"I don't know. But I didn't take no drugs."

His insistence on this point is surprising. Drug use in itself does not come close to a proof of murder. He could be protecting his public image, but his current incarceration on first-degree murder charges has blown that out of the water much more effectively anyway. It is extraordinarily unlikely that the police have conspired to frame him by faking the blood tests, though I will look into any possible motivations for their doing that.

The other possibility of course is that both the police and Kenny are being honest and that the drug was slipped to him. I need to consult an expert to find out if that is possible.

"Could someone have slipped you the drug without you knowing it?"

He grabs on to this like a life preserver. "Yeah, that must be it! Somebody put it in my drink or food or something. Maybe Troy did... he was there."

Once again the persistent "why" question rears its ugly head. "Why would he do that?"

He shakes his head, having discovered that this particular life preserver can't support his weight. "I don't know. But there's gotta be a reason."

I have Kenny rehash his relationship with Troy Preston, starting with their meeting at the high school all-star weekend. It turns out that they also spent a couple of days together at the NFL combine before they were drafted. The combine is a place where rookies come to demonstrate their physical skills to a.s.sembled NFL executives.

Kenny claims to have racked his brain trying to think of something relevant to Preston's murder, but he just can't come up with anything. "There's... there's just nothing."

I detect a hesitation, mainly because there was a hesitation. "What were you going to say?" I ask.

"Nothing. I've told you everything I know."

I've gotten pretty good at reading my clients, and for the first time I think Kenny's holding something back. Holding something back from one's defense attorney is akin to putting a gun to one's head and pulling the trigger, but my pressing Kenny for more information gets me nowhere.

Before I leave, I broach the subject of Adam Strickland becoming an employee of my office so that he can observe what's going on and perhaps someday write about it.

"But he can't write anything we don't want him to?" Kenny asks.

"He can't reveal any privileged information without our permission."

"What if he did?"

"You could sue him, and nothing he says could ever be used in court against you."

Kenny shrugs, having lost interest. He has no desire to focus on any subject that can't get him out of his cell. "Whatever you want, man. I don't care either way."

I tell him I'll decide one way or the other and then let him know. I head back to the office, where Laurie is waiting for me. I can tell by the look in her eyes that she has something to tell me, though my hunch is helped along considerably by her saying, "Wait till you hear this."

I decide to take a guess first. "Your old boyfriend changed his mind and offered you a job as a school crossing guard. And you said no, because they're giving you a bad corner and making you buy your own whistle."

"Andy," she says, "you're going to have to try harder to deal with this."

I already knew that, so I say, "What were you going to tell me?"

"Preston wasn't just using. He was dealing."

This is potentially huge. If Preston was dealing drugs, he was involved with big money and very dangerous people. The kind of people that kill other people. The kind of people that defense lawyers love to point to and say, "My client didn't do it; they did."

"Who told you?"

She smiles. "Police sources."

"Police sources" is Laurie-speak for Pete Stanton. Pete has long been a reliable source of information for both of us. He would never say anything damaging to the department, but nor does he have that knee-jerk police reaction not to have anything to do with anyone on the defense side of the justice system. There would be no downside at all to his supplying background information in this case, since it is under the jurisdiction of the state police.

"Did he give you specifics?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "Over dinner with you. Tonight. He invited me as well."

I nod with resignation. Since I've inherited my fortune, Pete's goal has been to make me poor again. He does this by selecting the most overpriced restaurants he can find and then stuffing himself to the point where he has to be lifted out of his chair with a crane, while I pick up the tab. "I hope he didn't choose the restaurant," I say.

"He did. It's a place in the city."

New York City. Pete hates New York City, always has, but he's apparently become disenchanted with the reasonable cost structure of New Jersey restaurants. "It would be cheaper to bribe the jury," I say.

PETE SAYS HE'LL meet us at the restaurant, so Laurie and I drive in alone. I'm not a big fan of driving in Manhattan; it calls for an aggressiveness that I simply do not have outside of a courtroom. I'm always afraid that Ratso Rizzo is going to pound on my car and yell, "I'm walkin' here! I'm walkin' here!" meet us at the restaurant, so Laurie and I drive in alone. I'm not a big fan of driving in Manhattan; it calls for an aggressiveness that I simply do not have outside of a courtroom. I'm always afraid that Ratso Rizzo is going to pound on my car and yell, "I'm walkin' here! I'm walkin' here!"

