I sit up and get the car out of a mini skid, staying on the road. The car containing the shooter is now ahead of us, and I start to think how I can get over to the side and off the road.

Sam has other ideas. "Get behind them! Get behind them!"

"You want me to get closer to people that are shooting at us? Why would I do that?"

"Come on, Andy, you can't just let them get away! Get behind them and put your brights on! We've got to get their license number."

Sam seems as if he knows what he's doing, and since I know that I don't, I do as he says, getting in behind the other car and putting the brights on. I get close behind, and then they speed up. There is no sign that they will or can shoot at us from this position. My heart is pounding so loudly that I can't hear myself think, although I'm too scared to think.

"We're on the New Jersey Turnpike, heading north about a mile past the Newark Airport exit. Two men in a black Acura have just fired a handgun at us and hit our car. Their license plate number is VSE 621." Sam is talking into his cell phone, apparently having called 911. "Yes, that's right. In the left lane, going approximately seventy-five miles per hour. Yes, that's right."

"What did they say?" I ask, when he stops talking. He still has the cell phone to his ear.

"They want me to hold on."

"But what did they say?"

"They said to hold on."

I'm not getting anywhere with this line of questioning, so I concentrate on driving. I'm now doing almost eighty and they're pulling away. Since I don't want to get killed by either a bullet or a crash, I don't speed up any more.

Moments later, we hear the sound of sirens, and police cars with flas.h.i.+ng lights go flying by us as if we are standing still. "Holy s.h.i.+t, will you look at that!" Sam marvels.

It isn't long before the car we're chasing and the police cars are all out of sight, but I keep driving because I don't know what else to do. Sam has lost his cell phone connection with 911, so we're pretty much in the dark.

"Man, that was amazing!" Sam says. He seems invigorated; this is a side of him I haven't seen before, and he certainly does not seem shaken by the fact that a window inches from his face was shot out. Am I the only coward in America?

We drive for a few more miles, turning on the radio to hear if anything is being said about the incident. I'm aware that I need to report this in person to the police, but my preference is to drive to the Paterson Police Department and tell my story to Pete Stanton.

"What's that?" Sam asks, and when I look ahead I see what he is talking about. There's a large glow, far ahead and off to the right, which turns out to be the flas.h.i.+ng lights of at least a dozen police cars. As we approach, there is no doubt that a car has been demolished, and another car is also damaged at the side of the road. The police are surrounding the smashed vehicle, which I believe is the one that had contained the shooters, but not seeming to take any action.

Two ambulances pull up as well, and paramedics jump out. If there is anyone in the car, it will be up to the paramedics to help them. Good luck; they haven't invented the paramedics who could help people in that car. It looks like a metallic quesadilla.

I pull over, resigned to speaking to the cops on the scene rather than to Pete. I park a couple of hundred yards away and turn off the car.

"We getting out?" Sam asks.

I nod. "We're getting out. Leave your carry-on and take the cannolis."

WE GET AS close as we can to the crash scene, which isn't very close at all. The police have set up a perimeter at least a hundred yards away and are in the process of closing all but the left lane of the highway to traffic. This is going to be a long night for drivers heading north to the city. close as we can to the crash scene, which isn't very close at all. The police have set up a perimeter at least a hundred yards away and are in the process of closing all but the left lane of the highway to traffic. This is going to be a long night for drivers heading north to the city.

Sam and I approach one of the officers in charge of keeping people away. "That's as far as you can go," he says. "Nothing to see here."

"We're the ones who made the call to 911," I say. "They shot out a window in our car."

"Who did?" the officer asks. He probably is not even aware that there was a prior incident on the road; to him this must just be a crash scene.

"The two guys in that car," I say. "They shot at us, we called it in, and they must have crashed in the pursuit."

The officer considers this a moment. "Stay right here," he says, and then goes toward the crash scene to check with his superiors. A few moments later he comes back and says, "Follow me."

We do so, and as we get close to the crash, it looks as if the car containing the shooters smashed into a car parked along the side of the highway. It then flipped over, perhaps more than once, and came to rest as a complete wreck.

There is no doubt in my mind that no one in that car could have survived. The police have already set up a trailer, where they will spend the night as they investigate what they will consider a crime scene.

The officer takes us toward the trailer, and just before we get there, I whisper to Sam, "Do not say anything about the Evans case."

