they don't negotiate."

"I won't give up. I've got nowhere to hide. I'm looking at the entire rest of my life in prison. I can't do that."

"Well, let's talk about that."

At that moment, my smartphone buzzes. Tom looks at me. I shrug.

"Answer it. They probably want to talk."

I pull the phone and hit TALK.

"Michael Gresham."

A familiar voice reaches out, "Michael, are you okay? Father Bjorn here."

"It's Father Bjorn," I tell Tom. "My priest."

A considering look crosses Tom's face and he smiles. "Cute. They've done their homework. They know I'm Catholic."

"Father, did the police tell you to call me?"

"They did. Put me on speaker, please."

I do as he says.

"Tom Meekins? Father Frederic Bjorn speaking. I hope you'll talk to me."

"Go ahead, Father," says the sheriff. "Can you talk some sense to these cops?"

"That's just it, Tom. These people are not going to negotiate. They asked me to call you before they rush in and take your life."

"That's what they said?"

"Exactly that. Which makes me very sad. There's no need for anyone to die. Are you Catholic, Tom?"

"Yes."

"This would be a very bad thing for you to take innocent blood. Very bad."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I'm not sure you would be forgiven."

"G.o.d forgives everything, Father. We only have to ask."

"Not necessarily. Trust me, you don't want to spill innocent blood because of your own sin. That's an evil that isn't easily forgiven."

Tom's eyes fall to the floor. He wipes the sleeve of his sheriff's shirt across his eyes. I am astonished. He has been touched and I don't know why. For me, it's almost always negotiable with G.o.d. But this man is seeing it differently.

"I don't want to die. I want to live. But I don't want to spend my life in prison."

"I've talked to the U.S. Attorney," says Father Bjorn. "He's willing to reduce your embezzlement case to one count. And he's willing to charge you with only one count of kidnapping because of what's happened here today. Trust me, Tom, this is the easier way. This is the way to atone for your sin here today and receive forgiveness."

Tom looks at me. I offer a smile and meet his eyes.

"That's better than where we were an hour ago," I tell my client. "This is the deal you want. Take it."

Tom nods. "Do we need it in writing?"

"No, the word of a third person-a priest-will be enough. Why don't you hand me the guns, Tom? Let me tell them you accept."

Tom's eyes dart to the terrified people along the back wall. Their anxious looks are pleading with him. Phun Loc steps up. "Do it," she says simply.

Without another word, Tom snaps the magazine out of the gun and works the slide, ejecting the round in the chamber and locking back the slide. All cop style. He hands me the gun, then repeats the process with the seized guns. Then he sits back and says into the phone, "Thank you, Father."

The marshals immediately rush forward and spread-eagle my client on the floor. He is frisked and cuffed. Then they stand him up. They take back their weapons then relieve me of Tom's pistol.

"Coming out! Don't shoot! U.S. Marshal Johnson! The suspect is disarmed and cuffed!"

The door bursts open before Marshal Johnson can push it open. A horde of cops surrounds my client and takes him away.

Father Bjorn's voice blares from the phone.

"I heard that. All's well that ends well, Michael."

"Honest to G.o.d, Father, thank you."

"G.o.d has his hand in it. That's all I can say."

"Thank you, anyway."

"Michael, take me off speakerphone but don't hang up, please."

I do as he says and raise the phone to my ear.

"Okay. I'm listening, Father."

"I got a call. I need to see you immediately. Can you come by the church?"

My hands are still shaking but I cannot refuse the man who just saved us all.

"What time?"

"ASAP? Does that work?"

"It does. What's up?"

"There's been a murder and I've been contacted."

"A parishioner? Do they need a lawyer?"

"They need a lawyer. But they're not a parishioner."

"Then what?"

"I'll explain when I see you. Please hurry, Michael."

We hang up. Phun Loc has hung behind. Off to my right, the cops have formed in a circle and are taking names and addresses of witnesses and kidnapping victims. It's a mess, so Phun Loc asks me to step to the back of the room. I follow her there.

"Yes?"

Tears have taken her eyes. She blinks hard. Again.

"I am very frightened."

"Sure you are. Do you want my help?"

"Would you? I don't have any money."

"We won't worry about money for now."

I hand her my card.

"Call this number. Tell Mrs. Lingscheit you need an appointment right away. Not later than Friday. Will you do that?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Now I'm going to swing by home and change clothes. We'll talk later."

She nods and leans against the wall.

There is no hurry, but the cops allow me through. They already have my particulars, and I'm told the FBI will drop in and take my statement this week. Trauma counselors will work with the hostages themselves.

It has been a long morning. But to the criminal pract.i.tioner it has been productive.

How many times do you get to plead out a case before the grand jury has even indicted?

It's a win.

In so many ways.

In the men's room at the end of the hall, I cup cold water onto my face. Then the tears come and I am shaking. I cry into the sink, silently, but violently. Then I throw up. When I am done I stand upright and smile at myself in the mirror. The smile does little to help: I look depressed and forlorn.