The restaurant is on Eightieth Street near Madison, and as we get close, I start looking for a parking lot. I find one on the same block, with a sign proclaiming a flat rate of forty-three dollars for the night. They seem proud of this, as if it's so inexpensive it will be an enticement for people to park their cars here. I only wish Laurie and I had come in separate cars so we could take double advantage of this incredible deal.

"Maybe you should look for a s.p.a.ce on the street," Laurie says.

I shake my head. "It's a nice thought, but the nearest s.p.a.ce on a street is in Connecticut."

I park in the lot, and we walk half a block to the restaurant. It's French, with stone walls to give us the impression that we're having dinner in a cave. I approach the maitre d' and tell him that I believe our reservation is in the name of Stanton.

He brightens immediately. "Ah, yes! They're waiting for you!"

Before I get a chance to fully weigh the significance of his using the word "they're" rather than "he's," Laurie and I are led to a private cave off the main dining room. We enter and see one table, set for fifteen people. The problem is, there are enough people in the room to fill it.

Pete jumps up, almost knocking over a lit candle in the process. "Our host is here!"

This draws a cheer, and I am soon surrounded by members of Pete's family. I know only two of them: his wife, Donna, and his brother, Larry. I've been out with Pete and Donna a few times, and I got Larry off on a drug charge four years ago. He's since turned his life around and does volunteer work as a drug counselor in downtown Paterson.

Laurie and I are soon introduced to a bunch of Uncle Eddies and Aunt Denises and Cousin Mildreds, all of whom think it's just wonderful that I've thrown this party for my good friend Pete.

"This is so nice of you," Donna says to me. "And his birthday isn't for six weeks."

Laurie jumps in, fearful of what I might say. "Andy wanted it to be a surprise."

I nod, staring daggers across the room at Pete. "And it was. It definitely was."

Pete is oblivious to my daggers; he's too busy holding bottles of expensive wine and asking, "Who wants white, and who wants red?" He looks at the labels and says, "I got the Lafeet something and the Pooly whatever..." This is from a guy who's never bought a bottle of wine without a twist-off cap.

I finally make it over to the guest of honor. "You're a cop," I say, "so you'd be a good person to answer this question. Who could I hire to kill you? After this dinner, I can't afford to pay very much, but I don't need a quality hit man. For instance, I don't care how much pain he causes."

"Don't tell me you're p.i.s.sed off," he says.

"This was supposed to be a dinner where you gave us information about drug traffickers. Not a four-thousand- dollar family circle meeting."

He nods. "It turns out that Larry knows something about this, so I wanted him here. But he was having dinner with Aunt Carla, who was staying at Cousin Juliet's, and it sort of s...o...b..lled from there. You know how these things are."

With almost no family of my own, and no desire to impoverish my friends, I don't know how these things are, but I drop it. "So when can we talk?"

"You can drive Larry and me back. We'll talk then."

The rest of the evening is surprisingly pleasant, at least until the check comes. Pete's family is both close-knit and funny, and it feels good to be included in it. I'm not totally forgiving Pete for this fiasco, though, and I lash out by refusing to sing "Happy Birthday" when they bring out the three-tier cake I'm paying for.

It's not until we're on the George Washington Bridge driving home that Pete addresses the issue at hand. "Paul Moreno," he says.

"Who's Paul Moreno?" I ask. The question must be a stupid one, because it draws sighs and moans from Pete, Larry, and Laurie.

"He's a guy who makes Dominic Petrone look like Mother Teresa," Pete says. Dominic Petrone is the head of the mob in North Jersey, which means Paul Moreno must be a rather difficult fellow to deal with.

"I just spent twenty-eight hundred bucks on your birthday. Can you be a little more specific?"

Pete, Laurie, and Larry then alternate being very specific, and the picture they paint of Paul Moreno is not a pretty one. About five years ago a group of young Mexican immigrants started a drug pipeline from their former country to their current home in North Jersey. It was mostly street stuff and relatively small money for this industry.

What distinguished this gang was the violence they were quite willing to use in running their business. Led by a young hood named Cesar Quintana, they became the area's primary source of cheap drugs and ruthless violence, and they were limited only by their inherent lack of intelligence. They were not businessmen, and business ac.u.men is needed to sell all products, including illegal drugs.