He nods. "Gotcha." Then, "This is so cool."

"Sam, you might want to get some professional mental help. On an urgent basis."

"You mean see a shrink?"

"No, I mean as an inpatient. A locked-in patient."

We are led inside the trailer, and I can't stifle a groan when I see that the officer in charge is Captain Dessens of the New Jersey State Police. I have had a couple of run-ins with Dessens on previous cases, and it would be accurate to say that we can't stand each other.

Dessens looks up, sees me, and returns the groan. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?" He looks around. "Who let this clown in?"

The officer who brought us in says, "These guys are the ones I told you about."

Dessens shakes his head. "Well, so much for motive."

The officer standing next to him says, "What do you mean?"

"That's Andy Carpenter, the lawyer. I don't know anybody who wouldn't want to take a shot at him."

"Is the shooter dead?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"You'll still find a way to screw up the arrest."

Dessens starts an angry response and then seems to think better of it. He motions for us to sit down, then questions us on the details of what happened. Sam lets me do most of the talking; he just seems happy and content to be a part of it.

After we've given our statements, Dessens asks if I think the shooting was random or if I might have an idea who could be after me.

"Everybody loves me," I say.

Sam nods. "Me, too."

Dessens asks a few more questions and then tells us that they will want to check out my car and that an officer will drive us home.

"Did you ID the dead guys?" I ask.

He doesn't answer and instead calls out to one of the other officers, asking him to take us outside. He's apparently not into sharing.

It's not until I get home and have a gla.s.s of wine that I really think about what just happened. Word got out today that I was taking Richard Evans's case, and somebody tried to kill me tonight.

I don't believe in coincidences, and it wouldn't be productive to start now. I have to believe that the shooting is connected to Evans, even though I would much rather not. If somebody could react this quickly and this violently to my simply taking on Evans as a client, then he's got some very determined and deadly enemies.

Which means I now have them as well.

Laurie calls just as I'm about to get into bed, and I tell her the entire story. She believes in coincidences even less than I do, and I can hear the worry in her voice. Laurie is one of the toughest people I know, but she's well aware that toughness is a trait she and I don't share.

She's frustrated that she can't get away from her job to come back east until the end of the month, and cautions me to be extra careful. She also has one other piece of advice, the one I expected.

"Get Marcus."

MARCUS C CLARK IS a terrific investigator, but that is not what initially comes to mind when one thinks of him. Focusing on his investigating talents first would be like somebody asking for your view of Pamela Anderson, only to have you respond that you hear she's a pretty good bowler. It may or may not be true, but it's not "top of mind." a terrific investigator, but that is not what initially comes to mind when one thinks of him. Focusing on his investigating talents first would be like somebody asking for your view of Pamela Anderson, only to have you respond that you hear she's a pretty good bowler. It may or may not be true, but it's not "top of mind."

Marcus is the scariest person I have ever seen, and there is no one in second place. He is cast in bronze iron, impervious to fear or pain, and possesses a stare that makes me want to carry around a piece of kryptonite, just in case.

He has been one of my key investigators since even before Laurie went to Wisconsin, and has displayed an uncanny knack for getting people to reveal information. They confide in him, operating under the a.s.sumption that they can talk or die. I, for example, would tell Marcus whatever he wanted to know, whenever he wanted to know it. And I would thank him for the opportunity.

Because I seem to have an involuntary knack for p.i.s.sing off dangerous people, I sometimes employ Marcus as a protector, a bodyguard, rather than an investigator. That's why I've called him into the office this morning. I'll probably have a need for him to gather information at some point, but right now that takes a backseat to my need to stay alive.

I stop on the way in to drop my car off so that they can replace the window that's been shot out. They drive me to my office and promise to bring me the repaired car before the day is out.

I've had Kevin come in for this meeting as well. When I meet with Marcus, I like as many other people in the room as possible. It makes me feel safer, although if Marcus wanted to do me harm, the Third Infantry on their best day couldn't help me.

All I really need to tell Marcus is that some people tried to shoot me and that for whatever reason, it's very possible that I am a target. His job is to keep me safe and alive, pure and simple. But because I have respect for Marcus's investigative skills, and because I think he should have as much information as possible about whom he might be dealing with, I tell him all I know about the Richard Evans case.