"You did it," I say to encourage my reflection. "You didn't die."

Then the air goes out of me and I am down on the floor, shuddering and trying to stand. Then I am up and I lean against the porcelain sink to steady myself. I peer into the mirror a second time.

The tears come again and my hands shake. I didn't die, but I easily could have.

That four letter word meaning forlorn? Definitely down, no matter what they say in New York.

4.

Amy Tanenbaum celebrated her bat mitzvah in a special new outfit given to her by her doting mother. The following Thursday night she wore the same outfit to the Wendover High football game: black tights, Black Watch skirt, and a loose black sweater over a white blouse. It was October 31 and chilly in Chicago; frost was expected. Her mother made Amy take along her North Face parka when she left home that evening. Amy complied, intending to leave it behind in the car along with her mother's admonitions about boys, drugs, strangers, and gentiles. Mothers were impossible, especially Jewish mothers with their uncanny ability to sniff out snowflakes and boys miles away.

Nancy Jewell's mother drove the five girls to the game, dropping them at Wendover Field, which was really nothing more than recently-painted bleachers and a gridiron. They met up with other friends and began playing musical chairs as pair-offs were made. Amy found herself sitting beside a boy she didn't really know, a senior, and she was a little scared and a little excited all at once.

The boy left and returned with Pepsis and nachos. They drank cola and shared the snack. Under the bleachers, a sea of popcorn boxes and soft drink cups and programs deepened. Neither of them noticed when his red wool m.u.f.fler pulled away as the crowd came to its feet and cheered.

Midway through the third quarter, Amy excused herself and headed for the ladies' room, courtesy of the 32-ounce soft drink. She stopped at the snack bar to give her ex-boyfriend his ring back. The other girls in her group had left for the restroom at the same time, but didn't wait for her. The restrooms were housed in a small block building at the Visitor's end of the field. It was set back against the fence line, which left it for the most part hidden from the bleachers. As she made her way along the fence, she distanced herself from the field lights. She couldn't see her feet on the path. She shivered and forced herself to continue, at the same time wishing a friend had accompanied her or that they had all waited for her. At last she made it to the block building. A single halogen lamp burned at the far end of the small building. Amy hurried inside, failing to see the dark form that was following at a distance, keeping to the shadows, treading silently along, casting nervous glances back over his shoulder.

She found herself alone in the restroom. It unnerved her, being there alone. She realized her hands were shaking and she was frightened. Still, the need to relieve herself was greater than ever. So she locked herself in the far stall and straddled the commode so she could urinate without the porcelain contacting her body. Relief was instantaneous; she closed her eyes and shivered. She didn't see the shadow come into the restroom and proceed directly to her stall, where he paused inches from the door. The intruder pulled a guitar string from his pocket and unwound it. He took a single wrap at each end around the gloves he wore.

Amy saw movement through the crack in the door. She heard powerful inhalations and exhalations as the man prepared himself.

"Is someone waiting to use this stall?" she said in a small voice. "I'll be done in a minute."

The man reached out with both hands and rapped his knuckles on the door. "We're waiting!" he said.

"Please don't do that!" the girl cried. "You're scaring me!"

Again the rapping and again the "We're waiting!"

"Dammit, please. Just go away. Please, I'm hurrying." Tears washed into her eyes and her hands shook as she unwound toilet paper. "Are you watching me through the crack?" she asked. "Please just go away. My friends are coming."

The man felt his power growing with every word the girl uttered. He held her very life in his hands, the final moments, and they both knew it. He lowered both hands and with his left glove aroused himself. Then he was rigid and ready.

He leaned his face against the door.

"Meow!" he cried. Then he stepped back and swung his foot at the door with all his weight behind it, kicking foot boxer style.

The door flew open just as she was wiping. The man kicked her once, very hard, in her mid-section, the force lifting her and throwing her back against the tile wall. Her head whiplashed and struck the tile, knocking her unconscious. Which was a good thing, because she never felt the guitar string wrap around her neck.

When she had stopped gasping in her final moments, the man dragged her from the toilet stall and stretched her full length along the tacky floor. Amy's black hair would be combed through for foreign hair and fibers by the crime scene techs and they would find long portions of matted hair on the back of her head. It would match the tacky substances of the unwashed restroom floor.

The man then lifted her skirt and removed Amy's panties. They were already partway down. He looked around as he stood over the dead girl. He wanted to take her, but it had to be the right setting. Just inside the entrance to the restroom stood a fifty-gallon barrel on wheels with a single axle. He dragged the girl to the barrel and lifted her in one easy motion from the floor and gently slid her down inside head-first. He pulled his cap low across his face, zipped his navy windbreaker, and began wheeling his prize toward the bleachers. Because he was approaching from the rear, the only person to see him disappear beneath the bleachers was a young boy on his way to the snack bar. The boy averted his eyes as he pa.s.sed the man he thought to be a groundskeeper.