Danny makes her way through the crowd and reaches us. Then comes Father Bjorn. He sweeps his son into his arms and hugs him-a first for them both. Danny throws her arms around me and lays her head on my chest and breathes. "It's over," she whispers above the bedlam. "It's over."

Two hours later, there has been no word from the jury so the judge calls them into the courtroom and recesses the trial for the day. She admonishes the jury: they are to avoid all TV and newspapers and radio stations that are beaming out any news of the trial. They are to refrain from discussing it with anyone. They are to tell the judge immediately if anyone approaches them about the trial and tries to influence their vote.

Then we are gone.

Marcel drives us north to our home and pulls my car into our garage. His truck is parked in the driveway, where it's been all day since he came and drove us in this morning. Priscilla packs up and leaves us.

Then we are alone. Me, Danny, and our baby.

I lock the doors and check the window latches that night before bed.

I finally know I am right: the arrest of Jana has solved nothing.

He is out there loose, searching out his next victim.

47.

The next morning, I swing my Mercedes into its underground parking slot. I am climbing out when I turn and am suddenly confronted by the larger-than-life seven-foot frame of Detective Ngo. He towers over me and smiles at me. I dart my eyes back and forth. There is no one else around. Is this it? I wonder. He warned me that our time would come. What was it he said? That he was going to f.u.c.k me up?

During the trial a year ago of James Lamb, I took to wearing a gun. Not because of James Lamb; because of the husband of Lamb's victim, a federal judge. Marcel taught me how to use that gun and I shot at least a thousand rounds through it before he was happy with my knowledge and skill. I don't wear that gun everyday like I did back then, but today I've decided to wear it. In fact, ever since Ngo cornered me in the courtroom and threatened me I have been wearing my gun.

He sees me move my hand inside of my coat and he steps back. He is wary, watching my hand, watching my eyes.

I turn and pull my briefcase off the seat and lock my car. Then I return my free hand back inside my suit coat. Ngo is still watching my every move.

"Did you have something to say to me?" I ask him.

"I'm not here to talk. I'm here to observe."

"Observe what?"

"Observe where you park. Observe where you work."

"I'm filing a complaint against you."

He laughs. "Be my guest. Spell my name correctly."

He spells his name but he's moving backward, allowing me to pa.s.s out from between the parked cars. I head off toward the elevators. He doesn't follow, but I keep my hand inside my coat.

Then I realize. This man respects only force.

And I am glad I am wearing my gun. I decide I won't stop wearing it this time.

I remain in the office that morning, trying to concentrate on other cases and kidding myself into thinking I'm being successful at that. I'm not, of course, no more than any other trial lawyer with a jury out deliberating.

It is a difficult time, too. My breath comes and goes sharply in and out. Danny made sure I had a heavy breakfast this morning before leaving home. She remained behind, her day off to spend with Dania. In a way I envy them; but not too much. There is no better in-your-face experience than waiting for your jury. My pulse pounds and my sight flickers as I look beyond my office windows at Lake Michigan. Seagulls float and rise and descend in time with the music of the wind. Spreading their wings and drawing their feet to their bodies they are free-I think an astronaut said-from the bonds of the earth. In a few hours-a day at most-I will keep them company from my boat, CONDITION OF RELEASE. As when the court says to the defendant being admitted to bail, "Here are your conditions of release." While I am very concerned, deep down I am at peace because I know I have done my best for my client. That is all the trial lawyer can really ask of him- or herself. Do your best and leave it all in the courtroom.

At eleven-thirty, Mrs. Lingscheit comes into my office with the news. They're back. The judge is waiting.

Marcel drives me to court on California Avenue, where we park and hurry inside.

When we push through the door, all heads turn to watch us-then just me-walk up the aisle and come through the bar. I nod at the judge and take my place.

"We have a verdict," the judge says flatly, and she nods at the bailiff. He disappears into the short hallway that leads out to the room where the jury deliberates. Within minutes, they are following him back into the courtroom, twelve serious-looking citizens who have also done their best.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?"

"We have, Your Honor," says the CEO of a software startup in the Union Station building.

"Please pa.s.s your verdict to the clerk."

I am scanning jurors' faces just now, looking for a hint, some indication. But they all look away and I take that as a warning of bad news to follow.

The clerk hands the verdict to the court and she reads it quickly. She hands it back to the clerk.

"Ladies and gentlemen, is this your verdict?"

All jurors indicate that it is their verdict.

The clerk will read the verdict.

With a flourish of the wrist and a clearing of the throat the clerk reads, simply, "We the duly impaneled jury do find the defendant, Jana Emerich, not guilty."

Final ministrations of grat.i.tude are pa.s.sed by the judge to the jury in a short speech thanking them for their service, telling them they are free to go, telling them they may now talk to the press but only if they wish.

Then we are adjourned.

Mayor Tanenbaum bursts through the gate and heads straight for the prosecutor. Trey d.i.c.kinson begins talking, folding his arms on his chest and giving the mayor defeated looks as he listens to what can only be a scathing diatribe. Voices are raised, completely ignoring those nearby. Marcel comes forward, prepared to walk us through the press and spectators.

Jana turns to me. He looks into my eyes.