My recitation of the facts takes about ten minutes, and Marcus is either silently attentive or asleep the entire time. His eyes are open, but that doesn't really mean anything one way or the other. Kevin sits as far away from Marcus as is possible while remaining in the same room.

When I'm finished, I wait for him to comment, and after twenty long seconds it's obvious that is not going to happen. I prompt him with "So that's it. Any questions?"

"Unhh," says Marcus. Marcus is a man of very few words, most of which are not actually words.

"Will you need anything from me?" I ask.

"Unhh."

"Can you get started right away?"

"Yunhh."

I don't quite know how to end this, so I turn to Kevin. "Kev, you got anything you want to add?"

He shakes his head a little too quickly. "Not me. Not a thing. Nope."

Marcus gets up to leave, without my asking him how he will perform his protective functions. I've learned long ago that he will be there if I need him, and I won't see him if I don't. It's comforting to me, though I'll certainly miss our little chitchats.

As he reaches the door, it opens from the other side, and Karen Evans is standing there. She is one of the most talkative people I know, but the sight of Marcus stuns her into silence. Her eyes widen, and her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

"Oh, my G.o.d...," she says, once Marcus has left. "Is he on our side?"

I nod. "He is."

She breaks into a wide smile and smacks her hands together, generating more of her infectious enthusiasm. "This is gonna be great!"

I had not asked Karen to come to the office, and I'm not a big fan of unannounced visits. "What are you doing here, Karen?"

"I don't know... I'm just real nervous, and excited... and I thought I could hang around and help. You know, run errands, get coffee... I spoke to Edna and she was okay with it."

"Edna was willing to give up running errands and making coffee? You must be quite the persuader."

I tell her that she can hang around now but that she should call before coming by in the future. I understand her excitement, and as a person who knows her brother and knew his fiancee, she can be helpful. However, I do not instantly share all information with my clients, and I can't have her rus.h.i.+ng to him with constant updates.

I turn on the television to follow press reports about the shooting on the highway last night, and it's being treated as a pretty big story. They're calling it a random shooting, though the fact that I was one of the intended victims is duly noted, as is my recent representation of Richard Evans.

"You got shot at?" Karen asks, but I don't bother answering, since she's just learned the answer to her question from the television.

Instead I pick up the phone and call Pete Stanton in his office. Even though the state police are handling the shooting case, I'm hoping that Pete can use his police contacts to find out what he can about the dead shooters.

When Pete hears that it's me calling, he says, "Let me guess... You need something."

"That's amazing... How could you possibly have known that?"

"Well, we're already meeting at Charlie's tonight, so you're not just calling to say h.e.l.lo. And the last one hundred and forty-seven times you've called me in my office it's because you needed something."

"Do you have any idea how much you've just hurt me?" I ask. "I've just been through a traumatic experience, actually a near-death experience, and I don't think I've ever been so emotionally vulnerable."

He's unmoved. "Can we get to it already?"

"Well, you know I was shot at last night."

"That's the good news," he says. "The bad news is, they missed." Then, "I've already put in a couple of calls."

"What does that mean?"

"To find out what I can about the shooters," he says. "That is what you wanted, isn't it?"

"You are a G.o.dd.a.m.ned legend, and just for that, I'm buying at Charlie's tonight."

"You got that right."

I send Karen out to get some doughnuts and Necco wafers, with specific instructions to try to find a package of all chocolate Neccos, which are far superior to the multicolored kinds. It's about time to put her to the test.

I use the time for a quick strategy session with Kevin. As I see it, there are three possibilities behind this case. One is that Richard is guilty and the prosecution's position was completely correct. While that still may be true, it doesn't help us to consider it.

The second possibility is that whatever is behind this centers on the murder victim, Stacy Harriman. Among the problems with this is that it doesn't make much sense that the murderers would kill her and take Reggie off to safety. If their goal was simply to kill Stacy, they would likely have just left Reggie on the boat with Richard. Even if they were somehow dog lovers, to have taken Reggie in the midst of committing the crime seems very difficult to believe.

The third possibility is that Richard was framed solely because of Richard himself. Either he had made an enemy or he knew or had something that could be dangerous to someone else. This seems to be the most fertile ground for us, especially because of his job with the Customs Service, and will first require an in-depth interview with Richard.