Enter Pablo Moreno, born in Mexico to a family of very significant wealth, said to be dubiously earned. Moreno was educated in this country, graduated from the Wharton School of Business, after which Pablo Moreno became Paul Moreno. He returned to Mexico for a while and then settled in North Jersey two years ago to apply his business expertise in earnest.

It seems as if he conducted an a.n.a.lysis and determined that the best opportunity for success in this country was to become a part of the still-fledgling, unsophisticated operation Quintana was running. Moreno's style, reputation, and money overwhelmed him, and they soon became partners. They allegedly split the profits, but Quintana has allowed Moreno to call the shots, perhaps the first sign of intelligence he has ever shown.

In the eyes of law enforcement their operation now represents the worst of both worlds. Moreno provides the smarts and the capital, and Quintana supplies the muscle and willingness to use it. In the process they've branched out to higher-end drugs and higher-level clientele.

"Which is why they've become a major pain in the a.s.s of Dominic Petrone," Pete says.

"And he hasn't taken them on?" I ask. Rumor has it that both end zones in Giants Stadium are built on a foundation of people who became pains in the a.s.s of Dominic Petrone.

Pete shakes his head. "Not yet. Drugs have never been the main part of Petrone's operation, so he's let it go so far. There's no telling how long that will last. It's a war he'd win, but it would be ugly."

"So where does my client fit into this?"

Larry answers. "He probably doesn't, but Troy Preston does. Moreno loves football, and he took a liking to Preston. Preston in turn took a liking to Moreno and his lifestyle. The word is, they were really close."

"So Preston was dealing for him?" Laurie asks.

"Not in a serious way at first. More to his friends, certain other players... that kind of thing. People tell me it made him feel like a big shot. Then he started liking the fact that it was supplementing his income, so he branched out some. The bigger problem is, he started using what he was selling, which is not the best thing for a pro football career. And as his career went down, his need for money outside football went up."

My mind of course is focused on finding a killer other than Kenny Schilling. I start thinking out loud. "So Petrone could have killed Preston to send a message to Moreno. Or maybe Preston p.i.s.sed Quintana off, and he he killed him." killed him."

"Or maybe your client is guilty," Pete says, ever the cop. "The victim's blood was in his car, and his body was in his house. Not exactly your cla.s.sic whodunit."

"More like your cla.s.sic frame-up," I say.

Pete laughs. "And exactly why would they pick Schilling to frame? It's not like they would have left evidence for the police to track them down. Petrone's been murdering people since he was four years old. You think we could have tied him to this?"

"You? No. The state cops? Maybe." I don't really believe what I'm saying; it's my pathetic attempt to get back at Pete for the birthday bash.

If Pete is wounded by my attack, he hides it well. He shakes his head. "Nope. Petrone didn't do Preston, and the job was too cla.s.sy for Quintana. He would have sliced him up and dumped him in front of City Hall."

He's probably right, but at the very least this opens up a huge area for a defense attorney to explore and exploit. I'm already working out strategies in my mind; the money for this evening's fiasco may actually turn out to be well spent.

We pull up at Pete's car, and as he and Larry get out, Pete pats my arm. "Thanks, man. This is the nicest thing anybody's ever done for me, even if I was the one that did it. But you didn't get too p.i.s.sed, and I appreciate it. You're a good friend."

"Happy birthday," I say. That'll teach him.

THERE ARE A FEW things I don't like about my job. One is that it doesn't involve playing professional sports, though my placekicking brainstorm should take care of that. Two is that it gives me the creeps to have to call anyone "Your Honor." Three, and most important, I don't like to mislead people. things I don't like about my job. One is that it doesn't involve playing professional sports, though my placekicking brainstorm should take care of that. Two is that it gives me the creeps to have to call anyone "Your Honor." Three, and most important, I don't like to mislead people.

But misleading people is something a good defense attorney does, and this case is about to become a textbook example. I do not believe that Troy Preston was murdered by Dominic Petrone, Paul Moreno, Cesar Quintana, or anyone else involved with illegal drugs. Those are not people who would have gone to such lengths to frame Kenny Schilling. They would have put a bullet in Preston's head and dumped him in the river, or buried him where he'd never be found. And, as Pete was quick to point out, they would not have left a trail so they could be caught. And if they weren't in legal danger, there would be no reason to frame somebody else.