Then he turns away. Without a word he is gone. Father Bjorn catches up to him just beyond the gate and attempts to talk but the boy brushes him away with a querulous look and a quickening step. Then Father Bjorn is swallowed up by the press as it surges up the aisle in an effort to get a statement from the man whose life has been restored. Whether they are successful I do not know as they all disappear through the courtroom's double doors, propped open now by the bailiffs as they stare grimly at the throng pa.s.sing through.

Father Bjorn makes it through the gate and up to me.

"Well," he says, "thank you, Michael."

"You're welcome."

"Well done, boss," says Marcel.

d.i.c.kinson breaks away from the mayor and begins packing his bag. I step over and try to shake his hand but he keeps his back to me.

Then, in a snarl, he turns his head. "Sixty-five and one. Enjoy it, Gresham. It will never happen again."

Then he is gone.

I return to my small group and we all grab a stack of books or a stuffed briefcase and move through the gate and up the aisle.

It is finished.

Outside the room are TV cameras and crews. One mike and then another are jammed in my face.

I nod. "A killer walks among us. The Chicago Police Department needs to step up and tell the citizens they are at risk. He must be found and brought to justice. It awaits him inside that courtroom we have just vacated. It is waiting."

I turn and Marcel shoulders our way through the crush of reporters and gawkers and then we are on the elevator with a handful of occupants and we are sailing down, down, down.

Free at last.

48.

A week later, things are finally settling down again. Business has picked up at the office following the front page profiles I was given on the Trib and the Sun-Times. New referral attorneys are calling to introduce themselves and prospective clients. Mrs. Lingscheit doesn't get to do much anymore but operate the phones. Marcel is working up a dozen cases and talking to me about adding a second investigator to our roster. Danny has a full caseload and is supervising several a.s.sociate attorneys in pre-trial motion practice, plea negotiations, and client management. But yesterday was Priscilla's last day and we're still calling nannies in for interviews, so Danny will be home with Dania starting Monday. Still, all in all we are a bustling practice and a fairly happy place to work.

Sat.u.r.day, Danny and I attend a church social at All Saints-St. Thomas Catholic Church, Father Bjorn's church. Everyone is there who we usually hang out with and we mix in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the church and share potluck. The barbecue chicken is superb and I overdose on that and potato salad. My faves.

Father Bjorn mingles and laughs with a steady coming and going of his parishioners. Thirty minutes into the evening, he whispers to me, in pa.s.sing, that every single person has mentioned their support for him. He can't stop smiling but says he is humbled by their outpouring of love.

Around eight o'clock, during a lull after prayers and blessings, who should come down the stairs but Jana himself. He is wearing black Dockers, gray sweater, and a North Face parka which looks new. There is no m.u.f.fler, I observe, and I begin to chastise myself for even thinking that but then I let it go. There hasn't been sufficient time yet between the trial and tonight that I can consider myself disengaged. Father Bjorn goes directly to his son and throws an arm across his shoulders. He maneuvers him through the crowd, introducing him here and there, and then talks to him while Jana fills a plate.

They come to my table, where Danny and I are sitting and talking to a rotating group of well-wishers, receiving congratulations on our victory and just being neighborly. Jana is his usual sullen self as I speak his name and tell him h.e.l.lo. Danny tries to engage with him and her efforts are quickly deflected. We both back off and try not to watch as he gorges himself on the church's bounty. As his customary, his eyes flit to Danny several times as he chews and I catch him staring at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Father Bjorn notices none of this; he carries on conversations with everyone around him: three or four topics at once, as people with public roles do, always to my amazement. Then Jana finishes his plate and begins picking at pecan pie, removing the pecans and putting them to the side of his paper plate. Why on earth would he choose that, I am wondering as he busies himself with the de-nutting process.

Finally I ask, as he wipes his hands on a napkin at the close of the eating business, "How have you been?"

"Fine," he says without making eye contact with me.

"How does it feel to be a free man again?"

"Great, but I'm leaving Chicago."

"You are? Where are you going?"

"Joining the Coast Guard. As soon as I turn eighteen this July."

"Well, congratulations on that. I'm sure you'll make a great sailor."

"Yeah, well, I remember the day we went out on your boat. That was sick, man."

Sick as in really cool.

"I am so glad you remember, Jana. We did have fun that day."

"Do you ever need help cleaning that boat? I can do it from bow to stern for twenty bucks."

"I'll keep that in mind. When would you be available?"

"Any time. Especially now with winter blowing ice and rain and snow all over."

"It's in a covered slip."

"Yeah, but still-" his voice trails off as Danny stands to refill her coffee. Again with the eyes.

"I'll make a mental note. I'll give you a call."

"Super, man. Thanks."

"Have you heard any more about Rudy or the third case?"

"Nope. Not a word. He's still in school with us, so I don't know what the h.e.l.l is going on."

"My guess? The mayor's got his police department regrouped and going after the real killer this time."

He smiles slyly. "The real killer," he whispers. "I like that."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

"Hey, the guy's a real threat. He's out there and he'll kill again if he's not stopped."

"You're right." He gets up and stretches and yawns. "Well, call me about the boat, Mr. Gresham. I'm your boy."

"Yes, you are."

He walks off. We both know I'll never call him. We both know there's nothing between us.

We are disconnected and it feels more than right to me.

49.

Monday afternoon I receive a cell call from Danny. She has stayed home with Dania as Priscilla no longer works for us. Danny sounds fl.u.s.tered and upset. She sounds scared.