But these bad guys present perfect targets for me, people who I might get the jury to believe could have done it. It helps me create reasonable doubt that my client is guilty, so I must pursue it vigorously, even though I don't believe it. I'm not lying, but it still makes me uncomfortable. I'll go forward with it, though, since our justice system makes no allowances for lawyer discomfort.

Adam Strickland is with Kevin and Edna when I arrive at the office. He takes notes as Edna regales him with more of her ideas for the crossword puzzle film, and I hear Kevin ask if Adam can use the actual name of Kevin's privately owned business in the Willie Miller movie. It's called the Law-dromat, and the gimmick is that Kevin gives free legal advice to his customers. Of course, he can only be there to do that when we are not busy on a case. The way the Schilling case is shaping up, there are going to be a whole lot of poorly advised launderers running around North Jersey for a while.

Adam tells Kevin that he'll definitely put the Law-dromat in the script and refers to Kevin's idea as My Beautiful Laundrette My Beautiful Laundrette meets meets The Verdict. The Verdict. Unfortunately, Adam forgets to mention that the script will ultimately travel through the pipe and into the sewer. Unfortunately, Adam forgets to mention that the script will ultimately travel through the pipe and into the sewer.

I haven't thought about Adam since I discussed him with Kenny, but I make a decision in the moment to let him hang out with us. Kenny didn't mind, and I made a commitment to the studio, so I might as well. I have Edna type up a standard agreement, and within minutes Adam is an employee of my firm, bound by the same confidentiality guarantees as the rest of us.

I explain to Kevin what we've learned about Troy Preston's relationship to Paul Moreno and the drugs he distributes. I find myself feeling self-conscious with Adam listening in, especially since he is staring at me so intently as I speak that it feels like he's literally inhaling my words.

Because of Adam's presence, I don't mention to Kevin my feeling that, while we now have some people to point the finger at, I don't really believe they are guilty. This is not a good start to this relationship; I'm going to have to either trust Adam or renege on our agreement and remove him from our team.

Kevin and I kick things around for about a half hour, until Laurie shows up with Marcus Clark. I had told her to bring in Marcus once I learned that we were going to be dealing with people as dangerous as Cesar Quintana and Paul Moreno. It makes me feel secure to have Marcus in our camp, in the same fashion that Don Corleone felt secure having Luca Brazi on his side. Having only seen Luca in the movie, and never meeting him in person, my view is that Marcus is far scarier. To me, Marcus makes Luca look like Mary Lou Retton.

Adam looks stunned when Laurie and Marcus enter, and it's easy to understand why. There could not be two human beings on this planet who look more different, yet each has achieved a type of physical near perfection. Laurie is white, tall, blond, and breathtakingly beautiful, with a face that combines intelligence, compa.s.sion, and more than a modic.u.m of toughness. Marcus is African-American, short, bald, and carved from burnished steel, with a perpetual scowl so fearsome that my initial instinct is invariably to back away from him, even though he's on my side.

What Marcus and Laurie have in common is that they are both talented investigators, though their styles are as different as their looks. Laurie is smart and relentless, pushing and probing, until she learns what she has to learn. People provide Marcus with information in the hope that he will continue to let them live. And sometimes he does.

I introduce them to Adam, mentioning that Adam is a writer.

"Books?" asks Marcus, a man of few words.

"Movies," says Adam. He says it nervously, because when people talk to Marcus, the goal is not to say the wrong thing. "I write screenplays, and-"

"Rambo?" interrupts Marcus.

"Uh, no. I didn't write Rambo, Rambo," says Adam, glancing quickly at me in the hope I'll jump in and help, which I won't. "But I liked it. It was a wonderful film. They... they were wonderful films... all the Rambo Rambos."

Marcus just shakes his head and sits down, no longer interested in Adam or his portfolio. He also doesn't say a word as I go over everything I know about Paul Moreno and Cesar Quintana. I'm speaking strictly for Marcus's benefit, since Laurie already knows all of this, having been my date for Pete's birthday extravaganza.

When I'm finished, it's time to give out the a.s.signments. I say to Marcus, "I'd like you to find out everything you can about Quintana and whatever connections he has to Troy Preston or Kenny Schilling."

Marcus just stares at me, not saying a word. Also not a nod or a blink or a shrug or any other human response. It's disorienting, but it's pure Marcus.

I continue. "Be careful, these guys are very dangerous."